Trudi Canavan - The Magicians' Guild

“The street’s ’bout chest height,” the thug told him. “Go on.”

Grasping the edge of the hole, Dannyl climbed through. He found a ledge to brace himself on, then drew his other leg through and lowered it until his foot reached the floor. Stepping back, his shoulder met a wall. The thug slipped into the passage with practiced ease. Unable to see much more than the man’s shape within the dim light, Dannyl kept his distance.

“Follow my footsteps,” the man said. As he started down the passage, Dannyl walked a few paces behind, trailing his hands along the walls on either side. They walked for several minutes, taking numerous turns, then the footsteps in front of Dannyl stopped and he heard a rapping from somewhere close by.

“You’ve got a long way to go,” the thug said. “You sure ’bout this? You can change your mind now and I’ll I take you back.”

“Why would I want to do that?” Dannyl asked.

“You just might, that’s all.”

A sliver of light appeared, then widened beside them. Within it stood a silhouette of another man. In the glare Dannyl could not make out the man’s face.

“This one’s for Gorin,” the thug said. He looked at Dannyl, made a quick gesture, then turned and disappeared into the shadows.

“Gorin, eh?” the man in the doorway said. The voice could have belonged to a man anywhere between twenty and sixty years. “What is your name?”

“Larkin.”

“What is your profession?”

“I sell simba mats.” Mat-making houses had sprung up all over Imardin in the last few years.

“A competitive market.”

“You’re telling me?”

The man grunted.

“Why you want to talk to Gorin?”

“That’s for Gorin to know.”

“Of course.” The man shrugged, then reached up to the inner wall of the room.

“Turn away from me,” he ordered. “From here, you go blindfold.”

Dannyl hesitated before reluctantly turning around. He had expected something like this. A piece of cloth dropped over his eyes, and he felt the man knot it behind his head. The faint light of the lamp revealed only the thick weave of the material.

“Follow my footsteps, please.”

Once again, Dannyl walked with his hands trailing along the walls. His new guide travelled fast. Dannyl counted his steps, thinking that, as soon as he had the opportunity, he would measure how far a thousand strides would normally take him.

Something, probably a hand, was suddenly pressed on his chest, and he halted. He heard a door open, and he was pushed forward. The smell of spices and flowers filled his senses, and he felt a softness under his boots which suggested carpet.

“Stay here. Don’t remove your blindfold.”

The door closed.

The faint sounds of voices and footsteps came from above, and he guessed he was under one of the rowdier bolhouses. He listened to the sounds, then began counting his breaths. When that bored him, he lifted his hands to the blindfold. He heard a soft thud behind him, like the sound a bare heel makes on a carpeted floor. He turned and grasped the blindfold to remove it, then froze as he heard the door handle turning. Straightening, he quickly let go of the material.

The door didn’t open. He waited, and concentrated on the silence within the room. Something drew his attention. Something more subtle than the faint sound he had heard before.

A presence.

It hovered behind him. Taking in a deep breath he stretched his arms out and pretended to be feeling for walls. As he turned about, the presence moved away.

Someone was in the room with him. Someone who didn’t want to be noticed. The carpet muffled the tread of their feet, and the bolhouse noise covered any involuntary sounds. The flowery perfume that hung in the air would hide the small scents of a body. Only the senses unique to him as a magician had detected the stranger.

It was a test. He doubted if the owner of the presence was being tested on their ability to remain unnoticed. No, this test was for him. To see if he detected anything. To see if he was a magician.

Casting his senses out, he detected another faint presence. This one was stationary. Stretching his arms out, he started forward again. The first presence darted around him, but he ignored it. After ten steps he encountered a wall. Keeping his hands on the rough surface, he began moving around the room in the direction of the other presence. The first one moved away, then suddenly rushed toward him. He felt a faint breeze against his neck. Ignoring it, he continued on.

His fingers met the door frame, then a sleeve and arm. The blindfold was lifted from his eyes, and he found himself staring at an old man.

“I apologize for keeping you waiting,” the man said. Recognizing the voice, Dannyl knew this was his guide. Had the man left the room at all?

Offering no explanation, the guide opened the door. “If you would follow me now, please.”

Dannyl glanced around the now-empty room, then stepped into the passage.

They continued the journey at a more relaxed pace, the lamp swinging in the old man’s hand. The walls were well made. At each turn a small panel was set into the bricks, engraved with strange symbols. It was impossible to guess what time it was, but he knew that many hours must have passed since he had entered the first bolhouse. He was pleased with himself for realizing he was being tested. Would they have taken him to the Thieves if he had proven to be a magician? He doubted it.

There might be more tests—he would have to be careful. He did not know how close he was to speaking with Gorin. In the meantime, he should find out as much as he could about the people he wanted to negotiate with. He regarded his companion speculatively.

“What is a ‘knife’?”

The old man grunted. “An assassin.”

Dannyl blinked, then smothered a smile. The Bold Knife was truly an appropriate name, then. How did the owner get away with advertising so blatantly?

He could wonder about that later. For now there were more useful things to learn.

“Are there any other alternative names I should know about?”

The old man smiled. “If someone sends you a messenger, you’ll be getting either a threat, or they’ll be carrying out that threat.”

“I see.”

“And a squimp is someone who betrays the Thieves. You don’t want to be one of those. They live short lives.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“If all goes well, you’ll be called a client. Depends what you’re here for.” He stopped and turned to regard Dannyl. “Guess it’s time to find out.”

He knocked on the wall. Silence followed, then the bricks collapsed inward in two sections. The old man gestured toward the opening.

The room Dannyl entered was small. A table fit snugly between the walls, effectively blocking access to the huge man sitting in the chair behind it. A pair of doors stood partly open behind him.

“Larkin the mat-seller,” the man said. His voice was startlingly deep.

Dannyl inclined his head. “And you are?”

The man smiled. “Gorin.”

There was no chair for visitors. Dannyl moved closer to the table. Gorin was not an attractive man, but his bulk was more muscle than fat. His hair was thick and curly, and a woolly beard covered his jaw. He truly lived up to his namesake, the huge beasts that hauled punts up the Tarali river. Dannyl wondered if this was a joke of the thug’s—perhaps Gorin was the man with the widest influence among the Thieves.

“You lead the Thieves?” Dannyl asked.

Gorin smiled. “Nobody leads the Thieves.”

“Then how do I know if I’m talking to the right person?”

“You want to make a deal? You make it with me.” He spread his hands. “If you break the deal, I punish you. Think of me like something between a father and a king. I’m helping you out, but if you betray me, I’ll kill you. Does that make sense?”