If only the dorje Tanju had given Arvin hadn’t broken, finding the satyr would have been an easy matter, Arvin thought. Without it, he would be forced to rely on his own, limited, powers. The only one he had that might be of use was one that gave him an inkling of whether a given course of action was good or bad. By manifesting it, he might get a sense of whether it would be better to search this section of the city or that one for the satyr. But the inklings weren’t always accurate, and the power could be manifested only so many times. And now it was morning, and his meditations were over—and the baron would expect him to perform a miracle.
Hunger grumbled in his stomach, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten yet. He should get dressed and find some food. He lifted his belt from the rack that held wooden practice swords and buckled it around his waist, adjusting it so his dagger was snug at the small of his back. His trousers and shirt were draped over one of the battered wooden posts that served as man-sized targets; his boots lay on the floor nearby. He dressed then crossed the room to a table on which stood a bowl of cold water. He splashed some of it onto his hair, combing it away from his eyes with his fingers. He flexed his left hand—his abbreviated little finger always ached in cold weather—then pulled on his magical glove. Then, just to see if he could do it, he drew his dagger, closed his eyes, and suddenly spun and threw the weapon, relying on memory to guide his aim. He heard a thunk and a creaking noise and opened his eyes. The arm of the quintain was rotating slowly, the dagger stuck fast in the center of the small wooden shield that hung from one end of it. Arvin smiled.
Applause echoed from above. Glancing up, Arvin saw the baron standing on the spectator’s gallery that ran along one side of the practice hall. He had entered it silently, his footsteps muffled by the gallery’s thick carpet. Arvin wondered how long he’d been standing there. The baron had changed into fresh clothes, but his eyes were puffy; he hadn’t slept. A sword was at his hip, and he was wearing his helmet. Its purple plume swayed as he descended the stairs to the floor of the practice room.
“The satyr has been found,” Foesmasher announced.
“Excellent!” Arvin exclaimed, relieved. “If we ask the right questions, his thoughts will tell us where….” Belatedly, he noticed that the baron’s lips were pressed together in a grim line. “What’s wrong?”
“When I received your warning last night, I ordered the city’s gates sealed,” Foesmasher said. “The Eyes began a block-by-block search of Ormpetarr; their spells flushed the satyr out a short time ago. He scaled the city wall. One of my soldiers gave chase along the battlements. The satyr slipped and fell to his death.”
“That’s terrible news,” Arvin said.
“Yes. The soldier responsible has been punished.”
Hearing the grim tone in Foesmasher’s voice, Arvin cringed, thankful he hadn’t been the one to cause the satyr’s death. He didn’t want to ask what had been done to the soldier; his imagination already painted a vivid enough picture.
The baron walked over to the quintain and pulled Arvin’s dagger from it. “You’ve rested and replenished your magic.” It was a statement rather than a question.
Arvin gave what he hoped was a confident-looking nod.
“What will you do next?”
Arvin was wondering that, himself. Even with the dorje intact, he might not have been able to locate Glisena. Whatever was preventing her from being located by wizardry and clerical magic might very well block psionics, as well. There was one person, however, who wasn’t shielded by magic.
“I’m going to pay a visit to Ambassador Extaminos,” Arvin told the baron.
Foesmasher frowned. “To what end?”
“It’s possible that Sibyl plans to use the child as a means to force Dmetrio to do her bidding,” Arvin explained. “Demands may already have been made—and if they have, and it’s Naneth who’s making them, Dmetrio may be our way of finding her. And through her, Glisena.”
“Excellent,” the baron said. “Let’s go there at once. If he doesn’t tell us what we want to know—”
“That might not be such a good idea, Lord Foesmasher,” Arvin said in a careful voice. “Your presence might… agitate the ambassador. And an agitated mind will be harder for my psionics to penetrate. The best chance we have of learning more is if I meet with the ambassador alone.”
The baron toyed with Arvin’s dagger, considering this. “Was it mind magic that allowed you to find the target with your eyes closed,” he asked, testing the dagger’s balance, “or the magic of this dagger?”
“Neither,” Arvin said, surprised by the change of subject. “I’ve worked as a net weaver and rope maker since the age of six. It makes for nimble fingers—you learn to be quick with a knife. Target practice does the rest.”
The baron handed him the dagger. “Helm grant that the questions you put to Ambassador Extaminos also find their mark.”
