Swords & Dark Magic - By Jonathan Strahan Page 0,46

and then his struggling made him let go the bar, so when the door swung to, the bar stopped it from closing.

A second iron grip seized the front of his jerkin and shoved him against the wall beside the door as, inside, Jezzy called out:

“What’s going on?”

“Shut the door!” Willem yelled. He never shouted in the Alley. But the man who had hold of him shoved him toward the door and must have hooked the door edge with his foot, because he shoved him right in, where it was dark, and where there was only an old man and two boys holding the place.

“Magician,” the stranger said, letting go Willem’s arm, but keeping a grip on Willem’s throat. “I’m looking for Cazimir Eisal.”

“I’m the one,” Master said, out of the dark. “Light a lamp, boy. And let go of my student.”

“Thought so,” the stranger said, and didn’t let go. Willem took hold of a hand like iron—used both his hands, trying to disengage that grip, and had no luck.

Almore had a straw and a lamp down by the banked fire in the hearth. That took, and a faint, single wick gave them more light than they’d had. Two wicks, and three—it was a three-sided lamp, and Willem saw the face that stared straight at Master—he seemed forgotten, merely a thing the stranger was determined to hold on to.

But the stranger didn’t have a weapon drawn. He had several—a dagger in his belt, with knuckle-loops, for infighting; and a longsword, and well-worn armor, and the glimmer of chain at the sleeves. The man smelled of sweat and woodsmoke and all outdoors—not a city smell.

“Master Cazimir,” the man said quietly, respectfully, while still close to strangling Willem. “It is you.”

“Certainly it is,” Master said. “It has been. It will be.”

“Tewkmannon. Fyllia’s son.”

“Fyllia,” Cazimir said. That was the old duchess’s name. And he was much too young, a fool could see that, even while he was strangling. “Fyllia’s dead.”

“The other Fyllia,” the man said, this Tewkmannon. “Duchess Fyllia’s niece. She’s dead, too. I’m here for Jindus. Grey Raisses said you were the one to talk to.”

“Raisses. Raisses.” Master looked overwhelmed, and gripped the table edge and sank onto the bench. He was in his nightdress, his gray beard was straggling, his hair was on end, and he didn’t have the belt that kept the robes in order.

“Please,” Willem said, prying at the hand that held him, and this Tewkmannon looked at him as if he’d just remembered he had something he didn’t need, and then let him go.

Willem straightened his shirt and went and got Master his staff: it was Master’s one weapon, and Willem put it next to his hand and stood there. He had a knife in his boot. That was all. And the two boys had the ladle and the cooking pot, such weapons as they were. But they were nothing against this man, if Master and he came at odds.

“I’m here for Jindus,” Tewkmannon said. “The bastard.”

He didn’t like Jindus. That was good. But here for Jindus? That didn’t sound good at all.

“All we have is water,” Master said in a thin, faint voice. “Not a crust of bread, else.”

“There’s a heel left,” Jezzy said, not too brightly.

“I don’t think he’d want it,” Willem muttered. “Master’s an old man, sir. M’lord.” They’d been talking about the old duchess, and kinship, and maybe that was due. “He’s sick.”

“Done for,” Master said.

Tewkmannon asked: “Is it Miphrynes?”

“We don’t mention that name here,” Willem said in a voice he’d hoped would come out strong and forbidding.

“Miphrynes,” Tewkmannon said again. “That black crow.”

“Vulture’s more apt,” Master said under his breath. “I can’t hold him. He won’t come in here. Knows I’m here. I’m sure he knows I’m here. I’m not worth it to him. He knows I can’t do anything. And I can’t. He’s got all the upper town.”

They’d never heard Master talk this way. They didn’t talk about the duke’s wizard. They didn’t talk about the things he did in the high town. But they knew as an article of faith that Master didn’t let him come into the lower town. Miphrynes was afraid of Master. Left him alone.

While Master got older, and sicker, by the year.

“It’s too late. You’re too late…What’s your name?”

“Tewk.” Tewkmannon sank down on the bench at the opposite corner of the table, one hand resting on the scarred tabletop. “Tewk will do. Fyllia’s son.” Now Tewkmannon sounded as if he’d run out of breath in a long, long