“Feel what?” The cat’s thoughts were drowsy.
“Never mind.” Aurian tried to organize her shaky thoughts, but for some reason, the only thing that would come into her mind was the image of Forral’s face, tender and glowing as it had been on the day they had first made love. Grief and loneliness pierced her—a pain so acute that she gave a stifled cry. Confused and wretched, Aurian gave in to her tears for once, and cried herself to sleep.
Sometime during the long, bright day, Anvar tossed and moaned, in the grip of some nightmare. Then his seeking hand found that of the Mage, and in her sleep she clasped it tightly, and his restlessness stilled. And that was how Harihn found them at nightfall, lying close together, hand in hand. He looked at them for a long moment, frowning, until Shia opened a sleepy eye. The Prince ducked swiftly and silently away, dropping the flap of the tent behind him. Since the man had gone without any attempt at harming them, Shia forbore to mention his visit to Aurian.
29
Sewer Rats
The old bakery had changed so much that Anvar, had he been there, would scarcely have recognized his childhood home. After Ria’s death, Tori had lost heart. His thriving business in the Arcade had been destroyed with the fire that killed his wife, and he had been forced to fall back on his older, smaller premises in the poverty of the laborers’ district. But without Ria to clean up, and without Anvar’s labor, things had gone steadily from bad to worse. Despite Bern’s efforts to save the business that he would inherit, the bakery was in a shabby state, its plaster crumbling and its roof sorely in need of repair. The inside was cobwebbed and filthy, and badly in need of a new coat of whitewash.
No wonder we’ve lost our customers, Bern thought disgustedly, as he took tomorrow’s loaves out of the oven. Tori, now a sullen, bitter man, no longer bothered to get up early to bake a fresh batch each day. In truth, it was scarcely worthwhile. Bern frowned at the pile of stale loaves that lay on the table beneath the window. Everyone in the district knew the conditions under which Tori’s once famous bread was now made —and no one would touch it.
Just then the object of Bern’s gloomy thoughts came into the bakery. The flames of the oven flared in the strong draft from the doorway, and a swirling cloud of snow followed Tori indoors, the flakes lit like sparks in the glow of his lantern. The new Council, in the pay of the Magefolk, had decreed that no more money should be wasted on lamplighters. Crime flourished in the darkened streets, and people were now forced to carry their own illumination.
“Rough night,” Tori grunted. “Bloody winter!”
“Wipe your feet, Dad!” Bern knew before the words were out of his mouth that it was hopeless.
Tori shrugged, as he always did, and began to load the stale loaves into a sack that he had brought from the empty stable. “I’m off to the tavern,” he muttered. “Harkas wants these for his pigs.”
“Dad, not again!” Bern protested. “We can’t go on like this! If you brought home the money you get from Harkas, instead of drinking it, maybe we could afford to fix this place up so our bread would be fit for people to eat! Besides, he can’t be paying you much. It’s a long time since I’ve seen you come home tipsy, let alone drunk!”
“You mind your own business, Bern!”
“Mind my own business? This business is all I—we—have, and you’re letting it go to wrack and ruin!”
Tori scowled. “What if I am? What’s the point in working, while those cursed Magefolk bleed the city dry! Tithes here, taxes there ... I’d sooner burn this place down than put another penny into Magefolk coffers!”
Bern, thoroughly alarmed, strove to be conciliatory. “Look, Dad, why don’t I come with you tonight? I could use a beer myself, and maybe together we could wheedle more money out of Harkas for the bread. What do you say?”
“No!” The violence of his father’s reply took Bern by surprise. Tori’s glance slid slyly away from that of his son. “Not tonight, Bern, eh?” he gabbled. “It’s filthy weather out there, and you’ve worked hard today. Don’t drag yourself through the mud and snow just to keep me company. You have a nice rest. Come another night instead.” He was out of the door and away before his son could blink.
“What the blazes is he up to?” Bern muttered. Pausing only to bank the oven, he whisked his tattered cloak round his shoulders, lit a lantern, and left the bakery, following the prints of his father’s footsteps on the snowy ^ground.
Tori was freezing. Carrying the sack in one hand and the lantern in the other, he was unable to pull his cloak about him, and it was flapping wildly in the icy wind. In trying to rescue it he dropped the sack, and loaves fell out to roll across the ground, so that he had to stop and pick them up. “Bloody Vannor,” he cursed. “Don’t know why I do it, now he’s run out of gold.” In truth, of course, he knew perfectly well. He was aiding Vannor’s rebels out of pure hatred—to get back at the accursed Magefolk who had destroyed his family, ruined his business, and wrecked his life. With that in mind, a few stale loaves and a certain amount of risk seemed a small price to pay.
Vannor had set up his headquarters within the city’s intricate sewer system, miseries of tunnels built above the level of the major drains to take the runoff from heavy rains or snowmelt. Cleaner than the actual sewers, they would remain fairly dry and habitable until the thaw. The Magefolk had few supporters in th-s northern part of the city, so food and other necessities were smuggled down to the rebels by allies who lived above. The storm drain beneath Tori’s home was an ideal base. With his bitter hatred of the Magefolk, he could be trusted. In addition, the bakery oven was usually alight; a little of its warmth filtered down through the earth to improve conditions in the freezing drain. Karlek, formerly a siege engineer in the Garrison, had broken a chimney through into the flue of the oven, so that they could have a fire without its smoke being seen above, and of course the baker provided them with a regular supply of bread. Really, thought Tori, Vannor and his men were doing pretty well out of him.
It wasn’t far to go. Tori rounded the corner of the bakery and branched off into the narrow alley that ran behind the high-walled stable yard. He paused for a brief glance all around, but no one ever came into this dead end. Putting down the sack, he bent with a grunt to lift a grating that was set into the cobbles. Taking bread and lantern with him, the baker lowered himself into the drain, reaching up to pull the cover down behind him. He was unaware that he was being watched.
Bern could hardly believe it when his father vanished into the drain. He moved quickly from his hiding place in the shadows and sped across to the grating—just in time to hear Tori’s whisper echoing out of the-btackness beneath it, “It’s me, Tori, Look, I need to talk with Vannor. I think my son is getting suspicious.”
Bern stiffened. Vannor? Vannor had been declared an outlaw! There were rumors all over the city that he was gathering an army against the Magefolk. It took seconds for Bern to reach the obvious conclusion—and the solution to his problems. Tori would die for treason and be out of the way for good—and there’d be a reward, of course! He could build up the business again . . . Bern scrambled to his feet, and ran. Should he go to the Academy? No, the Garrison was closer. They could surprise the rebels and catch Tori in the act. He’d make sure of the reward first, though. The new Commander was a vile-tempered mercenary hired by the Magefolk, the sort who’d sell his grandmother for a profit. Still, if he and his troops secured Bern’s inheritance, who cared? Heedless of the snow, Bern ran faster.