To Light A Candle

is to be found in one of your fathers’ libraries?”

Anigrel waited with barely-concealed impatience, wondering if he was going to have to bring them the book from Lycaelon’s library himself. He took care to stay well away from the small piece of umbrastone on the table, for if it touched him it would dispell the small glamouries of misdirection that disguised his true self. And even if Rolfort, Isas, Pentres, and Lalkmair weren’t close enough to the seats of power to recognize him, both the Volpiril brat and young Ogregance would certainly recognize Arch-Mage Lycaelon’s so-effacing private secretary.

At last Kermis spoke. “I think I can find it in my father’s library. He never notices when I go in there, or what I do.”

Anigrel breathed a faint inward sigh of relief. Once the manufactory for the umbrastone was in place—well, that was treason, pure and simple. And easy enough to hang High Mage Volpiril himself with it: yes, and any other members of the High Council he chose to implicate…

“How long will it take?” Geont asked. “To make enough, I mean?”

“Does it matter?” Margon answered. “The problem isn’t going to go away. Or get better. White flour’s being rationed in the Market now, and even the Commons are starting to wonder why. Father’s been in meetings every day for the past moonturn, trying to figure out what to do about it. And the only thing possible is to get the Council to reverse its decree, and take the Home Farms back.”

“But why can’t they just see that?” Jorade said miserably.

“The High Council will never reverse itself,” Cilarnen said bitterly. “Not when it means doing so publicly. By now everyone”—he meant, as his listeners knew, all the Mageborn—“knows about the decree to draw back the Borders to the City Walls. Lycaelon Tavadon was the only one who voted against the decree. That means that reversing the decree is endorsing the Arch-Mage, so they’ll never do it.”

“So the City suffers… for petty politics,” Kermis said grimly.

“Unless young men like yourselves—who love the City, and who set themselves above such things—will save her.” Master Raellan said.

The six young Entered Apprentices regarded each other. What they’d done so far was serious, but if it came to light, they could expect no worse than a severe scolding—at the worst, a censure from the Council. What they were contemplating now, each of them knew, had far graver consequences.

“We’ll meet here again on Light’s Day,” Kermis said. “I should be able to get the book we need by then. We can study it to figure out what materials and equipment we need to buy—or steal.” He looked at Cilarnen.

“If anyone wants to back out, do it now,” Cilarnen warned. “Because once we start making umbrastone… well, there’s no going back.”

“I’m in,” Jorade said.

“You know I am,” Kermis said. “Light blast all politicians.”

“And I,” Tiedor said. “For the City—and the Mages.”

“I know what the stakes are better than any of you,” Margon said. “I won’t back out now.”

“If you’re in, House Volpiril, so am I,” Geont said gruffly. “You’re twice the man your Light-damned father is.”

“Thank you all,” Cilarnen said warmly. “Then we’ll meet back here on the day. And the Light go with you all.”

—«♦»—

ALL was proceeding perfectly, Anigrel thought to himself as he walked back toward House Tavadon. He was careful to take a more circuitous route than the boys, for they believed that “Master Raellan” was a younger son of a minor Mage House, and it would not do to have their illusions shattered. He might well wish to play this game again someday soon, with new players.

And what a splendid game it was! Lycaelon would certainly be furious to discover additional plots against him among the Mages, and the foiling of this one would provide him with all the leverage he needed to take back control of the Council from that eternal pest Volpiril.

And to further Anigrel’s ambitions as well…

He reached the Mage Quarter, where no one would think it odd to find Undermage Anigrel upon the streets, even at this late hour, and a wave of his hand dispelled the glamourie, restoring his own natural appearance and that of his clothing. At length he achieved his own—or rather Lord Lycaelon’s—doorstep, passing between the stone mastiffs without incident, and a waiting servant hurried to open the door for him.