Tabaea, the uninvited observer, had not done anything of the sort. She had watched the beginning of the spell, then slipped away and gone about her business. Throughout the day she had sometimes paused and thought, “Now she’s raising the blade over her head for the long chant,” or “It must be time for the third ritual cleaning,” but she had not let it distract her from the more urgent matter of finding food and appropriating any money left sufficiently unguarded. When she at last returned, the silver knife was glittering white, and Tabaea really didn’t think it was just a trick of the light. The spell was doing something, certainly.
She could hear fatigue in the master’s voice as he murmured encouragement; the apprentice was far too busy concentrating on the spell to say anything, but surely she, too, must be exhausted.
Perhaps it was the certainty that the objects of her scrutiny were tired, or fascination with this climax, or just overconfi-dence acquired in her many undetected visits, but Tabaea had crept further forward than ever before, her face pressed right against the iron railing. The black metal was cool against her cheek as she stared.
Lirrin finished her chant and placed her bloody hands on the shining dagger’s hilt; blood was smeared on her face, as well, her own blood mixed with ash and sweat and other things. It seemed to Tabaea that the girl had to force her hands down, as if something were trying to push them back, away from the weapon.
Then Lirrin’s hands closed on the leather-wrapped grip, and her entire body spasmed suddenly. She made a thick grunting noise; the dagger leaped up, not as if she were lifting it, but as if it were pulling her hands upward.
Something flashed; Tabaea could not say what it was, or just where, or what color it was. She was not sure it was actually light at all, but “flash” was the only word that seemed to fit. For an instant she couldn’t see.
She blinked. Her vision cleared, and she saw Lirrin rising to her feet, the new-made athame in her right hand, any unnatural glow vanished. The dagger looked like an ordinary belt knife— of better quality than most, perhaps, but nothing unreasonable. The girl’s face was still smeared with black and red, her hair was a tangled mess, her apprentice’s robe was wrinkled, stained, and dusty, but she was no longer transfigured or trembling; she was just a dirty young girl holding a knife. She looked up, straight at Tabaea. Tabaea froze.
“Master,” Lirrin said, tired and puzzled, “who’s that?” She pointed.
Serem turned to look, startled.
When the wizard’s eyes met her own, Tabaea unfroze. She leaped to her feet and spun on her heel, then dashed up the short flight of steps. She ran out through the wizard’s workroom as fast as she could and careened out into the utter darkness of the hallway. Moving by feel, no longer worrying about making noise or knocking things over, she charged down the hall, through the parlor and dining salon, banging a shin against the animated fanning plant’s pot in the parlor, sending one of the ornately carved dining chairs to the floor.
The door to the mudroom was open; she tumbled through it, tripping over somebody’s boots, and groped for the door to the alley before she even regained her feet.
Then she was out and stumbling along the hard-packed dirt toward the light of Grand Street. She was breathing too hard to seriously listen for pursuit, but at any rate she heard no shouting, no threats, none of the unnatural sounds that accompanied some spells.
At the comer she hesitated not an instant in turning toward Grandgate Market, even though that meant passing in front of the house. The marketplace crowds were unquestionably the best place to lose herself. She hoped that Serem and Lirrin hadn’t gotten a good look at her and that Serem had no magic that could ferret her out once she was lost.
By the time she had gone three blocks she felt she could risk a look back over her shoulder. She saw no sign of Serem or Lirrin and slowed to a walk.
If they spotted her now, she would just plead innocent, claim they had mistaken her for someone else.
Of course, if they insisted on taking her anyway, and if they had some magical means of discovering the truth, or if they had none themselves but took her to the overlord’s Minister of Justice, who reportedly kept several magicians around for just such matters... well, if anything like that happened, she would just have to throw herself on somebody’s mercy and hope that the penalty wasn’t too harsh. After all, she hadn’t actually stolen anything.
She glanced back again and saw lights in the windows of Serem’s house; the shutters had been opened, and light was pouring out into the streets.
Maybe they thought she was still inside somewhere—but that was silly. She hadn’t even taken the time to close the alleyway door behind her. Well, whatever they thought, they weren’t coming after her, as far as she could see. She let out a small gasp of relief. And the market square—which was called that even though it was six-sided and not square at all—was just ahead. In only seconds she would be safe.
Then the arched door at the corner of Grand and Wizard opened, spilling light, and even from four blocks away Tabaea could see that Serem stood silhouetted against it, peering out. Tabaea shuddered and forced herself not to run, and then she was in Grandgate Market, in the milling crowds.
Even so, even after she had seen Serem march out into the street, glare in all directions, and then go back inside, it was hours before she felt at all safe. It was two days before she dared go home, and two sixnights before she dared pass within a block of Serem’s house.
CHAPTER 6
During the days following Lirrin’s athamezation, Tabaea reviewed the ritual repeatedly, both silently and aloud. Tessa and Thennis heard her mumbling the incantations and mocked her when she refused to explain—but that was normal enough.
The whole question of how to use what she had learned was a baffling one. The secret of the athame was clearly one of the most important mysteries of the Wizards’ Guild, and therefore tremendously valuable—but how could she cash in on it? There was a word that described people who crossed the Wizards’ Guild, by stealing from them, or attempting to blackmail them— the word was “dead.”
So she couldn’t do anything at all that would bring her to the attention of the Guild. That left two other options: sell the secret elsewhere, or use it herself.
And where else could she sell it?
Wizards and sorcerers were traditional enemies, so one afternoon in Summerheat she strolled over to Magician Street, in Northside, and wandered into a sorcerer’s shop. The proprietor didn’t notice her for several minutes, which gave her a chance to look around.
The place didn’t look very magical; there were no animated plants, no strange skulls or glowing tapestries or peculiar bottles. There were some tools, but they looked as appropriate for a tinker or a jeweler as for a magician—pliers and hammers and so forth. Assorted colored wires hung on one wall, and crystals were displayed on another, but Tabaea, who had a competent thief’s working knowledge of precious stones and metals, quickly concluded that none of these were particularly valuable.
The sorcerer finally realized she was there; he took in her youth and ragged appearance in an instant, and said, “I’m not looking for an apprentice just now, young lady.” “I’m fifteen,” Tabaea replied, annoyed. “My apologies, then. What can I do for you?” Tabaea hesitated; she had thought over a dozen possible openings without definitely choosing one, but now she could put it off no longer.
Might as well be direct, she thought. “I think I might have something to sell you,” she said. “Oh?” The sorcerer was a black-haired man in his thirties, with thick, bushy eyebrows that looked out of place on his rather pale and narrow face. Those eyebrows now rose questioningly. “What might that be? Have you found an interesting artifact, perhaps? Some relic of the Northern Empire?” “No,” Tabaea said, startled. “There were never any Northerners around here.”