Magic Steps

I'm ready to die," he whispered. “I'll be readier still in an hour."

"Too bad," Alzena told him.

"I need dragonsalt."

"Shut up," Nurhar growled, opening the door.

"Help us kill the rest of our prey, and you'll have more dragon salt than you know what to do with," Alzena hissed in the mage's ear as she followed him and her husband out of the room.

"Sure I will," the mage whispered. He stared blankly at the filthy ceiling as they descended the stairs.

The duke stared at the card the footman had brought. His nostrils flared with distaste. "He will not set a proper time?"

"Your grace, he said it was important."

"His brothers murder, doubtless. Show him in." As the footman left them, the duke told Sandry and Baron Erdogun, "It is Qasam Rokat—Jamar Rokat's brother. No doubt he feels not enough is being done." Sandry and the baron rose, but Vedris shook his head. "Please stay. This is a complex affair—perhaps you will see what I do not. I should leave this to the provost and her people, but it is my sense that the more heads are put to this thing, the better, Is there any way to reach Niko?" he asked Sandry.

The girl shook her head. Tris's teacher, Niklaren Goldeye, was not just the greatest living truthsayer, able to spot a lie at a glance; he was one of the few who could work the magic that made it possible to see the past, even if only for a short time. "They're halfway between here and the Cape of Grief," she said, naming the southernmost tip of land below the Pebbled Sea. "That's much too far away. I won't even be able to talk to Tris until they return to Hatar."

"And that will be?" inquired Erdogun.

"Not till next year." She sighed.

The duke smiled. "You miss her, don't you?"

"I miss them all," Sandry admitted. "It's like part of me left with them. At least I can still mind-speak to Daja and Briar, if I really strain."

The duke reached over to pat her hand. "Well, I am delighted you stayed at Winding Circle."

The door opened. Sandry had been present at such meetings before and kept her workbox here for them. Quickly she lifted her embroidery hoop from the box and began to stitch on its design. She was the very picture of a noble maiden.

"Qasam Rokat, of Rokat House, merchants," the footman a

First he bowed to the duke, touching his forehead, then his chest, with both hands as the people of Aliput greeted their royalty. When he straightened, he bowed less formally to Baron Erdogun.

When he noticed Sandry, he frowned. "Your grace, what I have to say is not for a lady's ears."

"Lady Sandrilene has my confidence," replied the duke coldly. "I value her advice. Moreover, she is an accomplished mage with a broad education. You may speak before her and the baron as you would privately to me."

"But your grace," argued the man, bowing once more to Sandry, "it regards matters of considerable violence and bloodshed. Surely you do not wish so lovely a young lady—,"

"Either talk or go away," snapped the baron. "It is not for you to question his grace."

The duke raised a hand. "Peace Erdo." To Qasam Rokat he said, "My caretakers are zealous. Speak before them or not at all."

Sandry felt the merchant's eyes on her. She kept hers down, picking out a design of blue lotuses, their petals and stems shaping the signs for health. It was complex work; most embroiderers would be able to attend to nothing else while they stitched.

"Your grace, I appreciate your seeing me at such a time," Qasam said at last. "My deepest felicitations on your recovery so prayed for—,"

Again the duke raised his hand. "Spare me your felicitations and prayers. If you have concerns about your brother's murder, why have you not addressed them to my lady provost? The investigation is her affair, not mine."

"But your grace understands the way of the world," Qasam replied. "A servant always works better when the masters eye is upon him. I wished to assure myself that your grace's eye is indeed upon my lady provost and her guards. It is known that your grace is not a—a supporter of Rokat House."

The duke braced his elbows on his chair and folded his hands. "Let us speak frankly," he said in an icy voice. Hairs stirred on the back of Sandry's neck. Suddenly he looked—he felt—dangerous. "I permitted your house to do business here under certain conditions. The thievery and, murder you employ were never to occur in Emelan, or you would be barred from my lands, and I would, find other ways to obtain myrrh. Is that not so?"

Qasam, bowed. He was trembling now as well as sweating.

"From where I sit, it appears that your methods outside my borders have come within them. What act did the Rokats commit to rate your brother so messy an execution? And if you think to retaliate, you and your people are on the next ship out."

"No, your grace, please! We did nothing to cause this, nothing!"

"I find that hard to believe," drawled Erdogun.

Qasam threw him a frantic look, then dropped to his knees before the duke. "Please, you must help us! We have done nothing in Emelan, on my mother's honor I swear it! The Dihanur are animals, my poor brother is evidence of that—,"

"Now we come to it. Get up," the duke said crossly. "Don't grovel." He glanced at the baron, who tugged the bell pull.

Sandry put aside her embroidery and got a chair for Rokat. The man struggled to his feet and sagged into the chair, weeping. She watched him for a moment, then lifted his handkerchief from his fingers.

"As a rule, silk isn't practical for handkerchiefs," she told him. "It's expensive and it looks nice, but it doesn't soak up moisture very well." She gave hers to him, and laid the silk over the back of his chair to dry. Qasam rolled his eyes at her—they were bloodshot from weeping and fear—and buried his face in the new handkerchief.

A soft-footed maid brought glasses, a bottle of wine, and a bottle of pomegranate juice, Sandry poured wine for the men and gave out the glasses, then took some juice for herself. Mages soon learned that any drug or liquor had unusual effects on their power, some good, many bad. She didn't think Qasam Rokat would like it if all the threads in the room began to move.

His sips of wine seemed to quiet the merchant. "Thank you, your grace," he whispered.

"I do not require thanks. You suspect your rivals the Dihanur are involved?"

Qasam nodded. "I know it."

"Have you favored my lady provost with this information?»

Qasam shook his head.

"Why not?" asked, the duke.

Qasam did not look up. "My lady—she, she is not a woman of power, in the merchant's world, or, or under standing, or sympathy.”

"His grace knew that when he asked her to take the post," said Erdogun waspishly.

Sandry, back, at her embroidery, was fascinated. She had, to suppose that the baron and, the duke had done this many times, She knew her great-uncle; if the baron made tart observations in situations like this it was be cause the: duke wanted him to.

They stir the pot, and see what bubbles to the top, she thought.

"The provost thinks it is not a business matter, when murder is done with such violence," Qasam explained, staring at the glass in his hands. "She expects a slighted husband or lover, or a madman." He began to tremble again. "She does not understand the Dihanur. They are heartless, little better than animals—,"