At the gate, Hazoth’s guards were waiting for him. They stood well inside the fence, and Malden knew from watching them a long time that they would be inside the radius of the spell that protected the place. He offered them no threat and they made no move to challenge him. They leaned on their polearms and just watched him come closer, daring him with their eyes to step through the gate.

There were six of them visible. They wore chain mail and surcoats in the colors of Hazoth’s livery: black and scarlet. One of them turned his head and spat as Malden stepped up to the gate.

There was no turning back once he was through.

He stepped over the threshold.

He could perhaps be forgiven for closing his eyes as he took that fateful step. Yet nothing happened—at first. The forecourt of the villa was covered in crushed gravel, with here and there a dandelion or a sprig of clover poking up through the rocks. The gravel crunched under Malden’s leather shoes. He took another step.

And that was when the spell took him. He felt as if he had run at full speed directly into a brick wall. His body tensed at the impact and his bones thrummed, though he could see no barrier before him. It felt like ghostly hands passed over his face and chest, and then something gripped him around the waist.

One of the guards laughed.

Malden did not cry out—he had no breath in his lungs—as the invisible force lifted him bodily off the ground. The grip around his waist and chest held him immobile as invisible fingers rifled through his purse and inside his tunic, as his cloak was lifted and checked for concealed weapons. He had been smart enough to leave his bodkin at home, but the buckle of his belt and the handful of copper coins in his purse grew searing hot for a moment, until he thought they would burn through his clothes. As quickly as it had come, however, that phantom heat dissipated.

The invisible hands lowered him to the ground again—but held him still.

“Good morrow to you,” Malden managed to croak out. He caught the eye of one of the guards. “Will you let me speak?”

The guard came over and jabbed him in the chest with the butt of his pikestaff. Hard enough to rattle his sternum. “What business have you here, dog?”

Malden licked his lips. His mouth was still very dry from the night before. “I have a message for Hazoth. One he desperately needs to hear.”

The guard smiled broadly. “Tell it to me, and perhaps we’ll let you go.”

Malden nodded agreeably. “Would that I could. I’m afraid it must be communicated directly to the sorcerer, however. It is information of a . . . delicate nature, and best not spoken aloud where unwanted listeners might hear.”