"The prince continues to sleep belowdecks?" Grizelda asked, breaking into Krassus' thoughts.
Krassus placed his hands into the opposite sleeves of his blue-and-gray robe. "Yes," he said. "Although untrained, he can still be quite dangerous, as he has so adeptly proven a number of times. As a precaution, I have decided to have him transferred to one of the other ships. Under no circumstances shall the Chosen One and the Scroll of the Vagaries be allowed to continue sharing the same vessel. Should the scroll fall into the hands of the wizards in Tammerland, our cause might be lost."
He smiled again. "I wonder if the good prince knows how to row," he added nastily. Suddenly impatient, his dark gaze bored its way into her.
"Now then," he said. "I suggest you get on with it."
Krassus smiled. He was gradually finding himself a reluctant admirer of the old woman's talents. Before finding her, he had located several partial adepts, but none had the particular combination of talents he hoped would help him fulfill his oath to Nicholas. As a precaution, he had killed them on the spot. He wished he had killed Abbey, too. But he hadn't dared, fearing he might need her as leverage with Wigg. Should she ever cross his path again, he swore, he would not make the same mistake twice.
In order to accomplish his goals, he needed to find Wulfgar. In addition, there was no telling what other persons or things of the craft he might need to collect while on his path to victory. For this, only a well-trained partial adept would do. He immediately set out to locate one.
He had finally discovered Grizelda in the city of Warwick Watch. She had been doing sleight of hand and other, lesser aspects of her arts for the amusement of the crowds, apparently living on whatever meager offerings they might deign to throw into her bowl. He had watched her for some time, then closed his eyes and reached out to her blood with his specialized senses. Finally sure, he waited until the small crowd had dispersed and the shadows of the day were beginning to lengthen. Picking up her meager things, the haggard woman counted her coins carefully, then tied them up in a dirty rag and scurried into the depths of a nearby alley.
Following her, Krassus saw her stop at the end of the alley, near the protection of its angled, dead end and the large wooden box that sat against one wall. A few rusty cooking utensils lay nearby. Crouching, she set down her makeshift coin bag and began to light a small fire.
Silently, Krassus came to stand before her.
She did not see him until the length of his shadow crawled toward the flames. Looking up, she snatched her coin bag to her breast and scrabbled back toward the false security of the dilapidated wooden box.
Krassus regarded her carefully. She was very old. Her long, gray hair fell crazily over her shoulders, and her face was weather-beaten, presumably from living for so many years out of doors. Wrinkling his nose, he wondered how long it had been since she had bathed. Her plain, black robe, tattered and worn, covered a thin, unremarkable figure.
"Who are you?" she demanded. Her piercing, dark eyes betrayed a sharp intelligence. "What do you want?"
"I know what you are," he answered quietly. "You may fool the simple, unendowed peasants in the streets, but not me."
"What are you talking about?" she shot back. "Go away and leave me alone."
Krassus smiled. "This is what I'm talking about, crone," he answered. He raised one hand, and the azure glow of the craft appeared about her. As he moved his index finger slightly, a small incision began to form in her right palm. Several drops of her blood fell to the floor of the alleyway. Looking down, Krassus watched them twist their way through the thirsty dirt, forming signatures.
As he had suspected, they were partials.
Only the softer, curvier halves revealed themselves. The woman's mother had been her only parent with endowed blood.
"You're a partial," he said calmly. "And because your blood reveals a signature without the aid of waters from the Caves, it is also clear that you have been trained. That makes you a partial adept. Tell me, what are your skills? I may have need of you." He was becoming more certain of his find by the moment.
The old woman shook her head. "I have no such skills," she said sullenly. "I am but a poor street performer, trying to make a living. Go away and leave me be." She inched farther backward a bit, closer to the wooden box. Her knuckles whitened from her tight grip around the coin bag.
"Oh, you are far more than a simple woman of the street," Krassus countered. "The blood signatures prove that." His jaw hardened. If he was forced to use violence against her in order to learn the truth, then so be it. All he cared about was getting his answers. "What is your name?" he asked harshly.
"Grizelda. What of it?"
"Tell me, Grizelda, are you really what you seem?"
No answer came.
"Are you a trained herbmistress, perhaps?" he asked.
Again, only silence reigned.
His patience growing thin, he took another step closer. "Are you a blaze-gazer, as well?"
"The answers to your questions depend," she said, sensing an opportunity. She stood up, and he saw that she was taller than he had first thought.
"On what?" he asked, knowing full well what her answer would be.
She took a step toward him. "On what you're willing to pay," she answered craftily. "As you can see, I do not eat well. My stomach has long pressed emptily against the insides of my ribs." For the first time, she smiled crookedly at him.
Krassus had suddenly had enough. He raised his arm, and the familiar azure glow of the craft appeared in the air between them and coalesced into a recognizable shape: a human hand.
With a twitch of one of Krassus' fingers, the hand tore across the remaining distance to the woman and wrapped its glowing fingers around her wrinkled throat. The force of the impact was so great that it lifted her off her feet, slamming her hard against her wooden box. She began to choke. Drool frothed at one corner of her mouth, spilled over to snake crazily down her chin. Her body shook with the convulsions rattling her starving lungs.
Twisting and turning his hand slightly, Krassus pointed to her shoes. The laces began to untie themselves. Then the shoes slowly slipped from her feet and fell to the ground. With a simple turn of his head, Krassus caused the small fire the old woman had lit to rise slowly into the air and come to rest just below her. Burnt-orange shadows darted across the darkness of the alleyway.
Krassus turned his hand again, and the flames licked upward at the soles of her feet. Her scream came out as a rasp.
"Now then," he said quietly. "Let's try again. Are you a blaze-gazer?"
The old woman nodded.
"Very good," Krassus answered. "You are now one-third of the way toward staying alive. Tell me, and do not lie. Believe me, you don't have the time. Are you a trained herbmistress?"
Again came a single nod. Her face was turning from red to light blue, and her toes were twitching involuntarily, trying to escape the flames.
"I'm impressed," he said. "Two out of three." Just to see her suffer, he paused before asking his final question. The moments ticked by slowly, dangerously, as the flames scalded her naked feet.
"And are you protected by someone's time enchantments?" he asked intently.
She shook her head.
Finally satisfied, he extinguished the flame and let her go. She tumbled hard to the dirt of the alley, her feet badly burned and her lungs crying out for air.
"You'll do," he said simply. "You're coming with me. I have need of your services." With the toe of one boot, he lifted her chin. "Provided, of course, you have been telling the truth," he added. "But that we will discover later, won't we, Grizelda?"
The haggard herbmistress managed to come to all fours. "How do you… know… I won't run… away?" she gasped. With a cry, she collapsed again and curled up on the dirt of the alley, protectively gripping her tortured feet.
"That's simple," Krassus answered almost politely. "I traveled halfway across Eutracia to find you. Do you really believe I could not search you out again, especially given the short distance you might travel before I discovered you had fled? We have a great mission to fulfill, you and I. Disobey me, or fail in the demands I shall make of you, and you will die. Do as I say, remain successful in the arts you have admitted to possessing, and you shall live."