Planir groaned. “He’s that opinionated youth from Dusgate? For such venerable and respected mages, those two can be sillier than first-season apprentices at times. Where will I find Shannet tomorrow, do you know?”

“She’ll be working with Otrick over at New Hall in the morning,” replied Usara after a moment’s thought. “They’re giving a lecture on air and water conflicts.”

“If I get a chance, I’ll just happen to drop in on Troanna too; after all, as she is senior Flood-Mistress I should consult her about Kalion’s desires to mess about with the water supply, shouldn’t I?” A spark of humor reanimated Planir’s countenance.

Usara laughed. “Absolutely, o revered Archmage.”

Planir began pacing in front of the empty fireplace, renewed vitality driving the tiredness from his face and lifting a generation’s burden of years from his shoulders. “And when I’ve sorted that precious pair out, what can I do to stall D’Olbriot, keep him happy until I’ve found out exactly what’s happened to his man?”

“Do you really think you can find Ryshad?” There was surprise rather than doubt in Usara’s question.

“Oh yes, ’Sar. Why? Don’t you have unquestioning faith in your Archmage after all?” Planir smiled, his teeth gleaming white and even in the gathering dusk. He snapped his fingers and candles all around the room leaped to brilliant life. “You should know more than most; the power of this office is based on a great deal more than a gaudy ring and its promises of sorcery. I should have news of Ryshad inside a couple of handful days.”

“Then all you’ll have to worry about is Kalion.” The lines furrowing Usara’s brow were smoothed away as his expression lightened.

“You know, I think the same scent may well divert them both, if we lay it carefully.” Planir paused to look out of the window. “Kalion wants to know why we’re working round the chimes with nothing to show for it; I think I’ll take him into my confidence about the complex Elietimm plots that are frustrating our every move, tying up all our effort just in countering them. I’ll send the Sieur D’Olbriot a despatch too, with just enough dark hints and evasions to give him something more urgent to worry about than his missing hound.”

“Just what plots would these be, exactly?” inquired Usara, a smile spreading across his face nevertheless.

Planir spread his hands in a vague gesture. “I think that’ll be too complicated to explain, don’t you? How about we hint that these Elietimm were somehow responsible for Ryshad’s arrest in Relshaz?”

“Do you think they did?” Usara blinked in some surprise.

“No, not really, I think they just took advantage of the situation. From what Mellitha says I imagine whatever sympathy he’s developed with D’Alsennin betrayed him somehow; she identified the arm ring he was trying to take as an old piece with Den Rannion’s crest. No, the truth of it’s not important, ’Sar. You just tell Kalion what I told you about Ryshad when he comes asking, as long as you swear him to secrecy of course—tell him to keep it closer than the lid on an urn! We suspect these Ice Islanders had some hand in his disappearance into the Archipelago, if nothing else, and it’s certainly this pestilential aetheric magic that’s hiding him after all. Kalion will tell Ely and Galen, in strictest confidence obviously, and once they start spreading their version the rumor mill will find its own grist. That should give us some time to concentrate on getting Ryshad back and by then, Arimelin willing, we should have that archive and some clue as to how to start turning these dreams to our advantage.” The Archmage poured himself a second larger measure of white brandy and raised his glass to the younger mage in high good humor.

“Arimelin willing,” echoed Usara, draining his own drink. “I’m still worried about what might be happening to Ryshad, though,” he added soberly.

Planir nodded. “The Archipelago’s a dangerous place,” he agreed, his eyes dark. “Dastennin grant he’s not being too badly treated, not starved nor beaten nor worked in chains. That’s probably the best we can hope for.”

Taken from the Family Archive of the

House Tor Alder, Toremal,

from the Records of the 35th Year of

Emperor Aleonne the Gallant

Compliments to Dardier, Esquire Tor Alder, from his brother Caprel, Sieur of that House.

I am pleased to tell you that Carrey continues to recover well from his injuries. This comes to a great relief to his mother and myself, one’s last son being no less precious than any of the others after all. Forgive my feeble attempt at levity, it stems from disordered nerves, I confess it.

We have had no success tracing the brigands who attacked the boy and his companions in such an underhand manner; I suppose that would have been too much to hope for at this late date. Nevertheless I still remain concerned that by all accounts an organized and liveried troop of men could commit such an outrage on the Emperor’s highways and vanish so thoroughly. I can only surmise that their appearance was a calculated disguise, wigs and liveries discarded as soon as their work was done. Perhaps they wanted to throw suspicion on to the Men of the Mountains since they are generally fair of head and visage, but few are trading so far from home at this season so I am not inclined to suspect them.

Carrey’s greatest concern is the loss of his sword, an heirloom admittedly but one of little significance for the House after all. His mother is anxious lest this distress lead to a return of that disorder of sleep and nightmare that plagued the boy last year, and I confess I share her worry. There has been no recurrence of such trouble as he has convalesced and I would not wish to see it visited upon him again. Accordingly, could you alert your sergeants-at-arms and ask them to spread the word among their fellows in other Houses in case the weapon should be offered for sale to any such. If we can recover the blade, so be it but my main concern is to reassure Carrey that no blame for its loss attaches to him. Since you are due to visit us soon, if you could find a way of broaching the subject in private converse with him, I would be most grateful.

I checked the sun again; it seemed to have been hanging directly overhead for what would have been nearly a full chime at home, but we hadn’t heard the signal horn yet.

“More water.” Sezarre passed me a beaker and I drank obediently. The sun was striking up from the sandy surface of the practice floor like the blast from a roasting hearth, even though we were sitting in the shade of the bath-house.

“There, that is good.” Grival gave the sword blade one last wipe with an oiled rag and laid his whetstone aside. I should say it was; I could have shaved with the edge he had put on it had that been allowed.

“Thank you.” I hadn’t been looking for Grival to turn up, expecting he would be staying close to Mahli and little Nai, but he had appeared without ceremony and taken it upon himself to check all my weapons and armor. He placed the sword next to my mail-shirt; I wasn’t about to put that on until the very last moment possible.

“This man, he is older than you by some years. The heat, the armor, losing much sweat, all of this will tire him the sooner,” remarked Grival thoughtfully. “You could use that to your advantage.”

“If this was a fair fight, then yes, I would look to draw him out, keep him moving until he tired.” I scowled at the circle marked on the white sand in charcoal. “But I still think he will find a way to use magic. Can you appeal to Shek Kul for me, ask him to forbid the chanting?”