“You’ve grown hard,” said Llian.

He and Thandiwe were sitting on the grassy mound overlooking the main quadrangle of the college, enjoying the unseasonably warm weather.

“Betrayal will do that to you,” she said darkly. “In the old days I did everything right; I got to the top by working harder than anyone else, only to have Wistan laugh in my face and cast me down again.”

Thandiwe had a tendency to rewrite history. Hard-working she undoubtedly was, though after Llian’s banning she had become master-elect because Wistan wanted to humiliate Llian even further. I raised the least of us to the position of the greatest, he had said, to demonstrate that you could never be acceptable. But the position had lapsed long ago.

“In the meantime,” she went on, “the lazy but conniving masters, the corrupt ones and the well connected have all overtaken me. This is my last chance, Llian. I’ve invested everything in my campaign to become Master of the College, and I’m going to succeed, whatever the cost!”

“What if you fail?”

“I won’t!” she said fiercely. “And my first act as master will be to crush and humiliate and utterly destroy that bastard Wistan. I’m sure you’ll be delighted to see it.”

Llian might have, once, but what would be the point?

She faltered. “When I said I’d invested everything, I meant everything. I’ve called on every friend, every favour, and everyone I know who has any influence.” Thandiwe’s beautiful face twisted. “It’s hard to admit this, especially to you, but I’ve… I’ve even assumed the horizontal position when there was no other way to get a vote. And I’ve laid out all my savings, and every copper grint I could beg or borrow, in bribes.”

“How much have you borrowed?”

“Five hundred and fifty gold tells. So I have to win.”

Llian rocked backwards; it was a fortune. “How are you going to repay it? A chronicler couldn’t earn that much in five lifetimes.”

“I can’t repay it unless I become Master of the College.”

“Have you got the numbers?”

She hesitated. “I’ve got more than enough promises, though I’d be a fool to count on all of them. Realistically, it’s in the balance. If I fail, I’ll be bankrupt.”

“And a bankrupt can’t work at the college.”

“I’ll end up in debtors’ prison until my debts are paid. Which they will never be, obviously.” She took his hand. “Llian, if I fail, I’m utterly and irrevocably ruined.”

He pulled free. “What are you asking from me?”

“I want your support.”

“You’ve got it.”

“And your vote.”

“I’m under a ban.”

“After seven years, unless a ban is specifically renewed – which it hasn’t been – a master chronicler is entitled to vote in all matters concerning the college. Including the election of a new master.”

“Really? And in return you’ll have my ban overturned?”

“Yes…”

“But?” said Llian. “Is there a problem?”

“Not in the least,” said Thandiwe. “I’m trying to get you a senior post.”

“I thought they were all spoken for.”

“Students will flock here to be taught by the first teller in hundreds of years to have a Great Tale. I’m working on funding a new position especially for you – Master of the Tellers.”

Llian choked. A senior mastership wasn’t even a dream. But until the Merdrun were stopped, the only thing that mattered was finding out about the summon stone.

“And then there’s us,” she went on.

“Us?” Dread crept over him. Was this what she really wanted?

“Everyone knows you’re not happy at Gothryme.”

“My personal affairs are none of their business.”

“Sorry, I could have put that better.” She took his hand again, and Llian heard the sound he had been dreading – a distant drumming. “Llian, loyalty is one of your best features, but haven’t you given enough? You’re fading away at Gothryme. You’ve got to follow your calling… and I can make you happy too.”

The drumming in his head grew louder. Thandiwe had never looked more beautiful, or more desirable. He leaned towards her. They had so much in common. She could make him happy, and he had not been happy in a long time.

Thandiwe moistened her lips. Her eyelids quivered.

A searing memory broke through the drumming, Sulien saying, What does Thandiwe mean by being “nice to her”?

He sprang up, gasping for breath, and backed away. Under the influence of the drumming he might even have betrayed Karan, but he could not betray his daughter.

“Llian?” she said anxiously.

The drumming was gone. He stumbled ten steps to the edge of the mound and stared across the dusty plains, despising himself. Was he really that weak?

And how dare she? In one breath Thandiwe was whining about her own betrayal, and the next she was asking him to betray Karan and Sulien. But she was offering more than his one vote and his tarnished reputation could possibly be worth. Why? All he saw in her eyes was the hard and desperate woman she had become.

“Llian, talk to me.”

Her position must be precarious, and if she was going to fail, her offer was worthless. Indeed, since she had laid out a fortune in bribes already, being publicly associated with her could destroy his chances of getting the ban overturned. But if he turned her down he would make an enemy for life – and what if she became master after all?

“I’d better go,” he said. “You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

She looked dismayed. “What about your vote? I can count on it, can’t I?”

“I’ll let you know.”

“I can sweeten the offer a bit more.”

“I’m not out for everything I can get, Thandiwe.”

He left her sitting there and headed down to the main street, shaken and chastened. He was far too susceptible to the drumming. He had to fight it before it sounded or he would never summon the willpower to resist it.

The streets were crowded. The next term was about to begin and Chanthed was full of students new and old. They did not recognise him, but many of the stallholders and innkeepers did, and most greeted him cheerfully.

But as he continued, his mood darkened. How had Thandiwe borrowed such a gargantuan sum? The stipend of a master chronicler was only five or six gold tells a year. Who would lend her a hundred years’ salary on no collateral?

Only someone who expected to be repaid many times over. But how?

As far as Llian knew, Master of the College wasn’t a highly paid position either, though there could be perks he did not know about. Who would know? He headed into the college and down to the purser’s office. It was highly unlikely that Old Sal would still be there; she had been talking about retiring the last time he had popped in to see her, four years ago. But she had treated him well even when his so-called friends had fallen away, and she had been the purser’s clerk as long as Wistan had been master.

He approached the counter. A plump, matronly woman frowned at him.

“I’m looking for Old Sal,” said Llian. “I was a student here years ago, and I say hello whenever I’m in Chanthed. Though I suppose she’s retired or…” He did not want to say “died’”

“Name?”

“Llian.”

Her heavy eyebrows rose. “Not the Llian who told the Tale of the Mirror…”

“And was banned by Wistan. Yes, that’s me.”

“She retired two years ago.”

“Oh!” said Llian. “Well, thank you anyway.”

She smiled. “Sal still comes in to help out from time to time. She… um, knows where the bodies are buried.” She held out her hand. “I’m Haience, her granddaughter. She often speaks of you. She’s having lunch in the purser’s courtyard.”

Llian followed Haience down a series of narrow, high-ceilinged corridors, then out into a bright little courtyard paved with yellow sandstone flagstones. An ancient twisted jacaranda tree shaded the far corner and the table beneath it, where a tiny bird-like woman was bent over a yard-long journal.

“You have a visitor, Grandma.”

Old Sal looked up, squinting at her. Her gaze shifted to Llian, then she smiled. “Master Llian, and as handsome as ever. What a sight for an old lady.”

“I’ll bring you some chard,” said Haience and went inside.

Llian shook Sal’s claw-like hand and sat. “How are you, Sal?”

“Shrinking and wrinkling a little more each year, but the figures still add up. How are things in… Gothryme, isn’t it?”

“A terrible drought.”

“But great blessings,” said Sal. “The lovely Karan. Such beautiful red hair.” Sal ruffled her feathery locks, a sparse white cap over her small head. “She hasn’t cut it?”

“It goes halfway down her back. And Sulien —”

“We met last time you were here. A sweet child.” She looked up at him over that beak of a nose. Her eyes were small and bird-like but intense. “Are you here for the election?”

“In a way.”

Should he tell her? Thandiwe’s candidacy was a matter of public knowledge, as were the enormous sums the candidates were spending on their campaigns. The townsfolk, Llian knew, strongly disapproved. He was prepared to bet that Sal did not like it either.

“I hadn’t realised I was allowed to vote, but apparently I can, and Thandiwe Moorn has asked me to support her.”

“Are you going to?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

Haience returned with a tray, a pot of the yellow tea called chard, two cups and a plate of square biscuits filled with small green nuts.

When she had gone, Llian added, “I’m worried about what I’d be getting myself into.”

“You should be.” Sal turned her head, studying him. “Why don’t you run for the mastership?”

He stared at her. “I’m banned.”

“There’s nothing in the rules that says you can’t run.”

“It’s too late, the vote’s in two days. And I don’t have any money.”

“You have a name.” She poured the chard, the heavy pot shaking a little in her hand.

Llian nibbled on a biscuit. “How much does the Master of the College earn?”

She blew on her chard. “A lot more than a purser’s clerk, but it’s no fortune. Fifteen gold tells a year.”

The interest on Thandiwe’s debt had to be at least fifty tells a year, maybe a hundred, depending how desperate she had been. Even if she became master, the debt could never be repaid – not legally.

“Suppose an unscrupulous master is elected, or a corrupt one?” said Llian. “Would there be ways for them to make more money from the college?”

“Unfortunately.”

“What kinds of ways?”

“It has a lot of property that could be sold cheaply to cronies. Not to mention priceless books and other treasures that collectors would pay a fortune for.”

“Such as Cumulus Snoat.”

Her beady eyes flickered. “An unscrupulous master could also double the fees or sell passes, honours and masterships to the highest bidder.”

“But that would ruin the college!” he cried.

“Which you and I and old Wistan love. The master and her cronies would bleed it dry, and the college would not recover in a hundred years.”

“The fees are already too high.” Llian told Sal about Wilm’s experience.

“I can’t bear what those masters are doing to this place,” said Sal.

He drank his chard in a single gulp and leaned back.

“Have I helped with your decision?” said Sal.

“Very much.”

It was worse than he had thought. How could he support Thandiwe now? But what if he did not, and she became master anyway? She did not take rejection well.

“I’m damned either way,” he said. “But thank you.” He took her small blue-veined hand and kissed it. “For everything.”

On the way out a darker possibility occurred to him. If the new master gained Wistan’s dirt book, he or she could use it to extort fortunes from the people named in it. Or sell their secrets to criminals, blackmailers or business rivals.

Maybe that was what Thandiwe’s banker was really after.