Sword of the Gods - Bruce R. Cordell [36]
Demascus nodded. The human carefully set his hand to the dragon’s head ring and pulled open the door just enough to see in.
Balls of free-floating flame banished all shadows in the room beyond. A third of the roughly circular chamber gurgled and hissed with elaborate glass piping. The tubes pumped magmalike fluid between a series of ever more complicated vessels.
A portion of the chamber was empty but for a ring of cooled brass poured out to form a wide circle on the floor. Arcane formulas written in chalk spiraled around the brass fixture like a madman’s depiction of a whirlpool.
A series of workbenches, shelves stuffed with containers of every description, and odd bits of equipment Demascus couldn’t immediately identify circled the walls.
Where was the crazy wizard?
Chant took a quick breath, then carefully lifted a finger to point at the ceiling.
A man floated among the balls of fire. A powder blue robe draped him, blue but for the snarling embroidery depicting flame flowers and fire eyes on his sleeves. Red tongues danced along the man’s fingers, along the wand he clutched in one hand, and along individual strands of his long, unkempt hair.
“That’s our lunatic,” confirmed Chant, his voice pitched just above the crackle of fire.
Demascus nodded. A haze of pale blue smoke surrounded the wizard. Chevesh seemed lost in some kind of meditation. Whatever suicidal urge had goaded him to attack the azer remained quiescent in Chevesh’s presence. Good. Demascus took a deep but quiet breath, then began studying the room for anything suggesting demonic summoning rituals, extra fake Cabal coats, or white scarves missing their owners.
The only thing immediately suggestive was the brass circle. Though he couldn’t remember exactly how he knew, Demascus was certain a fixture like that could be used to call entities from the Abyss. On the other hand, a magic circle could serve as the endpoint for a long-distance teleportation. Or as a barrier to screen out background magical influences. Or …
Lots of things, probably.
Circumstantial evidence wasn’t going to fly. They needed something substantial to bring back to the Firestorm Cabal. He glanced at Chevesh again. The wizard remained enthralled with the inside of his eyelids.
Without giving himself the benefit of consideration, Demascus darted out onto the main floor. Chant made a quiet sound of protest, but Demascus didn’t pause.
He skirted a metal chair that was bolted into the stone floor. Leather straps lay slack on arm rests, and an elaborate crown of needles perched on an extendable metallic arm. Demascus was glad that the chair’s insectoid embrace was empty.
Another two steps and he was at a workbench. Demascus glanced up at Chevesh; still in his trance. Demascus began sorting through the jumble of papers and scrolls. If he could find a piece of evidence implicating the fire wizard in the series of demon incursions, great. But what he was really searching for was some hint of his own place in all this, some scrap of his own lost identity.
Topological mixing, haepthum shipments, primordial blood, density of periodic orbits, flame vortices, strange attractors, thaumaturgic exclusion zones, and a litter of incomprehensible diagrams and calculations were all he could find on the workbench. None of it triggered the least hint of memory, or had any obvious demonic connection. Demascus looked up and saw Chant lingering in the doorway. The pawnbroker motioned frantically for Demascus to retreat.
Demascus shook his head, and pointed to the next workbench.
“Can I help you find something?” a voice overhead said.
He jumped as his gaze snapped up. Chevesh’s eyes were open and fixed on his own. They were the color of a candle flame with just a hint of coal at the center.
“Um,” said Demascus, mentally fumbling for something halfway plausible.
“I don’t recall inviting you into my laboratory. But here you are, riffling through my research. That’s very rude. Care to explain yourself?” Chevesh’s voice was as melodious and polite as if he were speaking to a naughty nephew, not a