As she smiled, ridiculously pleased, the artisanry clock sounded the luncheon break. Ibbitha and the others abandoned their clock-maging, but she stayed. She wasn’t hungry. Besides, she wanted to finish the clock within a day, faster than any other mage here could complete it. Just to remind Arndel of how good she was.

The final touch for Lady Lassifer’s piece was its chime and tick and toll. For Lord Traint’s journey clock, since he was a district inspector, she’d created a deep, custodial sound, ripe with undertones of authority. But she knew nothing of Lady Lassifer or her nephew, and she wasn’t inclined to go chasing after Arndel to find out.

Birdsong. Everybody loves birdsong. And from the look of this design Lady Lassifer has as much originality as a hen.

But her fresh irritation faded as she crafted the incant that would give a sweet voice to the green crystal clock. When it was finished she smiled again, then put the incanted crystal aside so the delicate energies could settle before it was melded into the clock.

Abruptly aware of stiff muscles, Barl took advantage of the brief respite and wandered around the quiet workroom. She was curious to see what her fellow mages were creating. And yes, just as she’d expected, everyone else’s tasks were far more alluring than her own.

One day I shall make Arndel sorry for wasting me like this.

She gasped a little, seeing Nyn Bardulf’s fantastic piece. It was a rearing winged horse, front hooves striking the air. To get that pulsing, heartsblood crimson he must have used the mortally expensive firesands from Manemli. Whoever could afford such extravagance for a clock?

Of course, she thought, looking at the inked design. The Tarkalin of Ranoush. Only a fabulously wealthy ruler would have the coin for a clock like this.

A wave of violent envy flooded through her. Why should Nyn Bardulf be singled out for such an honour? She could have crafted this clock as well as he. Better. There was the tiniest flaw in his crystal, she could feel it. A clumsiness in the transmuting of the sand. Probably the clock would keep time all right, wouldn’t shatter. Nyn wasn’t a bad mage. He had a certain gift.

But I’d have made this clock without flaw.

Aching, she crossed to the next bench. It was Ada Mortyn’s, whose crystal-work was bound to be little better than adequate. Prepared to be offended, instead she felt a warning prickle stand the hair on the nape of her neck.

Trouble.

But the warning didn’t come from Ada Mortyn’s partially completed crystal sphere. Uncertain, Barl looked around. There was an off-kilter incant here somewhere, she was certain. Squibs of pain were bursting behind her eyes now, half-blinding her. But she couldn’t put her finger on which—

The workroom doors opened, and her fellow artisans jostled in.