Half of the hired bodyguards went into the house ahead of Rokat to make sure no one lay in wait. When they signaled, Durshan trotted inside. The rest of his bodyguard sat around the gateyard. From the looks on their faces, they were not happy with the situation. They grumbled to one another, sharpened weapons, and kept an eye on the gate,

Alzena disliked the thought of passing among them on her way to the front door as much as she had disliked making an attempt on Spicer Street. She and Nurhar conferred in the softest of whispers, still a block away from their target’s house. They knew that the chances were the back door and roof were watched, since the guards would know how Alzena had entered Fariji Rokat’s house. It was Nurhar who remembered they still carried the hooks and ropes meant for use at Duke’s Citadel. Within minutes they had stolen into a garden belonging to Durshan Rokats neighbor, and climbed over the high, wall into the old mans garden.

Alzena and Nurhar were giddy: after days of frustration and dead ends, they were close to a kill. Even the mage seemed, to catch the fever. He softly urged them to hurry inside.

Pantry and, kitchen alike were empty. They hesitated, wondering where the old man, might have gone. Then Alzena distinctly heard his voice in the next room.

She started for it, but stopped when she felt Nurhar’s hand on her arm. She couldn’t have seen it if he had pointed, so he turned her chin until she saw the corner beside the hearth. A slice of cake hung in midair. Crumbs dripped from it as an invisible mouth took a bite.

Alzena lunged for the cake and pressed a body into the corner. She guessed where that mouth was and covered it with one hand. Magic evaporated. A wide-eyed boy appeared. He scrabbled at her with clutching hands, able to feel her if not see her.

She felt Nurhar against her back and heard his softest whisper: “Cover him, mage.”

There was a creak of the carry-frame and a ghostly spell-whisper. The boy vanished, this time cloaked in unrnagic. Alzena gripped his waist with one arm, using her free hand to keep his mouth covered.

He fought her madly now. Of course, she thought. He doesn’t even have an eye slit to show him the real world is still here. For all his struggles, she easily kept him under control as she maneuvered him through the door into the next room.

It was empty, as bare as if no one lived here. No, that wasn’t true. A pouch lay at the center of the tiled floor.

Hidden by woven air that made her seem like part of the wall, Sandry was absently unweaving and reweaving apart of her skirt when something thumped in the kitchen. It wasn’t Durshan Rokat. He was upstairs, ringed by guards; he had obeyed orders and gone straight to his protectors. Sandry was the only one on the ground floor of the house.

She sat up, all her senses alert. None of the sentry mages had warned her, but the chance that they would detect the killers approach had always been small.

Come on, she thought, not daring to twitch, hoping it was them and not a mouse.

You feel the net calling you. If it does what I think, you’ll believe what you want most is right in here

Dark-smeared air rolled into the dining room from the kitchen and passed over her spell-net. From its position on the floor the net began to ripple and rise, shaping itself around solid forms.

She heard feet scuffle, then a grunt. Wood creaked; cloth rustled. A chunk of shadow separated from the main body of it and fell hard, as a body falls, beside the pouch of dragonsalt at the heart of the net. There was a snarl from the larger darkness. The pouch rose in the air, opened, turned over to spill out a mound of the drug, then straightened. The mound disappeared, as if some one unseen had popped it into his mouth.

“Alzena, I’m caught!” whispered a man’s voice. “I can’t pull free!”

“Curse you for a useless piece of mule dung mage,” a hoarse female voice said, “Take the spells off now”

Sandry felt a touch of panic before she remembered that she was hidden from view. The woman was talking to someone else.

“I don’t want to,” a high, trembling voice said from the unmagic near the dragonsalt pouch. “I like the spells. I like it here?”

The shadow patterns of the spell-net rippled while the unseen people talked. Its cords draped and twined around the larger mass, then sent out a number of tendrils. Each turned into a small fan at the tip. Not fans, she realized as dark hair on two heads slowly appeared at the top of the tallest shadow. My net isn’t spreading out; it’s sucking the unmagic in.

She was beginning to see one forehead when the female voice said, “Take the unmagic off us or I’ll cut you up, you ungrateful ratbirth.”

“Suit yourself,” replied the high voice, now a little slurred.

Four people appeared at the heart of the net. One, hidden by two standing adults, was struggling wildly. Of the two who kept still, one was a man, brown-haired, brown-eyed, dressed in the plain breeches, shirt, and boots worn by many commoners. Sandry recognized him vaguely from the fight in Jamar Rokat’s countinghouse.

On his back was a frame like those that woodcutters used to carry their wares.

Empty straps dangled from it. He bent over a smaller person on the floor—their mage, thought Sandry uneasily—grabbed him by the arm, and pulled him upright.

Looking at the mage, Sandry realized why she had thought he was sunk into a pool of unmagic that day at Rokat House. He had no legs. His coarse breeches were folded and pinned around stumps that ended at mid-thigh. He clutched the dragons alt pouch tightly with both hands. He was dark-haired and sallow, terribly thin.

He’s Pasco’s age, thought Sandry in horror. She hadn’t realized that at their first meeting.