Don’t run, she told herself. Don’t make any noise. Resisting the urge to bolt for the trees, she forced herself to creep away carefully. She increased her pace as she reached the path, wincing every time a twig snapped under her feet. The forest seemed darker than before, and she felt a rising panic as she realized she was not sure where she had been sitting when Cery had left her.
“Sonea?”
She jumped as a figure stepped out of the shadows. Recognizing Cery’s face, she gasped with relief. In his arms was something large and heavy.
“Look,” he said, lifting his burden.
“What’s is it?”
He grinned. “Books!”
“Books?”
“Books on magic.” His grin faded. “Where have you been? I just got back and—”
“I was there.” She pointed at the house and shivered. It seemed darker now, like a creature lurking at the edge of the gardens. “We have to go! Now!”
“That place!” Cery exclaimed. “That’s where their leader lives—the High Lord.”
She grabbed his arm. “I think one of his magicians heard me!”
Cery’s eyes widened. He glanced over her shoulder, then turned and started through the forest, away from the shadowy building.
13
Powerful Influence
Only twenty or so magicians had gathered in the Night Room when Rothen entered. Finding that Dannyl had not yet arrived, he started toward a set of chairs.
“The window was open. Whoever it was came through the window.”
Hearing the distress in the voice, Rothen paused and looked for the speaker. He found Jerrik standing nearby, talking to Yaldin. Curious to know what could have upset the University Director, he walked over to the two men.
“Greetings.” Rothen nodded politely. “You look displeased about something, Director.”
“There’s a resourceful thief among our novices,” Yaldin explained. “Jerrik has lost a few valuable books.”
“A thief?” Rothen repeated, surprised. “Which books?”
“The Lore of the Southern Magicians, Arts of the Minken Archipelago and the Handbook of Firemaking” Jerrik said.
Rothen frowned. “A strange combination of books.”
“Expensive books,” Jerrik grieved. “Twenty gold pieces it cost me to have those copies made.”
Rothen whistled softly. “Then your thief has an eye for value.” He frowned. “Books of that rarity would be hard to hide. They are large volumes, I seem to remember. You could authorize a search of the Novices’ Quarters.”
Jerrik grimaced. “I was hoping to avoid that.”
“Perhaps somebody borrowed them,” Yaldin suggested.
“I’ve asked everyone.” Jerrik sighed and shook his head. “Nobody has seen them.”
“You didn’t ask me,” Rothen pointed out.
Jerrik looked up sharply.
“No, I didn’t take them.” Rothen laughed. “But you may have missed others as well. Perhaps you could ask everyone at the next Meet. It’s only two days away, and the books might surface before then.”
Jerrik winced. “I suppose I better do that first.”
Catching sight of a familiar, tall figure entering the Night Room, Rothen excused himself. He strode to Dannyl’s side and drew the magician into a quiet corner of the room.
“Any luck?” he asked quietly.
Dannyl shrugged. “No, no luck, but at least I wasn’t followed by knife-wielding foreigners this time. You?”
Rothen opened his mouth to reply but closed it again as a servant stopped to offer a tray of wine-filled glasses. He reached out to take one, then froze as a black-sleeved arm extended toward the tray from behind Dannyl. Akkarin selected a glass and stepped around Dannyl to face Rothen.
“How does the search progress, Lord Rothen?”
Dannyl’s eyes widened as he turned to face the High Lord.
“We came closest to catching her two weeks ago, High Lord,” Rothen replied. “Her protectors used a decoy. By the time we realized we had the wrong girl, she had escaped. We found a book on magic, as well.”
The High Lord’s expression darkened. “That is not good news.”
“It was old and outdated,” Dannyl added.
“Nevertheless, we cannot allow such books outside the Guild,” Akkarin replied. “A search of pawn shops should reveal if many have made their way into the city. I will speak to Lorlen about it, but in the meantime ...” he looked at Dannyl. “Have you had any success re-establishing contact with the Thieves?”
Dannyl’s face turned white, then flushed red.
“No,” he replied in a constricted voice. “They have declined my requests for audience for many weeks.”
A half-smile curled Akkarin’s mouth. “I assume you attempted to impress on them the dangers of having an untrained magician in their midst?”
Dannyl nodded. “Yes, but they did not seem concerned.”
“They will be soon. Continue your attempts to meet with them. If they refuse to see you personally, send messages. Detail the problems she will encounter as her magic becomes uncontrollable. It will not be long before they realize that you speak the truth. Keep me informed on your progress.”
Dannyl swallowed. “Yes, High Lord.”
Akkarin nodded to them both. “Have a good evening.” He turned and walked away, leaving the two magicians staring at his retreating back. Dannyl let out an explosive breath.
“How did he know?” he whispered.
Rothen shrugged. “It is said that he knows more about the affairs of the city than the King himself, but then, perhaps Yaldin told someone.”
Dannyl frowned and looked across the room at the aging magician. “That’s not like Yaldin.”
“No,” Rothen agreed. He smiled and patted Dannyl on the shoulder. “It doesn’t look like you got yourself into any trouble, however. In fact, it looks like you just received a personal request from the High Lord.”
Sonea curled the edge of the page and sighed. Why couldn’t these Guild writers use normal, sensible words! This one seemed to have enjoyed arranging his sentences in ways that bore no resemblance to normal speech. Even Serin, the middle-aged scribe who was teaching her to read, could offer little explanation for many of the terms and phrases.
Rubbing her eyes, she leaned back in her chair. She had been staying in Serin’s basement for several days. It was a surprisingly comfortable room, with an ample fireplace and sturdy furniture, and she knew she would be disappointed when she had to leave it.
After her near capture, the night Cery had taken her to the Guild, Faren had taken her to Serin’s home in the North Quarter. He had decided she should stop practicing magic until he could arrange for new, better-situated hiding places. In the meantime, he said, she would spend her time studying the books Cery had found.’
She looked down at the page again and sighed. A word lay before her—an alien, strange, annoying word which refused to make any sense. She stared at it, knowing the meaning of the whole sentence revolved around this infuriating word. She rubbed her eyes again, then jumped at a rapping on the door.
Rising, she peered through the spy hole, smiled, and unlocked the door.
“Good evening,” Faren said as he slipped into the room. He handed her a bottle. “I brought you a little token of encouragement.”
Sonea uncorked the bottle and sniffed. “Pachi wine!” she exclaimed.
“That’s right.”
Moving to a cupboard, Sonea took out two mugs. “I don’t think these are right for Pachi wine,” she said. “But that’s all I have—unless you want to ask Serin for something better.”
“They’ll do.” Faren drew a chair up to the table and sat down. Accepting a mug of the clear green liquor, he took a sip, sighed contentedly, and leaned back in his chair. “Of course, it’s better spiced and warmed.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Sonea said. “I’ve never tasted it before.” Taking a sip, she smiled as a sweet, fresh flavor filled her mouth. Faren chuckled at her expression.