“What?” Ferkudi asked.

“I hate to say it, but I’m with Ferkudi on this,” Cruxer said.

“Promachos Guile opened almost all the restricted libraries so that the forbidden magics could be studied—for defensive purposes only,” Ben-hadad said.

“The Magisterium was not pleased,” Quentin said.

“So the luxiats have been moving books out of the newly opened libraries into the libraries that are still closed,” Ben-hadad said.

“It’s not technically disobedience,” Quentin said. “I mean, the promachos’s order was that the libraries be opened, not that all the books in those libraries should be open for study.”

“That’s basically bullshit,” Kip said.

“Yes,” Quentin admitted. “You have to understand, though, it’s been a hard season for the luxiats. Half a dozen of the most respected scholars among us were made laughingstocks when it was discovered that the bane actually exist. Having the privilege of being the only ones allowed to study these forbidden materials stripped from us has been hard—and made harder when sometimes common drafters and Blackguards with no training have made discoveries we missed for many years. It’s been a gushing well of humiliation.”

“You’re going to be in big trouble for talking to us, aren’t you?” Cruxer asked.

“Oh yes.”

“Well, you’re in it now. Might be time to make new friends,” Ferkudi said. He grinned a big friendly grin and threw a meaty arm around Quentin’s slim shoulders.

Quentin smiled uncertainly.

Chapter 38

For a city where light never dies, Big Jasper had a lot of dark places. And the Order seemed to know them all.

City and sky seemed to have conspired to bring darkness. Teia hunched her shoulders, determined not to be frightened. The moon had been strangled by dark clouds whose fingers thickened as they flexed and that celestial mirror expired. Fog billowed in off the water, hit the walls like an army in a suicide charge, and rolled right over them. For a few moments, Teia could see the fog massed above the walls, and then it came crashing down into the streets.

As it swamped her, blotting out sight, she heard a scream in a nearby street. No, not a scream. Just a cat, yowling in fury. Then it stopped.

The cobbles of the street were slickened with the damp. Teia saw a star bobbing along above her, and it took her imagination moments to calm and realize it was nothing more than a watchman’s lantern. He passed directly above her on the wall, and he never even saw her. Teia brushed one hand along the wall, telling herself it wasn’t for reassurance.

You’re going to your death, the lantern seemed to whisper as it floated away into the distance. Find light!

I’m a slave, not a—

She stopped the thought. She wasn’t a slave. She could leave at any time. She had money in her pocket. She had money in the barracks. She could buy a commission and go home. She could go and … what?

But she could figure it out. She’d have time. She’d have her family. She’d—

Fear makes you stupid. Look at what I’ve got here. Look at what I’ve done. Who back home would believe that I’d even spoken to the White, much less been given an assignment vital to all of the Seven Satrapies by her? Who would believe that I trained with Commander Ironfist, much less led him in an assault on the fortress of Ruic Head? Hell, with my color, who will even believe I’m a drafter?

Out in the wide world, what use is paryl? I can kill people secretly? Oh, lovely. Get lots of chances to use that in polite society. I can see through clothing? Oh, perfect, please tell me how well endowed Lord Fuddykins is! Ha.

You’re not a slave anymore, Teia. So who are you going to be?

The Order isn’t going to kill me. If they’d wanted to do that, they would have already done it. Right? But what if they changed their minds? If they wanted to kill her in the future, it wouldn’t be that hard for them to find her, would it? Or her family.

Teia had to lean against the wall for a moment as her throat constricted. The darkness and fog were oppressive, heavy, clinging to her, making it hard to breathe, diving into her throat, invading her body. Her eyes widened and widened and she felt the tingle of paryl entering her.

Drafted it when I was scared. That’s progress, right?

A lantern of the stuff bloomed on her fist and pierced the darkness in every direction. It cut through the haze as if it weren’t even there and lent an odd metallic quality to the stones and the cobbles. She thought she heard something, and she looked behind her. Nothing.

When she turned around again, a hooded, cloaked man stood in front of her. Murder Sharp. He looked pleased with himself, or perhaps pleased to see her. “Good color there. Tight spectrum, almost no bleed. You’ve got a knack. With paryls, we have to take what we get. Walk with me.”

“You look different,” Teia said. The last time she’d seen him, he’d had a fringe of orange hair around a bald scalp. Apparently it had been a ruse, because he wasn’t bald. Now his hair had grown out, though it was still cropped short. It made him look quite a bit younger. He was growing out a beard, the scruff nicely delineated.

“I have the curse of being readily identifiable. I have to work harder for my disguises. I envy your bland prettiness.”

“Thanks?”

“It was a compliment. Do you have any idea how valuable it is to have a description of you be ‘slender, medium to dark skin, medium height, maybe a little on the short side, dark hair, fairly pretty’? Any distinguishing marks people will remember can be removable ones, like a beauty mark, or a wig—and with your skin tone, you can as easily seem to be a natural when wearing a wig of wavy dark blonde hair or black Parian curls. Being remembered or being forgotten is life and death in my work, so yes, I envy you. Here we are.”

He knocked an odd, syncopated beat on the door.

Great, I’m going to have to become a drummer on top of everything else.

The door opened, and with the light pouring out into the street, Teia constricted her eyes and let the paryl go.

Whoever had opened the door retreated back through another room beyond the entry. Murder Sharp handed her a white robe to put over her clothes. “Don’t identify yourself in any way. The others will be put in danger the more they know. Hearing your voice will be bad enough.” He gave her dark spectacles, too, and a white cloth veil. He dressed himself similarly, except he donned a mask with real white fur and yellow teeth, some snarling creature that looked like a cross between a weasel and a bear. Then he led her into the next room.

The building was a smithy. Lanterns provided cheery light and invaded the darkness outside. There were a dozen figures inside, chatting quietly. But all were cloaked and veiled. Only a few wore the weasel-bear masks. The veils were simple flaps of white cloth, hanging from each person’s hat, leaving only their eyes revealed. Some of the veiled figures wore dark spectacles. Those must be drafters, making sure that no one would be able to recognize them by the luxin patterns in their eyes.

Of course, the disguises meant nothing to a paryl drafter. If Teia tried, she could see through their clothes, through their masks, through their silliness. She went from terrified to on the verge of derisive laughter in a second.

Fine, so maybe it was hysterical laughter she was on the verge of. Easy there, Teia. She followed Master Sharp into the smithy and looked from one figure to another in the red light of the forge fire.