Rassans were a fairly tense people as a rule. Who could blame them with a religious order that was part loving embrace, part iron fist dominating their lives and hovering over their shoulders all the time? But things had changed in the capital city of Rassat in the three cold winter months since their last mission. He could see it for himself now. He could feel it along his skin.
All the rumblings coming out of Rassa and the portents of the Seers at the Scholomagi said Rassa was hurrying toward civil war—or at the very least, a rebellion. As soon as winter had released its icy grip on Scholoveld, Daks and Shura had been dispatched by the High Council, along with others, to confirm.
The king of Samebar had his own spies, but he rarely saw fit to inform the High Council of the Scholomagi of their findings, so the High Council employed a few of their less talented magic wielders, like Daks, to gather their own intelligence. He’d never given a damn about the politics and seesaw of power between the mages in the north and the king in his southern capital. All he’d ever cared about was finally having something useful to do with the pathetic “gift” he’d been given. And if he got to drink free ale, save a few lives, and bash a few evil bastards’ heads along the way, he was a happy man… mostly. Now, though, even that was being taken away from him.
Shura shifted in her seat, and her sudden tension snagged his wandering thoughts. He followed her gaze to Faret as he approached their table and ducked his balding head.
“Pardon, travelers, but we are busy this day. Would you share your table with a fellow traveler?”
“Of course,” Shura said, nodding to the slight figure hunched beneath a dripping brown cloak at Faret’s elbow.
Daks had been expecting their usual contact, as arranged, so when the newcomer drew her hood back to reveal a stranger, he and Shura both sat up.
“I’m Dagma,” the young girl said hurriedly as she cast nervous glances to either side before focusing on them again. She took the seat across from them, with her back to the room, and leaned over the table. “Maran couldn’t make it. I’m her daughter. She sends her apologies,” she hissed far too conspiratorially in trade tongue.
Both Daks and Shura eyed her skeptically, still tensed for possible fight or flight, but when Daks shot a questioning glance to Faret, the innkeeper gave an almost imperceptible nod before hurrying back to his bar.
“Sit back in your seat, bebe. You don’t want people to think you’re up to something,” Shura murmured almost gently for her. The use of the Cigani pet name was new too.
Daks quirked an eyebrow at her, but she only scowled back at him and returned her attention to the girl.
Dagma hurriedly sat back with an almost yelped “Sorry” and flushed cheeks as she undid the ties of her cloak and let it fall over the back of her chair. The girl had her mother’s wheat-colored hair, pert nose, and soft brown eyes, which helped reassure Daks that she was who she said she was. The change to the plan still made him uneasy, but it wasn’t as if Maran was a key contact. As a highly sought-after dressmaker for many of the wealthy families whose social circles reached as high as the king’s court, she’d been a useful enough informant. She had a steady flow of gossip and had always been willing to pass it along for good coin. But nothing she sold to them was worthy of this much drama.
“Is your mother all right?” Daks asked, bored with the situation already but trying not to sound it.
“Yes. It’s just—” She shot another nervous glance around her. “—things are happening faster these days, and she had to meet some… others. The rain meant certain… things were canceled, and the others had time to meet with her. Plus, her face is becoming more recognizable, and it’s harder for her to move about… unnoticed.”
The girl was enjoying playing spy far too much. Her exaggerated stops and starts and emphasis on vague words were pushing him from bored to irritated. But for some reason Shura continued to nod indulgently and make little encouraging sounds, while Daks blinked at her in disbelief. Shura was practically cooing. If the girl hadn’t been far too young, Daks might have wondered if Shura was hoping to get her into bed later.
Where was Shura the irascible, Shura the Cigani scourge of villains, Shura of the barbed tongue who did not suffer fools lightly? His Shura?
She kicked him under the table.
There she is.
“I’m sorry, what?” he asked as he surreptitiously rubbed his shin.
“She was saying her mother will be able to meet with us tomorrow, somewhere a little less public, and will hopefully have more news than she would have had today. But Dagma can answer some questions for us now,” Shura hissed irritably.
“Oh.”
Does that mean we have to pay both of them? He palmed the small pile of coins in his purse.
Any lingering softness in Shura’s expression soured as she stared at him, and Daks forced himself to focus on the young woman across from them. “Where does she want us to meet? I don’t think going to her shop would be a good idea, even after dark,” he said, trying to sound helpful and involved.
Dagma frowned as her glance shifted to Shura and back to Daks. “You don’t know?”
A niggle of foreboding tingled along his skin. “Know what?”
Dagma licked her lips and leaned in. In a hushed whisper she said, “Mama has joined the rebels. She closed her shop two months ago after
