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spells and tell the future. Every village had its witch who murmured over potions and laid the cards to no effect. In cities men tried secretly to conjure up the dead and find the path to immortality and got nothing for their trouble but a reeking mess of oils and entrails and candlewax. It was not so withJoce and his people. A thousand years ago, longer, they had been able to do all manner of things: change into animals, call the wind, speak mind to mind, see in a puddle of water what happened miles away. They needed no incantations or tinctures of antimony. But power over people was not something most of them sought—there were always a few, the evil sorcerers of tales and legend—and as the ordinary men built armies and made laws, the wizards were hunted and driven into hiding, killed or enslaved. For a while kings tried to keep them as advisers, but all the jealousies and treacheries of courts brought that to an end. If they were not killed, they were discredited, and the kings with them. They diminished, the learning and power diminishing with them, and when the persecutions of the Fires came three centuries ago they were destroyed.
    Or so it had always been thought. Aram’s grandfather had found them out, hiding and desperately poor, but not yet completely powerless. That king had been overly fond of his wine and his women but not dim-witted, and he bargained to provide protection for them all in exchange for the service of a few. The pledge had been kept unbroken ever since. The wizards who served, the Basilisks, were deadly, superbly trained in armed and unarmed combat, and virtually fearless. Much power had been lost, but they still could hold a man immobile with a single glance, or throw up illusions to protect themselves. They had enough of the shapechanging power left to disguise themselves as other men for a short time. Aram’s grandfather had called them
Basilisks
because of their paralyzing stare; Corin thought it might also have been a private lament for the loss of the dragons.
    It was a tightly guarded secret; Corin was not sure if even his sisters knew. The spymaster knew only that they were Aram’s personally selected men, to be used for the most dangerous or important spying. Joce had been a spy among the Sarian soldiers for nearly three years. There was nothing distinctive about his looks, which had caused more than one person to not pay him enough attention. Sika padded happily over to him; he was good with animals, as most wizards were. He gave her his hand to lick.
    Aram said, “What is the latest from Dele?”
    “Nothing new, my lord. All’s been steady for some time.”
    “When were you to go again?”
    “Next week.”
    “Leave it for now,” Aram said. “I want you to roam about and find the weak places here. That includes people. Lay traps if you need to.”
    “Weak against what?”
    “Tyrekh.”
    Joce appeared unsurprised. Corin had never seen him startled. He said, “Anyone to exclude?”
    “Not this time. Consider everyone from the washmaids to the dukes. If something takes you into the city, go ahead and follow it. Don’t speak to anyone about this.”
    The first time Corin had heard his father give orders of this sort he had thought they were uselessly vague and redundant. He had learned the importance of redundancy soon enough, but it had been longer before he understood what Aram was doing with the broadness of his commands. Some parameters did not need to be stated. Joce knew the few people he never had to watch. He was like a cat. He would prowl and wait and sniff out everything, vanishing into shadow if he was seen, and he would notice what Aram would never have thought to look at.
    “How long?”
    “Come back in three days, or sooner if you find something. Corin, have you anything to add?”
    Memory rose in him, a white face with water beading on it. “Why would Sarian soldiers paint their faces white?”
    Joce said, “There’s something in the paint that makes them