The Mendhite spoke up, grunting a little as she struggled into the leggings. “Stupid . . . too short . . . ah, there. Yes, I have a scroll with several such prayer-spells copied onto it, culled from the Great Library. It’s in the blue pack, there . . . and I wish I knew more tailoring spells,” she added under her breath. “I need a handspan more of cloth, or I’ll be forced to waddle the moment these things start to slip . . .”
“Sorry, they were made for Sir Niel, my deceased Guide,” Orana apologized, and held up her hand, palm out toward the woman beyond Alonnen’s field of view. “Basher louzaf cha-nell, k’ko . . . There, that should do it. I’ve had plenty of time to study Fortunai spellweaving techniques. Niel is tall for an Arbran, but not quite as tall as a Mendhite, I’m afraid.”
A soft sigh of happiness from Pelai made Alonnen curious, but he did not turn around. Instead, he waited until the tanned woman walked around him into his line of sight, looking pleased with her borrowed tights. They did clash a bit, but he knew she would be warmer.
“Welcome to Guildara, formerly Mekhana,” he told her. “And welcome to a rather wet and chilly winter.”
“I’ve seen Mekhana on the maps. You’re not that far north,” Pelai stated, folding her arms across her chest. Alonnen had the impression her arms were feeling cold despite the long sleeves of her shirt. “Why is it so cold?”
“We’re not as far north as some kingdoms, true,” Orana told the other woman. “This part of Mekhana is only a couple hundred miles from the northernmost point in Sundara. The land extends almost a thousand miles to the north before hitting the North Sea, where it can get quite cold in winter. However, we are high up in elevation, compared to Mendhi, and the higher one goes, the colder things get.”
“Apprentice Pelai,” Alonnen began, intending to return the subject to the reasons why both women were here.
“Doma Pelai,” she corrected him. At his blank look, the Mendhite explained. “I am a Disciplinarian; males are called Domo, females are called Doma. It means ‘controlled one’ and the suffix at the end indicates gender. My status as a Doma outranks any apprenticeship. Though I suppose, as we are all working together as near equals, you may simply call me Pelai when titles are not needed.”
“. . . Right. Thank you, Pelai, for the courtesy of informality,” Alonnen said. Regathering his thoughts, he returned to the subject at hand. “I’m afraid Master Rexei Longshanks is in Heiastowne at the moment, but if you like, I can call up the Consulate on the talker-box to see if Rexei is done with the morning’s training sessions.”
“Talker-box?” Pelai asked him.
Moving to the glazed doors, Alonnen murmured a command under his breath, waited until the image of the room beyond filled with a trio of people, then pushed the panel out of his way. “It’s an engineering device that transmits silent aether-signals to a similar machine within a day’s journey—Heiastowne lies well within its range. You listen with the cone on the cord held to your ear, and speak into the one on the metal armature, and the other person on the other end of the connection can do the same. I—”
“Master Tall! Thank goodness, you’re back,” Gabria called out to him. “We just saw something awful on one of the spying roaches. We think we saw Master Longshanks in the temple!”
Out of the corner of his eye, Alonnen saw Pelai giving Gabria an interested look. Beyond her, Orana merely lifted a brow, apparently not fazed by much despite not knowing what they were talking about, unlike Pelai. Hurrying forward, he reached the spare mirror and took the crystal tablet Gabria held out to him. She pointed over his shoulder, indicating which roach symbol was the one with the recording.
He had to pause and back up the image to find a good shot . . . but it was her. The sight of Rexei in her gray woolen coat, black scarf and cap, and the brown woolen trousers and darker leather boots from this morning was irrefutable. The curve of her cheek, a lock of thumb-length dark brown hair, the shape of her modest nose . . . and a dull look of horror in her eyes. Dull, that was, until he manipulated the controlling spells in the block of crystal, advancing the magic-captured images painting by painting, and saw her gaze dart around, then flick straight to the roach. She didn’t lift her head, but she did shift her eyes straight to it for two full seconds, before she left its field of view.
That was the roach he had moved to sit in a corner of the curved corridor ceiling on the uppermost of the three imprisonment rings. It was supposed to count the comings and goings of all the temple residents, since it had been relocated from the power room to the hallway and had been angled with a good view of the doorway to the one stairwell that led to the outside. A man Alonnen dimly but imperfectly recognized had his arm tucked around hers, and he seemed to be guiding but not dragging her somewhere.
Orana’s voice, normally smooth and calm, sharpened with anger. “What is that thing doing on her neck?”
“What thing?” Alonnen asked. He wasn’t sure how the Darkhanan Witch knew what Rexei’s gender was, until he realized that after two hundred years, he’d probably be very good at spotting such things, too. Orana’s outrage confused him, however. “The scarf?”
“The control collar!” She pointed at the image on the mirror.
He snapped his gaze back to the mirror, reversing the image until he could see for a brief moment the rune-chased metal band clamped around Rexei’s throat. Alonnen suspected he had blinked at just the wrong moment to have missed it before. “Dammit, they’re not allowed to . . . Wait, that’s right—they’re not allowed. It’s illegal, now!”
Shoving the tablet back into Gabria’s hands, Alonnen strode for the talker-box attached to his office wall. The other two mages, Jenden and Pioton, gave him worried looks. Like many of their kind, both men had had friends and relatives who had vanished into the hands of Mekha’s priesthood, never to be seen again until their body emerged in a black woolen bag, drained of all magic, all hope, and all life.
Not this time, Alonnen silently swore. Setting the resonance level to the one used by the militia, he cranked the handle rapidly and lifted the listening cone to his ear.
“You’ve reached the Heiastowne Militia Precinct,” a female voice stated calmly on the line. He recognized it: Marta Grenspun, best friend of his best assistant, Gabria. “What is your inquiry?”
“Get me the captain, or the leftenant—anyone in charge,” he ordered. He remembered now where he had seen two of those men accompanying Rexei, driving in the caravan of motorcarts yesterday. “Visiting priests from outside the Precinct have kidnapped Guild Master Longshanks with the intent to kill.”
“Gears and Gods! Leftenant!” he heard her hollering. “Leftenant Tallnose!” A clatter accompanied the fading of her voice into the background.
Grimacing, Alonnen turned to face the others. “Dammit. I need to be here to help with the Vortex spells . . . and I need to go help rescue her. The militia has hand-cannons, but they’re going up against well-trained priests, too many of them to get off more than a single volley before the mages start flinging spells—that’s assuming the militia has the advantage of surprise, but I’ll doubt it. Assuming they can get inside, since there’ll be wards . . . but I have to stay here and . . . Dammit!”