Free She Who Has No Name (The Legacy Trilogy) by Michael Foster

got up to any mischief.  While Samuel was in favour with Anthem, he was an invaluable tool— and Samuel knew he was being used as such—but given he had little choice in the matter, he had long since grown indifferent.  Anthem always meant well, even if his methods were sometimes as devious and convoluted as the Turians themselves.
    Gallivan, Tudor and Anthem himself were also present.  They were now the last of the fabled Lions of Cintar and , while they did not occupy seats on the Council (and declared they did not want to), their presence alone reflected the grim nature of Cintar’s current predicament.
    Lomar, the dark-skinned magician from the Kabush marshlands and Samuel’s long-time friend, was seated, also looking far more grim than usual.  Lomar had led the Order in those early days after their numbers had been decimated, but now Jacobs held the mantle of High Lord.  In direct contrast to the normally light-hearted Lomar, Jacobs was a humourless and pragmatic man.  He and Samuel had had their differences in the past, and the man was as stubborn and frustrating an Imperial as there could be, but he had done well since taking up the seat, considering the circumstances, and Samuel could easily think of worse choices.
    Rubrick, Quimbus, Sandringham, Nottingsworth and Kalbak were the remaining Lords in the room.  Normally, they numbered twelve, but the war had taken its toll and they could not even find time to elect more to their numbers from the dwindling stock of magicians in the city.  These days, thankful of an extra opinion, they would allow anyone who was available into the discussions.  Lastly, there was Master Celios, the great Seer of Cintar.  His hair had grown thinner in recent times, now just a thin veil of reddish scrap fringing a bald scalp.  He still made dismal efforts to cover his glistening pate by folding over the little dangling hair that still remained, but the effect was even less flattering than before.  Adding to that, he seemed to have grown excited and irritable, with his eyes darting around the room as if tracking acrobatic horseflies.
    ‘Our situation is looking grim,’ Grand Master Anthem admitted, burying his face momentarily into his cupped hands, before resurfacing to scan the magicians around him with weary eyes.  As always, his wispy white eyebrows hung down low, but the pure blue eyes that looked out from under them had never looked so troubled. 
    The Magicians’ Council sat assembled around the chamber, while pageboys and servants stood behind in the shadows, prepared to fetch food and drink, or run any errand that could spontaneously arise.
    They had been deliberating the situation for hours now, and with little resolve.  They had all hastily gathered the very moment that the three magicians had abandoned their little boat at the city docks and had come hurrying up to the palace, lifting up their ragged robe hems and ascending the many palace steps as fast as they could—and they had been locked in discussion ever since.  It had been a long and arduous trip to the city and Samuel had been hoping for at least a good night’s rest before launching into any deliberation, but rest would have to wait.  They had been granted the luxury of a basin to wash their faces and a change of robes and, for the time being, that would have to suffice.
    Despite all the grim news, it had been an uplifting moment when Samuel saw Grand Master Anthem and Gallivan come striding into the chambers with haggard but determined faces.  The two had obviously survived the battle at Rampeny unharmed and had even managed to flee overland and arrive back several days before them. 
    Old Tudor had revealed the details of their journey to the gathering, but it seemed much had been happening even in the few days since Anthem had returned and there was now little to report that was not already known.  As soon as the palace officials had learned of the desert people’s invasion, Cintar had