A strange sensation stole over her, as if a blanket had been wrapped about her head, muffling her senses. She shivered, disturbed by the certainty that she had done something—but this time to herself.
Or perhaps the magician has worked some kind of magic on me, she thought suddenly. Appalled, she opened her eyes and found herself staring into darkness.
The magician, and his light, had gone.
Dannyl regarded the building before him with distaste. The most recent of the Guild structures, it lacked the grandeur and beauty that he admired in the older buildings. While some praised the modern style, Dannyl considered this building to be as ridiculously pretentious as its name.
The Seven Arches was a flat rectangle, fronted with seven plain, undecorated arches. Inside were three rooms: the Day Room, where important guests were received, the Banquet Room and the Night Room, where magicians gathered informally each Fourday evening to relax, sip expensive wine and gossip.
It was to this last room that he and Rothen were heading. It was a chilly evening, but a little cold air had never kept Night Room regulars away. Dannyl smiled as he entered. Once inside, he could forget the architectural blunder that had brought about the building’s existence, and enjoy the tasteful decorations within.
He looked around, enjoying a new appreciation of the room’s luxuries after enduring a second day in the damp, cold passages of the slums. Dark blue and gold patterned screens covered the windows. Luxurious cushioned chairs were arranged around the room. The walls were decorated with paintings and carvings by the best artists of the Allied Lands.
More than the usual number of magicians were present, he noted. As he and Rothen strolled deeper into the crowd, he recognized a few less social magicians. Then Dannyl’s eyes caught a splash of black and he stopped.
“The High Lord has graced us with his presence tonight,” he murmured.
“Akkarin? Where?” Rothen glanced around the room and his eyebrows rose as he located the black-robed figure.
“Interesting. How long has it been? Two months?”
Dannyl nodded as he took a glass of wine from a passing servant. “At least.”
“Is that Administrator Lorlen with him?”
“Of course,” Dannyl said, pausing to sip from his glass. “Lorlen’s talking to someone, but I can’t see who it is.”
Lorlen looked up and around the room. His gaze rested on Dannyl and Rothen. A hand rose.
— Dannyl. Rothen. I would like to speak to you.
Surprised, and a little apprehensive, Dannyl followed Rothen across the room. They stopped behind the chair that had blocked Dannyl’s view of Lorlen’s other companion. A cultured voice reached their ears.
“The slums are an ugly stain on this city. They are a nest of crime and disease. The King should never have let them grow so large. This is the perfect opportunity to rid Imardin of them.”
Dannyl schooled his expression and looked down at the chair’s occupant. Immaculately combed blonde hair gleamed from the light of the room. The man’s eyes were half closed, his legs crossed and pointing toward the High Lord. A small square bandage had been stuck to his temple.
“How do you propose he do that, Lord Fergun?” Lorlen asked mildly.
Fergun shrugged. “It would not be hard to clear the area. The houses are not particularly well made, and it would take little effort to collapse the tunnels beneath them.”
“But every city grows and expands,” Lorlen pointed out. “It is only natural that people build outside the walls when there is no longer room inside them. There are some areas in the slums that look little different to the quarters. The buildings are well made and the streets have effective drainage. The occupants of these areas have started referring to the slums as the Outer Circle.”
Fergun leaned forward. “But even those houses have hidden passages beneath them. I assure you, their occupants are the most suspicious people. Any house built on top of such tunnels should be assumed to be part of a criminal conspiracy and torn down.”
Akkarin’s brows rose slightly at this. Lorlen glanced at the High Lord and smiled. “If only the problem of the Thieves could be solved so easily.” He looked up at Rothen and smiled. “Good evening, Lord Rothen and Lord Dannyl.”
Fergun looked up. His eyes slid from Dannyl to Rothen, and his mouth stretched into a smile. “Ah, Lord Rothen.”
“Good evening, High Lord, Administrator,” Rothen replied, inclining his head to the Higher Magicians. “And Lord Fergun. Are you feeling better?”
“Yes, yes,” Fergun replied, lifting a hand to touch the bandage on his forehead. “Thank you for enquiring.”
Dannyl kept his expression neutral. It was rude, but not unusual, for Fergun to “forget” to greet him. That he had done so in the High Lord’s presence, however, was surprising.
Lorlen folded his hands together. “I noticed that you both stayed in the slums longer than most others today. Did you discover any clues to this girl’s whereabouts?”
Rothen shook his head, and began describing their attempts to follow the underground passages of the slums. Remaining silent, Dannyl looked at the High Lord and felt a familiar twinge of nervousness. Ten years since I graduated, but I still react to him as if I were a novice, he mused.
Dannyl’s duties and interests rarely brought him in contact with the Guild’s leader. As always, he felt a mild surprise at Akkarin’s youthfulness. He thought of the arguments that had risen, five years before, at the election of a young magician to the position of High Lord. Guild leaders were selected from the strongest of the magicians, yet older magicians were usually chosen over younger ones due to their greater experience and maturity.
While Akkarin had demonstrated powers far stronger than any other magician’s, it was the knowledge and diplomatic skills that he had gained while travelling abroad that had convinced the Guild to elect him. A Guild leader was expected to have qualities of strength, skill, dignity and authority, and Akkarin had all of these in abundance. As many had pointed out at the time of Akkarin’s choosing, age mattered little to the role. Important decisions were always made by vote, and the everyday running of the Guild was left to the Guild Administrator.
While this sounded reasonable, Dannyl suspected that questions about the High Lord’s age still lingered. He had noted that Akkarin now wore his hair in the old fashioned and distinguished style favored by older men—long and tidily knotted at the back of his neck. Lorlen, too, had adopted the style.
Dannyl turned to regard the Administrator, who was listening to Rothen intently. The High Lord’s closest friend, Lorlen had become the former Guild Administrator’s assistant at Akkarin’s suggestion. When the Administrator retired, two years past, Lorlen had taken his place.
Lorlen had proven to be well-suited to the position. He was efficient, authoritative, and, most importantly, approachable. It was not an easy role, and Dannyl did not envy Lorlen the long hours involved. Of the two positions, it was the most demanding.
Lorlen shook his head as Rothen finished his account of their day. “From the descriptions I’ve heard of the slums, I can’t see how we’ll ever find her.” He sighed. “The King has ordered that the Port be opened tomorrow.”
Fergun frowned. “Already? What if she escapes on a ship?”
“I doubt if the embargo would have stopped her from leaving Imardin if she really wanted to.” Lorlen looked up at Rothen and smiled wryly. “As Lord Rothen’s former guardian used to say: ‘Kyralia would run itself very well if ruling was declared a crime.’ ”
Rothen chuckled. “Yes, Lord Margen was a source of many such remarks. I don’t believe we have explored all our options, however. Dannyl pointed out to me this morning that the people who have the best chance of finding this girl are the slum dwellers themselves. I think he’s right.”