Kyralia 01 - [Black Magician 01] - The Magicians' Guild Page 6

  Donia sighed. “The dye didn’t work. Kyralian hair don’t change easy.”

  He shrugged, then nodded at the bundle. “Brought you some clothes, Sonea.” He moved back to the door. “Knock when you’re done.”

  As the door closed behind him, Donia picked up the bundle and unwrapped it.

  “More boy’s clothes,” she sniffed, tossing a pair of trousers and a high-collared shirt to Sonea. She unfurled a long swathe of heavy black cloth and nodded. “Good cloak, though.”

  Sonea changed into the clothes. As she swung the cloak about her shoulders, there was a rap on the door.

  “We’re leaving,” Cery told them as he strode into the room. Harrin followed carrying a small lamp. Seeing their grim expressions, Sonea felt her heart skip a beat.

  “They’re searching already?”

  Cery nodded, then moved to an old wooden cupboard at the back of the room. Opening it, he pulled at the shelves inside. They swung forward smoothly, their contents shaking slightly. The back of the cupboard hinged inward to reveal a rectangle of darkness.

  “They’ve been searching for a few hours,” Harrin told Sonea as she stepped through the hidden doorway into the passage.

  “Already?”

  “It’s easy to lose track of time down here,” he explained. “It’s mid-morning outside.”

  Cery shooed Harrin and Donia through the doorway. Sonea heard the faintest squeak and a sliver of light escaped Harrin’s lamp to reveal the damp walls of the passage. Cery pulled the cupboard together, closed the secret door, and turned to Harrin.

  “No light. I know my way better in the dark.”

  The passage vanished as Harrin closed the shutter.

  “No talking, either,” Cery told them. “Sonea, grab hold of my coat and put your other hand on the wall.”

  She reached out and grasped the rough material of his longcoat. A hand touched her shoulder lightly. Their footsteps echoed in the passage as they started forward.

  Not a ray of light illuminated their way as they groped through several turns. The faint echo of dripping water came and went, and returned again. Opia’s brothel was near the river, Sonea remembered, so the passages were probably below the level of the water. It was not a comforting thought.

  Cery stopped and his longcoat slipped out of Sonea’s grip as he suddenly moved upward. She reached out and touched a rough, wooden board, then another. Anxious that she would lose Cery if she hesitated too long, she scurried up the ladder only to be rewarded by a kick from his boot. She bit back a curse and continued with more care. Behind her, she could hear Harrin and Donia’s shoes scuffing the wood faintly as they followed.

  A paler square of black appeared above. She followed Cery through a trapdoor into a long, straight passage. Faint light filtered in through the occasional crack in the wall on one side. They walked along this for over a hundred paces when, just as they had almost reached the turn in the passage, Cery came to an abrupt halt.

  The passage ahead had begun to glow, lit by a source of light somewhere beyond the turn. She could see Cery silhouetted against the wall. A distant voice, male and cultured, drifted to their ears.

  “Ah! Another hidden passage. Come, we shall see how far it extends.”

  “They’re in the passages!” Donia breathed.

  Cery span around and waved frantically at Sonea. Not needing any urging, she turned to see Harrin and Donia tiptoeing back down the passage.

  Though they walked as silently and quickly as they could, their footsteps sounded loud in the narrow space. Sonea strained her ears, expecting to hear a shout behind them any moment. Looking down, she saw her own shadow growing more distinct as the light behind them approached the turn.

  The passage ahead extended into an infinite darkness. She glanced back. The light behind them was now so bright, she was sure the magician must be about to reach the turn. In a moment he would see them…

  She gasped as hands grabbed her shoulders and jerked her to a halt. Cery pushed her against the wall and pressed on her shoulders. The brickwork seemed to collapse behind her, and she stumbled backward.

  Her back struck another wall. Cery shoved her to one side, against a side wall, then moved into the tiny alcove beside her. She felt his bony elbow poking into her side and heard a dry scraping sound of bricks sliding against each other and clicking into place.

  In the cramped space, the sound of their breathing was thunderous. Heart pounding, Sonea strained her ears until the muffled sound of voices began to penetrate the bricks. Light appeared through cracks in the brickwork. Leaning forward, Sonea peered through one of the openings.

  A glowing ball of light floated in the air just before her. Fascinated, she watched it drift forward until it passed out of sight, leaving red blotches in her vision. Then a pale hand appeared, followed by a wide, purple-colored sleeve and the chest of a man—a man dressed in robes—a magician!

  Her heart raced. He was so close—within arm’s reach. Only a thin wall of old bricks stood between them.

  And he had stopped.

  “Wait a moment.” The magician sounded puzzled. He stood still and silent, then slowly turned to face her.

  She froze in horror. He was the magician from the North Square—the one who had seen her. The one who had tried to point her out to the rest. His expression was distracted, as if he was listening to something, and he appeared to be staring right through the wall and into her eyes.

  Her mouth was dry and felt full of dust. Swallowing hard, she fought a rising terror. The pounding of her heart seemed loud enough to betray her. Could he hear that? Or could he hear the sound of her breathing?

  Perhaps he can hear the thoughts in my head.

  Sonea felt her legs go weak. It was said they could do such things. She closed her eyes tightly. He can’t see me, she told herself. I don’t exist, I’m not here. I’m nothing. No one can see me. No one can hear me…

  A strange sensation stole over her, as if a blanket had been wrapped about her head, muffling her senses. She shivered, disturbed by the certainty that she had done something—but this time to herself.

  Or perhaps the magician has worked some kind of magic on me, she thought suddenly. Appalled, she opened her eyes and found herself staring into darkness.

  The magician, and his light, had gone.

  Dannyl regarded the building before him with distaste. The most recent of the Guild structures, it lacked the grandeur and beauty that he admired in the older buildings. While some praised the modern style, Dannyl considered this building to be as ridiculously pretentious as its name.

  The Seven Arches was a flat rectangle, fronted with seven plain, undecorated arches. Inside were three rooms: the Day Room, where important guests were received, the Banquet Room and the Night Room, where magicians gathered informally each Fourday evening to relax, sip expensive wine and gossip.

  It was to this last room that he and Rothen were heading. It was a chilly evening, but a little cold air had never kept Night Room regulars away. Dannyl smiled as he entered. Once inside, he could forget the architectural blunder that had brought about the building’s existence, and enjoy the tasteful decorations within.

  He looked around, enjoying a new appreciation of the room’s luxuries after enduring a second day in the damp, cold passages of the slums. Dark blue and gold patterned screens covered the windows. Luxurious cushioned chairs were arranged around the room. The walls were decorated with paintings and carvings by the best artists of the Allied Lands.

  More than the usual number of magicians were present, he noted. As he and Rothen strolled deeper into the crowd, he recognized a few less social magicians. Then Dannyl’s eyes caught a splash of black and he stopped.

  “The High Lord has graced us with his presence tonight,” he murmured.

  “Akkarin? Where?” Rothen glanced around the room and his eyebrows rose as he located the black-robed figure.

  “Interesting. How long has it been? Two months?”

  Dannyl no
dded as he took a glass of wine from a passing servant. “At least.”

  “Is that Administrator Lorlen with him?”

  “Of course,” Dannyl said, pausing to sip from his glass. “Lorlen’s talking to someone, but I can’t see who it is.”

  Lorlen looked up and around the room. His gaze rested on Dannyl and Rothen. A hand rose.

  —Dannyl. Rothen. I would like to speak to you.

  Surprised, and a little apprehensive, Dannyl followed Rothen across the room. They stopped behind the chair that had blocked Dannyl’s view of Lorlen’s other companion. A cultured voice reached their ears.

  “The slums are an ugly stain on this city. They are a nest of crime and disease. The King should never have let them grow so large. This is the perfect opportunity to rid Imardin of them.”

  Dannyl schooled his expression and looked down at the chair’s occupant. Immaculately combed blonde hair gleamed from the light of the room. The man’s eyes were half closed, his legs crossed and pointing toward the High Lord. A small square bandage had been stuck to his temple.

  “How do you propose he do that, Lord Fergun?” Lorlen asked mildly.

  Fergun shrugged. “It would not be hard to clear the area. The houses are not particularly well made, and it would take little effort to collapse the tunnels beneath them.”

  “But every city grows and expands,” Lorlen pointed out. “It is only natural that people build outside the walls when there is no longer room inside them. There are some areas in the slums that look little different to the quarters. The buildings are well made and the streets have effective drainage. The occupants of these areas have started referring to the slums as the Outer Circle.”

  Fergun leaned forward. “But even those houses have hidden passages beneath them. I assure you, their occupants are the most suspicious people. Any house built on top of such tunnels should be assumed to be part of a criminal conspiracy and torn down.”

  Akkarin’s brows rose slightly at this. Lorlen glanced at the High Lord and smiled. “If only the problem of the Thieves could be solved so easily.” He looked up at Rothen and smiled. “Good evening, Lord Rothen and Lord Dannyl.”

  Fergun looked up. His eyes slid from Dannyl to Rothen, and his mouth stretched into a smile. “Ah, Lord Rothen.”

  “Good evening, High Lord, Administrator,” Rothen replied, inclining his head to the Higher Magicians. “And Lord Fergun. Are you feeling better?”

  “Yes, yes,” Fergun replied, lifting a hand to touch the bandage on his forehead. “Thank you for enquiring.”

  Dannyl kept his expression neutral. It was rude, but not unusual, for Fergun to “forget” to greet him. That he had done so in the High Lord’s presence, however, was surprising.

  Lorlen folded his hands together. “I noticed that you both stayed in the slums longer than most others today. Did you discover any clues to this girl’s whereabouts?”

  Rothen shook his head, and began describing their attempts to follow the underground passages of the slums. Remaining silent, Dannyl looked at the High Lord and felt a familiar twinge of nervousness. Ten years since I graduated, but I still react to him as if I were a novice, he mused.

  Dannyl’s duties and interests rarely brought him in contact with the Guild’s leader. As always, he felt a mild surprise at Akkarin’s youthfulness. He thought of the arguments that had risen, five years before, at the election of a young magician to the position of High Lord. Guild leaders were selected from the strongest of the magicians, yet older magicians were usually chosen over younger ones due to their greater experience and maturity.

  While Akkarin had demonstrated powers far stronger than any other magician’s, it was the knowledge and diplomatic skills that he had gained while travelling abroad that had convinced the Guild to elect him. A Guild leader was expected to have qualities of strength, skill, dignity and authority, and Akkarin had all of these in abundance. As many had pointed out at the time of Akkarin’s choosing, age mattered little to the role. Important decisions were always made by vote, and the everyday running of the Guild was left to the Guild Administrator.

  While this sounded reasonable, Dannyl suspected that questions about the High Lord’s age still lingered. He had noted that Akkarin now wore his hair in the old fashioned and distinguished style favored by older men—long and tidily knotted at the back of his neck. Lorlen, too, had adopted the style.

  Dannyl turned to regard the Administrator, who was listening to Rothen intently. The High Lord’s closest friend, Lorlen had become the former Guild Administrator’s assistant at Akkarin’s suggestion. When the Administrator retired, two years past, Lorlen had taken his place.

  Lorlen had proven to be well-suited to the position. He was efficient, authoritative, and, most importantly, approachable. It was not an easy role, and Dannyl did not envy Lorlen the long hours involved. Of the two positions, it was the most demanding.

  Lorlen shook his head as Rothen finished his account of their day. “From the descriptions I’ve heard of the slums, I can’t see how we’ll ever find her.” He sighed. “The King has ordered that the Port be opened tomorrow.”

  Fergun frowned. “Already? What if she escapes on a ship?”

  “I doubt if the embargo would have stopped her from leaving Imardin if she really wanted to.” Lorlen looked up at Rothen and smiled wryly. “As Lord Rothen’s former guardian used to say: ‘Kyralia would run itself very well if ruling was declared a crime.’”

  Rothen chuckled. “Yes, Lord Margen was a source of many such remarks. I don’t believe we have explored all our options, however. Dannyl pointed out to me this morning that the people who have the best chance of finding this girl are the slum dwellers themselves. I think he’s right.”

  Dannyl stared at his friend. Surely Rothen was not going to reveal their intention to contact the Thieves!

  “Why would they help us?” Lorlen asked.

  Rothen glanced at Dannyl and smiled. “We could offer a reward.”

  Dannyl slowly let out the breath he had been holding. You should have warned me, old friend!

  “A reward!” Lorlen exclaimed. “Yes, that might work.”

  “An excellent idea,” Fergun agreed. “And we should fine those who hinder us, too.”

  Lorlen gave Fergun a reproachful look. “A reward will be sufficient. Mind you, nothing shall be given until she is found, or the entire population of the slums will claim to have seen her.” He frowned. “Hmm, we’ll also want to discourage people from trying to catch her themselves…”

  “We could post a description of her and terms of the reward at street corners, with a warning that she should not be approached,” Dannyl suggested. “We should encourage people to report sightings of her, too, as they could give us some indication of the areas she frequents.”

  “We could have a map of the slums drawn up so we can keep track of sightings,” Fergun suggested.

  “Hmm, that would be useful,” Dannyl said, pretending to be begrudgingly surprised at the suggestion. Remembering the maze of passages and streets, he knew a task like that would keep Fergun out of their way for months. Rothen narrowed his eyes at Dannyl, but said nothing.

  “The posting of a reward,” Lorlen glanced up at Dannyl, “you’ll arrange it?”

  “Tomorrow.” Dannyl inclined his head.

  “I will inform the rest of the searchers of this tomorrow morning,” Lorlen said. He looked up at Rothen and Dannyl and smiled. “Any more ideas?”

  “This girl must have a presence,” the High Lord said quietly. “She is untrained, and would not know how to hide it—or even that she has one. Has anyone looked for it yet?”

  For a moment, all were silent, then Lorlen chuckled ruefully. “I can’t believe I hadn’t thought of that. No one has mentioned looking for her presence.” He shook his head. “It seems we’ve all forgotten what we are—and what she is.”

  “A presence,” Rothen said quietly. “I think I…”

  Lorlen frowned as Rothen did not finish
his sentence. “Yes?”

  “I’ll organize a mental search for tomorrow,” Rothen offered.

  Lorlen smiled. “Then you two have a busy day ahead.”

  Rothen inclined his head. “We best have an early night, then. Good night, Administrator, High Lord, Lord Fergun.”

  The three magicians nodded in reply. Dannyl followed as Rothen hurried toward the Night Room doors. As they stepped out into the chilly air, Rothen let out an explosive breath.

  “Now I realize!” He slapped a hand to his forehead.

  “Realize what?” Dannyl asked, bemused.

  “Today, while I was following one of the passages, I felt something. As if somebody was watching me.”

  “A presence?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Did you investigate?”

  Rothen nodded. “It didn’t make sense. What I was detecting would have to have been right next to me, yet there was nothing but a brick wall.”

  “Did you look for a hidden door?”

  “No, but…” Rothen hesitated, and frowned, “…it stopped.”

  “It stopped?” Dannyl looked perplexed. “How could it just stop? A presence doesn’t just stop—not unless it has been hidden. She hasn’t been trained to do that.”

  “Or has she?” Rothen smiled grimly. “If it was her, then either she has been taught by someone, or she has worked it out for herself.”

  “It’s not difficult to learn,” Dannyl pointed out, “and we teach it by playing games of hideaway.”

  Rothen nodded slowly as he considered the possibility, then shrugged. “I guess we’ll know tomorrow. I had better go back in and see if I can round up some help. I expect many of those who don’t want to enter the slums again will be happy to help with a mental search. I want you to join us, Dannyl. You’ve got particularly fine senses.”

  Dannyl shrugged. “If you put it that way, how can I refuse?”

  “We’ll begin early, I think. You’ll want to have those reward notices printed and sent out as soon as possible.”

  “Agh.” Dannyl grimaced. “Not another early morning.”

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