There are three overlapping worlds, of course, each ruled by one of the Sisters: the world of the living, the world of magic, and the world of the dead.* We live in Taja’s realm, as do all mortals. But I’d learned from a young age that my talent for seeing past the First Veil, into Tya’s magical domain, was a terrific advantage.
Only the gods can see past the Second Veil, although I suppose we all do when we finally travel to what lies beyond, to Thaena’s realm—Death.
The point is that wizards always wear talismans. They stamp such trinkets with their own auras to guard against the hostile sorceries of other mages. Talismans can take any shape. A smart wizard conceals their talismans from casual observation by disguising them as jewelry, sewing them into the lining of their clothes, or wearing them under robes. You might never know if someone is a wizard …
… unless you can see past the First Veil yourself, in which case that talisman-enhanced aura always betrays a wizard’s profession.
That’s how I knew Relos Var was a wizard. He wasn’t wearing any obvious talisman, but that aura was terrifying. I’d never seen an imprint so strong before, nor an aura stamped so hard, sharp, and crisp.*
Not with Dead Man, not with Tyentso …
* * *
And no, lovely Talon, not even with you.
* * *
I couldn’t remember why Lord Var’s name was familiar, but I could sum the man up in a single word: dangerous. But if I was lucky …
Who was I kidding? There was no luck left for me. I had angered my goddess, lady of luck both good and bad; her favor was gone. I did not even dare to hope that Lord Var would treat me better than the others. No matter who won me this day, it didn’t change that I was a slave, and would be so until the moment of my death. A normal slave might hold out some faint hope of escape or buying his or her freedom, but a gaeshed slave can’t run, and no one would ever free them. They are worth too much.
“The bid is twenty thousand. Do I hear twenty-five thousand?” The auctioneer wasn’t paying attention anymore: he thought the sale all but over. He’d done well to fetch twenty thousand. That price exceeded his expectations.
“Twenty thousand, going once, going twice. Fair warning—”
“Fifty thousand,” a clear voice said from the top of the seats.
Murmurs spread through the crowd. I strained to see who’d placed the bid. It was a large stadium. I couldn’t see the speaker at first, but then I noticed who the rest of the crowd had turned to watch: three seated figures in black hooded robes.
The auctioneer paused, surprised. “The Black Brotherhood bids fifty thousand. Do I hear fifty-five thousand?”
The man they called Lord Var looked annoyed. He nodded at the auctioneer.
“Fifty-five thousand. Do I hear sixty thousand?” The auctioneer was awake now that there was a bidding war.
One of the three black-clad figures raised their red flag.
“Sixty thousand.” The auctioneer nodded at them.
Half the crowd looked at Lord Var, the other half stared at the robed figures. The auction had just become an entertainment sport.
“Do I hear seventy-five thousand?”
Var nodded again.
“I have seventy-five. Do I hear one hundred?” The auctioneer saw the black-clad figures’ flag rise again. “I have one hundred from the Brotherhood. Do I hear one-fifty?”
Var nodded.
“One-fifty. Do I hear two hundred?” The red flag rose. “I have two hundred. Do I hear two-fifty?” Var frowned, but made a quick wave of his fingers. “I have two-fifty from Lord Var. Do I have five hundred from the Black Brotherhood?”
He did.
The desire to vomit hit me hard, and not just because of sickness. Had a slave ever sold for so much? There was no use that justified such a price; not as musician, not as catamite. Unless—
My eyes narrowed.
I wondered if, against all reason, they somehow knew who I was, knew what I carried. I almost reached for the gem around my throat. The Stone of Shackles was worth such a price, worth any price, but I had used the only spell I knew to hide what I wore.
I might be gaeshed, but I couldn’t be ordered to hand over what no one knew I possessed.
“The Black Brotherhood bids a half-million. Do I hear seven hundred fifty thousand?” The auctioneer’s voice broke. Even he seemed stunned by the price rising from his throat.
Lord Var hesitated.
“Lord Var?” the auctioneer asked.
Var grimaced and turned to glare over his shoulder at the three figures. “Yes,” he said.
“I have seven hundred fifty thousand ords from Lord Var. Do I hear one million?”
The figures in black didn’t hesitate.
Lord Var cursed aloud.
“I have one million ords. Final warning.” The auctioneer paused for the required time. “Sold to the Black Brotherhood for one million ords. Ladies and gentlemen, we have a new record!” The end of the staff pounded down on the floor.
I fought the urge to join it.
2: THE KAZIVAR HOUSE
(Talon’s story)
—that back.
Of course, I took the stone back; it’s my turn to tell your story now.
Why yes, I do so get a turn. Why should I not? It amuses me, and you’re in no position to argue. Since you don’t wish to start at the beginning, I shall do so for you. There’s no point in you trying to keep parts of your tale from me. You aren’t protecting anyone’s memories, not even your own. So, I will tell you your story, because I want you to remember how it went, seen through someone else’s eyes. Indeed—through many eyes, from many points of view; for that is what I am now. No one can change that. Not even you, my love.
Stop struggling. The bars are stronger than your skull.
Let me tell you a story about a boy named Rook.
Ah. I thought that might catch your attention.
* * *
As you know, his real name was Kihrin,* but he liked the name Rook because it was both his aspiration and occupation. Rook was a burglar: a very special burglar, a Key. He loved to perch, fingers clamped to the highest ledges, alone with the birds, his thoughts, and his crimes. He dreamed of soaring, freedom, and a world where no one would ever chain him.
Ironic, considering.
* * *
Alas, we rarely get what we want, do we?
* * *
He was fifteen years old: not yet an adult in Quur, and yet too old to be properly called a child. Like all people caught between two worlds, he hated and longed for both. He hadn’t considered himself a child since he was twelve, when his teacher had died and he paid his first dues as one of the Shadowdancers’s Keys.?
Perhaps Rook was even right, for no one stays a child in the slums of the Lower Circle for long. Those poor waifs who hitched themselves to gangs like the Shadowdancers grew faster still.
Rook’s methods possessed one flaw, one misstep that would spell his doom.
He was curious.
Rook had spent almost a week planning the best way to rob the house of a wealthy merchant in the Copper Quarter. The merchant would be away for two weeks, attending his youngest daughter’s wedding, giving Rook all the time he wished to explore the vacant house.*