said Caina Amalas, “what you know about the sorcerer called the Curator.”The man sitting across the booth from her froze, his clay cup of steaming coffee lifted halfway to his lips. He was in early middle age, but looked older thanks to a strenuous life and a year imprisoned in the Widow’s Tower. Currently he wore the bright robes and turban of an Istarish merchant of middling prosperity, though he was as skilled in the art of disguise as Caina and could look like anyone he wished. Agabyzus sighed, put down his cup of coffee, and took a deep breath. “Was it that alarming of a question?” said Caina.“No,” said Agabyzus. “But I know you well enough by now to realize that the alarming questions are just around the corner.” They sat in the House of Agabyzus, the coffee house that Agabyzus himself once owned. Of course, Agabyzus had never been a simple coffee merchant, but the circlemaster of the Ghost circle, the leader of the Emperor’s spies in the city of Istarinmul.
