“It stings a little, if that’s a concern,” Avidansaid without looking up from his work. “This is an aqueous solutionof mercury. It prevents wounds from going septic.”
The alchemist’s tone was confident and his movementsprecise and practiced. At moments like this, Fox could envisionAvidan leading a successful foray into Muldonny’s mansion. Theywould walk in through the well-guarded gates without a qualm,Avidan would discourse learnedly with the adept, Fox would switchthe daggers, and they’d be back on Sevrin’s main island before thetaverns opened.
“The mercury solution is also effective in earlystages of the pox,” Avidan said. “Naturally, it must be applieddirectly to the site of initial contact.”
This image effectively dispelled Fox’s optimisticdaydream. “That’s more information than I need.”
“I have heard, however, that some women find thebright orange color a bit off-putting.”
“To say nothing of the pox,” Fox muttered.
“Of course, you’ll need a larger codpiece toaccommodate the bandages.”
“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.”
Avidan lifted the bowl. “Are you sure? I haveextra.”
The thief sighed. “Let’s just get this done.”
The alchemist dipped a cloth into the bowl andclucked like a brooding hen as he dabbed rust-colored solution ontoFox’s forehead.
“What did you do to anger her?”
“Who?”
“The fairy, of course.”
Fox’s laughter was cut short by a stab of pain fromhis split lip. He winced and prodded at it with one finger.
“Vishni didn’t do this.”
“If you say so.”
He opened his mouth to protest, but realized thealchemist was probably more right than wrong.
“I will go alone to meet with Vishni and thealchemist whose place I am to take,” Avidan said.
The combined weight of everything that could go wrongwith that plan hit Fox like a fist to the gut. “That’s notnecessary.”
Avidan reached for a polished metal tray and held itin front of Fox’s face. The thief grimaced at the reflectedimage.
“It’s necessary,” Avidan said. “You cannot walk intoa fest hall looking as you do. Since there is no crime in Sevrin,people might wonder how you found yourself on the wrong side of abrawl. You can stay with Delgar and help our new friend return tohis lodgings.”
Fox accepted this with a nod. Playing the role of acharming courtesan should offer Vishni enough diversion to keep herattention from straying. And if it did not, they had a reliableescape route in place.
“Just so you know, I’m not letting you walk intoMuldonny’s alone.”
“I will make unguents to darken your skin and hidemost of the damage to your face. In the meanwhile, this willhelp.”
Avidan reached into a metal box and removed a cube ofraw meat. A droplet of blood splashed onto the alchemist’sworktable.
Fox leaned away from the offered tidbit. “Nothanks.”
“Are you sure? Vishni stole this from the butcher onRedcloak Street. He has an ice house. It’s good and cold.”
“I’ve already eaten.”
The alchemist’s lip curled in disgust. “You’re notsupposed to eat it. You’re supposed to put it on your black eye.The cold will bring down the swelling.”
“Why didn’t she just steal some ice? Wouldn’t thatwork as well?”
“Better,” Avidan said. “But there is very little foodvalue in ice.”
Fox started to respond, decided it wasn’t worth it,and hopped off the table. He took the cube of raw steak and pressedit to his swollen eye as he left for saner regions. The remedymight be disgusting, but he found it surprisingly soothing.
The gathering room with its ever-shifting mirror wasempty. Fox slumped into a chair and stared at an image of pale sandcurling around an inlet of bright turquoise sea.
Since he was alone, he had no need to temper hisfascination with the mirror. He devoured images of woodlandwaterfalls, distant cities glimpsed from mountaintops, painteddeserts. His favorite scene showed him a single wolf silhouettedagainst a rising moon, muzzle lifted in song.
There had been no wolves on the islands of Sevrin fora hundred generations. No one who lived in Sevrin could hope to seea wolf.
No one who lived in Sevrin could hope to see manythings.
Fox’s sigh came from the depths of his soul. None ofhis friends, not even Delgar, knew of his longing for distantplaces. But his work was here. So was his mother, even if she nolonger knew him.
He suddenly remembered the locket she’d handed himdays earlier. A quick pat-down of his pockets yielded nothing but astab of panic.
The green tunic he wore for his Gatherer disguisecame to mind. He tossed the meat into the hearth and hurried to thelittle stone-walled room where he slept and stored his things.
A bit of rummaging in his chest yielded the gaudytunic. To his relief, the locket was tucked in the hip pocket.
He flipped it open and looked inside, expecting theusual lock of hair or miniature painting of some long- deadrelative. Instead, a design of intertwined runes surrounded a nameeveryone in the northlands knew:
Eldreath, the sorcerer whose long and brutal reignhad given way to the age of adepts and alchemy.
In Fox’s opinion, the new regime wasn’t much of animprovement. This belief stood at the core of his work, his life.He’d never thought to question why he felt as he did.
Until now.
He had grown up hearing stories of the sorcerer’satrocities. But those were just stories. No matter what Vishnisaid, no story could be as powerful as experience.
Fox had seen the work of the adepts and theirGatherers with his own eyes. He’d seen his village attacked, hishome burned. He and his mother had been captured, dragged to thecity, questioned, tortured. What became of his father was somethinghe might never learn.
He didn’t remember much from those terrible days, buthe doubted anyone could forget the tall, blond- bearded Gatherer whokept asking about a bloodline.
Fox had always assumed these questions sprung fromhis mother’s reputation as a green witch. Magic tended to run infamilies, so of course the adepts would want to round up herrelatives. But the locket opened a new door of possibility.
His mother told him it had been passed down in thefamily. Eldreath had lived long past the normally allotted span. Ifhe gave the locket to some lady as a token, she might have passedit down through several generations before it came into Fox’shands.
“A sorcerer’s bloodline,” Fox murmured, unsurewhether he should be appalled or thrilled.
This explained Rhendish’s abiding interest incapturing Fox, and the near-captivity his mother endured within thewalls of the adept’s domain. It also explained Fox’s passion formagic.
It might even explain his personal vendetta againstthe adepts and his determination to take part in their overthrow.According to Vishni’s stories, and for that matter nearly everyother tale Fox had heard, blood and destiny were inseparable.
The only outlying fact was his total lack of anymagical talent.
This revelation was too big for one mind toencompass. Fox pushed himself out of the chair and went looking forDelgar.
The heat hit him while he was still several pacesaway from the dwarf’s workroom. He plunged through a cloud of steamand stepped into the stone chamber.
In the center of the room, flames danced in a stonefire pit. The dwarf sat in a stout wooden chair, his stocky
