“There!” snapped Morrachane. “You see? Already it begins.”

Daja’s knuckles were creaking, so tightly were her hands clenched in her coat pockets. The living metal bit into her flesh, squeezed by her working muscles. In the end, she did something she had always sworn she would never try. She could almost hear Dedicate Crane, the most snobbish mage at Winding Circle, talking as she spoke. “Forgive me, Ravvi Ladradun,” she said, gathering an invisible robe of arrogance around herself as she stood straighter, “but we speak of things magical, which may only be understood by adepts. Nia has discovered something within these walls which calls to the source of her power. It cannot be safely ignored. However incredible it seems to those without magic, it is a thing that any mage will know.” She turned to Serg, who was pretending not to eavesdrop. “Let us seek out a teacher for Ravvikki Jorality.” To Morrachane she added, “Will you excuse us? The moment power is revealed, a teacher must be found quickly, or tragedy may result.” Morrachane sighed. Her face was briefly wistful as she kissed Jory’s cheek. “Tell your sister I am sorry I did not get to say hello.”

Jory kissed Morrachane’s cheek in return. “She’ll be sorry, too, Aunt Morrachane.”

The older woman climbed out of the sleigh. Her nod to Daja was barely polite. “Good day to you.”

Daja nodded, then climbed into the sleigh. In her normal voice she said, “Little Sugar Street, please, Serg.” As he set the horses forward, Daja looked back. A sleigh with the Ladradun insignia was drawing up before Morrachane.

Jory, who had remained straight-faced through Daja’s speech, collapsed into giggles. “I’m sorry,” she said when she caught her breath, “but you should have heard yourself. What was that? Is it really so drastic to find us teachers?”

“That was what Briar calls snooty mage jabber,” Daja replied with a rueful smile. After two months, the Bancanors were all familiar with Daja’s foster-family. “I shouldn’t have done it, really.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” Jory said. “Aunt Morrachane’s sweet to me and Nia, and to Eidart and Peigine when she sees them, but she isn’t very nice to other people.”

“Is she really your aunt?” Daja asked. She couldn’t imagine the Bancanor family tree sprouting any fruit like Morrachane.

“No,” Jory replied, flouncing to get comfortable. “But we call her that. I think she misses Ben’s children, so she adopted us. She likes it when we call her Aunt. She says it makes her feel like we’re really family.”

And that is a good thing? Daja wondered as Serg wove the sleigh through crowded streets. I’d as soon be related to a shark. Sooner.

Daja had planned to stop for midday at some point, but she had reckoned without the cook-mages they visited. Each offered Daja and Jory tea and refreshments; Namornese hospitality meant that Serg too was fed. By the time the sun dipped below the western roofs, they had visited all of the cooking-mages on Daja’s list. Jory had chosen none of them.

“What about Inagru?” Daja asked. “Only has two other students, bakes for the governor’s castle, does the Goldsmith’s Guild suppers… “

Jory shook her head.

“Viymese Valerian,” Serg suggested wearily. “Nobles’ banquets only. Jars of summer vegetables with magic for strength, health, peace, love. I should eat at his table.”

Jory shook her head.

“We’ve met the best cook-mages in Kugisko,” Daja reminded her. “You saw this list. Your mother approved every name on it. I don’t-“

“There’s one I didn’t mention,” Jory said without meeting Daja’s eyes. “Mother didn’t list her because she’s said not to take students. But we don’t know till we ask, right?”

Daja labored against a feeling of ill-usage. Jory had arranged things so that by the time she mentioned this person, Daja would be too exhausted to object. Worse, her maneuver worked. Daja just wanted to see this mage and get it over with. “Who?” she demanded.

“Olennika Potcracker,” Jory whispered. “In Blackfly Bog.”

“I am doomed,” announced Serg, shoulders drooping. “Ravvot Kolborn will use my blood to strengthen his gold and make my skull into a chalice.”

“Papa won’t put blood in gold,” said Jory. “It wouldn’t be good for it.”

Don’t reason with him, Daja thought wearily to herself. You’ll just make the fit last longer.

“Or I will be killed in Blackfly Bog by dangerous men for my clothes and the pretty horses,” Serg moaned.

Daja sighed. “Blackfly Bog?” she asked Jory.

“Not in Blackfly Bog,” Jory said, glaring at Serg. “On the river, across Kyrsty Bridge. Beside the Yorgiry Hospital. It’s patrolled by lawkeepers, Serg. It’s perfectly safe.”

Serg straightened his shoulders and back. “If we die, I blame you,” he replied with dignity. He set the horses forward.

Daja turned to Jory. “You could have mentioned this earlier,” she pointed out.

“I thought maybe I’d want one of the others,” Jory mumbled.

“Hmpf,” snorted Daja as the sleigh hissed through the few inches of snow on the streets. “In Oti Bookkeeper’s accounts it says that the thing you put off doing is the thing you pay for the most.”

“Who is Oti Bookkeeper?” asked Serg over one shoulder.