“ Kre, the Nebezen Laws forbid a mage being anything else but a mage, of course, lest artists-or accountants, servants, mathematicians-conceal magical abilities and grow dangerous to society-” She had heard this all before, and all the reasons why, but not as sarcastically. Who were the undercover police among the patrons of this dingy little cabaret on the Third-Ring-North of Sunatnight? Who were the casual informers, ready to sell to the police for a few silvercut coins? Who would find suspicious even something as innocent as a woman drinking tea, wearing a coat of indeterminate colour but not mage-black? “We do want you to do something illegal,” he said with a smile. I’ve not practiced drawing since I was eight years old. “Indeed, in hindsight it makes perfect sense that a child destined to be a lightforger would be so fascinated with magical constructions, and on hearing of the story of the Amalgamation would focus not on the people but on the Barriers. “And you had most remarkable skill.” Not even a kso to soften, to diminish his certainty of this statement the bare phrase hung in the air like a criminal sentence. “I was four years old when I did this picture.” The date, in her mother’s familiar hand (a lump came to her throat) was from eighteen years ago. The drawing’s proficiency clashed with the writing: clumsy capital letters that approximated Sattalye on one side of the wall, Atsaldei on the other, and Kurnth and Terregmar up in the sky labelling two small precise circles. Bold lines, no shading: it resembled a blueprint but with near-mastery of foreshortening and detail. She did not remember making it, the lavish, detailed pen drawing of a rising wall, shaped like a scar, a seam of herringbone stitches. “ Kso, Magistra Nonar, if you need us to jog your memory,” he said, “we have certain drawings here, diligently collected and dated.” In the teacup image, he held up a sheet of paper, the monochrome masking that it must have been yellowed with age. At a quick glance into otherspace and its green-and-gold mesh, there were no other mageborn around, none to detect her being what she was and doing what she was doing. What eyes not on the dancers removing their clothes on stage were on the coppery-skinned Merezenin waiters circulating with cheap wine, beer, and mixed drinks. One thing was no myth: this conversation was breaking at least two of the Nebezen Laws ruling the actions of Atsaldeian mages. Nonar slid deeper into the overpriced private booth, hoping not to attract attention. Either this mage was strange even for a thoughtsender, or the myths lied, and she didn’t know what was more likely. Myths mingled with facts in her brain-could they really read minds as well as speak with them? Myths had never mentioned speaking through reflections, either. The first thoughtsender she had ever spoken to. So was this man, of course, this so-called Magister Lie. Her tea shook, and she wondered if at the other end, looking down into his own teacup or water glass or wine goblet, he would see his image of her rippling. “We need an artist,” said the man whose image floated in Nonar’s teacup.
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