Well met!
Sorry I haven't updated in a while, my notebook had an unfortunate encounter with the washing machine. It didn't survive, so I'm rewriting all of the end of Bloodhound on the Scent. This is where I go all sour-grapes-y and say it needed rewriting anyway, right? Well, it did. We'll see how it turns out.
By the way, the reason this entry and the next one are so short is that Beka doesn't feel like writing, not that I'm lazy. This goes one entry per chapter, so bear with me, or rather Beka.
Enjoy, and know that even as you read this, I am typing up the next chapters!
Sir Gwydion
Wednesday, December 16, 246
Written after midnight.
It is sarden impossible to track a mage.
At breakfast this morning I asked Kora how one would go about it. She looked askance at me, but said,"The most common flaw in a mage's spell is a failure to be protected from mundane things. The mage is so terribly clever he thinks of all the ways another mage might stop him, but not how an un-Gifted person might go about it. Sometimes folk with the Gift are easier to deal with then ones without, because the mages all know spells for getting their way, but if you take their Gift away, they can't think of a blessed thing to do. Folk as are used to dealing with mages but have no Gift themselves are dangerous. They have to be smart enough to evade spells and get to the mage. I came up against someone like that once, and it was a rude awakening. The village healer taught me all I know. I had never come across anyone with more Gift then it took to light a candle except her, and I was proud. An arrogant fool. Well, at any rate, I was cured of that particular failing, and learned my lesson too."
There is no help to be got from that, though. Durati thought to hide her footprints. She's too clever by half.
All morning, a light drizzle has been falling. It raised a freezing mist as chills you to the bones off the snow and keeps the pigeons away, just when I want to see them. I would feel better if I could find out who that Carthaki ghost Boner has is. It would be a darn sight more useful then following Hairden around in the cold. He went to the bath house, to the bakers stall, to the gambling den, and to the knife sharpening stall, where I learned that he carries nineteen knives, possibly more as didn't need sharpening. Towards afternoon, he lost me in the fog, so I went to several different taverns and asked around about Hairden and a mage called Durati. It did me about as much good as picking a pig's pocket. The only time I heard anything was from a man half drunk who spun me a yarn so ridiculous I almost decided not to write it down. Apparently, Durati is the daughter of a Copper Isle princess and a Carthaki smith. She and her two beautiful sisters fly about the world still, on the back of an immortal flying horse still. He claimed to have seen them, ever morning. He waves to them when they fly past his window as he eats his breakfast. They are good friends, and someday they shall rule, one each over Tortall, Carthak, the Copper Isles, and Scanra, then they shall conquer--something. He told me so just afore he passed out drunk. The only other thing of interest I found out is that no one seems to know anything about Hairden from before he joined Kayfer's court, eight years or so back. That is not surprising, though. Few thieves have pasts longer then that.
Duty was dull. We were on watch duty again, and I had to endure a multitude of 'watch-Dog' jokes afore Hairden glowered at us to be quiet. He gave me the oddest look. It was part hatred, disgust, and anger, and part satisfaction. I don't know what to make of him.
I hid outside the Barrel and Jack after I pretended to leave, and followed him, but he went straight home. I was about to go back to the Dove in disgust, when he came out again, and strode covertly through the bitter cold streets. As I had hoped, he met the mage again, this time at the corner of Up River and Smoke streets. They disappeared afore half a second had passed. Once again, no footprints. Untraceable.
I hate this poxy job.
I hate Hairden, and Durati, and all Godscursed counterfeiters.
I hate the cold, the snow, the ice, the bruises I get from slipping on it, and the way my lips chap in the winter-dry air.
As it is the only thing I can do aught about, I will go see Kora for sommat to keep my lips from chapping. I can hear her and Ersken talking in the room below mine. Mayhap I'd best not go. If I talk Ersken, I fear I shall be jealous, and therefore rude.
Because, most of all, I hate not being a Dog.
