[This isn't going as quickly as I had hoped, and I'm sensing a lack of interest. So rather than continue to distract from the opportunity to play your characters, I'm just going to narrate a resolution. I'm sorry if this disappoints anyone who was looking forward to solving the mystery. My thanks to those who put their time and energy into this subplot.]
“Wyvernsting,” Harrowsong concludes after examining the needle. “Not the deadliest of poisons, but potent nonetheless.”
“And in ready supply,” Duke Youngblood surmises. “All one would need to do is infiltrate the stables of the Winged Corps.”
“And have good reflexes,” Quentachi adds. “Would I be going too far to suspect the Cataract’s unwholesome hand at work here?”
“I would give it at least a 72% probability,” Virgis affirms.
(The Cataract: the underworld’s equivalent of the Inquisitors; these “monks” operate as thieves and assassins, using their psychic endowments to cloak their presence and manipulate their foes.)Plutus marches over to Belarva’s courier, still recovering from the effects of the poison, and hauls him to his feet. “Where did the dart hit you, boy?”
“M’arm,” the young man slurs thickly, as if he had just gargled with cotton.
“Stand exactly as you were when it happened. Was it this arm? No. This arm, then. Show me where! Good. Now watch my finger, and stop me when it approximates the angle at which the needle protruded from your flesh. Try to remember!”
The other magi wait patiently as the Arch Evoker mentally calculates the trajectory of the assassin’s missile. Suddenly, he points to a piping troubadour:
“YOU!”“Here we go,” Quentachi mutters, rolling his eyes.
Plutus storms over to the confused player and grabs his fife from his hands. “Just as I suspected! This instrument is hollow!” He throws it to the ground and seizes the man by the throat. “Confess!” He demands.
“One moment, Lord Plutus,” Virgis says. “Let us give this fellow a chance to explain himself.”
Plutus softens his grip just enough for the piper to talk: “Forgiveness, milord, but I don’t remember… we were playing and then… I don’t know what happened. I felt like I was waking up, and then that man over there was collapsing, and milord had disappeared…”
“A likely story!” Plutus crows.
“A plausible one,” Virgis says.
Dame Harrowsong agrees. “The Cataract can induce others to act without any recollection, as if possessed. I have seen it myself.”
“Am I going to die?” The piper asks meekly, on the verge of tears.
“I have an idea,” Quentachi offers. “If you will permit it, Lord Virgis, I will cast an enchantment over the entire room to cause everyone to slumber. Only the most disciplined minds will be unaffected. Therefore, anyone other than ourselves who remains awake must be the assassin.”
“Proceed,” Virgis says.
Quentachi begins to chant softly…
Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz....You open your eyes. What just happened? The enormous cake looks as if it has exploded, and there is a dark-clad figure holding a knife to the throat of the Duke! The other guests appear to be rousing from sleep as well, having fallen or slumped over in the middle of whatever they were doing at the time Lord Quentachi’s spell was cast.
“Don’t just stand there!” Youngblood commands the magi. “Do something!”
Virgis steps forward. “I’ve been asking myself why a Cataract assassin would be so inept in their attempt to kill me. It could not be mere inexperience, for they would know me to be a very difficult target, and would have sent the best they had to offer. I must therefore conclude that the failure was deliberate.”
He continues: “Of course, it also helped that your son warned me of your intentions in advance, Your Grace.”
“You knew the whole time?” Harrowsong asks. “Oh, Virgis. You and your love of drama.”
The Duke’s face turns violet with fury. “What? You accuse me--? Abelard! What manner of treachery is this?”
Abelard Youngblood yawns and stands up from his seat, wiping some drool from the corner of his mouth. “Hm? Oh. Lord Virgis speaks truly, Father. I overheard your machinations and saw an opportunity to advance myself. You have set a most ignoble example, and this must be corrected. Your corruption ends here.”
“Ingrate!” The Duke screams. “Cur! You conniving, limp-wristed swine! I should have drowned you at birth, you ill-bred whoreson!”
“Leave Mother out of this,” Abelard retorts smartly. “You have no one but yourself to blame for teaching me too well.”
Virgis snaps his fingers. The doors of the Great Hall unbar themselves and the shutters over the windows fly open. “You may go,” he says to the assassin. “See that you do not ever return.” The mysterious figure in black sheaths his (her?) blade, steps backward into a shadow, and vanishes without a trace. The Duke continues to remain standing, struggling against invisible bindings.
“Now let us see how Lady Belarva’s gift works,” Virgis says, his face glowing with schadenfreude. He opens the blue box once more, and makes a lifting motion with one hand. A perfect black orb, darker even than a moonless night, rises slowly out of the box, floating according to the will of its new master.
Ivor Youngblood stares in horror as the black sphere of doom glides inexorably toward him -- slowly, silently; his eyes wide, sweat cascading down his forehead, his veins popping out of his skin as he continues to struggle hopelessly against fate.
“Goodbye, Father,” Abelard says. “Thanks for everything.”
“Farewell, Your Grace,” Virgis says. “Thank you for a very entertaining party. I don't think anyone here will ever forget it."
“You haven’t seen the last of mm
mmee---“ The Duke’s curse is silenced as the orb makes contact. His form contorts and twists into an impossibly thin stream of matter that spirals into the infinite depth of the orb, and then he is – utterly, inarguably, irrevocably – gone.
Virgis quickly claps the box back over the orb. “Splendid,” he says, very satisfied.
Turning to the son of Ivor, he bows. “All hail Abelard Youngblood, Duke of Kauhedl!”
The heavy oak door to Orthos' dormitory flies open and in Qroc flutters, clearly still somewhat inebriated from the festivities earlier.
