For the next hour they reviewed common dances, ones Sandry had watched all her life without knowing that they had names or meanings. One dance was called "Dodging the Provost," another, "Bird in the Hand," a third, "Gathering Flowers." In that one the dancer skipped in a ring, plucking imaginary flowers from the air. Sandry thought Pasco might use that gesture to pull his runaway power back into himself. She wrote the idea down in the small book she now carried for just such thoughts.
While the boy danced, Yazmнn had her eye on him, as well as her hands. She hovered, straightening his back, forcing an arm into a more graceful curve, putting more thrust into his spins. "Get your feet up!" she yelled. "It's a skip, not a shuffle. Show me air under your toes!"
When the Guildhall clock struck the noon hour, Yazmнn called a halt. Pasco's hair and shirt were soaked in sweat. “I've never worked so hard in my life."
"That's what being a dancer is." Yazmin's dark eyes were kind and firm. "For you it's twice a problem. It isn't just what you do to survive, it's your power. And look at you. You're a fresh youngster, not an old lady like me, but—," She twirled seven times on the ball of one foot, lowered herself into a split, then raised herself again without once bending her knees. She leaned back until she could put her weight on her palms, raised her body into a handstand, then a split, then let her weight fall until she stood again. "I can do all that," she continued, breathing a little hard, "after chasing my lot all morning and getting you to stretch a bit."
Sandry took up her warding, trying not to smile. It really was too bad Yazmнn wasn't a mage. If she had been, Sandry would have turned Pasco over to her without a qualm.
She was just putting her thread away when the lad Wamuko appeared in the door: he seemed to be the school herald. "His grace Duke Vedris," he announced, and the duke walked in. Yazmнn curtsied as deeply as she had for Sandry, giving the illusion of wide, sweeping skirts when she had none. The fiddler, Pasco, and the guards all bowed.
Sandry grinned as the duke kissed her cheek. "I'd hoped you might still be here," he commented, "and since I was in the city on business, I thought we might take midday together." He bowed to Yazmнn. "You are welcome to join us, Mistress Yazmнn. The food at the Bountiful Inn is very good, and I would be honored to act as escort to you both."
Yazmнn smiled at him. "If I may have a few minutes to change out of these things, your grace?"
He bowed again. "Please, take all the time you need."
Yazmнn looked at Pasco, then at Sandry. "This meditation study you do before you come to me—if you like, I can save a room for you. That way you don't have to meet someplace, have one lesson, and then come here."
Sandry looked at Pasco. "What do you think?"
"Whatever you say, lady," Pasco replied, subdued.
"Then get here at nine tomorrow. We'll meditate before your dance lesson," Sandry ordered. As Yazmнn and the fiddler left, Sandry added, "Remember to do those exercises tonight, before you get too stiff."
"I'm not stiff at all, lady," Pasco replied. "I'm weak as an overcooked noodle. Pray excuse me while I crawl home."
"A hot bath will help," Sandry pointed out as Pasco bowed first to the duke, then to her.
"Oh, good—a way to drown myself before I have another morning like this one." Pasco lurched out of the classroom.
"A message came for you from Master Wulfric just before I left the Citadel," the duke told Sandry. He gave her a piece of folded paper.
Sandry read it quickly:
Lady Sandrilene, greetings. I have read your note with regard to the unmagic that will be at Jamar Rokat's death scene and that of his brother. I have sent Behazin and Ulrina to cleanse the street where Qasam Rokat was slain, since it is a public place. Keep in mind I cannot easily spare them, because drawing blood from the unmagic we presently have and preparing it for tracker spells is complicated work. Since Rokat House itself is locked and under guard with no one allowed in, I trust you will understand if we take care of tracking first, then cleanse Rokat House. Your servant, Wulfric Snaptrap.
"Is everything all right?" the duke asked.
Sandry folded the note up with a sigh. “I'm just being silly, Uncle. Master Wulfric has everything in hand."
The duke might have pressed her about it, but just then Yazmнn returned. She had changed into a crimson silk gown in the Yanjing style, made high at the neck and fitted to her body perfectly from shoulders to hips. She'd also done her hair so that curls tumbled out from under a shimmering gauze veil. The duke bowed over her hand, complimenting the dancer on so beautiful a change in so short a time.
"Performers learn how to dress quickly, your grace," explained Yazmнn with an impish smile.
Even an ill wind blows some good, as Tris always says, thought Sandry as they walked down the street toward the inn. Pasco may drive me crazy, but I never would have met Yazmнn if not for him.
She would light a stick of incense to Yanna the healer goddess, who was also the goddess of love. If the duke was paying attention to a lovely and spirited dancer, he might not spend so much time on paperwork or on worrying about murderers who seemed to walk through walls.
That night the dream began with Sandry in darkness up to her chin. She fought to keep it out of her face, but now she could feel unmagic seep through her very pores. She jumped out of bed and stumbled to the window. Leaning out into the cool night air, she gasped for breath.
Only when she was thoroughly chilled did she turn to sit inside her room. There was no sense in rushing back into a nightmare. Instead she got her notebook, ink, and brush pen, Pasco's bitter words about magic that did nothing to arrest criminals had been rattling about her head all day, So had the thought that stitch witches ought to be able to help provost's mages. She needed spells that would make her and her student feel they were of some use in this tangle.
The next morning Wamuko greeted Sandry and Pasco at the door when they arrived and showed them a tiny, empty room in the third story where they could meditate without interruption. At least Sandry could have done so. Pasco's inability to concentrate during their first lessons was nothing compared to his lack of attention now. Even though no classes were held on this floor, the noises made downstairs seeped under the door and through the floorboards. Pasco couldn't sit still when Sandry caught him beating time to a faint tin whistle tune, she cast her magic more strongly into her wards, until no sound came in.
Now Pasco grumbled about the tailor's seat they normally used to meditate. Here at least she understood the problem. His muscles, unused to the intense work of the day before, ached. She sighed and told Pasco to sit in whichever fashion was most comfortable. After trying several positions, he decided that being flat on his back worked the best. He lay down as she began to count their breathing. As she counted, she let her voice fade, until they could breathe in the correct rhythm silently.
A minute or two went by without a twitch or fidget from the boy. Just as Sandry began to relax, Pasco yelped "Cramp!" He sat up, rubbing a calf muscle.
She sighed, and drew a thread from her purse. She tied it, imagining leg muscle around it, then undid her knot. Pasco gasped. "It just stopped!" he exclaimed. "I didn't think that cramp would ever—“ He looked at Sandry, and saw the thread in her fingers. "Lady?" he asked.
"Would you at least try to concentrate?" she begged him. "I was ten when I learned. Ten. You're twelve."