Of all the things Calliope expected to happen, her mark killing himself was not among them. She froze, fork laden with bloody meat halfway to her mouth, fuming. How dare he? How dare he ruin her kill this way, it was like a finger painter meddling with a master artists composition. For a moment she wished she knew some necromancy, so she could raise him up and kill him properly. Blood ran from his wrist, staining the table cloth and dripping onto the floor, a slight foam forming at the corner of his mouth from the poison. A waiter screamed and a moment later other patrons began to take note adding their own shrieks of horror to the chorus. Calliope set down her fork and lifted her napkin to dab at the corner of her mouth. The mottled fury of a moment before drained from her face to be replaced with icy calm. She swallowed down the rest of her wine and stood up.

 

“Unlucky in love I suppose,” she told the crowd, sounding as philosophical as she could, then she reached into her purse and flicked a gold coin down onto the table as a tip and walked out the door, metallic gown swishing behind her.

 

Chapter 2

 

Magister Therman was a disagreeable man. He was arrogant, he was corrupt, and he had a number of unsavory personal habits that would have made a ghoul blush. For all his bloated form, and disgusting appetites however, he was a senior member of the Arcane Council, wielding blackmail like a cudgel across a large swath of the Enchanters as well as diverse members of other factions. He was also the foremost expert on magical defences in the land, his skills highly sought by Magisters and lay Nobles alike. It was well he was so detestable, that made it easier, but even if he had been a saint, Calliope would still have decided to kill him. Therman’s tower was a fortress in every sense of the world, impregnable even for her, hundreds of concentric rings of magical security, wards and enchantments, glamors and guardians, that would take a master weeks to prize open. All to protect his privacy and, more importantly to Calliope, his library. Rumor had it that he had a copy of Kor Kalen’s Workings, an innocuous name for a book allegedly written by an apprentice of the legendary Kor Kalen - Sorcerer King of Inganok. The existence of Inganok, of Kor Kalen and of the book were all conjectural, but that was a lot of conjecture to ignore. If such a book existed it would be strictly forbidden by the Arcane Council, to be burned on sight, along with its owner. Such rules tended to be somewhat difficult to enforce however, provided the user of the tome took some pains to be discrete. There was no way that Magister Therman would ever be so crass as to be caught, and so long as the book remained behind his impenetrable walls it was safe. Which was why Calliope was going to make sure that it was taken from within that twisted fortress.

 

“Make way, make way for Mighty Magister Therman!” cried a knight in glittering armor. He marched at the head of a column of footmen arrayed in the gaudy orange and puce livery that Therman favored. Behind them came a dozen young men with pimply faces and fine garb mounted on bay stallions, Therman’s apprentices. The young mages formed a square around a large an ornate carriage, bedecked with so much gilt work it was a minor feat of biomancy that the four great white stallions pulling it didn’t burst their huge hearts with the effort. Naturally enough the carriage bristled with arcane defences, even if one could get past the soldiers and the apprentices, one would still have to contend with the great Magister himself. Killing him was an impossible task, or nearly so. For all his subtly, his power, and his defenses however, Magister Therman did have two weaknesses.  The first was that he was predictable.

“Make way! Make way you curs!” The Captain of the Guard called in a haughty voice. That seemed rather a waste of effort. The Bridges was a thoughrouly respectable district, populated mostly by successful tradesmen that catered to the nearby Assembly, lexicographers, alchemists, jewelers, tailors, gilded scribes, all of whom had obsequiously scrambled out of the way at the approach of the coach. The soaring bridges from which the district took its name arched up over The Fingers. The Fingers were great natural gorges which had been by the delta of the River Hallicut in eons past, before it had been channeled into the Great Star Lake. Hundreds of feet deep, The Fingers were further expanded by tunnels and cave systems that ran beneath the city. A hundred bridges spanned them, leading in towards the Tower of Assembly that was the heart of the city. Many were simple stone constructions, but others were great works of metal and magic which soared majestically over the heads of the cities most wretched denizens. Calliope sat at a booth watching the spectacle of Magister Therman’s procession. With one hand she sipped from a cup of bitter tea, while the other was gently painted with intricate henna tattoos by one of the tea houses employees, picking out her pattern with the precision of a jeweler faceting a gem. It wasn’t quite time yet, but it would be soon.