But what about me? Why do I think the Kyralian king or the Guild won’t reject my application for the same reason?
The truth was, Tayend wasn’t as good as Dannyl at hiding what he was. Not long after settling in Imardin, the scholar had gathered a circle of friends around him. He’d been delighted to find there were as many lads in the Kyralian Houses as in the Elyne elite class, and they had enthusiastically embraced his Elyne habit of holding parties. They called themselves the Secret Club. Yet the club was not particularly secret. Plenty in Kyralian society knew of it, and many had expressed disapproval.
Dannyl knew that his discomfort came from long years of hiding his nature. Maybe I’m a coward, or perhaps overly prudent, but I’d rather keep my personal life... well... personal. With Tayend I never got the choice. He never asked me how I wanted to live, or if I was comfortable with the whole of Kyralia knowing what we are.
There was more to his resentment than that, however. Over the years, more and more of Tayend’s attention had gone to his friends. Though there were a few in the group whose company Dannyl enjoyed, most were spoilt higher-class brats. And sometimes Tayend was more like them than the young man Dannyl had travelled with all those years ago.
Dannyl sighed. He did not want to travel with the man Tayend had become. He was a little afraid that being stuck with each other in another land would cause them to part permanently. He also could not help wondering if some time apart would make them appreciate each other’s company more.
But while a few weeks’ or months’ separation might do us good, could we survive two years apart?
As he entered the guest room and found that Tayend had already opened the bottle and drunk half the contents, he shook his head.
If he was ever going to fill in the gaps of this history of magic – this great work of his life – he could not sit around hoping that someone would send him the right record or document. He had to seek the answers for himself, even if it meant risking his life, or leaving Tayend behind.
One thing I’m sure of. For all that there are sides of Tayend that I don’t like, I care enough about him to not want to risk his life. He’s going to want to come with me, and I’m going to refuse to take him.
And Tayend was not going to be happy about it. Not happy at all.
She hadn’t grown any taller since Cery had last seen her. Her dark hair had been cut badly, uneven where it barely touched her shoulders. Her fringe swept sharply to one side, covering one of her knife-slash straight brows. And her eyes... those eyes that had always made him weak since the first time he’d seen her. Large, dark and expressive.
But at the moment all they expressed was a ruthless, unblinking determination as she bartered with a customer almost half again her height and weight. Cery couldn’t hear what was being said, but her confidence and defiance stirred a foolish pride.
Anyi. My daughter, he thought. My only daughter. And now my only living child...
Something wrenched inside him as memories of his sons’ broken bodies rushed in. He pushed them away, but the shock and fear lingered. He could not let the grief distract him, for his daughter’s sake as well as his own. For all he knew, someone was watching and waiting for a moment of weakness, ready to strike.
“What should I do, Gol?” he murmured. They were in a private room on the top floor of a bolhouse, which overlooked the market his daughter’s stall belonged to.
His bodyguard stirred, started to turn toward the window, then stopped himself. He looked at Cery, his gaze uncertain.
“Don’t know. Seems to me there’s danger in talking to her and danger in not.”
“And wasting time deciding is the same as deciding not to.”
“Yes. How much do you trust Donia?”
Cery considered Gol’s question. The owner of the bolhouse, who offered various “services” on the side, was an old childhood friend. Cery had helped her establish the place when her husband, Cery’s old friend Harrin, died of a fever five years ago. His men prevented gangs from extracting protection money from her. Even if she hadn’t had such a long connection with him, or she’d not been grateful for the help he’d given her, she owed him money and knew the ways of Thieves well enough to know you did not betray them without consequences.
“Better than anyone else.”
Gol gave a short laugh. “Which isn’t much.”
“No, but I’ve already got her keeping an eye on Anyi, though she don’t know why. She hasn’t let me down.”
“Then it won’t seem odd if you ask for the girl to be brought to a face-to-face, right?”
“Not odd, but... she’d be curious.” Cery sighed. “Let’s get this over with.”
Gol straightened. “I’ll go sort things, and make sure no one’s listening.”
Cery considered the man, then nodded. He glanced out of the window as his bodyguard headed toward the door and noticed a new customer had replaced the last. Anyi watched as the man ran a finger across the blade of one of her knives to test its edge. “And make sure her stall is watched while she’s here.”
“Of course.”
After some minutes had passed, four men emerged from the bolhouse and approached Anyi’s stall. Cery noted that the other stallholders pretended to pay no attention. One of the men spoke to Anyi. She shook her head and glared at him. When he reached out toward her arm she stepped back and, with lightning speed, produced a knife and pointed it at him. He raised his hands, palms outward.
A long conversation followed. Anyi lowered the knife slowly, but did not put it away or stop glaring at him. A few times she glanced fleetingly toward the bolhouse. Finally, she raised her chin and, as he stepped back from her stall, strode past and toward the bolhouse, putting away her knife.
Cery let out the breath he’d been holding, and realised his stomach was all unsettled and his heart was beating too fast. Suddenly he wished he’d managed to sleep last night. He wanted to be fully alert. Not to make any mistakes. Not to miss a moment of this one meeting with his daughter that he hoped he could afford to allow himself. He hadn’t spoken to her in years, and then she had still been a child. Now she was a young woman. Young men probably sought her attention and her bed...
Let’s not think too much about that, he told himself.
He heard voices and footsteps in the stairwell outside the room, coming closer. Taking a deep breath, he turned to face the doorway. There was a moment of silence, then a familiar male voice said something encouraging, and a single pair of footsteps continued.
As she peered around the doorway, Cery considered smiling, but knew that he would not be able to find enough genuine good humour for it to be convincing. He settled on returning her stare with what he hoped was a welcoming seriousness.
She blinked, her eyes widened, then she scowled and strode into the room.
“You!” she said. “I might’ve guessed it’d be you.”
Her eyes were ablaze with anger and accusation. She stopped a few steps away. He did not flinch at her stare, though it stirred a familiar guilt.