Sandry took a breath to clear her head of the giddiness of shock, thinking, I have got to get smelling salts. To the unhappy Guardsman she said, “Can she move? There are signs of magic here, and she’s sitting right on them.”

“Of course there’s magic,” said the Guard bitterly. “Murdering beasts walk by twenty-four of us to hack up four people, two of them kids—you bet there’s magic in it,” He bent down and gripped the woman by the elbows, lifting her, “Up, wench—you’re sitting on magic.”

Sandry stared at him. “Two kids?” she asked, horrified.

“Two little ones. This girl was their nurse,” explained the Guard. “Says they all died in front of her, and she didn’t see what done it.”

Sandry met his eyes. “She probably didn’t,” she whispered.

“I know,” replied the man, grim-faced. “Story’s too stupid to be true elsewise.”

“You’ll have to take my word for this,” Sandry told him, “but I can see traces of the magic they used to hide themselves. It conies straight down these steps from the house, and goes that way,” She pointed down the street. “I’m going to cover it, to protect it, till your harrier-mages can see it.”

The Guard raised his eyebrows. “That’s right sensible of your ladyship,” he said, his manner more respectful than it had been earlier. “Go ahead, do it.”

In her kit she normally kept a number of spelled cloth squares she could use to handle things she didn’t want to touch with bare skin. She used some on the marks on the steps between the door and the street, then warned the Guards in the house away from the broad streaks she could see on the wall beside the door.

They wouldn’t let her inside. Sandry accepted that and followed the marks down the street instead, covering each with a cloth square and murmuring the words that would start its protective spell. Anyone about to touch one of those squares would instantly want not to. They’d want to get away from the square and whatever it covered.

She ran out of them where the marks turned onto the walkway. Now what? she thought, looking at the smears: they led straight toward the far barricade. The more she saw, the stronger was her urge to cover them, to protect others from them, but she had never imagined a situation where she’d need more than fifteen of her cloths. She supposed she could send her guards to a cloth merchant. The problem with that was that she would have to wait here idly, while anything might happen to the un protected marks.

Sandry turned to look at the house, and heard a rustle—her own clothes. Of course! she thought, triumphant. She wore a silk undershirt beneath her blouse and tunic, and long silk breeches under her wide-legged pants. They wouldn’t let her in the house to remove her underclothes, but there was no need to go indoors, if she managed things properly.

She spread her magic into her underthings. It only took a breath of time to make everything she wore at tuned to her and her power. Within a second breath, she felt material slide as stitches pulled out of seam’s. Her top slid under her waistband, rolling to form a snake of silk that wriggled down one leg of her breeches and out. Next she undid the stitches in her under-breeches, letting the cloth pull apart into its separate pieces. She felt silk gliding down her legs and bent over. The pieces crawled into her hands, one pant leg at a time. She looked reproach fully at them: the threads that secured her delicate lace to the cloth had refused to give up their treasure.

Now she told them silently. The threads resisted a moment longer, then glided out of the cloth. The lace bands, rolled themselves up neatly, until Sandry could put them into her pockets. She could always sew the lace onto new underthings.

There was a pair of scissors in her mage’s kit. Sandry used them to cut up the panels of her silk underclothes. She returned to work, placing the new squares over the marks on the ground, then sketching the signs for protection, and, avoidance that would, keep them safe. It took a little longer than using the ready-made cloths had done, but it was basic magic. She worked it quickly.

Her third rough-and-ready square was down when she noticed a black rim to the next mark on the flag stones. She drew closer, puzzled: what was it? This stuff was of the real world, not the magical one. It was just a thin stripe, outlining what looked like the side of a shoe. After a moment’s thought, Sandry covered the entire thing. She then made her silk arch and stiffen like a bowl over the mark. She didn’t want anything to touch that outline until the harriers saw it.

The next unmagic smear was clean—no dark rim. The one after it was not. Again, Sandry protected it with raised silk, and went on to the next. It was clean; the one after showed a heavier outline. Now she was certain: this was blood. The killer who cloaked himself in the absence of all things—unmagic, Wulfric had called it—was hurt.

On down the street she went, past the second barricade. The blood rim began to fade at that point: the killer must have bandaged his wound, though bloody traces still remained around the dark magic. Ten yards from the barricade, at the intersection with Silver Street, the marks ended. Sandry put her hands on her hips and glared at the last visible smear of unmagic. She didn’t think the traffic on this larger street would have rubbed out all trace of those marks, so what had happened?

“Looks to me like he, or she, got took up—horse or cart,” a crisp Namornese voice said at her shoulder. Sandry looked up at Wulfric Snaptrap. “You did nice work here,” he added, pointing back down Tapestry Lane. Behind him two other Provost’s Guards who wore the white trim of mages nodded eagerly. One was a captain, the other a lieutenant. They both carried heavy bags over their shoulders.