Daja felt like a knot of embarrassment tied around a ball of fury. As a Trader she was used to the hate of non-Trader kaqs. In those days, like every Trader, she told herself that this was the jealousy of the inferior. She didn’t think that about non-Traders any more, though for Morrachane Ladradun she would make an exception.

She went to the window to put distance between herself and the door as Morrachane continued to scold Ben. Half the city thinks he’s the most wonderful thing since window glass, Daja thought. And this dried-up codfish of a woman treats him like an idiot. How can she not see how good he is?

She noticed something in the corner, tucked between the window and a bookcase. It was a six-foot-tall section of shelves, nearly invisible to the rest of the room. Each shelf held an assortment of objects, all scented faintly with smoke. Here was a metal soldier, top half perfect, the bottom half melted smooth. She touched it with her brass-gloved hand and saw a room with toys scattered everywhere, the carpet and hangings in flames. Women in nightdresses ran out with screaming children in their arms. Daja jerked her hand away.

Here was a half-burned book; there a molten piece of glass. There were nearly fifty things, all marked by fire. The one that made the hair stand on Daja’s arms was the skeleton of a hand, each bone threaded on wire to keep its original position, a molten glob of gold around the wedding ring finger. She did not touch the gold.

“Mementoes,” Ben said. Daja spun-she hadn’t heard him return. “Every fire where I manage to make a difference, keep it from being a complete disaster, I like a reminder,” he continued. “In case I get to thinking I’m not worth much.”

Daja looked at him. He was still red with humiliation.

“I apologize for my mother,” he added hesitantly “She’s-very strong-minded. She made us rich after my father lost our fortune. Anyway, she sometimes forgets what she says or does isn’t… polite. Every business deal is a crisis for her.”

He looked worn down. He half-killed himself on that fire last night, making sure everyone did as they should, even worrying about me, Daja thought angrily. He should be in bed, resting, and she orders him out to look at account books and shipping bills.

Daja couldn’t give him any rest, but she could help him avoid more burns like the one that scarred his left hand. She had meant to think about the project some more before she spoke, but she wanted to cheer him up now. “Would you like a pair of gloves-well, gauntlets, ending about here”-she tapped her elbow-“to shield your hands from flames?”

His eyes widened; he rubbed his left hand. “Are you joking? You can do that?”

“I work with a kind of living metal.” She rubbed her own left hand; his eyes went to it. “I did an artificial leg with it once-well, me, Frostpine, and my foster-brother and -sisters. I’ve been working with it since-the living metal, not artificial legs. I mean, maybe I could do a leg now. I haven’t tried.”

Ben’s mouth twitched; there was humor in his eyes. “For the first time since we’ve met, you sound like a fourteen-year-old,” he pointed out. “I can’t make head nor tail of what you’re saying.”

Daja smiled and went back to her chair. She sipped her tea: it was cold. “Never mind the leg. The important thing is, I can make gloves for you.” She didn’t want to mention the suit yet. That was more complicated than gloves, and would require a great deal of planning, if it could be done at all. “Have you paper or a slate?” she asked. “I need to know how long your arms are-a tracing will do.”

Daja left Ladradun House with the paper in a roll under her arm as Serg brought the sleigh around from the Ladradun stable. After tucking the paper under the front seat where it would be safe, Daja glanced up at the house. Morrachane’s unwelcoming face watched her from a window. The woman grimaced and turned away.

“Kaq,” Daja muttered in Tradertalk.

“Where do we go now, Viymese?” asked Serg.

Daja shoved Morrachane from her mind and consulted her list of possible mage-teachers. “Little Sugar Street,” she directed.

Once she had spoken to the last mages on her list, Daja and Serg returned to Bancanor House just before the hour when Daja was to teach meditation. Daja didn’t want to leave that for another day. The last of Sandry’s letters to arrive before winter closed the roads south had described the mess her student made because she hadn’t pressed him to learn to control his power. Daja thought no one at Bancanor House would appreciate being left to hang in midair, or worse.

She found Nia in Kol’s study, inspecting her father’s set of ebony and cherry chessmen one by one. “I don’t know what carpenter’s magic even is,” she told Daja. “I know this is well polished, and the clothes on the pieces are shaped to make the grain of the wood look like cloth, but that isn’t magic.”

After thinking about her own studies and those of her friends, Daja said, “A lot of magic is just everyday practical. No matter what power you have, how it gets used centers on the same things, mostly. People always like magic to protect them from fire, from thieves. Magic gets used for medicine and business.” She leaned against Kol’s desk, looking at Nia. The girl was alert and intent. She wants this, Daja thought. Even if it’s not what people expect of wealthy girls, she wants it.

Daja fiddled with her Trader’s staff, her constant companion. Odd, that she’d always thought of the brass cap and what it said about her, never about the ebony that ran between the metal-covered ends. “What kind of wood is this?” she asked Nia, though she knew the answer.