with surprise and a dazzle of light flashed between them.
As Walegrin looked up a second flash erupted. Their prisoner needed no more time
to effect his escape. They heard the youth mount and gallop off, but by the time
either man could see clearly again the trail was already becoming mud.
“Magic,” Thrusher muttered as he got to his feet.
Walegrin said nothing as he got his legs under him. “Well, Thrush-what else was
in that purse?” he asked after several moments.
Thrusher checked it cautiously again. “A small ransom in gold and this.” He
handed Walegrin a small silver object.
“One of the Ilsig links, by the look of it,” Walegrin whispered. He looked back
toward the villa. “He’s up to something.”
“The magician wasn’t Rankene,” Thrusher offered in consolation.
“That only means we have new enemies. C’mon. It’s time to find my sister. She’ll
make at least as much sense as the metal-master.”
The rain had kept the bazaar crowds to a minimum, but so close to the harbor
there was fog, too, and Walegrin got them lost twice before he heard the sound
of Dubro’s hammer. Two mercenaries, a Whoreson pair by the look of them, waited
beneath the awning. Dubro was mending their shield.
“You’re putting in more dents than you’re taking out, oaf,” the younger, taller
of the pair complained, but Dubro went on hammering.
Walegrin and Thrusher moved closer without being noticed. A rope was tied across
the doorway, usually a sign that Illyra was scrying. Walegrin tried to find the
scent of her incense in the air but found only the smell of Dubro’s fire.