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Authors: Doranna Durgin
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have several business travelers caught here in Amses until the travel system is working again."
"I haven't been able to get any news at all," Arlen said, lacing it with the amount of complaint he thought appropriate for a businessman who was used to the best. Burning hells, he was a wizard used to the best; there couldn't be much difference. "No public dispatch at all, and the news pedestals are empty. Have you heard anything about how long things will be down?" He took a sip of the wine—definitely a good vintage—and glanced from his small, round table to see that no one else was paying attention to the conversation. It was simply his turn to speak with the chef.
"Nothing," the young man said. "No word about what's happened, either. It had to have been pretty big, to have affected all of Camolen—"
The chef cleared his throat. "Plenty of warnings not to panic being distributed," he said. "No good can come of panic. We've enough service wizards to keep Amses going for a few days. The break from dispatch news might even do us all a little good."
"Sit back and enjoy the sunsets while you can," Arlen suggested, trying not to think of the fact that the break from dispatch news had been caused by the deaths of people he cared about. I should have been there, should have tried to stop it— And then you'd be dead, too.
"Exactly," the chef said, entirely unaware of Arlen's inner struggle. "I hope your meal here has helped to make your stay pleasant whether you intended to be here or not."
"It's gone a long way," Arlen said, meaning it. "If you could direct me to an equally pleasant overnighter, I'd be grateful."
That, they were glad to do, although the chef returned to his kitchen and left the younger man doling out directions. Arlen paid for the meal with Anfeald scrip—all he had, and worth a remark from the server.
He'd hardly been prepared to keep himself inconspicuous. And, arriving in his newly assigned rooms at the recommended establishment, he thought again that doing so was his only course of action. Until he found out what happened to the Council. Until he found out why he was the only one left. For while he hadn't been able to confirm anything—hadn't been able to reach anyone at all, either on the Council or the Secondary Council—there was a deep part of him that knew the others were dead—all of them. And of anyone in Camolen, he knew only a tragedy of that magnitude would provoke the service shutdown he was witnessing.
Do something.
Anything.
Make it better.
He was a senior wizard. The only surviving wizard. If anyone could do something, it was him.
But not from here. Not without more information. Not without something to act against .
Meanwhile, if the other Council members had been killed, then he, too, was a likely target. No one knew he was here . . . but if someone were looking for him . . .
He tossed his bags on the bed, a solid creation of beautifully worked stripewood head and footboard, and peered out one of the room's two windows; the overnighter held only four customer rooms, and this one looked out onto the property's vast back lot. Snow-covered arbors, walkways, and benches hinted of summertime beauty. For now, it lay abandoned, and offered him the privacy he wanted. As did most overnighters, this one offered breakfast; it would be midday before he needed to venture forth. Enough time, he hoped, to get over the surprise of arriving to a non-functional travel booth and finding his travel time expanded from a day to— He didn't even know. He'd never traveled a distance such as this without the benefit of wizardry. Coach travel would probably be the most efficient . . . perhaps interspersed with rental horses to cross coach lines and make himself less predictable.
He glanced into the bathroom—all of the usual fixtures there, along with soap and towels and a discreet basket of potpourri, all of which he'd paid extra for; the other rooms in the oversized house shared a common bath.
"I haven't been able to get any news at all," Arlen said, lacing it with the amount of complaint he thought appropriate for a businessman who was used to the best. Burning hells, he was a wizard used to the best; there couldn't be much difference. "No public dispatch at all, and the news pedestals are empty. Have you heard anything about how long things will be down?" He took a sip of the wine—definitely a good vintage—and glanced from his small, round table to see that no one else was paying attention to the conversation. It was simply his turn to speak with the chef.
"Nothing," the young man said. "No word about what's happened, either. It had to have been pretty big, to have affected all of Camolen—"
The chef cleared his throat. "Plenty of warnings not to panic being distributed," he said. "No good can come of panic. We've enough service wizards to keep Amses going for a few days. The break from dispatch news might even do us all a little good."
"Sit back and enjoy the sunsets while you can," Arlen suggested, trying not to think of the fact that the break from dispatch news had been caused by the deaths of people he cared about. I should have been there, should have tried to stop it— And then you'd be dead, too.
"Exactly," the chef said, entirely unaware of Arlen's inner struggle. "I hope your meal here has helped to make your stay pleasant whether you intended to be here or not."
"It's gone a long way," Arlen said, meaning it. "If you could direct me to an equally pleasant overnighter, I'd be grateful."
That, they were glad to do, although the chef returned to his kitchen and left the younger man doling out directions. Arlen paid for the meal with Anfeald scrip—all he had, and worth a remark from the server.
He'd hardly been prepared to keep himself inconspicuous. And, arriving in his newly assigned rooms at the recommended establishment, he thought again that doing so was his only course of action. Until he found out what happened to the Council. Until he found out why he was the only one left. For while he hadn't been able to confirm anything—hadn't been able to reach anyone at all, either on the Council or the Secondary Council—there was a deep part of him that knew the others were dead—all of them. And of anyone in Camolen, he knew only a tragedy of that magnitude would provoke the service shutdown he was witnessing.
Do something.
Anything.
Make it better.
He was a senior wizard. The only surviving wizard. If anyone could do something, it was him.
But not from here. Not without more information. Not without something to act against .
Meanwhile, if the other Council members had been killed, then he, too, was a likely target. No one knew he was here . . . but if someone were looking for him . . .
He tossed his bags on the bed, a solid creation of beautifully worked stripewood head and footboard, and peered out one of the room's two windows; the overnighter held only four customer rooms, and this one looked out onto the property's vast back lot. Snow-covered arbors, walkways, and benches hinted of summertime beauty. For now, it lay abandoned, and offered him the privacy he wanted. As did most overnighters, this one offered breakfast; it would be midday before he needed to venture forth. Enough time, he hoped, to get over the surprise of arriving to a non-functional travel booth and finding his travel time expanded from a day to— He didn't even know. He'd never traveled a distance such as this without the benefit of wizardry. Coach travel would probably be the most efficient . . . perhaps interspersed with rental horses to cross coach lines and make himself less predictable.
He glanced into the bathroom—all of the usual fixtures there, along with soap and towels and a discreet basket of potpourri, all of which he'd paid extra for; the other rooms in the oversized house shared a common bath.
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