The idea that Tabaea might have found a permanent job somewhere never occurred to him. Thieves and beggars simply didn’t do that, in Tolthar’s view of the World, and Tabaea, as her very name proclaimed, was a thief.
He supposed she might have wound up in a brothel somewhere, but that wasn’t usually permanent. Slavery was permanent, but he thought he would have heard if she had been auctioned off. He had friends—or rather, he had people who were willing to talk to him—who had promised to tell him if they saw Tabaea anywhere.
So he assumed mat she’d committed a few successful burglaries.
But the money would run out; it always did. Sooner or later, he would find her again, in the Dragon or at Kilina’s stewpot, or somewhere else among his familiar haunts.
And when he did, she would pay for the wounds in his leg. They were healed now; the leg was as good as new, but she owed him for the pain, the blood, and the time he had spent limping. She owed him for the embarrassment of having to talk to mat young snot of a guardsman, Deran Wuller’s son.
And he had a wonderful idea of how she could repay him for his troubles. She might even enjoy it; he wouldn’t mind if she did. Sometimes it was even better that way.
He shoved the mug aside and got to his feet. He was not entirely sure where he was going, whether he would head directly for Mama Kilina or make a stop or two along the way, but he knew he would have to stand up, so he went ahead with that part of the job. Once he was upright he didn’t have to worry about the proprietor of the Dragon harassing him to buy another ale or get out.
His head swam slightly. Maybe, he thought, he should have spent some of his last coppers on food, rather than ale.
Well, it was too late now. He turned toward the door.
Then he sat heavily back down. There was a guardsman standing in the doorway, and Tolthar recognized him. It was Deran Wuller’s son. Deran might be there for something entirely unrelated to Tolthar, but Tolthar did not care to try walking out past him.
Then Deran stepped in and marched straight toward Tolthar. He pointed, and Tolthar realized there were two other soldiers behind Deran. One of them had a lieutenant’s band on his arm. “Oh, gods,” Tolthar muttered. “Now what?” “Iblthar of Smallgate?” Deran asked loudly, stopping a step away.
Tolthar winced at the volume. “Yes,” he said, “you know I am. What is it this time?”
“We are ordered to bring you to the palace immediately,” Deran said.
Tblthar’s eyes widened, and the shock of Deran’s words seemed to cook away a good part of the alcohol in his body.
“Why?” he asked. “What did I do?” “You’re wanted for questioning,” Deran said, a bit more kindly. He didn’t like seeing anyone, even a worthless drunkard like Tolthar, needlessly frightened. “They didn’t tell us, but I think they want you as a witness, not for anything you’ve done yourself.”
“I haven’t seen anything,” Tolthar protested. “I haven’t heard anything, either. I don’t know anything.”
“Well, you can tell the folks at the palace that,” Deran said, reaching for him. “Come on.”
Tolthar pressed back against his chair, but the guardsman’s hand clamped around his arm like a noose drawn tight. Reluctantly, he yielded to the inevitable and allowed himself to be led out.
As he and the three soldiers marched down Wall Street in a tight little group, one at each side and the third behind, Tolthar remembered all the other people he had seen escorted away over the years. He had even escorted a few himself, before he was kicked out of the guard—but to a district magistrate, not the palace.
A good many of them never came back; they were executed, or sold into slavery, or exiled. Others took a beating, or paid a fine, and then, presumably chastened, went on with their lives. A few returned untouched and continued as if nothing had happened.
Tolthar hoped very much that he would be one of those few. At the gate, the party turned right; Tolthar was escorted across one side of Grandgate Market and into Gate Street. He could see the dome of the palace ahead already, even though it was still over a mile away—the dome was the highest structure in the city, even taller than the Great Lighthouse, and it towered over the surrounding buildings, above the rooftops, a great dark semicircle against the scarlet sunset. In the mornings Tolthar had seen it gleaming golden-white, like a huge pale moon rising in the west, but now it was shadowed and ominous. The sun was sinking just to the left of the dome, almost behind it, and for a moment Tolthar fancied that the dome was some sort of shadow-sun trying to blot the true sun out of the sky.
The foursome marched down seven blocks to the fork and bore right onto Harbor Street; now the sun was a tiny red sliver nestled at the base of the looming dome of the palace, and the sky was darkening overhead. Tolthar glanced at Deran, then up at the dome. “Can you tell me where you’re taking me, and why it’s the Palace instead of the magistrate’s office?” he said. “Am I going to see the Minister of Justice?”
“We’re taking you to Captain Tikri’s office,” Deran said, “to talk to Lady Sarai, the Minister of Investigation. She’s also Lord Kalthon’s daughter, and Acting Minister of Justice.” “But you aren’t taking me to the justice chamber?” “The captain’s office.” “Why?”
Deran shrugged apologetically. “They didn’t tell us,” he said. That brought them to the second fork, where they bore left onto Quarter Street. The dome of the palace had blocked out the sun entirely, or perhaps the sun had set; Tolthar couldn’t be sure. The sky overhead had darkened to a deep sapphire blue, and the lesser moon shone pink in the east.
They came to Circle Street, then to the colorful pavement forming a ring around the palace; they marched directly across, past the final line of stalls owned by elite and fortunate merchants. The palace itself stood before them now, the dome hidden by the wall and the eaves. Tolthar had never been here before; even during his days in the guard, he had never drawn duty in the palace. He had never been closer than Circle Street.
Somewhere behind that wall lived old Ederd IV himself, overlord of Ethshar of the Sands, master of the fates of over a million men, women, and children—one of the three most powerful mortals in the World. And Lord Kalthon, Ederd’s Minister of Justice, would be there, who could have a man flogged, hanged, beheaded, exiled, or sold on a moment’s notice. Lord Torrut, commander of the guard, was in there, as well—and his slightest word could send ten thousand men out to fight, kill, and die.
Tolthar did not particularly care to join them.
He had no choice, though; when he hesitated on the threshold of the little side door the soldiers heaved him through without even slowing.
The floors inside were stone—not rough slate or flagstone, tike an inn’s hearth, but polished granite and marble. Tolthar had never seen such floors.
The walls, too, were stone—some of them, anyway; others were paneled in wood, or hidden by drapes or tapestries. He could see them through the archways and open doors as he was hurried through what seemed like an endless maze of antechambers and corridors.
At last his escort stopped at the door of a small chamber with bare walls of pale gray stone; in the center of the room stood a large desk, with wood-and-brown-velvet chairs behind and before. Papers, scrolls, and ledgers were spread across the desk and stacked on the floor.
Two people were in the room: a tall young woman with thick brown hair and a large man in the uniform of a guard captain. They were standing by the desk, arguing. At the sound of arriving footsteps they stopped and turned toward the doorway.
“Captain Tikri,” one of the guardsmen said, “this is Tolthar ofSmallgate.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” the man in the captain’s uniform said. “Bring him in.”
Deran and the lieutenant brought Tolthar into the little office, while the third man returned to the corridor.
The woman was wearing clothes of fine gold linen, and Tolthar might have guessed that she was a noblewoman of some son, but he was still startled when Tikri addressed her as Lady Sarai.
“Which magician shall I send for, Lady Sarai?” he asked.
“More than one,” the young woman replied. “I don’t want any doubt about this. Teneria, certainly, and Mereth, if you can find her, and Okko, and I suppose you should get that Tobas and his witch wife back here, and anyone else you think we might want.” As an afterthought, she added, “Not the pregnant wife, though—she’s not a magician.”
