“We can get a little closer every time she uses it, though,” Dannyl said slowly. “We could spread ourselves throughout the city and wait. Each time she experiments we can move a little closer until we know her location.”
The High Lord nodded. “She is in the northern section of the Outer Circle.”
“Then we’ll begin there tomorrow.” Dannyl drummed his fingers together. “But we’ll have to be careful that our movements don’t warn her of our strategy. If someone is protecting her, they may have helpers on the lookout for magicians.” He lifted an eyebrow at the High Lord. “Our chances of success will be greater if we disguise ourselves.”
The corner of Akkarin’s mouth curled upward. “Cloaks should hide your robes sufficiently.”
Dannyl nodded quickly. “Of course.”
“You’ll only have one chance,” Lorlen warned. “If she learns that you can sense her using magic, she will evade you by moving to a new location after each experiment.”
“Then we must work quickly—and the more magicians we have, the faster we can locate her.”
“I will call for more volunteers.”
“Thank you, Administrator.” Dannyl inclined his head.
Lorlen smiled and leaned back in his chair. “I must say, I never thought I’d be happy to learn that our little runaway has started to use her powers.”
Rothen frowned. Yes, he thought, but each time she does she comes closer to losing control of them completely.
The parcel was heavy, despite its small size. It made a satisfying thud when Cery dropped it on the table. Faren picked it up and tore off the paper wrapping, revealing a small wooden box. As he opened it, tiny discs of reflected light scattered over the Thief and the wall behind him. Looking down, Cery’s chest tightened when he saw the polished coins. Faren drew out a wooden block with four pegs set into it. Cery watched as the Thief began stacking coins onto the pegs. The holes in the coins fit corresponding pegs: gold onto the round peg, silver on the square, and large coppers onto the triangular. The last peg, for the large coppers, which Cery was most familiar with, remained empty. As the stack of gold reached ten coins high, Faren transferred it to a “cap,” a single wooden stick with stoppers at both ends, and set it aside.
“I have another job for you, Ceryni.”
Dragging his eyes reluctantly from the wealth stacking up in front of him, Cery straightened, then frowned as Faren’s words sank in. How many more “jobs” must he do before he would be allowed to see Sonea? It had been over a week since Faren had taken her in. Swallowing his annoyance, he nodded at the Thief.
“What is it?”
Faren leaned back in his chair, his yellow eyes bright with amusement. “This may be more suited to your talents. A couple of thugs have taken to robbing shops around the inner Northside—shops belonging to men I have arrangements with. I want you to find out where this pair live and deliver a message in such a way they will be certain I am watching them closely. Can you do this?”
Cery nodded. “What do they look like?”
“I’ve had one of my men question the shopkeepers. He will fill you in. Take this.” He handed Cery a small, folded piece of paper. “Wait in the room outside.”
Cery turned, then hesitated. He looked back at Faren and considered whether it would be an appropriate moment to ask after Sonea.
“Soon,” Faren said. “Tomorrow, if all goes well.”
Nodding, Cery strode to the door and stepped through. Though the burly guards eyed him suspiciously, Cery smiled back. Never make enemies of someone’s lackeys, his father had taught him. Better still, make them like you a lot. This pair looked so similar they had to be brothers, though a distinctive sear across one man’s cheek made it easy to tell them apart.
“I’m to wait here,” he told them. He gestured to a chair. “Taken?”
The scarred one shrugged. Cery sat down and looked around the room. His eyes were drawn to a strip of bright green cloth hanging from a wall, an incal stitched in gold at the tip.
“Hai! Is that what I think?” he asked, rising again.
The scarred man grinned. “It is.”
“A saddle-ribbon from Thunderwind?” Cery breathed. “Where’d you get it?”
“My cousin is stable hand at House Arran,” the man replied. “Got it for me.” He reached out and caressed the cloth. “Won me twenty gold, that horse.”
“Sired good racers, they say.”
“Never be one like him again.”
“Did you see the race?”
“Nah. You?”
Cery grinned. “Snuck past the feemasters. Was no easy trick. Didn’t know it was going to be Thunderwind’s day. Just lucky.” The guard’s eyes misted over as he listened to Cery describe the race.
A knock at the door interrupted them. The silent guard opened the door, admitting a tall, wiry man with a sour expression in a black longcoat.
“Ceryni?”
Cery stepped forward. The man examined him, his brows rising, then gestured for Cery to follow. Nodding to the guards, Cery started down the passage.
“I’m to fill you in,” the man said.
Cery nodded. “What do the thugs look like?”
“One’s my height, but heavier, the other’s smaller and skinny. They’ve got short black hair—cut it themselves from the sounds of it. The bigger one’s got something odd with one of his eyes. One shopkeeper said it was colored funny, another said it looked oddways. Elsewise, they’re regular dwells.”
“Weapons?”
“Knives.”
“Know where they live?”
“No, but one of the shopkeepers seen them in a bolhouse tonight. You’re going there now, so you can track them. They’re sure to take the long way home, so be sly about it.”
“Of course. What’s their style?”
The man glanced back, his expression unreadable. “Rough. Beat up the shopkeepers and some family. Didn’t stop to play, though. Just got out when they had what they came for.”
“What did they take?”
“Coin, mostly. A bit of drink if it was around. We’re almost there.”
They emerged from the passages into a dark street. The guide extinguished the lamp and led Cery to a larger thoroughfare, then stopped in the shadows of a doorway. The sounds of revelry from across the road drew his attention to a bolhouse.
His companion made a quick gesture, his hands forming a silent query. Following the man’s gaze, Cery caught a movement in a nearby alley.
“They’re still there. We wait.”
Cery leaned against the door. His companion remained silent, watching the bolhouse intently. Rain began to fall, pattering on roofs and forming puddles. While they waited the moon rose above the houses and flooded the street with light, before reaching the gray clouds and becoming a ghostly glow in the sky.
Men and women left the bolhouse in small groups. As a large group of men stepped out into the street, laughing and staggering drunkenly, Cery’s companion tensed. Looking closer, Cery saw two figures slip past the revellers. The watcher in the alley made another movement with his hands and Cery’s companion nodded.
“That’s them.”
Nodding, Cery stepped out into the rain. He kept in the shadows as he followed the two men down the street. One was clearly drunk; the other navigated the puddles with confidence. Letting them gain some distance, he listened as the drunk man berated his companion for drinking too little.
“Nothin’ll ’appn, Tull’n,” he slurred. “We t’ smar’ fr them.”
“Shut it, Nig.”
The pair took a circular journey through the slums. From time to time, Tullin stopped and looked about. He never saw Cery standing in the shadows. Finally, exasperated by his friend’s chatter, he took a straight route of several hundred paces across the slums, and arrived at an abandoned shop.