Dust and Light by Carol Berg Read Free Book Online

were of a height, my new master and I, though his shoulders, arms, chest, and thighs were likely twice my bulk, and appeared . . . solid. Quite solid.
    My spirit’s momentary elevation was well damped.
    “Hmmph.” He grunted and dropped his gaze to the contract again. “Take off the mask.”
    By this time, a blur of faces gawked from the side gates through the nasty fog. I’d no time to feel my way with this fellow. Rules were rules. Best stand my ground from the beginning.
    “No,” I said. “I cannot. With all respect, Master Bastien.” I inclined my head in his direction and touched my fingertips to my forehead.
    His head jerked up and he met my gaze. Gold-brown eyes, keen as a lance point, pierced my own. Any idea that this man was foolish, ignorant, or in any way malleable fled.
    His curt nod was very like that of a smith judging the quality of raw iron as he decides how to heat and pound it. And then a grin—not at all a friendly grin, to my mind—spread from one side of his broad, hairy face to the other. He tapped the contract scroll across his wide palm. More than ever, I wished I’d had the opportunity to glimpse its terms.
    “So that’s to be the way of it,” he said. “Dismiss your party,
Servant
Remeni-Masson. Take a deep breath and taste your future. Then we’ll see how you can profit me.”
    Matters were not so simple as Bastien’s wish. Dame Fortuna was kind, and Leander was able to throttle the urge to vomit. He politely informed the coroner that there was yet one small matter to deal with before his party could leave. To be precise, the fee.
    Bastien snorted. “So the Registry must touch my coin first—take its portion before the sorcerer pockets it and accuses us ordinaries of cheating. Very wise. Keeps things in order. We needs must traipse inside to fetch it, though. Not going to risk dropping a purse into a dead-pit, am I? None of you lot would care to fish it out of a five-year bone stew.”
    Brisk as a storm wind, the coroner strode past us into the prometheum, trailing the foul smoke behind him.
    Though Leander’s exposed features remained properly uncommunicative, the brow behind his red silk mask rose in wary alarm. My own skill at dual expression was well practiced, yet I did not respond. I didn’t trust myself to confine my opinions behind the mask. Mostly I was anxious to judge the weight of the purse. I’d no hope of a luxurious stipend, but my family’s future depended on a decent one. At my nod, we reversed course and followed.
    Bastien’s destination was a low-ceilinged corner chamber, crowdedwith a writing desk, stools, a scuffed worktable holding a counting board and a wax tablet, and a honeycomb map case filled with rolled parchments. A press gaped open, its shelves neatly ordered with inkhorns, a stack of smaller wax tablets, another of parchment pages, and a few oddments impossible to make out in the dull light.
    Leander halted in the doorway. Bastien snapped a loop of keys from his belt and crouched in front of a black iron chest. A snick of the lock, a reach inside, and the coroner sprang to his feet. A gray lump shot across the room toward us.
    He barked a laugh when the startled Leander juggled the chinking bag as if it were a burning coal. “Best not spill good coin. We’ll have rats coming out the cracks and corners.” He widened his eyes and lowered his voice, as if spooking children. “Mayhap dead folk’ll come after it, too, hoping to snatch a copper for the Ferryman’s fee.”
    Leander tied the bag to his belt.
    My master slammed the iron lid and locked his chest. “’Tis exactly the price agreed,” he added as if he’d never been aught but sober. “I’ll not take offense if you count it.”
    “That will not be necessary, good Bastien,” said Leander, admirably recovered. “My superiors have deemed you worthy of a pureblood contract. To doubt your honor would cast doubts on their wisdom. With all respect.”
    The guardsman swiveled and