In Shade and Shadow nd-7

by Barb Hendee

  He nodded, still backing away, as if the ground began slipping from under his feet.

  "Yes… thank you. I will consider that."

  Wynn was gone, left for home across the ocean to another continent—another world.

  Chane ambled listlessly through Bela's night streets, paying no heed to where he walked. He found himself at the waterfront, standing before the great warehouses and docks. And he stared out over the bay's night water sparked by a star-speckled sky. The only other light came from sparse lanterns hanging along the double-deck piers or on ships out in the wide harbor.

  This was where Wynn had boarded and left for the Numan lands, long gone from any chance to catch one last glimpse of her…

  "Sir, will you be wanting tea tonight?"

  At the voice, Chane was jerked from his reverie in his room in Calm Seatt. He stepped over and cracked the door.

  The corpulent innkeeper, who he assumed was Nattie, stood outside. In the Crown Range north of the Farlands, Chane had picked up the habit of drinking tea. And only recently had he begun going out at dusk to track the folios. The innkeeper sometimes still checked in on him. He always paid his bill in advance, and the grease-stained owner treated him with decent manners, following a request not to knock during the day.

  "No, thank you, not tonight," Chane said, and closed the door.

  Time was slipping away, and he had already wasted too much reliving events he could not change. He grabbed his cloak, sword, and packs, then locked the door and left the inn.

  No one addressed him as he walked quickly through the darkening streets. Wearing a long wool cloak, he was nondescript. A few drunkards eyed him as they stumbled from a tavern, but they stayed well out of his way. He headed toward the better-lit and — maintained eastern merchant district.

  He knew the location of the Gild and Ink, but cursed himself for not leaving the inn sooner. It was a long way off, even if he wasted energy bolting along back alleys. Any messenger sages may have already come and gone with tonight's folio. Yet he had to be certain, and walked quickly until approaching the correct street.

  Rounding a corner, he slipped in beneath the eaves' shadows as he approached the scriptorium. The entire street was empty—no lights in the shops he passed, and he heard no voices—and he silently cursed himself again. Then he stopped one shop away, looking at the front of the Gild and Ink.

  Chane slowly stepped forward to the scribe shop's corner.

  All its windows were dark, like the other shops along the street, but the front door…

  Shattered wood shards lay across the cobblestones before the Gild and Ink. In place of the door was only a dark opening into the shop. No scribes, no sages, the shop closed for the night, and someone had broken in…

  Chane glanced at the door's remains. No, not in—someone had broken out.

  He crept closer to see inside, but then voices reached him from down the street. Had someone seen this and called for constables? He could not be seen here, especially not now.

  Frustrated, wildly wishing to enter the shop and see what had happened, Chane slipped into the shadows, moving quickly away.

  Chapter 5

  Rodian woke the next morning to knocking on his chamber door, adjacent to his office.

  His needs were few—a bed, a basin to wash in, a mirror for grooming, and a chest for extra clothes. After spending long hours at each day's end filling out reports and updating log entries, he felt it best to have his personal space close at hand. He'd chosen an office with an empty adjoining room to convert for personal space.

  Rodian sat up quickly, instantly alert. No one knocked this early but Garrogh, and not without a good reason.

  The top drawers on both sides had been shoved outward, their locking mechanisms torn from the desk's front. The deeper bottom drawer on each side was still in place. The right was filled with journals or ledgers, but the left was empty.

  He crouched and studied the broken desk, running a finger over the top's outer side, and then he glanced at the exposed edges of the desk's walls. He saw no marks of a pry bar, but he hadn't expected to find any. Whoever had done this had been in a hurry—and had strength to fulfill such urgency.

  "What was in the folio?" Rodian demanded.

  Master Shilwise's tone changed. "Excuse me?"

  "The pages—what did your people copy for the guild?"

  Shilwise glanced at his two scribes, who were watching Rodian in equal confusion.

  "How would we know that?" one of them asked.

  "You were transcribing sages' notes, yes?" Rodian started coldly, and then he calmed. "I take it what they sent was written in their script?"

  Shilwise looked at him in surprise. "You know of the Begaine syllabary?"

  "Can you read it?" Rodian asked.

  Shilwise's face tinged slightly pink. "I fear not. I bought this scriptorium, so my title is master, but it is my business and no more. I hire certified scribes to do the work. I am not… a master scribe myself."

  "Like Pawl a'Seatt?"

  Shilwise snorted with a scowl, and his pink turned to red.

  "I can read a bit of it," said one of the young scribes.

  "Shut your mouth!" Shilwise barked, and turned back to Rodian. "If you've spoken with a'Seatt, then you know all scriptoriums working on this project have signed contracts of silence, backed by decree of the royal family. Until you have written court orders to counter that, I won't be caught in a breach. I have a reputation to maintain."

  "It wouldn't help anyway," added the young scribe. "It's mostly gibberish."

  "What did I just tell you?" Shiheyell youlwise warned.

  "Be quiet!" Rodian barked, and pushed past the paunchy shop owner, closing on the scribe. "What do you mean?"

  The young man was rather gangly, with oily black locks pushed back from his high forehead. His deep-set eyes flickered once to his employer.

  "The syllabary is just a system for recording… syllables… how things are spoken—in any language. It saves space, and hence paper or parchment, versus all the different letter systems for various languages. But what little I can make out, I couldn't make sense of."

  "Why?" Rodian asked. "What languages did you encounter?"

  "I couldn't even say. Bits of it seemed like Sumanese, but I don't know. And others…" The young scribe just shook his head.

  "That's enough," Shilwise warned. "Captain, if you want to know any more, go ask the sages. I've no idea why someone did this to my shop for a folio of nonsense. But if I find out the content was dangerous, my solicitor will file charges with the high advocate… for the guild offering work under false pretenses."

  Rodian ignored the shop master's blustering threat and looked about the workroom.

  "You're certain nothing else is missing?"

  "I'm certain of nothing," Shilwise snapped. "Not until we sift through all of this. But it's the only thing I've noted so far. Now, if you're finished, may we start putting things back in order?"

  "No." Rodian waved the scribes aside and pushed through the swinging door. "When my lieutenant finishes questioning your neighbors, he will go over the shop. Do not touch anything until he tells you."

  Rodian headed out, his gaze fixed on the empty front door frame.

  One massive blow seemed to have smashed out the door, for wood shards lay in a sprayed pattern, suggesting they all fell at the same time. How—and why—would someone who had managed to get inside, ransack the workroom, and steal the folio, then have to break out to escape?

  How had the culprit gained entrance?

  Perhaps someone had let him in. But then why break out?

  This was the second folio to have gone missing in the span of two nights. He still had no information regarding the content of either one. Once again Rodian's only option was the sages.

  Ghassan il'Sänke slowed in surprise upon entering the guild's common hall for breakfast.

  There was Wynn, sitting between two gray-robed apprentices of her order, eating a bow
l of boiled oats.

  He knew she preferred to eat in her room, but not this morning. Her left-side companion was a young man the others often called Nervous Nikolas.

  Wynn looked up, and her spoon halted halfway to her mouth. She nodded aze. She npolitely to Ghassan. Normally he too preferred to take his repast in his quarters or while working elsewhere. But this uncommon sight, of her willingly out among the populace, piqued his interest.

  "Boiled oats again?" he said as he approached. "At my home branch there are honey cakes every morning, in case nothing else seems appealing."

  Wynn half smiled, setting down her spoon. "Then how do you stay so thin?"

  "Oh, ages of living in near-constant distress," he answered.

  She smiled openly at this. "You are hardly that old."

  No, Ghassan thought, one would not think so. Nikolas and the other one—Miriam was her name—both stared in fright as he sat down across the table.

  "I… I need to get started on cleanup," Miriam stammered, rising quickly to scurry off.

  Such a plain-faced, pudgy girl—her eyes were too small for her face. But apparently High-Tower had found something promising in her. The old dwarf once mentioned that he had rarely known such an apprentice who comprehended the syllabary's complex system so easily. But most apprentices grew uncomfortable in Ghassan's presence.

  For one, he was an exotic-looking foreigner, taller than normal for his people, and of distinguished elder appearance—or so he liked to think. Second, he was a domin of metaology.

  The Order of Metaology in Calm Seatt was smaller and less prominent than in Ghassan's own branch, but still treated with some reserve—as were all the metaologers. In most cases rumors of the order's abilities were exaggerated. The only true work they did in magic was mostly in thaumaturgy via artificing, which included alchemical processes. They were responsible for making cold lamp crystals and other minor items used by the guild.

  In other rare cases, rumors fell slightly short of the truth—something Ghassan kept to himself.

  To Nikolas's credit, he kept his seat. Impressive, but Ghassan had no interest in the young man—only in Wynn. In what she knew, what she might share, and what she would keep to herself. She looked pale this morning, as if she had not slept well, but her hair was cleanly pulled back into a tail.

  "Would you care for bread with butter and honey?" Wynn asked. "I can go find some."

  Her simple offer moved him. Then he hardened himself against sentiment.

  She possessed a giving spirit, but under the present circumstances this was not a good thing. If only she were closed off and self-serving, then she would cause him less concern. He had often been forced into cold decisions, doing what was necessary, and regret was not something he could afford.

  Ghassan shook his head politely at Wynn's offer. He was about to tell her that boiled oats would be fine when his attention shifted. High-Tower suddenly appeared from the smaller northeast entrance.

  The old dwarf's mouth was set in an angry, determined grimace, and his cloak was tied tightly divtied tiabout his wide shoulders. He strode halfway through the hall toward the main wide arch and the passage to the double front doors.

  Where was the dour domin going so early?

  Symbols and lines of Ghassan's art appeared in his mind, lacing over the sight of High-Tower. He reached for the domin's mind, attempting to pick up surface thoughts.

  A loud commotion rose out of the main archway, echoing from the outer main passage.

  "Sir! Sir, you cannot go in there. You must have permission first!"

  High-Tower came to a sudden halt as Captain Rodian strode in.

  Everyone in the common hall looked up to see an initiate scurrying backward before the captain. But the captain's threatening gait quickly backed the boy into a nearby table.

  "What do you think you are doing?" High-Tower growled.

  Rodian locked eyes with the dwarf. "I assume you're heading out to Master Shilwise's scriptorium to demand your folio?"

  The entire hall fell silent, and Ghassan tensed.

  Rodian's growing involvement concerned him almost as much as Wynn did. If nothing else, the captain struck him as competent. Not at all what Ghassan needed.

  "I'll save you the effort," Rodian said softly, though his voice carried clearly in the silence. "The folio is gone. Someone broke into Shilwise's shop last night, ransacked the place, and took it."

  The captain closed another two steps on High-Tower.

  "Now, would you care to go to your study," he continued, "and tell me what was in that folio? Or do I still need an order of the court or a decree from the royal family?"

  Ghassan glanced at Wynn.

  She seemed as taken aback as everyone else, watching the exchange in stunned silence. Nikolas, however, was staring at the captain, and the young man's brow glistened with a sudden cold sweat.

  "More unfounded assumptions, Captain," said a calm reedy voice from the smaller north entrance.

  All heads turned as High Premin Sykion entered, silver hair tied back and her long gray robe sweeping the floor.

  Rodian did not even flinch. "Unfounded?"

  "Do you have evidence that the thieves intentionally broke into Master Shilwise's scriptorium… for the sole purpose of taking our folio?"

  "It's the only thing missing."

  "You are certain, without a doubt, that nothing more was taken?"

  "With respect," Rodian replied, "two of yours were murdered, and the folio they carried is missing. The following night another is stolen direcwas stolently from a scribe shop. My duty is to protect this city, including your guild… and even from itself. You will tell me exactly what was in—"

  "Premin Sykion!"

  The initiate who had been driven before Rodian came running back into the hall. Ghassan had not even noticed the boy leave.

  "Forgive me, Premin, b-b-but…"

  The boy looked anxiously about the hall, then hurried close to Sykion and whispered.

  Ghassan focused upon the initiate, once again stroking the mental symbols and ciphers he needed. As Sykion leaned down, he slipped into the young one's thoughts and heard…

  Duchess Reine is here! She asks to be admitted immediately.

  Before Ghassan could try for the premin's thoughts, the captain whirled about, facing the archway. Nearer to Sykion, he had obviously overheard the boy.

  Shifting a spell's focal point was not so easy once a connection to target was established. The captain appeared startled, and all anger and determination faded from his demeanor. By the time Ghassan grasped at the captain's thoughts, all he caught was…

  Oh, Blessed Trinity! Why is she here—now, of all times?

  Sykion straightened with a worried glance to High-Tower.

  "Everyone out!" High-Tower shouted. "Any but domins, clear the room!"

  Rodian glanced back, frustration plain on his face, but Premin Sykion relaxed where she stood, offering the captain a polite smile. Or was it an expression of relief?

  The hall filled with the noise of rushing feet. Initiates, apprentices, and a handful of journeyors hurried for the exits. Some were diverted away to the northeast exit when they tried in confusion to leave through the main archway. Nikolas seemed reluctant, and Wynn pulled him up.

  Rodian pointed at her. "You stay."

  Wynn froze, staring at him. She gently pushed Nikolas after the others before taking her seat.

  With so many in a frenzy about the hall, Ghassan was uncertain whose thoughts to reach for next. As the room cleared, Premin Sykion nodded to the messenger.

  "Please show the duchess in."

  Before the boy even moved, Duchess Reine Faunier-reskynna swept into the common hall with her full entourage.

  Three female attendants in rich gowns of varied and dignified hues, and one tall elven male in a white robe, surrounded the duchess. Or rather princess, for that was her true title.

  Duchess Reine was niece to the king of Faunier, one of Malourné's neig
hboring countries and a staunch ally. She had married Prince Freädherich of the reskynna, the royal family of Malourné—though he no longer lived. For sod wlived. me reason she preferred her original title rather than the one gained by marriage. And she was guarded by three of the Weardas.

  These tall warriors in their polished steel helms, chain vestments, and long crimson tabards each wore a long sword sheathed upon a wide belt of engraved silver plates. They carried short spears with heads shaped more like a leaf-bladed short sword.

  The leader, Captain Tristan, walked beside the duchess. An emotionless soldier, there were some rumors that he had trained with the Suman emperor's personal guard. But this was all Ghassan knew of the man.

  And everyone in the entourage towered over Duchess Reine.

  She was no taller than Wynn, perhaps less, with a tiny waist and slightly wide hips beneath a long sea-foam satin skirt. Her matching vestment scooped beneath her jutting bosom covered in a white linen shirt. In the common hall's somber and earthy colors, she stood out like an emerald tinted by a blue sky. Her dark chestnut tresses were pinned back on each side by twin combs of mother-of-pearl shaped like waves—the only jewelry adornments she wore.

  By her early arrival and attire, Ghassan guessed the duchess had risen at dawn, putting her three attendants hard at work in order to achieve such a seemingly simple elegance.

  Duchess Reine smiled warmly at Rodian and stretched out one hand.

  "Captain Siweard Rodian… at your duties already. Do you never tire?"

  Ghassan watched the pair carefully. He caught a flicker in those matched gazes. And as the captain took the duchess's hand with a slight bow, his formal—yet familiar—gesture suggested a connection between them. She was about five years Rodian's elder, something Ghassan had not noticed at first. Perhaps her diminutive stature conjured the illusion of youth.

  And the effect of Ghassan's spell was lost.

  He began his mental work again, eager to reach for the captain's thoughts—and those of Duchess Reine.

  "Your Highness," Rodian said, clearly confused. "I didn't expect to see you here."

  Ghassan finished the sigils, shapes, and glyphs in his mind's eye, but behind Rodian's spoken words he picked up only a muffled sound in the man's mind—like a far-off voice, muted and unintelligible behind a closed door.