Black Magician-01-The_Magicians' Guild

by Trudi Canavan

  Rothen looked up. Between the Administrator's and King's seats was a single chair reserved for the Guild's leader: the High Lord Akkarin. The black-robed magician had not spoken throughout the Meet, but that was not unusual. Though Akkarin had been known to alter the course of a debate with a few mild words, he generally remained silent.

  "High Lord, have you any reason to suspect there are rogue magicians in the slums?" Lorlen asked.

  "No. There are no rogues in the slums," Akkarin replied.

  Rothen was close enough to see the quick glance that passed between Balkan and Vinara. He smothered a smile. The High Lord was rumored to have particularly fine senses, and nearly all the magicians were at least a little in awe of him. Nodding, Lorlen turned back to face the hall. He struck the gong, and as its peal echoed through the hall, the buzz of voices dropped to a faint murmur.

  "The decision whether to teach the girl or not shall be deferred until she is found and her temperament assessed. For now, we will focus on the task of finding her. The search will begin here at the fourth hour tomorrow. Those of you who feel you have valid reason to remain in the Guild, please prepare a request and present it to my assistant tonight. I now declare this Meet ended."

  The Hall filled with the rustling of robes and the clatter of booted feet. Rothen stepped back as the first of the Higher Magicians stepped down from his seat and strode toward the side doors of the hall. Turning, he waited as Dannyl wove through the rest of the magicians and hurried to meet him.

  "Did you hear Lord Kerrin?" Dannyl asked. "He wants the girl punished for attacking his dear friend, Fergun. Personally, I don't think the girl could have found a nicer magician to knock out."

  "Now Dannyl—" Rothen began.

  "—and now they've got us sorting through rubbish down in the slums," a voice said behind him.

  "I don't know what's the greater tragedy: that they killed the boy or that they missed the girl," another replied.

  Appalled, Rothen turned to stare at the speaker, an old Alchemist who was too busy looking glumly at the floor to notice. As the magician shuffled away, Rothen shook his head.

  "I was about to lecture you about being uncharitable, Dannyl, but there's little point, is there?"

  "No," Dannyl agreed, stepping aside as Administrator Lorlen and the High Lord passed.

  "What if we don't find her?" the Administrator asked his companion.

  The High Lord gave a low laugh. "Oh, you'll find her, one way or the other—though I'd say by tomorrow most will be in favor of the more spectacular, less fragrant alternative."

  Rothen shook his head again as the two Higher Magicians moved away.

  "Am I the only one who cares what happens to this poor girl?"

  He felt Dannyl's hand pat his shoulder.

  "Of course not, but I hope you're not thinking of lecturing him, old friend."

  Chapter 3

  Old Friends

  "She's a tag."

  The voice was male, young and unfamiliar. Where am I? Sonea thought. Lying on something soft, for a start. A bed? I don't remember getting into a bed—

  "Not a chance."

  This voice was Harrin's. She realized he was defending her, and then the significance of what the stranger had said sank in and she felt a belated relief. A tag was a spy in the slang of the slums. If Harrin had agreed, she would be in trouble . . . But a spy for whom?

  "What else could she be?" the first voice retorted. "She's got magic. Magicians have to be trained for years and years. Who does that stuff 'round here?"

  Magic? Memories came back in a rush: the square, the magicians ...

  "Magic or no magic, I've known her as long as I've known Cery," Harrin told the boy. "She's always been right-sided."

  Sonea barely heard him. In her mind she saw herself throwing the stone, saw it flash though the barrier and strike the magician. I did that, she thought. But that's not possible ...

  "But you said yourself, she's been gone for a few years. Who knows who she's been hanging about with."

  Then she remembered how she had drawn upon something inside her—something that she should not possess . . .

  "She's been with her family, Burril," Harrin replied. "I believe her, Cery believes her, and that's enough."

  ... and the Guild knows I did it! The old magician had seen her, had pointed her out to the others. She shuddered as the memory of a smoking corpse flashed through her mind.

  "I warned you." Burril was unconvinced, but sounded defeated. "If she squimps on you, don't forget who warn—"

  "I think she's waking up," murmured another familiar voice. Cery. He was somewhere close.

  Harrin sighed. "Out, Burril."

  Sonea heard footsteps moving away, then a door closing.

  "You can stop pretending to be asleep now, Sonea," Cery murmured.

  A hand touched her face and she blinked her eyes open. Cery was leaning over her, grinning.

  Sonea pushed herself up onto her elbows. She was lying on an old bed in an unfamiliar room. As she slid her legs down to the floor, Cery gave her an assessing look.

  "You look better," he said.

  "I feel fine," she agreed. "What happened?" She looked up as Harrin moved to stand before her. "Where am I? What time is it?"

  Cery laughed. "She's fine."

  "You don't remember?" Harrin crouched so that he could stare into her eyes.

  Sonea shook her head. "I remember walking through the slums but. . ." She spread her hands. "Not how I got here."

  "Harrin carried you here," said a female voice. "He said you just fell asleep while you were walking."

  Sonea turned to see a young woman sitting in a chair behind her. The girl's face was familiar.

  "Donia?"

  The girl smiled. "That's right." She tapped a foot on the floor. "You're in my father's bolhouse. He let us put you here. You slept right through the night."

  Sonea looked around the room again, then smiled as she remembered how Harrin and his friends used to bribe Donia into stealing mugs of bol for them. The brew was strong and had made them giddy.

  Gellin's bolhouse was close to the Outer Wall, among the better built houses in the part of the slums called Northside. The inhabitants of this area called the slums the Outer Circle in defiance of the inner-district attitude that the slums were not part of the city.

  Sonea guessed she was in one of the rooms Gellin let out to guests. It was small, the space taken up by the bed, the tattered chair Donia sat in and a small table. Old, discolored paper screens covered the windows. From the faint light shining through them, Sonea guessed it was early morning.

  Harrin turned to Donia and beckoned. As the girl pushed herself out of the chair, Harrin hooked a hand around her waist and pulled her close. She smiled at him affectionately.

  "Think you could fish us up something to eat?" he asked.

  "I'll see what I can do." She sauntered over to the door and slipped out of the room.

  Sonea sent Cery a questioning look and received a smug grin in reply. Dropping into the chair, Harrin looked up at Sonea and frowned. "Are you sure you're better? You were out of it last night."

  She shrugged. "I feel good, actually. Like I've slept really well."

  "You have. Almost a whole day." He shrugged, then gave her another appraising look. "What happened, Sonea? It was you who threw that stone, wasn't it?"

  Sonea swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. She wondered for a moment if he would believe her if she denied it.

  Cery put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. "Don't worry, Sonea. We won't tell anybody anything if you don't want us to."

  She nodded. "It was me but ... I don't know what happened."

  "Did you use magic?" Cery asked eagerly.

  Sonea looked away. "I don't know. I just wanted the stone to go through . . . and it did."

  "You broke through the magicians' wall," Harrin said. "That would have to take magic, wouldn't it? Stones don't usually go through it."

  "And there wa
s that flash of light," Cery added.

  Harrin nodded. "And the magicians' sure got fired."

  Cery leaned forward. "Do you think you could do it again?"

  Sonea stared at him. "Again?"

  "Not the same thing, of course. We couldn't have you throwing stones at magicians—they don't seem to like it much. Something else. If it works, you'll know you can use magic."

  She shuddered. "I don't think I want to know."

  Cery laughed. "Why wouldn't you? Think of what you could do! It'd be fantastic!"

  "No one would ever give you any rub, for a start," Harrin told her.

  She shook her head. "You're wrong. They'd have more reason to." She scowled. "Everyone hates the magicians. They'd hate me, too."

  "Everyone hates Guild magicians," Cery told her. "They're all from the Houses. They only care about themselves. Everyone knows you're a dwell, just like us."

  A dwell. After two years in the city, her aunt and uncle had stopped referring to themselves by the term the slums dwellers gave themselves. They had made it out of the slums. They had called themselves crafters instead.

  "The dwells would love having their own magician," Cery persisted, "especially when you start doing good things for them."

  Sonea shook her head. "Good things? Magicians never do anything good. Why would the dwells think I'd be any different?"

  "What about healing," he said. "Doesn't Ranel have a bad leg? You could fix it!"

  She caught her breath. Thinking of the pain her uncle suffered, she suddenly understood Cery's enthusiasm. It would be wonderful if she could fix her uncle's leg. And if she helped him, why not others?

  Then she remembered how Ranel regarded the "curies" who had treated his leg. She shook her head again. "People don't trust curies, why would they trust me?"

  "That's 'cause people think the curies make them sick as much as they make them well," Cery told her. "They're scared they'll get sicker."

  "They're scared of magic even more. They'd think I might have been sent by the magicians to get rid of them."

  Cery laughed. "Now that's silly. Nobody'll think that."

  "What about Burril?"

  He made a face. "Burril's a dunghead. Not everyone thinks like him."

  Sonea snorted, unconvinced. "Even so, I don't know anything about magic. If everyone thinks I can heal them, I'll have people chasing me around but I won't be able to do anything to help them."

  Cery frowned. "That's true." He looked up at Harrin. "She's right. It could get really bad. Even if Sonea wanted to try magic again, we'd still have to keep it a secret for a while."

  Harrin pursed his lips, then nodded. "If anyone asks if you can do magic, Sonea, we'll tell them you didn't do anything—that the magicians must've lost their concentration or something, and the stone got through that way."

  Sonea stared at him, the possibility filling her with hope. "Maybe that's what happened. Maybe I didn't do anything."

  "If you can't use magic again, you'll know for sure." Cery patted her on the shoulder. "If you can, we'll make sure that no one finds out. In a few weeks, everyone will think the magicians just made a mistake. Give it a month or two and they'll forget all about you."

  A rapping on the door made Sonea jump. Rising, Harrin opened the door and let Donia in. The girl carried in a tray laden with mugs and a large plate of bread.

  "Here," she said, placing the tray on a table. "A mug of bol each to celebrate the return of an old friend. Harrin, Father wants you to go out for him."

  "Better see what he wants." Harrin picked up a mug and drained it. "I'll see you around, Sonea," he said. He caught Donia about the waist and pulled her, giggling, out of the room. Sonea shook her head as the door closed.

  "How long has that been going on?"

  "Those two?" Cery asked, his mouth full of bread. "Almost a year, I think. Harrin says he's going to marry her and inherit the inn."

  Sonea laughed. "Does Gellin know?"

  Cery smiled. "Hasn't chased Harrin off yet."

  She picked up a piece of the dark bread. Made from curren grains, it was dusted with spices. As she bit into it, her stomach made it known that she had been neglecting it for over a day, and she found herself eating ravenously. The bol was sour, but welcome after the salty bread. When they had finished, Sonea dropped into the chair and sighed.

  "With Harrin busy keeping an inn, what will you do, Cery?"

  He shrugged. "This and that. Steal bol from Harrin. Teach his children to pick locks. At least we'll be warm this winter. What've you got planned?"

  "I don't know. Jonna and Ranel said—Oh!" She leapt to her feet. "I didn't meet them. They don't know where I am!"

  Cery waved a hand dismissively. "They'll be around."

  She groped for her money pouch, and found it hanging full and heavy at her waist.

  "Nice bit of savings you've got there," Cery noted.

  "Ranel said we should each carry a bit and head for the slums on our own. We'd be so unlucky to all be searched by the guards." She narrowed her eyes at him. "I know how much went in there."

  He laughed. "So do I, and it's all there. Come on, I'll help you find them."

  Rising, he ushered her through the door and out into a short corridor. Sonea followed him down a narrow flight of stairs into a familiar drinking room. As always, the air was thick with bol fumes, laughter and a constant flow of chatter and amiable swearing. A large man slouched over the bench where the thick liquor was served.

  "Morning Gellin," Cery called.

  He narrowed his eyes at Sonea short-sightedly, then grinned.

  "Hai! This is little Sonea, eh?" Gellin strolled over and clapped her on the shoulders. "All grown up, too. I remember when you used to swipe bol from me, girl. A dainty little thief, you were."

  Sonea grinned and cast a glance at Cery. "And it was all my idea, too, wasn't it, Cery?"

  Cery spread his hands and blinked innocently. "What do you mean, Sonea?"

  Gellin chuckled. "That's what comes of hanging about with Thieves. How are your parents, then?"

  "You mean Aunt Jonna and Uncle Ranel?"

  He waved a hand. "That's them."

  Sonea shrugged and quickly described her family's eviction from the stayhouse. Gellin nodded sympathetically at their misfortune.

  "They're probably wondering where I got to," she told him. "I—"

  Sonea jumped as the door of the inn slammed. The room quietened and all looked toward the entrance. Harrin stood leaning against the frame, his chest heaving and his brow slick with sweat.

  "Take care of my door," Gellin yelled.

  Harrin looked up. As he saw Sonea and Cery he paled and started forward. Hurrying across the room, he caught Sonea's arm and pulled her through a door into the inn's kitchen, with Cery following closely.

  "What is it?" Cery whispered.

  "The magicians are searching the slums," Harrin panted.

  Sonea stared at him with horror.

  "They're here?" Cery exclaimed. "Why?"

  Harrin gave Sonea a meaningful glance.

  "They're looking for me," she breathed.

  Harrin nodded grimly, then turned to Cery. "Where should we go?"

  "How close are they?"

  "Close. They started from the Outer Wall, working outward."

  Cery whistled. "That close."

  Sonea pressed a hand to her chest. Her heart was beating too fast. She felt sick.

  "We've only got a few minutes," Harrin told them. "We have to get out of here. They're searching every building."

  "Then we'll have to put her somewhere they've already been."

  Sonea leaned against the wall, her knees losing all strength as a memory of a blackened corpse rose before her eyes.

  "They're going to kill me!" she gasped.

  Cery looked at her. "No, Sonea," he told her firmly.

  "They killed that boy ..." she shuddered.

  He gripped her shoulders. "We're not going to let that happen, Sonea."

&n
bsp; His gaze was direct, and his expression uncharacteristically stern. She stared back, looking for doubt and not finding it.

  "Do you trust me?" he asked.

  She nodded. He gave her a quick smile.

  "Come on, then."

  He pulled her away from the wall and propelled her through the kitchen, Harrin following close behind. Passing through another door, they stepped out into a muddy alley. Sonea shivered as the chill winter air quickly seeped into her clothes.

  Stopping near the end of the alley, Cery told them to stay back while he checked so see if the way was clear. He paused only a moment at the entrance, then hurried back, shaking his head. With a wave, he sent them hurrying back down the alley again.

  Midway, he stopped and lifted a small grille set into a wall. Harrin gave his friend a doubtful look, then flattened himself to the ground and slithered through. Sonea followed and found herself in a dark passageway. As Harrin helped her to her feet and pulled her to one side, Cery slid through the opening. The grille closed silently, suggesting a regular oiling of the hinges.

  "Are you sure about this?" Harrin whispered.

  "The Thieves will be too busy trying to stop the magicians from finding their stuff to worry about us," Cery told him. "Besides, we won't be down here long. Keep your hand on my shoulder, Sonea."

  She obeyed, taking hold of his coat. Harrin's hand rested firmly on her shoulder. As they started down the passage she stared into the darkness ahead, heart racing.

  From Harrin's question, she knew they had entered the Thieves' Road.

  Using the underground network of tunnels without prior approval was forbidden, and she had heard frightening stories of the punishment the Thieves dealt out to those who trespassed.

  For as long as she could remember, people had jokingly called Cery a friend of the Thieves. There had always been a hint of both fear and respect in their teasing. His father had been a smuggler, she knew, so it was possible that Cery had inherited privileges and contacts. She had seen no proof, however, and had always suspected he had encouraged speculation to keep his place of importance as Harrin's second in the gang. For all she knew, he had no connection to the Thieves at all and she was hurrying to her death.