“You know, I do have a name,” Scrivener said.

“You won’t be around long enough for me to learn it,” Losian said dismissively.

“That’s not very nice. Even Wedgren’s have feelings,” she replied, sounding hurt.

To Losian eyes she didn’t look hurt. He shrugged as he strode down the street ploughing through the pedestrian’s without a thought, the scrivener following in his wake, chiming softly behind him. She couldn’t talk to him from there without raising her voice, which pleased him in a nasty way.  He did hear her murmur apologies as several people had to scramble out of his way, one dropping parcels. The streets were busy as people hurried to get the last of their errands done before the night came. No one sensible was out after dark.

He paused at a street corner to let a lumbering dray pass him. The empty trailer, littered with straw and droppings from whatever animals had been brought in to the city to be slaughtered, bounced slightly over the cobbles. They had not had much rain recently so he wasn’t worried about being splashed as he hovered at the edge of the road waiting for it to pass. The harvesters would be working hard to get everything in while the sun shone. Once it was gone he shot across the street.

The streets got dingier as he pushed his way into the second radial of the city, his section of Agen. The city had been laid out in arcs. The first one, filled with warehouses, followed the shore of the bay and darted briefly upriver on the Agen, which flowed into the bay. The following areas arced around that first one and housed the factors and traders, the next one had the craftsmen and shops and the last had the houses of the landgrafs and the palace. Bisecting these arcs were streets, lanes and alleys were people lived. The city was divided into four wedges called radials with second radial and third being the poorest, one on each side of the river.

Not far from the river he slowed down and Scrivener managed to catch up to him.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“The alley where the mage died,” he replied shortly. And Notir he thought but he had to focus on the mage not on a useless scrivener who didn’t have the sense to hide when the magic started to fly.

He ducked down a street, slowing as he walked along examining the street intently.

“What are you looking for?” Scrivener asked.

“Don’t know.”

She matched his steps as they approached the alley. Even from several feet away he could see the burn marks splashed around the edges of the buildings confining the alley. He stopped at the mouth and looked down at a dark oblong mark with lighter areas where foot traffic had carried the black grit away. The scrivener hung back slightly as he contemplated where Notir had fallen and then stepped deliberately over the darker area and entered the alley. He slowly moved along one wall examining it and the alley floor as he moved deeper into the alley. At the back, where the alley turned abruptly he stopped and turned back, contemplating the alley, then continued around the corner. He could see the scrivener standing at the mouth of the alley staring at the stain.

The alley only continued a few short feet before debouching onto another street. He stood there for a moment but could see nothing. This street looked even less prosperous, if that was possible, than the other one. The houses on this side had windows which were boarded up and peeling paint. Some of them were inhabited he could tell because those houses had windows with actual shutters, pulled tight against the afternoon light. The mage may have come from this street and he and Gruthwin had the bad luck to stumble across the alley, or he was cutting from the original street to this one and again bad luck had visited them. Either way, it was unlikely that anyone knew anything about a mage, much less this one. He sighed deeply. He’d have to ask.

Walking back into the alley, he walked down the far side and stopped where he thought the mage had been. Stupid patrollers, they had disturbed the alley beyond his ability to discern anything further about the mage. He stopped and gently toed the little plant that may have saved his life. He crouched down and stared at it. Someone had pulled it up and then left the roots to shrivel on the ground. He reached down vaguely thinking that he might be able to plant it, the least he could do, since it had undoubtedly saved his life.

His fingers touched it and something leapt from the stem to his fingers. Something which spread with a sickening speed burning as it burrowed into his hand and up his arm, just below his skin. He shouted as he jumped to his feet, flaying his hand to try to detach the plant but it clung to him. The scrivener came running down the alley towards him and grabbed at his hand. He jerked it away.

“Get a mage. On wheel street,” he gasped.

She ignored him as she jerked at her belt.

“Damn you, go,” he managed to gasp. His knees felt weak. He wasn’t going to fall down in front of her.

She grabbed at his hand again, pushing something into his hand and closing his fingers around it. He tried to shake her off but she clung stubbornly to his fist keeping it closed. His knees buckled and she went down with him, falling awkwardly onto of him. He realised she was muttering something and that the pain was receding. He didn’t understand the words she used but from the cadence he would guess it was some sort of incantation. The pain finally stopped and he was left with a dull throb.

Get off me,” he finally said. He was now lying on his back with her sprawled on top of him. She was looking over her shoulder. Her profile was strong, a nose that dominated, straight and arrogant, like a queen’s. He grimaced at that. He was not fanciful and noses were not arrogant. She turned back to look at him.

“That was strange.” She said getting up and stepping back from him.

“You think?” he asked sarcastically.

“That plant comes from the wild lands,” she replied distractedly. “They don’t grow well in cities.”

Losian crawled to his feet. Uncurling his palm he examined the small charm she had pressed into his hand. It looked like a worm, silver and badly tarnished. He turned it over several times examining it. It didn’t have much detail, a slender body and at the end an opening, like a mouth. He handed it to the scrivener and then pulled up the sleeve of his arm. Nothing. He looked a little more closely; there were faint, very faint lines of red, fading even as he looked to pink and then disappearing completely. He looked down at the ground where the plant had fallen. He crouched down to get a better look.

“Careful. They can feel heat and jump towards it,” Scrivener said.

He pulled his knife and poked at it but it didn’t move. “Wild lands?”

He looked up at her as she nodded staring down thoughtfully at the plant. The plant browned and then shrivelled. He could feel the magic being released and he quickly stood up and stepped away. Then there was only a brown leaf left. Frowning, Losian could tell it wasn’t the same as the plant that had attacked him.

“That was a Burn Vine,” Scrivener said.

“Burn Vine?”

“They sense heat from passing animals and latch onto them. They burrow just below the skin to get at the blood vessels there. The use blood to propagate. Their roots are so fine that they can sink into any blood vessel and once in it is really hard to get rid of them. Leaving even one rootlet and the thing will rampage through the host. The host usually manages to separate itself from the mother plant and then the host dies and there are now two Burn Vines. If you travel anywhere in the wild lands you need a charm to protect you.”

“This leaf looks like Common Cut leaf,” Losian said tapping the leaf on the ground.

“What was on you was Burn Vine,” Scrivener insisted.

“Perhaps a mage came by and placed that wild plant on top of this one,” he murmured.

“Interesting. I’d say he must have spent some time in the wild lands to know about the Burn Vine,” Scrivener suggested.

“Or is a wedgren.”

Scrivener shrugged. “Unlikely. Few wedgren’s have that kind of power.” She shook her wrists at him, smiling as the bangles jangled softly. “Why else would we need these and your welcome.”

“For?”

“My amulet saved you.”

“The plant died so the burning stopped.”

Scrivener shook her head at him. “Is it so hard to say thank you?”

Losian stalked away from her. Was it possible that this was an attack on him? Or just an ambush to stop someone from examining the scene. If Scrivener was right, there must be two mages involved, or more. He contained a shiver at that thought. He dragged his mind back to examining the scene. Where was Notir’s bag? The bag had been covered in runes to prevent anyone from taking it. He went back to where the scrivener had died and looked around the area carefully. He supposed that someone might have taken the bag. The runes could be subverted he supposed but why would any one want to take it. He crouched down beside the stain, gingerly touching the pavement near where he thought Notir’s hand may have lain. He reached out with his power trying to catch the remnants of what had happened. Nothing; too long had passed. He dove a little deeper, his head beginning to ache. Nothing. He started to pull back and he got just a whiff, lilacs. He scrabbled after it but it was gone. Had she taken the bag? Why? She had saved him? Or had she? The drawings had meaning to the ferwardens but to other’s they were just drawings of people and places and not very good ones either. If the bag was the reason for the theft then perhaps they were dropped. He hoped they had been dropped. They were the only drawings of the faces of the dead girls he was investigating. They were the only copies.