“Mila of the Grain, give me patience,” Sandry begged the goddess. It was time to try bribes again. “Pasco, if you don’t work on meditation, I won’t take you to your dance teacher today.”

His gloom evaporated like mist in the sun. “A dancing teacher? With steps and music and costumes?”

“Meditation first,” she told him firmly.

He sat straight on his bench, eyes blazing. “Meditation, definitely. I’m ready.

I’m going to start now, watch.”

They began again, and this time Pasco actually seemed to be trying. Sandry murmured instructions to clear his mind of all thought, and watched as his power trickled out of his skin, flowing away until it struck her magical barrier. It flickered and twisted or even went out completely, telling her he was thinking of something else. At moments like that, she began to see why some teachers were eager to use a switch on skittish students. She chided herself for the thought: that was just her weariness speaking, or at least she hoped it was.

Her own concentration was poor. Concerns about Wulfric’s progress distracted her. She’d sent him a note asking if Rokat House and Qasam Rokat’s home should be checked and cleansed of nothingness, with her offer of help. If he’d been right about the blood, Wulfric might actually have the killers by now. That would be a relief

The clang of the Guildhall clock brought her to her surroundings with a start.

The hour was done. Pasco’s eyes were open and eager. “Lady—?” he asked.

Sandry took up her warding circle. Returning her thread to her purse, she asked, “Walk or ride? It’s not far.”

Pasco looked at her guards and the horses waiting in front of the garden. “Walk.

So who is it?” he begged as Sandry mounted Russet. “Is the teacher expensive? I cant pay, you, know.”

“We have an understanding,” replied Sandry, clucking to Russet,. “Come on,”’

“But where?” he pleaded, trotting alongside her. “Who?”

“He’s chattery,” commented Oarna, looking down at the boy. “You sure he’s harrier-bred? Usually they don’t have two words to rub together.”

Pasco grinned up at her. “That’s ‘cause they don’t want the Dukes Guard blabbing their secrets,’”

“We’d, have to be interested to steal, them, boy,” replied Oama with a. wink at Sandry.

Festival, Street was like: most city roads, lined with homes and businesses. The largest building on Festival between Market and Yanjing Streets sat behind a ten-foot-high stone wall. Sandry thought it may have been a warehouse at one time. Now there was nothing to indi cate what use the building had. Its only marker was a painted sign over the gate—hebet—in gold letters on a red background.

“Here we are,” Sandry announced, guiding Russet into the courtyard. Oama and Kwaben followed. When she didn’t see Pasco, Sandry turned. The boy was still in the street, goggling at the sign.

A girl came to take the horses when they dismounted. As she led the animals away, Sandry called, “Pasco.”

“I’ll get him,” Oama said. She grabbed the boy’s arm and towed him back to Sandry.

“Do you know whose place this is?” Pasco asked, his eyes fixed on the building.

“It’s Yazmín Hebet’s school, yes, I know,” Sandry replied. Her earlier impatience was turning into amusement. I might have acted the same if I’d heard of Lark before she took me as her student, she thought. “I believe school was the idea. May we go in, please? There’s an inside here. I’m sure you’d like to see it.”

“She danced for seven kings in Aliput, and eight queens,” Pasco babbled as they walked toward the open doors. “She danced for the emperor in Yanjing, just for him, for a whole year, and he made her a dress covered in blue pearls. Blue pearls, can you imagine! For dancing for one year for him and no one else!”

Inside, the door hallways pointed straight ahead and to either side. Open rooms on the halls emitted bursts of music from various instruments, many thuds, bumps, and squeaks, and shouts in male and female voices. At the end of the hall directly ahead, a dancer in leggings and a loose tunic tightly belted around the waist did a handstand, her legs pointed straight at the ceiling.

A boy in leggings and belted tunic raced by, stopped, and came back to them.

“Was you lookin’ for someone especial, my lady?” he asked, bowing low. His accent came from south of the Pebbled Sea; his skin was coal black like that of the tribesmen there.

“Lady Sandrilene fa Toren, and student, to see Yazmín Hebet,” said Oama sternly.

The boy grinned. “Come.” He raced up a narrow stair at the end of the right-hand hallway.

Following him, Sandry pretended not to hear Pasco’s hissed, “I have a name, you know!”

She thought she was in fairly good physical condition, but she was panting when she reached the top of the stair. Their guide was not even breathing hard. He beckoned them down a long hall, past various rooms on either side.

“No, no, no, Thandi,” cried a voice Sandry knew. “It’s turn turn turn jump, not turn turn jump. It’s by threes, how many times do I have to—yes, that’s right.”

The boy led them to the room where Yazmín was shouting. He leaned in and said, “Noble in the buildin’, Yazmín.”

“Noble what in the building? Noble guard, noble lord

” Yazmín leaned out the door. “Wamuko, you have the manners of a goat,” she told her messenger. “Lady Sandrilene, welcome.” She came out and curtsied to Sandry, ran an appraising eye over Kwaben and Oama, then looked at Sandry’s pupil. “Come on, Pasco,” she said.