The tower of Szutsavanica was surrounded by an ant's nest. A few weeks ago it had occupied the grassy bank with only a few herders huts for company. Now the huts had been flattened and piles of materials and buildings were scattered around it. Its conical roof still stood a hundred feet above the tops of the first new buildings. All kinds were under construction – mean and noble; bold and magisterial; functional and ostentatious. Streets and yards laid out with whitewash lines marked where even more would be built.
Mages in blue robes were striding about looking purposeful. The gold-coloured trims and ornamentation sometimes shone with a new found lustre. The settlers included craftsmen of course, building the town and making whatever was needful. But shopkeepers and merchants were also quick to stake a claim to the best plots. The mock streets were the scene for several real arguments daily. No beggars yet. And fewer women than men.
But everyone was talking about the strange marks daubed on the walls before midnight. Tower and town were without answers. The scrying had added no information about the deed or its agents. Watchmen had failed to catch anyone. It was frightening many. Some had gone back to their former places. Most could not. Some of the settlers whispered that a lord would have been more apt to action than these magisters. But after two weeks the council had finally acted. They had sent for one of there own. Voltarr was summoned to the Council.
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