Magic Steps by Tamora Pierce Page A

people, but it is my sense that the more heads are put to this thing, the better, Is there any way to reach Niko?” he asked Sandry.
    The girl shook her head. Tris’s teacher, Niklaren Goldeye, was not just the greatest living truthsayer, able to spot a lie at a glance; he was one of the few who could work the magic that made it possible to see the past, even if only for a short time. “They’re halfway between here and the Cape of Grief,” she said, naming the southernmost tip of land below the Pebbled Sea. “That’s much too far away. I won’t even be able to talk to Tris until they return to Hatar.”
    “And that will be?” inquired Erdogun.
    “Not till next year.” She sighed.
    The duke smiled. “You miss her, don’t you?”
    “I miss them all,” Sandry admitted. “It’s like part of me left with them. At least I can still mind-speak to Daja and Briar, if I really strain.”
    The duke reached over to pat her hand. “Well, I am delighted you stayed at Winding Circle.”
    The door opened. Sandry had been present at such meetings before and kept her workbox here for them. Quickly she lifted her embroidery hoop from the box and began to stitch on its design. She was the very picture of a noble maiden.
    “Qasam Rokat, of Rokat House, merchants,” the footman announced before he closed the door behind the guest. Sandry peered under her lashes at the new comer.
    Qasam Rokat was plump, not fat like his brother had been. He was sweating so much that his white tur ban had gone dark where the lower edge touched his skin.
    His face was brown, his full dark beard neatly trimmed. Like Jamar Rokat, he was richly clothed in silk, wearing draped breeches under a long, buttoned coat. The sword and knife sheaths at his sash were empty—the Guards would have taken his weapons before allow ing him to come before the duke. He repeatedly dabbed his forehead and cheeks with a silk handkerchief.
    First he bowed to the duke, touching his forehead, then his chest, with both hands as the people of Aliput greeted their royalty. When he straightened, he bowed less formally to Baron Erdogun.
    When he noticed Sandry, he frowned. “Your grace, what I have to say is not for a lady’s ears.”
    “Lady Sandrilene has my confidence,” replied the duke coldly. “I value her advice. Moreover, she is an accomplished mage with a broad education. You may speak before her and the baron as you would privately to me.”
    “But your grace,” argued the man, bowing once more to Sandry, “it regards matters of considerable violence and bloodshed. Surely you do not wish so lovely a young lady—,”
    “Either talk or go away,” snapped the baron. “It is not for you to question his grace.”
    The duke raised a hand. “Peace Erdo.” To Qasam Rokat he said, “My caretakers are zealous. Speak before them or not at all.”
    Sandry felt the merchant’s eyes on her. She kept hers down, picking out a design of blue lotuses, their petals and stems shaping the signs for health. It was complex work; most embroiderers would be able to attend to nothing else while they stitched.
    “Your grace, I appreciate your seeing me at such a time,” Qasam said at last.
    “My deepest felicitations on your recovery so prayed for—,”
    Again the duke raised his hand. “Spare me your felicitations and prayers. If you have concerns about your brother’s murder, why have you not addressed them to my lady provost? The investigation is her affair, not mine.”
    “But your grace understands the way of the world,” Qasam replied. “A servant always works better when the masters eye is upon him. I wished to assure myself that your grace’s eye is indeed upon my lady provost and her guards. It is known that your grace is not a—a supporter of Rokat House.”
    The duke braced his elbows on his chair and folded his hands. “Let us speak frankly,”’ he said in an icy voice. Hairs stirred on the back of Sandry’s neck.
    Suddenly he looked—he felt—dangerous.