Sanguine

By Amy Sanderson

Ebony, a necromancer and a sanguine, has spent her life being distrusted for her blood magic. Even in the magic-driven city of Jianyi, sanguineus isn't welcome. However, Brand, Master of the Guild of Necromancers, seems willing to give her a chance, and even if it means giving up her sanguineus, Ebony plans to take it.

Brand, though, has something of a personal interest in Ebony's blood magic. The gods of Jianyi have long been absent, but he's found a way to bring them back, and he needs a sanguine to do it.

As Ebony seeks a way to stop him, she'll come up against necromancers and demons, find allies in assassins and illusionists, and confront not just Brand, but the buried history of her own magic − and the power it could bring.

Filled with magic and action, intrigue and adventure, SANGUINE is a stand-alone fantasy novel, suitable for readers aged 14 and above.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amy Sanderson
• Release date: May 17, 2014
• ISBN: 9781513068909

Amy Sanderson

Amy has been writing for as long as she can remember, inspired by a childhood fascination with books. By the time she was fifteen and confronted with school 'careers guidance', she'd decided being an author was the only profession she could possibly enjoy - which, of course, led to a string of other roles, including Archaeology student, bookseller and library assistant. These days, she lives in the North Yorkshire countryside with her partner, where they run a bed & breakfast business and smallholding. When she's not working or writing, Amy enjoys reading, gaming, photography, and trying to pretend she's a grown-up.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

––––––––

Only a dozen paces lay between her and the city gates, but Ebony was certain she would never make it inside. Jianyi winked at her through the archway, a glimmering jewel warped by heat haze. Sweat prickled along the back of her tightly-covered neck and down her spine. Just a few more steps. Two of the guards turned in opposite directions, an enticing gap forming between them. If she just scooted past, they'd never notice-

Name. A guard's voice, close enough to set her heart fluttering. The queue of new arrivals had moved on and Ebony had, unconsciously, moved with it.

Name, the guard repeated, in bored tones.

Ebony licked at dry lips and kept her gaze lowered. Ebony Liang.

Occupation.

Necromancer.

The guard scribbled notes without looking up. Have you visited Jianyi before? Are you carrying any contraband or banned items? Do you agree not to use your mancy in any manner that could damage the city or endanger its citizens, unless said mancy has written approval from a representative of the imperial court?

Ebony answered 'no', 'no' and 'yes' in turn but the guard wasn't really listening. He waved her forward and, heart thundering, she obeyed. Jianyi was there, opening before her like a flower. A flower smelling of cooking fat and open drains, but a flower all the same.

In her hurry to escape into the city, Ebony stumbled, the cobbles looming before her. A hand grabbed her arm, hauling her upright.

Are you all right? The voice above sounded amused. Ebony realised she had tripped over the man's foot.

I'm fine, thank you. She backed away, bowing. One hand went instinctively to straighten her collar, but she forced it down.

Too late. When she finally met the man's eyes, all humour was draining from them. Before she could move or protest, his hand grasped her chin, lifting her face to the light.

Officer Lun. Her captor called for the guard who had been so disinterested in her before.

The officer hurried over and flashed a salute. Lord Hakawa.

Hakawa. Ebony kept still, focusing on the name rather than the grip of his fingers. She had a horrible feeling it was one she would not want to forget, nor his long, arrogant face. Probably inbred, if he was a lord. Had to be with a nose like that.

You allowed this girl to pass, did you not? Hakawa spoke with quiet intensity. Take a good look at her.

Ebony could take their scrutiny no longer. She struggled against the grip on her face, but the lord only tightened it. Lun stepped closer and his eyes widened.

My lord, she... she said she was a necromancer.

I am, Ebony grated through clenched teeth, but she knew what they were seeing. The red tint to her brown eyes was unmistakable in such strong sunlight.

She is a sanguine, Hakawa said, voice heavy with distaste. He released her chin, instead pulling down her thick collar to reveal the tattoo spiralling around the back of her neck. Which you would have seen if you were doing your job.

My lord. Lun hung his head.

Ebony finally squirmed free of the lord's grip. She met his gaze, enjoying the discomfort she saw there. There are no laws against sanguines entering Jianyi. She had made quite sure of that before she even attempted the journey here.

Hakawa's jaw tightened. Yet still you lied about your occupation.

It wasn't a lie. She ground one boot heel between the cobbles, fighting the urge to scream. I'm a necromancer too.

Eyes continued to stare, weighing her. She shuffled in the dust, clenching and unclenching her fists. The relentless sun was making her head ache and her pale skin redden. The officials stood tall around her like the dark boles of trees, their faces visible only when she squinted against the light.

As the lord shifted his footing, Ebony spied an opening. She didn't dare use mancy to break through, though she could feel corpse zhi all around. Still, the gap between the two guards was just wide enough and neither was looking her way.

She darted forward, barely brushing against the guards, and was through the gates in an instant. A shout rose behind, a scuffling of feet and men colliding with one another. She wormed past one grasping hand, another, before one caught the back of her jacket. With a rib-crushing lurch, an arm locked around her chest, lifting her off her feet. Ebony kicked, eliciting a grunt from her captor. The first arm held tight though, and another came round to secure her.

What is going on here, officer? A new voice, soft, urbane, used to being obeyed. The figure that emerged from a side-street was swathed in dark silks and jewelled robes, and surrounded by a retinue just as richly dressed.

The arms holding Ebony relaxed, dropping her to her feet. Restraining hands held her shoulders, giving her no opportunity to run. Hakawa.

Guild Master. The lord spoke stiffly, his fingers digging into Ebony's flesh.

What is going on? the newcomer repeated. When Ebony looked at him, her head swam. Zhi trailed around the man, swaddling him in lines of eerie green light, as if he couldn't help but draw magical energy to himself. None of the guards could see it, she thought - this needed a necromancer's eyes.

Master Brand. Unable to bow without releasing her, Hakawa dipped his head. This girl is a sanguine. We caught her trying to enter the city.

The Guild Master had gone very still. And is that a problem?

My lord Brand. Hakawa tensed, his grip tight enough to bruise; apparently he had no reply to the Guild Master’s question. He didn’t let go though, and when Ebony squirmed, she succeeded only in calling Brand's attention to her like a mouse tempting a hawk.

Dizziness swept over her as the Guild Master approached. So much zhi, being carried around as if it were nothing more than firewood. She had never felt anything like it.

Sanguineus is not a crime. No mancy is. Brand was prising her out of Hakawa's fingers, but Ebony couldn't focus on his face. Besides, I sense this girl also possesses some necromancy. You may pass her into my care.

When Ebony looked back, Hakawa was locked into a bow. The Guild Master's hand was on her arm, guiding her away, his followers around them like a dark cloud. She felt as though she was floating and drowning at the same time, enveloped in Brand's overwhelming zhi.

Only a few streets passed before they stopped. The Guild Master turned to her. I will not force you to join my Guild. I would never ask such a thing of any necromancer. If you wish it though, our doors are open to you. I hope I will see you again.

Footsteps echoed around the street, then faded. When Ebony's head cleared, she was alone.

CHAPTER TWO

––––––––

The Guild of Necromancers loomed above her, an edifice of dark lacquered wood and tiled roofs. No matter what the Guild Master had offered, Ebony found just looking at the place intimidating. The zhi swirling from every plane of the building didn't help. It was overwhelming, and it reminded her how poor her own necromancy was. She needed a Guild of Sanguines, not this, but of course there was no such place.

For the third time in the three days she had been in the city, Ebony turned away from the Guild Hall and trudged back to the Mancers' Market. Her money was fast running out and it didn't help that Jianyi seemed determined to kill her. First there had been the errant pyromancer's fireball, exploding into a cart of building materials only hand-spans from her head. Then there had been the thief, who had demanded her purse as he held a knife to her throat. Luckily, the knife had drawn blood, triggering a defensive blast of sanguineus, but in the confusion, the thief had managed to snatch a silver bracelet from her wrist.

The high roof of the Market closed overhead, cutting off the fierce morning sun. Ebony sighed in relief, rubbing sweat from the back of her neck, remembering too late the tattoo she was exposing. Even in the crowded market, people found the space to edge away. Ebony could hear their mutterings.

Blood magic.

...dangerous...

Sanguine, whispered with a hiss.

Ebony glared at them and moved on.

She came to an intersection, at which one of the podiums the mancers stood on to display their wares was empty. On a whim, Ebony climbed up.

She could feel the zhi of death all around. A rat in the streets beneath her feet. A bird on the roof of the Market. A goat lying in someone's kitchen, waiting to be butchered. Each gave off only tiny amounts of magical energy, but no other necromancer was reaching for it and when Ebony drew it towards her, there was enough to make a show.

She twisted her hands, wrapping the zhi around her fingers like strands of silk. When she concentrated, she could make it glow, visible even to those without necromancy. With so little zhi, Ebony could do little more than make pictures in the air: a tree, a house, a cat. A child's necromancy, unlikely to be noticed by anyone. Across the Market, a mancer was using corpse zhi to animate a flock of dead doves, making them flap around his head and deliver little trinkets to members of his attendant crowd.

Ebony glanced down, surprised to see her own crowd gathering. With renewed vigour, she formed her zhi into a glowing kitten chasing a ball through the air. Whispered voices made her look down again, her surprise shifting to horror.

As she stood on the shadowed podium, a beam of sunlight had moved round until it shone full on her face. The crowd were not looking at the kitten, now dissolving between her limp fingers. They were pointing at her eyes, at the red gleam that was all too visible.

Ebony went rigid, unable even to think. The mutterings grew louder, more strident, but she couldn't make herself move. All those faces looking up at her, with fear and fascination and, worst of all, disgust.

The crowd stirred, depositing a man with a furious expression at the foot of the dais. Ebony flinched away but he grabbed her arm, pulling back her sleeve and turning her wrist to the expectant faces. No scars, but there was a fresh cut where she had released blood for a casting only days before.

Sanguine scum, roared the man, to a chorus of jeers from the crowd.

Finally, Ebony wrenched her arm free and leapt off the podium. Someone made to stop her, but Ebony bared her teeth and brandished her wrist like the weapon it could become. The crowd retreated, giving Ebony a passage to the edge of the Market, clear save for the blur of her tears.

***

By the time Ebony slowed her pace, she was hopelessly lost. Tears still stung her eyes but she wiped them away angrily, fresh determination  burning a hole in her chest. She'd left her life in the dingy village of her birth to make a fresh start in Jianyi. To shed the stigma of being the only mancer in the place. At least in the city, only half her abilities were feared.

The sun was high overhead and Ebony squinted as she tried to get her bearings. A cluster of tall, magically-grown towers rose above the rooftops to the east, columns of living green against the surrounding black and grey tiles. She’d found temporary lodgings in one of them, though she was soon going to have to explain that she didn't have the money to pay for the nights she'd already spent there. That, no doubt, wasn’t going to go down well.

But that was a problem for another day. She turned away from her contemplation of the towers, only to collide with a man some inches taller than her, who grabbed her by the collar and hauled her from the flow of human traffic. She staggered away from him, fearing for a moment that she had stumbled again upon the arrogant Lord Hakawa, but it was a stranger. Ebony straightened her collar, knowing it was impossible the man could have missed her tattoo.

He was staring at her with unreserved interest. I saw you in the Mancers' Market.

Ebony didn't respond to that; best not to think about it at all. Why did you grab me? I wasn't in anyone's way.

You walked into me, the man reminded her. His pale eyes fixed on her own. But no matter. It's not often you meet a sanguine walking the streets of Jianyi so openly.

Not surprising, Ebony thought bitterly. I'm looking for work. Necromancy work, she said, starting to walk away.

The man caught her arm, dragging her back. And I have some for you. For a sanguine, that is.

Really? Ebony gaped at him. No-one hired sanguines. She studied the stranger more closely. He was tall and wiry, with cropped blond hair, shockingly pale against the mass of dark-haired people passing by. Not Jianyin-born, presumably, which perhaps explained why he didn't have an unassailable distrust of sanguines. His clothes were drab, but there was something about their cut that suggested he might have the money to pay for a mancer. Still, what could even a foreigner want with her?

The man released her arm and handed her a slip of paper. It was blank. Blow on it, he urged, grey eyes narrow and intense. It only reacts to sanguines.

Ebony did so and found words in a deep crimson blushing across the paper. They faded almost instantly, but she had time to read an address. Tier seven, Reedworkers' Plaza. The door with the wheel sigil.

Where is this? Ebony asked, but the man was walking away.

Just be there tonight, at sundown, he called back. She thought she heard laughter in his voice as he added, And your reward will be rich.

Ebony sighed down at the paper, watching the words appear and vanish again. Mystery assignations weren't really in her repertoire, especially not in a city that seemed determined to be the last place she ever saw with living eyes. Still, she tucked the paper into her sleeve, already calculating how long remained until sundown. The 'reward' was only half the attraction. A job for a sanguine, in a city that hated them so? More than anything, she was curious.

CHAPTER THREE

––––––––

Just as the Imperial Heights - residence of the emperor - and the mancer-grown living towers rose above the city, so did Jianyi extend equally far underground.

Ebony found an iron gate at a street corner, above which hung a painting of steps leading down. Descending the wide, well-lit stair, she passed half a dozen people coming up, many carrying bundles. Their presence was subtly reassuring. For a necromancer, she had never been particularly fond of the dark, or at least not the deep, musty dark of the caves close to her home village. The first tiers beneath Jianyi, however, were not at all what she had expected.

Wide, paved streets, entirely lamp-lit, curved away in either direction, lined with well-kept shop fronts and pavement tea houses with elegantly lacquered façades. It was much cooler down here, away from the surface's spring humidity, which was perhaps what had attracted the hordes of well dressed shoppers and merchants. Unfortunately, tier one was not where Ebony needed to be.

She found an ancient, creaking lift, manned by an elderly technomancer, who said he could take her down as far as tier five. After that, he wheezed, sounding much like the rattle of his machine, you're on your own.

Tier five turned out to be mainly houses, or rather slums. Poor families were crowded here and the air was poorly ventilated, making the whole level reek of rotting food and the stink of too much humanity pressed too close together. Ebony passed tattered beggars on street corners, skinny children carrying buckets of water and mangy dogs chasing equally mangy cats. This was the sort of squalor that couldn't be found on the surface. The imperial court didn't want to look out of their palace windows and see the poverty-stricken masses, so they'd moved them deep underground. And this, Ebony realised in dismay, was only the fifth of the seven tiers.

Tier six housed industrial premises and a small number of shops and bars that Ebony gave the widest berth possible. The noise of the previous levels was here muted, as if no-one wanted to talk above a whisper. Ebony felt eyes follow her movement, curtains twitching and doors creaking as she passed. When she heard a man screaming, she didn't turn around, simply quickened her pace in the opposite direction.

The steps down to tier seven were uneven, slimy and looked little used. Still, there were lit torches, and the street below was well maintained, the closed-up shop fronts neatly painted and the cobbles free of dirt. The whole place was pristine, as if it was being kept for some yet-undecided purpose.

And yet, Ebony knew that tier seven was the most dangerous of all. Not only was the silence stifling, but she could feel the prickle of powerful magic across her skin. The magical energy, or zhi, that she drew from corpses and blood to fuel her castings was thick in the air here, unbound and restless, beyond her own ability to harness. The way it rippled around her in such savage waves was enough to make Ebony light-headed; it reminded her uncomfortably of Guild Master Brand.

Before the zhi could overwhelm her, Ebony got her bearings. On the reverse of the address she had found a map, which she followed until she reached Reedworkers' Plaza. On the other side of the small square, a sturdy wooden door displayed a wheel etching, its spokes burnt along the grain. Panting as the magic in the air threatened to choke her, Ebony hammered on the door with her fist. A moment later she was pulled inside.

The man who shut the door behind her was the same one she had spoken to in the street. He gave her a quick bow. You're right on time, he said, smoothly drawing her away down the narrow corridor. My name is Michael, by the way. I neglected to introduce myself earlier.

Ebony forced her breathing to slow, but didn't bother to give her own name. You said you had work for me?

Indeed, yes. Michael paused at another door, his fingers tightening on the handle as he spoke. But first there are a few people I want you to meet.

***

A long room stretched before Ebony, coming into focus as her head cleared. Two dozen people were scattered around it, facing the far end. As Ebony entered, steered by Michael's guiding hand, they turned as one. The muttering that had passed between them faded and her brief feeling of relief drained away.

Every single one of the assembled men and women was blind, their eyes milky white, some with heads casting sightlessly from side to side. Each one had blood coursing down their face, dripping from gashes in their foreheads or cheeks, or running like tears from their blind eye sockets; the daggers in their hands attested to the nature of the wounds. Ebony was no stranger to blood, but the horrific injuries these people had inflicted upon themselves made her retch.

She had no time to catch her breath. Michael propelled her forward with a strong grip on her shoulders, towards the carved altar at the end of the room. Dazed, as if caught in a dream, Ebony allowed herself to be led up the altar steps, to stand atop the blood-soaked stone. Every blind face swivelled in her direction, turning dream to twisted nightmare and reminding her just where she was.

Ebony felt sobs creep up her throat. What is this?

Michael stepped away from the altar with a smile. Oh gracious sanguine, he began, his voice echoed by those around him, the words rippling out to the edges of the chamber. Witness the suffering we have inflicted upon ourselves, as you must do to call forth your magic. Heed our words and our wounds. Heal us. Save us.

As one, the congregation dropped to their knees. Ebony could only gape at them. They had brought her here to worship? The sight of their upraised, bloody faces made her gag again. They had done this to themselves in a grisly simulacrum of sanguine magic. Now they wanted her to heal them.

I cannot heal you, she said, choking on the cloying scent of blood not her own. Sanguines don't have the power to heal. You need a curata.

Michael stood back up, his expression grim. But you must.

I can't, Ebony replied more firmly, stepping down from the altar. And even if sanguines could heal, I don't have the experience.

Michael shook his head regretfully. If you cannot be our saviour, you must become one of us.

Ebony's heart skipped a nervous beat. As if they were a single entity, the congregation stepped forwards, hands outstretched. Ebony edged back, until her shoulder blades ground against the wall. The crowd shuffled on, daggers raised to the height of their blood-smeared cheeks. Michael stepped out ahead. The gleam of his blade was levelled at her throat, and unlike the maddened worshippers, he looked sane enough to use it. Ebony knew then that she had only two choices: she could use her magic or die.

There wasn't a single usable corpse in the vicinity, meaning necromancy was out of the question. Instead, Ebony palmed the blade she wore strapped to her wrist and pressed it to her left arm. Gritting her teeth, she drew the knife across her skin, biting just deep enough to release a trickle of blood. As it began to flow, she placed her right hand over the cut, then lifted it in an arc. The blood followed, rich with zhi, forming a curved string in the air from left forearm to right hand.

Almost before she'd willed it to, the arch of blood began to crackle with magic, deep red sparks hovering within. They began to coalesce, forming a ball of red light that span fast enough to whine. When Michael struck with his dagger, it bounced off, the blade sizzling and melting. With a cry, he threw the searing hilt away and launched himself at her. Ebony dodged, but too late to stop Michael grabbing one of her raised hands. The arc of sanguine magic wavered, just long enough for one of the congregation to dart in, his knife sweeping clumsily past her cheek.

Fear and anger surged in Ebony's chest. With a flick of one wrist, her magic shot forward, the force of it throwing every one of the congregation back. They collided with the walls and each other with sickening thuds, Michael skidding to rest against the far wall.

Ebony let her magic drop and the arch of blood splattered to the floor. Exhausted, she staggered, catching herself on the edge of the altar. Horror rose like bile when she looked up. Several members of the congregation were already getting to their feet and whatever had caused their blindness was gone.

Sagging against the altar, Ebony placed her hand on the blood dripping from her left forearm. Her zhi was exhausted, making another casting almost impossible, but she had to try. She began to draw tendrils of magic from her wound, feeling her strength sink still lower. Her head was growing fuzzy, her limbs heavy. She couldn't keep this up much longer, but what other choice did she have? There was no other escape, not when so many knife-wielding figures stood between her and the doorway.

The doorway. There was someone standing in the doorway. Ebony blinked in disbelief at the black-cloaked figure who stepped into the room and, swift as thought, stopped Michael rising with a sharp blow to the side of his head. A moment later, the newcomer had a bow. Three more men slumped to the floor, black arrows jutting between their shoulder blades.

Ebony watched through blurred eyes as the archer made their way up the room. The blood-spattered congregation shrank back, hiding their eyes as if from a spirit of death come to claim them. Ebony could only stand and dumbly watch.

The archer stopped at the foot of the altar and held out a gloved hand. You were not supposed to be here. Come with me.

Ebony took a relieved step towards the archer, but her vision was clouding over. Before she could take the offered hand, she crumpled to the floor, unconsciousness claiming her.

CHAPTER FOUR

––––––––

It's quite simple, of course, what you must do. Find your way into his bed. The rest will follow.

Those words rang in Song's ears, rattling around the centre of her skull, taunting her. They belonged to Mistress Aster, leader of the Guild of Illusionists; words spoken as she gave Song her orders. Quite simple, Aster had said, but nothing that was supposed to be simple ever was.

Getting into the Guild of Necromancers hadn't been the problem. A pile of dirty laundry in her arms and she could be any one of the dozens of servants and washerwomen who came and went every day. It was once she had shed the washing and drab clothes that things become more difficult.

No-one could quite remember why the illusionists and the necromancers hated one another, unless it was because one needed the minds of the living for their magic, the other the bodies of the dead. Whatever the reason, and however much she now looked like a necromancer in her dark silks, Song was struck by the feeling that she was trapped in the lair of her enemy.

Squeezing through a doorway partially hidden by a painted screen, she surveyed the corridor. Dark carpets, opulent hangings, guttering torches in iron brackets. Luxurious, though an unyielding luxury. And, thankfully for Song, deserted.

She moved to the next corner, displaying a confidence she didn't feel. She could readily picture the map of the Guild Hall she had been shown by Aster, but it seemed to bear no relation to the dark corridors she found herself in.

Pausing at the end of a long, tapestried hall, Song heard a sound that set her pulse fluttering. Footsteps, muted, but still audible as they scuffed across carpet. Song felt for the newcomer's zhi, running it through mental fingers. A necromancer, unsurprisingly. Should she use mancy to hide herself?

It was too late to make a decision. A figure had appeared at the end of the hall, waddling beneath an armful of books. Song walked on as if she had never halted. The young necromancer offered a nod of greeting as they passed, which Song returned imperiously. Then they parted again, and Song found she had been reaching for the necromancer's zhi, readying herself to cast an illusion. Hurriedly disentangling herself, she moved on.

A garden opened up before her, jewel-bright after the dimness of the hall. Song followed a shadowed colonnade around its edge, taking in the purple hues of the foliage and the central gazebo draped in black gauze. Even here, the necromancers persisted in their image of darkness and melancholy. It might inspire fear in ignorant peasants, but Song knew it was all a ruse, no matter what the stories said about the dark corridors beneath the Guild Hall.

The scream stopped Song in her tracks, sending chill tremors down her back. A second scream, or perhaps an echo of the first, drifted across the garden. It might have been of pain or, more ominously, of pleasure. Song shivered, trying to forget that, if all went to plan, she would have to live in this dreary place for some time. Having found the garden, she knew now where she was and could only keep going.

A pair of sliding doors led off the colonnade into an ante-chamber. Song shut them behind her, moving away to stop her silhouette showing against the paper panes. Further doors led out of the room. Song listened at them for a few seconds, but she already knew the next room was empty. She could sense no sources of zhi for her illusion and that meant no living minds nearby.

She opened the doors, certainty replaced by an instant of terror. A cross-corridor, a pair of doors that she knew led to the Guild Master's rooms. And, on either side, a guard.

Song stared at them, sweat trickling down her back. The guards stared back with dark eyes. Eyes that didn't follow when she edged away. Song probed again, but still found no zhi. No living minds. The guards were dead.

With a shudder of revulsion, Song made for the next doors, praying to all the spirits of earth and sky that the guards wouldn't move. They didn't. With no necromancer to animate them, they were nothing. Perhaps they never moved - whilst more general necromancy was commonplace, reanimation was supposedly prohibited by imperial decree, to preserve the sensibilities of the deceased's family; though perhaps there were no such restrictions on using dead bodies as interior decoration. Still, she held her breath until she was past them, letting it out in relief when the final pair of doors were closed.

A quick survey of the room revealed more luxury, but of a sparser bent than the rest of the Guild Hall, with wooden floors and white walls. Voices outside cut off her study. Song hurriedly knelt beside a low table in the centre of the room, bowing her head and slowing her breathing as if she'd been there for hours.

The doors slid open and Song caught the sound of sharply indrawn breath.

Who are you and what are you doing in my chambers? The Guild Master's voice was as rich and dark as coffee and not at all as Song had expected. In fact, it sounded amused. She bent and stretched her arms out on the floor in a formal bow.

My lord, she said, returning to a kneeling position but keeping her eyes down. My name is Siria. I have but recently arrived in Jianyi.

And you thought you'd stride into the Guild of Necromancers and take up residence in the Guild Master's rooms?

Song watched out of the corner of her eye as Guild Master Brand threw himself down on the couch in front of her. He was dressed formally, the hem of his robe dusty from walking through the city. Exactly what Song had known he was doing when she chose her moment to enter the Guild.

She bowed again. "I am sorry, my lord. I have looked for necromancy work but no-one will hire me. I did not know who else to turn to. Your