Wasn’t it odd then that he was wondering about her now, that he found himself thinking about her when there was so little reason? But there it was, an inescapable fact. He supposed he wondered about her in a generic sort of way and not with any real hopes or aspirations. He did wonder how she had ended up with Paxon Leah and what had become of that relationship. He had sensed at the end that it might be more than casual, that they might have cared about each other in a more serious way. But he couldn’t say why he felt this was so; he couldn’t explain it with reasoning or logic.

Eventually, his thoughts drifted on to other things. To the boy, waiting for him back in Portlow. He didn’t even know his name. Wasn’t that odd? He had such plans for him, such possibilities in mind, and he didn’t know who he was. It was his nature not to get too close to people, of course. People were there to be used, instruments to be applied to a task. The boy was no different. Not in that way. In the way in which he might serve, he was decidedly different. In the nature of his power and his legacy, he was perhaps one of a kind.

But at the end of the day, the boy was there to be set on a course of action and made to follow through. He was just another weapon to be used against Arcannen’s enemies.

He wished suddenly that he still had someone inside the Federation government to whom he could turn. It was helpful having a highly placed collaborator working to help you realize your plans or aid you in obtaining special favors. He had no one like that these days. Sebec had been purged from the Druid Order, and he himself had eliminated Fashton Caeil, the Federation Minister of Security Against Magic.

Still, if you were on your own, you depended on no one to accomplish what needed doing, and the chances of mistakes were considerably lessened. He had learned that lesson a while back, and even though it placed a larger burden on him, it also assured that what was required would be done right.

Like now, when he was on his way to visit an old friend in the Southland city of Sterne in an effort to repay a debt.

He left his Sprint at the edge of the city airship field and walked several hundred yards to the field manager’s office to arrange for payment and a promise to watch over it. If he lost his airship, he would be in deep trouble. So a few extra credits paid to make sure that didn’t happen were credits well spent. The field manager was open to an arrangement—the pay he received from the city being less than what he believed he deserved—and a bargain was quickly struck. The Sprint would be carefully watched with an understanding that its owner would be back to claim it before dawn.

His escape route assured, Arcannen set out for the Federation barracks at the west end of the city.

He took a carriage to a place less than a quarter mile away—a shop that specialized in opiates and other mind-altering potions and plants—and stood outside until the shop had emptied of customers, checking a final time through the small glass windows to either side of the door to make certain before going in. The shop was small and cramped with shelves and bins backed up against all the available wall space and then stacked so high that a ladder was needed to reach the two top levels. A counter no more than four feet long sat well back in the shadows, its top clear of everything but a single cup and saucer and a smoking pipe resting in a bowl.

An old man sat behind the counter, eyes fixed on Arcannen. He might have been a hundred years old or a thousand. He was bent and withered, and until you looked closely you might have assumed that he had died and no one had noticed. He wore tattered gray clothes and a skullcap. Arcannen had never seen him wear anything else. His beard and hair were so wispy and thinned out, you could count the strands.

“Eld Loy,” the sorcerer greeted him, giving the old man a small bow. “All is well? Nothing has changed?”

The old man nodded.

“My friend still occupies the same quarters?”

Another nod.

“He sleeps alone?”

A shrug. A nod.

“The Red Slash do not ward him, I mean? I don’t care about the women.”

Still another nod.

Arcannen reached into his robes and withdrew a pouch filled with credits. “Yours, for your services—unless they prove inaccurate. In which case, they will pay for your burial.”

The old man didn’t blink. Arcannen bowed again and went back out the door.

He waited until close to midnight before making his way to his destination. It was a tavern set close to the barracks and frequented by the soldiers and their companions. It was the property of a retired squad leader and a few of his mates, and it catered almost exclusively to those who shared their worldview—which is to say, other soldiers. Even with midnight approaching, the tavern’s interior was well lit and filled with boisterous men and women, shouting and laughing and singing songs of army life. A few of those with too much drink and a vague notion that it was time to get home had made it as far as the front stoop before falling by the wayside.

Arcannen stepped around the bodies carefully. Because Eld Loy had given him a diagram of the tavern’s layout, he knew to go to the back door, step quickly inside, take three steps left to the rear stairwell, and climb to the small bedroom on the third floor. No one saw him enter the building; no one heard him ascend the stairs. This was not surprising, given the amount of noise and drunkenness in the tavern below. Arcannen had counted heavily on the distraction to keep from being noticed.

He paused at the door to listen. There were no sounds coming from inside. He tried the knob; it turned easily. He opened the door and peered in. Pale light from a streetlamp seeped through curtains hung over a solitary window to reveal that the room was unoccupied. Arcannen stepped in. The room was dismal—a squalid box with a bed, an old dresser, a table with a basin, and a wicker chair. There were some clothes on the floor and a few odds and ends of personal effects.

He glanced up. A heavy lamp was suspended from a hook screwed into one of the ceiling beams, but it was unlit.

Arcannen took another look around, moved the chair into the shadows to one side, and sat down to wait.

Miles away, in the village of Portlow, Gammon was confronting Reyn Frosch. It was after midnight, and the tavern patrons were finally beginning to make their way home, the great room quieting down. Even in the absence of the boy’s music, the people of the village had come to spend the evening, perhaps in the hope that he would resume playing. But Reyn had not found a way to replace his elleryn, and in spite of the assurances of the stranger that the Fortrens would leave him alone, he was not convinced.

This was being reinforced by Gammon as they spoke in the privacy of the boy’s room.

“You can’t trust a man like that,” Gammon was insisting. “Did you see his eyes? Of course you did. How could you not? Wicked. Dangerous! He may well be the man to convince the Fortrens to let you be, but what do you want with a man like that?”

“He knows something about my singing.” Reyn rubbed his temples. His head ached. “Maybe he can explain what happened.”

“Maybe. But maybe he wants something more from you. Why would he help you otherwise? I think you should go. Get away from here. Find a new town and a new tavern that needs a singer with your talent.”

“I told him I would wait.”

“You owe him nothing! Think about what you are doing!”

Reyn sighed. This discussion was going nowhere. He could not make Gammon understand. The tavern owner was fixated on the stranger’s darkness, as if it were a portent of impending doom. The boy didn’t sense that at all. He was less concerned with the way people dressed and looked. What determined a man’s character was how he behaved. The stranger had done nothing to him but show interest.