His eyes alive with questions, Faegan looked into the dark recesses of her hood. "Are you one of the Ones Who Came Before?" he breathed.

"I am, and I am not," she said cryptically. "I have been here in this place for eons, doing their bidding. As you can see, my flesh has fallen away, but my mind remains. But I will tell you that eons ago, I was a woman of the craft. Tell me, do women still practice the arts in the world above?"

"For a long time it was forbidden, but now there are again such women," Wigg answered. "They are known as the Acolytes of Fledgling House. But they are only newly trained, and remain scattered across the land. We would like to call them all home, but we do not know how."

The watchwoman remained still for a time as she considered his words. "If the threat to the Vigors is as great as you say, you will need these women in your service," she said. "I suggest you call them back immediately."

"But as I said," Wigg protested, "we don't know how."

"If you are able to find the Scroll of the Vigors, examine it carefully, looking for the formula that invokes the River of Thought," she told him.

"The River of Thought?" Faegan repeated. "What do you mean?"

"No more talk," she said flatly. "Your questions are legion, and I have accommodated you long enough. It is time for you to make your decision. Do you wish to pay the psychic price for what you seek? Understand that if you agree, and pass this portal into my world, you are bound by your blood to keep your end of the bargain. There can be no turning back."

Faegan looked up to Wigg with questioning eyes. After a long pause, the lead wizard nodded.

"We agree," Faegan said.

"Then follow me," the watchwoman ordered. Turning, she walked into the darkness.

Wigg and Faegan followed tentatively behind, wondering what lay waiting for them on the other side.

CHAPTER

Thirty-two

"C an I have one, Marcus?" Rebecca asked. She was fairly jumping up and down, excited almost beyond words. "Please, Marcus," she pleaded, pulling on the sleeve of his shirt. "Please, can I?"

Marcus looked up and down the street to which he had carefully guided them. Like Bargainer's Square, it was teeming with passersby and street vendors. But this section of Tammerland was infinitely more appealing, not to mention safer. The area they were standing in was known as the Plaza of Fallen Heroes, and here and there could be seen marble statues erected to those who had fallen over the centuries in the service of the crown.

By Marcus' side stood the wheelbarrow that had lain up against the shed he and his sister lived in, and lying in the wheelbarrow was the scroll. Marcus was strong for his age. Even so, he found the scroll, with all of its gold adornments, difficult to lift. Finding the discarded wheelbarrow had been a great stroke of luck.

The patterned rug they had stolen was wound tightly around it, hiding it from view. The open ends of the rug were stuffed with rags. Marcus hoped that these simple measures would be enough to hide the scroll-at least until he had concluded his business with the man they were supposed to meet. He prayed to the Afterlife that it would not start glowing again. He and Rebecca had already survived several close scrapes, and they didn't need another one.

The man he was waiting for was supposedly a purveyor of artifacts of the craft. After Marcus had described the scroll to him, the fellow had seemed most anxious to examine it-almost giddy, in fact. Until yesterday Marcus had not known that such vendors existed, and had come upon the fellow's establishment quite by accident, during his latest foray to steal food. Subsequently asking around a bit, he learned that since the demise of the wizards of the Directorate, such places had not only begun to spring up in Tammerland, but were also flourishing.

Some of these purported merchants of the craft were legitimate, it seemed, and some were not. Selling anything they could get their hands on, they all claimed their wares to be of the craft. But what did appear certain was that with the fall of the Royal Guard and the Directorate, there was no shortage of those now willing to take advantage of a newly curious, souvenir-hungry populace. Many citizens had become morbidly anxious to own something that smacked of magic, or its supposed connection to the fallen House of Galland. It was said that anything that had come from the looted royal palace-and had its authenticity verified-would bring nearly its weight in gold.

Marcus looked down again at the rolled-up rug in the dilapidated wheelbarrow, thinking of what lay inside it. He had no idea whether it had come from the palace, but he was certain it was of the craft. Nothing else would glow like that-he was sure of it. And he was anxious to turn it into kisa so he and Rebecca could stop hiding and get on with their lives.

But that was not to say he was willing to sell the scroll to the first interested party who came along. Marcus had made it clear to the man meeting them today that he was merely to give them a price, and that he and his sister were going to entertain other offers before bargaining their item away. If an offer was good today, it would also be good later, he assumed.

Still, he remained nervous, and his palms were beginning to sweat. Reaching into his pocket, his hand found the cool, comforting handle of his knife.

"Come on, Marcus!" Rebecca started pleading again. "It only costs one kisa, and I know you have a few in your pocket. I heard them jangling together as you walked!"

Marcus smiled down at his sister. As he took in her dirty, tattered dress and the clubfoot that she never complained about, he felt his heart slip a bit.

In truth he would have much preferred to carefully spend all the kisa on food. It had been a long time since he had felt the comforting weight of coins in his pockets, even if they were few in number. And acquiring them had come hard. He had been forced to lounge around almost all afternoon yesterday on a nearby street corner before finding the perfect victim to "accidentally" bump into and relieve of his coins. And after all of that, he had only come up with four.

"Are you sure that's what you want?" he asked. "I know it's only one kisa. But when you buy one of those, it doesn't seem that you get much for your money. I worked hard for these coins, you know."

Rebecca just gazed up at him with her big, brown eyes, giving him the forlorn look that she knew he could rarely resist.

As she expected, Marcus finally relented.

"All right, all right," he said, smiling and reaching into his ragged pocket. "But only one, piglet. Do you understand?"

Nodding gleefully, she snatched the shiny gold coin and ran over to the stand, followed by Marcus and the wheelbarrow.

The vendor's stall was a simple, square-roofed affair. An ancient-looking woman sat inside on a stool, taking care of her customers. A young male assistant sat beside her, tending to the wares. Dozens of small wooden cages hung from the roof and lay scattered along the countertop. As Rebecca looked them over, Marcus smiled, reminded of what a nonsensical custom this was. Not to mention a very bad investment. Still, they weren't the only people standing here, willing to spend their kisa on what the crafty woman offered.

Each of the cages contained a throat lark. The birds were remarkably small: three of them could usually fit into the palm of a grown man's hand. They had presumably acquired their name because of the bright colors adorning their throats. The remainder of the bird was usually a very soft, dappled blue, although that sometimes varied. Well known for their singing voices, they were prized as house pets. As the larks danced happily about in their cages, their twittering combined to create a singularly beautiful harmony, attracting yet more of the curious to the old woman's stall.