The eight men, standing in a circle, each clasping his neighbour's hands, materialised in a busy street packed shoulder to shoulder with people and full of the sounds of commerce. A street market was in full swing and the air was full of rich smells. The reek of overripe vegetables rapidly going off in the heat of the yellow sun mingled with the exotic aromas of strange herbs and spices evoking thoughts of far off places with strange names. Colourfully dressed merchants standing beside their crowded stalls shouted about never to be repeated bargains and unbeatable offers, their voices almost lost in the babble of a thousand customers who were also having to shout to discuss their merits with wives and husbands standing right beside them.

     A grey haired man in the white robes of a minor official picked himself up off the litter strewn ground where he'd been thrown by their appearance. "What're you thinking of, 'porting into a crowded street?" he demanded angrily. "You could've killed someone!" Seskip simply glared at him and the man scuttled away, muttering under his breath.

     "You'd think people teleported in public places all the time," said Thomas in astonishment.

     "Most likely they do," replied Zanda seriously. "There are four times as many wizards per head of population as there are in our day. That's soon to change, though. The Mage Wars are causing more and more people to hate and fear wizards, and about a hundred years from now it'll erupt in the Massacre of the Mages. We never have fully recovered from that, even in our day."

     "Are we in danger?" asked Thomas, looking worried.

     "Not so long as we all stick together. A careless wizard who wanders off alone and gets surrounded by a hostile crowd might get himself lynched, but the real violence is yet to come. No-one's going to bother a group as large as ours."

     "Make sure your Necklaces of Vacuum Breathing are well out of sight," said Seskip, examining each of them in turn. "If they're stolen by a pickpocket you won't be going home."

     Thomas checked to make sure his was tucked well down in his robes. Luckily his hair was long enough to cover the back of his neck, otherwise he'd have had to take it off and tuck it in a pouch, as the bald headed Seskip had done. He preferred to keep it around his neck, he felt it was safer there. It would take a really skilled thief to take it from there. Unfortunately, as Matthew reminded them, every big city had its share of really good thieves...

     Seskip, meanwhile, had been studying the layout of the city, getting his bearings. Now he set off at a brisk stride, shoving his way through the crowds, and the others hurried to keep up.

     "Where are we going?" one of the other proctors asked him.

     "We need to get to the University," replied the Head Proctor. "That's where I'd be going if I were Saturn, and that's the place to look for him. The Tower of Sorcery has a teleportation chamber that'll take us right there."

     "The Tower of Sorcery?" asked Thomas in fascination. "What's that?"

     "One of several outposts of the University," replied Zanda. "Home to about a dozen senior wizards, their assistants and apprentices and open to members of the public who want to hire their services. The tower of Mala is the only one that survives to our day, although it was sealed off by its last occupants when the city fell and surrounded by an impregnable dome of force. No-one's been able to get into it since."

     "Strange stories are told about that tower," added Poldark, the third proctor. "They say that lights can be seen in some of the windows, and shrouded figures have been seen on the walkways and balconies. Some say the place is still inhabited by the spirits of the wizards who used to live and work there, while others say an immortal wizard moved in after everyone else had moved out, looking for a place where he could work undisturbed. They say a treasure hunter found a way in once. He reappeared three days later with blood pouring from his gouged out eye sockets and died the next day. He kept screaming the word 'Open! Open!' over and over again, screaming it until his throat bled."

     "And this is the place he's taking us to?" asked Matthew in a low voice he thought Seskip wouldn't hear.

     "At this point in time it's just a tower," said Zanda with a smile. "An ordinary tower. People go in and out all the time. Ah, look! There it is now! You see it?"

     They looked in the indicated direction. Tall buildings reared up all around them, stately and magnificent. Gracefully ornamented but as sturdy as the walls of a fortress. Silks and ribbons hung from hooks and poles, fluttering lazily in the light breeze, and the occasional citizen stood on a balcony, looking out over the crowd below. As they passed an intersection where a narrow alley piled high with refuse and litter led off into the claustrophobic darkness between buildings, though, they caught a momentary glimpse of taller buildings nearer the city centre, and there among them was one taller than all the rest.

     Circular with sloping sides, it reared above the city like a giant in a crowd of midgets, casting a long shadow across the mansions of the city's nobility who must have bitterly resented being overshadowed in such a striking and literal manner. It was as white as ivory and perfectly smooth, except for circular walkways that ringed it at intervals. The flat roof was crowned by a circle of short pillars, each of which had a glowing ball of light perched on its tip like candles on a birthday cake. Thomas guessed that it must have been at least six hundred feet high.

     "By the Gods!" he breathed as they left the alley and the tower passed out of sight. "So that's what it is. We saw it once before, me and Matt, when we were in the new city on the other side of the river. We wondered then what it could have been. The Tower of Sorcery, an outpost of the University! But it must be able to hold as many people as live in Lexandria Valley all by itself!"

     "Yes," agreed Zanda, "but you have to remember that the University in our time is a mere shadow of what it was. The University at the height of its fortunes has got to be seen to be believed."

     "I can hardly wait," said Thomas excitedly, staring between the buildings as they passed them, hoping for another glimpse of the glorious and magnificent tower. It was symbolic of how the image of wizardry had changed over the centuries, though. Here, wizards were brash and arrogant. Confident and secure in their power. They thought nothing of erecting huge towers to awe and intimidate the mundanes, to serve as a constant reminder of their superiority. The Massacre of the Mages would change all that. From that point on, wizards would walk in constant fear of the common people. With few exceptions, they would talk softly and try to keep a low profile. Wizards in Thomas's time bent over backwards to convince the mundanes that they were just guys, just like them. No need to be afraid of us. We're just another class of professionals like blacksmiths, glassmakers and jewelers. The lesson had been a painful one that had almost extinguished wizardry from the face of Tharia, and it would not soon be forgotten.

     These ruminations made him suddenly aware of how the common people were reacting to their presence. The crowd was parting ahead of them to let them through, then closing behind them. The presence of people who were obviously wizards in their midst made them wary and respectful, but they were also, he saw now, regarding them with curiosity and amusement. Why? Were they doing something wrong? Breaking some local custom or tradition?

     The answer came to him when he saw a flying carpet speeding by overhead, on its way to the tower. Of course! No self respecting wizard went anywhere on foot. They flew or teleported, or as a last resort they hired a carriage and rode in comfort. The crowd must think they'd come to shop in the market, like the common people. He wondered whether to tell Seskip, but the disturbingly reptilian Head Proctor made him nervous just being this close to him. He found himself reluctant to attract his attention if he could possibly avoid it, and so he kept his mouth shut and walked in silence.

     They came to the edge of the market after a few more minutes and passed gratefully into a narrow road that led, after a few yards, to a wide, tree lined avenue. Large, two storey buildings stood on either side along it. Houses that would have belonged to the upper strata of the nobility in Tatria or any comparable modern city. The robed and togad people strolling along the street had the look of being more middle class, though. Some of the citizens they saw were soldiers of intermediate rank. Their uniforms smart and well groomed, their breastplates polished to a mirror finish and the leather straps and buckles oiled and supple.

     Thomas saw Matthew examining them closely as they passed and saw him suppressing a look of amused contempt. Parade soldiers, Thomas saw his friend thinking. He was probably wondering how they would do if they ever came face to face with a real sholog.

     There were also nannies pushing prams or leading small children by the hand, and an elderly man with a shining bald head was clasping a bundle of rolled up scrolls under one hand. A scribe, thought Thomas. An employee, probably working for a merchant or a lending house, and yet he lives in a mansion that a wealthy man of Thomas's own time would be comfortable in.

     Thomas remembered his own upbringing. His parents, who'd lived on the ground floor of a cold, damp, three storey building in the town of Andor. One room had been his father's combination shop and workroom, in which he'd laboured all the hours the Gods sent sewing shoes and selling them to put bread in his family's mouths, while the other two rooms had been the ones they'd lived in. Their kitchen, living room and one small bedroom. The wind had blown in through a hundred tiny gaps in the walls and the ceiling had continually creaked with the activities of the family upstairs. At the time, the young Thomas hadn't been able to imagine any other existence, but looking back on it now it had been a hard, squalid life and only the great love his parents had had for each other and for him had made it bearable.

     If they'd lived in Agglemonian times, though, they might have lived in a place like this, with a separate kitchen and dining room, multiple bedrooms and reception rooms and a maid to come in once or twice a week to help with the housekeeping. Thomas found himself growing increasingly envious. His parents had been the finest people who'd ever lived! If anyone deserved to live in comfort and security, they had! Why had Agglemon had to fall? Why couldn't the Empire have survived to his day?

     He'd studied history, of course. He knew all the official reasons, and the scariest thing was that none of them was really enough to explain it. Agglemon hadn't been struck down by any outside force. It hadn't been overrun by barbarian hordes or thrown down by earthquakes. There had been the plague, of course, but that had only come right at the end, when the Empire had already been reduced to a nub of its former self. No, the scary thing was that Agglemon had gone into a long, slow decline for no good reason at all. Agglemon had fallen all by itself, and if that could happen to Agglemon it could happen to anyone. Belthar, Ilandia, the University, anyone. Now that was really scary!

     The tower was visible again, between the elegant houses on the right hand side of the road, and Seskip paused to stare at it thoughtfully. It looked to be two or three miles away. Thomas was able to guess what the Head Proctor was thinking. If they found a road leading straight there they might make the journey in about an hour, but they were lost in a huge, unfamiliar city and would have to navigate a maze of roads going in all directions to reach it. Plus there was a fair sized river, a tributary of the mighty Tew, running through the city, and Thomas thought there was a good chance it ran between them and the tower. That meant having to find a bridge. All in all it might take the best part of a day to reach the tower, and the yellow sun was telling them that it was already mid afternoon. Walking the streets of the city was out of the question, therefore. They needed a ride.

     Seskip searched around in his pockets, coming up with a number of silver and copper coins. Most were Beltharan and bore the face of the current King, just the sort of thing that could get them thrown in prison. The rest were trog coins. Three declannets and a miclannet. The equivalent of twenty or so silver crowns.

     He turned to Zanda. "Do Agglemonians accept trog coinage?"

     "I've got no idea," the junior proctor replied. "They had dealings with the trogs, of course, so they probably would, but I couldn't say for sure."

     "One way to find out." the Head Proctor said, seeing an empty carriage coming down the street towards them. It looked big enough to carry four people so he guessed that it wouldn't be going anywhere empty unless it was looking for a fare. He waved it down, therefore, and the driver confirmed his guess by coming to a stop beside him.

     Seskip had a brief conversation with the driver, then turned to the others. "You three," he said, indicating the proctors, "come with me. The rest of you get another cab and follow us. We'll meet at the tower."

     He handed Thomas a declannet, and the proctors climbed into the carriage. The driver slapped the reins and the carriage clattered away, leaving Thomas and the soldiers standing by the side of the road.

     Several minutes passed before another carriage arrived and Thomas waved it down just as Seskip had, half expecting it to ignore him and keep on going. The carriage stopped, though, and a cheerful looking man with a bushy moustache winked down at them. "The Emperor smile upon you, my fine lads. Where can I take you?"

     "The Tower of Sorcery?" asked Thomas hesitantly, pointing.

     "Ah! So you're a wizard, are you?" said the driver, examining him more carefully. "Thought you might be, you've got the look about you. Strange to see a wizard wanting a cab like any ordinary man. Worn out by a hard day's spellcasting, are you?"

     "Look, can you take us there or can't you?" demanded Matthew impatiently.

     The driver stared at him in surprise and Thomas cursed inwardly. He'd have to have a quiet word with the soldier. The people here would assume that he, the wizard, was the one in charge and that the three armed men were his bodyguard. They would expect them be quiet and deferential. By speaking out, Matthew was attracting unwanted attention.

     "All right, all right," said the carriage driver in an offended tone of voice. "Just trying to make conversation, that's all. Climb aboard, lads."

     They opened the door and entered, seating themselves on the soft, padded benches. The few times Thomas had travelled in a coach, it had been an uncomfortable, spine jarring experience. Coaches of this quality tended to have white wigged judges or serious faced councilors in them. This carriage, though, stopped for anyone. It had stopped for four dubious looking men before knowing that one of them was a wizard. Thomas devoutly hoped that he would never start taking such luxury for granted.

     They could still see the driver through a small window that was open to allow a cool breeze to blow in, and once they were going he twisted around in his seat to peer in at them. "You are a wizard, aren't you?" he said with a cheery grin.

     Thomas grunted uncomfortably, afraid of giving too much away.

     "I could have been a wizard, you know," the driver continued. "A wizard told me once he'd never met anyone with as much potential as me. He said it's a pity they hadn't found me earlier. With the right training I could have been one of the best. One of the most powerful wizards in all Mala."

     "Really," said Thomas, wondering how long the trip would take.

     "You're not from these parts, are you?" the driver continued. "I can tell by the accent. Let me guess, I'm good at this. You're from Pudalan, right?"

     "Extraordinary," said the wizard, who'd never heard of the place. An idea occurred to him. They could perhaps mine this chap for information with which to concoct a plausible cover story. "Most people have never even heard of Pudalan. I bet you even know where it is."

     "Sure I do. I had another chap from Pudalan in my carriage a few months back. A bard come for the festival. Nice chap, gave me a good tip when he got out. They say everyone in Pudalan's generous. Generous and friendly. Best people in the world."

     "So where is it?" pressed Thomas, trying to sound light hearted. "You don't know, do you? Just a place you heard of once, I bet."

     "Sure I know!" protested the driver indignantly. "It's on the coast of the Valdean Sea, north of Tamara. See? That surprised you, didn't it?"

     It confused him. He'd never heard of the Valdean Sea either, although he'd thought his geography was pretty good. The names must have changed over the centuries. Tamara rang a faint bell, though, and evoked impressions of tropical, exotic wonder, of bare breasted women balancing baskets of fruit on their heads and men fishing in dug out canoes with nets of woven coconut fibre. Must be on the east coast, he thought. Down south near the isthmus, perhaps. That was good. It was about as far from Mala as you could be and still be within the confines of the Empire, apart from Garon itself. Few people hereabouts would know enough about the place to be able to contradict anything they said.

     "What about towns in Pudalan?" he teased. "Bet you don't even know what the provincial capital is."

     The driver didn't. He seemed annoyed at having to admit his ignorance, and this had the unexpected benefit of ending his attempts at conversation. With a sigh of relief, the passengers turned their attentions to the city passing by outside, transfixed by the view of a townscape that had been monster-haunted ruins for centuries before they'd been born.

     They were currently passing through what appeared to be one of the business districts. Serious looking middle aged men, dressed expensively even by Agglemonian standards, were strolling along the broad, treelined pavements lining the road, some of them accompanied by burly bodyguards. They parted to make way for a gloriously attired young nobleman striding like a King among his admiring subjects. He was surrounded by the shimmering halo of a mind protection spell, deliberately made visible as a fashion statement, declaring to the whole world that here was a man with secrets to protect and the wealth with which to protect them. There was something about the young lord that reminded Thomas of Basil Konnen, a distant ancestor perhaps, but they were past before he could get a good look at his face.