'I am expected,' he announced austerely.
'Of course, Lord Arch-Mage. If you will accompany me?'
Lycaelon followed the butler into the house, amusing himself by attempting to discern the bones of the original building beneath the veneer of its clownish makeover. It was like walking through a jackdaw's nest— there was no regard for taste and balance, only for vulgarity and expensive display. And he was certain that at least a few of these items had made it off the Selken ships without the Council's imprimatur.
He was also interested to note that there seemed to be gaps—prominent, but irregular—in the overabundance of tawdry ornament, as if broken items had been hastily removed and the survivors had not yet been rearranged to hide the absence. Apparently the girl had indeed broken most of what was breakable in the Tasoaire household, for which he held himself much in her debt.
But to Lycaelon's faint disappointment, the room to which he was led seemed to have suffered the least from the Tasoaires' new wealth. The heart-room of the house still displayed its timber and plaster walls unchanged, and the large tiled fireplaces at each end of the room were lovely and tasteful examples of merchant-class craftsmanship. Small-paned windows, open to the unusually warm spring day, showed glimpses of a small back garden that was very much as it ought to be. Carved oak settles, their wood honey-dark with years of beeswax polishing, flanked each hearth, and there was a small writing desk under one window, angled to catch the natural light. There was a sideboard on the wall facing the windows, and Lycaelon was interested to see that where he would have expected to see fiery cut-crystal, he saw instead a pewter jug and a collection of mismatched pewter cups, badly dented but polished to a satiny gleam.
But the seemly and modest effect was spoiled by an enormous gilded chair with a scarlet velvet cushion that squatted in the middle of the room, obviously carried in for his benefit, with a painted and gilded table beside it that was undoubtedly more suitable to a whorehouse than a merchant's townhouse.
The two people awaiting him arose from their seats on one of the settles as the door opened, and moved hesitantly forward to greet him.
Lycaelon recognized loan Tasoaire from his many appearances before the Council, and the painfully overdressed woman beside him must be his wife, though Lycaelon didn't trouble himself to recall her name. Both were upholstered in so much satin, multicolored brocade, gold lace, and velvet piping that they looked like a pair of overstuffed chairs designed by a madman. Both of them looked worn and frightened. Lycaelon smiled, radiating charm—a simple enough cantrip, really, among the many every High Mage always kept in readiness for situations such as this.
'Come, loan, you know me,' Lycaelon said, injecting good humor and warmth into his voice. 'I'm here to help. And who is this lovely young thing? Surely this isn't your daughter?' loan Tasoaire smiled, and Lycaelon could see that it cost him some effort. 'Nay, Lord Arch-Mage, this is my wife, Yanalia.'
'You can help her, can't you, Lord Arch-Mage? Help our Darcy?' the woman burst out. 'You do know what it is with her, don't you? Don't you?'
'Hush now, Yana,' loan said, pulling his wife back before she could approach Lycaelon. 'I'm sure the Arch- Mage will do all he can.'
'Of course I will,' Lycaelon said, settling himself in the garish throne-chair, inasmuch as seemed to be expected of him. 'I came as soon as I heard there was trouble—in fact, I'm a little hurt, loan, that you didn't come to me sooner. What are friends for, if not to help one another?'
Yanalia began to weep in harsh strangled sobs, clinging to her husband. Lycaelon forced himself to keep his face smooth, his expression benign. Puling and weeping with hysteria already, and he hadn't been in the house more than a few moments! How like a woman!
'We were afraid,' loan said slowly.
Lycaelon composed his features into an expression of hurt regret and bowed his head. 'If that is the case… if that is truly the case… then I have failed you, failed all the people of Armethalieh. How can I help you, if you won't come to me for help? Look at me, loan.' He spread his hands, a sad smile on his face. 'I'm a Mage. That's all I am. That's all I do. I don't plant crops, or spin cloth—or make gold out of thin air like you do, loan!' He allowed himself a rueful smile at the small joke, and was pleased to see loan smile in return. 'All I do is help people. That's all any Mage does. That's all the Art Magickal is for. But when people won't come to me for help, then, well… I'm useless. I can't help you if I don't know that you need help, and my Gifts go to waste.'
He lowered his head again, as if meeting their eyes was too much for him. Had he overplayed his hand, laid it on too thick? But no. They were distracted, afraid, and from the looks of things hadn't been sleeping well at all. If he could get them feeling guilty as well, they should be supremely easy to manipulate.
'It weren't—it wasn't that.' loan had made his way up from the laboring classes and married a minor merchant's daughter, taking her name, as was customary when marrying into a higher-ranked family. When he was upset, his low-class origins showed in his speech.
'We thought it would go away. It didn't, but then we thought she'd get better!' Yanalia burst out, her voice still thick with tears. 'But it's only gotten worse, Arch-Mage. The fires, and the breaking things, well, at first we thought it might be a spirit or something, not her—we had a Light-Priest in to bless the house, and it stopped for a while, but then it started up again. Then I began thinking about old tales and when we realized it was her, not a spirit, we thought it would get better…' Her voice faltered, and for a moment Lycaelon thought she was finished speaking, but she composed herself with an effort and went on. 'After all, don't all Apprentices have trouble when
