The Magicians' Guild: The Black Magician Trilogy

by Trudi Canavan

  “I don’t want a knife.” Dannyl gave the man a nervous smile. “I want to contact the Thieves.”

  The man’s brows rose. “Oh?” He narrowed his eyes at Dannyl. “It takes a bit of color to get them interested in talking, you know.”

  Dannyl opened his hand to reveal the silver coin, then closed his fingers again as the server reached for it. The man snorted, then turned slightly.

  “Hai, Kollin!”

  A boy appeared in a doorway behind the bench. He looked at Dannyl, his sharp eyes moving from boots to hair.

  “Take this man to the slaughterhouse.”

  Kollin looked at Dannyl, then beckoned. As Dannyl moved behind the bench, the server blocked his path and opened his hand.

  “There’s a fee. Silver.”

  Dannyl frowned at the extended hand doubtfully.

  “Don’t worry,” the server said. “If they found out I was cheating those who went looking for their help, they’d flay me and hang my skin off the rafters as a lesson to others.”

  Wondering if he was being duped, Dannyl pressed the silver coin into the server’s palm. The man stepped aside, allowing Dannyl to follow Kollin through the doorway.

  “Follow me but don’t say nothing,” the boy said. He entered a small kitchen, then opened another door and checked the alley outside before stepping out.

  The boy moved quickly, leading Dannyl through a maze of narrow streets. They passed doorways from which wafted the smell of baking, or cooked meat and vegetables, or the tang of oiled leather. The boy stopped and gestured to the entrance of an alley. The narrow street was filled with litter and mud, and came to a dead end after twenty paces.

  “Slaughterhouse. You go there,” the boy said, pointing down the alley. He turned and hurried away.

  Dannyl regarded the alley dubiously as he walked down it. No doors. No windows. Nobody stepped out to greet him. Reaching the end of the alley, he sighed. He had been duped. Considering the name of the place, he had suspected an ambush at least.

  Shrugging, he turned around and found three heavily built men standing in the alley’s entrance.

  “Hai! Looking for someone?”

  “Yes.” Dannyl strode toward them. All wore heavy longcoats and gloves. The one at the center bore a scar down one cheek. They returned his stare coldly. Just your average thug, Dannyl mused. Perhaps this was an ambush.

  He stopped a few paces away, then glanced back down the alley and smiled. “So this is the slaughterhouse. How appropriate. Are you my escort now?”

  The middle thug held out his hand.

  “For a price.”

  “I gave my money to the man at The Bold Knife.”

  The thug frowned. “You want a knife?”

  “No.” Dannyl sighed. “I want to talk to the Thieves.”

  The man looked at his companions, who were grinning. “Which one?”

  “The one with the widest influence.”

  The thug at the center chuckled. “That’d be Gorin.” One of his companions smothered a laugh. Still grinning, the leader gestured for Dannyl to follow him. “Come with me.”

  The other two stepped aside. Dannyl followed his new guide to the entrance of a wider street. Glancing back, he saw that the others were watching him, still smiling broadly.

  A series of twisting streets and alleys followed. Dannyl began to wonder if the back of every baker, leather-merchant, tailor and bolhouse looked the same. Then he recognized a sign, and stopped in his tracks.

  “We’ve been here before. Why are you leading me in circles?”

  The thug turned and regarded Dannyl, then turned and moved to the nearby wall. Bending down, he grasped the edge of a ventilation grille and pulled. It swung forward.

  The thug gestured to the hole. “You first.”

  Dannyl crouched and looked inside. He could see nothing. Resisting the temptation to create a globe light, he put a leg into the hole, but found only emptiness where he expected the floor to be. He looked up at his guide.

  “The street’s ’bout chest height,” the thug told him. “Go on.”

  Grasping the edge of the hole, Dannyl climbed through. He found a ledge to brace himself on, then drew his other leg through and lowered it until his foot reached the floor. Stepping back, his shoulder met a wall. The thug slipped into the passage with practiced ease. Unable to see much more than the man’s shape within the dim light, Dannyl kept his distance.

  “Follow my footsteps,” the man said. As he started down the passage, Dannyl walked a few paces behind, trailing his hands along the walls on either side. They walked for several minutes, taking numerous turns, then the footsteps in front of Dannyl stopped and he heard a rapping from somewhere close by.

  “You’ve got a long way to go,” the thug said. “You sure ’bout this? You can change your mind now and I’ll I take you back.”

  “Why would I want to do that?” Dannyl asked.

  “You just might, that’s all.”

  A sliver of light appeared, then widened beside them. Within it stood a silhouette of another man. In the glare Dannyl could not make out the man’s face.

  “This one’s for Gorin,” the thug said. He looked at Dannyl, made a quick gesture, then turned and disappeared into the shadows.

  “Gorin, eh?” the man in the doorway said. The voice could have belonged to a man anywhere between twenty and sixty years. “What is your name?”

  “Larkin.”

  “What is your profession?”

  “I sell simba mats.” Mat-making houses had sprung up all over Imardin in the last few years.

  “A competitive market.”

  “You’re telling me?”

  The man grunted.

  “Why you want to talk to Gorin?”

  “That’s for Gorin to know.”

  “Of course.” The man shrugged, then reached up to the inner wall of the room.

  “Turn away from me,” he ordered. “From here, you go blindfold.”

  Dannyl hesitated before reluctantly turning around. He had expected something like this. A piece of cloth dropped over his eyes, and he felt the man knot it behind his head. The faint light of the lamp revealed only the thick weave of the material.

  “Follow my footsteps, please.”

  Once again, Dannyl walked with his hands trailing along the walls. His new guide travelled fast. Dannyl counted his steps, thinking that, as soon as he had the opportunity, he would measure how far a thousand strides would normally take him.

  Something, probably a hand, was suddenly pressed on his chest, and he halted. He heard a door open, and he was pushed forward. The smell of spices and flowers filled his senses, and he felt a softness under his boots which suggested carpet.

  “Stay here. Don’t remove your blindfold.”

  The door closed.

  The faint sounds of voices and footsteps came from above, and he guessed he was under one of the rowdier bolhouses. He listened to the sounds, then began counting his breaths. When that bored him, he lifted his hands to the blindfold. He heard a soft thud behind him, like the sound a bare heel makes on a carpeted floor. He turned and grasped the blindfold to remove it, then froze as he heard the door handle turning. Straightening, he quickly let go of the material.

  The door didn’t open. He waited, and concentrated on the silence within the room. Something drew his attention. Something more subtle than the faint sound he had heard before.

  A presence.

  It hovered behind him. Taking in a deep breath he stretched his arms out and pretended to be feeling for walls. As he turned about, the presence moved away.

  Someone was in the room with him. Someone who didn’t want to be noticed. The carpet muffled the tread of their feet, and the bolhouse noise covered any involuntary sounds. The flowery perfume that hung in the air would hide the small scents of a body. Only the senses unique to him as a magician had detected the stranger.

  It was a test. He doubted if the owner of the presence was being tested on their ability t
o remain unnoticed. No, this test was for him. To see if he detected anything. To see if he was a magician.

  Casting his senses out, he detected another faint presence. This one was stationary. Stretching his arms out, he started forward again. The first presence darted around him, but he ignored it. After ten steps he encountered a wall. Keeping his hands on the rough surface, he began moving around the room in the direction of the other presence. The first one moved away, then suddenly rushed toward him. He felt a faint breeze against his neck. Ignoring it, he continued on.

  His fingers met the door frame, then a sleeve and arm. The blindfold was lifted from his eyes, and he found himself staring at an old man.

  “I apologize for keeping you waiting,” the man said. Recognizing the voice, Dannyl knew this was his guide. Had the man left the room at all?

  Offering no explanation, the guide opened the door. “If you would follow me now, please.”

  Dannyl glanced around the now-empty room, then stepped into the passage.

  They continued the journey at a more relaxed pace, the lamp swinging in the old man’s hand. The walls were well made. At each turn a small panel was set into the bricks, engraved with strange symbols. It was impossible to guess what time it was, but he knew that many hours must have passed since he had entered the first bolhouse. He was pleased with himself for realizing he was being tested. Would they have taken him to the Thieves if he had proven to be a magician? He doubted it.

  There might be more tests—he would have to be careful. He did not know how close he was to speaking with Gorin. In the meantime, he should find out as much as he could about the people he wanted to negotiate with. He regarded his companion speculatively.

  “What is a ‘knife’?”

  The old man grunted. “An assassin.”

  Dannyl blinked, then smothered a smile. The Bold Knife was truly an appropriate name, then. How did the owner get away with advertising so blatantly?

  He could wonder about that later. For now there were more useful things to learn.

  “Are there any other alternative names I should know about?”

  The old man smiled. “If someone sends you a messenger, you’ll be getting either a threat, or they’ll be carrying out that threat.”

  “I see.”

  “And a squimp is someone who betrays the Thieves. You don’t want to be one of those. They live short lives.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “If all goes well, you’ll be called a client. Depends what you’re here for.” He stopped and turned to regard Dannyl. “Guess it’s time to find out.”

  He knocked on the wall. Silence followed, then the bricks collapsed inward in two sections. The old man gestured toward the opening.

  The room Dannyl entered was small. A table fit snugly between the walls, effectively blocking access to the huge man sitting in the chair behind it. A pair of doors stood partly open behind him.

  “Larkin the mat-seller,” the man said. His voice was startlingly deep.

  Dannyl inclined his head. “And you are?”

  The man smiled. “Gorin.”

  There was no chair for visitors. Dannyl moved closer to the table. Gorin was not an attractive man, but his bulk was more muscle than fat. His hair was thick and curly, and a woolly beard covered his jaw. He truly lived up to his namesake, the huge beasts that hauled punts up the Tarali river. Dannyl wondered if this was a joke of the thug’s—perhaps Gorin was the man with the widest influence among the Thieves.

  “You lead the Thieves?” Dannyl asked.

  Gorin smiled. “Nobody leads the Thieves.”

  “Then how do I know if I’m talking to the right person?”

  “You want to make a deal? You make it with me.” He spread his hands. “If you break the deal, I punish you. Think of me like something between a father and a king. I’m helping you out, but if you betray me, I’ll kill you. Does that make sense?”

  Dannyl pursed his lips. “I was thinking of something a bit more balanced. Father to father, perhaps? I wouldn’t presume to suggest king to king, though I like the sound of it.”

  Gorin smiled again, but it didn’t extend to his eyes. “What you want, Larkin the mat-seller?”

  “I want you to help me find somebody.”

  “Ah.” The Thief nodded. He pulled over a small block of paper, a pen and an inkwell. “Who?”

  “A girl. Fourteen to sixteen. Small build, dark hair, skinny.”

  “Ran away, did she?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “A misunderstanding.”

  Gorin nodded sympathetically. “Where you think she might have gone?”

  “The slums.”

  “If she is alive, I’ll find her. If she is not, or we have not found her within a time—we’ll agree on how long—your obligations to me end. What’s her name?”

  “We don’t know her name yet.”

  “You don’t—” Gorin looked up, then narrowed his eyes. “We?”

  Dannyl allowed himself to smile. “You need to devise a better test.”

  Gorin’s eyes widened slightly. He swallowed, then leaned back in his chair. “Is that so?”

  “What did you intend to do with me if I hadn’t passed?”

  “Lead you somewhere far from here.” He licked his lips, then shrugged. “But you are here. What do you want?”

  “As I said: we want you to help us find the girl.”

  “And if we don’t?”

  Dannyl let the smile fall from his face. “Then she will die. Her own powers will kill her, and destroy part of the city too—though I cannot tell you how much as I do not know her strength.” He stepped forward, placed his hands on the table, and held the Thief’s gaze. “If you help us, it doesn’t have to be a profitless arrangement—though you must understand that there are limits to what we can be seen to be doing.”

  Gorin stared at him in silence, then put pen and paper aside. He leaned back in his seat and turned his head slightly.

  “Hai, Dagan! Bring our visitor a chair.”

  The room was dark and musty. Shipping boxes were stacked against one wall, many of them broken. Pools of water had gathered in the corners, and a thick layer of dust covered everything else.

  “So this is where your father used to hide his stuff?” Harrin asked.

  Cery nodded. “Da’s old storeroom.” He wiped dust off one of the boxes, and sat down.

  “There’s no bed,” Donia said.

  “We’ll put something together,” Harrin replied. Walking over to the boxes, he began rummaging through them.

  Sonea had stopped in the doorway, dismayed at the prospect of spending the night in such a cold and unpleasant place. Sighing, she sat on the lowest stair. They had moved three times during the night to avoid reward-seekers. She felt as if she hadn’t slept for days. Closing her eyes, she allowed herself to drift. Harrin’s conversation with Donia grew distant, as did the sound of footsteps from the passage behind her.

  Footsteps?

  Opening her eyes, she looked back and saw a distant light swaying in the darkness.

  “Hai! Someone’s coming.”

  “What?” Harrin strode across the room and stared into the passage. He listened for a moment, then pulled Sonea to her feet and pointed at the far side of the room. “Get over there. Keep out of sight.”

  As Sonea moved away from the door, Cery rose to join Harrin. “Nobody comes here,” he said. “The dust on the stairs wasn’t marked.”

  “Then they must have been following us.”

  Cery stared up the passage, cursing. He turned to Sonea. “Cover your face. They might be after something else.”

  “We’re not leaving?” Donia asked.

  Cery shook his head. “No way out. There used to be a passage, but the Thieves closed it years ago. That’s why I didn’t bring us here before.”

  The footsteps were more audible within the room now. Harrin and Cery backed away from the door and waited. Pulling up th
e hood of her cloak, Sonea joined Donia at the far side of the room.

  Boots appeared within the passage, then trousers, chests, and faces as the newcomers descended the stairs. Four boys stepped through the doorway. They looked at Harrin and Cery, then, as they located Sonea, they exchanged eager looks.

  “Burril,” Harrin said. “What you doin’ here?”

  A stocky youth with muscular arms swaggered forward to face Harrin. Sonea felt a chill. This was the boy who had accused her of being a spy.

  Looking at the other youths, she felt a shock as she recognized one. She remembered Evin as one of the quieter boys of Harrin’s gang. He had taught her how to cheat at tiles. There was no friendship in his gaze now as he twirled a heavy iron bar in one hand. Sonea shivered and looked away.

  The other two boys carried lengths of rough wood. They had probably picked up the makeshift cudgels along the way. Sonea considered the odds. Four against four. She doubted that Donia had ever learned to fight, or that either of them would be equal to one of Burril’s allies. They might be able to tackle one together, however. She reached down and picked up a wooden slat from one of the broken shipping boxes.

  “We’re here for the girl,” Burril said.

  “Turned squimp, have we Burril?” Harrin’s voice was dark with contempt.

  “I was thinking of asking you that,” Burril replied. “We haven’t seen you in days. Then we hear about the reward and it all makes sense. You wanta keep the money for yourself.”

  “No, Burril,” Harrin said firmly. He looked at the other youths. “Sonea’s a friend. I don’t sell my friends.”

  “She’s no friend of ours,” Burril replied, glancing at his companions.

  Harrin crossed his arms. “So, that’s how it is. It didn’t take long before you got a fancy for taking charge. You know the rules, Burril. You’re either with me or out.” He looked at Burril’s allies again. “Same for you lot. You wanta follow this squimp?”

  Though they remained in place, the youths glanced at Burril, then at Harrin, then at each other. Their expressions were guarded.