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key, please?”
    She consulted a catalog, pursing her lips. Purple lip paint extended beyond the edges of her mouth in a vain attempt to make it seem fuller. “For these documents you must have a permit.”
    “And how do I get such a permit?” But he already knew the answer to that.
    “Only Wistan can give it!”
    After a while Llian’s life settled down into a new routine. He would get up late, somewhat the worse for wear, and after the best breakfast he could afford would go to the library to work at his quest This was a frustrating and mostly fruitless exercise, since he was forbidden the documents he really needed, but he kept on until his eyes hurt from reading. Then he went to one inn or another, telling scurrilous yarns, oftenconcerning Wistan, for the customers’ entertainment and his profit. After he had gleaned enough coin for the morrow—or not, on one or two occasions—he wavered his way home to bed. Sometimes he saw Thandiwe in passing, but if anyone was looking she turned away, and after a while it became easier to avoid her.
    One morning Llian was woken by thumping on his door. It was still dark when he opened it. Outside was a grim-faced bailiff.
    “What’s the matter?” asked Llian.
    “Wistan, in his office, right now!” The bailiff seized him by the arm.
    Wistan’s office was cold and in the light of a single candle he looked positively malevolent. He looked up at Llian sharply, saggy jowls quivering with animosity. “Chanthed exists for the college,” he began, his voice like bristles on canvas. “
My
college! Let me but say the word and you have no room, no library privileges, and not even the meanest water carrier will let you push his cart.”
    Llian blinked. “Turlew has told me of your performance in the taverns last night, and other nights,” Wistan went on. “The office of the master will not be mocked.”
    Turlew sneered in the background.
    “Last night he laughed as loudly as any,” said Llian smiling. “Though he wouldn’t have if he’d stayed for the second act.”
    “Be silent! Do not use the
voice
on
me!
What is your intention? No, tell me no more lies—I know it already. You seek to have my office, to so ridicule me that the college will cast me down and declare you master by acclamation.”
    Llian gave a bitter laugh. “A Zain, master of the College of the Histories? Not in my time.” Llian cursed his ancestors for their folly, as he had often done. Though the Zain were no longer persecuted, they were still disliked and mistrustedAnd, arising out of their persecution, they had a great disdain for authority, though they were generally wise enough not to show it.
    “Indeed not! Offend again and I throw you naked out of Chanthed.
Now get out!
”
    I will not bow to your threats, thought Llian. I am not friendless. But he had no money, no references and nowhere to go. He set off down the street to a bar that opened at dawn, for it was almost dawn now. Halfway there he stopped.
    I can’t go on like this, he thought. I’ve been drinking every day this week.
    He sat down on the curb with his feet in the gutter. He was broke, lucky if he had two copper grints. No one would pay for a yarn at this time of day. If he went in he’d have to buy his own, and though drink was cheap, two coppers would melt like camphor on a hotplate.
    He went back up the hill to the library, but of course the doors were closed. He could wake up the porter, but the fellow would likely refuse. Llian’s influence had evaporated of late.
    He swore. Nowhere to go but back to bed. Then, down the street he caught sight of a pair of students weaving along, doubtless going home from an all-night session. He knew the girl but the fellow was a stranger. What the heck! If they could afford to drink all night they could buy him a few.
    Pasting on a harlot’s smile, Llian headed down to drown his miseries.

H AUNTED BY
THE P AST

    T he magical telling was over. Karan, the red-haired woman who had so