Only two more pages until the book of trades was finished, and then more work on the sacred script tomorrow. Seth could almost taste immortality within his grasp, the immortality that only the Pharaoh, his Priests, and his scribes were entitled to. Then the Shadows whined an eager warning in his ears, and a few moments later, he heard the door to his room opening. Forewarned, he had already risen to his feet.

"Seth," Aknadin said, and nodded approvingly. "You sensed me coming."

Seth nodded. "Yes, Lord Aknadin."

"Good." Aknadin swept his hand through the air, creating a chair out of seamless Shadows. Another slight gesture, and the shadowy creation gained color and decoration. Regally, he sat. "That tells me that you are growing better at bending the Shadows to your will." He nodded towards the blank space in front of him. "Join me."

The Shadows, not innately suited for this task, resisted, but Seth cleared his mind of their gibbering distractions and focused solely on what he wanted to create. Slowly, a chair formed, smaller than Aknadin's. As Seth concentrated, the shifting gray and purple of the Shadows gave way to the brown of dark, imported wood. Aknadin nodded again with approval, but Seth merely took a deep breath and drew on his will again. Aknadin's single eye narrowed as golden writing spiraled around the legs of the chair, very bright against the darker background.

In Seth's neat hieratic — he was too uncertain of Lord Aknadin's reaction to risk the sacred script — read the words: A Shadowmancer made me.

Lord Aknadin arched an eyebrow, and Seth resisted the urge to grip the back of the chair or to show his nervousness. The Shadows, feeling that same nervousness, tried to rebel and dissolve, but Seth refused to allow it. Nervousness was channeled to focus, focus to will, and the chair and the writing remained.

"It seems," Lord Aknadin said at last, "that you are farther in your studies than I believed." Then he smiled, a smile of approval more precious for its rarity. "Impressive."

Seth felt a grin bubbling up and fought to restrain it into something more respectful, but it was no use. The warmth of accomplishment and pride settled into his stomach, and at Aknadin's nod, he settled eagerly into the chair.

"If somewhat arrogant." And without the slightest warning, the Shadows beneath Seth changed from their familiar whine to the sound of Lord Aknadin's, and the chair utterly unraveled. Once again, Seth was dumped unceremoniously to the floor.

"You still have more to learn before you can fully earn a Shadowmancer's title," Aknadin said. "But…" and here there was the hint of a smile again. "I have no doubt that you will work hard until you succeed."

"Yes, Lord Aknadin," Seth said eagerly, shoving the pain from the fall aside and standing quickly. "How did you change my Shadows to yours? Will you show me how to do it? Can you…"

"Your questions can wait. You were not in the courtyard this morning," Lord Aknadin interrupted.

Startled by the apparent change of subject, Seth hesitated a moment before answering. "The prince was training, Lord Aknadin."

"Have you lost interest in the prince now that he no longer spends all his time with you?"

"Of course not!" Seth exclaimed, then added "Lord Aknadin" in a softer tone.

"Then you believe your magic would react and reveal you?" Aknadin said, once again showing his eerie knack of knowing exactly what was on Seth's mind.

Seth nodded.

Aknadin eyed the place where the Shadow chair had been and raised an eyebrow. "You truly lack confidence in your abilities?"

Any thought Seth had to dissemble or lie fell apart under the discerning gaze of his teacher's golden eye. "No, Lord Aknadin. But I thought you would not wish me to take that risk."

"You are ready, Seth."

Seth's eyes widened, but Aknadin continued. "Not ready to take your place in Pharaoh's Court, not yet, but ready to train for an official priest with Pharaoh's blessing. I will expect you in the courtyard tomorrow morning."

"Congratulations, Mahaad," Ramla said warmly, smiling at the young apprentice. "You have gained in power and control, and your instructors have deemed you ready to learn to Summon monsters."

Mahaad beamed, and Chuma seethed. His mood soured even more when he noticed the prince study Mahaad with interest. There's nothing special about Mahaad. He doesn't have what it takes to really wield an Item!

"You will be joining the prince in training," Ramla continued, then turned to the prince. "It will be good for you to have someone to challenge you, Your Highness."

There was a chuckle from Baruti, and Chuma just barely managed to avoid a snarl. Instead, he forced his feelings down and stepped forward to bow before Ramla.

"Teacher," he said, adopting his most respectful tone. "I believe I am also ready to begin Summoning."

A long pause.

"Your work has been strong, Chuma," Ramla said gently at last. "And your confidence is not in doubt. But we believe you have yet more to learn."

"But…"

"Chuma," Nkosi interrupted. "You will begin Summoning when we are convinced you are ready. Not before."

"I could help you, Chuma" Mahaad offered, still smiling like the stupid dog he was.

Ignoring him, Chuma bowed sharply to the masters and stormed out of the courtyard. His anger swelled as no one, especially not the prince, made any move to call him back. He found himself wandering aimlessly through the palace grounds, too blind with rage to notice or care where he was going.

Stupid, stuck-up noblemen, thinking they know everything. I deserve to be in the prince's inner circle when he becomes Pharaoh, but how can I do that if no one will let me show how deserving I am?

Suddenly, Chuma's Shadows hissed a warning. He came to an abrupt stop, to find himself in a section of the grounds he had not visited before, with what appeared to be a secluded courtyard ahead. The Shadows twinged.

Someone somewhere up there was doing magic.

Instinctively, Chuma pulled his Shadows in as tightly as he could and slunk forward. Low walls and trees surrounded the little clearing, and he used these as cover to move closer and closer. Finally, crouching down and easing forward, he was able to peer into it.

The servant brat he'd almost strangled stood in the middle of the courtyard, arrogantly wearing the plain robes of a scribe. His eyes were closed and his hand extended. And as Chuma watched in astonishment and outrage, magic began to form around that hand. Seth turned smoothly, and a bolt of the Shadows struck out and vaporized a clay pot that had apparently been brought for the purpose. The servant boy smirked.

Every bone in Chuma's body wanted to leap out and finish the task of strangling the worthless waste. But cold fear snaked through his stomach. Wretched waste the servant boy might be, but his magic felt frighteningly strong. Even furled tightly as he was, Chuma could hear the Shadows' eager whining. When had the brat become so powerful?

Then Seth stiffened, and Chuma made a snap decision. Backing quickly away, he escaped the bushes and then broke into an outright run, taking turns and ducking behind things to discourage pursuit. Finally, heart hammering with a mix of fear of rage, he headed for the city.

For the thousandth time, Seth wished he were back in the palace. Not that the market was not exciting, with its swirls of color and merchants nodding respectfully to the scribe's uniform he was wearing, but no matter how hard he tried, Seth couldn't entirely ignore his worry about the spy.

It doesn't matter. Master Aknadin will reveal my talent to the Pharaoh tomorrow. It doesn't matter…

Gods, if he could only go back to the palace and find out for sure who it was, then perhaps it would be easier to relax. It had not been the prince, but perhaps Mahaad would not be so bad. Unfortunately, Master Paki's orders had been quite clear.

With an inner sigh and no real options, Seth turned his attention back to the merchant before him.

"As you can see," the man was saying, "my papyrus and brushes are of the finest quality. The servants who came from the palace a week ago agreed with me and paid a fair price."

"The servants who came here a week ago," Seth interrupted sharply, "had no real understanding of what a scribe requires. There are gaps in the layers of this papyrus. Either you are using damaged material, or you are careless."

The merchant drew himself up. "Careless?" he demanded, apparently too outraged by this to keep the same polite tone. "I, Gyasi, son of Dakarai, careless?"

"Show me something better," Seth said, meeting the man's eyes coolly. "And I will believe that it is the material and not you."

"Of course," Gyasi said, forcing a smile and turning away, but not before Seth heard him murmur under his breath, "Spoiled palace brat."

That brought Seth up short. True, Gyasi was somewhat irritating, and this papyrus was not of appropriate quality, but had Seth's survival skills really degraded so much? Since when did he antagonize people who could be useful?

"Gyasi, son of Dakarai," he said in his best penitent tone. "My apologies. I have no doubt your work is adequate. My…irritation is not really with you." Upon reflection, that had the benefit of being true.

Gyasi turned back, obviously surprised to be receiving an apology from a "spoiled palace brat," but after studying Seth for a moment, nodded his head and gave a more genuine smile. "Hard days are hard to weather," he observed with a slow nod. He obviously thought it made him look wise. "Now, young master, let us go look at the rest of my papyrus."

Seth made to follow him, but stopped when he heard an abrupt commotion in the square behind him. Gyasi paused too. Seth turned, but could not immediately see what was going on. Then came an obvious cry of pain from the center of the crowd.

Memories of the pickpocket he'd saved from a beating all those months ago crossed Seth's mind, and he signaled Gyasi to wait before shoving through the crowd. Other pickpockets were also a concern now, with the palace's money in his purse, but Seth warded the small wallet with a few Shadows and keep one eye on the crowd.

In the center of the square, an older man lay with his arms and legs drawn in awkwardly to shield his belly and head. A palace guard, armed with the traditional spear, stood over him, already drawing his foot back for another kick.

"You are not a priest."

The guard brutally kicked the man again in the ribs, and even from a distance, Seth heard one crack.

"N-no, sir, please, I beg you, I am only…"

"You do not serve the Pharaoh."

"Of c-course I do…M-my…"

"So what…" A third sharp kick. "Made you think…" Another. "that scum like you was permitted…" The man cried out as another rib cracked; the guard didn't pause. "to use magic?"

The man gibbered out another stream of pleas and cries, and the guard gave him one last contemptuous kick before spitting on the ground beside him.

"You Shadowmen are all the same," he said. "Thinking you can harness power meant for the Pharaoh's Shadowmancers alone."

He turned to glare at the members of the crowd. "Well? Be about your business." His eyes fell for just a moment on Seth before he snorted and turned back towards the palace. Angry mutters followed in his wake.

"Old Fadil is a simple healer! Harmless."

"…those arrogant, power-hungry…"

"…wish I could give that one a few broken ribs."

People stepped forward to help old Fadil to his feet; he cried out in pain as they did and sagged. But between the many helpers, they managed to draw him to his pallet at the side of the market place and lay him down. A young woman, perhaps his assistant, cried out in distress when she felt his ribs, but began to treat them with what seemed a competent hand. Seth, meanwhile, felt frozen in place.

Somewhere between the market and the palace, Manu felt the weight of a full money bag settle into his belt. He turned around instantly, but there was no one within arm's length. Knowing what he'd find, he slowly scanned the houses along the street. Perhaps ten spear lengths away, a young man in a red cloak leaned against a wall, arms folded casually against his chest. The hood could not quite conceal the shock of bone-white hair.

Well done, Manu…he heard the man whisper inside his head. As always, the voice held a note of vicious glee. A stirring performance.

Manu shuddered and quickened his steps.