Chapter 6

The boats glided smoothly past beautiful houses with columns, bas-reliefs and graceful carved shutters. Condimezzo was very similar to the rich and respectable quarters of Blackwhit, only instead of the pavement there was a canal.

"Which house?" Brennon asked busily.

"That one," Longsdale said. "Light blue with gilded cornices and sculptures of doves."

Nathan sat next to him, the hound and the witch. The consultant tried to hang him with amulets, spells and weapons, like a Christmas tree with balls, but Brannon resisted strongly. He took a couple of revolvers - one regular, one loaded with bullets against the undead - and a familiar akram. After all, they are not going to take the house by storm and arrange a massacre. That is, the Commissar hoped for it.

The cardinal, in addition to the rower, Brother Luca, took with him another person - a seemingly quiet and useless bookworm, Brother Matteo. However, Nathan was already convinced that the inquisitorial appearance can be deceiving.

Longsdale stopped the boat in front of a blue palazzo, richly studded with columns and stucco on the facade. At first glance, it did not differ from the rest of the houses. Jen sniffed the air intensely and perked up:

"It smells like undead. However, in this town every now and then it stinks because of the Rift to the other side."

The cardinal removed the medallion from his wrist, dipped it into the water, and muttered a long phrase in Elladian. Nathan just chuckled.

"The channel is clear," Savarelli said. "The undead were here, but now they are not."

"It is logical. Our warlock is too smart to shit where he lives."

The palazzo was owned by Cosimo di Camaglio. The cardinal called him "young," even though the boy was already thirty-six. He inherited a large bank from his father (Brannon would have checked to see if Camaglio Sr. had been helped to cross to the other world, but there was no time for that). Cosimo did not have a family, but there were many servants in the house - the Commissar opened the list provided by the cardinal. Of these twenty-three people, anyone could be a warlock.

The boats moored near the house, and Brother Luca sounded the bell at the door. Brannon sighed wistfully: a cordon of a good dozen, or even two, policemen would not hurt here. While they are entering the door, the warlock can leak out the window.

"Don't worry," Longsdale muttered. "I have surrounded the palazzo with an invisible perimeter. Nobody's going in and out until we're done."

The gray-haired majordomo (butler? manager?) escorted them to Signor Camaglio's office. Climbing the stairs, the commissar looked around the furnishings - it was luxurious inside, but there were no hints of black magic. Jen and the hound sniffed, but so far they hadn't caught anything suspicious either. Brother Matteo began mumbling under his breath, clicking his rosary. sparks of magical current ran through it.

Cosimo di Camaglio rose to meet the guests, emerging from behind the giant ledgers - and Brennon at first glance knew that the signor recognized Longsdale and the hound. Camaglio stared at the consultant, looked at the hound, and his eyes widened in dismay. Instead of leaving the table, the banker leaned back and grabbed the back of the chair, as if he wanted to hide behind him. The hound bared his teeth.

Savarelli approached Camaglio majestically and held out his hand for a kiss. When he came to, he kissed the cardinal's ring and glanced at Brennon, then at the witch. The Commissar gave him an indifferent look, like a complete stranger. What is this strange fear on his face? Prior to this, the warlock had acted insolently and quite decisively. Scared of a personal meeting?

"What brought Your Eminence to our humble home?" The banker asked. He even forgot to offer the cardinal a chair, and His Eminence settled in it without an invitation. Camaglio remained standing.

"Secular affairs, signor, secular affairs," Savarelli answered serenely. "As we know, your bank willingly issues loans for trade with Mazandran. Our labor requires certain costs, and therefore we decided to enter into trade relations with the pagan rajas."

Camaglio relaxed somewhat. Beads of sweat glistened over his upper lip, but the banker finally averted his eyes from Longsdale, the hound and the Commissar, to look at the cardinal.

"These are signors Longsdale, Raiden, and Brennon," the cardinal continued, "our trade partners in Mazandran."

"May I inquire if the signors have recommendation letters?" The banker asked. "In no case would I want to offend them with distrust, but the interests of our bank..."

The Commissar did not listen to further maundering, intently examining the suspect and gradually approaching the table from the left, while Jen did same from the right. Longsdale and his familiar stood right in front of Camaglio, drawing his attention to themselves. Brother Luca looked around the office with a bored look, his colleague in the Inquisition swung his rosary, as if by chance passing from corner to corner.

"Of course, we will provide all the papers," the consultant said when Camaglio muttered his own about the bank, guarantees and business reputation. "But we hope for a return courtesy on your part. Our company does not deal with dubious offices, and rumors reached us that your bank was one of the trustees of an orphanage, where ten girls were killed a few days ago."

"We have absolutely nothing to do with it!" the banker exclaimed with fervor. The hound snapped his teeth, and Camaglio recoiled, nearly bumping into the commissar.

"You have an interesting ring," Nathan said. "It's a family thing, isn't it? So glitters!"

The banker clenched his hand into a fist and threw it forward. The ring flashed blue. The Commissar was thrown against the wall, and Savarelli suddenly pushed the massive table with such force that it crashed into the banker and slammed him into a chair. Camaglio collapsed to the floor and let out a scream as if all of his ribs had burst at once.

"Don't shout," Longsdale said calmly. "I surrounded the room silentium circa."

"No!" The banker howled. "You do not know! You do not understand! God, God, go away! I... he... oh my God!"

The last exclamation escaped him when the witch, jumping over the table, loomed menacingly over Camaglio and raised a flaming hand. Savarelli puffed with delight; the inquisitors, crossing themselves, backed away from the table.

"Just moan something from the spells," Jen purred. "I'll burn your face to the bones."

"You don't understand," the banker babbled, already all white; he was shaking so hard that his teeth were chattering. "He... he will know..."

"Who is "he"?" Brannon asked, squatting beside the witch. The banker twitched strangely. His eyes popped out of their sockets, and foam appeared at the corners of his mouth.

"Go away!" He hissed. "Go away, leave me, for God's sake... he will kill me!"

"I bet I'll be in time earlier," Jen chuckled. "Well, answer!"

"Get out!" Camaglio howled. "I only have a minute to… to…" His voice broke. The banker coughed, jerked, and suddenly scraped his hands against his throat, pounding on the floor like a fish pulled out of water.

"Back!" Longsdale shouted. "It's Instant mortem!"

The commissar jumped away. In the corner, Brother Matteo mumbled prayers, and the pale Brother Luca gripped a chair, holding it up in front of him like a shield.

"Can you do something?!"

The consultant dropped to his knees next to Camaglio, held out his hands over him, and muttered quickly. Glowing purple streaks appeared around the banker's throat, head and chest. Savarelli rushed to him and grabbed his hands, not allowing him to tear the skin on his head and throat. The hound pounced on the banker, pinning him to the floor.

"This is it!" Jen growled. "Come on, rather - you still have time to catch the trail!"

"Save the witness!" Brennon shouted. "He must stay alive!"

"Why the hell do you need it?" the witch exclaimed. "Are you going to bring him to the jury?"

Longsdale muttered quickly in some incomprehensible language. Drawing the trihedron from its scabbard, he aimed at the stripes, and finally cut through the pulsating bonds with one stroke. Camaglio thrashed convulsively in the cardinal's mighty arms, but after a second he limp limply.

"Lord," Brother Luke managed to say; his colleague froze, clutching the rosary.

"We didn't have time," His Eminence said, feeling the victim's wrist. However, everything was clear to the Commissar and so: another dead witness, damn it!

"It's not him," Brannon muttered. "Not the warlock. Although he recognized you, as well as the hound."

"Very quickly your warlock gets rid of accomplices," the witch said. "He has an unlimited supply of them, or what?"

"Maybe so," the Commissar said through set teeth. "Longsdale, can you catch the trail?"

The consultant nodded and got down to business. The cardinal got to his feet, frowning at the corpse. The hound got off him and sniffed at the remnants of the stripes.

"Did your shooter look the same?"

"Better. Apparently, everything happened to him faster, or he did not understand anything and resisted less. Judging by the last words of the banker, he knew what awaited him. We need to search the house. It seems that you have not just one warlock here, but a whole gang."

"But why?" the cardinal looked around the richly furnished office. "Camaglio already had everything one could wish for: wealth, position in society, youth, health. How did he get involved in this?"

"Maybe he lacked beauty," Jen chuckled. "Or women's love. Or there was little money. Or maybe he was just intimidated."

"Was he the one who turned the girls into undead and manipulated them?" Brannon asked. "Or did someone do it in his house?"

"We won't know it now. What will you do with the corpse?"

Brannon turned to the inquisitors. Contrary to expectation, they almost came to their senses - they were whiter than milk, were shaking, but at least they did not fight in hysterics and did not lie in a swoon.

"Well, congratulations on your baptism of fire," the commissar muttered. "Have you seen this before?"

Savarelli's subordinates shook their heads.

"Soon you will see something even worse. You need to put the body in order so that it looks like death from a heart attack."

"I can," Brother Matteo said, and nervously licked his lips. Brannon raised an eyebrow in surprise. "I know a few… a few words for healing. I think they will work for a dead body too."

The Commissar turned to His Eminence; but the question "What do you teach them in your inquisition?" remained unspoken - because the cardinal stamped on the parquet floor and listened to the sounds. Jen watched him with growing interest.

"Take care of the corpse," Brannon nodded to the Inquisitor. "What are you doing?"

"It seems to me that the parquet is unevenly laid, and there is a cavity under one of the boards," the cardinal replied. "There was a strange sound when we walked... well, well!"

The Commissar squatted down in front of the board, on which Savarelli tapped his heel. The witch ran her finger along its edge; it was charred, and something tinkled inside. Jen burned three holes in the wood with her fingers and pulled it out of the parquet. Brannon pulled a flat box out of the slot. There was no lock on it, and the commissar handed the find to the girl:

"Can you open it?"

"Only if it doesn't explode!" The cardinal added hastily. Jen twirled the box in her hands, sniffed and showed the hound, who decided to join their company. He tried it thoughtfully on his teeth; the wood cracked faintly, and the hound with a satisfied look put the remains of the box at Brennon's feet. Nathan wrapped his handkerchief around his hand and began to lay out its contents on the floor.

The box contained a document in a tight case, two opaque flasks and a trinket with three keys. The witch opened the bottles, sniffed and winced:

"These are not magic potions. Just potent poisons."

Brannon shook the document out of the case and unfolded it. The text was incomprehensible to him. At the bottom of the page, two signatures flashed bright blue. They sparkled like snow in the sun, and the Commissar showed them to His Eminence:

"Do they make this kind of ink here?"

Savarelli cocked his head to the side like a large owl and gingerly took the document with two fingers.

"The ink has nothing to do with it. It is an enchanted contract, written in a very elegant Latin."

"And what's in it?" Nathan asked in surprise: he had no idea that someone would think of enchanting a legal document. The witch rose and walked over to the body of the banker, whom Longsdale and Brother Matteo were still working on.

"Curious," the cardinal chuckled. "One of the signatures was left by Signor Camaglio. I would like to know what made him sign the agreement, which says that for betrayal, immediate death is imposed."

"Is that what it says?!"

"Yes. Actually," the cardinal threw a glance at the corpse, "this is what we saw."

Brannon turned to the banker. Jen removed the ring from his finger and held it to the document. The paper vibrated and a spark ran through the ring.

"Hey," the commissar said, "that's how it worked. But how did this warlock get the banker to wear a time bomb?"

The ring in Jen's hand suddenly trembled and began to char. The contract also began to rapidly turn black and crumble into ash.

"It's not me!" the witch screamed and threw the ring on the table.

"Longsdale!" the commissar howled, before whose eyes the most important piece of evidence was disappearing. The consultant turned, jumped up and shouted a spell - a first, a second, a third, a fourth, until the self-incineration of the contract stopped. In the cardinal's hand was a scrap the size of a quarter of his palm. Longsdale enclosed the remainder of the evidence in a transparent ball and said:

"Now it's clear to me why the Instant mortem trail led me to this room. It is looped back on the contract. Smart, you won't say anything."

Brennon scowled at the next body, at the two inquisitors who were busy making it look less shabby, at gloomy as a cloud, cardinal and grunted:

"Well. We have the keys, so let's look for where they fit. Longsdale, is there any charm to hide us from the servants while we rummage around the house?"

The consultant nodded.

"At least something good. Clean up here and pretend the banker died of a sudden heart attack."

"And what to do with this?" Savarelli twirled the ball with a piece of paper.

"I'll show it to another consultant," the Commissar said. "That's his department."

***

Angel Redfern looked tired, tense and gloomy, as if something was gnawing at him from the inside. It was unlikely that it was conscience - most likely, the pyromaniac did not like that Peggy went to celebrate her birthday with her family. He also looked at the scrap of contract in the ball without the slightest delight.

"We found a small arcane laboratory in a secret room behind a paneled bedroom," Brennon finished. "Savarelli is now deciding the issue of exporting all this wealth so that Longsdale can study the banker's inheritance. But the damn contract worries me the most. What knowledge should someone who is able to assemble such a personal mini-bomb have?"

"Big," Redfern said. "Besides, they are quite deep and systematic."

"So this guy has been practicing and studying magic for years, if not decades. And nobody noticed anything. Even your consultants."

"That's what I've been telling you for months now," the pyromaniac said wearily. "And you have just begun to understand. Give Margaret the rest of the contract when she brings you the suitcase. I'll take care of it."

"Roismann," Brennon said, "recruited accomplices, but wielded magic alone. And this type not only recruited henchmen, but also taught magic tricks."

"What makes you think that there is more than one of them? I believe Camaglio was the only one."

"Maybe. At least since we got involved, the warlock has been busy trying to get rid of us. At least some benefit," the commissar muttered with displeasure. "He stopped killing dozens of people."

"You see. If he had several trained accomplices, he would have finished what he started long ago."

"What started?"

Redfern just sighed, winced, and rubbed his temple. The pyromaniac did not like to admit his failures. Meanwhile, none of them came a step closer to understanding what and why the unknown warlock is doing.

"Valentina found dead birds on the next rooftop," the commissar said. "Someone spilled poison - a solution of strychnine, which can kill a bull. This dose is enough to knock out the consultant for a while. No magic, no trace. I will continue to interrogate the neighbors while the cardinal deals with the search for the abbess's brother."

Angel drummed his fingers on the table and said:

"Let him start with his inquisitors. They have accumulated information about magic for several centuries. A person with access to the inquisitorial archives is quite capable of gaining such knowledge that even Roismann could hardly reach."

"Savarelli guessed about this," the commissar snorted: his eminence must have invented a lot of hitherto unknown curses from such a discovery. "But our warlock is far from being an idiot. He perfectly understands where they will look for him in the first place. Even if he was listed among the inquisitors, he has not been there for a long time."

"All this is nothing more than speculation," the pyromaniac winced. "So I put together something for you." He got up, disappeared from sight and moved the mirror so that he could show Brennon a large map of Farenza - more precisely, a model made of wood and glass. Nathan examined the houses, canals and islets with interest: the map extended to the exit from the bay. Multi-colored lights flashed on it now and then - now in groups, now one by one.

"What is it?"

"Alarm system," Angel's voice said. "It captures any manifestations of magic, undead, evil spirits, even monitors people like your witch. This is, um... a test sample. I have been developing it for a long time, it is not perfect yet, but you can already try it out."

"Impressive. But I don't really understand how your sample will point us exactly to the warlock."

"It will not point to him exactly. But the system will immediately detect a burst of activity. Particular attention should be paid to the simultaneous manifestation of magic and undead or evil spirits.

Brennon found Paolo Urquiola's house on the map - surrounded by a white glow, like a small moon. Then he turned his gaze to the bay — Liganta's Island throbbed in dark purple beneath the golden net. A sheaf of gold and crimson sparks flickered around Palazzo Camaglio as Longsdale and the witch worked tirelessly.

"Can you make one for Blackwhit?"

"I can," the pyromaniac gave a satisfied laugh. "But not at once. For now, I'll take care of observing Farenza. I am sure the warlock will not sit idly by and will soon please us with something again."

"Yes. I hope he doesn't blow up half the city to cover his tracks."

"And while you wander around with interrogations in the neighboring houses," Redfern said sternly, "don't forget to buy Margaret a present."

Brannon sighed happily: how good it is to have a wife who takes on the most burdensome concerns!