Dangerous Waters by Juliet E. McKenna

make them had been quarried, so Jilseth had learned from her mageborn grandmother.
    Scudding clouds obscured the sun and the commanding façades faded from gold to grey before brightening again as the shadows passed. No two buildings were alike; some were stern with narrow, angular windows squinting defiance at the weather, others were flattered by arches softening their doors and stone tracery decorating their windows. Some long-dead wizards had even been seduced by the florid excesses of High Tormalin style, bequeathing edifices embellished with frivolous carved swags and cornices. Together, Jilseth’s grandmother said, Hadrumal’s halls offered the finest history of architecture through the twenty generations since the first Archmage, Trydek, sought sanctuary on the island.
    That sanctuary was now truly a city. Orderly quadrangles accommodated those apprenticed to master mages and magewomen. Towers offered more eminent wizards a refuge from their pupils’ chatter and, so it was always claimed, a clearer perspective on the mysteries of magic through their unobstructed views of the island and the sky and sea beyond.
    Along the high road, merchants and tradesmen had long since claimed whatever space originally separated those havens of wizardly learning. Today the wine shops and bakeries were crowded with prentices and pupils enjoying the festival respite from their studies. Accents and fashions from every mainland realm mingled with the subtly different dress and dialect that marked out the Hadrumal-born.
    A wine seller stepped out of his doorway to hail the Archmage. ‘Master Planir!’
    ‘Master Noak.’ The Archmage inclined his head in amiable greeting.
    ‘I have some cases of that Trokain vintage,’ the wine merchant confided.
    ‘Excellent.’
    ‘Archmage?’ A stout man emerged from a pie shop. His festival finery was fresh from the tailor, in sharp contrast to Planir’s shabbiness. ‘Madam Jilseth.’ He seemed less than pleased to see her.
    ‘Hearth Master Kalion.’ She greeted him politely before acknowledging his slender companion with a cool nod of her head. ‘Ely. What a pleasant surprise.’
    The elegant magewoman in sage-green draperies scowled. Before she could find some reply to Jilseth’s veiled sarcasm, the Hearth Master spoke.
    ‘Archmage, forgive me,’ he said curtly. ‘I know it is festival time but we must discuss this latest news from the mainland.’
    ‘By all means.’ Planir sat on the wine shop’s window ledge, tucking his hands into his breeches’ pockets. ‘What news in particular?’
    Kalion narrowed his eyes, exasperated. ‘Not here in the high road.’
    ‘As you wish.’ Planir stood up and smiled at the wine seller. ‘I’ll call back later, Noak. Fair festival to you and yours, and don’t sell all the Trokain.’
    ‘Trokain vintages?’ Kalion was momentarily distracted. ‘Of which Emperor?’
    ‘Bezaemar the Generous,’ the wine seller said promptly.
    Planir grinned. ‘Why don’t we discuss these urgent matters over a glass, Kalion?’
    ‘It will be my honour to serve you,’ the wine seller offered at once. ‘In the rear parlour?’
    Jilseth could see this was far from what Kalion wanted but the Archmage had already entered the wine shop, following Master Noak towards the rear door. She glimpsed men and women already in there sat on either side of white raven boards, playing the strategy game that so many found enthralling.
    She had never seen the appeal of either challenge; capturing the solitary white bird with an assortment of other forest fowl, or escaping those painted figurines shifted turn by turn by the player seeking to trap the fugitive raven amid wooden trees and thickets. Jilseth would rather read a book offering some insight into her wizardry.
    The flame-embroidered hem of Kalion’s red velvet mantle thrashed eloquently around his polished boots as he followed the Archmage.
    ‘You don’t need to wait.’ Spurning Jilseth with a shrug of her