and into the front door. He stopped and surveyed the room before him.
Twelve tables. The flautist, harpist, and drummer were on a raised platform in the far corner. Three barmaids bustled among the patrons with platters full of food and drink. Thirty-two patrons, six of whom were clearly disreputable—bandits? ruffians? thieves? Nine more were suspicious; they sat with their backs to the wall and were only pretending to enjoy the music while their eyes roamed the crowd. Three of them studied him closely without appearing to do so, and he smiled, nodded slightly to each one—an almost imperceptible tilt of his head to the right. Then he purposefully moved up to the bar and sat down with his back to them all, knowing there was no more serious insult he could make. He ordered food and wine, and requested a room for the night. When he finished his meal, he got up and made his way to his room.
It was a small room, the standard fare of the inns he had visited on his way to Hellsbreath. Mattress—straw, grass, feathers; they were all the same and much too soft—small table, candle or lamp, water pitcher, basin, chamber pot, coverlet (always warm, sometimes infested with lice or bedbugs), and a lock that could be set from the inside. Some of the rooms, like this one, had a window with shutters; others did not. Some had a chair or two, but others, like this one, did not. Usually the innkeeper brought in a half-loaf of bread, cheese, dried meat, or something else to snack on in the morning, emptied the chamber pot, and made sure he was out of the room early enough to pretend to clean it for the next customer. Sometimes, like this one, the inn had thieves who tried to rob him.
He would be ready for them when they came.
They knew he would be ready, but they would come anyway.
Just before Angus went to bed, he brought the magic around him into focus, aligned it with the magic within him, and selected a light, airy thread with a faint-but-noticeable red tint. It was a weak thread, perhaps near the end of its influence, but it would still serve his purpose. He wove it into a quick series of simple knots, and a small, yellowish, glowing orb appeared in his palm, not quite bright enough to overwhelm the candle. He guided it with his hand until it slipped under the dull, gray, wool coverlet and then intensified it. He left it beside his backpack—no sense making it easy for them to take his spells—and walked to the table to extinguish the candle. The room was dark; not even a wisp of light bled through the coverlet. He made his way back to the mattress and slid under the coverlet. For a brief moment, a dazzling light lit up the room, but it only lasted long enough for him to crawl beneath the coverlet. The orb was warm, which surprised him, even though it shouldn’t have been surprising at all: flame magic always generated heat, even with the simple Lamplight spell. But he had never noticed it before because he was always too focused on reading Voltari’s books or scrolls to pay attention to the little globe of energy floating over his left shoulder, and he had always kept the light diffuse. But this time, he needed it to be as bright as the sun on a clear day, and that meant concentrating the power into a smaller orb—and more heat in a smaller space.
He used his hand to nudge the Lamplight into a more comfortable position and rested.
Still the body.
Still the mind.
Still the body.
Still the mind.
His muscles relaxed and his mind became acutely focused.
Still the body.
His senses screamed at him, detecting every minor disturbance within range.
Still the mind.
His awareness narrowed, cordoning off the faint music, laughter, and merriment rising up from the common room and sending it away.
Still the body.
His breathing subsided to soft, slow, long draughts, and his heartbeat fluttered softly in his chest.
Still the mind.
He sent them out of his awareness, flinging the little scraping sounds of the rodent scurrying in the wall with it.
Still the body.
He tasted the faint, pungency sneaking out through a crack in the chamber pot lid and rid himself of it.
Still the mind.
The coverlet was rough, its tiny, hair-like fuzz crawling along the bare skin of his wrist, his hand, his neck. He shifted his position slightly and sent it away.
Still the body.
He catalogued and dismissed all of the normal sounds and smells, and focused his attention on what remained.
Silence.
Emptiness.
He had no idea how long he waited in the trancelike state before he heard it, the nearly silent scrape of a blade lifting the window shutter’s latch. It was a daring maneuver; Angus’s room was on the second floor, and there weren’t any ledges beneath the window; there was only the thin indentation left behind when the mortar between the stone blocks had shrunk as it dried. He half-smiled—and quickly dismissed the intrusion.
Still the mind.
Prepare the body.
The shutter slid softly outward and settled quietly against the outer wall. A blade slid under the window, pried it from the sill….
Prepare the mind.
A muffled thud as a soft-soled boot lightly touched the floor.
Prepare the body.
A near-silent footfall.
Patience….
Another.
Now!
Angus closed his eyes and threw the coverlet off him.
A gasp, but no scream.
Discipline! Angus felt for the heat of the orb and lifted it from the mattress, guiding it toward the muffled noises as the thief hastily backtracked. He squinted, tried to ignore the glare, and rolled off the mattress into a crouch. The orb followed his hand as if the two had been glued together.
The thief had his left arm over his eyes and thrust a knife out with his right hand, slashing back and forth in wide defensive arcs as he quickly backed up.
Angus slid to his right, watching the rhythmic slashing of the knife. He waited until it was the furthest away from him, and then leapt toward the thief, rising sharply as his momentum propelled him forward. As he passed the thief, he attached the Lamplight to the thief’s left temple, just above the eyes.
The thief turned toward him, the knife jabbing out—
Angus dropped to the floor and rolled beneath the wild flailing.
The thief backed into the wall, grabbing at his eyes and waving his knife.
“I suggest,” Angus said from where he squatted near a corner, “you drop that knife. Unless you want the blindness to become permanent?”
When he heard Angus’s voice, the thief turned and the wild slashes melted into half-offensive, probing ones. He remained that way for several seconds before finally dropping the knife.
“Stand with your legs and arms spread wide against the wall,” Angus said. He brought the magical energy into focus and prepared to grab a deep, brick-red strand—a powerful one with a great deal of flame held within it.
The thief complied slowly, keeping his eyes crammed shut and his fists clenched. He was very young, with only the barest whisper of a black moustache tickling his upper lip and a few hairs dabbled on his chin. His hair was short, little more than half-inch-long black stubble barely visible against the black lining of his light gray cloak and the soft brown of his smooth skin. He was scrawny—a fine quality for a thief—thin and gangly, well-muscled, wiry. Along with the reversible cloak, he had on supple light brown leather garments—tunic, trousers, boots, belt—that no doubt twisted and bent with him when he was contorting his body into different positions. There were several small pouches hanging from the interior of his cloak, probably containing picks, wires, string—anything that might come in handy while he was practicing his trade.
Angus stood up and took a step forward. “If you resist,” he said, approaching the thief with caution, “I will increase the intensity of the spell.” He half-smiled at the half-truth, and then finished, his voice soft, unforgiving. “It will get much warmer, and the blindness will become permanent—If you survive.”
“Please don’t,” the thief sai
d, his voice a low, steady tenor. “I won’t resist.”
“What shall I call you?” Angus asked from a few feet in front of him. “Your real name,” he added, “not an alias.”
The thief frowned for a long moment, and then said, “Giorge.”
“Well, Giorge,” he said. “I am going to search you. Don’t worry,” he added, smiling. “I’m not going to take anything.” He paused and said, meaningfully, “I am not a thief.”
Angus did a thorough job of checking Giorge for hidden weapons, mentally inventorying the thief’s gear without removing any of it. When he was satisfied he didn’t have anything to worry about, he walked over to the window. A rope was dangling from the roof, and he snapped it sharply, sending ripples upward until the grapple broke free. He pulled the rope and grapple into his room, closed the window, and latched the shutters. When he was finished, he returned to the thief, leaned in close to his ear, and purred, “Are you alone?”
The thief gulped and nodded.
“Good,” Angus said, detaching the Lamplight spell from Giorge’s forehead and guiding it to the center of the room. He expanded it, reducing its intensity so that it cast a soft glow around the room, and left it hovering there. “Your eyes,” he told Giorge, “will begin to recover in about an hour, but you will have difficulty seeing for the next few days.”
The thief didn’t respond or move.
“You have friends here,” Angus continued. “I saw them when I arrived.”
Still no response.
“I assume they know you are here,” Angus continued. When Giorge said nothing, he asked, “Do