Trudi Canavan - The Magicians' Guild

It was slow work, but gave Tullin plenty of time to fall into a deep sleep. When the flap was free, Cery opened it carefully and considered the tiny space within. Pocketing the picks, he drew out a piece of polished metal wrapped in a square of finely woven cloth. Reaching through the chute, he used this to examine Tullin’s trap.

He almost laughed aloud at what he saw. A rake was suspended over the door. The end of the handle was tied with string to a hook above the door frame. The iron spikes were balanced on a rafter, probably hooked into place over a nail. A piece of string stretched from the spikes to the door handle.

Too easy, Cery mused. He checked for other traps but found none. Sliding his arm out of the chute, he returned to the door and brought out his oiling tools again. A quick inspection of the lock revealed that it had been broken, probably by the thugs when they first entered the shop.

Taking a tiny box out of his coat, he opened it and selected a thin blade. From another pocket he took a hinged tool, part of the inheritance he had gained from his father. Clamping this tool to the blade, he slipped it through the keyhole and probed for the door handle. Finding it, he worked his way along the neck of it until he felt the slight resistance of the string. He pressed on it firmly.

Moving back to the chute, he saw with the mirror that the string now hung harmlessly down from the rafters. Satisfied, he packed his tools away, wrapped some cloth around his boots, and drew in a deep breath to steady himself.

Cery opened the door silently. Slipping inside, he regarded the sleeping men.

His father had alway said that the best way to sneak up on someone was to not try to sneak up on them. He considered the thugs. Both were asleep, the drunk one snoring softly. Walking across the room, Cery examined the front door. A key protruded from the lock. Turning back, he considered the two men again.

Tullin’s knife glinted in the darkness. Pulling out Faren’s message, Cery moved to the thug’s side. He picked up the knife, and carefully pinned the paper to the table with it.

That should do it. Smiling grimly, he moved back to the door and grasped the key. As he turned it, the lock clicked. Tullin’s eyelids fluttered, but his eyes did not open. Cery opened the door and stepped outside, then slammed the door closed.

A shout came from inside. Darting to the shadowed doorway of the next shop, Cery turned back to watch. After a moment the door of the thugs’ shop opened and Tullin stared out into the night, his face pale in the muted moonlight. From within the house came a protesting voice, then an exclamation of horror. Tullin scowled and ducked back into the shop.

Smiling, Cery slipped away into the night.

Sonea cursed Faren under her breath.

A short stick lay on the hearth before her. After experimenting with various objects, she had settled on wood as the safest material to work with when experimenting with magic. It wasn’t cheap—timber was cut in the northern mountains and floated down the Tarali River—but despite this, it was expendable and there was plenty of it in the room.

She regarded the stick dubiously, then looked around the room to remind herself that the frustration was worth it. Polished tables and cushioned chairs surrounded her. In the adjoining rooms were soft beds, plenty of food stores and a generous supply of liquor. Faren was treating her like an honored guest of one of the great Houses.

But she felt like a prisoner. The hideout had no windows, as it was entirely underground. It could only be reached by the Road, and was guarded day and night. Only Faren’s most trusted people, his “kin,” knew of it.

Sighing, she let her shoulders slump. Safe from both magicians and enterprising dwells, she now struggled to evade boredom. After six days of looking at the same walls, even the room’s luxuries no longer distracted her, and, though Faren stopped by from time to time, she had little to do but experiment with magic.

Perhaps that was Faren’s intention. Looking down at the stick, she felt another stab of frustration. Though she had called on her powers several times a day since coming to the hideout, they never worked in the way she intended. When she wanted to burn something, it moved. When she told it to move, it exploded. When she willed it to break, it burned. When she admitted this to Faren, he just smiled and told her to keep practicing.

With a grimace, Sonea turned her attention back to the stick again. Taking a deep breath, she stared intently at the piece of wood. Narrowing her eyes, she willed it to roll across the stones of the hearth.

Nothing happened.

Patience, she told herself. It often took several attempts before magic worked. Drawing all her will together into an imagined force, she commanded the stick to move.

It remained perfectly still.

She sighed and sat back on her heels. Every time the magic had worked she had been angry, whether from frustration or hate for the Guild. While she could draw those emotions up by thinking about something which angered her, doing so was exhausting and depressing.

But the magicians did this all the time, she reminded herself. Did they keep a store of anger and hate inside to draw upon? She shuddered. What kind of people were they?

Staring at the piece of wood, she realized that she was going to have to do just that. She would have to hoard her anger and gather her hate, storing them up for the times she needed to use magic. If she didn’t, she would fail and Faren would abandon her to the Guild.

Wrapping her arms around herself, she felt a smothering desperation rush over her. I’m trapped, she thought. I have two choices: either I become one of them, or I let them kill me.

A soft snapping sound reached her ears, a noise like a length of material being thrown into the air and quickly jerked back again. She jumped and turned around.

Bright orange flames curled across the surface of a small table between two of the chairs. She leapt up and away, her heart racing.

Did I do that? she thought. But I wasn’t angry.

The fire began to crackle as the flames multiplied. Sonea edged closer, unsure what to do. What would Faren say when he discovered his hideout had been burned? Sonea snorted. He’d be irritated, and a little disappointed that his pet magician had died.

Smoke was pouring upward and curling along the roof. Creeping forward on hands and knees, Sonea grabbed a leg of the table and dragged it forward. The fire flared with the movement. Flinching at the heat, Sonea lifted the table and threw it into the fireplace. It settled against the grate and continued to burn.

Sonea sighed and watched the fire consume the table. She had discovered something new, at least. Tables don’t burst into flames on their own. It seemed desperation was an emotion that would rouse magic as well.

Anger, hate and desperation , she mused. What fun it is to be a magician.

“Did you sense that?” Rothen asked, his voice tense with excitement.

Dannyl nodded. “Yes. It’s not what I was expecting. I always thought that sensing magic was like feeling someone singing. This felt more like a cough.”

“A cough of magic.” Rothen chuckled. “That’s an interesting way of describing it.”

“If you don’t know how to sing or speak, would you make rough noises instead? Perhaps this is what magic sounds like when it is uncontrolled.” Dannyl blinked, then stepped away from the window and rubbed his eyes. “It’s late, and I’m getting far too abstract for comfort. We should get some sleep.”

Rothen nodded, but didn’t move from the window. He gazed out at the last few lights glinting in the city.