who was reaching for the garment Lalo had draped over the other chair.
“It’s still wet …” he said helplessly.
“That’s the only trouble with these transformations,” the stranger shuddered as
he wrapped the cloak around him, “especially in this kind of weather. But
sometimes it’s safer to travel in disguise.”
Lalo shifted focus and saw the blue glow of power. The pride in the stranger’s
face was tempered by an almost puppy ish eagerness, and a hint of wistfulness as
well, as if not all his magic could win him what he really desired.
“What do you want with me, Mage?”
“Oh, you can call me Randal, Master Limner …” the mage grinned. He smoothed
back his damp hair as if he were trying to hide his ears. “And what I want is
you, or rather. Sanctuary does …”
Lalo tried to cover his confusion with another sip of wine. He had heard about
the Hazard-class sorcerer who worked with the Stepsons, but during the weeks
when Lalo had been trying to learn magic from the priests of Savankala, the
Tysian mage had been unaccountably absent. Lalo had never seen him before.
Randal fumbled at his collar and pulled out a tight roll of canvas. With that
confident grin that was already beginning to rasp Lalo’s nerves, he flattened it
against the table.
“Do you recognize this drawing?” It was the picture of that mercenary Niko, in
whose background two other faces had so unexpectedly appeared.
Lalo grimaced, knowing it all too well, and wishing, not for the first time,
that he had never let Molin Torchholder take the damned thing. Certainly no one