He walked with controlled violence. Tisala didn’t disturb him with talk because she felt the same need for action, the same fury. She hadn’t forgotten that they’d met at the tavern so she could take Oreg to meet with Rosem, but she didn’t want to take him there in this mood.

They walked through a small area shopping district, and he paused in front of a building with a mortar and pestle over the door, an apothecary shop. It was locked up tight at this time of night, of course, though there was light above where the proprietor doubtless lived.

“Herbs,” said Oreg abruptly. “There are herbs that can make a person overwrought and confused. You said that he was not otherwise hurt.”

Herbs suggested that the condition Ward was in was temporary.

“I told you the cell wasn’t well lit,” she said, “but I would have noticed any sizable wound or bruise. They’re keeping whatever damage they’re doing from showing.”Maybe it was all herbs, she hoped.

“I’ll get Ward out tonight,” said Oreg. He resumed walking. His pace was still quick, but it was no longer urgent.

The air smelled of horse manure and other, even less savory, city smells, but it was clean and pure compared to what she’d been smelling all day.

“Tell me,” said Oreg, “about the Asylum wing where Ward is. You said the king’s wizards have a laboratory in the mage’s wing.”

“Yes, but I didn’t see inside. It’s kept locked.”

He questioned her about little details, which side of the corridor Ward’s cell was on, how many cells there were, about how big each cell was. Some things she knew, others she guessed, and a few she could only shrug about.

“Do you have time to see my friend?” she asked when she thought he was through questioning her.

He looked vague for an instant and she knew he’d forgotten.

“I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important,” she said.

“Fine,” replied Oreg abruptly.

They walked a few blocks before Tisala found a street she knew, and it was well after full dark before she located Rosem’s home.

She knocked at the door, three times in rapid succession so Rosem would know who it was, then entered without waiting for him to come to the door.

Rosem was seated at his table in front of the fire eating stew from a wooden bowl. He looked up once, a single sweeping glance, and gestured at the bench that spanned the length of the table across from him.