Pushing her chair back, she rose and approached the doorway. As Sonea entered the corridor, Takan started toward the library. When she reached the door, she peered through.
A large desk stood at one side. The walls were covered in bookcases. Two large chairs and a small table were arranged at the center. Akkarin was sitting in one of the chairs. As she bowed, he gestured to the other, where a small book lay.
“This book is for you to read,” he said. “It will help you with your studies on the construction of buildings with magic.”
Sonea entered the room and approached the chair. The book was small, bound in leather and very worn. She picked it up and opened it. The pages were filled with faded handwriting. She read the first few lines and drew in a quick breath. It was the diary of Lord Coren, the architect who had designed most of the Guild buildings, and who had discovered how to shape stone with magic.
“I don’t think I need to tell you how valuable that book is,” Akkarin said quietly. “It is rare and irreplaceable and,” his voice deepened, “is not to leave this room.”
Sonea looked at him and nodded. His expression was serious, and his dark eyes bore into hers.
“You will not speak of it to anyone,” he added softly. “Only a few people know it exists, and I would prefer it stayed that way.”
She took a step away as he pushed himself out of the chair and walked to the door. As he moved into the corridor she found that Takan was watching her with uncustomary directness, as if he was assessing her closely. She met his eyes. He nodded, as if to himself, then turned away. Two sets of footsteps faded into the distance. She looked down at the book in her hands.
Sitting down, she opened the cover and began to read:
I am Coren of Emarin, House Velan, and this is to be a record of my work and discoveries.
I am not one of those who writes an account of himself out of pride or habit or any need for others to know his life. There has been little in my past that I could not discuss with my friends or my sister. Today, however, I discovered a need to transcribe my thoughts to paper. I have encountered something that I must keep a solemn secret, yet at the same time I feel an urge to tell of it that cannot be denied.
Sonea looked to the top of the page and noted the date. She realized from her recent studies that at the time of writing this diary Lord Coren had been young, restless and in disfavor with his elders for drinking excessively and designing strange, impractical buildings.
I had the chest brought to my rooms today. It took some time to open it. I disengaged the magical locks easily enough, but the lid had rusted shut. I didn’t want to risk damaging anything inside, so I took great care. When I finally had it open I was both disappointed and pleased. It was filled with boxes, so my first sight of the contents was very exciting. But as I opened each box I found only books inside. When I opened the last box I was greatly disappointed. I had found no buried treasure. Just books.
From what I have seen they are all records of some sort. I have been reading late into the night and much puzzles me. Tomorrow I will read some more.
Sonea smiled as she pictured the young magician locked away in his room reading. His following entries were haphazard, often skipping several days. Then came a short entry, underlined several times.
I know what I have found! These are the missing records!
He named some of the books, but Sonea did not recognize any of them. These missing volumes were “full of forbidden knowledge” and Coren was reluctant to describe their contents. After a gap of several weeks there was a long entry describing an experiment, the conclusion of which read:
At last I have succeeded! It has taken so long. I feel both triumph and the fear I should have felt before. I’m not sure why this is. While I was failing to discover the ways to use this power I was still somehow uncorrupted. Now, I cannot truly deny that I have ever used black magic. I have broken my vow. I hadn’t realized how ill that would feel.
Yet it did not deter him. Sonea found herself struggling to understand why this young man continued to do something that he clearly saw was wrong. He seemed unable to stop, driven forward to whatever end this discovery was leading him to, even if it be the discovery of his crime.
But it led to something else…
All who know me know my love of stone. It is the beautiful flesh of the earth. It has cracks and creases like skin, it has veins and pores. It can be hard, soft, brittle or flexible. When the earth spills forth its molten core, it is as red as blood.
After learning of the black magics, I expected to be able to place my hands on stone and feel a tremendous store of life energy within, but I was disappointed. I felt nothing; less than the tingling of water. I wanted it to be full of life. That’s when it happened. Like a healer trying to will a dying man back to health, I started to infuse energy into the stone. I willed it to live. Then a remarkable thing began to happen.
Sonea gripped the little book tightly, unable to take her eyes from the lines of text. This was the discovery that made Coren famous, and influenced Guild architecture for centuries to come. It was said to be the greatest development in magical knowledge for centuries. Though what he had done was not actually black magic, the forbidden arts had led to the discovery.
Sonea closed her eyes and shook her head. Lord Larkin, the architecture teacher, would give all his wealth for this diary, but he would be devastated if he learned the truth about his idol. She sighed, looked down at the pages and continued to read.
3
Old Friends, New Allies
Cery signed the letter with a flourish, then regarded his work with satisfaction. His writing was neat and elegant. The paper was quality, and the ink dark and black. Despite the slang terms throughout—he had requested that Serin teach him to read and write, not make him sound like a member of one of the Houses—and the fact that it was a request for the execution of a man who had cheated him and fled to the Southside, it was a fine, well-written letter.
He smiled as he remembered asking Faren, the Thief who had hidden Sonea from the Guild, if he could “borrow” Faren’s scribe for a while. From Faren’s mixed expression of reluctance and gratitude, Cery knew that the Thief would have refused if he hadn’t desperately needed the boost to his position that the arrangement would bring.
Faren’s hold on his status as Thief had been precarious for the first year after he had turned Sonea over to the Guild. A Thief’s ability to do business relied on a network of people willing to work for him. While some worked for money, most preferred to “help out” and be paid back in kind later. Favors were the second currency of the underworld.
Faren had used a lot of the favors owed to him while keeping Sonea out of the Guild’s hands, but that should not have held him back for long. People knew he had made a deal with Sonea to hide her from the Guild in exchange for her using her magic for him—a deal he had broken. The other Thieves, worried by the Guild’s warnings that her powers would grow dangerous if she wasn’t trained to control them, had “asked” him to turn her in. While he could hardly have refused the request of the other underworld leaders, a deal had been broken. Thieves needed people to believe they had at least some integrity, or only the desperate or the foolish would do business with them. Only the fact that Sonea had never used magic in any useful way, failing to uphold her side of the deal, had saved Faren from complete ruin.
Serin had remained loyal, however. He had given Cery little information about Faren’s affairs during the reading and writing lessons—nothing Cery didn’t already know, anyway. Cery had learned fast, though he attributed that partly to having watched some of Sonea’s lessons with the scribe.
And by showing that he—Sonea’s friend—was willing to deal with Faren—Sonea’s “betrayer”—Cery had assured people that the Thief was still trustworthy.
Taking a slim tube of dried reed out of his desk drawer, Cery rolled the letter and slipped it inside. He stoppered the tube and sealed it with wax. Picking up a yerim—a slim metal tool with a nee
dle-like point—he scratched a name on the side.
Putting the tube aside, Cery balanced the yerim in his hand, then, with a flick of his wrist, threw it across the room. It landed point first in the wooden panelling of the opposite wall. He gave a small sigh of satisfaction. He’d had his own yerim made to be well balanced for throwing. Looking down at the three remaining in the drawer, he reached out to take another, then stopped at a knock on the door.
Rising, Cery crossed the room to retrieve the yerim from the panelling before returning to his desk.
“Come in,” he called.
The door opened and Gol stepped inside. The man’s expression was respectful. Cery looked closer. In Gol’s eyes was a hint of…expectation, perhaps?
“A woman to see you, Ceryni.”
Cery smiled at Gol’s use of his full name. This was an unusual woman, if Gol’s manner was any indication. What would she be: spirited, beautiful, or important?
“Name?”
“Savara.”
No one Cery knew of, unless the name was false. It was not a typical Kyralian name, however. It sounded more like a Lonmar name.
“Occupation?”
“She wouldn’t say.”
Then perhaps her name is Savara, Cery mused. If she had lied about her name, why not make up an occupation as well?
“Why’s she come?”
“Says she can help you with a problem, but wouldn’t say what the problem was.”
Cery was thoughtful. So she thinks I have a problem. Interesting.
“Show her in, then.”
Gol nodded, then backed out of the room. Cery closed his desk drawer, then leaned back in his chair to wait. After a few minutes, the door opened again.
He and the newcomer regarded each other in surprise.
She had the strangest face he had ever seen. A broad forehead and high cheekbones angled down to a fine chin. Thick, black hair hung heavy and straight past her shoulders, but her most startling feature was her eyes. They were large and tilted upward at the outer corners, and the same light gold-brown as her skin. Strange, exotic eyes…and they were examining him with barely concealed amusement.
He was used to this reaction. Most customers hesitated when they first saw him, as they noted his stature, and his name, which was also the name of a little rodent common in the slums. Then they reminded themselves of his position and the likely consequences if they laughed out loud.
“Ceryni,” the woman said. “You are Ceryni?” Her voice was rich and deep, and she had spoken with an accent he could not place. Definitely not Lonmar.
“Yes. And you’re Savara.” He did not phrase it as a question. If she had lied about her name, he doubted she would offer the real one now just because he asked for it.
“I am.”
She took a step closer to the desk, her eyes shifting away to note features of the room, then back to him again.
“You say I’ve a problem you can fix,” he prompted.
A hint of a smile crossed her face and he caught his breath. If she fully smiled, she may just turn out to be astonishingly beautiful. No doubt this was the cause of Gol’s suppressed excitement.
“I do.” She frowned. “You do.” Her gaze slipped from his, moved over him as if considering something, then snapped back. “The other Thieves say you are the one hunting the murderers.”
Murderers? Cery narrowed his eyes. So she knows there is more than one.
“How d’you plan to help me?”
She smiled and Cery’s suspicion was confirmed—she was astonishingly beautiful. He hadn’t anticipated the challenge and confidence that came with it, however. This one knew how to use her looks to get her way.
“I can help you find and kill them.”
Cery’s heart began to race. If she knew who these murderers were, and believed she could kill them…
“And how’re you going to do that?” he asked.
The smile vanished. She took another step closer. “Find or kill?”
“Both.”
“I will say nothing of my methods of killing today. As for finding them,” a crease appeared between her brows, “that will be harder, but easier for me than for you. I have ways of recognizing them.”
“So do I,” Cery pointed out. “Why’s your way better?”
She smiled again. “I know more about them. For now, I will tell you that the next one entered the city today. He will probably take a day or two to gather the courage, and then you’ll hear of his first kill.”
He considered her reply carefully. If she didn’t know anything, why offer this proof? Unless she planned to manufacture “proof” by murdering someone herself. He looked at her closely and his heart went cold as he belatedly recognized the broad facial features and that particular shade of gold-brown skin. How had he not seen it earlier? But he had never seen a Sachakan woman before…
He had no doubt now that she was dangerous. Whether she was dangerous to him, or to the murderers from her homeland, remained to be seen. The more he could get her to reveal of herself, the better.
“So you have watchers in your homeland,” he prompted, “who tell you when a killer has entered Kyralia?”
She paused. “Yes.”
Cery nodded. “Or,” he said slowly, “you’ll wait a few days and kill someone yourself.”
Her gaze became steely. “Then have your tags watch me. I will stay in my room and have food brought to me.”
“We both need to prove ourselves right-sided,” he told her. “You came to me, so you do the proving first. I’ll put a watcher on you now, and we’ll have a chat once this man has done his deed. Happy with that?”
She nodded once. “Yes.”
“Wait in the first room. I’ll set things out, and have a friend take you back to your place.”
He watched, taking in as much detail as possible, as she walked to the door. Her clothes were plain, neither shabby nor expensive. The heavy shirt and trousers were typical of common Kyralians, but from the way she walked he doubted she had been ordered about much in her life. No, this one did the ordering.
Gol returned to the room promptly after she had left, his face tight with the effort of hiding his curiosity.
“Put four tags on her,” Cery told him. “I want to know every move she makes. Keep an eye on whoever brings anything to her, food or otherwise. She knows she’s going to be watched, so let her see two of the tags.”
Gol nodded. “Want to see what she was carrying?”
He held out a bundle of cloth. Cery regarded it with mild surprise. She had offered to kill the murderers, he reasoned. I doubt she plans to do it with her bare hands. He nodded.
Gol carefully unrolled the cloth on the desk. Cery chuckled as he saw the array of knives and daggers. He picked them up one by one, testing their weight. Some were etched with unusual designs and symbols, some with gems set into the metal. He sobered. Sachakan, most likely. He set the largest of the jeweled ones aside, then nodded to Gol.
“Give them back.”
Gol nodded, then rolled up the bundle and took it out of the room. When the door had closed, Cery leaned back in his chair and considered this strange woman. If everything she had said proved true, she could be as useful as she claimed.
If she was lying? He frowned. Was it possible a Thief had sent her? She had mentioned speaking to the “other Thieves.” He could not think of a good reason for one to interfere, however. Time must be spent considering all the possibilities. He would be questioning his watchers closely.
And should I tell him? Cery thought. To communicate anything other than the arranged coded messages would require a meeting, and he was not about to arrange one unless it was absolutely necessary. Was this important enough?
A Sachakan woman who had contacts in her homeland. Of course it was.
But something made Cery pause. Perhaps he should wait and see if she proved herself useful first. And he had to admit, he didn’t like consulting someone else every time he changed his tactics sligh
tly. Even if he did owe that someone a great debt.
It was time he came up with a few strategies of his own.
As Sonea waited for Warrior class to begin she closed her eyes and rubbed them, then fought off the urge to yawn. She had finished Coren’s diary late in the night, drawn on by the architect’s recollections and half afraid that, if she left it there unfinished, she might return the next night to find it gone and never know how the story ended.
As the night turned to the earliest hours of morning, she had read the final entry:
I have decided. When the foundations of the University are complete I will secretly bury the chest, with all its contents, in the soil beneath it. Along with those terrible truths will go my own, in the physical form of this book. Perhaps, by carrying out this act of concealment, I will finally smother this nagging guilt at what I have learned and used. If I had the courage, I would destroy the chest and its contents, but I fear to judge differently from those who placed it in the ground in the first place. They were most definitely wiser men than I.
The chest must have been rediscovered, however, or she would not have had Coren’s diary in her hands. What had happened to the rest of the books? Did Akkarin have them?
Or was the diary a fake, created by Akkarin to persuade the Guild that black magic was not as bad as it was thought to be? He might be testing it on her, to see if it would convince her.
If that were so, then he had made a mistake. Coren had believed that black magic was wrong. Reading the account, whether fictional or not, was not going to persuade anyone otherwise.
If it was real, why had Akkarin given it to her? Sonea frowned down at her notebook. He would not have allowed her to know of its existence on a whim. He must have a reason.
What had he revealed to her? That Coren had used black magic and that it had led him to discover how to manipulate stone. That another magician—a famous magician—had committed the same crime as he. Perhaps Akkarin wanted her to consider that he, too, might have learned it against his better judgment. Perhaps he wanted her sympathy and understanding.