Magic Steps

“It has to be public,” Alzena retorted, fastening the buckles that held the mage to the left side of the frame as Nurhar did the right. “The Rokats have to know that nothing will stop us.”

Once the mage was settled, Alzena and Nurhar dressed in beggars’ rags. They covered their clothes and their curved swords with long, patched cloaks that could be stowed in a carry-sack once they were clear of the inn. There was no sense in allowing the locals to wonder how three beggars could afford to rent rooms—even at a pit like this.

Once Nurhar had settled his cloak, Alzena helped him to strap the carry-frame on his back. “All ready for a stroll, Grandpa?” she asked the mage.

I’m ready to die,” he whispered. I’ll be readier still in an hour.”

“Too bad,” Alzena told him.

“I need dragonsalt.”

“Shut up,” Nurhar growled, opening the door.

“Help us kill the rest of our prey, and you’ll have more dragon salt than you know what to do with,” Alzena hissed in the mage’s ear as she followed him and her hus band out of the room.

“Sure I will,” the mage whispered. He stared blankly at the filthy ceiling as they descended the stairs.

CHAPTER 6

The duke stared at the card the footman had brought. His nostrils flared with distaste. “He will not set a proper time?”

“Your grace, he said it was important.”

“His brothers murder, doubtless. Show him in.” As the footman left them, the duke told Sandry and Baron Erdogun, “It is Qasam Rokat—Jamar Rokat’s brother. No doubt he feels not enough is being done.” Sandry and the baron rose, but Vedris shook his head. “Please stay. This is a complex affair—perhaps you will see what I do not. I should leave this to the provost and her people, but it is my sense that the more heads are put to this thing, the better, Is there any way to reach Niko?” he asked Sandry.

The girl shook her head. Tris’s teacher, Niklaren Goldeye, was not just the greatest living truthsayer, able to spot a lie at a glance; he was one of the few who could work the magic that made it possible to see the past, even if only for a short time. “They’re halfway between here and the Cape of Grief,” she said, naming the southernmost tip of land below the Pebbled Sea. “That’s much too far away. I won’t even be able to talk to Tris until they return to Hatar.”

“And that will be?” inquired Erdogun.

“Not till next year.” She sighed.

The duke smiled. “You miss her, don’t you?”

“I miss them all,” Sandry admitted. “It’s like part of me left with them. At least I can still mind-speak to Daja and Briar, if I really strain.”

The duke reached over to pat her hand. “Well, I am delighted you stayed at Winding Circle.”

The door opened. Sandry had been present at such meetings before and kept her workbox here for them. Quickly she lifted her embroidery hoop from the box and began to stitch on its design. She was the very picture of a noble maiden.

“Qasam Rokat, of Rokat House, merchants,” the footman announced before he closed the door behind the guest. Sandry peered under her lashes at the new comer.

Qasam Rokat was plump, not fat like his brother had been. He was sweating so much that his white tur ban had gone dark where the lower edge touched his skin.

His face was brown, his full dark beard neatly trimmed. Like Jamar Rokat, he was richly clothed in silk, wearing draped breeches under a long, buttoned coat. The sword and knife sheaths at his sash were empty—the Guards would have taken his weapons before allow ing him to come before the duke. He repeatedly dabbed his forehead and cheeks with a silk handkerchief.

First he bowed to the duke, touching his forehead, then his chest, with both hands as the people of Aliput greeted their royalty. When he straightened, he bowed less formally to Baron Erdogun.

When he noticed Sandry, he frowned. “Your grace, what I have to say is not for a lady’s ears.”

“Lady Sandrilene has my confidence,” replied the duke coldly. “I value her advice. Moreover, she is an accomplished mage with a broad education. You may speak before her and the baron as you would privately to me.”

“But your grace,” argued the man, bowing once more to Sandry, “it regards matters of considerable violence and bloodshed. Surely you do not wish so lovely a young lady—,”

“Either talk or go away,” snapped the baron. “It is not for you to question his grace.”

The duke raised a hand. “Peace Erdo.” To Qasam Rokat he said, “My caretakers are zealous. Speak before them or not at all.”

Sandry felt the merchant’s eyes on her. She kept hers down, picking out a design of blue lotuses, their petals and stems shaping the signs for health. It was complex work; most embroiderers would be able to attend to nothing else while they stitched.

“Your grace, I appreciate your seeing me at such a time,” Qasam said at last.

“My deepest felicitations on your recovery so prayed for—,”

Again the duke raised his hand. “Spare me your felicitations and prayers. If you have concerns about your brother’s murder, why have you not addressed them to my lady provost? The investigation is her affair, not mine.”

“But your grace understands the way of the world,” Qasam replied. “A servant always works better when the masters eye is upon him. I wished to assure myself that your grace’s eye is indeed upon my lady provost and her guards. It is known that your grace is not a—a supporter of Rokat House.”