reasonably expect the instructions a disowned mage could provide.
It took Walegrin less than three days to corner Niko-demos. Regular sources
denied the Stepson was in town. An alert ear in the proper taverns and alleys
always heard rumors: Niko had exchanged his soul for Randal’s-the mage did not
reappear; he had joined Ischade’s decaying household-but Strat denied this with
a vigor that had the ring of honesty; he was drinking himself to oblivion at the
Alekeep-and this proved true.
“He’s shaking drunk. He looks like a man who’s dealing with witches,” Walegrin
informed Molin when they met to plot their strategies.
The priest wondered what he, himself, must look like; the knowledge that witch
blood dwelt in his heart had done nothing for his peace of mind. “Perhaps we can
offer him service for service. When can you bring him to me?”
“Niko’s strange-even for a Whoreson. I don’t think he’d agree to a meeting and
he’s Bandaran-trained. Dead drunk he could lay a hand on you and you’d be in
your grave two nights later.”
“Then we’ll have to surprise him. I’ll prepare a carriage with the children in
it. We’ll bring it outside the Alekeep. I trust Stormbringer. Once Stealth sees
those children he’ll solve that problem for us.”
Walegrin shook his head. “You and the children, perhaps. Bribes aside, the
Alekeep is not a place for my regulars. You’d best go with your priests.”
“My priests?” Molin erupted into laughter. “My priests, Walegrin? I have the
service of a handful of acolytes and ancients-the only ones who didn’t go out to