not what you had in mind, is it?”
He smiled faintly. “Sitting about in warehouses and base-
ments isn’t what I had in mind. What is Padishar waiting around
for?”
She shrugged, “What we all wait around for from time to
time-that little voice buried somewhere deep inside that tells
us what to do next. It might be intuition or it might be common
sense or then again it might be the advent of circumstances
beyond our control.” She gave him a wicked smile.’ ‘Is it speak-
ing now to you?”
“Something certainly is.” He sat down next to her. “Why
are you still here, Damson? Does Padishar keep you?”
She laughed. “Hardly. I come and go as I please. He knows
I was not the one who betrayed him. Or you, I think.”
“Then why stay?”
She considered him thoughtfully for a moment. “Maybe •
stay because you interest me,” she said at last. She paused as
if she wanted to say more, but thought better of it. She smiled.
“I have never met anyone who uses real magic. Just the pretend
kind, like me.”
She reached up and deftly plucked a’coin from behind his
ear. It was carved from cherry wood. She handed it to him. It
bore her likeness on one side and his on the other. He looked
up at her in surprise. “That’s very good.”
“Thank you.” He thought she colored slightly. “You may
keep it with the other for good luck.”
He tucked the coin into his pocket. They sat silent for a time,
exchanging uncertain glances. “There isn’t much difference,
you know, between your kind of magic and mine,” he said
finally. “They both rely on illusion.”
She shook her head. “No, Par. You are wrong. One is ai-
acquired skill, the other innate. Mine is learned and, once
learned, has become all it can. Yours is constantly growing, said
its lessons are limitless. Don’t you see? My magic is a trade, a
way to make a living. Your magic is much more; it is a gift
around which you must build your life.”
She smiled, but there was a hint of sadness in it. She stood
up. “I have work to do. Finish your packing.” She moved past
him and disappeared down the ladder.
The morning hours crawled past and still Padishar did not
return. Par busied himself doing nothing, growing anxious for
something-anything-to happen. Coil and Morgan drifted over
from time to time, and he spoke to them of his intention to
confront the outlaw chief. Neither seemed very optimistic about
his chances.
The skies grew more threatening, the wind picking up until
it made a rather mournful howl about the loose-fitting jambs and
shutters of the old building they were housed in, but still it didn’t
rain. Card games were played to pass the time and topics of
conversation exhausted.
It was nearing midaftemoon when Padishar returned. He
slipped in through the front doors without a word, crossed the
room to Par and motioned him to follow. He took the Valeman
into a small office situated at the back of the main floor and shut
the door behind them.
When they were alone, he seemed at a loss for words.
“I have been thinking rather carefully about what we should
do,” he said finally. “Or, if you prefer, what we should not do.
Any mistake we make now could be our last.”
He pulled Par over to a bench that had been shoved back
against the wall and sat them both down. “There’s the problem
of this traitor,” he said quietly. His eyes were bright and hard
with something Par couldn’t read. “I was certain at first that it
must be one of us. But it isn’t me or Damson. Damson is above
suspicion. It isn’t you. It might be your brother; but it isn’t him
either, is it?”
He made it a statement of fact rather than a question. Par
shook his head in agreement.
“Or the Highlander.”
Par shook his head a second time.
“That leaves Ciba Blue, Stasas, and Drutt. Blue is likely
dead; that means that if he’s the one, he was stupid enough to
let himself get killed in the bargain. Doesn’t sound like Blue.