Ladirno drew in his breath: Mandani, he recalled, was the name Wellhyrn had mentioned, the wizard he had set on Duran—and the wizards he dealt with, this one—this man was not a comfortable drinking companion.
"I have interesting news," the wizard said, still not throwing back the hood of his cloak. "I believe Duran to be protected."
"What?" Wellhyrn's face stilled to a portrait in ice.
"I had an apprentice spell him in 'The Swimming Cat' tonight. Though I was still working on him, he didn't drop a thing."
Ladirno flashed a dismayed glance at Wellhyrn. "But he has no wizard—he couldn't possibly afford a wizard!"
"I don't know."
"We have to suppose," Mandani said softly, "that someone is protecting him. I don't know the nature of this wizard, I don't know where he is, or what he is, but he exists."
"Are you asking for more money?" Wellhyrn's green eyes were cold in the lamplight. "Perhaps it's you. Maybe you're not as good as you say you are."
"Hyrn," Ladirno said, shooting his younger colleague a silencing look, his heart beating in dread of this man. "Forgive him. Things haven't gone well lately. We're—in some personal difficulty."
Mandani's expression did not change.
"Do you think you might need help?" Ladirno asked carefully.
"Assistance might be useful. Assuming his adept has none."
"I don't see how he's affording one!" Wellhyrn snapped.
Ladirno signed him: caution. "All right. If you think two of you can get the job done, then choose your partner. The fee for his services will be the same as your own."
"Thank you." Mandani's deep voice never varied. "We'll start immediately."
He rose and walked away.
Ladirno stared at Wellhyrn. "It seems," he said, "Duran's not innocent."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Hail fell—heavy, large hail that coated the streets of Targheiden with ice-white pebbles, shattered two panes of glass in the Great Hall, killed livestock, killed an old man on the West Side.
Hajun sat and glared at the silent Hall. None of his courtiers were talking; stiff-legged, they stood with their backs to the wall, their expressionless faces telling him more than words. The priests stood in a corner, whispering among themselves—and not a wizard was to be seen.
Cowards.
A runner came into the hall—spoke briefly to the priests. Faljend, the chief priest of Hladyr, quickly left that cluster and approached the dais. "If I might talk to you, privately, Your Grace. . . ."
Hajun beckoned him closer, closer still.
"There's a certain panic, Your Grace," Faljend said in the faintest of voices. "People gathering in various places, in the markets—they're afraid—"
"So?" Hajun snapped. "Their shingles are lying in the streets—their windows battered—what's remarkable they should be afraid?"
"Gently, Your Grace. We must stand as an example—"
"How in Hladyr's name are we going to do that?" Hajun leaned forward. "The merchants are at each other's throats . . . they're ready to lash out at anything that moves. And, depending on shipping as I do, I know how they feel, dammit!"
"We priests are doing everything we can, Your Grace. We've had special prayers offered at the Temple. Common folk are praying for a change in the weather. None of this seems to have done any good."
Hajun grunted a reply.
"It's wizardry, Your Grace, it's the Sabirn!"
"I'm so damned tired of hearing everyone howl about the Sabirn I could puke! What do you suggest? That we round up every Sabirn we can get our hands on and hang them?"
"Your Grace, if something's not done soon, we could be facing riots in the streets. Everyone's suffering, everyone, from you, Your Grace, down to the smallest shopkeeper in Old Town. No one's immune."
Hajun rubbed his forehead, willing his headache to vanish. "So?"
"I know, Your Grace, I'm telling you nothing new. I do, however, suggest that you make a public plea for calm. Send your heralds among the people to tell them your concern. . . ."
"How am I supposed to do that in all this wind and rain? Who'll listen? Everyone's inside."
"They'll listen, Your Grace. When people become as emotional as they are now, they'll listen from their windows, to anything that tells them what they want to hear."
"Words! Words are nothing! The question is doing, priest!"
"Search out the necromancers—there's more than one, Your Grace, there must be a nest of them. And hang them, one and all!"
"If my wizards can't stop them, priest, how in Dandro's hells are we going to lay hands on them?"
"We have to try, Your Grace! We have to smoke them out, divert them with danger from different fronts—"
"Give me names, dammit, give me names!"
Faljend bowed deeply. "We have our spies, Your Grace, as I'm sure you know. We do know names, Sabirn who hold themselves out to be wizards and fortune-tellers. We know who they are."
"Fortune-tellers aren't the ones involved!" Hajun said. "You're dealing with a furtive people, you're not going to find anything!"
"Divide their attention," the High Priest said. "But first, Your Grace, first you have to have the people behind you."
Hajun scowled, smelling disaster, thinking of his ships. His hold on this city. "Huhn. All right. I'll write up a speech. My heralds will be out among the people by this afternoon." Rain spattered against the windows, thunder boomed, and Hajun gripped the armrests on his chair. "Damn them!"
Vadami stood in prayer in the cavernous Temple, his eyes shut as he sent his pleas to Hladyr the Shining. He could hear other folk around him constantly praying, their muted voices added to his own.
He gazed up at the altar, hoping that the sight of it would warm his heart as it had always done. Surrounded by hundreds of burning lamps, overlaid with pounded gold, it sparkled as with captured sunlight, and towering over it was the intricate mosaic of the Shining One himself, standing above the entire world, all creation at his feet. It was a masterwork—a young man in the prime of life, golden hair blown back from a divinely beautiful face, looking down on his worshippers, compassion in his eyes. On either hand the gods and goddesses: beneath his feet, the dark regions of Dandro's hells.
A crash of thunder. Vadami flinched. Rain spattered against the costly windows.
The Sabirn were responsible for this, Vadami would stake his immortal soul on that. Dealers in darkness, they had brought this evil on the city. Everyone knew it now—
Except Duran.
Vadami said a brief prayer for Duran's soul, though he felt certain that soul was lost forever. Why had such a kindly man succumbed to the Sabirn and their dark ways? Why would Duran not listen to what might have saved his soul?
Duran did nothing but laugh in Vadami's face.
Duran blasphemed the Shining One.
And prayers went unanswered.
Duran was Ancar—was no Sabirn heathen, but one of their own.
That was the link the evil had. That was the linchpin of their plot—the seduction of one of the noble blood, the drawing-astray of an Ancar lord, the breaking of the bond between Hladyr and this city—
The Duke himself—had sent Duran away with only the mildest admonition to not seek out any new Sabirn to befriend.
Vadami lifted his head again, and stared at the image of Hladyr, terrified.
Lord of Shining Light, he prayed. Give me a sign. Tell me what I should do about Duran. Nothing happened. No sign appeared. Vadami's heart felt cold and empty.