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their wagon and stepped inside the doorway. “Your business?” he said curtly. He looked positively miserable in the freezing weather. His face was beat red, ice crystals had overtaken his burly beard.
    “We’re heading to the Magisterium,” Aris said. “New recruits.”
    The guard gave Taro and Nima a significant look. “Auroms and inscribers?”
    Nima fished her inscriber out. It was at this moment that Taro realized he’d never gotten one from Mathan.
    Aris gave the warder his own inscriber. “This is the boy’s.”
    The warder didn’t inspect either of them too thoroughly. “You’re early. Admissions has been moved to tomorrow.”
    “Why’s that?” Taro asked.
    “Complications.” The warder pointed his thumb at the road. “Keep her movin’.”
    The design of the streets was perplexing. Down the center of the road was a frozen canal and rows of dead trees. The buildings had cloth overhands on the outsides, but most were either torn or heavy with snow. Underneath the overpasses were people, apparently homeless, huddled around fires.
    The spiraling tower in the center of the city was indeed the Magisterium. This close, its intricacies were more apparent. What at first appeared to be smooth stone was in fact covered with deep flourishes and engravings that covered the entire stone and metal exterior. The panels occasionally shifted like the tower was rearranging itself from the inside out.
    Around the base was a perimeter of runes etched into the ground. The lettered glowed a soft blue, and was pointedly avoided by anyone walking nearby.
    While the roads to and from the Magisterium were in pristine condition, shoveled and salted, the further they went, the more the wagon struggled through the slush and ice that caked the streets.
    Aris road with the door opened and peered out. “We’ve got to be close by now,” he murmured to himself.
    “Close to what?” Taro asked.
    “The lower city.”
    The wagon dipped into a dark tunnel. The closer they got to the end of this tunnel, the warmer it became. They exited into a wide underground plaza buzzing with life. Heat rose from the soil beneath and wires lined with red lights hung from the rusted grates above.
    There were three kinds of people in the lower city. The first kind were the destitute; they huddled around lit trash cans and wandered between merchants begging.
    The second kind were a step up. They were obviously poor, but not so much as they had to beg. Their clothes were sewn together a half-dozen times, but at least they were clean. These people browsed the merchant wagons to shop with what little they had.
    The third kind were people only someone like Taro could identify, as they did their best to blend in with the first two. These were the quick-fingered cutpurses, thieves, and dredges of society that with a mere bump could clear a man of everything in his pockets.
    These boys were experts, and they worked in packs. It was like watching theater in action. One would bump into a person from the left, while the other cut the victim’s purse strings. If the victim realized their money was gone, they’d assume it had been the boy who’d bumped into them.
    Taro absentmindedly placed his satchel of coins into his shirt and buttoned it up. The wagon came to a stop beside several others in a row of carts beside an inn.
    Aris changed into his tattered, smelly rags.
    Nima pinched her nose. “What the hell are you wearing?”
    Aris fished a nub of coal out of a drawer and smeared it across his face. “It’s my cloak of invisibility.” He strung the pack of junk over his shoulders and ruffled his dark hair into a mess. “Ancient magic. Watch closely.”
    They followed Aris out and he made a big show of going up to the first woman he saw. “Excuse me, ma’am...” She hurried away from him with her son in tow.
    “Not even a glance,” Aris said. “Truly this is a magic beyond words. I’ll be back in an hour. Use the time to get a