His feet remained fixed to the grimy stones. His heart throbbed in his throat. The shadows danced before him as he tried to pierce them. Then he saw it! A shape was watching him, and then it slipped away.
Get him! Get him!
The assassin-thoughts stored in the devices screamed in his mind, frustrated by his incompetence. If you don’t move, we’ll kill you instead, one said.
Taul moved sluggishly, like he was in the boggy orchard.
Don’t struggle with it, a sage voice said.
He moved then, his legs sliding back and forth.
There!
He can’t hide from us!
He chased the lingering trail of the rogue’s passing. He was a hound bound to a scent.
The Bottoms were stirring as he entered the plaza of the east gate market. The shadows eased, and he looked behind him, sensing something there. He stepped backward, into a work line. They pushed and shoved him away. He hid in the arch of a shop entrance across from the magistrate offices. He glanced about, searching for the trail. The devices had gone silent.
How long he waited, he could not be sure, except that when he finally picked up the trail again, Bedor was ascending over the eastern range, a trail of light behind him.
39
For Ren everything in life was a prop, part of a potential disguise. The chief magistrate’s office held an array of such things. His lord had never invited him inside before, but today was different. While his lord inspected the latest samples, Ren took in every detail of the office. There might be something useful.
Ledgers sat neatly stacked at the corner of a large desk, beside another stack of documents with silver-black wax seals. There were pens and ink bottles, the usual boring scribe utensils. On a far wall beside a narrow door, three diviner robes hung with care. The other pegs were empty.
Ren twisted his lips with pleasure. He’d never worn such a robe. The one on the leftmost peg had three silk stripes on the sleeves and silver embroidery. The other two were plain, for low-level diviners. But that elaborate one, now that would be something to try on. It was the most difficult disguise, though. Not a painted skull, of course, but a real diviner.
Unnoticed, he brushed the fabric with his fingers. The cloth was deceptively thin. He didn’t think the robe would take up much space at all. The small pouch on his left hip would do.
Shadows flickered at his fingertips.
A thrill ran through him to do this in his lord’s presence. A death wish, his mentor would call it. He turned his attention back to his lord.
Maunyn was half-smiling, as he did when pleased.
“Well done,” he said, holding up the samples to the lamp’s pale light. “You’re certain they’re Verxaen’s?”
Ren nodded. “Sure as I live, milord.”
“And the women he was with?”
“Couldn’t make them out, but gathered what I could.”
“You won the servant’s uniform in a game of chance?”
“Yes, milord. From a foolish lad.”
That lad would regret this event for years to come. Would he even put the two things together? Would Zauhune even mention the death? So near the Young Bear, Vaudin Lor’Baronar! Ren couldn’t decide whether to be terrified or to giggle hysterically.
“Their security is lax,” Maunyn mused. “Zauhune feels safe now that it has such a great champion.”
“He wasn’t that great, milord. Sloppy, if you ask me.”
Maunyn shifted, nearly knocking Ren over. “Sloppy enough to cut you in half?”
Ren looked down. Never trust our lord, his mentor would say. He’ll kill you at the slightest offense. He shook away the thoughts. It wasn’t true. Not now, not at this moment of approval.
“Keep yourself grounded, Ren,” Maunyn said, his tone softening. “There are things outside your grasp—for now. Being Mornae means knowing the difference.”
“Yes, milord. I understand.”
He didn’t, but Maunyn's assurance was all that mattered. Goddess above, he’d be a consort within the year if he continued succeeding. No more desperate priestesses for him. No more slumming.
That lovely hair he’d picked up still glowed with goddess-light. He still hid it in his breast pocket. He’d not part with it except for the future he craved. The report about that encounter would seal his future. Using an exotic southern ink he’d bought in the underdark market, he was committing the memory of that writhing couple to a sheet of fine vellum. That night, even the shadows had been luminous, accenting every thread of their clothes, the sigils hidden in the pattern, the glistening hair, and the beautiful bodies. The man’s form was unmistakable. Ren had seen him fight in a festival tournament in the south valley. He could only guess at who the woman was, but his chest swelled with excitement if his reasoning was correct: a Vakayne! Oh, how they’d reward him!
Who could ever believe a Vakayne meeting with the Son of Baronar in the Rilanik, of all places?
“Off with you,” Maunyn said, stashing the samples in a vest pocket. “Fetch a package from Gravas. Bring it to me in the citadel. No delays. Take the crater path. Gravas will also give you your next assignment. You’ll need to be at your best.”
He didn’t look confident.
Ren nodded. While Maunyn turned away to speak with a scribe, he deftly snagged the diviner’s robe and stuffed it into the linen pouch. As he hoped, the fabric had collapsed into his fist.
Magic. He sneered; jealous he didn’t have such tools. He was certainly worthy of them. He started for the door, buoyant with excitement.
“One more thing,” his master said.
