Spy Glass
But a message sent by courier will take five days. And, really, who would believe you over a magician assigned by Master
Bloodgood?”
I assessed the magician. Sandy brown hair fell in layers
around his face and the tip of his nose looked as if someone had pushed it down toward his upper lip. He wasn’t bluffing.
“That’s blackmail,” I said.
“No. I’m protecting the Councilor.”
I huffed in frustration. “No one sent me. As you pointed
out, I’m not very popular with the Council or the Master Ma-
gicians right now. I came to ask Tama for a job, but when I saw how…fragile she had become, I wanted to help her instead.”
The truth. When he failed to reply, I added, “Besides, I had
planned to convince her of your…good intentions? Maybe I
need to rethink that. Unless you’d rather she not trust you
enough to let you be in the same room with her?”
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57
His stance relaxed a smidge.
I pressed my advantage. “And I’m positive her view of magi-
cians wouldn’t improve if I told her you’d been using magic
to spy on her.”
“I’m not spying. I’m doing my job.”
“Then why isn’t she surrounded by a null shield? That
would have protected her.”
“Not from you.” He gestured to me. “You could have at-
tacked her with your sais. Magic isn’t the only weapon.”
“But she’s surrounded by guards at all times.”
“Guards you selected.”
“They’re Fulgor soldiers. They’re more loyal to her than
you,” I shot back.
He crossed his arms again. This conversation had gone
nowhere. I returned my sais to the holder hanging around
my waist. Long slits in my cloak allowed me to access them
without getting tangled in the fabric.
“How about a truce?” I asked.
“I’m
listening.”
“I believe Tama can sense your magic on an unconscious
level.” I held up my hand when he opened his mouth. “Hear
me out. In order to help her over her fear of magicians, I need you to stop the protective magic. If you feel she’s in danger,
you can surround her with a null shield. And in return, I will
keep you updated on her progress.”
He considered my offer. “Not you. I want the Councilor’s
First Adviser to give me twice daily reports.”
So he could read Faith’s mind to ensure we didn’t lie to
him. “Fine.”
“And you have to answer two questions.”
Wary, I asked, “What questions?”
“Why didn’t you tell Master Bloodgood about your
immunity?”
He couldn’t use magic to determine if I lied, but he studied
me with a strong intensity. Remembering what Valek had
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Maria V. Snyder
said about my poor acting skills, I kept as close to the truth as possible.
“At first, I hoped my powers would return after I healed.
They didn’t. Now, since the Council and Bain are dealing with
the consequences of the soon-to-be-extinct glass messengers,
I wanted to keep a low profile until things settled to a point
where I can tell Bain and he’ll be more receptive to figuring
out a way my immunity can help Sitia.” I waited, hoping that
last bit wasn’t too much.
“Why did you come looking for a job in Fulgor?” Zebb
asked.
“Obviously, I can’t go to the Citadel and my hometown,
Booruby, is filled with glass factories.” I lowered my gaze, not having to pretend to be upset. The hot sweet smell of molten
glass fogged the streets, and the glint of sunlight from shops
displaying glasswares pierced the air. It was impossible to avoid the reminders of what I had sacrificed.
“I have a few friends in Fulgor. It seemed like a good place
to start,” I said.
He agreed to the truce, but also puffed out his chest and
threatened to tell the Council about my immunity if I failed
to keep him informed. I ignored his bluster. What concerned
me more was I still didn’t know why Zebb failed to erect a
null shield around Tama. Until then, I wouldn’t trust him.
Tama Moon’s confidence crept back over the next twenty
days. We had weeded out the inexperienced guards and as-
sembled a group of seasoned veterans with f lawless service
records. Nic’s team remained her personal bodyguards, but
her distrust of magicians failed to abate despite my assurances and the lack of magic.
The taverns buzzed with general rumblings from the citi-
zens over the mass firings of the guards, but otherwise their
biggest concern was over why their Councilor hadn’t returned
to the Citadel.
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59
Sipping wine at the bar of the Pig Pen, I overheard bits of
a conversation from a few people talking nearby.
“…they’re making resolutions without her.”
“…we need someone to speak for our clan.”
“First Akako and now this…maybe we should demand her
resignation.”
“The Council could assign someone…”
“…they take forever to make a decision.”
When they turned to another subject, I stopped listening.
Their accurate comment about the Sitian Council and the
slow pace of decisions snagged on one of my own worries.
What if the Council decided to execute Ulrick, Tricky and
his goons before I had a chance to find out where they hid
my blood? A slight risk, but still a possibility. Perhaps it was time to resume my own project.
I had planned to ask Tama to arrange a visit with Ulrick for
me, but no visitors were allowed inside Wirral. And I couldn’t
find any exceptions—like by order of the Councilor—to that
rule. I needed an alternative plan.
“Faith, do you have a minute?” I asked from the threshold
of her office.
“Sure, come in.”
Sunlight streamed in from the large glass windows behind
her. I suppressed the memory of being here when Gressa had
occupied the First Adviser’s position. Then I had been mana-
cled and considered a criminal. Instead, I noted the lush carpet and rich furniture. Her office was as ornate as the Councilor’s, but smaller.
I settled into a comfortable chair in front of Faith’s desk.
When she smiled at me, a prick of guilt jabbed me. Squashing
all such feelings, I stayed pleasant as we exchanged small talk.
Eventually, she asked what I needed.
“Tama has improved so much over the last twenty-five
days, but she is still terrified of Zebb,” I said.
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Maria V. Snyder
“That’s understandable,” Faith said.
“I know, but the townspeople are worried about her missing
Council sessions and if she doesn’t return soon, there could
be a call for her resignation.”
Faith tsked. “There are always naysayers out there. You
can’t please everyone.”
“True, but I have an idea that might help.”
Her eyebrows arched as she waited for me to continue.
“I’m assuming her sister Akako and Gressa are in the maxi-
&nbs
p; mum security prison?”
“Yes, they are both in the SMU along with those other
men.”
“Do you know the correctional officers who work in the
SMU?” I asked.
“Not personally. They’re a specially trained elite unit.
In fact, there are only a handful of people allowed in the
SMU.”
“Do the officers live there?” That seemed extreme.
“No.” She tapped her fingertips together. It was an uncon-
scious habit that she displayed whenever the logic in a conver-
sation didn’t quite add up; as if she could push all the illogical pieces together and build something she could understand. I’d
spent more time with her than I realized. Tama had made an
excellent choice when she appointed the practical and sensible
Faith as her First Adviser.
“Do you have the names of those in the elite unit?” I
asked.
“How is this related to Tama’s fear of Zebb?”
Time for a little creative reasoning. “We did background
checks on all the guards in the Council Hall and Tama has
relaxed. She’s afraid of a magical attack. So I thought if we
did some digging into the backgrounds of the unit, she would
feel better, knowing the men and women guarding those who
know blood magic are trustworthy. I know I would sleep
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61
better with that information. And I think we should check
into Zebb’s history, as well.”
Faith’s hands stilled and she pressed her steepled index
fingers to her lips. “Why don’t you just ask Tama for their
names?”
“She would want to know why I was interested. And it’s
more complicated than with the Hall’s guards. Then we were
just weeding out the inexperienced and those of question-
able repute. The unit has been with these prisoners for over a
season. What if we discover a real problem? Akako could have
assigned moles in the prison just in case her plans failed. You know Tama requests daily updates, and I can’t lie to her. She
would be terrified by the notion. I’d rather wait and tell her
good news once we assess the situation.” I held my breath.
“A reasonable plan, and I agree we shouldn’t tell the Coun-
cilor. At least not yet.” Faith opened a drawer in her desk,
pulling out a sheet of paper. “I’ll send a request to Wirral’s
warden.”
Uh-oh. I hoped to keep the number of people involved to
two. “Don’t you have that information here?”
“No. Grogan Moon is in charge of all Wirral’s per-
sonnel.”
“Is his office in the Hall?”
“No. It’s at the prison where he spends most of his time.
He comes here for meetings with the Councilor and other
clan business.” She dipped her quill into ink and wrote the
request.
After she folded the paper and sealed it with wax, I jumped
to my feet. “I’ll deliver the message.”
She
hesitated.
“I want to make sure it reaches the warden and not some
underling. Besides, I think it’ll be helpful if I take a look around.”
As soon as I entered, the solid mass of the prison’s stone
walls bore down on my shoulders. The air thickened and I
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Maria V. Snyder
fought to draw a breath. I clutched Faith’s request in my hands, which were pressed against my chest as if it were a shield.
With each step, I sank deeper into the bowels of Wirral.
My escort held a torch, illuminating his aggrieved scowl. Most
messengers delivered their communications to the officers
at the gate, but I had insisted on handing the missive to the
warden himself.
After an intense debate, an order to disarm and a thor-
ough search of my body, I had been permitted to enter. I’d
regretted my insistence as soon as the first set of steel doors slammed behind me. The harsh clang reverberated off the
stone walls, and matched the tremor of panic in my heart.
More sets of locked gates followed until I lost all track of time or location.
Rank and putrid smells emanated from dark hallways.
Shrieks of pain, curses and taunting cries pierced the air. We
didn’t pass any cells. Thank fate. I had no wish to view the
conditions nor the poor souls trapped in here.
Eventually, the officer led me up a spiral staircase so narrow
my shoulders brushed both walls. The acrid odors disappeared
and the oily blackness lightened. Dizzy with relief and the
fast pace, I paused for a moment by the only window we en-
countered. Drinking in the crisp breeze, I looked down on
an exercise yard. Completely surrounded by the prison, the
packed dirt of the square at least allowed the prisoners some
fresh air and sunlight.
My escort growled at me to hurry, and I rushed to catch
up. The top of the staircase ended at another steel door. After a series of complicated knocks from both sides of the door, it
swung open, revealing two officers wedged in a small ves-
tibule. Another round of explanations followed another pat
down.
Yep. This had been a bad idea. One of my worst.
I was finally admitted to the warden’s office. Windows
ringed the large circular room. A stone hearth blazed with
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63
heat in the center, and behind a semicircle-shaped desk sat the warden.
My first impression—big bald head. Second—an immacu-
late uniform cut so tight wrinkles would be impossible. An-
other man lounged in a chair next to the desk. He also wore
a correctional officer’s uniform, but instead of the standard
blue, his shirt and pants were deep navy and no weapons or
keys hung from his belt. He eyed me with keen interest.
My escort waited for the warden to acknowledge our pres-
ence before approaching the desk. I lagged behind and tried
not to duck my head when the warden turned his irritation
on me. Steel-gray eyes appraised me, and I stif led the need
to scuff my foot and fidget like a small child. He stood and
held out his hand. His movements were so precise and rigid,
I wondered if his bones had been replaced by metal rods and
his f lesh petrified by years spent inside this stone prison.
“The message?” His voice matched his demeanor. Rough
and sharp.
I handed him the request. He snatched it, ripped it open,
scanned the words and tossed it on his desk. “Go,” he
ordered.
“But—”
“What? Am I supposed to hand you the information?” His
tone implied yes would be the wrong answer.
“Er…” Wonderful retort. Opal, the superspy.
“Am I supposed to stop everything I’m doing to give you
classified documents?”
“Um…”
“Go
now.”
I used to believe a powerful Daviian Warper addicted to
blood magic was the scariest person I’d ever encounter. Not
anymore.
Outside and several blocks away from Wirral, I sucked in
huge gulps of air, trying to expel the fetid taint of the prison
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Maria V. Snyder
inside me. My gasps turned to hiccupy giggles as I imagined
going through with my original plan to work undercover as
a correctional officer. Light-headed and unable to draw in a
decent breath, I reached for a lantern post as my head spun.
I missed and toppled to the ground. Dazed, I waited for the
spinning to stop.
“Hey! Are you all right?” a man asked. He peered down
at me in concern.
“Fine. Fine.” I waved him away. “Just lost my balance.”
He knelt next to me. “It’s brutal the first time.”
I squinted at him. “What?”
“You were in Wirral. I thought you looked…shaky.”
Recognizing the man from the warden’s office, I pushed
to my elbow in alarm. “You followed me?”
“Of course. Your face was whiter than a full moon, your eyes
were bugged out and you wobbled when you left. What was
I suppose to do? Let you fall and crack your head open?”
“No…sorry. I’m just… That was horrible!”
“It’s a punishment. It’s not supposed to be fun.”
“But it seemed…cruel.”
“What
did?”
Was he teasing me? A cool humor lurked behind his
grayish-green eyes, but it didn’t spoil his genuine interest in my answer.
“The smells, the shrieks, the darkness, the…”
He waited. When I didn’t continue, he said, “Did you
actually see anything cruel?”
“No,
but—”
“Your imagination filled in the details.”
I wanted to correct him. Not my imagination, but my
experience.
“I won’t lie to you. It is bad, but not cruel. They’re fed,
given water, exercise and fresh air. No one is tortured or
harmed by the COs. And considering what most of them have
done to others, it’s more than they deserve. Here…”
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65
He hooked his arm under mine and helped me to my feet.
I swayed, but regained my balance, trying to remember the
last time I ate.
“What are COs?”
“Short for correctional officers. We abbreviate every-
thing.”
The man still held my arm.
“Thanks for the help,” I said, trying and failing to subtly
break his strong grip. “I’ll be fine.”
He gave me a skeptical look. “You need a drink, and I know
just the place.”
Instinctively, I gauged his skill level. About six inches taller than me, he had a lean, wiry build. Buzzed black hair showed