"...so, to summarize the above, we're faced with the uncanny alliance of a traitorous Veindor priestess, an Eale mind-digger and at least one dark mage. And that dark one is most definitely a Darlaronean – he's simply too good not to be. No wonder they gave us a hard time." Talia straightened the lens-less wooden glasses on her nose and stared expectantly at her guests, Mor Oddeye and Irera.
Besides the dolorous pair of Eale sitting at the large oval table in Miss an Kamian's living room, also present were Irson and a glossy whiskered otter (the otter being the latest "embodiment" of the former illusory fox). Enaor and Inon had stayed downstairs in the glass cube. His Ballsiness still entertained no thought other than that of digging right through the island of Briaellar, and Irson had to give him another dose of tranquilizer. Inon, on the contrary, was in such a deep state of sleep he was beyond waking.
"Faced with... hard time," Mor repeated pensively. "You lot, a Lindorg mage – the head sorcerer of Al Emanayit, and one of the best telepaths around – and a Veindor priest who, as far as I know, is hardly a slouch himself."
"Yep, and we paled in comparison to our opponents, to put it mildly," Talia made a face. "Although we did manage to get the 'waffle' and some info. So, I guess we're not completely hopeless."
"This is all really quite bizarre. First the couple in black in the basement, Question Candles, an attempt on Enaor's life, and now throw your... Veindor-haters into the mix," Irera said, clasping her head in her hands.
"That's just it. That's why I so badly want to know what Mor's going to dig up in the head of that old fox Restes! Perhaps we can head downstairs already and... get to work?" Talia suggested, practically jumping up and down on her chair.
"Absolutely. But before we spend our time and effort on Veindor-haters, we ought to find out what's going on in the cat-hater camp."
"What do you mean?" Talia and Irson asked in unison.
Irera rolled her eyes and shook her head.
"I see Enaor's not the only one who's lost his grip on reality. The Rector of Lindorg announced that the results of the investigation into the 'Cahnerali tragedy' are going to be divulged today in the Hall of Many Voices."
"So, we're going to be publicly flogged," Talia drew her head into her shoulders.
"That's right," the Eale looked down her nose at Talia. "Catkiller will try, anyway."
"We should've sent poor Enaor there instead of the ambassador. He would have liked it." Talia said sadly.
"The ambassador would have been happy with that option, too," Mor chimed in and, leaning over the table, began making sharp waving motions with his hands. "You guys had better move over, otherwise you won't see much."
"What's there to see? There's no intrigue! Everyone knows who's getting their hide tanned."
Moving the chairs, the Alae, the Tanae and the otter all huddled together on one side of the table. Talia served them all kiali, pouring the fragrant mulberry-colored liquid from a brass tea kettle with a smile. It was a pot-bellied, four-legged teapot with a spout in the shape of a tail and little cat's ears on the lid. Mor glanced at the clock and snapped his fingers. In the same instant, a panorama of the Hall of Many Voices spread before them. They saw the huge stone cup, split into cells by low partitions.
Each of these sections belonged to one of the "Voices": ambassadors of different countries, representatives of all sorts of trade guilds, unions of transport workers, and, of course, the united mages' association. They were broadcasting from two points: the cell of the Voice of Briaellar, offering an excellent view of the central podium, and from the box across from it.
"And here come the heroes of the day," Irera mumbled. On the center platform, upholstered with light-colored leather, appeared the Rector of Lindorg and Nikh'naz Mabrag (the latter going by the "Catkiller" moniker).
Going by their plain, pristine white robes, one could mistake them for priests of Lajnaen, Lady of the Light, if not for the Rector's dark hair and the ligature of tattoos on Mabrag's forehead to ruin the illusion. Both mages were also missing the glowing tawdry finery – requisite for children of the light. Although, one of the two did have something along those lines: the standing collar on the Rector's robe exposed the front of his long, pale neck, where a curved diamond pin held the skin together, gathered in a few vertical folds, over his withdrawn Adam's apple. Its tiny stone flashed excruciatingly brightly.
Nikh'naz and the Rector, like three fourths of all Lindorgite mages, were human. This, however, concluded the comprehensive list of their shared traits. The tall, stately lord of Lindorg looked even more magnificent next to the stocky, big-headed Mabrag, whose thick fingers seemed made to pull heavy, salty nets out of the ocean, rather than to weave intricate threads of spells. Their facial expressions differed as well. While the Rector was calm, Nikh'naz was obviously nervous.
"He seems extremely unhappy somehow," Irson noticed.
His words sounded with unexpected volume. As soon as the Rector appeared on the platform, the hum of the crowd instantly ceased. A strained silence took hold in Talia's living room as well; all that could be heard was the clang of someone's spoon against a teacup. Meanwhile, two of the most powerful sorcerers alive bowed to their colleagues in a businesslike manner and stopped at the center podium.
"I imagine there is no need to explain why I've gathered you all here today," the Rector began, without introduction as always. "Nikh'naz Mabrag has returned from Cahnerali. He has successfully completed the investigation entrusted to him. I beseech you, esteemed colleague, present to us only proven facts. Be as accurate and impartial as possible. Remember, Lindorg has sufficient resources to protect you and your staff from the retaliation of those who may find the information you've gathered damaging to their standing." The Rector pursed his thin lips resolutely, and, with a broad hand gesture, motioned Nikh'naz to step forward.
Catkiller bowed awkwardly and glanced at the Rector, like a child from Helraad, casting a last pleading look at his mother at the door of the dentist's office[1]. But the lord of Lindorg, just as any good Helraadite mother would do, remained deadpan.
"As you know, I've had... the honor of heading the investigation into the up... upheaval at Cahnerali."
Clearing his throat, Mabrag tapped his fingers on his neck, renewing the loudspeaker spell, but the Alae could plainly see that magic was definitely not the issue here.
"Master Mabrag, first could you please tell us how such an investigation were made possible in the first place?" the Voice of Anlimor Trade Union took advantage of the pause to ask. "Detecting traces of the actions of most telepaths is most complicated, especially after so much time has passed, and when dealing with Alaean telepaths, it's simply not realistic at all!"
"Was unrealistic," the Rector said quietly. "Not anymore. Science, esteemed Voice, cannot stand in place for long."
Whispers of doubt swept through the hall, but the Rector raised his hand and quickly subdued the conversation.
"Lindorg has been in possession of an instrument for some time already that allows us to say with certainty whether a given individual has been subjected to telepathic influence, and, which is paramount in the case of Cahnerali, to what race the being generating the telepathic impact belongs. Master Mabrag's team had this instrument at their disposal. Continue, Nikh'naz."
"I won't bore you with the details. The list of evidence and an analysis of each piece without exception is in our report. You are all welcome to take a look at it if you'll see my assistant. I'll tell you the main points. They all point to a very certain group, a certain tribe. It would have been to suspect them of being complicit in deeds of this nature."
"Of course," Irson sneered. Irera shushed him irritatedly.
"It's Elaan, gentlemen!" Mabrag declared. "Not telepaths of some unknown race, not mages of the BlackTowers, and... and certainly not the Eale. I'm obliged to completely eliminate the possibility of their involvement in the aforementioned events. Therefore, I can do nothing else but offer my apologies to master Voice of Briaellar for the careless statements and premature conclusions of some of my colleagues."
Towards the end of his heartrending monologue, Catkiller's demeanor had turned completely sour. He looked like a faithful dog who'd been jabbed with a stick for no reason at all. The Voice of Briaellar – an an Meanor with a big nose and one of those ageless faces – looked just as silly. It was as if he were holding a brood of baby mice in his mouth which were tickling his tongue and palate. His lips and cheeks trembled with the laughter he was suppressing when he nodded somberly in acceptance of the apology.
Just then, the magical eye used by Talia and her guests to observe the Briaellar ambassador's cell switched to reveal a more interesting subject – the Voice of Elaan's box. Alas, it was empty. Occupants of the surrounding cells clambered to their feet, staring at one another with astonished faces...
Then the illusory image blinked and went out, leaving Talia's living room steeped in a murky darkness.
"What a turn of events," said the an Kamian, but no one answered her. They were digesting.
Nuts were falling from Irera's hand at even intervals, like beads off a string necklace torn out of nervous tension. Mor was hypnotizing the sediment in his cup with his gaze. The otter had turned into a pile of mossy bricks, and Irson, his head thrown back, was admiring the lampshade made of mouse skeletons.
(Each mouse was loaded with a bunch of hate-you-always flowers, from each of which hung a twine with a copper tag, apparently bearing the name of one of Talia's enemies. The skeletons looked very old. Some bones were missing, the rest were turning yellow with age and cracking, so they had to be fastened with rivets and wire. The rodents' eyes, ears and tails, however, were made of painted porcelain and shone like new. That made them a real pleasure to look at... again, and again, and again...)
Talia took a fork from the table, twirled it thoughtfully in front of her face, and suddenly stabbed herself in the poor unsuspecting tail.
"I must not be dreaming!" she stated, wincing in pain, and with that, the honorable group went at it.
"It's just unthinkable!" Irera shrieked.
"I don't get it! What would Lindorg let us off the hook like that?" Mor echoed her in a calmer tone. "Especially when they had us cornered! Elaaneans! Elaaneans don't have one decent telepath. Amateurs!"
"And what if now they do?" Irson asked. "Imagine how exponentially Elaan's power would increase if you add telepathic abilities to the lost list of their strong points!"
"Scary to even imagine..." a shiver ran through Talia's shoulders.
"Even Lindorg should be worried," Mor nodded. "If you're right, then we're all in such great danger that it's time even for Catkiller to befriend us cats. And it's time for us to make friends with Helraadite dogs. However, I don't think you're right."
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[1]In Helraad, the use of magic for medicinal purposes is strictly forbidden. As a result, most medical procedures are rather painful.