The rain pattered off Jannia’s window like a wave of ocean foam. Everything beyond was grey, blue, and distorted. The candles on the Mazaar’s desk flickered as though they could sense the strength of the storm. When the thunder rumbled outside, the light quivered. The subject of Farek’s visit to Jannia’s quarters was instilling a sense of agitation in him, and he longed for his evening walk. If the rainstorm didn’t let up, he would be forced to stay indoors.
Jannia had given Farek a deadline, when he insisted on doing his own research into Devender’s legitimacy. The last day of the Moon. Which was today. So here Farek was, sitting with his hands balled together, telling her all that he had learned.
It was not much. All that Norrey knew was what he had heard since Master Akursh’s arrival, and Gravagan would not receive the letter carried by Sievus and Diaren for at least several months. “I spoke to Lord Katakro’s healer,” Farek said. “He told me the most.”
Jannia nodded and beckoned for him to go on. She wore a low-cut blouse of steely cloth, embroidered with metallic lace shoulders, but Farek’s attention was on the skeptic fold in her eyebrows.
“For starters, he confirmed that Devender is an accomplished scholar and has indeed attended the locations he claims to have,” Farek said. “But he also told me one other detail. Supposedly, Devender is known as a miser to some. He always seeks accommodation, despite being significantly wealthy on his own.”
Jannia looked into the candlelight as he considered this rumour. “If he is a miser, he’ll ask for money soon enough, and frankly I would be more comfortable paying someone for their services than not.”
“But why? Why come all the way to Soros for this?” Farek asked. He didn’t have abundant reason to distrust the mage yet, but there was something he couldn’t put his finger on. He was suspicious by nature, he knew.
His sister shrugged. “Only time will tell,” she said. “I see no reason to refuse his offer, despite this.”
“Very well,” Farek said, reluctantly. “Neither do I.”
Jannia nodded and leaned back. “I think we have a state magician then.” She lifted a bottle of wine from the end-table next to her desk. Farek gave her a nod and she poured two glasses. She would speak with the sage in the morning.
The rest of the afternoon stretched by slowly as the errant clap of sudden thunder made Farek jump and the continued rain built his sense of uneasiness. Each place he had gone to in his search for information had given him the same reply when he asked about the events of the Great Isle. No one knew anything. Only the rumours that Jannia had already reported to Farek were given to him in reply to his scouring.
At last the rain let up and Farek went in search of relief. He marched briskly through the streets, ignoring the banter of homeless and the advances of harlots. He sought out the loudest sounds in the damp city. He broke up a brawl when it was just a shouting match, and he chased away a thief trying to pick the lock on someone’s front door.
Then, in the waterfront, Farek spotted something strange. He watched a man walking along the docks. None of the ships had lights lit, so it was impossible to say which was his. The sailor wore rough flaxen clothes from the swamplands and a long braid of dark grey hair dangled behind his head. What struck Farek as strange was the box the man carried, for it had some weight. When Farek got close enough, cutting through an alleyway to a different point in the harbour, he realized the box was a wooden chest, locked with a brass-plated clasp, and cornered with solid metal plates.
The man led Farek through quite a maze. He cut in zig-zags across the city of Soros, between districts, between side streets and main avenues. He never stopped to speak to anyone, but didn’t stride briskly as though in a rush. Farek followed from a distance, cutting corners wherever he could to avoid being noticed.
He had almost missed the man; on account of his day job, he often didn’t stay out too late on his walks.
The man’s path led him to Debtor’s Down, the poorest borough of the Bank. In between two leaning stone buildings, the man chose a narrow alleyway for what must have been the final stretch of his midnight march. Farek looked down the mouth of the alley until the man entered a square between the city block. The heir of Soros couldn’t approach without being spotted, and couldn’t see a thing in there. Whoever the recipient of the chest was, they would not take kindly to Farek’s approach.
Farek waited a while, but didn’t see the man emerge. With a scowl and a curse, he finally began the hike back to Coin Hill. The cloudy sky blocked out the stars and the clouds, so Farek moved quietly amongst the darkness. When he neared Coin Hill, he at last found the musty light of the old lanterns. Another damn mystery, he thought, as he stumbled home.