Then he sighed. He really ought to see the merchant and get it over with, but he wasn’t in a generous mood, and this man usually visited to beg for more time to pay back his debts. Cery wasn’t yet sure whether or not the man was testing the newest, youngest Thief to see how far he could be pushed. A slowly repaid debt was better than one not paid at all, but a Thief with a reputation for endless patience was a Thief without respect.
Sometimes he needed to show he was willing to use a firm hand.
Cery looked at the yerim, their points embedded deep in the grain of the door. He had to admit it. The merchant wasn’t the real reason for his brooding.
“She got away,” Morren had reported. “He let her.”
Pressed for details, Morren had described a fierce battle. Clearly, this woman had been stronger than Akkarin expected. He had been unable to contain her magic. It had wrecked the room in the bolhouse she had been staying in.
Several other patrons had witnessed more than they should have—though Cery had ensured that most were well and truly inebriated beforehand by sending a few men into the bol servery with considerable “winnings” from the races to share. Those who had not been drunk, or had been outside the bolhouse, had been paid to stay quiet—though that rarely stopped gossip for long. Not when it involved a woman floating to the ground from a third-story window.
It’s not a disaster, Cery told himself for the hundredth time. We’ll find her again. Akkarin will make sure he is better prepared. He walked back to his desk and sat down, then opened the drawer and dropped the yerim into it.
As he expected, a tentative knock on the door followed after a few minutes of silence.
“Come in, Gol,” Cery called. He looked down and straightened his clothes as the door opened and the big man stepped inside. “Better send Hem in.” He looked up. “Get it done... what’s got you?”
Gol was wearing a wide grin. “Savara’s here.”
Cery felt his pulse quicken. How much did she know? How much should he tell her? He straightened his shoulders.
“Send her in.”
Gol retreated. When the door opened next, Savara stepped into the room. She strode over to the desk, looking smug.
“I hear your High Lord met his match last night.”
“How’d you get that?” Cery asked.
She shrugged. “People tend to tell me things, if I ask nicely.” Though her tone was flippant, there was a crease between her eyebrows.
“I don’t doubt it,” Cery replied. “What else did you get?”
“She escaped. Which would not have happened if you had let me take care of her.”
He couldn’t help smiling. “Like you’d have done better.”
Her eyes flashed. “Oh, I would have.”
“How?”
“I have my ways.” She crossed her arms. “I would like to kill this woman, but now Akkarin knows about her, I cannot. I wish you had not told him.” She gave him a very direct look. “When are you going to trust me?”
“Trust you?” He chuckled. “Not ever. Let you kill one of these murderers?” He pursed his lips, as if considering. “Next time.”
She stared at him intently. “Do I have your word on that?”
He held her gaze and nodded. “Yes, you have my word. Find this woman, and give me no reason to change my mind, and you kill the next slave.”
Savara frowned, but did not protest. “You have a deal. When he does kill this woman, I will be there whether you approve or not. I wish to see her death, at least.”
“What’d she do to you?”
“I helped that woman a long time ago, and she made me regret it.” She regarded him soberly. “You think you are tough and ruthless, Thief. If you are cruel, it is to maintain order and respect. Murder and cruelty are a game for Ichani.”
Cery frowned. “What did she do?”
Savara hesitated, then shook her head. “I can tell you no more.”
“But there is more, isn’t there?” Cery sighed. “And you ask me to trust you?”
She smiled. “As much as you want me to trust you. You don’t tell me the details of your deal with the High Lord yet you expect me to trust that you are keeping my existence a secret.”
“So you must trust me if I say whether you do or don’t kill one of the murderers—or murderesses.” Cery allowed himself a smile. “But, if you’re set on watching this fight, then I’ll also be there. I hate that I always miss the show.”
She smiled and nodded. “That is fair.” She paused, then took a step backward. “I should start looking for the woman.”
“I guess you should.”
Turning away, she walked across the room to the door. After she had gone he felt a vague disappointment, and he began considering ways he could have kept her around a little longer. The door opened again, but it was Gol.
“Ready to see Hem now?”
Cery grimaced. “Send him in.”
He pulled the drawer open, picked up one of the yerim and a sharpening stone. As the merchant minced into the room, Cery began honing the point of the scribing tool.
“So, Hem, tell me why I shouldn’t see how many holes I need to make before you start leaking money?”
From the University roof it was just possible to see the stump of the old, half-dismantled Lookout. Somewhere behind the trees, new stone was being taken by gorin-drawn carts up the long winding road to the summit.
“Construction may have to wait until after the summer break,” Lord Sarrin said.
“Delay construction?” Lorlen turned to the magician at his side. “I was hoping this project wouldn’t drag out any longer than three months. I’m already tired of the complaints about delayed projects and lack of free time.”
“I’m sure many would agree with you,” Lord Sarrin replied. “Nevertheless, we can’t tell everyone involved that they won’t be visiting their families this year. The trouble with magically strengthened buildings is that they’re not structurally sound until the stone has been fused, and we don’t do that until everything is in place. In the meantime, we hold everything together consciously. Delays are not appreciated.”
Unlike Lord Peakin, Lord Sarrin had offered little input during the debate over the new Lookout. Lorlen wasn’t sure if this was because the old Head of Alchemists didn’t have a strong opinion on the matter, or if he had seen which side would win and kept prudently silent. Perhaps this was a good time to ask.
“What do you really think about this project, Sarrin?”
The old magician shrugged. “I agree that the Guild should do something grand and challenging now and then, but I wonder if, perhaps, we should be doing something other than constructing yet another building.”
“I hear Peakin wanted to use one of Lord Coren’s unused designs.”
“Lord Coren!” Sarrin rolled his eyes. “How tired I am of hearing that name! I like some of what the architect designed in his day, but we have magicians alive today who are just as capable of designing attractive and functional buildings as he was.”
“Yes,” Lorlen agreed. “I hear Balkan nearly had a fit when he saw Coren’s plans.”
“He called them ‘a nightmare of frivolity.’ ”
Lorlen sighed. “I don’t think it will just be the summer break that will delay this project.”
Sarrin pursed his lips. “A little external pressure might speed it along. Is the King in a hurry?”
“Is the King ever not in a hurry?”
Sarrin chuckled.
“I’ll ask Akkarin to inquire for us,” Lorlen said. “I’m sure—”
“Administrator?” a voice called.
Lorlen turned. Osen was hurrying across the roof toward him.
“Yes?”
“Captain Barran of the Guard is here to see you.”
Lorlen turned to Sarrin. “I had best see to this.”
“Of course.” Sarrin nodded in farewell. As Lorlen started toward Osen, the young magician stopped and waited for him.
“Did the Captain say why he has come?” Lorlen asked.