“Could you track him on the cliff road?” Frostpine wanted to know.

“He had two pairs of boots,” said Heluda. “Our trackers followed one pair down to a fire the hired sleigh men use to keep warm on the Kadasep side of Akkut. None of them saw anyone throw cloth boots into their fire, of course. Then he walked away in clean boots.” She grimaced and passed her hand over the drawing. It vanished. “Curse him, rot his teeth, may he drop through thin ice,” she growled. “He laid a fuse to a good-sized fire, lit it, and left. By the time anyone knew the front of the house was burning, it was too late to stop it. The winds were like oil on the flames.” She looked at Daja. “If you or Ravvot Ladradun have any ideas about this naliz, let me know. As soon as we’ve bagged our counterfeiter, this one’s mine.”

“I don’t know what ideas I could have,” Daja said. “Ben’s the one who’s studied all this.”

“But you’re a mage, and in his company. You-“

Someone rapped on the door and opened it without waiting. It was a housemaid; behind her was a man in magistrate’s colors. “Viymese Salt, we’ve got a possibility,” he said breathless. “Bought twenty sheets of brass. We tracked him.”

Frostpine levered himself out of his seat as Heluda stood. She frowned at him. “Are you up to this?” she demanded. “You look half dead.”

“Magistrate’s mages, so pessimistic,” Frostpine replied, walking to the door. “I prefer to think I am half alive. And I know the marks of his power. You need me.” Looking at Daja he said, “Rest.”

Daja nodded. “Bundle up,” she replied, thinking the kaq who mucked with money would discover he was no match for Frostpine.

She dragged on a robe, gathered her clean clothes, and doddered down the servants’ stairs to the steam room. Once she washed and rebraided her many braids, she slept again. She woke to the clock’s chime at midnight and got up, feeling stronger. Someone had cleared the fireplace table of the remains of her supper. Downstairs she went to raid the kitchen. The urge to go out caught her as she piled strawberry preserves on bread. Still eating, she went to the slush room and pulled on her winter clothes. Once that was done, she picked up a torch and her skates, and went outside.

She didn’t need a torch: several burned around the basin, though they would be out soon. Daja buckled on her skates, then began to exercise doggedly. She kept one eye on the ice, alert in case her tired muscles decided to give way. Instead, the skating seemed to help both her muscles and her spirits. She speeded up, gliding this way and that across the basin. The icy night air was calm, with no breath of the wicked Syth in it. It was clean and unburdened with soot, ashes, smoke, or smells. It brushed her face like a blessing-a bitterly cold blessing, but a blessing all the same.

Chapter 12

Despite her skating session, Daja woke at her usual hour, feeling better physically, though sad yet. She had dreamed about the maid, clutching her figure of Yorgiry as she died.

Once dressed, her Trader staff and the staff she used to train with Jory in hand, Daja went upstairs to the schoolroom. To her surprise and pleasure, Jory was there practicing her forms. It had to be boring, but from what Daja glimpsed before Jory noticed her and stopped, Jory had made progress. Her staff movement and hand and feet placement matched the marks Daja had made for them perfectly.

“We’re ready for the next step,” Daja announced, leaning her staves against the wall. She stepped into an open space and positioned Jory there, then traced the outlines of her feet with a piece of charcoal. That done, she used her Trader staff to draw a protective circle around them both, and raised her barriers to enclose them. She was looking forward to this, she realized. Her protections weren’t as strong as usual-Daja hadn’t recovered from her efforts at Jossaryk House-but they would hold any power Jory might throw off.

“Stand here,” Daja told her. “Eyes forward, your staff in the middle block position. I’ll walk around you; now and then I’ll strike. Keep your eyes straight ahead. No looking at me, no turning your head, until you actually have to move to block me. Block only. No strikes.”

“I don’t understand,” Jory replied. “If I can’t follow you-“

“You have to be ready,” Daja said. “Open your senses, magic and all. Act only when you must. If you start thinking your foot itches, or your hair needs to be washed, if you want your breakfast, I’ll hit you.”

“You’re going to hurt me?” Jory asked, horrified.

Daja sighed. “Now there’s a silly question. No, but I will tap you. You have to know you were wrong.”

“What if you hit my back?” Jory wanted to know. “I can’t stop you then!”

“Trust I won’t do it till you’re good enough to anticipate it. Now take the position.” Daja paced in front of Jory as old Skyfire did with his students. “Stop following me with your eyes. Look straight ahead. Wait. Listen. Relax. Your hands aren’t in the right position. Stop winking; I haven’t hit you yet. Twitching your eyes won’t protect your face.”

Jory instantly threw up a high block, expecting a strike from Daja’s remark about her face. Daja tapped Jory’s ribs. “Don’t listen to what I say,” she told her student again, pacing once more. “Forget the cold, or breakfast, or-” Daja shifted her body. Jory’s head whipped around; she blocked low, and Daja tapped her skull. “Don’t try to outthink me,” ordered Daja. “Maybe you can one day, but not today. I’m in my center, in my empty space, and I go where I like.” Another high strike. Jory’s block glanced off Daja’s staff: she was a breath too late. Daja thumped her head lightly.