Crayn left Estie’s side for a moment, returned with a tall stool. Since everyone else was standing, and she was the Queen of Amika, she decided to sit. From that lower vantage, she could see nothing of the man behind the table except the top of his head. Good, she thought. He could not see her either. If he wanted to speak with her, he would have to stand.

Finally, a woman near the table spoke. She was slight enough to be a girl. And small: her head would not have reached Estie’s shoulder. Despite the assertive sweep of her stark midnight hair, she resembled a mouse, too unassuming or timid to break the silence. But she wore the grey robe of a Magister.

As if the effort of making herself heard embarrassed her, she announced, “Magister Marrow, the Queen of Amika is here.”

The crown of white hair behind the piled books lifted. “Is she?” rasped a querulous voice. “I did not notice. I have been reading—”

Abruptly, the man surged upright. He was a tall figure, able to look out over every head in the workroom. But of course he could not look. He was obviously blind. The milky film covering his eyes made sight impossible.

“I have been reading,” he repeated as if Amika’s Queen were not present, “Hexin Marrow’s Eighth Decimate. We have called it the Decimate of persuasion, but it is more powerful than we imagined. My ancestor’s work has convinced me. The sorcery that inspired two seeming servants to murder Magister Facile was the eighth Decimate. The Decimate of coercion.”

The old sorceress had tried to warn Estie. Her last word had been Decimate.

Now everyone stared at Magister Marrow: everyone except the Farsighted. Searching their visions, they both turned, the man toward the northwest, the woman to the south. After a shocked pause, another Magister called out, “Across such a distance, librarian? Across an ocean, if not from another continent? How can the enemy cast his Decimate so far? Even for him, it should be impossible.”

“Ah,” rumbled the tall man, “yes.” His manner hinted at a deeply suppressed fury. “The distance. Impossible, as you say. Rile must have invested his power in some instrument. A jewel, perhaps, or something similar, prepared to extend its master’s Decimate. With such instruments, his servants can—”

The librarian pushed his fingers into his hair, tugged at it as if he were trying to pull his thoughts into order. “There was a priest with Magister Facile’s killers.” Both of the Farsighted nodded without shifting their attention. “Rile must have ruled the killers through him. Facile would have feared nothing less.”