Trudi Canavan - The Magicians' Guild

Looking at him closely, she saw a hardness in his expression that she had never seen before. Without him she would have been captured days ago, would probably be dead.

She needed him, but what was it going to cost him to help her? He had already promised or used owed favors for her and he risked the disapproval of the Thieves by using the tunnels.

And what if she was found by the magicians? If Norin suffered the ruin of his house for being suspected of hiding her, what would the magicians do to Cery? “Do you know what the penalty is for hiding enemies of the Guild, old man?” She shivered and caught his arm.

“Make me a promise, Cery.”

He turned to stare at her, eyes wide. “A promise?”

She nodded. “Promise that, if they ever catch us, you’ll pretend that you don’t know me.” He opened his mouth to protest, but she did not wait for him to speak. “If they do see that you’re helping me, then run away. Don’t let them catch you as well.”

He shook his head. “Sonea, I wouldn’t—”

“Just say you will. I... I couldn’t bear it if they killed you because of me.”

Cery’s eyes widened, then he placed a hand on her shoulder and smiled.

“They won’t catch you,” he told her. “And even if they do, I’ll get you back. I promise you that.”

The sign on the bolhouse read: The Bold Knife. Not an encouraging name, but a quick look inside had revealed a quiet room. Unlike the occupants of all the other bolhouses Dannyl had entered, the customers were subdued and talked in low voices.

Pushing open the door, he stepped inside. A few of the drinkers looked his way, but most ignored him. This, too, was a welcome change. He felt a twinge of uneasiness. Why was this place so different from the others he had visited?

He had never entered a bolhouse until this day, and had never wanted to, but the guard he had sent to find the Thieves had given him specific instructions: go to a bolhouse, tell the owner who you wanted to talk to, and pay the fee when a guide appeared. That, apparently, was the way it was done.

Of course, he couldn’t walk into a bolhouse dressed in robes and expect the sort of cooperation he needed, so he had disobeyed his peers and changed into the plain garb of a merchant.

He had chosen his disguise carefully. No amount of dressing down was going to hide his unusual height, obvious health and cultured voice. The story he had invented told a tale of unlucky investment and bad debts. Nobody would loan him money. The Thieves were a last resort. A merchant in that situation would be as out of his depth as Dannyl was, though a great deal more frightened.

Taking a deep breath, Dannyl made his way across the room to the serving bench. The server was a thin man with high cheekbones and a grim expression. Streaks of gray ran through his black hair. He regarded Dannyl with hard eyes.

“What will it be?”

“A drink.”

The man took a wooden mug and filled it from one of the casks behind the bench. Dannyl took a copper and silver coin from his purse. Hiding the silver, he dropped the copper into the man’s outstretched hand.

“You’ll be after a knife then?” the server asked in a quiet voice.

Dannyl looked at the man in surprise.

The server smiled grimly. “What else would you be at The Bold Knife for, then? You done this before?”

Dannyl shook his head, thinking quickly. By the man’s tone, it seemed he should want some secrecy in the acquiring of this “knife.” There was no law against owning blades, so “knife” must be a word used for an illegal object—or service. He had no idea what it might be, but this man had already indicated he was expecting shady dealings and that seemed as good a start as any.

“I don’t want a knife.” Dannyl gave the man a nervous smile. “I want to contact the Thieves.”

The man’s brows rose. “Oh?” He narrowed his eyes at Dannyl. “It takes a bit of color to get them interested in talking, you know.”

Dannyl opened his hand to reveal the silver coin, then closed his fingers again as the server reached for it. The man snorted, then turned slightly.

“Hai, Kollin!”

A boy appeared in a doorway behind the bench. He looked at Dannyl, his sharp eyes moving from boots to hair.

“Take this man to the slaughterhouse.”

Kollin looked at Dannyl, then beckoned. As Dannyl moved behind the bench, the server blocked his path and opened his hand.

“There’s a fee. Silver.”

Dannyl frowned at the extended hand doubtfully.

“Don’t worry,” the server said. “If they found out I was cheating those who went looking for their help, they’d flay me and hang my skin off the rafters as a lesson to others.”

Wondering if he was being duped, Dannyl pressed the silver coin into the server’s palm. The man stepped aside, allowing Dannyl to follow Kollin through the doorway.

“Follow me but don’t say nothing,” the boy said. He entered a small kitchen, then opened another door and checked the alley outside before stepping out.

The boy moved quickly, leading Dannyl through a maze of narrow streets. They passed doorways from which wafted the smell of baking, or cooked meat and vegetables, or the tang of oiled leather. The boy stopped and gestured to the entrance of an alley. The narrow street was filled with litter and mud, and came to a dead end after twenty paces.

“Slaughterhouse. You go there,” the boy said, pointing down the alley. He turned and hurried away.

Dannyl regarded the alley dubiously as he walked down it. No doors. No windows. Nobody stepped out to greet him. Reaching the end of the alley, he sighed. He had been duped. Considering the name of the place, he had suspected an ambush at least.

Shrugging, he turned around and found three heavily built men standing in the alley’s entrance.

“Hai! Looking for someone?”

“Yes.” Dannyl strode toward them. All wore heavy long-coats and gloves. The one at the center bore a scar down one cheek. They returned his stare coldly. Just your average thug, Dannyl mused. Perhaps this was an ambush.

He stopped a few paces away, then glanced back down the alley and smiled. “So this is the slaughterhouse. How appropriate. Are you my escort now?”

The middle thug held out his hand.

“For a price.”

“I gave my money to the man at The Bold Knife.”

The thug frowned. “You want a knife?”

“No.” Dannyl sighed. “I want to talk to the Thieves.”

The man looked at his companions, who were grinning. “Which one?”

“The one with the widest influence.”

The thug at the center chuckled. “That’d be Gorin.” One of his companions smothered a laugh. Still grinning, the leader gestured for Dannyl to follow him. “Come with me.”

The other two stepped aside. Dannyl followed his new guide to the entrance of a wider street. Glancing back, he saw that the others were watching him, still smiling broadly.

A series of twisting streets and alleys followed. Dannyl began to wonder if the back of every baker, leather-merchant, tailor and bolhouse looked the same. Then he recognized a sign, and stopped in his tracks.

“We’ve been here before. Why are you leading me in circles?”

The thug turned and regarded Dannyl, then turned and moved to the nearby wall. Bending down, he grasped the edge of a ventilation grille and pulled. It swung forward.

The thug gestured to the hole. “You first.”

Dannyl crouched and looked inside. He could see nothing. Resisting the temptation to create a globe light, he put a leg into the hole, but found only emptiness where he expected the floor to be. He looked up at his guide.