The look she gave him was full of amusement and gratitude. “Yes. He’s in a safe place with good people, living far away from me.” She sighed. “I feared that if I kept him with me, I’d draw him into more strife, but I’ve managed to keep out of trouble for five cycles so perhaps I didn’t need to worry.”
“And in all that time we’ve been living in worlds right next to each other.”
Rielle lifted a hand in a graceful, negative gesture. “Oh, I’ve only been in Murai for a few months.” She looked towards the outskirts of Alba. “I work for a team of mosaic-makers. The Emperor commissioned work from them. They like the climate in Glaemar, so they accepted his invitation to take up residence in the palace while they complete the job.”
“So you work for the Emperor.” Tyen raised an eyebrow. Did that make them enemies?
She turned back to look at him. “I work for people who work for him. While the mosaic-makers are decent people, I am not truly one of them. I am an outsider with a useful skill.”
Tyen nodded. “I know how that feels. Though I’ve worked hard to make a home for myself in Doum, sometimes they still treat me as an otherworlder.”
“Even after five cycles?”
“Even after five cycles.”
She looked sad. “I have wondered how long it would take. I can never go home. I don’t want to always be the outsider.”
“I am also unable to return to my world.” He frowned. “Did you learn why I was visiting the palace?”
“The merchants attacked a marketplace here. They are upset about the prices the Claymars have set on their goods.” She paused. “And no doubt you read what they are contemplating doing, if they do not get their way.”
“I won’t let them invade Doum,” he warned. Then he grimaced. “If the Claymars let me prevent them. They are so touchy about me getting involved in anything other than making pottery wheels that I have to wonder if they’d rather Murai conquered them than I did anything on their behalf.”
She chewed her lip again. “Being an otherworlder might have advantages, though. I suspect the Emperor would be more likely to compromise if he didn’t have to do it to their faces. Would you negotiate on their behalf, if the Claymars let you?”
Tyen considered. “Yes. Yes, I would—though if the Emperor doesn’t like being threatened, haven’t I just ensured he won’t listen to me?”
“No, more the opposite. He may hate you for defying him, but he will respect you for having the strength and boldness to do it.”
He grimaced. “I’m not sure I like the idea of negotiating with him directly. Perhaps Murai needs a representative too. Not that I know any Muraians I’d prefer.” His heart skipped as he realised who he would most like to work with. “Could you convince the Emperor to let you negotiate on his behalf?”
Her brow furrowed. “I don’t know.” Her tone was heavy with reluctance. “It’s not that I don’t want to help you, but I have no experience or training in this kind of work.”
“Neither do I,” Tyen told her. “But if we do nothing …”
“… these two worlds may declare war with each other,” she finished. “Very well. I’ll consider suggesting it.”
He smiled. “Thank you. I have to get back to Alba to tell them of what I know and help in the Grand Market.”
“I should return to the mosaic-makers. I left them in the middle of a design meeting. Shall I look for you in Alba?”
“Yes. Ask for Tyen Wheelmaker. Most people will be able to direct you to my workshop.”
She inclined her head. “Until then, Tyen Wheelmaker, I wish you well.”
He waited as she faded out of sight, not wanting to push out of the world on her heels, even if he then travelled in a different direction. When she had vanished completely, he moved into the place between and began to skim towards the city. As he emerged in the Grand Market, his heart began beating quickly, but not from fear or apprehension.
Rielle! Of all people to find living in the next world!
Then he sobered. If Dahli knew where she was, he would be even more pleased. But the Raen’s former most loyal servant would, at worst, want to punish her for refusing to resurrect Valhan. At best, he’d try to force her to tell him where to find the boy, so he could complete the Raen’s resurrection.
Baluka, the leader of the rebels—the Restorers, as they were known now—would like to know his former fiancée was alive and well. He might not want to know her location, however, because he was not a powerful sorcerer and if others read that information from his mind it could eventually reach Dahli.
Her secret was safe with Tyen, and it was one he was happy to keep. He’d always been curious about her. He knew she had lived in the Raen’s palace before his death, and that Dahli had taught her how to use magic, and to become ageless. The first time Tyen had seen her, she had been about to resurrect the Raen, but when she’d discovered it involved sacrificing the mind of an innocent boy, she’d rescued him—at no small risk to her own life. He’d followed her, helping her escape Dahli.
Tyen had admired her for that choice. It surely indicated she had strong morals and the courage to stick to them, even if in the process she became a traitor. Perhaps she would understand the choices he’d made in his life. He’d sometimes daydreamed that they met again, and became allies, friends and—when he was being particularly fanciful—possibly more.
The first part just happened.
He began to smile, but as he stepped out of the Grand Market stall, his good cheer evaporated. Little progress had been made since he’d left, but then he had not been gone all that long. Sorcerers were now removing rubble from the huge pile, carefully lifting it piece by piece by magic lest they disturb and harm anyone trapped below. From them he learned that no minds had been detected beneath the rubble, but all hoped that some of the buried market workers might be alive but unconscious. The injured and dead recovered so far had been removed. He sought Master Rayf, finding the old man standing by the door talking to Claymar Fursa.
Rayf saw Tyen approaching first, and as his lips moved, Fursa turned to frown at Tyen.
“Tyen Wheelmaker,” Rayf said. “Were you able to follow the Muraian?”
“Yes.” Tyen related all that had happened. Claymar Fursa’s frown deepened to a scowl on hearing of Tyen’s threat to strip the world of magic. “That is a dangerous bluff.”
“It was no bluff,” Tyen replied, meeting and holding her gaze. Her eyes narrowed, and he did not have to read her mind to see she didn’t believe him.
“Only the Raen could do such a thing,” she scoffed.
“That is what he wanted the worlds to believe,” Tyen replied.
“I heard that he killed anyone he encountered whose strength approached his while they were too inexperienced and skilled to challenge him,” Rayf said. His attention returned to Tyen, suddenly appraising.
“Unless he recruited and trained them to be his servants,” Fursa added, her eyes narrowing.
“Plenty of powerful sorcerers were born during the twenty cycles the Raen was missing,” Tyen told her. “I’m not the only one he didn’t get the chance to eliminate.” Then he shrugged. “Besides, Murai is smaller than the average world. A sorcerer doesn’t have to be able to take all magic to have a great impact on a world’s strength. I could make life very difficult for the Emperor, if I wanted to.”
Fursa’s gaze slid away, her lips pressing tight. “Even so,” she said, her eyes still averted, “you should not have threatened him without our agreement.”
Tyen nodded. “I only did so because he was considering doing worse than this.” He gestured around them. “But I assure you, I will not act without consulting you again.” He told the pair of Rielle’s visit, advice and offer, referring to her only as an otherworld sorcerer he had met before, who was working as a mosaic designer. “She is a moral person.”
“She has seen to the heart of the matter.” Rayf nodded. “It is unlikely the Emperor will compromise if he speaks to us directl
y, as it will be seen in Murai as a sign of weakness. But if an intermediary negotiates on his and our behalf, he can distance himself from the decision.” He smiled at Fursa. “As can the Council.”
Fursa crossed her arms. “Yes, but the Council must decide who will represent us. There may be better candidates for the role.”
Suppressing a sigh, Tyen glanced back at the sorcerers digging in the rubble. “I can do no more right now than offer my assistance. When you have decided, let me know one way or the other. You know where to find me.” He looked at Rayf. “I’m sure there’s something more useful I can be doing here.”
The old man glanced around the building. “No, we have it well in hand.”
It was not the answer Tyen was expecting, but as he looked closer at the activity in the building, he realised that another large group of sorcerers had arrived while they were talking, and the entire surface of the huge pile of rubble was stirring as bricks were carefully removed. Healers hovered nearby, waiting in case a living victim was uncovered, but with the grim certainty that their services would not be needed.
Tyen nodded. “Indeed you have. I had best get out of your way, then.”
He faced Fursa and pressed two fingers to his heart, nodded in respect to Rayf, then pushed out of the world and skimmed upwards, through what remained of the Grand Market’s roof. Locating the familiar shape of his home’s rooftop from above, he headed towards it. He plunged through the ceiling but stopped on the upper floor, at the top of the stairs, instead of returning to the workshop with its unfinished wheels. Once air surrounded him again, he scanned the minds around him. The workshop was empty, his employees still helping at the Grand Market. His neighbours were fixed on their work, domestic tasks, trade or exchanging reports about the attack. No spies watched him. Nobody was paying him the slightest attention at all.
The only person who could be watching without me detecting it is Rielle.
He dismissed the idea, then hesitated and made himself reconsider the possibility. It would not be hard for her to find this place. He was famous enough for his magic-powered pottery wheels that he could be found easily by simply asking a few questions of people on the streets.
Why watch him, though?
Could she have warned him of the Muraian Emperor’s intention to have him assassinated in order to gain his trust? When she advised him to consider the safety of the people he cared for, had it been in order to read from his mind who those people were? His stomach sank as he remembered who he’d thought of when she had.
Vella.
He hadn’t thought about Vella’s hiding place, however. Still, he hurried to the toilet and pushed inside. The commode was made up of a wooden box with a hole in the top, in which a large funnel was suspended. The funnel emptied into one of the ceramic pipes that, until recently, Muraian merchants had bought and sold on to other worlds. Carefully lifting the box and funnel off the pipe, he reached under the base. The odour of urine and faeces that always lingered despite regular cleaning grew a little stronger, and he took care to avoid the bottom of the funnel. No toilets in the worlds were as well plumbed and ventilated as those of his home world and city.
He groped around inside the wooden base. As his fingers met a familiar bundle, he let out a sigh of relief. Unhooking it, he tucked it under his arm and replaced the seat. He then sat upon the commode. A pouch was uncovered as he removed the wrapping, a firm but slightly flexible object inside. Through holes in the fabric he could see the familiar leather of Vella’s cover.
When he’d first settled in Doum, he had spoken to Vella at least once a day, torn between keeping her safely hidden and the need to talk to someone familiar. He also did not want to abandon her to the unconsciousness state she remained in when not touched by a human.
But when he’d adopted the local garb to help fit in with the locals, carrying Vella had become a problem. Since the climate was warm, Doumian fabrics were thin and showed the outline of objects lying beneath them. When people began asking what lay beneath his shirt he’d had to find another hiding place for her.
The busier his enterprise had grown, the less time he’d had to talk to her. His daily chat changed to one every second day, then every three or four days, and the intervals had slowly grown larger. Yet if he waited too long, he began lying awake at night worrying if she was still there. So their chats had become irregular, middle-of-the-night affairs.
As always, she was slightly warm as he slipped her from the pouch. Affection and a little guilt rose within him. While he considered his employees friends, none were as close to him as Vella. He wished he had spared more time to talk to her. He considered his promise to find a way to restore her to human—an idea he’d not had much success pursuing since most sources of knowledge were now in the hands of people who considered Tyen a spy and traitor.
Since she would have read his mind at the first touch of his skin, he did not have to explain all that had happened since he’d last talked to her. He opened her covers and looked down at the familiar unmarked pages. Words began to appear.
Hello, Tyen. I see it has been a day of ill news.
Yes, though it was not all bad.
No. Yet you question whether to trust Rielle too.
Nothing in particular gives me cause for suspicion, but I can’t help feeling I shouldn’t assume anything. I’ve only met her once before. All I know about her comes from Dahli and Baluka—what they told me and the occasions they thought about her. Also, if I am to negotiate on behalf of Doum and the Emperor sends her to represent him, I must treat her as I would anyone else in that position.
That is wise.
She refused to destroy a young man so that the Raen could be resurrected, so her morals are strong, but she chose to join the Raen before then. I can’t see how anyone could do the latter without making some moral compromises.
Dahli could not have read her mind. Perhaps she was only pretending to be a willing subject.
The Raen would have read that from her mind if she was.
Would he have? You read from Dahli that Valhan said he was not always able to read her mind.
Tyen drew in a sharp breath at the reminder. No surprise, then, that she could read his mind. Yet that means the Raen could read it some of the time. It is hard to believe she could have concealed disloyalty, considering how difficult it is to keep from your thoughts the things you don’t want others to see.
Perhaps she was loyal then changed her mind about him later.
Or he didn’t care as long as she did what he wanted. He chewed the inside of his cheek. I wonder, would she tell me if I asked. He frowned. Though it would be impolite to pry. I don’t want to anger her, whether we end up negotiating on behalf of our worlds or not.
If you wish to know more, Baluka may be able to give more insight into her character.
That would mean telling him I’ve met her recently, which she might not like.
You do not need to tell Baluka you’ve met her. You only need to prompt him to talk of her.
He nodded. That won’t be hard. He does like to reminisce. He drummed his fingers on her cover. A visit to Baluka, then. He looked up, focusing beyond the toilet door as a plan formed. To arrange a meeting with Baluka, he must leave a message at one of several pre-arranged locations in other worlds. He would need to change into clothing that wasn’t so obviously from Doum in case anyone recognised it and guessed he was living here. He looked down at the page again. And he’d better take Vella with him, in case the Muraian Emperor or merchants sent someone to loot, damage or destroy his house.
He closed Vella, slipped her back into the pouch, then draped the strap around his neck. Emerging from the toilet, he entered his bedroom and opened the clothing chest. Under the shirts and trousers he wore regularly lay clothing he wore whenever travelling through the worlds. It was deliberately unremarkable, designed to allow him to fade into a crowd. Of commoners, of course—it was impossible to predict what garb might be fashionable among the rich and powerf
ul.
From the selection he chose a long-sleeved shirt, rugged trousers, warm socks and leather boots and a long woolly jacket. Once dressed, he checked the hidden pockets of the jacket. In one he found some precious stones, still the most reliable currency across worlds—even more so since the alliances and peace the Raen had maintained had crumbled.
He turned towards the door, then hesitated and looked back at his desk.
“Beetle.”
A muffled hum came from the topmost drawer. It appeared to open of its own accord, allowing a pair of antennae to escape. The mechanical insectoid crawled partway out.
“Come out. Close the drawer. Come here.”
It scurried up onto the desktop, leaned down and nudged the drawer closed. Wing protectors sprang open and the fine wings within blurred and carried the little machine to Tyen’s outstretched hand. He picked it up and slipped it into an inner pocket of his coat. Through the layers of fabric, he felt a faint vibration.
“Be quiet,” he told it. The sensation stopped.
Beetle’s primary role nowadays was to guard Tyen’s savings. He hadn’t set it to watch over Vella, since too many people knew he’d used it to protect valuables before and would reason that if it was guarding the book, the book must be precious to him. Now that he was resigned to the possibility that someone might invade or destroy his home, he would rather ensure Beetle’s safety by taking it with him than sacrifice the insectoid over some jewels and coin.
Heading downstairs, he left a message in case one or all of his employees returned, telling them to take the rest of the day off. He glanced around the workroom once and, seeing nothing that needed immediate attention, pushed out of the world.
Rather than creating a path in the place between that led directly from his workshop, he skimmed across the city a few times before heading across the country to another city. After returning to the world in a busy marketplace to take a few deep breaths, he withdrew again and propelled himself downwards.