But the smaller trunk... The smaller trunk was new, and it had cost Aymery something.

Here were contradictions, then. Being poor was the only excuse for a small wardrobe for several weeks' stay - but everything about the goods he did have screamed of money. If he were a rich student, then he would have packed enough for a lengthy stay, and he hadn't. Aymery was lying about something, that was plain.

Briar knelt to examine the smaller chest. Merchants, he thought, shaking his head. Only a merchant would buy such an expensive-looking piece of trash. The pricey wood inlays were veneer, thin sheets of costly wood laid over cheap stuff. There were cracks in them already. He could pop the wide straps off with a chisel and his own hands; the nails that bolted them to the wood were no sturdier than the veneer. And the lock! The only reason to buy this item would be for so large and ominous-looking a lock. It was the kind of lock that screamed "safe" - and it was no safer than a breadbox.

Briar appreciated a merchant's son's trust in craftsmen. It had made his life easier, back in his thieving days. It would make it easier now.

Reaching into his waistband, he drew out the slim packet of lock-picks he'd made since his arrival at Winding Circle. Normally he kept the packet under a loose board in his floor.

Niko frowned on him so much as carrying a hide-out knife for protection - which he did anyway, because there were plenty of respectable uses for a knife. There were none for lock-picks.

He chose two, and delicately inserted them in the keyhole. Immediately he felt the burn of standard protection-spells running through his fingers. Softly he whispered the words of the standard cancelling-spell that he'd had to learn by heart when he was four. The burning stopped. A nudge of one pick, a tickle of the other, and the lock opened as smoothly as butter.

"I love me," he whispered.

The box was divided into velvet-lined compartments under a velvet-covered top tray. He recognized items in the tray: a deck of fortune-telling cards in its silk bag, sticks of chalk for drawing magical circles, shallow bowls for things like herbs, water, oil and salt, a handful of talismans for the working of spells. Here were ink-sticks in various colours, stone trays for mixing ink, drawing-brushes and reed pens. All of these things would be used for the working of magic: it was the basic kit. He lifted out the tray.

Light blazed, so bright that it nearly blinded him. Briar sat back on his heels, knowing that if he stuck a hand into that light, it would burn like acid. The funny thing was that he knew how to break this spell - the secret was expensive, but not at all hard to learn. Spells to foil common protection-magic could be bought and used by anyone, whether they had magic or not, which didn't exactly make him respect Aymery's judgement. True, he'd said he was specializing in illusion-magic, but what was Briar supposed to think of a man who couldn't be bothered to put his own spells on his treasures?

He never looked for any kind of search, a voice whispered in Briar's mind. He expected everyone to believe in what he claimed to be. He expected to deal only with his own kind, not someone used to thieves and nasty folk who talk one way and do another.

Briar made the signs of the more costly charm, and blew on the light. It vanished. In the compartments were some bottles, packets and something square, in a velvet bag. Picking up one of the bottles, Briar sniffed, and nearly sneezed. Cinnamon oil and poppy. The container was half-empty.

"Bad, Aymery," he murmured. "Very, very bad."

One vial contained a grey powder. He glanced at the label. While he could only read individual letters, and not even all of those, he wasn't stupid. Rosethorn had a bottle labelled with most of these same marks. She'd said it held a sleeping mixture. She had also taught him the meaning of a number of signs commonly put on labels. One of two on the bottle full of grey powder meant "extremely strong". He didn't know the other, but memorized it. Perhaps one of the girls would know what it was.

The other bottles had no meaning for him at all. Opening the bag, he drew out the flat thing inside. It was a mirror, set in a glass frame shot with bubbles of gold. The mirror itself was black and glossy.

Inside it, shadowy forms moved. A voice in it said, "My dear sister, you worry too much. Things are nearly in place."

Briar dropped the mirror back into its container, and thrust it into its compartment. Hurriedly he began to put everything back: he could hear Aymery and Niko approaching as they talked about some book or other.

Crawling out the window, he wondered, If all the scrying-mirrors in Winding Circle broke last night - why is his still whole?

It wasn't long before everyone went to bed. Niko stayed at Discipline, dozing off in a big chair padded with blankets and cushions. Even Little Bear was sound asleep, on his back with his paws in the air, in front of the cottage altar. He hadn't so much as stirred when everyone came in from the baths.

Tris was the last child to go to bed, saying goodnight to Aymery - the only one still awake - once her nestling got his last meal of the day. She had put bed off partly because she disliked the thought of that steep climb to the attic. Partly it had been listening to Aymery talk of his university studies; to her relief, he hadn't mentioned going to see her father after that first conversation. Partly it was the thick fog that now pressed against the cottage, muffling even the noise made by the continuing trickle of refugees coming down the road from North Gate. Tris hated to be inside during fog. She wanted to be out, walking around in the middle of a cloud that had managed to come to her.

And if they throw more boom-stones in spite of the fog? she wondered as she hauled herself over the last step and on to the attic floor. A fine thing, to be out in the open and have one of those things drop on your head!