Trudi Canavan - The Magicians' Guild

Harrin pursed his lips, then nodded. “If anyone asks if you can do magic, Sonea, we’ll tell them you didn’t do anything—that the magicians must’ve lost their concentration or something, and the stone got through that way.”

Sonea stared at him, the possibility filling her with hope. “Maybe that’s what happened. Maybe I didn’t do anything.”

“If you can’t use magic again, you’ll know for sure.” Cery patted her on the shoulder. “If you can, we’ll make sure that no one finds out. In a few weeks, everyone will think the magicians just made a mistake. Give it a month or two and they’ll forget all about you.”

A rapping on the door made Sonea jump. Rising, Harrin opened the door and let Donia in. The girl carried in a tray laden with mugs and a large plate of bread.

“Here,” she said, placing the tray on a table. “A mug of bol each to celebrate the return of an old friend. Harrin, Father wants you to go out for him.”

“Better see what he wants.” Harrin picked up a mug and drained it. “I’ll see you around, Sonea,” he said. He caught Donia about the waist and pulled her, giggling, out of the room. Sonea shook her head as the door closed.

“How long has that been going on?”

“Those two?” Cery asked, his mouth full of bread. “Almost a year, I think. Harrin says he’s going to marry her and inherit the inn.”

Sonea laughed. “Does Gellin know?”

Cery smiled. “Hasn’t chased Harrin off yet.”

She picked up a piece of the dark bread. Made from curren grains, it was dusted with spices. As she bit into it, her stomach made it known that she had been neglecting it for over a day, and she found herself eating ravenously. The bol was sour, but welcome after the salty bread. When they had finished, Sonea dropped into the chair and sighed.

“With Harrin busy keeping an inn, what will you do, Cery?”

He shrugged. “This and that. Steal bol from Harrin. Teach his children to pick locks. At least we’ll be warm this winter. What’ve you got planned?”

“I don’t know. Jonna and Ranel said—Oh!” She leapt to her feet. “I didn’t meet them. They don’t know where I am!”

Cery waved a hand dismissively. “They’ll be around.”

She groped for her money pouch, and found it hanging full and heavy at her waist.

“Nice bit of savings you’ve got there,” Cery noted.

“Ranel said we should each carry a bit and head for the slums on our own. We’d be so unlucky to all be searched by the guards.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “I know how much went in there.”

He laughed. “So do I, and it’s all there. Come on, I’ll help you find them.”

Rising, he ushered her through the door and out into a short corridor. Sonea followed him down a narrow flight of stairs into a familiar drinking room. As always, the air was thick with bol fumes, laughter and a constant flow of chatter and amiable swearing. A large man slouched over the bench where the thick liquor was served.

“Morning Gellin,” Cery called.

He narrowed his eyes at Sonea short-sightedly, then grinned.

“Hai! This is little Sonea, eh?” Gellin strolled over and clapped her on the shoulders. “All grown up, too. I remember when you used to swipe bol from me, girl. A dainty little thief, you were.”

Sonea grinned and cast a glance at Cery. “And it was all my idea, too, wasn’t it, Cery?”

Cery spread his hands and blinked innocently. “What do you mean, Sonea?”

Gellin chuckled. “That’s what comes of hanging about with Thieves. How are your parents, then?”

“You mean Aunt Jonna and Uncle Ranel?”

He waved a hand. “That’s them.”

Sonea shrugged and quickly described her family’s eviction from the stayhouse. Gellin nodded sympathetically at their misfortune.

“They’re probably wondering where I got to,” she told him. “I—”

Sonea jumped as the door of the inn slammed. The room quietened and all looked toward the entrance. Harrin stood leaning against the frame, his chest heaving and his brow slick with sweat.

“Take care of my door,” Gellin yelled.

Harrin looked up. As he saw Sonea and Cery he paled and started forward. Hurrying across the room, he caught Sonea’s arm and pulled her through a door into the inn’s kitchen, with Cery following closely.

“What is it?” Cery whispered.

“The magicians are searching the slums,” Harrin panted.

Sonea stared at him with horror.

“They’re here ?” Cery exclaimed. “Why?”

Harrin gave Sonea a meaningful glance.

“They’re looking for me,” she breathed.

Harrin nodded grimly, then turned to Cery. “Where should we go?”

“How close are they?”

“Close. They started from the Outer Wall, working outward.”

Cery whistled. “ That close.”

Sonea pressed a hand to her chest. Her heart was beating too fast. She felt sick.

“We’ve only got a few minutes,” Harrin told them. “We have to get out of here. They’re searching every building.”

“Then we’ll have to put her somewhere they’ve already been.”

Sonea leaned against the wall, her knees losing all strength as a memory of a blackened corpse rose before her eyes.

“They’re going to kill me!” she gasped.

Cery looked at her. “No, Sonea,” he told her firmly.

“They killed that boy ...” she shuddered.

He gripped her shoulders. “We’re not going to let that happen, Sonea.”

His gaze was direct, and his expression uncharacteristically stern. She stared back, looking for doubt and not finding it.

“Do you trust me?” he asked.

She nodded. He gave her a quick smile.

“Come on, then.”

He pulled her away from the wall and propelled her through the kitchen, Harrin following close behind. Passing through another door, they stepped out into a muddy alley. Sonea shivered as the chill winter air quickly seeped into her clothes.

Stopping near the end of the alley, Cery told them to stay back while he checked so see if the way was clear. He paused only a moment at the entrance, then hurried back, shaking his head. With a wave, he sent them hurrying back down the alley again.

Midway, he stopped and lifted a small grille set into a wall. Harrin gave his friend a doubtful look, then flattened himself to the ground and slithered through. Sonea followed and found herself in a dark passageway. As Harrin helped her to her feet and pulled her to one side, Cery slid through the opening. The grille closed silently, suggesting a regular oiling of the hinges.

“Are you sure about this?” Harrin whispered.

“The Thieves will be too busy trying to stop the magicians from finding their stuff to worry about us,” Cery told him. “Besides, we won’t be down here long. Keep your hand on my shoulder, Sonea.”

She obeyed, taking hold of his coat. Harrin’s hand rested firmly on her shoulder. As they started down the passage she stared into the darkness ahead, heart racing.

From Harrin’s question, she knew they had entered the Thieves’ Road.

Using the underground network of tunnels without prior approval was forbidden, and she had heard frightening stories of the punishment the Thieves dealt out to those who trespassed.

For as long as she could remember, people had jokingly called Cery a friend of the Thieves. There had always been a hint of both fear and respect in their teasing. His father had been a smuggler, she knew, so it was possible that Cery had inherited privileges and contacts. She had seen no proof, however, and had always suspected he had encouraged speculation to keep his place of importance as Harrin’s second in the gang. For all she knew, he had no connection to the Thieves at all and she was hurrying to her death.