"Erm . . . milady?" Casimir had no idea how to address this stranger, but he knew from Ammas and Barthim both that a tradesman erred on the side of courtesy.

The figure glanced up, bright hazel eyes peering from a pale face. "Yes?"

"I got a message from you, I think. That you were looking for Ammas Mourthia."

Hesitantly the young woman lifted her hood back. Except for a blotch of dirt across her cheeks and forehead, she was quite lovely, even prettier, Casimir thought, than the girls at the Lioness. "You -- you come from him?"

Casimir nodded. "Yes, milady. I'm Casimir, his apprentice."

"I was not aware cursewrights still took apprentices," she replied doubtfully. Casimir had only rarely heard an accent like hers, from the wealthiest patrons of the Prideful Lioness -- sons of Malachite noblemen visiting Munazyr on some business for their houses, usually. He supposed he heard traces of it in Ammas's voice as well. "How do I know you are who you claim?"

Casimir was at a bit of a loss. There were signs and tokens men such as his master carried to prove their abilities, but he didn't know what any of them were, nor what an apprentice was supposed to do in this situation. Inspiration struck him. "You could ask Deaconess Hadeen. She knows us both."

"I believe I will do that." She stood up, smoothing down her cloak, which was so large she seemed to float within it. "I mean no offense, young man, but I need to be cautious."

"I understand, milady." And he did, but ultimately his loyalty was to Ammas and his own caution. "What is your name, and why do you require my master's service?" The words felt all wrong in his mouth, and he wasn't even sure he had spoken the correct ones.

The young woman was clearly affronted by this perfunctory inquiry. "I do not believe that is an apprentice's business. If your master is who you say, I will tell him."

Casimir shook his head. "I'm sorry, milady. I have to ask."

The young woman's expression hovered somewhere between surprise and haughtiness. Casimir thought for a moment she might call the whole thing off and storm out of the Library, never to be seen again. But at last she relented, though her speech was stiff and cool. "You may call me Mari. I need a cursewright because I am ill. Is that good enough?"

It really wasn't, but Casimir was already afraid he had gone far past his assigned duties, and desperately wanted to avoid costing his master precious business. He nodded and offered to accompany her to speak with Deaconess Hadeen. Mari agreed, though she raised her hood before leaving her cell. Casimir had only just turned eleven, but even he knew when someone was trying to travel incognito. If "Mari" was her real name he'd eat the book Hadeen had just given him.

Hadeen, feigning ignorance of Casimir's sudden appearance at the Libraries, confirmed that he was indeed Ammas's apprentice, and that he should be able to guide Mari to the cursewright's home easily enough. She wished the both of them well and returned to her book, not even glancing up at them as they stepped out of the rotunda and into the mid-morning sun of the Godsway. Casimir's affection for her seemed to treble. Deacon of the Book she might be, but she was still willing to help him in his apprenticeship, even if that meant hiding the fact of it from her colleagues.

Mari did not speak at all as they traveled the streets, though occasionally she looked up almost bewildered, dazzled by the towering buildings, squares and courts furnished with ancient statuary, the drovers running their livestock to the yards or to one of the city gates, and the markets and fairs doing business on every other street. It could not be clearer she had never been to Munazyr before; perhaps had never even been to a city of its size, such as Gallowsport or Cavis Cove.

They were about halfway to the stretch of the Old Godsway where Ammas kept shop when she stumbled, falling to her knees, faint and out of breath. One hand clutching Casimir's shoulder. She wore heavy gloves -- men's gloves, in fact, so ill-fitting that Casimir could barely feel the shape of her slender fingers beneath the leather.

"Milady!" he cried out, fanning her face uselessly, wishing he'd thought to bring a waterskin with him. "What's the matter? Is it your illness?"

Mari shook her head, one hand pressed to its side. "No. Hungry. I should have finished that stew. Just wasn't very good." She laughed ruefully, then grimaced.

Casimir remembered the errand Ammas had set him. "Are you strong enough to walk a little further, milady? Butcherstreet Market isn't too far."

"Give me a moment. I think so."

Mari didn't take long to recover, but she kept her hand on Casimir's shoulder once she was back on her feet. She stumbled once more before they reached the throngs of people that filled the blocks-long rows of butchers, bakeries, and assorted businesses that gave Butcherstreet its name, but managed to stay on her feet that time. Casimir knew which were the best stalls, and led her to his favorite, Coll's Meats & Poultry. Coll's wife Frala herself waited on them, smiling at Casimir as she offered a tray of beef pasties.

Mari frowned. "I haven't any coin," she confided to Casimir. Looking around for a moment, she tugged down her left glove, exposing the most magnificent gold bracelet Casimir had ever seen, gleaming with monstrous rubies. "Would this cover it?"

Casimir didn't exactly know how to tell Mari that such a bauble could likely purchase Coll's entire business several times over. The boy found it impossible to imagine someone so wealthy she not only didn't know that a beef pasty only went for a few coppers (a silver at the outside) but wasn't even aware she wore a fortune on one slender wrist. He wondered briefly if she were mad. Hurriedly he tugged her sleeve down, concealing the vulgar jewelry from sight. "Let me pay instead, milady." The extra money Ammas had given him for a cake was enough to cover the cost of the pasty and a new waterskin, though he wound up buying a little less bacon than he otherwise would have.

Casimir led her to the nearest public well as Mari devoured the pasty, even licking crumbs and bits of cold beef off her gloved hands. As he drew water for her she sat on a bench nearby, looking askance at the smiling drunken horsedrover occupying its other end, who raised a wineskin to her in a toast before returning to his own thoughts.

She took the overflowing skin from Casimir with a murmur of thanks, guzzling it for what felt like minutes and suppressing a belch behind one gloved hand. Scarlet flooded her cheeks. "I beg your pardon. I know I should have eaten what the deacons gave me. Just didn't feel much like eating last night. Or this morning."

"You did say you were ill, milady."

"Yes. I suppose that's the heart of it." Silently she returned to the pasty, eating with a little more grace than before, though she didn't disdain the pastry shell, leaving not even a crumb behind. "I am sorry if I seemed rude to you. I've had a difficult journey, and I don't know who I can trust."

"That's all right, milady." Casimir offered something he had observed about the cursewright long before he became his apprentice. "People who need my master's help usually aren't at their best."

She laughed at that, a wonderful musical laugh that raised the attention of the horsedrover beside her, who joined in with a ragged, belching laugh of his own, perhaps at some joke in his rum-addled imagination. Mari frowned and put her hood back up, brushing what few traces of the pasty remained on her cloak to the ground. "Is it far?"

"No, milady. We'll be there before you know it."

The Old Godsway wasn't the busiest street in Munazyr on Graceday, but it saw a steady flow of traffic into its numerous taverns and shops, not to mention the seemingly endless stream of dockworkers, sailors, and shipwrights headed to and from Brightmoon Bay. The gaming halls were mostly closed, and while the brothels were open they wouldn't really be busy til the afternoon. Ammas himself saw a few customers, though rarely any clients in serious need. Rather he saw people with tired feet, sore backs, men (and women) who had lost their carnal hungers, and more than a few curious travelers from the Anointed Realms where cursewrights were both a thing of legend and a forbidden thrill. Although many of them asked him to read their fortunes, he adamantly refused to do it. He supposed he could bilk such fools out of a few silvers if he wanted to, but he had never had the gift of the seer-magistrates. Pretending he possessed such powers was about the most unprofessional thing he could imagine.

For the most part he simply told stories of the academies and (admittedly sensationalized) stories of curses he had cast and broken, or (much more often) tales of such things he had heard secondhand over the years. The physical aches and pains he typically treated with a cup of seretto tea or flagons of wine doctored with various infusions. These things were more the domain of the old fellowship of healers, but any alumnus of the Academies Arcane worth the title dabbled in the bailiwicks of his colleagues. Many (including Ammas, though he rarely admitted this) could have been considered experts of arcane trades beyond their own. Five years of plying his trade here prepared him for what to expect, and rarely was he surprised. Most of his week, in fact, was spent brewing and distilling the most popular concoctions he would sell on Graceday and Weektide.

Right around noon of that Graceday, however, he received what would prove to be the greatest shock of his career since the dissolution.