C. J. CHERRYH began writing stories at the age of ten, when she became frustrated with the cancellation of her favorite TV show, Flash Gordon. She has a Master of Arts degree in classics from Johns Hopkins University, where she was a Woodrow Wilson fellow, and taught Latin, Ancient Greek, the classics, and ancient history in Oklahoma. Cherryh wrote novels in her spare time when not teaching, and in 1975 sold her first novels Gate of Ivrel and Brothers of Earth to Donald A. Wollheim at DAW Books. The books won her immediate recognition and the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer in 1977. In 1979, her short story “Cassandra” won the Best Short Story Hugo, and she quit teaching to write full-time. She has since won the Hugo Award for Best Novel twice, first for Down-below Station in 1982 and then again for Cyteen in 1989. In addition to developing her own fictional universes, Cherryh has contributed to several shared world anthologies, including Thieves’ World, Heroes in Hell, and the Merovingen Nights series, which she edited. Her most recent novels are major new Alliance novel, Regenesis, and new Foreigner novel, Conspirator. She lives near Spokane, Washington, and enjoys skating and traveling. She regularly makes appearances at science fiction conventions.
It was an old city up an old river, Wiscezan-on-Eld.
The sea had used to be closer.
The trade had used to be more profitable.
The city had sold its timber off the heights, and the streams had poured silt down to the wharves where the big boats loaded. The silt had made little shallows, and then little channels, and then a bog around the edges. That let in the smallest enemies: buzzing swarms in summer that brought fever and unhealth.
The timber was gone. The soft hills grew lower by the year, the silt grew deeper, the bog thicker and now overgrown with substantial trees, and the little trading outpost southward on the coast, on the little Yliz River, Korianth, built wharves to take the trade. They dealt in dried fish, in carpets and dyed goods, in hammered bronze and leather, amulets, wines, and grain and beer from the sunny east.
Korianth prospered. It got itself a king, and ruled up and down the coast. It traded that king for a better one and lately thrived.
Wiscezan still, stubborn in its ways, traded a few cypress logs down its river and down the coast. It traded pottery, and furs, and building stone from the hard heart of the hills, but it was no longer what it had been.
Its last duchess of the old blood died. The last nobles lived in fair luxury, still. But Korianth under King Osric was too occupied with its own difficulties, its troublesome gods and ambitious allies, to trouble itself when Jindus ait Auzem moved in, bringing his mercenaries with him.
Jindus married a third cousin of the last duchess, a vain and silly, though noble, girl, who within three months died of a dish of mushrooms—leaving Jindus widowed and ennobled, so far as inheritance went.
Wiscezan therefore had a new duke, one with ambitions far exceeding Wiscezan’s humbled circumstances. He collected taxes. He hired mercenaries, he hired a wizard of dark reputation, and he married several more wives, soon deceased, their noble names linking Jindus deeper and deeper into the ancient lineages of the Eld.
Were the nobles of Wiscezan alarmed? That they were. Even the related houses off in Korianth were alarmed at the state of affairs and appealed to King Osric to do something. But in a very little time Duke Jindus had become a potent threat beyond this fever-ridden city. Nobles in several cities prayed the right mosquito would find the duke…and a few tried, with small spells, to assure that happened.
But the spells went amiss. Grievously amiss. Not many knew it.
But old Cazimir did.
And took himself and his few students deeper into the alleyways and shadows of Wiscezan.
He was not what he had been, was Cazimir Eisal.
He had been a great teacher when the duchess was alive. He had had his academy and students who came even from Korianth and distant ports to study under his guidance. He had had a library and a fine house and apprentices to do the grinding of herbs and the jotting-down of his great thoughts, so that Cazimir the Wise had very little to do but teach the most advanced of his students, who taught the rest.
But on the waft of a night wind and a stray curtain and the aged duchess’s bare shoulder, fever had arrived…and not all Cazimir’s wizardry had cured it.
He had suspected then, had Cazimir, that there was another Agency at work.
He had seen that Agency when Jindus hired it…seen that Agency for a lean and hungry man standing always near the war-lord, and he had said to himself it was not Jindus they had to fear.
But the duchess had already died, and the power had come into the heart of the new authority in Wiscezan, and Cazimir had had a grave, cold feeling that nothing now would go well for the city, or for him. The times had turned, and new omens were in the ascendant.
Accordingly, Cazimir left his house and took up residence in the lower town. His well-born disciples and apprentices, having a place to go, went to their well-born relatives, or set up shop in other places, scattered about the coast.
He still taught. He protected the Talented, the few he could find.
But age was on him, and his fortunes declined.
Oh, Miphrynes—that being the name of the Agency behind the duke—was sure Cazimir was still out there, but Miphrynes knew the nature of white wizards, that taking them on could provoke unexpected backlashes of magic, and so long as Cazimir stuck to the lower town, and until Miphrynes could get a wedge inside his defenses—well, Miphrynes found it convenient to sit in the ducal palace, enjoying the luxury in the confidence that a black wizard’s citadel was no easier to crack.
And his was a great deal more comfortable.
Take students? Not Miphrynes. He held power. He didn’t share it.
He got power. He obtained it from the depths of hell.
And hell was what was seeping out of Jindus’s palace these days, quiet as yet, and very subtle, but it knew what it wanted. It had failed in Korianth. Now it had a new foothold.
Master had not been well the last week. Master had not made a charm in a month…which left the students to do the spellcraft, and to sell it in the form of bits of paper, easy to carry, that did useful things.
Healing was beyond them. But papers that could light a fire, or chill water, those they had.
And Willem Asusse was in a position. He was the senior of the three of them, but almost as useless as ten-year-old Jezzy, who could only bespell cats, and then only when the cat was in a receptive mood. It was Almore who could light fires and Almore who could freeze water or boil it. So it was Almore’s charms, except one bit of paper, which offered to attract a mouser at least to some loyalty, if fed.
And it was Willem’s job to sell them around and about the Alley, which was his Talent.
Well, more, his talent was illusion, like Master’s, and he did one very important job, helping Master keep the Alley secret and shut off from the rest of Wiscezan.
But he couldn’t so much as light a candle, not like Almore, so it was Almore who kept them fed in Master’s little lapses, and it was Willem’s art of illusion and flummery that convinced householders they were not scared to buy from him.
It had gotten him, thus far today, a loaf of stale bread, which he had broken in half and tucked under his jerkin. It was no small trophy, good, dark bread that had a lot of substance, even if it was burned half-black and full of hollow bubbles—young goodwife Melenne was not the best cook, but she was scatter-witted and a good customer for the fire-starting spells.
And the tavern was a safe bet. The freezing-charm improved its beer to drinkability.
It was an old contact. A safe one. They took a risk taking on any new customer these days: they daren’t advertise. But the tavern relied on them, and the tavern had a back side well planted in Wink Alley.
It was a mazy sort of confusing place to begin with, the Alley: if you didn’t know to take the slit of a passage at Blind Gaijer the Smith’s house, and then to take the next branch to the left, you were going to wander a bit, and you could end up right over in the netherside of Beggars’ Row, where the beggars didn’t like you to be.
So even without a little illusion, the Alley was a maze, and dangerous. It had a few inhabitants, merchants semi-associated with the wizard, who were its outward face, a potter, and a couple of enterprising pickpockets that never worked inside the Alley. And with the illusions—you didn’t see the other doors. You just thought the Merry Ox was the way out, and it was, and that was that. You never saw the other back doors, just that one…no matter where you wandered in Wink Alley.
But illusions were beginning to weaken—Master’s, and his; and though he’d used to go outside the Alley now and again to peddle his wares, he stuck close these days.
Possibly Master’s intent was weakening. Possibly Master could grow more forgetful, and a stray apprentice could end up on the streetside—forever, or at least until Master missed him. Master’s hovel, unlike the commercial establishments, had no streetside door.
At any event, Willem was anxious to be home, and there was no trouble, despite the other confusion in the Alley, in his finding the Merry Ox. Getting the best deal from the innkeep—it was well not to sell him too many spells at a time, lest he get the notion they were easy-made. And it was a good hour for bargaining, the lull in the afternoon, between noon and the siesta hour.
So, turning around three times, and blinking twice, which was guaranteed to find the Merry Ox, Willem skipped up the back steps, went down the unlighted little hall to the dim bar where Wiggy Brewer ran his business. The place smelled of pork pie, of spilled beer, mildew—and Wiggy, whose contribution was sweat and garlic. There was no spell to mask Wiggy, who sold baths but never took one.
It wasn’t Willem’s favorite stop. Goodwife Melenne was that. But he could deal with Wiggy’s daughter, who generally knew what the price ought to be, and was going to be, so it was usually short, sensible dealing and straightforward, Wiggy’s daughter having no designs on him at all—there was a use for illusion in his trade.
But Wiggy’s daughter—her name was Hersey—came flying toward him. “Willem!” said she. “Willem!” grabbing the front of his jerkin, leaning across the bar with a huge expanse of bosom flowing into his view. “There’s trouble here. There’s the duke’s men on the prowl. Go! We c’n talk in th’ alley!”
Willem needed no second hint. He broke free and headed right back down the dark back hallway, with Wiggy’s ample daughter right behind him.
The Alley was safe, untenanted except by old jars and trash bins. Willem caught his breath there in the uncertain pale light, on the gritty back step of the Merry Ox, and, drawing a breath, swung around to ask Wiggy’s daughter what she had seen—
—When a large man in leather armor and a steel helmet came out of that dark hall, knocking Hersey right off the step and into Willem’s arms. Willem staggered backward, steadied the girl on her step, and, still holding on to her, heard a thunderous charge toward the door, from out of that dim hall.
Black-caps. The duke’s men, with swords drawn, and meaning business…but not aimed at them. Willem cast a fast one: I’m not here, she’s not here. And then because he didn’t want trouble in the Alley, he threw another one after it: Nobody’s here.
The guards stopped. Looked around them. Looked at the steps, and the doorway where Willem stood with Hersey, balanced on the edge of the steps. The spell was shredding. Willem held it up, and carefully stepped down to the cobbles of the Alley, keeping the illusion around him, moving slowly—you could break an illusion if you moved too fast, or let fear get into it.
He kept moving. He saw the guards look confused, and then charge back up the steps past Hersey, who delayed a moment, looking just as confused.
Then came the sounds of Wiggy’s bull voice from inside, and furniture being shoved about, and Hersey whirled around and ran back inside in a hurry.
“Here, you!” Wiggy was shouting, and “Where is he?” a foreign voice yelled…
…reminding Willem he wasn’t alone in the Alley. He hadn’t seen the fugitive, who had dived for cover somewhere.
I’m not here, he sent out, and turned around and found himself facing a leather-armored chest and a drawn sword and the fugitive looking straight at him.
I’m really not here, he sent, heart pounding. But a hand snaked out and grabbed the front of his shirt.
“Magician,” the fugitive said.
“Not me!” Willem protested, and backed up, pulling his shirt and himself and the loaf of day-old bread free of that grip. He sent very, very hard: I was never here!
The man looked confused for a moment, and that was enough. Willem ran for it, clutching the loaf of bread and feeling in his belt-pouch for one of the paper freeze-spells, in case.
The man was following him. But the Alley had twists, and out of sight was enough. Willem stopped with his back against grimy stone, and his feet amid blown debris, next to the potter’s steps.
Lost him. By now the only doorway the man would see was the one that had let him into the alley, and that was Wiggy’s place, where the guards were. So the man would stay there a while, and then go back up into the Merry Ox, and presumably get out and away for good.
It was a narrow escape. Really narrow. And going back to the Merry Ox right now to finish up business for the day was not a good idea. Hersey was going to be upset, Wiggy was, and they wouldn’t be in a bargaining mood, especially if the duke’s men had broken up the furniture.
And especially if the stranger came traipsing back through the bar wanting to be served.
No, it was a good time to be home, and home was two more bends down the Alley.
It was a relief, the solid sound of the door and the bar dropped—thunk!—into its slot. Willem drew his first whole breath.
But looking around at the occupants of the little house, all sitting by the fire, with its scant pot of yesterday’s beans—
Willem raked a hand through his hair. He was sweating. He had run the last block, to make sure there was no way the man could have overtaken him to spot another hole in his defense. And the faces arrayed around that waiting fireside mirrored his, in his disarray.
“Nobody followed me,” he said, first off, with a wave of his hand. “I didn’t lose the spells.” That was second. “Trouble got into the Alley and I’m sure it’s out again, by now.” Unless the duke’s men had stayed to swill down Wiggy’s warm beer and stranded the armored fellow out in the Alley for an hour or two. Neither side was going to be happy in that transaction.
“I brought bread,” he said, and admitted the truth. “I didn’t get down to trading with Hersey.” The usual pay was the butt end and bones of whatever roast or fowl Wiggy had been parsing out to his customers. And it made a big difference in supper. “And Melenne, well, this isn’t one of her best, but it’s solid.” A lot of flour was in that loaf. He took the two pieces of it out of his shirt, which it had blacked with its charred end, and it weighed like two bricks. “We might want to just add that to the beans.”
Two glum faces—Almore and Jezzy—greeted that suggestion; and one kind forgiveness—that was Master Cazimir, who tolerated everything.
“We can toast it, at least,” Jezzy said.
“Looks as if it’s been toasted,” Almore said glumly. “Twice.”
“Now, now,” Master said. “With the beans and all, it should be substantial, and maybe we can conjure up a taste of butter.”
Conjure was it, for sure: a taste, but no substance. Master could still do the butter trick, and occasionally toasted cheese. But Master wasn’t himself lately. He looked weary, and he forgot things, and occasionally his spells went astray…it was no sure thing that the taste Master conjured would be butter, but no one mentioned the last time.
Nobody said anything about the last time.
“I didn’t lose the papers,” Willem said. “I’ll go out early, before daylight. I’ll go back to the tavern. They’ll buy. And I’ll bring back breakfast, with maybe a bit of coin.”
“Coin!”
“Well, maybe a pot I can turn for coin. Ratty’s going to fire the kilns this week. That’s a long firing, for sure. That’s worth a pot.” He took the big knife from the cutting board—cook had run off with Master’s silver, but left the cutlery—and Master, being the kind heart he was, hadn’t cursed it, just contented himself with the knives, which were useful.
A little silver would have been useful, long since. But things were as they were. They survived, in their little pocket of an Alley. Things had nearly gone wrong today, but they’d toast the bread, Master would conjure butter, and they’d have beans to fill out the corners, with water to drink. There was always that.
And after dinner there were lessons. The day was long and they worked at whatever there was to do, carrying wood and water, selling spells where it was safe—a narrow, risky market, that, since spells could give them away: the duke’s wizard, for one, was always sniffing about—
But in the late evening, after dinner, Master would get into his Book, and read to the three of them, and tell them about philosophy and spells and charms. Master lately never remembered where he had stopped—reading the Book was less about reading words than about the symbols in it, and Master explaining how they fit together—but they could scratch a meaning out of it, and Almore in particular kept asking about the fire mark and how to make it longer and longer and steady, and the last three evenings Master had been mostly on topic, which had Almore in a froth of earnestness on fire signs.
“If I can get a fire to hold on,” Almore had said to Willem, “and keep being just as hot, and quit exactly when you want—”
“Ratty’s kiln,” Willem had said, figuring that. Every potter, every cook, every smith in town would want that one…
Which argued that nobody had ever been able to make a charm like that, or it would already be in the Book, wouldn’t it?
But Almore had his dreams, and he was going to get Fire and Time to behave themselves, and they were all going to be rich. If they were rich, they could smuggle Master out of this city and get over to Korianth, where there wasn’t a duke and a wizard trying to find Master and kill him.
Well, it was worth wishing for. But illusions didn’t do any good at making things happen; and of Master’s three students, the only one who could call himself a journeyman magician was him.
Which meant the best of Master’s students could just barely make the duke’s men think they were in a narrow alley with no other doors.
It was important when you had to do it, but it didn’t put bread on the table. Only the two apprentices could do that.
The secrets of the Fire and the Time sigils didn’t appear this night. Master nodded off in the middle of the explication of first binding marks, and didn’t even finish his bread, which was the best end of the loaf, to boot.
Master’s three students sat there eyeing the half-eaten piece of bread, and thinking unworthy thoughts that maybe Master wouldn’t miss it, except Jezzy, who was goodhearted, got up and wrapped the heel of bread in a cloth and put it away in the cupboard for Master’s breakfast.
And it stayed there. Willem was sure of that. He would have known if Almore had gotten up in the night. Nobody did, but he got up before daylight, put his clothes to rights, put on his boots, checked the little pouch of papers that was his stock in trade, and nudged up the bar on the door, so that it would fall down and lock the door behind him. He held it, slipped past the door edge, and was just halfway out the door and into the Alley…
A shadow rose up right next to him, and a hard hand seized his arm.
“Got you!” a man’s voice said.
He struggled. He struggled at first to get back inside and then fought to get outside and let the door shut, but first he couldn’t break the grip and then his struggling made him let go the bar, so when the door swung to, the bar stopped it from closing.
A second iron grip seized the front of his jerkin and shoved him against the wall beside the door as, inside, Jezzy called out:
“What’s going on?”
“Shut the door!” Willem yelled. He never shouted in the Alley. But the man who had hold of him shoved him toward the door and must have hooked the door edge with his foot, because he shoved him right in, where it was dark, and where there was only an old man and two boys holding the place.
“Magician,” the stranger said, letting go Willem’s arm, but keeping a grip on Willem’s throat. “I’m looking for Cazimir Eisal.”
“I’m the one,” Master said, out of the dark. “Light a lamp, boy. And let go of my student.”
“Thought so,” the stranger said, and didn’t let go. Willem took hold of a hand like iron—used both his hands, trying to disengage that grip, and had no luck.
Almore had a straw and a lamp down by the banked fire in the hearth. That took, and a faint, single wick gave them more light than they’d had. Two wicks, and three—it was a three-sided lamp, and Willem saw the face that stared straight at Master—he seemed forgotten, merely a thing the stranger was determined to hold on to.
But the stranger didn’t have a weapon drawn. He had several—a dagger in his belt, with knuckle-loops, for infighting; and a longsword, and well-worn armor, and the glimmer of chain at the sleeves. The man smelled of sweat and woodsmoke and all outdoors—not a city smell.
“Master Cazimir,” the man said quietly, respectfully, while still close to strangling Willem. “It is you.”
“Certainly it is,” Master said. “It has been. It will be.”
“Tewkmannon. Fyllia’s son.”
“Fyllia,” Cazimir said. That was the old duchess’s name. And he was much too young, a fool could see that, even while he was strangling. “Fyllia’s dead.”
“The other Fyllia,” the man said, this Tewkmannon. “Duchess Fyllia’s niece. She’s dead, too. I’m here for Jindus. Grey Raisses said you were the one to talk to.”
“Raisses. Raisses.” Master looked overwhelmed, and gripped the table edge and sank onto the bench. He was in his nightdress, his gray beard was straggling, his hair was on end, and he didn’t have the belt that kept the robes in order.
“Please,” Willem said, prying at the hand that held him, and this Tewkmannon looked at him as if he’d just remembered he had something he didn’t need, and then let him go.
Willem straightened his shirt and went and got Master his staff: it was Master’s one weapon, and Willem put it next to his hand and stood there. He had a knife in his boot. That was all. And the two boys had the ladle and the cooking pot, such weapons as they were. But they were nothing against this man, if Master and he came at odds.
“I’m here for Jindus,” Tewkmannon said. “The bastard.”
He didn’t like Jindus. That was good. But here for Jindus? That didn’t sound good at all.
“All we have is water,” Master said in a thin, faint voice. “Not a crust of bread, else.”
“There’s a heel left,” Jezzy said, not too brightly.
“I don’t think he’d want it,” Willem muttered. “Master’s an old man, sir. M’lord.” They’d been talking about the old duchess, and kinship, and maybe that was due. “He’s sick.”
“Done for,” Master said.
Tewkmannon asked: “Is it Miphrynes?”
“We don’t mention that name here,” Willem said in a voice he’d hoped would come out strong and forbidding.
“Miphrynes,” Tewkmannon said again. “That black crow.”
“Vulture’s more apt,” Master said under his breath. “I can’t hold him. He won’t come in here. Knows I’m here. I’m sure he knows I’m here. I’m not worth it to him. He knows I can’t do anything. And I can’t. He’s got all the upper town.”
They’d never heard Master talk this way. They didn’t talk about the duke’s wizard. They didn’t talk about the things he did in the high town. But they knew as an article of faith that Master didn’t let him come into the lower town. Miphrynes was afraid of Master. Left him alone.
While Master got older, and sicker, by the year.
“It’s too late. You’re too late…What’s your name?”
“Tewk.” Tewkmannon sank down on the bench at the opposite corner of the table, one hand resting on the scarred tabletop. “Tewk will do. Fyllia’s son.” Now Tewkmannon sounded as if he’d run out of breath in a long, long climb. “It’s that bad, is it?”
“My rival,” Master said, “probably guesses this place exists—in some form. But my students are gone, all but these three. This is all there are.”
For the first time Tewkmannon looked directly at Willem, and then at Almore and Jezzy, and Willem stood there in the realization he was a disappointment to Master and to everybody else in some way he’d never even guessed existed.
It hurt. He didn’t know who Tewkmannon was to make him feel like that. But he wished he could do things he didn’t even guess the name of. And knew he couldn’t.
“The kid can throw an illusion,” Tewkmannon said. “He’s pretty good.”
“He is,” Master said. “Almore’s a pyromant and Jezzy’s a beast-talker—if they live to grow up. If you can wait that long. Who sent you?”
A moment of silence followed. Then Tewk said: “Korianth.” With a directional nod, as if he was talking about the potter’s down the block. “King Osric’s got the force now. Got an army ready to move.”
“Folly, at this point,” Master said. “Jindus isn’t your problem. His hire-ons—they suck up the gold his tax collector bleeds out of the town—and when the town stops bleeding, Jindus as he is will be done. He’s not the problem.”
“This wizard of his.”
“He’s the problem. Jindus is just a convenience, while our enemy gathers the real power.” Master coughed, and went on coughing for a moment. Jezzy moved fast and got him a cup of water. Master drank it.
“What real power?” Tewk asked.
“Demon,” Master said, on his first good breath, and that word spread a chill through the air. Tewk sat back. And Master just shook his head wearily. “Soon enough, it won’t be just gold this town bleeds. It’s here. It’s already here.”
Tewk drew back and sat up. “We’ve got a problem.”
“Oh, a big problem,” Master said, and tapped the scarred table with a long, gnarled finger, making little sounds that was Master trying not to cough. “You’re here to kill Jindus. Good luck. But it won’t solve your problem. These youngsters…they can’t. I don’t know if I can. But here’s what I know. It’s not manifested. It’s here, up in the fortress, but it’s not here, down in the town, you understand me. I don’t think it can hear us. I’m betting heavily it can’t. He’s containing it, mostly, but it sends fingers out, sometimes a lot more of itself. I think—I’m not sure—” Another fit of coughing and a sip of water. “I’m betting Miphrynes is aiming it right for Jindus when it manifests. Big man. Strong. Attractive. Virile, frankly, capable of siring descendants, and that particular demon is a prolific bastard.”
“If we get him—”
“There’s a thing about demons. Hurt them and they don’t think. They don’t think. They’ll go for any port in a storm and it’ll be dangerous as hell.”
Tewk leaned onto the table. “I’ll tell you. Korianth is poised to come in here. King Osric has his army in the field…waiting. A fire in the tower. That’s the signal. I’m to take out Jindus. Light the fire. It’s a simple job. And you have an army at your gates.”
“Demon fodder, if you don’t get Miphrynes with Jindus.”
Tewk’s head dropped a moment.
Then he looked up, and looked around, and looked straight at Willem. “How’s your nerve, kid?”
“Master!” Willem said, but Master was looking at him the same way.
“The students,” Master said, “are all I’ve got. All the town’s got, between them and that. Willem’s baffled the thing. He doesn’t know it. But he has.”
“Me?”
The word just fell out. Willem had time to draw a breath, and then Tewk’s hand shot out and grabbed him by the wrist.
“Master!”
“I’ll be borrowing him,” Tewk said. “I’ve got an army on the march and a cousin I already thought was a damned fool, but maybe he knows something. If what you describe gets Jindus—Korianth isn’t safe, either.”
“It won’t be,” Master said, not even mentioning what Tewk said about borrowing, or cousins. Willem tried to pry one of Tewk’s fingers loose—which he couldn’t do.
“Sorry,” Tewk said, and let go, then reached up and clapped Willem on the shoulder. “You’re smart and you’re fast. I tracked your footprints. Didn’t think to cloud them up, did you?”
“No,” Willem admitted faintly. He hadn’t had time. He’d been scared. He’d gotten in that door and he hadn’t even thought somebody who could tell he was doing magic could also find his way through the Alley and wouldn’t fall into the trick of wanting a door. Tewk hadn’t wanted a door, so he didn’t see one, or didn’t pay attention to it when he did. What Tewk had wanted was a magic-worker, and that was what he’d tracked—here. Right to Master and all of them.
And now Master as good as agreed with this man.
His stomach had turned queasy. And it was a very empty stomach.
And this was a rich man. By the standards of the Alley, this was a rich man, and talked about armies and the king.
“We’d like breakfast,” Willem said. “We’d like a good breakfast. And you can tell me what kind of spell you want, and I’ll write it. I’ll make it a good one.”
Tewk shook his head. “Breakfast, yes. But writing won’t do it. You have to fix whatever comes up.”
“I can’t.”
“You’ve been doing it, the wizard says.”
“Not—I didn’t, really. You saw through it. You tracked me.”
“A little Talent. A very little Talent. It’s useful, sometimes. But it gets me into messes like this. You’ll get your breakfast.” He fished his purse loose and turned it out on the table. Gold shone among the coins. Heavy gold. One piece could buy every shop on the Alley. There was silver, winking pale and bright. There were all sorts of coppers, clipped and not.
Tewk used his fingers to rake out most of the coppers, and shoved them across the table to Master. And pushed over several silvers and one of the bright new golds. “For the boy’s services,” he said. “And your silence. You can take the kids and get out of Wiscezan. Get over to the coast, set up in style…supposing the boy and I can slow Jindus down.” He looked straight at Willem then. “We take Jindus. That’s all you have to do. One, get me near him. Two, get me cover to light the signal fire. Then keep us hidden while my lazy cousin twice removed gets his army over here and gets the gates open. I’d recommend you keep the kids here, Master Wizard. You know magic, but I know armies. It’s not going to be good out there for a few days.”
“Understood,” Master said, and picked up the coins. He handed one to Jezzy. “Go down to the Ox and get us breakfast. This gentleman’s business can wait that long. Hot bread. Fresh bread. Butter. Fish. For this man, too. Go.”
Breakfast. Things rare in their lives. Jezzy scampered for the door with the coin and Willem just sank down on his heels where he stood, because he wasn’t there. He didn’t want to be there. He told the world so.
“Pretty damn good,” Tewk said, and nudged him with his boot. “I know you’re there. Can you get us both through the palace gate?”
“Maybe,” he said. “Maybe I can.”
“Willem,” Master said, and Willem got up, not feeling well at all. “Fetch me a scrap of paper, and a pen,” Master said, and Willem did that, one of the little pieces they used for spells.
“Bigger than that,” Master said, so Willem brought that, and Master uncapped the inkwell, dipped the quill, and wrote symbols on the scrap of paper. “That’s an unlock,” Master said.
“Thank you, sir,” Willem said. He could see how that was going to be useful.
Master used the larger piece of paper and wrote something long and elaborate, in the twisty way Willem had never yet been able to master. When Master finished, he held up the paper, not quite giving it to him.
“This,” Master said, “is a master’s paper. It ends your journeyman’s restrictions. You will be able to do a master’s spells if you take this. But if you take it, it will mark you as mine, and you will shine like a bonfire, once you leave the Alley, if you don’t take the Alley with you.”
“Maybe I should just be quiet, Master.”
“And what when you do get there? What will you do?”
“I’d hope you’d tell me, Master.”
A shake of Master’s head. “I can’t imagine what you’ll do. But you’ll smell like me. And you won’t be me. Do you understand?”
He was a journeyman of Illusion. He understood instantly how that helped. “And the—the problem we don’t talk about…can it tell?”
“Oh, maybe. Maybe it’ll know who’s really been holding the Alley together. It’ll know who could have brought it across town. But it’s not altogether here, with all that means. It has its limitations.”
An illusionist understood that, too.
“Don’t kill,” Master said. “Look at me. Don’t intend to kill. Especially not by magic. That takes you down a path you don’t ever want to set foot on. Do you understand me?”
He did. He nodded toward Tewk. “That’s his job.”
“Good lad. Just do what you know how to do. Take this. I advise you take it. You’ve earned it. Gods willing, you will earn it.”
He reached and took it from Master’s hand, and a tingle went through his hand and up his arm and to his heart. He couldn’t breathe for a moment. He wasn’t scared. He wasn’t anything. He really wasn’t anything. He looked at his own hand and couldn’t see it.
I want me back! he thought, and there he was.
“That was good,” Tewk said.
“He needs to think,” Master said. “Go sit down in the corner, Willem, and think a while.”
Just like with important lessons. Go think. He did. And he tried not to think about demons. That was how they got in, if you started thinking about them. He thought about the whole Alley not being there, but that wasn’t too bright: if Wiggy or Hersey stepped out back and missed the steps they’d be mad. Really mad.
He marshaled his thoughts in a parade through what he had to do. Master had taught him how to do that. And everything was there. If nobody startled him, he felt stronger than he ever had.
Fool, maybe.
But a wizard couldn’t doubt. Every illusion came apart when you started doubting. He sat there concentrating on believing he could do most anything, but not being specific about what he could do, until Jezzy tapped at the door and brought in the biggest breakfast anybody had ever seen: Jezzy was sweating from just carrying it.
They ate. They had a good breakfast, and water—there was beer, too, but Master said they should save that until later, and Tewk said that was a good idea. Maybe he’d had Wiggy’s beer.
Master clapped Willem on the shoulder as he stood in the doorway, and Willem took one scared look back, afraid it was going to break his concentration. He looked at Almore and Jezzy, and the little room with all its shelves and books and papers, and their little table and benches and their pallets, and the faded red curtain—Master had a bed beyond that, in a little nook.
It was home.
Last, he looked Master in the eyes. They were gray and watery but they were still sharp enough to see all the way inside him, he was very sure of that.
“Yes, sir,” he said, and went out into the Alley. His Alley. With Tewk striding along with him.
“You lead,” Tewk said, which didn’t make him feel that much better.
“Mmm,” he said, trying not to talk. He was thinking hard, exactly how the Alley was, how there was just one door, to the Ox, and that was just a little blind pocket of an Alley, nothing interesting at all. He wasn’t interesting. He was just a kid in un-dyed linsey-woolsey, which mostly ended up gray or nondescript brown, a kid with brown hair, a nondescript face, maybe acne—nobody would look twice; and Tewk was just a workman with a hat, just a skullcap, and needed a shave, and carried a sack lunch and a hammer, which wasn’t against the law. They immediately found the Ox in front of them, and went in by the back door.
“Say, here!” Hersey said. “You think you can just walk through wi’ them dusty boots? We’re not the public walk, here! I just swept that floor!”
Hersey didn’t recognize them. Not at all.
“Sorry,” Willem said in a different voice, and he and Tewk walked out through the front door and kept going, up the street where he had never gone.
But he didn’t let himself think that. He came up this way a lot. So did Tewk. They were father and son, well, maybe a youngish uncle, and he was learning stonemasonry, and there was something—a cracked stone—wanting repairing up the hill.
Maybe it was inside the palace gate, that stone. Stones cracked in summer heat, just now and again, especially along old cracks, and they might want that fixed. They did. They’d be taking the measure for it and matching some chips for the color: he knew about stonemasons. His father had been—
His uncle was. Uncle Tewk. They were guild folk, and important in their own way, and gate guards were going to remember them when they saw them, that they had been coming and going through that gate for days.
He couldn’t sweat. It was a warm day, but he couldn’t sweat. They were going to do this in broad daylight, he and Tewk, and he didn’t think about what came next, just getting themselves and their business through that gate.
He’d never been near this place, not even before the duchess died. The gates loomed up, tall, with the figures of two lions on painted leather, red and brown. The guards looked at them in complete boredom. They were supposed to be here. They were a little late. The guards opened the gates for them, and they walked through, under the second gate, which could be slammed down in a hurry.
“Signal tower’s to the right,” Tewk muttered, which shook Willem’s concentration, scarily so.
“Shhsh,” Willem said fiercely, and Tewk shut up.
But saying that about the signal tower had made him think about the signal, and the army, and—
He had to stop it. Uncle Tewk. They had stone chips to compare. Had to fix the tower, was what. Broken stone. They could chisel it out and slip a new one in, cut to perfection.
“Broken stone,” he said. “That’s why we’re here.”
“I wondered,” Tewk said.
It got them across the cobbled inner courtyard and over toward the tower, at least. Steps went up the side of the wall at that point.
But—
“You!” someone yelled.
I can’t, Willem thought, turning on his heel. It was one of the black-caps, with a sword out, with an angry look on his face. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t…
Steel whispered beside him. Tewk had a dagger out. A dagger, for the gods’ sake—it wasn’t enough.
Was a big sword. Tewk…
Tewk was a black-cap officer.
The man stopped dead and looked confused. And saluted.
Tewk didn’t move.
“Sorry, sir,” the man said. “Sorry.”
“Good you are,” Tewk said. “Get up there and lay a fire. Big one.” This with a nod to the looming tower. “Put a squad on it.”
“Yes, sir.”
The man sheathed his sword and went running.
Tewk wasn’t stupid. Willem was sure of that, now. He stood there shaking in the knees, and Tewk stood there solid as the stone tower itself.
“Pretty good,” Tewk said. “Pretty damned good. You don’t even write ’em down. Never saw that before.”
“Who was I?” Willem remembered including himself in the disguise, and now it was coming unraveled.
“An old man. Pretty scary old man at that.”
“That’s good.” He’d broken out in sweat. They had to get out of here. There were gates and walls between them and freedom, and Master had said he had to bring the Alley with him, but he didn’t see the Alley anymore. Here was the palace grounds, a huge stone courtyard, towering stone walls, slit windows, and massive doors. They were in this place, and there was something dark inside, and there was no leaving until they’d done something he didn’t want to think about—
Which was bad, because he had to think about it and get them in deeper before he could get them out again.
Who’d get to the duke? Who’d be safe going through those doors?
Soldiers.
Maybe.
They’re all mercs. Nobody wants the black-caps traipsing through, not even Wiggy.
Servants. He saw two men in livery crossing the yard. Which he didn’t see well enough. He needed to see it to cast it.
“Come on,” he said to Tewk, suddenly in a fever to get through this, get Tewk where he needed to go—not to think beyond that. Not to think about that dark thing. He knew what that was. He didn’t want to know. He didn’t think on it. He thought just about those two servants, and the closer he got, the better he knew what he had to cast. Only fancier. Fancy clothes gave orders. Plain clothes took them.
The two servants were headed in the door. Merc guards there opened it and let them through.
Let them through, too, Willem thought. Beyond was dark, dark. He didn’t know if Tewk could see it, but he felt it crawling through the hallways, as if all the fortress was one great beast.
The door boomed shut. There was spotty lighting, a couple of lamps. The dark was real. It was around them.
Stone steps ahead of them led up. It hadn’t been a main door. Stone steps at the right led down and a smell of cooking wafted up. Meat roasting. Bread baking. That was the kitchens.
Where did dukes live, anyway?
This time it was Tewk who said, “Come on. This way.”
He climbed, keeping up with Tewk. They were two fancy-dressed servants on a mission.
They were two fancy-dressed servants. Tewk was the senior. It was all right. Everything was all right.
They reached an upstairs hall, and it was amazing. Tapestries. Oil lamps. Slit windows that let in white daylight. A carpet on the wooden floor, and then, around a left-hand corner, a bigger room and a stone floor past open doors, and huge hangings and a number of people standing around a man at a little table, who was writing.
But it wasn’t the man who was writing that was best-dressed. It was the dark-haired, glowering man in the middle of the bystanders. That man was dressed in brocade and velvet and chain-mail and he wore a sword low-slung at his hip. He was as big as Tewk, and his glance swept toward them like the look of the biggest, meanest dog in town.
Scary man. Scary. Willem stopped. Tewk didn’t. Tewk kept right on going.
He’s a servant, Willam thought about Tewk. He’s supposed to be there.
Something slithered across the floor. It was black and it was like fog and wasn’t just on the floor. It was on eye level and it was fast and it wrapped around the man in brocade as his sword came out.
Tewk looks like that, Willem thought, and instantly honed that thought like a knife: Tewk looks just like that!
Tewk did. There were two of them, and the man at the table grabbed papers and scrambled and the men around their duke drew swords as Jindus did, as Tewk did—with all that black swirling around and around like smoke in a chimney. The two swordsmen went at it, circling like the smoke, swords grating and ringing—but all the bystanders just stood, swords drawn, but nobody moving, nobody able to see anything but Jindus, twice.
Except Tewk’s better, Willem thought. Tewk’s stronger. Scarier.
A sword swung and one of the two went down, blood spurting clear across the room, spattering the men, the pillars, everything. And one Jindus stood there, spattered, too, sword lifted…
And all that smoke whirled around and around and magic hit like a hammer, magic aimed at magic. Willem staggered where he stood, and didn’t see what had hit him, just felt it, and shoved back. The Alley was where he was. The Alley was here, and men yelled and swore, voices echoing off what wasn’t here at all.
The magic lashed at him like a whip. It was dark, it was angry, and it was scared, and it came from one old man, one old man who stood over in the shadows, over beyond Tewk, who was backing up from the advance of three of Jindus’s men.
Snakes, Willem thought, and there were all of a sudden snakes in their way.
But that left him open, and the magic that hit made his heart jump, and he was on his hands and knees, trying to get up, trying to defend himself from that old man, from that thing that wasn’t here, but almost was. It was hungry for the blood. It drank it. It grew stronger. And stronger.
But it was crazy, too. Crazy, and mean, and mad.
I’m not here, Willem thought. And that left the old man. Miphrynes is. He’s right—
An arm like iron snatched him right off the floor, up to his feet, and a length of sword was out in front of him in Tewk’s strong hand, between him and that old man.
We’re not here, he thought, fast.
The dark reared up above all the room like an angry horse, and then plunged down at the floor, spreading in all directions at once. It broke like a wave against the walls, and crested over, and flowed backward, all the waves headed at each other, with a shriek that racketed through Willem’s bones. The men went down. Only the old man, Miphrynes, was on his feet, lifting a staff that glowed with light the color of which had never been, not in the whole world. The eyes didn’t want to see it. The heart didn’t want to remember it. The ears didn’t want to hear the sound that racketed through the room, and the palace, and the walls.
Tewk’s arm tightened until it all but cut off Willem’s wind.
“Demon,” Tewk yelled in his ear.
It was. And there was one man in the middle of that roiling smoke, and Miphrynes began to scream, and to scream, and to scream.
I don’t hear it, Willem said to himself. But he couldn’t shut it all out. Tewk doesn’t hear it. We’re not here.
It stopped finally. The smoke went away. And there were just bones, and black robes, and a charred stick across them. There was a scatter of armed dead men. There was Jindus, staring rigidly at the ceiling, pale as parchment.
There was a great, deep silence—in this room.
Outside, far away, out in the courtyard, maybe, men were shouting. People outside were still alive.
“I take it that was the wizard,” Tewk said, letting up on his grip. “Are you all right, boy?”
It took three tries to say yes.
“Jindus was easier than I thought,” Tewk said, and nodded toward the pile of fresh bones. “That one—that one put up a hell of a fight.”
“Did,” Willem said. He was on his own feet, now, and there was something over there in that pile of bones, something dangerous that as good as glowed when he thought about it. He took a deep breath and went over and got it, a small book on a chain, which came loose from the bones when he pulled on it. He didn’t want to look at it. He knew better. He went over to the fireplace and threw it in.
“Ugh,” he said. And watched it burn.
“That’s not all that’s got to burn,” Tewk said, from where he stood. “Boy. Look at me.”
He wasn’t a boy. Not now. Wanted to be, but even magic couldn’t manage that. Tewk looked at him and something changed in Tewk’s expression, something serious and sober.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” Tewk said. “Have you got one more trick in you, son? Can you get us over to that signal tower?”
Willem thought about it. A thick fog seemed to have settled in his brain. They were in a safe place at the moment, because everybody was dead. Demons were like that. That was what Master had told him: you could control them by giving them what they wanted, which wasn’t any sort of control at all—it was still what they wanted, after all, since they were still in their Place. And if you were going to bring a demon all the way into your Place so you could control it, you still had a problem, because you had to give them a shape to live in and if you wanted it to do something for you, you had to find something else it wanted. That meant you had to be stronger than that body was—Miphrynes hadn’t been stronger than Jindus—or smart enough to keep outsmarting the demon.
And Miphrynes might not have been smarter than this particular demon, after all. It had gotten its blood. A lot of it. And a few souls. And it was back in its safe Place. Wherever that was. One hoped it was back in its Place.
He wanted out of here. Right now. But wishing wouldn’t do it. Feet had to.
“Willem!” Tewk caught up at the door, and grabbed his arm. “The place is crawling with mercs. They don’t know Jindus is dead. They might’ve heard something going on. But can you—”
“You’re Jindus,” he said, and Tewk was. It wasn’t even a hard piece of illusion.
Tewk looked down at his hand, which was browner, and scarred, just like that of Jindus, who was dead back there on the floor.
Tewk looked a little uneasy.
“You can do it,” Willem said. “We go down there and you tell them to light the fire.”
“Works if nobody got out of that room,” Tewk said. “Where’s the old man? The scribe?”
The old man at the table. The table was overturned. The papers were scattered, the inkpot spilled on the stone floor.
But the old man was gone.
The upper halls were deserted. The Jindus illusion was worth holding on to, Willem thought, because not everybody might believe the duke was dead. He half-ran, being a merc, just a plain black-cap, beside Tewk, and they went rattling and thumping down the little side steps that had gotten them into the upstairs in the first place.
They passed the kitchen stairs. They descended as far as the closed outside door and Tewk drew his sword. “Open it,” he said, and Willem drew the latch back and swung it inward.
The guards were gone. Mercs were all over the courtyard, opening storerooms, carrying stuff, like an overturned anthill.
“They know,” Tewk said. “They know he’s dead. The town’s going to be next. Probably they’ve already started looting down there, but the gold’s up here. We’ve got to get Osric’s army in here. Got to get to the signal tower. Fast.”
They tried. But about then some of the looting mercs spotted them and dropped what they were carrying on the spot. One drew a sword, clearly not even trying to explain what they were doing. Jindus was dead. Jindus was alive but his authority was in shambles. And that was trouble the mercs now wanted to solve at sword’s point.
They needed Osric’s army. They needed to see Osric’s army coming through that gate.
And Willem did. He saw it. The men on the other side of the courtyard were Osric’s men, all in shining armor and with the king’s dragon on their coats…
He pointed. Even Tewk had stopped dead, sword in hand, looking in that direction. And a couple of the mercs that had been stalking them cast a half-glance over their shoulders and then turned that way, frozen in a moment’s confusion.
The others turned that way, and charged what they saw—startled men, who drew their swords. A battle broke out, one band against the other.
We’re mercs, Willem thought. We’re just mercs, standing here.
Tewk shook the illusion, grabbing him by the arm, hard. It hurt, and he almost lost all of it, except there were more mercs charging into the yard with the racket going up. They were Osric’s men, too. Willem had no idea what Osric’s men looked like but he knew it was a green banner and a gold dragon, and he put good armor and red hair on all of them.
“Got to get to the tower!” Tewk shouted at him. “Come on!”
Mercs and Osric’s men were dropping wherever the fighting went on. Dead ones just looked like mercs. And he had enough to do just keeping the illusion hopping from one group to the next—whoever won became Osric’s men.
But he couldn’t keep dicing the groups finer and finer forever, with Tewk pulling at him and insisting he get moving. He couldn’t do both. He couldn’t go with Tewk to light the signal and keep the whole lot of mercs in the courtyard from running out of Osric’s men and coming after them. It was the fastest, quickest-changing illusion he’d ever cast, and he was sweating, running out of breath, and Tewk jerked him loose from it and yelled:
“The fire, damn it! They’re getting out the gate—they’ll be sacking the town, next!”
Then he thought: I want that fire burning. The fire’s burning up there.
And all of a sudden Tewk stopped pulling at him. Tewk was looking up, and there was a fire, a huge fire, for everybody to see. It was the biggest illusion he’d ever cast, and he just stood there, as Tewk stood there, both of them being themselves, while the fire roared away on the height of the tower and sent up black smoke to the heavens.
Could Osric’s men see it? Willem wondered. Could it carry that far?
Sword rang against sword. Thunked into flesh, and a dying man fell at Willem’s feet. Tewk flung an arm around him and shoved him into motion, running, running, while Tewk turned and hacked another man down.
If he were Master…if he were even Almore, he would have a chance. But he didn’t know where a torch was. He didn’t know what he was going to do. He reached the steps. He climbed for all he was worth, and Tewk stayed behind him, but attackers were trying to come up after them and Tewk stopped to hew away at the men on the steps.
On hands and knees, Willem made it over the crest, made it as far as the top of the wall, and he could see into the signal tower, where wood was piled, and oil jars, but it wasn’t lit, and there was a merc there, the same they’d told to lay the fire. That man drew his sword, and Willem’s mind went momentarily blank. No fire. No torch. No way to light it.
He wanted it. Or everybody in the town was going to be dead and King Osric was going to be outside the walls and the mercs in charge of the town, and Master, and Almore, and Jezzy—
He dodged a sword blow. The man saw Tewk as the threat: it was Tewk he was going for, right past him.
Which left him the stack of wood in the stone fire-pit. And the oil, which was still in the jars.
And fire didn’t obey illusion magic. Heat wouldn’t come.
He heard swords meet behind him. Twice. Blows like a blacksmith’s hammer.
Sparks flying. Little sparks.
Be! he thought.
And the fire came.
The fire took the wood. It blazed up. It broke the jars, which spread fire along the wall, and the great fire roared like a living thing.
Heat flared out. He wasn’t thinking it. It was.
A master wizard—a real master wizard—
Hadn’t Master taught Almore? And taught him?
He felt that piece of paper he had tucked in his shirt. The one that Master had written, naming him master.
He stood there with the smoke going up to the sky, and the heat baking his front and calling up more sweat, and then a hand landed on his shoulder, and squeezed.
“Good job,” Tewk panted. “Good job, boy.”
“Master Willem,” he said, not prideful, not arrogant, just numb. Down below the wall he could see mercs running for it, some with loot, some not, and doors pouring out men who headed for the open courtyard gate. They weren’t slowing down.
“Master Willem,” Tewk said, and squeezed a second time. “There’s still work to do, for you and me. Your Talent can hound those bastards all the way to the gates. I’ll mop up any that get behind us. All right? Got the strength for it?”
“People won’t get killed,” he said, remembering Master’s injunction. He hadn’t killed anybody. He hadn’t tried to kill anybody. If their own inclinations were to kill people—he hadn’t stopped it, but he hadn’t made them do anything they wouldn’t like to do. He turned, a little wobbly, and a little dizzied by the downward view of the steep and narrow stairs, and Tewk kept a firm grip on him. “I’ll do it.”
“Until you can magic yourself wings,” Tewk said, “I’m keeping hold of you. Not losing you, no.”
“Thanks,” he said, and started down the steps, with Tewk’s hand firmly clenching his collar, all the way down.
King Osric was holding court uptown. Master was packing, down here in the Alley. Master was going back to his house higher on the hill, and Master was going to work for Tewk’s cousin, twice removed, who was going to be the new duke in Wiscezan.
“He’s a little lazy,” Tewk said about his cousin. “You’ll notice he sat safe in Korianth. But he’s a scholar, not a fighter. You’ll like him,” he said to Master, and Master nodded.
Almore and Jezzy were already packed, since Master said they would have real beds, and each their own room, and six changes of clothes, and servants.
Willem supposed he would have a room, too. He had new clothes—his old ones he didn’t even want to remember. He’d had a bath at the Ox, he’d changed into clothes all the same color—gray—with new boots from the boot-seller, and a gray cloak he liked just to stroke, because it felt as smooth and soft as one of Jezzy’s cats.
But he didn’t know, now that Master and everybody called him Master Willem, exactly where he would be. He didn’t have anything to pack, either, except an old knife he liked, and a few pages Master had given him, which he was going to bind into the start of a book. So he had those lying on the table, and Master and Tewk talked for a while.
King Osric had gotten into the town and into the fortress without even a fight: and it wasn’t as bad as a sack, but Wiggy’s place had lost furniture and tankards—and was getting new ones: King Osric had ordered damages paid, so Wiggy and his daughter were happy, and feeling rich.
Most every damage had gotten fixed. Master had fixed a few. Master was feeling a lot better now that the demon was out of town, and was getting visibly a little younger, which was not an illusion; Willem was fairly sure of it.
So everybody had a prospect, and he was fairly sure his was bright. He just didn’t know what it was.
Until Tewk walked up as he was standing, looking out the open door of their little house, and laid a hand on his shoulder.
“You’re pretty good,” Tewk said. “The world’s wider than Wiscezan, you know. I’ve got a cousin up in Peghary who wants a little advice. Ever ridden?”
He hadn’t. If he were Jezzy, with Jezzy’s talent, he wouldn’t worry about it; but horses scared him. They were tall. They had intentions of their own.
Tewk was asking him to go on the road with him. And see places. Peghary. He’d only heard of that place.
“Master might need me,” he said. He still had that duty. Master had leaned on him for a long time.
“I’m doing very well,” Master said. “I can spare you a few months. I’ll be busy with these two. They’re getting old enough. They’ll take care of things.”
Master never had said anything about his room in the house. And with Tewk—
He’d gotten used to Tewk. Tewk was smart in different ways than Master. There were things still to learn.
Places to go.
He nodded, looking out on the dust of the Alley.
Fact was, Tewk needed him. He wasn’t the only one who put illusions on things. Cousin in Peghary, hell.
Maybe there even was a cousin.
“Sure,” he said. “All right. I can ride.”