Losian walked out onto the street and looked both ways. The houses were crowded together, four and five story dwellings leaning together like old friends after a night of drunken revelry helping each other home, many looking like they had engaged in a bout or two of fisticuffs. The upper stories still had shutters, most repaired with castoff wood. The lower floors, easily accessible from the ground, had no shutters, glass, or even oiled cloth to stop the weather from dancing in the rooms. Below the street were what appeared to be dark holes, broken steps leading into murky cellar entries. The inhabitants of the upper floors were carefully never to go near these entry ways.

Losian wondered if Scrivener knew how to defend herself. If the drawings had been tossed, it was in those chinks to horror that he’d find them. He should wait for Gruthwin. They weren’t places you went without adequate backup. He turned to look at Scrivener who was walking up and down the alley examining it, mimicking him.

“How do you know what to look for? And if you find something, if it’s what you want?” she asked coming to join him on the street.

“I’m a sprigner,” he answered shortly.

He set off walking along the street, peering into the cellars. It was virtually impossible to see what was down there, too much detritus.

“What are we looking for?” Scrivener asked.

“I’m looking for anything which doesn’t belong here.”

Scrivener laughed. “Do you like being inscrutable?” She toed a pile of what looked like the dessicated body of a rodent, probably a rat. “There is not much food here. See, scrivener the rats are starving,” she said in a poor imitation of his voice. “Look closely scrivener and you to will be able to discern what is not visible.” Now she was laughing hard enough that she barely got that last out. “I’m sure it’s not that complicated. Tell me what you’re looking for. I’m not just a sketch artist,” she said once the laughter had passed.

Losian flushed, but quickened his pace so he stayed ahead of her. He didn’t want her to see that her laughter had affected him. Was he that pompous?

“I’ll get it out of Gruthwin you know so you might as well let me help. Two eyes are better than one.”

“Sets,” he snapped, “two sets of eyes are better than one.”

“That’s presuming that both your eyes are open,” Scrivener said idly as she started down one of the cellar steps. “There’s quite a pile of stuff down here.”

“Don’t,” Losian started to say as she descended the steps. The Scrivener gave a squeak and stumbled backwards up the few stairs she had descended. She landed on her rump, kicking her feet.

Losian had his knife out and it flashed down, severing the tentacle of the creature that had her in it’s grasp, dragging her up the remaining step. “Don’t you know anything? You don’t go into alleys, cellars, or wander the streets at night, without protection,” he snarled at her.

“What was that?”

“Who knows. This had been a mage quarter a long time ago. There was an accident and a spell got loose,” he knelt down and started to pry the tentacles still attached to her ankle away. “These are the remains. They are dying out, slowly. That’s why people live several floors up.” He waved his knife towards the buildings.

“Why hasn’t someone cleared them out?” Scrivener demanded, standing up and gingerly placing her foot on the ground.

Losian shrugged. “Who would pay for it?”

“The king? Right, sorry I forgot. These are poor people. Can’t spend money on them. Their barely citizens.”

“Patrollers patrol and our mages get rid of the worst of them. Most of the time they feed on strays.”

“Stray children?” she asked sarcastically.

Losian shrugged. She was right. The poor didn’t have many rights in Agen. Some of the older ferwardens talked about things being different before the king started to get sick. He wouldn’t know. It had been this way since he had joined.

“I’m looking for drawings,” he told her.

“The ones the other scrivener had done?”

Losiana nodded as he looked around finally locating a long piece of wood that had not yet been scavenged for repairs or firewood and then for some stones. After gathering quite a few, he threw them down the stairs listening closely after four or five. There was a rustling sound, so he threw a few more and then there was silence. He drew his knife and carefully eased down the stairs holding the stick in his other hand. Once there he pulled the refuse piled in the far corner towards him so he could examine it in the diffused light of the setting sun. He could see nothing that looked like the drawings so he retreated up the steps.

He repeated the process down most of the street with the scrivener gathering the stones and Losian checking the trash. They finally stopped when it got too dark to see with no sign of the drawings to show for his efforts.

“Why are they so important?” the scrivener asked.

“They are the pictures of the dead girls I’m investigating.” He threw the stick at a building. “It’s like starting over. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” Losian turned on his heel and walked away, frustration quickening his strides. He needed a drink or a fight or both.

Losian walked into the building which contained the room he slept in. It was late, very late. He had eaten and then sat drinking bad wine for several hours brooding over the alley and the drawings. His building was at the edge of the Second Radial quarter, a butcher shop on once side and a green grocer on the other. It hadn’t been sucked into the general decay of that quarter, not quite. He entered the building, nodding towards the landlady’s door, slightly ajar. She was always there watching who was coming and going. On occasion, if someone was asking for him she’d tell him. He climbed the stairs, feeling slightly wobbly. That last glass was probably one glass too many. He fumbled with his key but manged to get it in and the door opened. He shut the door behind him, trying to decide whether to just fall onto his bed or whether it was worth disrobing. A breeze ruffled his hair. He froze, his senses fully alert. His window was open. He never left his window open. You don’t know what might come in from the night.

Losian pulled his knife and sidled to the right trying to locate the intruder. He strained to hear some sound, any sound, a quiet breath, the sliding sound of clothes as someone moved, the rustle of leaves from his plants. Nothing. He stood there for a long time, and then a while more. Still nothing. He finally moved softly deeper into his room. On the right was a candle. He lit it and looked around. His window was slightly ajar, the night air making the leaves of the plants on the sill tremble gently. He made a circuit of his room. Nothing had been taken or disturbed as far as he could see. He never kept anything of importance here; a few changes of clothes, two plates and mugs, some food, rapidly going stale since it had been several days since he had been home, his books and his plants. He lit two more candles, the only luxury he allowed himself and went over to the stack of books. Several of them had been moved. He looked at them and carefully moved them aside with his knife. Underneath were drawings. He picked them up; his drawings, or rather Notir’s drawings. He riffled through them. He thought they were all there. He’d have to get his notes and double check. He put them down, moving one of the books to anchor a corner of the pile.

This investigation was getting stranger and stranger. The alley, the missing bag, and now the drawings. The bag was still missing. He extended a finger to touch the top sketch, drawing on his power to see if he could see who had taken them. Nothing, absolutely nothing, a void. That he had never seen. Whoever had handled them had a knowledge of magic that was different, more subtle than anyone he had ever met. The mage from the alley? Why would she return the drawings? How did the person returning them know where he lived? Gruthwin didn’t know and he was the closest to a friend Losian had in the ferwardens. Was it the same person who took them? Too many questions and he was tired. He decided against taking off his clothes. He’d change in the morning.

“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.

“Is this a good idea? She’s a wedgren. She could be trying a scam,” Gruthwin hissed at him as they left the dutyhalme.

“We need a scrivener and what can she do but record what I say. The two of us will just review what she does,” Losian said as he set off at a fast walk away from the dutyhalme. They needed to get to the morgue and see what had killed Notir, although he had a very good idea, but also see the body of the mage. Then they needed to get back to the alley. He’d send Gruthwin to talk to the landgrave. His brother wasn’t going to like him working on that case but he couldn’t actually ignore a direct order from Fiftigsman, even if he wanted. With luck, Gruthwin would get the information they needed. He’d just have to try and carry both.

The woman had to trot to keep up with the long stride of the two men. “So what else does a scrivener do?” she asked. The charms, amulets, bracelets, necklaces and chains chimed softly as she moved.

“Whatever you hear, or see you’re supposed to write it down, or draw it. You can draw, can’t you.”

“Yes. Sketch mostly. My people don’t have much use for fancy paintings.”

“Where are we going now?” she was starting to puff a little.

“The morgue,” Losian said shortly.

“Hey, we’re off that case,” Gruthwin protested. “The captain was pretty clear. We’re supposed to investigate the missing girl.”

“He didn’t say we were off the murders,” Losian snapped. “We can do both. You’ll go talk to the landgraf, I’ll check the morgue. Bring back something of the girl’s. Whatever she had held most recently. You can do that can’t you?”

Gruthwin turned away and strode off in the other direction without another word.

“That was a little harsh wasn’t it?” the woman asked cheerfully as she moved up to walk beside him.

“Not your business,” he snarled. It didn’t help that she was right. Gruthwin didn’t need him carping at him.

“So we’re off to the morgue. I’ve never been in a morgue. What’s it like.”

“Dead bodies and smell.”

He could tell she was amused at him but he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction to know that she was successfully riling him but he did increase his pace. The finally arrived at the morgue with the woman slightly out of breath. He had to give it to her, she had maintained the pace without complaining.

“Well Losian, I was wondering when you’d appear.” Jaraah straightened up from the table he was bending over. “Not much left of your friend. Burned really badly and I wasn’t able to determine what kind of power was used, just that it was effective and fast.” Jaraah waved towards two tables on the far side of the room. I don’t know how Gruthwin killed the mage but he’s there as well. Not a mark on him, except for some sort of scratch, really a puncture, on his ankle.” Jaraah watched as Losian and the woman walked over to look at the two bodies.

“You know,” the woman said in a low voice, “I’m going to need something to write or draw on.”

Losian his mind already caught up with examining the bodies, looked at her baffled for a moment; oh right. “Jaraah, do you have some paper and a pencil?”

Jaraah wiped his hands on a cloth before walking over to a desk in the far corner of the room. He shoved around bits and pieces of things Losian never wanted to look at too closely, looking under things and into drawers, slamming them shut and muttering before he came back with a piece of paper and a crude pencil which he handed to the woman. “New scrivener?”

“I’m,” the woman began, taking the paper and pencil before Losian overrode her. “She’s replacing Notir. Ready scrivener?” He didn’t want to know her name. She wouldn’t last, so scrivener was as good a name as any.

She put the paper down on the edge of the table where Notir lay, carefully not looking at the body. She pulled a small knife from her belt and sharpened the pencil. “Ready,” she murmured.

“Maybe,” Losian said absently to Jaraah. He waited until Jaraah had gone back to examining a fresh body on the other side of the room. He didn’t need him watching. He pulled the cover back from Notir and started to examine the body as dispassionately as he could. Scrivener made a small gulping sound and Losian was glad someone reacted, he couldn’t. Emotion didn’t get at the truth and the truth was that he hadn’t liked Notir but he didn’t have to die quite like this.

Losian examined the body slowly. There really wasn’t much new here. He had been in the alley. He pulled up the cover and walked over to the mage. Jaraah was right, there were no marks on him. He placed his hand over the mage’s eyes. Maybe he could see what the mage had seen. He extended his power to lie across the open eyes. His head started to pound. All he saw was a wavering barrier of power which flickered as the mage threw bolt after bolt at it. He knew he was kneeling behind that barrier. He tried to see beyond it but his head started to ache hard enough that his eyes were watering. He pulled his hand away from the mage. “Nothing,” he said disgustedly. “Did you find anything on his body?”

Jaraah pulled a box out from under the table and dug around in it. “The clothes were pretty typical of a mage of his power, but I did find this.” He held out a medallion, a circle with a lightening bolt bisecting it.

Losian took it gingerly. His head only ached a little. He shouldn’t have bothered to try to see. He had been in the alley, he knew what happened there. Except there was that woman. He turned the medallion over but there was nothing inscribed on the back, neither maker’s mark nor name or purpose of the medallion. He waited until Jaraah had returned to the body on the other side of the room before he closed his fist over it and let his power envelop it.

He was in a room. It was dark. The torches on the wall barely dispelled the gloom. There were three figures all wearing cloaks. At least, he thought there were three. There might have been other forms, in the shadows. The three, though, were standing around a circle. In the circle was a body, pale against the red of the satin cloth she was lying on. 

He opened his eyes to see the scrivener, holding him up. “What?”

“A circle and a body. That’s what I got,” scrivener said. She helped Losian over to a bench against the wall.

Losian dropped his head into his hands. The scrivener pushed a basin into his hands and he threw his breakfast up. Scrivener handed him a mug and he washed out his mouth before spitting it out. “Sorry.”

“What’s wrong?” Jaraah asked, coming over to examine Losian. “Dead scriveners finally getting to you?” he asked nastily.

Losian shrugged. He fumbled some ginger out of his wallet and took a bite. He didn’t even bother peeling it. Anything to settle his stomach.

“This happen often?” Scrivener asked diffidently.

Losian ignored her question. “What do you have?”

She held out a sketch. He examined it. “There were other figures in the shadows, here and here,” he said pointing to the edge of the page.

Scrivener took the paper back and sketched in some forms.

He took it back and looked at it again. It wasn’t bad. The figures weren’t really fully drawn, just a few strokes but the picture looked like what he had seen. He could feel the darkness of the room as he looked at it. There was even that bit of satisfaction from the figure that he was sure was the mage. Yes, he remembered there was satisfaction there. He looked sharply at her. How did she know that?

“It’ll do. Keep it safe,” he said dismissively.

“Do?” She looked down at the sketch and shook her head.

He stood up, only wavering slightly. “Thanks Jaraah.

“Till next time Losian,” Jaraah said easily.

He didn’t look at his new scrivener as they left the morgue. He didn’t recognise the body in the circle. Damn, why couldn’t he have seen more. If he could have seen the girl he might have recognised her. Then he’d know if this mage was involved in his investigation. Pushing himself wouldn’t have helped her and it would only have made him so sick that he might have be out for days if not weeks. He had done it once and that was enough. His brother had almost had him committed to the hospice for the mad. But he felt that the mage was involved, him and the other’s. It was too much a coincident. He slowed down as they reached the sidewalk outside of the morgue. Was the alley a trap? Was he getting close? Or was this something else he had stumbled on?

“What are you looking for?” Scrivener asked.

“There are dead whores turning up and I’m trying to find out why,” he said curtly.

“Did people tell you they were missing?” she asked as she folded the paper and put it in a pocket.

“No, we found their bodies,” he stopped. Watching her he realised that Notir’s bag was missing.  The bag had all the sketches of the women. Maybe he’d recognize one of them. He turned back to the morgue with Scrivener trailing behind him. Jaraah didn’t have the bag.

“It didn’t come in with Notir,” he said. “Probably been stolen. I hear it wasn’t the best part of town.”

“We’ve got to go back to the alley,” he muttered.

Losian and Gruthwin strolled along the street in no hurry to get to the dutyhame. Gruthwin dodged out of the way of a delivery boy who was carrying a basket of what looked like potatoes.

“So Notir’s dead,” Gruthwin said. “I’m not surprised. He really didn’t pay attention to what was going on around him. Too busy looking for a way out and not enough time looking to see where the trouble was coming from.”

Losian shrugged. Notir was the third scrivener and the worst. He had a sneaking suspicion that the captain was sending him either the greenest or the lousiest scriveners the ferwardens had.

“The next class isn’t through until Hrelmonth and it’ll be several weeks before they’re ready. What’s that 3 months and a bit. We can’t wait that long.” Gruthwin grumbled. “I wonder if we can get someone who has been pensioned off to help. What do you think?”

“I think Captain Fiftigsman is going to be annoyed,” Losian said disinterestedly. “We’ll just work without a scrivener.”

“Sure, and exactly how is that going to stand up in court? Efenes save me. Do you know how long we’ll have to be there with people rummaging through our minds to make sure that we’re telling the truth?”

Losian picked up the pace. Gruthwin was right. He hated the scriveners but they were a necessary evil. You had to tell them the most obvious things, point out what they had to record and when he told them what he saw, they always looked sceptical. He had magic, just not enough and he had to use it sparingly. He could see what had happened at a crime scene, almost taste it, smell it, but he had a hard time explaining it and the part which drove him crazy is that when he did use his magic, it felt like his head was going to explode. It was the edge that he needed and he’d use it no matter that there were nights when he got home barely able to see. The problem was that without the scrivener’s accurate recording of the investigation, the courts used mages to get the truth from the sprigners working the case. That had only happened once but the pain had been worse than any of the working headaches he had experienced.

They walked through the scared and peeling door of the dutyhalme. Losian felt his shoes stick slightly to the floor, rarely clean, as he opened the battered gate which seperated the biddenrum from the duty rooms of the ferwardens.  It closed with a thunk behind him, like the well-kept gate it was. He bore right into the area where the sprigners, were located. Three long tables divided the room into thirds, with two teams per table. At the far end, on a dais sat Captain Fiftigsman examining some papers. His large desk was clear except for the three sheets he had before him. He looked up as Losian and Gruthwin walked toward their spots on the west side of the room. Acke, who shared their table looked up as they approached. He leaned over to mutter something to Dag, his scrivener, before he grabbed his cloak. He took a wide berth around Losian although he gave him a wary nod. Dag scurried after him without looking at either Losian or Gruthwin. Losian watched the two retreat with an ironic smile. Acke wasn’t a bad sort but Dag was a mouse of a man, typical scrivener.

The other tables were empty, their teams out and about, water rings and gouges all that showed anyone worked there. Fiftigsman cleared his throat. Losian sighed softly to himself. The man had a large voice, probably how he compensated for all of his other shortcomings and he and everyone else in the building were going to hear the captain’s opinion, not that anyone respected it. Losian threw his cloak over the chair next to his; the scrivener’s chair. Notir had barely kept it warm. For a moment Losian felt a twinge. He had been harder than normal on Notir but the man had barely been able to talk to him without breaking out in a sweat.

“So, you’ve finally decided to grace us with your presence Losian. You don’t even have the guts to bring in Notir. Ivar and Nissa found him. Your third scrivener.” Fiftigsman’s voice was getting louder with every sentence. “The place looked like a fire fight. What the hell were you doing?” Fifitgsman didn’t bother to let either men respond. “You were thinking that scrivener’s are expendable weren’t you. Well they’re not. There isn’t a scrivener in this force who’s going to be found in the same room with you. Three, three of them dead in as many months.”

“Begging your pardon captain, but none of them were our fault,” Gruthwin started to say.

Losian, jabbed him with his elbow. Fiftigsman had no interest in finding out the truth. As he saw it, Losian was the problem, even though all three deaths were because the stupid bastards wouldn’t listen to him.

“You have to find your own scrivener and if this one dies, by the gods, I’ll have you drummed out of the ferwardens,” Fiftigsman shouted, his face red and beads of sweat sliding down his sallow cheeks. “The landgraf of Westmoreland’s daughter is missing. Find her.”

Losian, backed away from the table, picking up his cloak and shrugging it on, fury choking him. Turning on his heel he stalked from the room. A moment later he could hear Gruthwin following. Stupid fool. He could have stayed, in fact, he should have stayed. Fiftigsman would take it that he was throwing in his lot with Losian. Losian knew that it was more, that Gruthwin saw them as a team, stupid idiot. Gruthwin should have realised that having at least one member of their team on the right side of Fiftigsman was a necessity. Losian might ignore the politics of the dutyhalme but it wasn’t always in the team’s best interest.

“Well, that wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be,” Gruthwin said as they got beyond the archway of the sprigners’ room. “Now what do we do? Find a retired scrivener in need of a job? I can ask Olva.” His voice trailed off as he caught Losian’s expression. “Maybe not.”

Losian nodded as he stopped at the railing to adjust his cloak. In the brief time they had been in the sprigners room, the biddenrum at the front of the dutyhalme had filled up with petitioners, looking for the ones swept up in night patrols or looking for those missing or just looking for some justice. He didn’t know and there were days he didn’t care. The crowd was staring at him as he fastened his pin, the wheel of Effenes, god of justice. The crowd moved aside and a woman, small but solidly built with wild black hair of the wedgren’s pushed towards the front. They were not often found in Agen and he wondered what brought her here. Not that the wedgren’s could expect any justice. They were not welcomed in any city or town of Agenland, considered as they were by most to be vagabonds and petty thieves.

“What’s a scrivener?” she demanded, once she managed to elbow the woman standing between her and the railing out of the way.

“A what?” Gruthwin asked blinking at her.

“A scrivener. What’s a scrivener?”

Losian frowned at her. “Recorder of the investigation,” he replied. Curiosity, his besetting sin, getting the better of his desire to ignore her.

“As in write?”

“Write, draw, whatever needs to be done to record, accurately, the truth,” Losian replied.

She frowned at him and then looked around at the crowd.

“Don’t be bothering Speger Losian, you. He’ll be no help to you,” Heafman, the head patroller who ran the dutyhalme with an easy going manner, which belied the iron will to keep his patrollers under control and safe, told the woman.

“I can be your scrivener,” she said.

“You can write?” Gruthwin said in surprise.

Losian knew the wealthier merchants could write and they made sure their children could but she was no merchant. Traders could decipher what they needed to for trade and some even could write their names but writing wasn’t a skill widely held.

The woman rolled her eyes.

Losian grinned. That would stick in Fiftigsman craw. A wedgren working for the ferwardens. “Come with us,” he said to her, opening the gate and pushing through the crowd.

Losian opened his eyes, or rather he pried them open. His headache was as bad as any he had felt and he didn’t think he could move a muscle. He tried to make out where he was, but everything was a blur. He was alive. Most people, he supposed would be happy about that, but not him. He’d gladly take the oblivion of death over the massive headache. He closed his eyes and considered whether he was actually dead. He opened his eyes again and tried to focus. He was lying on the floor of a room looking at the legs of a table. Sturdy legs he thought, yes, sturdy legs indeed. Beyond the legs was a wall. A plain wall. Plastered. He stared at the table legs and the wall for a bit. Nothing happened. His head wasn’t better but it wasn’t as bad as it could be he decided. He rolled over slightly so he could leaver himself up into a sitting position. He paused half way. His head hanging down as everything seemed to spin around him. Once things stilled he managed to sit up and slowly look around. He realised that he was in Gruthwin’s room. As he slowly climbed to his feet he wondered if they been drinking. He shook his head and then realised that was a mistake, a big mistake. His stomach revolted and he clapped his hands over his mouth and swallowed convulsively. He stumbled over to where the chamber pot was and threw up, not that there was anything there. He wretched several times, bile souring his mouth. He finished and sat back. He never drank with Gruthwin. He never drank with anyone. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked towards the bed. Gruthwin’s big body was lying there, fully dressed.

Losian’s mind started to work. What was he doing in Gruthwin’s room? He’d only visited it twice. Then he remembered the alley. He got up and stumbled over to Gruthwin. He felt the side of his neck and the blood there pulsed against his finger. He shook Gruthwin. “Wake up you sodding bastard. What happened?”

Gruthwin muttered something and turned over. Losian shook him harder. “Come on, wake up.”

Gruthwin finally opened his eyes and stared at him. He sat up suddenly and looked around. “What the hell happened?”

“That’s what I want to know.”

“The alley, gods the mage.” Gruthwin dropped his head into his hands. “Oh my head,” he moaned.

Losian felt around his head. “You’ve got a cut here and a bump. What do you remember?”

“The shield fell and then I was flying. I must of hit my head. How’d you get us out of there?”

“I didn’t.”

“What do you mean you didn’t?”

I didn’t get us out of there. Someone else did, a woman I think.” Losian looked around the room again. “Where’s Notir?”

“I don’t think he made it. When the shield fell, I think he got caught in the break,” Gruthwin said tiredly. “I’ve never felt a force like that.”

“Well we’d better go back there and see what happened.”

There was a knock on the door and Gruthwin stared at Losian. Losian shrugged.

“Who’s there?” Gruthwin called.

“Beryl. Captain want’s you at the dutyhame. He’s some mad. Why’d you leave Notir.”

“Leave Notir?” Gruthwin asked as he opened the door to Beryl.

“He’s dead and you just left his body there and the body of a mage. He was with you wasn’t he? Mathwin said you were there. Your first kill?”

Gruthwin shook his head. “I don’t remember.”

“Well you’d better remember something because Captain’s on your case for leaving Notir and not reporting the mage,” Beryl said. “Don’t envy you explaining to the captain and Marthwin.” Beryl turned and clattered down the stairs. Losian, who had come to stand behind Gruthwin could see his partner waiting at the bottom.

“I guess we’d better get to the station,” Gruthwin said. He shut the door and turned back looking at Losian. “You look like death. Go home. I’ll talk to the captain.”

“I’ll do,” Losian growled.

“Losian, your eyes are bloody and your face is white.” Gruthwin pushed him into a chair at the table. “What’s this?” He picked up a mug and under it was a piece of paper with Drink This written on it. He sniffed it and held it away. “Whew that smells strong.” He considered it and then handed it to Losian. “I think this is for you. It reminds me of a headache remedy that the healer at the school gave me the first time I had a magic backlash.

“Where’d it come from?” Losian asked.

“Maybe the woman left it?” Losian frowned at him. “I didn’t get us here and you didn’t so she must have. If she wanted to kill us she wouldn’t have bothered to tuck us in or leave you this,” Gruthwin pointed out. He felt his head. “Looks like she cleaned my head as well.”

Losian’s head was so bad that he was at the point when he’d try anything. He had to talk to the captain, look at the mage’s body and Notir’s. He couldn’t do that if his head wanted to explode. He reached out and took the cup swallowing it’s contents. He gagged but managed to finish it. For a moment he wondered if it would stay put and then his head started to clear. He carefully put the mug down. “I think we need something to eat and then we’ll go talk to the captain.”

Gruthwin nodded but he first picked up the mug and took it over to his work table. “I’ll take a look at this after we get back,” he muttered as he carefully covered it with a cloth, muttering a preservation spell on it.

Losian got up looking for his cloak. It had been folded up as a pillow for his head. He leaned down, feeling creaky, to pick it up. Walking to the door he dragged it around his shoulders. He knew Gruthwin would follow.

Losian stopped at the mouth of the alley. His skin prickled with the sense of magic coiling deep within the darkness in front of him. The wind swirled the dust around his ankles bringing with it smells, making him wonder, not for the first time, how anyone could live in this section of Agen. His smile twisted. He hated living in any section of Agen. It all smelled, reeked really, of dirt, shit, decay and corruption. Corruption smelt the worst.

“Do you think this is a good idea? Gruthwin thinks that a mage might be involved,” Notir whispered from behind Losian.

Losian rolled his eyes. “Gruthwin ‘thinks’ a mage is involved? He doesn’t know,” Losian whispered harshly. “What do you want me to do, go back to the Dutyhame? Sorry Captain, we think there’s a mage so we came back,” he replied so softly that he wasn’t sure that Notir even heard him. Losian pushed his coat back so he could get at his hip knife more easily. He let his throwing knife drop into his hand. Notir might be a pain in the arse but he was right to be cautious. He heard Gruthwin move up to stand beside him.

“There’s definitely a mage in there,” Gruthwin murmured. “Feels strong. Notir may be right.”

Losian opened his mouth and took a deep breath. The air, heavy and rank with the smell of rotting garbage, coated his tongue and throat. He wanted to gag but he shut his mouth and swallowed hard. Beneath the smell of decay was another oily smell; magic freshly cast. “Strong or not, we have to see,” Losian said. His words barely carried beyond the two of them.

Losian could tell that Gruthwin was as reluctant as Notir but they had worked together long enough for him to know what was what. He held up three fingers. The others would know they were going in on the count of three. The first finger curled in. That should give Gruthwin enough time to set up a defence spell. Losian curled the second finger. The problem with defence spells is that they were tailored more to the attack spell and you couldn’t choose the best one until you were attacked. The last finger curled down just as Losian noted Gruthwin’s fingers start to flick through a pattern for a spell.

Losian got three steps into the darkness of the alley when the walls on either side lit up with a bolt of magic that slid sideways off the shield Gruthwin had thrown up in front of him. The magic didn’t feel familiar. It bounced and ricocheted around him. He walked steadily down the alley straining his eyes. The mage was still cloaked in darkness, just off to the left. He couldn’t see but he could feel him. Could feel the magic building.

“Get down,” Losian shouted throwing himself to the left just as another bolt passed him, his hair feeling singed. There was a scream from behind him as the shield disintegrated. He snapped his throwing dagger towards where he felt the core of the magic was, and rolled to his left. In the darkness he couldn’t see where to aim. His dagger disappeared but no body toppled. Another bolt incinerated the trash where he had been. “Gruthwin!” he yelled.

A flash of light flew from the mouth of the alley towards the murk but splashed harmlessly against the darkness. A retaliatory strike arrowed towards the mouth of the alley. Losian hoped that Gruthwin had avoided it. There was no sound which could be because he was dead or was preparing another strike. Losian rose to a crouch and searched the alley for something he could use. His knives would be useless but maybe his own magic, puny as it was, could help, if only to distract the mage until Gruthwin could figure out what spell to use. He searched for something green. There was so little that was green in this barren city. There. He could feel the thin tendril of a plant, a scraggly weed that climbed over everything, clinging to walls, trying to reach any light. A survivor and found everywhere. He urged it to twine around the ankle of the mage. Magic had to know what it was fighting. The mage wouldn’t expect a plant to be a weapon. Losian urged it to anchor itself tightly. If he yanked the mage’s feet out from underneath him, maybe he’d hit his head. Maybe it would give Gruthwin enough time to come up with a counter spell.

Losian poured his strength into the plant and his head began to pound. He could feel the mage trying to shake the plant away from his ankle. He couldn’t just blast it away, not if he wanted to keep his foot. The pain in his head was intensifying. “Gruthwin, come on man, do something,” he muttered hanging on with a thread. He couldn’t see anymore and his hearing was beginning to fade.

“That’s it, a thorn would be nice,” a voice murmured in his ear, a woman’s voice”

A thorn? A thorn. He clung to that. He sharpened a leaf.

“Let me help,” the voice whispered.

Losian wavered. Help? who could help him? He was damaged, brain damaged, no one could help him. The pain fogged his mind, reminded him of what he couldn’t do. “Help?” he croaked. A question, or he thought it was a question but all of sudden the pain was less, not gone. He felt someone rummaging through his mind like he would ruffle pages in a book. There was a soft laugh, then a frown. How could he hear a frown?

*What happened here?*

There was a sharp pain, hard, his head was going to explode, his eyes watered and he heard someone screaming. Then it stopped. The pounding headache seemed easy compared to that. He managed to open his eyes to slits but his sight wavered so much that he was nauseous and he shut his eyes.

*Push the thorn into his ankle. That’s right. Now all you have to,* the voice paused. *Someone should be hung. Watch.*

How could he watch with his head in a vice? But he felt what she did. Somehow, just below his magic she slid her’s, following his magic through the plant, barely detected by him and into the thorn. He could feel the mage reaching down to pull the thorn out of his ankle and the blood, the single drop of blood. He could feel her satisfaction as she slid something into the tiny wound. What? A bubble of air? What the hell?

The mage threw another of those bolts meant to torch everything in its path. He felt the power flowing inexorably towards him. His brother would be pleased at his death. He could almost feel his brother’s satisfaction. The magic hit and passed him by. A second and third bolt followed. The air in the alley was becoming hot, hard to breathe. His poor little plant had started to shrivel from the heat. He pulled back from it, barely conscious of what he did. He didn’t need to feel its death, his own would be enough. Another bolt followed. Didn’t this mage have anything else in his arsenal? Maybe a giant fist that would slam down on him, flatten him and put him out of his misery. He didn’t know how long he tottered there. He could care less if he lived or died. Finally he could feel the blackness coming. He reached out and fell into it, smelling lilacs as he went.