Trudi Canavan - The Magicians' Guild

“Why?” As he spoke, he knew he had failed one test already.

“Because I need him killed,” Faren replied.

“W-why do you want him killed?”

“Do you need me to justify it?”

Cery gathered his courage. Let’s see how far I can push this.

“Yes.”

Faren made a small noise of amusement. “Very well. The man you traded with is named Verran. He was employed by another Thief from time to time, but sometimes used what he learned from his work to gain a bit of money on the side. The Thief tolerated it until a few nights ago, when Verran chose to visit a particular house uninvited. The house belonged to a rich merchant who had an arrangement with the Thief. When Verran entered the house, it was occupied by the merchant’s daughter and a few servants.” Faren paused, and Cery heard a hiss of anger. “The Thief has given me the right to punish Verran. Even had she lived, he would be a dead man.”

The yellow eyes turned to regard Cery. “Of course, you would have to wonder if I’m making this up. You have to make up your mind whether you trust me.”

Cery nodded, then looked across at the brothel. Whenever he needed to make a decision without being certain of the truth, he turned to his instincts. What did they tell him now?

He thought of the cold, wild look in the man’s gaze, and the fear in the plump girl’s eyes. Yes, that man was capable of evil deeds. Then he thought of the other whores; the tension in the air; the lack of customers. The only two men in the establishment had been talking to the owner. Were they Verran’s friends? Something else was going on there.

And Faren? Cery considered everything that he had learned of the man. He suspected that the Thief could be merciless if driven to it but in all else, Faren had been fair and honest. And there had been anger in his voice when he had spoken of Verran’s crime.

“I’ve never killed anyone before,” Cery admitted.

“I know.”

“Don’t know if I can.”

“You would if someone threatened Sonea. Am I right?”

“Yes, but this is different.”

“Is it?”

Cery narrowed his eyes at the Thief.

Faren sighed. “No, I do not mean that. It is not how I work. I am testing you. You must know that. You don’t have to kill that man. It matters more that you learn to trust me and that I know your limits.”

Cery’s heart skipped a beat. He had expected tests. But Faren had given him so many different tasks that Cery had begun to wonder what the Thief was looking for. Did he have something in mind for him? Something different?

Perhaps this was a test Cery would face again, when he was older. If he was unable or reluctant to kill, he might endanger himself or others when the need was urgent. And if that other was Sonea ...

Suddenly all hesitation and indecision were gone.

Faren looked across the street at the brothel and sighed. “I really do want that man killed. I’d do it myself, except ... Never mind. We’ll find him again.” He turned and took a few steps farther down the alley, then stopped as he realized that Cery hadn’t followed.

“Cery?”

Reaching into his coat, Cery drew out his daggers. Faren’s eyes flicked to the blades as they caught the faint light from the brothel windows. He took a step back.

Cery smiled. “I’ll be right back.”

After half an hour the stink of bol became almost pleasant. The aroma had a cozy warmth to it that promised comfort. Dannyl eyed the mug before him.

Remembering stories of unhygienic brewhouses and casks of bol with drowned ravi floating in them, he hadn’t been able to persuade himself to try the syrupy brew. This evening, however, he had been bothered by darker suspicions. If the dwells had worked out what he was, what was to stop them from poisoning his drink?

His fears were probably unfounded. He had exchanged his robes for merchant garb again, taking care to look a little shabby. The other customers had given him one appraising glance, mostly directed at the wallet at his hip, then ignored him.

Despite this, Dannyl could not shake the feeling that every man and woman in the crowded room knew who and what he was. They were a sullen lot, bored and listless. Seeking shelter from the storm outside, they lurked in every corner of the room. Sometimes he heard them cursing the weather, other times they cursed the Guild. This had amused him at first. It seemed that the dwells felt it safer to blame the Guild than the King for their troubles.

One dwell, a man with a scarred face, kept staring at him. Dannyl straightened and stretched his shoulders, then looked around the room. As he steeled himself to meet the starer’s gaze, the man became more interested in the fit of his gloves. Dannyl noted the man’s gold-brown skin coloring and broad face before turning back to his drink.

He had seen men and women of all races in the bolhouses he had visited. The short Elynes were most common, their homeland being Kyralia’s closest neighbor. The brown-skinned Vindo were more numerous in the slums than in the rest of the city, as many of them travelled abroad looking for work. The athletic, tribal Lan and the dignified Lonmar were rarer.

This was the first Sachakan he had seen in years. Though Sachaka was a neighbor to Kyralia, a high mountain range and the desert wasteland beyond it discouraged travel between the two lands. Those few merchants who did try the route had reported stories of barbaric people fighting to survive in the wasteland, and a corrupt city with little to offer in trade.

It had not always been so. Many centuries before, Sachaka had been a great empire ruled by sophisticated magicians. A war lost against Kyralia and the newly formed Guild had changed that.

A hand touched Dannyl’s shoulder. Turning, he found a swarthy man standing behind him. The man shook his head, then moved away.

Sighing, Dannyl rose and sidestepped through the crowd to the door. Once outside, he trudged through the puddles that filled most of the alleyway. Three weeks had passed since the Guild had tracked the girl to the underground hideout and Lord Jolen had been tracked by the Lonmar. Since then, Gorin had declined Dannyl’s request for an audience four times.

Administrator Lorlen was reluctant to accept that the Thieves were protecting the girl. Dannyl understood why. Nothing upset a King more than the presence of a rogue magician in his realm. The Thieves were tolerated. They kept the criminal underground in check, and they never presented a greater threat than the loss of taxes to smuggling. Even if the King managed to find and remove them, he knew others would take their place.

But the King would be willing to raze the slums to the ground—and lower—if he knew beyond a doubt that there was a rogue magician in the city.

Dannyl wondered if the Thieves realized this. He had not spoken of the possibility during his talks with Gorin, not wanting to appear unreasonable or threatening. Instead, he had warned the Thief of the danger the girl presented.

Reaching the end of the alley, he hurried across a wider street into the narrow space between two buildings. From there, the slums wove into a maze. The wind shivered down each narrow alley, whimpering like a hungry child. Occasionally it died away completely, and in one of these pauses Dannyl heard the sound of footsteps behind him. He turned around.

The alley was empty. Shrugging, he continued on.

Though he tried to ignore it, his imagination would not let go of the idea that he was being followed. In the pause between his own steps he would hear the crunch of another footfall or, looking back, he sometimes caught the flicker of movement around a corner. As the conviction became stronger, Dannyl grew exasperated with himself. Turning a corner, he quickly manipulated the lock of a door and slipped into a building.