Тамора Пирс - Magic Steps

She sat up, all her senses alert. None of the sentry mages had warned her, but the chance that they would detect the killers approach had always been small.

Come on, she thought, not daring to twitch, hoping it was them and not a mouse. You feel the net calling you. If it does what I think, you'll believe what you want most is right in here…

Dark-smeared air rolled into the dining room from the kitchen and passed over her spell-net. From its position on the floor the net began to ripple and rise, shaping itself around solid forms.

She heard feet scuffle, then a grunt. Wood creaked; cloth rustled. A chunk of shadow separated from the main body of it and fell hard, as a body falls, beside the pouch of dragonsalt at the heart of the net. There was a snarl from the larger darkness. The pouch rose in the air, opened, turned over to spill out a mound of the drug, then straightened. The mound disappeared, as if some one unseen had popped it into his mouth.

"Alzena, I'm caught!" whispered a man's voice. "I can't pull free!"

"Curse you for a useless piece of mule dung mage,” a hoarse female voice said, "Take the spells off now"

Sandry felt a touch of panic before she remembered that she was hidden from view. The woman was talking to someone else.

"I don't want to," a high, trembling voice said from the unmagic near the dragonsalt pouch. "I like the spells. I like it here.”

The shadow patterns of the spell-net rippled while the unseen people talked. Its cords draped and twined around the larger mass, then sent out a number of tendrils. Each turned into a small fan at the tip. Not fans, she realized as dark hair on two heads slowly appeared at the top of the tallest shadow. My net isn't spreading out; it's sucking the unmagic in.

She was beginning to see one forehead when the female voice said, "Take the unmagic off us or I'll cut you up, you ungrateful ratbirth."

"Suit yourself," replied the high voice, now a little slurred.

Four people appeared at the heart of the net. One, hidden by two standing adults, was struggling wildly. Of the two who kept still, one was a man, brown-haired, brown-eyed, dressed in the plain breeches, shirt, and boots worn by many commoners. Sandry recognized him vaguely from the fight in Jamar Rokat's countinghouse.

On his back was a frame like those that woodcutters used to carry their wares. Empty straps dangled from it. He bent over a smaller person on the floor—their mage, thought Sandry uneasily—grabbed him by the arm, and pulled him upright.

Looking at the mage, Sandry realized why she had thought he was sunk into a pool of unmagic that day at Rokat House. He had no legs. His coarse breeches were folded and pinned around stumps that ended at mid-thigh. He clutched the dragonsalt pouch tightly with both hands. He was dark-haired and sallow, terribly thin.

He's Pasco's age, thought Sandry in horror. She hadn't realized that at their first meeting.

"Show yourself." growled the other standing adult. "I know there are mages here." It was a woman, big-hipped, black-haired, dressed in the same anonymous clothing as the man. Her back was to Sandry. Now she turned, revealing the fourth member of the group. "Too bad your kitchen sentry couldn't keep his hands off the cake."

She held Pasco easily. She had wrapped an arm around his neck, the crook of her elbow under his chin. Now she yanked, pulling the back of Pasco's head, against her shoulder. Her free hand held, a dagger to the boy's unprotected throat. There was a wild look in her black eyes; her grin bared all of her yellowing teeth… She looked like a furious mule.

'"'Oh, Pasco," whispered Sandry. She picked up the spindle that she'd been keeping on her lap and stood, shedding the magical veil that had made her corner of the room seem empty.

"You?" the man asked scornfully. "You're barely more than a child yourself! What have you to do with this?"

He and the woman struggled to yank free of the net's clinging strands, without success. It held them in place as firmly as if they were glued there.

Sandry knew better than to tell them Pasco was her student. That would simply give them more power over her than they already had. "Did these people cut off your legs?" she asked the boy on the floor, keeping her voice gentle.

He looked up at her, and Sandry took a step back. There were not whites to his eyes, no pupils or irises—just nothingness. Unmagic riddled his entire body. Very few spots left were untainted. He was draining into the cords of her net.

"Pirates done my legs," he said lazily, his voice slurred with dragonsalt. "Alzena 'n Nurhar're my frien's. They give me this." He hoisted the drug pouch and frowned. "But they keep takin' it away. They want my magic like the pirates done.”

"I'll bet they do," whispered Sandry. She turned her eyes on the adults—Alzena and Nurhar, the boy mage had called them. "Surrender," she told them.

"I think not," Alzena said, drawing the knife-point down Pasco's neck. A thin line of blood followed it as Pasco whimpered. "I can make this killing last." She shifted her grip on Pasco to hold him more firmly still. "This net here is your doing? You let us go, and he'll live."

Sandry watched Alzena and Nurhar. Both were striped with unmagic. They had worn the spells too long without being cleansed, if they had even known cleansing was necessary. Before long the shadow would devour them as it had this boy.

If she let them go to save Pasco, who else might they kill before they stopped existing? Would they even keep their word not to kill him? They had to like what they did, surely, to do so much of it.

Her palms were damp. "I beg you, let him go. He's nothing to you."

"Sure enough," replied Alzena with that teeth-baring grin. "But he's something to you, isn't he? Free us." Again the dagger trailed down Pasco's throat, leaving a second cut to ooze blood. Pasco screamed and thrashed against her imprisoning arm. The cry was strangled; she had jerked against his chin, closing his mouth.

"We don't want the guards to hear our little talk. And they're about, aren't they?" Alzena wanted to know. "Not in earshot, or they'd hear us now, but upstairs, maybe? Downstairs? Free us. We'll loose the boy once we're out the gate, and run like lightning."

Coldness settled in Sandry's mind. Everything was very still and clear. Will you really? she thought, weighing their deeds against Alzena's words. Or will you just keep taking hostages until someone puts an arrow through you? How many will you slaughter before an archer gets a killing shot?

Pasco's eyes met hers, pleading. Blood trickled in two streams down his neck. He was her student. She should have known he would try to stay behind and watch.

"I have to take up the pegs at the corners," Sandry replied. She didn't have to pretend to be frightened, her fear was close enough to grasp and use. "Once that's done, I can roll up the net. Just—please, don't hurt Pasco. Please don't." If she pleaded, she knew, they would think her weak.

"Don't beg, wench," Alzena told her. "It just makes me angry. Get your pox-rotted pegs." The dagger flicked along the line of Pasco's jaw, opening a third cut.

That chilled Sandry to the bone. She went clockwise around the edges of the net, removing the pegs from their sockets with her free hand. The other hand, the one on the side turned away from the captives, held her spindle.

"This net's pretty," the boy mage remarked when she was at the south peg. "I never tried making things with unmagic. No one ever taught me."

"Little is known about your magic," Sandry replied, nearing the last—the north—peg.

There was a muffled squeal from Pasco. This time Alzena had cut straight across his chest, and not a thin scratch, "Don't talk!" she ordered. "Just free us!"