Cery waved his hands. “Hai! One question at a time!”
Grinning, Sonea leaned toward him eagerly. “Sorry. Tell me what you know.”
“Well,” he began, “it seems they didn’t get a room where they used to live, but found a better one a few streets away. Ranel’s been searching for you every day. They’d heard that the magicians were looking for a girl, but didn’t think it could be you.”
He chuckled. “Jonna said a few things when Harrin told her you’d joined them in the Purge, but then he said what you did. They didn’t believe it at first. He told them how we tried to hide you, and about the reward, and that you were being protected by the Thieves. Harrin says they weren’t as wild about it as he thought they’d be—not when he explained everything.”
“Did they give him any message for me?”
“They said to tell you to look after yourself, and be careful who you trust.”
“That last bit would be Jonna.” Sonea smiled wistfully. “It’s so good to hear they found a place—and they know I didn’t just run off on them.”
“I think Harrin was scared that Jonna might flay him for inviting you to join us in the Purge. He says they’re going to keep coming past the inn for news. Got any messages for them?”
“Just that I’m well and safe.” She looked at Faren. “Will you bring them to see me?”
He frowned. “Yes, but not until I’m sure it is safe. It’s possible—though doubtful—that the magicians know who they are, and will find you through them.”
Sonea drew in a sharp breath. “What if they do know who they are, and threaten to hurt them if I don’t give myself up?”
The Thief smiled. “I don’t think they would. Certainly not publicly. If they tried to do so secretly…?” He nodded at Cery. “We would find a way around it, Sonea. Don’t worry about things like that.”
Cery smiled faintly. Surprised by the implied partnership, Sonea looked at her friend closely. His shoulders were tense, and a crease appeared between his brows whenever he looked at Faren. She would not have expected him to be relaxed in the presence of a Thief, but he looked a little too anxious.
She turned to regard the Thief.
“Can Cery and I have some time to talk?” she asked. “Just us?”
“Of course.” He rose and moved to the door, then looked back. “Cery, I have something for you when you are done. Nothing urgent. Take your time. See you tomorrow, Sonea.”
“Tomorrow,” she replied, nodding.
When the door had closed behind the Thief, Sonea turned to Cery.
“Am I safe here?” she asked, her voice low.
“For now,” he said.
“And later?”
He shrugged. “That depends on your magic.”
She felt a stab of alarm. “What if I never work it out?”
He leaned forward and took her hand. “You will. You just need to practice. If it was easy, there wouldn’t be a Guild, would there? From what I’ve heard, it takes novices five years before they’re good enough to be called ‘Lord’ so-and-so.”
“Does Faren know this?”
He nodded. “He’ll give you time.”
“Then I’m safe.”
He smiled. “Yes.”
Sonea sighed. “What about you?”
“I’m making myself useful.”
She gave him a direct look. “Making yourself Faren’s slave?”
He looked away.
“You don’t have to be here,” she told him. “I’m safe. You said so. Go. Get away before they get their hooks in you.”
Shaking his head, he stood, letting go of her hand.
“No, Sonea. You need someone familiar around. Someone you can trust. I won’t leave you alone with them.”
“But you can’t become Faren’s slave just so I have a friend to talk to. Go back to Harrin and Donia. I’m sure Faren will let you visit now and then.”
He paced to the door, then turned to face her.
“I want to do this, Sonea.” His eyes were bright. “Everyone’s been talking as if I worked for the Thieves as long as I can remember. Now I have a chance to make it real.”
Sonea stared at him. Was this really what he wanted? Would someone as nice as Cery choose to become…what? A ruthless, money-hoarding murderer? She looked away. That was Jonna’s opinion of the Thieves. Cery had always said that the Thieves were about helping and protecting as much as they were involved in smuggling and thievery.
She couldn’t—shouldn’t—stop him from doing what he had always wanted to do. If the work turned out to be less than he’d hoped, he was smart enough to get out. She swallowed, her throat suddenly tight.
“If it’s what you want,” she said. “Just be careful.”
He shrugged. “I always am.”
She smiled. “It will be wonderful to have you dropping by all the time.”
He grinned. “Nothing would keep me away.”
The brothel was in the darkest, dirtiest part of the slums. Like most, the lower floor was a bolhouse, and the upstairs rooms were for the prettier girls. All other commerce took place in stalls situated in the back of the building.
As Cery entered he thought of Faren’s words. “He knows most of the faces. He won’t know you, though. Pretend you’re new at it. Give him a good price for what he’s got. Bring the goods back to me.”
Several girls sidled up to him as he crossed the room. They looked pale and tired. A sickly fire which gave off little heat burned in a hearth to one side of the room. A server slouched behind the bar, talking to a pair of male customers. Cery smiled at the girls, looking each one over as if considering, then, as he had been instructed, he approached a plump Elyne girl with a tattoo of a feather on her shoulder.
“Want some fun?” she asked.
“Perhaps later,” he told her. “I heard you got a room for meeting people.”
Her eyes widened, and she nodded quickly. “Yes, that’s right. Upstairs. Last on the right. I’ll take you.”
She took his hand and led him to the stairs. There was a slight tremble in her light grasp. As he climbed the stairs he glanced down and found that many of the girls were watching him, their eyes fearful.
Disturbed, he looked around cautiously as he reached the top of the stairs and started down the corridor. The tattooed girl let go of his hand and waved toward the rooms at the end.
“It’s the last door.”
He pressed a coin into her hand, and continued on. Opening the door cautiously, Cery peered inside. The room was tiny, containing only a small table and two chairs. Stepping inside, Cery inspected everything quickly. A few spy holes had been drilled into the walls. He suspected there was a hatch under the worn simba matting on the floor. A small window offered a view of a wall, and little else.
He opened the window and considered the wall outside. The brothel was unusually quiet for such an establishment. A door opened nearby, then footsteps moved down the corridor, drawing nearer. Returning to the table, Cery schooled his face into a wary expression. A man stepped into the doorway.
“You’re the gutter?” the man asked in a gravelly voice.
Cery shrugged. “What I do.”
The man’s eyes darted all over. His face might have been handsome, if it were not so thin, or the light in the man’s eyes not so wild and cold.
“Got something to sell,” the man said. His hands, which had been thrust deep into his pockets, emerged. One was empty, the other held a glittering necklace. Cery drew in a sharp breath, not having to fake his surprise. Such a piece could only have belonged to a rich man or woman—if it was real.
Cery reached out to take the necklace but the man snatched it away.
“I have to check it’s not fake,” Cery pointed out.
The man frowned, his eyes hard with distrust. He pursed his lips, then reluctantly spread the necklace out on the table.
“Look,” he said. “But don’t touch.”
Cery sighed, then bent to examine the stones. He
had no idea how to tell the difference between real or fake gems—something he would have to attend to—but he had seen pawnshop owners examining jewelry before.
“Turn it over,” he ordered.
The man flipped the necklace over. Looking close, Cery saw a name engraved on the setting. “Hold it up so the light goes through the stones.”
Holding the necklace up by one hand, the man watched Cery squinting at it.
“What you think?”
“I’ll take it for ten silver.”
The man dropped his hand. “It’s worth at least fifty gold!”
Cery snorted. “Who’s going to give you fifty gold in the slums?”
The man’s mouth twitched.
“Twenty gold,” he said.
“Five,” Cery countered.
“Ten.”
Cery grimaced. “Seven.”
“On the table.”
Reaching into his coat pocket, Cery counted coins with his fingertips, then drew out half of them. Producing more coins from the other places he had stowed Faren’s money, he made six stacks of coins equal to one gold each, then sighed and drew a glinting gold coin from his boot.
“Put the jewels down,” Cery said.
The necklace dropped down onto the table beside the money. As the man reached for the coins Cery picked up the necklace and slipped it into his coat. The man looked down at the small fortune in his hands and grinned, his eyes bright with glee.
“A good deal, boy. You’ll do well at this.” He backed out of the room, then turned and hurried away.
Cery moved to the door and watched the man stride to one of the other doors and step through. As he stepped into the corridor he heard a girl squeak with surprise.
“We never be apart now,” the gravelly voice said.
As Cery passed the room he glanced inside. The tattooed girl sat on the end of a bed. She glanced up at Cery, her eyes wide with fear. The man stood behind her, looking down at the coins in his hands. Continuing on, Cery headed back down to the lower floor.
He affected a sullen, disappointed look as he descended into the bolhouse. Reading his expression, the girls let him be. The male customers eyed him, but did not call out or approach.
It was only slightly colder outside. Thinking of the lack of customers in the brothel, he felt a stirring of pity for the whores as he crossed the street and stepped into the shadows of the alley.
“You look bored, little Ceryni.”
Cery spun about. It took a disconcertingly long time before he found the dark-skinned man in the shadows. Even when he had located Faren, he was disturbed to find he could see only a pair of yellow eyes, and the occasional flash of teeth.
“Have you got what I sent you for?”
“Yes.” Cery drew out the necklace and held it out in Faren’s general direction. He felt gloved fingers brush his, then the jewelry lifted from his hand.
“Ah, that is the one.” Faren sighed and looked back at the brothel. “Tonight’s work is not done, Cery. There is something else I want you to do.”
“Yes?”
“I want you to go back and kill him.”
Cery felt a chill rush through his belly, a sensation too much like what he imagined it would feel like to have a knife slicing through his insides. He could not think for a moment, then his mind began to work rapidly.
This was another test. Faren merely wanted to see how far he could push his new man.
What should he do? Cery had no idea what would happen if he refused. And he wanted to refuse. Badly. The realization was both a relief and a worry to him. Not wanting to kill did not mean that he could not do it…yet when he considered walking across the street and sinking his knife into a man’s vital organs, he could not make himself move.
“Why?” As he spoke, he knew he had failed one test already.
“Because I need him killed,” Faren replied.
“W-why do you want him killed?”
“Do you need me to justify it?”
Cery gathered his courage. Let’s see how far I can push this.
“Yes.”
Faren made a small noise of amusement. “Very well. The man you traded with is named Verran. He was employed by another Thief from time to time, but sometimes used what he learned from his work to gain a bit of money on the side. The Thief tolerated it until a few nights ago, when Verran chose to visit a particular house uninvited. The house belonged to a rich merchant who had an arrangement with the Thief. When Verran entered the house, it was occupied by the merchant’s daughter and a few servants.” Faren paused, and Cery heard a hiss of anger. “The Thief has given me the right to punish Verran. Even had she lived, he would be a dead man.”
The yellow eyes turned to regard Cery. “Of course, you would have to wonder if I’m making this up. You have to make up your mind whether you trust me.”
Cery nodded, then looked across at the brothel. Whenever he needed to make a decision without being certain of the truth, he turned to his instincts. What did they tell him now?
He thought of the cold, wild look in the man’s gaze, and the fear in the plump girl’s eyes. Yes, that man was capable of evil deeds. Then he thought of the other whores; the tension in the air; the lack of customers. The only two men in the establishment had been talking to the owner. Were they Verran’s friends? Something else was going on there.
And Faren? Cery considered everything that he had learned of the man. He suspected that the Thief could be merciless if driven to it but in all else, Faren had been fair and honest. And there had been anger in his voice when he had spoken of Verran’s crime.
“I’ve never killed anyone before,” Cery admitted.
“I know.”
“Don’t know if I can.”
“You would if someone threatened Sonea. Am I right?”
“Yes, but this is different.”
“Is it?”
Cery narrowed his eyes at the Thief.
Faren sighed. “No, I do not mean that. It is not how I work. I am testing you. You must know that. You don’t have to kill that man. It matters more that you learn to trust me and that I know your limits.”
Cery’s heart skipped a beat. He had expected tests. But Faren had given him so many different tasks that Cery had begun to wonder what the Thief was looking for. Did he have something in mind for him? Something different?
Perhaps this was a test Cery would face again, when he was older. If he was unable or reluctant to kill, he might endanger himself or others when the need was urgent. And if that other was Sonea…
Suddenly all hesitation and indecision were gone.
Faren looked across the street at the brothel and sighed. “I really do want that man killed. I’d do it myself, except…Never mind. We’ll find him again.” He turned and took a few steps farther down the alley, then stopped as he realized that Cery hadn’t followed.
“Cery?”
Reaching into his coat, Cery drew out his daggers. Faren’s eyes flicked to the blades as they caught the faint light from the brothel windows. He took a step back.
Cery smiled. “I’ll be right back.”
11
Safe Passage
After half an hour the stink of bol became almost pleasant. The aroma had a cozy warmth to it that promised comfort. Dannyl eyed the mug before him.
Remembering stories of unhygienic brewhouses and casks of bol with drowned ravi floating in them, he hadn’t been able to persuade himself to try the syrupy brew. This evening, however, he had been bothered by darker suspicions. If the dwells had worked out what he was, what was to stop them from poisoning his drink?
His fears were probably unfounded. He had exchanged his robes for merchant garb again, taking care to look a little shabby. The other customers had given him one appraising glance, mostly directed at the wallet at his hip, then ignored him.
Despite this, Dannyl could not shake the feeling that every man and woman in the crowded room knew who and what he was. They were a sullen lot, bored and
listless. Seeking shelter from the storm outside, they lurked in every corner of the room. Sometimes he heard them cursing the weather, other times they cursed the Guild. This had amused him at first. It seemed that the dwells felt it safer to blame the Guild than the King for their troubles.
One dwell, a man with a scarred face, kept staring at him. Dannyl straightened and stretched his shoulders, then looked around the room. As he steeled himself to meet the starer’s gaze, the man became more interested in the fit of his gloves. Dannyl noted the man’s gold-brown skin coloring and broad face before turning back to his drink.
He had seen men and women of all races in the bolhouses he had visited. The short Elynes were most common, their homeland being Kyralia’s closest neighbor. The brown-skinned Vindo were more numerous in the slums than in the rest of the city, as many of them travelled abroad looking for work. The athletic, tribal Lan and the dignified Lonmar were rarer.
This was the first Sachakan he had seen in years. Though Sachaka was a neighbor to Kyralia, a high mountain range and the desert wasteland beyond it discouraged travel between the two lands. Those few merchants who did try the route had reported stories of barbaric people fighting to survive in the wasteland, and a corrupt city with little to offer in trade.
It had not always been so. Many centuries before, Sachaka had been a great empire ruled by sophisticated magicians. A war lost against Kyralia and the newly formed Guild had changed that.
A hand touched Dannyl’s shoulder. Turning, he found a swarthy man standing behind him. The man shook his head, then moved away.
Sighing, Dannyl rose and sidestepped through the crowd to the door. Once outside, he trudged through the puddles that filled most of the alleyway. Three weeks had passed since the Guild had tracked the girl to the underground hideout and Lord Jolen had been tracked by the Lonmar. Since then, Gorin had declined Dannyl’s request for an audience four times.
Administrator Lorlen was reluctant to accept that the Thieves were protecting the girl. Dannyl understood why. Nothing upset a King more than the presence of a rogue magician in his realm. The Thieves were tolerated. They kept the criminal underground in check, and they never presented a greater threat than the loss of taxes to smuggling. Even if the King managed to find and remove them, he knew others would take their place.
The Magicians' Guild Page 15
