without effort; a good sorcerer might hold six or a dozen at once. It was
Mizraith’s fame that he maintained past a hundred, although it was well known
that he did this by casting secondary spells on lesser’sorcerers, tapping their
power unbeknownst. Still, gathering all these strings and holding them, ‘ as
well as the direct spells that protected his life and fortune, used most of his
concentration, giving him a distracted air. The unwary might interpret this as
senility – a half-century without sleep had left its mark – and might toy to
take his purse or life, as their last act.
But Mizraith was rarely seen on the streets, and certainly never near the noise
and smell of the Maze. He normally kept to his opulent apartments in the
easternmost part of town, flanked by the inns of Wideway, overlooking the sea.
One-Thumb warned the pirate cook that he might have to take a double shift, and
took a bottle of finest brandy to give to Mizraith, and a skin of the ordinary
kind to keep up their courage as they went to face the man who guarded his life.
The emptied skin joined the harbour’s flotsam before they’d gone half of
Wideway, and they continued in grim silence.
Mizraith’s eldest son let them in, not seeming surprised at their visit. ‘The
bodyguards stay here,’ he said, and made a pass with one hand. ‘You’ll want to
leave all your iron here, as well.’
One-Thumb felt the dagger next to his ankle grow warm; he tossed it away and
also dropped his rapier and the dagger sheathed to his forearm. There was a