23 June, 1997.
The outskirts of Cairo.

The summer air was heavy and thick in his lungs -- not with the sweet smell of incense or smoking meat, but with the burning sensation of thick smog and transient dust, all roiled up together to barely mask the dusky odors of the city.  Sunlight flashed off the cracked windshield of an approaching truck, nearly blinding him with its intensity.  The horn blared in protest as the driver slammed on the brakes, sending another cloud of dust billowing from the street.

Instinct had made him hurry out of the way; Atash deliberately slowed his pace as he reached the edge of the asphalt, shooting the truck an annoyed look over his shoulder as he stepped over the stone block and out of the road.  It went squealing by, nearly clipping the corner of the enormous tour bus that had not entirely succeeded at pulling into the parking lot.

It had been, all in all, several long, hot weeks.  He had never liked Cairo.  His only relief came from the fact that at least the first part of his search was now concluding; with any luck, whichever direction he was aimed in after this meeting would take him far away from the heat of Egypt in July.

The small Bedouin restaurant was not the sort of place that one might have expected to find a Seer -- which, he expected, was exactly the point.  The mostly-finished building looked no different from the others that lined the city's streets; outside the door, a pair of bored-looking guards with Muggle guns sat in cracked white plastic chairs.  They gave him a long, hard look as he approached, but Atash ignored them as he had the truck, using the crook of his elbow to wipe the beading sweat off his forehead as he headed inside.

The tiny restaurant seemed busy for so late in the day.  Tourists -- all Westerners -- had packed the room, in the middle of devouring some identical fixed price meal as they chatted from their scattered seats of opulent pillows.  The wait staff was busy, rushing from the kitchen to the tables, snapping back and forth to each other -- far too busy to notice one more late arrival.  Atash quietly scanned the room, running a hand tiredly over his rough face.  Even among the woven carpets that hung from the ceiling and lined the walls, the small area that had been sectioned off with silk and scarves and curtains still stood out like a beacon.  He regarded it for a moment, and then, after sending a glance over the rest of the room to make certain that no one was paying him any attention, silently strolled along the edge of the room to make his way to the makeshift tent.

There was someone already inside.  Murmuring voices sounded from behind the silks and curtains, barely audible but deep in discussion, no doubt relaying some matter of great importance.  Sighing, Atash considered his options, and then turned a half step away.  It had been a long day already.  He leaned an elbow back against the wall behind him, slouching slightly as he attempted to inconspicuously pick out the female tourists who were scattered through the restaurant.  It had taken weeks to get this far, to find this place and to learn what he needed to so that he could apply the proper sort of pressure.  A few more minutes spent waiting would matter not.

It took a few more minutes before the voices concluded their business.  There was a jingling of coins, the sound of someone shifting, and then the silk was brushed back to allow a stooped older woman to exit.  Her stern, creased face was perfectly in line with the severity of her black dress; Atash caught just the briefest glimpse of the golden coins that were magical trade here as her trembling fingers slipped them back into her purse.  If he had had any doubt, seeing a woman of magical descent leave from here made it clear that he was in the right place.

Without hesitating a moment, he straightened from the wall and swept in through the opening that she had just left.  His quarry today was skittish; he knew it didn't take much to get the boy to run.  If the family that owned the restaurant were friends, they might find it necessary to slip him warning that a strange man was waiting outside.  Atash didn't intend to give them the opportunity.

"You seem to be very popular."  He let the silk curtain drop behind him as he stepped into the tiny sectioned-off corner.  The interior of the tent was lined with bright, warm-colored fabrics, but the light inside was much more muted.  The smell of incense was stronger here, mingling with the wafting aromas of spices and cooked meat coming from the restaurant.  Atash stopped just inside, giving a tired, polite smile; his posture was clearly weary, but his dark eyes were sharp and steady as he met the young mage's gaze. "I am very sorry to interrupt you so late in the day.  Do you think you might have time for another reading?"

Dreogan gave a slow, cautious smile in response, taking in the traveler's appearance carefully.  Straight, sharp features--the hawklike nose, angular face. Distinguished looking, even under the scruff that he no doubt also mirrored.  Persian.
 
"Today. It appears that way, yes," Dreogan said with a polite, neutral nod, gesturing softly to the cushions across the table from him.  He usually did not have two customers in a line--unless they were with a tour--but he would not betray this fact to a prospective customer.  "Though," he added, his smile slowly growing ironic as his customer settled himself, "I presume you have not come from Iran simply for my reading." It was an observation--not a revelation, this man's origin--but again, he did not need to know this fact, either.
 
After all, most of the art of merchandizable divination was obscuring nearly as much as you revealed.  If you made things too plain, too insightful, you were out a return visit.  And, if the client were Muggle, you might just out your whole culture.  Dreogan was not the shrewdest businessman or the most observant of the Statute; he did not care for the cloak and the dagger and had almost instantly disliked travelling diviner's tricks of entrancing and leading opening comments, but the months of catering to Western tourists' expectations had still taken its toll. Sometimes it was simply easier to give a client what they'd come for than what they needed.
 
As if coming to himself--and realizing how close he'd come to making a cliche of himself, he added with a genuine smile, pointing at his client's right hand by way of explanation, "The farvahar."  The ring on his left, the gemstone with what appeared a Lion and the Sun--well. That would receive no comment.  "The silver workmanship on that is quite fine," he elaborated, wanting an opportunity to examine the jewelry without creating the jarring attention.
 
For himself, Dreogan did not wear the many pieces of jewelry he'd spent the previous months collecting.  Not when he was reading.  He never knew what the enchantments on them might do to his art. 
 
He considered.  Dreogan was keen to spend the evening hours speaking to residents in the nearby area and scouring some lesser-known antiquities shops he'd just heard about from Mufti, the restaurant owner, the other day.  But the young man seemed very... deliberate.  Not insistent.  But precise about this visit.  A fact which pricked Dreogan with the desire to be suddenly and truly useful, and mingled with the fear of what this man's intended usage of him might be.  He was older--by a year or two, this visitor. But that might have simply been the height.  Or the depth of his voice.  But Dreogan was not alone at the moment, and he was not without his protections, even without his amulets.
 
"I still have time today," he began levelly.  "But it does depend on the form of divination we use today.  Some methods may require more than one visit."  He paused a beat before adding, from experience, "in which cases, payment is required in full in advance."  It was best to lay down issues of payment--however indelicate--first.  Otherwise, you may not get any at all.  "I prefer to select the form of divination according to your purpose--you will find that some vehicles are more advantageous than others in reaching a particular goal.  However, due to the cost of materials and skills involved, there is a range in cost--which may limit what I can do for you."
 
His script completed, he took a deep, cleansing breath, feeling his chest expand.  He slumped his shoulders as he relaxed and leaned in slightly across the table.  There was something else about the deliberate Persian visitor.  His eyes glossed over his features--over-confident, his mode of dress--slightly off, back to his eyes--credulous.  He was not Muggle.  "So," he said, confident in this assertion as he reached down for some tarot cards.  "I accept pounds or," he paused significantly, "ma'ah obol[1], if you would prefer.  It really makes little difference."
 
He began to lay each card precisely on the surface of the wooden table, in a circular pattern.  This was really to give his hands something to do--to avoid the awkwardness of a quiet consultation.  "Preamble aside," he said, glancing up from the cards to look at how the visitor had taken it, "I ought to know first your name--and how you came by the place."

1.	Name of Middle Eastern magical currency, shamelessly lifted from archaeology

"No," Atash said, letting the strap of his leather bag slide off his shoulder as he stepped toward the pillows.  "Not simply."

The mage had a brisk, business-like air to him behind the politic words and ironic observations.  Identifying where he had come from -- it was a diviner's trick, meant to convince one of the Seer's all-knowing prowess, but this man gave away the secret before it could build much momentum.  Atash raised his eyebrows, still with a faint, polite smile, as he lowered himself to sit.  Yes.  Of course he would notice the ring.  This young man had quite the interest in jewelry.

Jewelry and other obvious things.  Immediately, he launched into his sales pitch.  Atash waited and listened, letting him finish.  "I will hope that today's reading can be sufficient," he said politely, his fingers working nimbly to unfasten the clasp on his bag.  "But I will trust your judgement in the matter.  You have quite the reputation as a diviner."

With any luck, he would not need more than one more visit -- he hoped that whatever methods this young mage might use, they would work quickly.  A visit today, and perhaps another tomorrow, after one more night spent in this wretched city.  He had no doubt that young Dreogan Eleor would decide to give his assistance.  But whether that assistance came due to empathy or coercion yet remained to be seen.

"My name is Atash," he said simply.  One did not lie about something so simple to a Seer.  He opened the flap on the leather bag and now reached inside; his hand went in far beyond what should have been the satchel's normal dimensions, fingers obviously searching.  "I am seeking something that was lost.  Taken," he amended, dark eyes watching Dreogan.  "The other methods that I have used in attempt to find it have failed, and so I am hoping that you might know something more."

His hand closed around metal, and Atash drew out the mirror.  He set it down on the table in the middle of the growing card circle with the glass facing down, positioning the handle so that it was closer to the Seer.  The mirror's body was made of silver; the working on the back was ornate and fine, obviously the creation of a gifted metal worker.  The maker's mark, delicately inscribed in Hebrew script, left little doubt as to its origin.

Atash withdrew his hand and sat back, leaving it on the table between them.  "A gesture," he said quietly, "of good will.  You may consider this returned to its proper owner.  Whatever price you desire for the scrying --"  He gave an easy, uncommitted shrug, rolling his shoulder back.  "You may name it.  But I think," he added, his gaze intent on Dreogan again, "that you might take personal interest in lending your assistance today, my friend.  So I will leave it to you to decide what payment is fair."

"Sufficient is up to you," Dreogan responded automatically--to distract from the unconvincing compliment.  There was too much flattery--or conjury--in the statement to give it proper credence.  But it was polite, and so he smiled.  The man must have seen something in him, or he would not have troubled.

Atash, the Persian, didn't seem like a man who troubled with things he was not interested in.

He nodded at the brief narrative.  It was common enough--and Dreogan was adept enough at locational scrying that he would, indeed, be the person for such a job.  Atash, deliberate Atash, had done his research.  Dreogan watched the mirror as it was offered, nudged in his direction across the table.  He sucked his teeth. 

Yes. He had.  Dreogan didn't touch the offering.  He  had enough 'personal interests' and personal experience to distrust this man.  He had enough reason to feel that Atash might have taken a personal interest in him.  The limitless price, the extravagance of the favor--all to entice.  Surely not all because of his reputation. 

"Atash," Dreogan said levelly, with a frown. "My name is Dreogan Eleor. You probably don't need to be told this, but you do need to know that we are not friends yet.  We have not even met properly."  He held his hand out across the low-sitting table.  "And you still have not told me how you came to hear about me."

The mage lifted his eyebrows.  "As I said, Dreogan Eleor," he remarked, giving Dreogan a sideways look as he set his hands down on the table, "you have quite the reputation."

This was where the complications began.  One did not lie about anything simple to a Seer -- anything he said would be checked and verified, if the mere heart of the matter did not cause the man in front of him to bolt.  But these were not lies, not exactly; it was the truth wrapped in something else, ensnared and entangled until even he could not pick the one from the other.  Dreogan Eleor might tug at the threads, but with any luck, the snarl in the middle would hold.

And even if it did not -- ...well, there were other methods of persuasion.

"I found you," Atash began, "because when I started to search -- really search -- for a diviner in Cairo, yours was the last name that I was told.  But where did I hear about you?" He paused, pressing his mouth tightly closed, and then tilted his head once more in a half shrug. "A young man named Yeter told me," he said simply.  "Though he knew you as someone different.  But I did not think that you would be comfortable hearing his name again, so you will have to forgive me for masking my purpose."

"No forgiveness needed--I don't think you've actually gone to much effort to mask it," Dreogan said, quietly.  The man had "masked" it for all of two sentences. Even Adon did a better job at keeping information away, when he wanted to.  Atash the Deliberate didn't want to keep the information away.  He wanted to tell it.  He wanted something else, too, but Dreogan wasn't sure what.  But there were plenty of other things Atash was masking.

He set the cards aside.  He would not be played like an instrument. His eyes flashed resentfully and he did his best to shift comfortably on the pillows again. 

"I am a Seer--this much that you've heard is true.  But I'm not all-knowing, and for that reason, I am not all-trusting, either.  That mirror there," he said, nodding towards it, "you do realize how off-putting that is, do you not?  You haven't told me how you know Yeter, how Yeter knows I'm here, or why you thought it would be a better idea to pay a diviner in personal interest rather than the going rate."

His wand was nearby. So were several black candles--within reach.  There were the armed guards in the front.  While Muggle, still obstacles.  And nearly two dozen loud-talking tourists.  It was safe enough to continue this conversation.  And Atash was right in at least one thing: this was turning into a conversation of personal interest.  But Dreogan was not going to read a thing for this man without first seeing a bit more.

Dreogan waited a moment before saying in a sharp tone, "Your hand. If you please."  He set his jaw before adding, "This reading comes at no cost."

Skittish, but not yet running.  Cooperation, though, was still a far way off.  Dreogan Eleor did not like being cornered, and this confrontation would become more confrontational still.  There was little way to help that, short of answering the questions that had morphed into accusing statements.  Atash raised his eyebrows, his expression calm.

"Yeter doesn't know that you're here," he said quietly.  "He died two months ago in Ministry custody.  But he remembered the defensive spells that you cast to save his life.  There were only so many Beit Gaddol graduates -- near graduates," he amended, inclining his head slightly to Dreogan, "-- of the right age and description.  Once I knew what I was looking for, it wasn't difficult to realize that I should be looking for you."

But Dreogan Eleor wasn't content to leave it at questions.  There was no mistaking the command in the other mage's voice or the meaning of the demand.  A brief spark of emotion -- of apprehension, of fear, of something else -- flickered over Atash's expression as he stared down at Dreogan's outstretched hand.  But it was only there for a moment before it too was hidden away, and he raised his eyes to meet the other mage's gaze.

Exposing himself so thoroughly, abandoning his defenses, had not been part of his intent.  But he did not want -- yet -- to turn to other methods.  Without saying a word, Atash carefully twisted the gemstone ring to loosen it, and then tugged it free of his finger.  Next came a silver bracelet -- freed from his left wrist with a tug, and set carefully on the table.  Still holding Dreogan's gaze levelly, he turned his left hand so that the palm was facing up and extended it to the mage.

Whether it was calculated to sting or not, the news of Yeter's death was salt in a wound that had been festering several years.  Dreogan and Yeter had a falling out years ago--they were not friends. But they had been.  In Dreogan's estimation, at least.  He'd been there when Dreogan had little else.  Since then, though, Dreogan was learning that it was easier to be alone than be with those you could not trust. And Dreogan trusted himself absolutely these days.
 
And he would not betray himself now. Not to the visitor.  He exhaled and shook his head.  "I can't say I am surprosed to hear it," he acknowledged neutrally.  He gave a slight smile as he ran his hands over the young man's palm, examining.  "So, if I am to understand correct, you heard of my defensive spells and came all the way here." He said, stooping and leaning forward so his face was mere centimeters from his hand.  The stories did not add up.  Atash would continue to balk at revealing anything unless forced to.   "Tell me, Atash, did you come here for my divination or my protection?"  Dreogan looked up, reading the expression on the man's face.
 
He'd found it. That momentary uncertainty. The break in the cycle of Atash's planned theatrics--including script, scene, and dramatic personae.  This moment was unscripted, and it was his, and he was going to seize control in this moment and hold it by the horns.  Sometimes, against a charging bull, that was the surest defense. Atash was doing what he could to defy him, to control the situation--offering the left hand, the uncalloused, non-dominant hand that did not hold his fate.  But it did not work.  This hand held his heart.
 
"Your left hand," he informed with the dry air of a doctor, "has two very pronounced characteristics.  Not everyone has them.  First, the pronounced Girdle of Venus," he said, fingers tracing along a branching arc that curved below Atash's middle finger.  "It shows an aptitude for emotional intelligence.  Insightfulness," his voice grew harder, "and with it, the ability to sympathize... or manipulate."  He shifted the hand slightly to make a slashing motion down the palm.  "Next is the matter of your very deep Fate line.  It intersects with your Life line. Most people do not have this."  He set Atash's hand down, holding his hand up. "But you will see I have both as well."  Dreogan looked down at is with a slight, wry laugh. 
 
It was against a diviner's code of ethics to mention to clients that this crossing of lines, the X they formed, was called the Ominous Sign.  It could drive a client distracted, fraught, angry.  No good came of it.  "But if I am reading it right," Dreogan said with a lightness that implied he had little doubt he could be wrong, "that's a new development.  The lines on your hands will change always, you see.  They are not like fingerprints that way."
 
"Well," Dreogan said, clasping his hands together on the table before him, "there is not really more to say on that.  I've considered your offer--I have one of my own."  Dreogan did not trust the man any more than he had 2 minutes ago when he'd proposed it.  But it had given him time to think, and to confirm certain characteristics he'd suspected in the man.  This was underhanded.  And it did not feel right to Dreogan. But neither did this man.  This could be dangerous.  And Dreogan stood in a very real risk of exposing himself to past enemies, of creating new ones, and of leaving himself unguarded and open to pressures he did not want in his life rightn ow.
 
"I will See for you.  You can give me some more particulars, and we can arrange that easily enough.  Once I have Seen, I will determine whether or not I convey those details to you.  You have said it was of personal interest to me.  It is therefore only fair I keep my personal interest in mind.  If I find it in my interest to share what information I gather to you, I will do so.  In exchange, I will accept the mirror.  If I do not--then the mirror is yours and we are done here."  He looked hard at the man. "Those are my terms.  Do you agree to meet them?"
 
 
 
 

"I do," said Atash, and he gave a brief nod.  His hands were already moving nimbly, returning the ring to his finger and the cuff bracelet to his wrist.  The reading had not drawn very much of a reaction from him, save for the very tense, stiff way that he sat.  Now that it was over, now that they had moved beyond such exposure, his movements were brisk and controlled once more.

Dreogan Eleor could name whatever terms he wished.  Once he had Seen, once he knew what Atash needed him to know, then this exchange became solely about extraction.  Cooperative intent mattered little then. 

"You may already know much of this," he said, inclining his head slightly in the most subtle of apologies.  "So I hope you will forgive me for recounting it.  But I find that most stories work best if you tell them properly."

He rolled his shoulders back in a shrug, lifting his gaze to meet the Seer's.  "This one, though," he started apologetically, "begins in the middle.  There was a man once named Mehmet Vedat." 

There was a man once named Mehmet Vedat.  It was a strange thing, telling the story of another's life.  All of the complications and subtleties, loves and betrayals distilled into pure words.  No language was not powerful enough to capture the real essence of a person, but this was hardly a snapshot; it was a retelling, a reinterpretation.  In this case, his listener also gave him an advantage: Dreogan Eleor's imagination and his memories could fill in the gaps that mere words could not.

"What sort of man he was matters not," said Atash.  "He came into money through his skill as a merchant and a trader, and as a consequence, his family rose to prominence in Ordu.  But he was not always wise in his choice of business dealings, and not always as careful as he might have been.  And so after he came into possession of a certain object, after years of trying to acquire it for a business partner, few were surprised when word quietly got out.

"A group of men came to take it from him.  They came in broad daylight," he said simply.   "When he insisted that he did not have it, they threatened his family.  And when he still insisted -- when he begged for their lives -- it became a slaughter."

This would have been, with most other stories, the main part of the action.  The futility of the fight.  The struggle.  The way that the people had died.  But here, today -- in this tiny makeshift room, sheltered by silk scarves and burning incense as if the right sort of atmosphere could help the Seer will the outside world away, even as it played to his guests' expectations -- it did not matter.  He was not interested in shocking with the deaths.  He merely wanted to find what had been lost.

"The murderers scattered before the authorities could get there.  But when the dust had settled -- once the mourning was over, and the cries of retribution had died down -- it was discovered that the object was missing.  And so it was assumed that the band of murderers had gotten what they came for."

Atash gave a half sort of grimace -- not really an apology so much as an acknowledgement.  "It was not until a year ago that the truth came out.  The group did not find what they were looking for after all.  The men who escaped that day have not been easy to find," he said succinctly.  "But the few that I have been able to speak with have all mentioned a boy whom they believed had betrayed them.  Who ran, once the mission was complete.

"So you see, Dreogan Eleor," he said quietly, finally raising his eyes to meet Dreogan's once more.  "At first I hoped that you might know where the object in question had been taken.  After learning a little more about you these past few weeks, I am not so sure that you do.  But I still hope that you might be able to help me find it."

So he had been hunting down members of Topuluk.  Who had, it seemed, been hunting down him.

At least, this is what it sounded like to Dreogan Eleor.  But no--if they had been looking, they would have succeeded years ago in the work that his visitor had accomplished in 'the past few weeks.'  They were many, and they were experienced.  And they had been angry, but they seemed content to let the wounds fester a while longer.

Still, it was not very encouraging.  Atash had had the opportunity to paint himself in contrast to the Group and what it stood for.  His failure to do so implied that, perhaps while not of their number, he was not entirely of a different mind.  Greedy, needing, searching, stealing.  Atash the Deliberate had chosen his words carefully, and had tellingly ommitted any mention of a rightful claim on the object or his personal interest in the family--all things that might tempted Dreogan.  For all Atash might have been sensitive to human emotion, for all he had learned about Dreogan recently, Dreogan decided he had been a poor study on persuasion.

"You will be disappointed in your hopes," Dreogan said, suddenly glad that they had not shaken on their agreement from moments before.  He pushed away from the table to rise to his feet, nudging several cushions away with his toes as he did so.  The room, constructed as it was from silk scarves and draperies, seemed to expand and collapse with this motion.

"There was no proper way to tell that story," he called back as he crossed the small space towards the provisional entrance.  His arm parted the faded tapestries that separated his alcove from the din of hungry, sun-weary tourists.  With the thick weaving no longer muffling the sound, they could hear individual voices drifting in.  Just as Dreogan hoped they could hear his. It didn't matter if his next words proved bad business or if the man's departure drew negative attention.  It would be public.  And Dreogan was fairly certain now that this was his last night under this roof anyhow.

In a clear voice, he said, quite firmly, "I am flattered by your visit, Atash, but I cannot help you after all."  Looking back at the other young man with determined eyes, he added stiffly, "Good day."

The mage stayed very still.  His eyes were the only thing that moved, dark and shadowed as they tracked the Seer's movements across the tiny room.  The scarves and curtains were pulled aside, freeing the bright light and voices that had been contained outside the mild barrier to burst across the threshold, warming the space once more.  Anything but a quiet exit would be difficult now.  But he had never intended to be anything but quiet.

Atash regarded the other man silently, judging the determination in his eyes. 

"You did not do your job as thoroughly as you thought," he said at last.  His voice was soft, barely audible across the now violated chamber, outmatched as it was by the talk and laughter coming from outside.  But the words would carry.  "Vedat's wife survived.  So did one of the boys.  They are in dire straights with no one to support them.  If the object that was taken can be found, then the original buyer is still willing to pay.  It will be enough to help them get by for a little while."

He rose.  The mirror stayed on the table.  Steadily, his hand far from his wand, he turned toward the door and met the other mage's gaze.

"Leave the mirror here if you do not want it," he said simply.  "I may still have use for it.  But if you decide that penance is in your own personal interest after all, then I am certain that you will be able to find me, Dreogan Eleor."

"It wasn't my job," Dreogan cut in with a sneer.  The news of the surviving family members--Dreogan was relieved.  What the Group had done--what he'd watch them do--was detestable.  But Dreogan had never contributed. He was glad there was at least some hope.  He did not think their hope came in the form of Atash.  Penance--that was a joke.  Atash was neither priest nor rabbi to offer such a thing.  He had proven far too self-serving for that.  Dreogan could feel the blood draining from his arm, still extended, holding the tapestry back.  Atash was taking his time exiting, but he was exiting, and Dreogan would not complain on this note.  He continued to keep an unwavering eyecontact with his visitor, chin stiff.


"The mirror is yours," Dreogan said as he frowned, letting the tapestry drop.  He crossed to the table.  Touching it for the first time, Dreogan's fingers curled around the metal for a moment, feeling a longing sense of familiarity with that object, before saying firmly, "I don't have any proper claim to it."  It wasn't his.  He hadn't met the terms, and Dreogan did not trust this man enough to assume that the mirror had not been tampered with.  Turning back, he added, holding it out to the other young man, "And any use you have for it will not be to do with me."

He paused under the scarves and curtains, face shadowed as he looked back at the Jewish mage.  This threshold, this moment, felt liminal in more ways than one.  Just as he stood at the boundary between the bright light and sharp colors of the outer restaurant and the Seer's muted, incensed-fraganted inner realm, two paths stretched before him now.

There were other ways to get the answers he wanted.  But he did not know -- could only wonder -- if the Seer's visions would still be true if he applied...other persuasion.  The Imperius Curse was not subtle in its workings, and his instincts told him that divination was far too complex a magic to be mastered by one coerced into going through the motions.

He watched the mage for barely a moment, and then shook his head.  "You are a Seer, not a prophet," he said, turning back to the door.  Returning to the path that he'd chosen, to the dry heat and dusty streets of Cairo for one more night.  There was still a chance that Eleor would change his mind and agree to See; even if he didn't, the younger man was merely one more dead end that he'd had to run down in his hunt for the lost mask.  With this lead vanquished, he'd move on to the next.  "Don't presume that you speak for its fate."

And with that, he let the curtains fall closed behind him -- ending the conversation, trapping the incense and the candles in their self-imposed liminality -- and picked his way around opulent pillows and happy, chattering tourists as he crossed the tiny restaurant and returned outside to the thick, heavy summer air.