The Fire Mages' Daughter by Pauline M. Ross

dropped in for an intimate chat. A small woman, plain-featured, even with the smile. Without it, her face would be ugly indeed. She patted the cushion next to her, and I sat, legs crossed, and waited for her to speak. I had no idea whether that was good manners here or not, and perhaps these people didn’t care about such protocols, but it seemed courteous to me to allow the host to speak first.
    She said nothing, however, while our party entered and disposed themselves, Vhar-zhin and I and the mages sitting at the front, the others standing further back. Even though most of the guards stayed outside, the tent felt crowded. The mother giggled as we filed in, with one hand covering her mouth. Like her son, her clothes were plain, just a rustic gown and a scarf over her head. A few bracelets made of glass beads chinked and rattled with every movement, but she wore no other jewelry.
    Last of all, Ly-haam squeezed past the mage guards, still huddled round the entrance, and folded himself down beside me in one fluid movement.
    “Would you like some besh ?” he said.
    “What is that, a hot drink? I will try some, thank you.”
    The mother reached over to one of the boxes, and pulled out a number of small cups, and poured liquid from the pot on the brazier. It was a rather tasteless herbal brew, very weak, but the cup held only a mouthful, so it was not too challenging to drink it all.
    Again, I waited politely to be greeted, for introductions to be made, for some formalities that would reassure me that these people understood the importance of the visit. I didn’t expect them to acknowledge our rank, for perhaps it meant nothing to them, but they had requested this meeting and the Drashona could hardly have responded more respectfully, short of coming herself.
    But no. “Tell me of your great city,” Ly-haam said, with another charming smile.
    “Kingswell? What do you want to know?”
    “I have heard that the houses are very great, and the streets wide and clean, and that your fountains gush forth hot water.”
    It was not at all what I wanted to talk about, but perhaps such easy conversation was a preliminary stage in negotiations amongst such people.
    “The houses are all made of stone, and tall – perhaps four or five times the height of this tent—”
    “ Clava .” Again the smile.
    For a moment I was confused, for although my ears heard the word as he spoke it, in my head it registered as the word ‘tent’. Then I realised that I understood the meaning already, my mind interpreting it somehow. A little flutter of pleasure ran through me. My ability with languages worked even here, with no more than a single word.
    Smiling back, I went on, “ Clava . Some buildings are much higher than that. And some streets are wide and straight, and some are narrow and winding. And the hot water – yes, there is always hot water running through the pipes. We have no need for fires or fuel, the city is always warm.”
    He leaned forward eagerly. “And that is because of your magic, no? Your mages make it so?”
    Magic. My senses, honed at Yannassia’s well-shod feet, pricked slightly at that. He was no longer exchanging conversational nothings, he genuinely wanted to know. And I wondered why.
    “Not the mages, no. It may be magic, or it may not, but it predates our civilisation by a great many years.”
    “Civilisation,” he repeated, his eyes crinkling at the corners as if he were laughing at me. “I see.”
    “You have an interest in magic?” I asked, in my best bored diplomat tones, as if I cared nothing for the answer.
    Again, his smile widened. “An interest. Yes. An interest.”
    And I could not interpret his meaning at all. He was frustrating to talk to, as slippery as a fish.
    The whole time, his mother said nothing, smiling, always smiling, and refilling the little pots with herbal stuff. After a while, she reached into the box again and pulled out a handful of something – dust, it looked like – that she