Details of the street outside lifted themselves from the shadows as the sky lightened. He worried that he wouldn’t be able to trigger the vision without the darkness. In other visions, he had seen things without light to see by.
But how? The questions he had asked himself for months looped through his mind. How had he seen the mice in their nest beneath that roof? How had he followed the reawakening of Khisrathi’s spell as it had flashed through every passageway in the castle? Had the vision of the stars and the city lights been a continuation of that reawakening, or something different?
And what about his vision at the dueling ground? How had his sight moved down through a crack in the ground, a crack he had opened, down and down and down, to the very mantle of the earth? He had been lying on his back, his eyes shut. Did that mean his actual eyes hadn’t even been involved?
Frustration tightened into a headache. Breathe. Pray. He needed to relax. The meditative prayers should be helping him to relax. He needed to stop thinking about the duel, about what Oran had said, about everything. Just breathe, and pray.
It was a relief when motion on the brightening street caught his attention: a door at the end of one block of townhouses opened, and as he watched, a cat darted outside. The door closed behind her, and she leaped to the top of the short stone pillar that marked the top of the stairs leading down to the side garden. She was elderly, he knew, a cream-colored queen with a mournful meow, always sounding as if her caretakers and everyone else on the street—even Graegor and Contare—were hopelessly dense. Her name was supposedly Butternut, but he’d never seen her so much as twitch an ear when anyone called.
The sun had not yet reached over the houses, so there was no warm spot for Butternut. She paced back and forth from one pillar to another along the stone railing on one side of the porch, then finally jumped down to the stairs. At the bottom, she made a quick turn and disappeared into the side garden’s tidy rows of ferns. Another spike of frustration threatened Graegor’s concentration, because he’d been hoping to somehow “follow” the cat through the leafy shadows.
He started the prayers again, but after a few seconds abandoned the effort and stared hard at the spot where the cat had vanished. It took a couple of attempts before his extended sight resolved the dark patch into individual fern fronds, layered against each other. Butternut had passed that way some minutes ago, so the ferns weren’t moving … but now they were, and a tri-colored feline face emerged between two of the layers and seemed to stare back at him.
Animals usually knew when he was looking at them, especially dogs, cats, and horses, even from this distance. The calico cat paused for a good long while, pupils huge in yellow-green eyes. Then the cat slipped back into the ferns, back toward the bole of a slender tree, where scratches in the bark marked territory. Graegor almost felt he could … read the scratches, like he would read words. The cat paused at the scratches, flicked her tail, and nosed through another sheaf of fern fronds to a block of stone. The block abutted another block, then a third, which was half-crumbled away into leafy mulch. The cat slipped through the hole, made a sharp left turn, and padded past a row of wooden stakes tied to withered stems. A vegetable garden? Through another hole made by another crumbling stone block, a bare, slender branch hung waiting. The cat easily scaled it to the tree’s rippled-bark trunk.
Bright eyes met him. Another cat, this one black and white. Those eyes closed and opened again in a slow, deliberate blink. Above, perched on another branch, was a very young grey tabby, swishing her tail back and forth. The tree was tall and wide, and its many branches reached over a yard composed of patchy grass and mud. What might once have been a fountain now lay toppled over, half-covered with moss, and three more cats sat among its ruins.
Most Maze Island cats were feral. Several regularly came by Contare’s kitchen in the morning, approaching Rhetta’s scrap-bowl one at a time. The neighbors fed them too. Butternut was an exception, enjoying the luxury of an indoor bed. Feral colonies, like this back-yard seemed to host, were far more common. Graegor could see six or seven cats out in the open, and another six or seven stalking the shadows. Some of those wandered out to the yard, and some of those in the yard edged away.
He’d never watched cats before. They’d always been around, everywhere he’d lived, hunting rats and other vermin, rarely bothering people. They were furry and cute. Because of his magic, even the most skittish cats let him pet them, or at least did not immediately bolt; it was like that with dogs too. He knew that cats walked on their toes, landed on their feet, and moved as silently as smoke. But he had never studied cats before.
They were supreme hunters. As he watched, their flexible ears flicked and turned in different directions at once, pinpointing multiple sources of faint sounds. Their eyes were better in the shadows than in the light, penetrating the dimmest corners and hiding spots. Whiskers touched where their eyes could not see, stirred by even the smallest breaths of wind. Their precise steps placed their hind-paws onto the prints of their fore-paws as they walked, reducing the tracks they left behind. He realized that they could squeeze through any space big enough to fit their heads because they had virtually no collarbones. Their tails whipped back and forth to counterbalance their bodies during sudden, sharp turns. All of this meant that they could either stalk or ambush their prey with equal ease. In a city as large as this one, the prey was never scarce, and these perfect little predators ate very well.
The tree overhanging the yard gave this colony’s cats good, high perches, and Graegor followed the gangly tabby up several more branches, eventually seeing out over the rooftops. Sunlight shone on the tips of the metal rods standing up from most of those rooftops. They were thaumat’argent-coated copper, each with a thumb-sized crystal within its base, and they extended the telepathic range of the magi. The building limits in this neighborhood meant that all the roofs were the same three-story height, and all the antennae looked like soldiers in formation. Some had birds on top of them, like a knight’s elaborately crested helmet. The crows and the seagulls didn’t like each other, and chased each other off their poles in a strange, living board game. The poles in one particular block of townhouses were entirely occupied by crows, and while individual seagulls occasionally tested the edges of the region, they didn’t band together for a concentrated assault. The crows seemed smug about this, until a black cat leaped out of nowhere and took down a bird from his perch in the very center of the protected block. The other crows took flight, flapping madly, and the cat strutted across the roof with his prey in his mouth.
The rooftops stretched away toward the Central Quarter, and as he gazed in that direction, Graegor could see the Ring of Flags. They were mere sticks and handkerchiefs at this distance, but they gradually grew, and grew, until he could clearly see the deep purple banner of Telgardia with the pale blue teardrop shape across it—the shield, or the pearl. The other eight banners also flapped in the winter breeze, but they were far enough apart that they never became entangled. Close by, he could see the Hall, crowned by Nuru’s Diamond. A seagull was perched on the very top. She had wing feathers of a dozen shades of grey, and she proudly ignored the orange cat who watched from the roof of the library.
The cat didn’t stay long. He turned and paced carefully down the roof’s pitch, then strolled along the half-pipe of copper that served as a rain gutter. He made his way to the ground in easy stages, but his carefree attitude disappeared when he caught sight of another cat, this one a big calico. He froze for a few heartbeats, then turned and bolted the other way, into an alley.
The calico paused, looking toward the alley, then toward the street. She decided on the street and set off at a trot. She was so graceful that her paws seemed to barely touch the cobblestones. When she reached a row of houses, she passed one garden gate, then another, and stopped at the third to squeeze under it.
Graegor followed the calico as she made her rounds. They were extensive. Some of the porches had dishes or bowls set out, with tidb
its inside. Other porches were empty until the door opened and a person tossed out a morsel. At a row of market stalls, she was less bold. There were dogs. The morsels came less frequently, but were larger. Avoiding boots and wheels took patience. Other cats slipped away when they saw her, obviously wary. But she let a small boy come close enough to drop a slice of fish under her chin. She stopped near a wall and groomed herself. Then she walked around the corner of the building and sat down. A sloppily-dressed man was leaning against a doorway. He made a shooing motion, but the cat simply stared at him. He was Telgard, thin, with brown hair in a braid. Something took his attention away from the cat, and she settled more comfortably on the ground. Another cat joined her in watching the man, and then another, and still another, all calico like her.
“Graegor.”
Graegor blinked, and felt his gen snap into a steel ring around his mind, shutting out his sight. In front of him he suddenly saw Contare’s street, the parlor window, and his own arms crossed on the sill. He spun around on the stool to see Contare leaning forward in the parlor chair, his blue eyes as bright and intense as an eagle’s. “I’m sorry,” his master sent. “But you need to see this. Magus Darren is looking at this right now.”
It felt difficult for Graegor to lower his shields again—like taking off a sweater when he was already cold. But he did, and a scene immediately came to his mind from Contare’s. Magus Darren was somewhere high up, looking down, and Graegor quickly recognized that his weapons master was extending his sight from a rooftop overlooking a courtyard at the Academy. All the students were choosing courses today, since the new term started tomorrow, and the line from the administration building was very long. Magus Darren wasn’t looking at the students, though, but at the three-tiered fountain in the center of the courtyard. Two men wearing wool caps were sitting on the fountain’s broad lip. From this angle, Graegor could clearly see their faces, and his breath caught in his throat.
They were the “ringless ones” Graegor had encountered back in Farre, on the same day he had met Contare. These men had chased him down, cornered him in a cloister yard, and tried to insist that he travel to Orest with them to meet their leader—Brandeis. He couldn’t remember their names, but those were the same faces. The first had hollow cheeks, a scar on his forehead, and a thick black beard. He was the one Graegor had encountered over a year ago, when a fight between two heretical groups had nearly become a riot. The man seemed as anxious now as he had been both of those other times, blinking and biting his lip. The second, younger man also had a beard, neatly trimmed, and he showed no sign of any emotion at all. From their position at the fountain, the two heretics had an excellent, extended view of each one of the hundreds of students at the Academy.
At Contare’s prompting, Magus Darren extended his sight further, focusing on a leather folder that one of the men held open. There were papers inside. Drawings … sketches. Of faces.
Jeffrei’s face.
Graegor was so startled he spoke aloud: “They’re looking for Jeff?”
“Brandeis drew this. I’m sure of it.”
“So … Brandeis thinks Jeff is important too?”
“‘Important to the rise of the One’. It seems so. Will you call to Jeffrei? Ask him if he can see these men from where he is right now. I’ll call to other magi who are there or nearby.”
Graegor brought Contare’s sense of urgency into his link to Jeff as he focused on it, and Jeff answered immediately. “What is it? Are you all right?”
“No aftereffects,” Graegor assured him. They’d spoken only briefly after the duel, and Graegor had promised greater detail later. “It’s not about that. I actually need you to do something for me. You’re in the registration line, right?” At Jeff’s wordless agreement, he went on, “There are two men sitting at the fountain. Can you see them? Don’t be obvious.”
“I see them.”
“Are either of them looking your direction?”
“No. Right now they’re feeding a cat.”
“One of them has a picture of you.”
“Of me? Why?”
Graegor wasn’t sure how much Jeff knew about Brandeis’ heresy, or how much he had been told about the arrests that Contare had arranged, but he probably had the right to know it all now. “Contare thinks Brandeis drew it.”
“Brandeis? The heretic?”
“Apparently you’re important.”
“In that case, I hope it’s a good picture.”
“Good picture, bad subject.”
Contare tapped their link, and Graegor pulled the two together. “Jeffrei, I think they have already seen you,” Contare sent. “I need you to keep their attention until we get there.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Come,” Contare told Graegor. “There’s something to learn here.”
Karl and Richard both went with them when they left the house a few minutes later. It was colder outside than the sunshine had suggested, but was still the warmest winter day Graegor had ever experienced; there would be snow, or at least frost, on the ground back home. Karl and Richard turned at the first intersection to keep them all from looking too conspicuous as they headed toward the Academy, and for the same reason, none of them wore magi grey or badges, and they all wore hoods or hats.
“Why is Magus Darren up on the roof?” Graegor sent as they walked.
“I had Richard ask the senior magi to be on alert during your trance, in case anything happened.”
Like doors blowing open or basilicas lighting up. Graegor dampened his embarrassment.
“Darren noticed the two men watching the students,” Contare went on, “and when he saw the picture of Jeffrei, he alerted me.”
“Why do you think they’re here? Are they angry with you because of the arrests?”
“Maybe. I’m hoping they’ll talk to you.”
“Me? Not us?”
“You’re important to them, and they may not trust me, so if you approach them, we stand a better chance of learning something. They might not have come alone, so our magi will create a net of lines-of-sight over the area to see if anyone twitches when you go to talk to them.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“Obviously we want to know how Brandeis knew that Jeffrei was here, and we want to know what he sent these two men to do.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ask leading questions. Encourage them to talk. Anything they say can be useful.”
“Yes, sir. Should I be … stern?”
“You mean, should you try to scare them?” Contare’s sending was amused. “No. They’re more likely to talk freely if you seem pleasant and reasonable. So try for that.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t be too anxious. They’re in your territory, and you control where this all goes. I’ll keep the link open, and I can prompt you if you aren’t sure what to say.”
“Thank you, sir.” He felt better knowing that Contare would keep him from making too many mistakes.
“You’ll do fine. Anyway, I’m sorry that I had to interrupt your trance. Was it a trance? Did you see anything interesting?”
“Cats.”
“A step up from mice. Tell me.”
Graegor did his best to remember all the details of what he’d seen, but during the vision, he hadn’t thought to practice any of the memory skills Contare had been teaching him. He could describe the four calico cats pretty readily, though, sitting together at the wall. “It’s as if they had an appointment there,” he said in conclusion. He switched to Telgardian to get the alliteration right: “A calico cat consortium.”
Contare was amused. “Do you think more have arrived since?”
“I think we should definitely check. It could be terribly important.”
“Undoubtedly.”
Plenty of people were out on the streets by now, most walking, some riding horses or in wagons or carriages. On other days, Contare drew greetings from neighbors and others who recognized him, but not today. The blue
hooded cloak he wore should not have disguised him so well, but most folks simply didn’t look too closely. City dwellers tended to be like that, but not in a bad way; it was respect for privacy, not callousness. Graegor had noticed that during the months he’d spent in Farre.
Farre had seemed big and exciting, back then. Now he lived in the largest city in the world, and he enjoyed it even more. His home village was all right—the lake was surrounded by both forest and farmland, and it was pretty enough. But he’d always known in his heart that he wouldn’t stay there, even before he’d learned who and what he truly was. His village had one street; this city had thousands. To visit his friends at the Academy dormitory, he could take dozens of slightly different routes through the grid to get there from Contare’s townhouse. Because he never got lost anywhere, he could and did wander through the neighborhoods when he had the time, like he’d done in Farre. When he returned from these ramblings, Contare would test his memory of where he had been, asking him to describe the people, the houses, the chapels, the inns, the workshops, the markets, and everything else. He had learned to keep his eyes open for any infrastructure spells that might need renewing, such as on the streetlights or the sewer pumps.
And from now on, he thought he might start taking closer note of the cats.
Through a gate in a stone wall, they arrived in a courtyard behind the Hall of Councils. From there they took a narrow footpath running alongside the windowless walls of Maze Island’s massive library, and at its southwestern corner was a small plaza near the Academy’s medical annex. The medical annex’s back entrance allowed them to cut straight through the building to eventually reach the corner of a larger plaza, bordered by the spellcasting hall and the main administration building.
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