by Barb Hendee
Was the murderer someone inside the guild?
The killer had torn out a piece of a brick wall with only his hand. And not a stitch of his clothing had succumbed to the sudden fire in the alley.
A mage perhaps?
Rodian knew of few such in the city, let alone elsewhere. Several apothecaries claimed to be alchemists, dabblers in what the guild called thaumaturgy. Dâgmund had clearly possessed such skill. But Rodian didn't know of anyone who worked the other art the sages called conjury.
There were two dwarven «stone-melders» who'd taken up residence in Calm Seatt. They often plied their trade as special masons for those who could afford them. But the figure in the alley had been tall, perhaps even trim beneath that billowing cloak, so certainly no dwarf.
Rodian considered the strange elf he'd seen with members of the royal family.
And then there was the guild—and its Order of Metaology.
It was said that they made the crystals used in the sages' special lamps, and occasionally had a hand in other works of this thaumaturgy. But he'd never heard of any, inside or outside of the guild, who could stand in fire or shatter brick with one hand.
Metaologers wore midnight blue robes.
Rodian closed his eyes and saw swirling black robes that appeared to float over the alley walls. Like Domin il'Sänke's robe, easily mistaken for black in the dark.
What had Wynn said about him? He is a master of metaology.
Il'Sänke had no alibi for the night of Elias's and Jeremy's deaths, or not one that weighed much under scrutiny. Rodian knew better than to make a claim against a sage, not until he had sufficient evidence. And the royal family would be deeply disturbed if it turned out to be true.
Or would they?
Il'Sänke wasn't a sage of Calm Seatt. He was from the empire far south beyond the Rädärsherând—the «Sky-Cutter» range separating the north from the vast desert. He was a Suman.
Snowbird slowed as Rodian turned her up Old Procession Road, straight toward the guild's gate. By now, Sykion and the entire premin council would know of last night's events. Likely the whole guild would be whipped up in panic.
May the Trinity forgive him, but he hoped so. All the better, all the more pressure when he pressed them for answers, regardless of Duchess Reine's shielding influence.
Where had Domin il'Sänke been last night?
He urged Snowbird through the gatehouse tunnel, not bothering to halt when a slim initiate in tan scurried out for his horse. He rode straight into the courtyard before dismounting.
"Stay," he told Snowbird.
Rodian didn't bother knocking and pushed through the double doors. Several apprentices coming out quickly jumped aside as he turned down the passage toward the common hall.
"Sir! Can we help you?"
He ignored them, though one young man in a teal robe chased after him.
"Please, sir. You cannot just wander about… Is there someone you wish to see?"
Rodian walked straight through the common hall for the smaller side archway—and the passage to the northern tower. When he climbed the turning stairs to the third level, the door stood open.
Some of Rodian's cold anger drained away as he peered in. High-Tower sat behind his desk with his wide face in his large hands. His gray-laced reddish hair hung in a mess. When he lifted his head, his eyes were blank and bleak.
The young apprentice ran puffing up behind Rodian.
"Domin," he panted. "Apologies… I know you're busy… I tried to stop him."
Standing in the doorway, Rodian glanced about the study. Other than stacked texts he'd seen on his last visit, it didn't look like the domin was occupied.
"It is all right," High-Tower mumbled. "Go back to your studies."
The apprentice glared disapprovingly at Rodian, then turned and stomped back down the stairs.
"I was about to send for you," High-Tower said quietly.
Rodian almost asked why. But he waited as the domin folded his massive hands together, lacing his thick, short fingers. High-Tower's gaze hardened, but not at Rodian. Instead the dwarf stared across the room at the wall or out the window beyond the open door.
"I sent out no folio today," High-Tower added. "I cannot risk harm to any more of our own. So our work has come to a halt… for the moment. You had best come in, Captain. There is much to discuss, but close the door first."
Rodian didn't care for the feel of this moment. He'd come for his own reasons, and the dwarf was suddenly far too acco Sy fdiammodating. He stepped in, reaching for the open door's handle.
A dark figure stood in the evening shadows, hidden between the obstructing door and the room's deep-set window.
At the sight of a black cloak, Rodian reached for his sword.
The figure tilted its head up.
Beneath a wide-brimmed black hat with a flat top, Pawl a'Seatt fixed glittering brown eyes on Rodian.
"Good evening, Captain," the scribe master said evenly.
Rodian faltered. "Why are you here?"
"I was asked," a'Seatt answered, and his gaze slid smoothly to High-Tower. "Now, perhaps you would shut the door so that we may both be enlightened."
Several days passed without incident, and Wynn had made little headway with her research. Not that there weren't more shelves of texts to go through, or that she'd ever get through all of them, but what little she found added nothing to what she'd gathered.
At times her thoughts drifted to Miriam, Nikolas, and Dâgmund. She alone understood that the killer was unnatural, and that knowledge felt like a curse. It left her wondering what more she could've done to protect the three young sages. The guilt was almost crippling.
But to know the truth was better, no matter how alone and terrified it left her.
Wynn had visited Nikolas several times. He hadn't awoken but was no worse off by Domin Bitworth's estimate, though the master naturologer could offer no guesses as to what ailed the young apprentice. Bitworth seemed quietly disturbed by Nikolas's new gray hairs.
Premin Sykion made it clear that no one was to whisper any wild notions or spread any rumors until Nikolas woke up and gave his own account of what happened. Silently, Wynn believed an undead had somehow tried to feed upon Nikolas so rapidly that it caused effects akin to premature aging. She researched this, but the archives held nothing concerning the myths of vampires found only in the Farlands.
And the days passed so slowly.
She wanted to practice with the sun crystal, as the only means to protect herself and others. But Domin il'Sänke made her swear not to «toy» with the staff outside of his supervision. And he'd been busy, often locked in his chamber or down in the workshops. Hopefully he would come tonight.
So she sat in her room, reorganizing her notes, though soon she should head to the main hall for supper. If she saw il'Sänke, she might corner him and arrange more time for lessons.
Closing the journal, Wynn headed out, but as she neared the stairs at the passage's end, low, rapid voices made her pause. She crept forward just enough to peek around the corner.
On the bottom landing before the door to the courtyard, three apprentices stood chattering in hushed tones. That nasty Regina Melliny was closest, with her back turned to the stairs, b S th aput the other two wore the gray of cathologers beneath their heavy cloaks. Wynn had seen them both around the guild but didn't know their names.
"What did High-Tower say?" Regina asked.
"Not a blasted thing!" a young man with sloping eyes replied. "I almost fainted when the old stone-face told me to go fetch a folio tonight."
"Watch your tongue," the other warned. "You mustn't talk like that about our domin."
"I don't care!" the first countered. "I'm just glad we made it home… and I wasn't sorry not to carry back a folio. Master a'Seatt can face him for that."
Wynn drew back out of sight.
Not a single folio had been sent out since the night of Miriam's and Dâgmund's deaths. But High-Tower had sent one to the Up
right Quill and then sent messengers to retrieve it. What was he thinking?
Wynn tried to lean out again without being seen.
"Well, did Master a'Seatt say anything?" Regina asked—as if it were any business of a naturology student's.
"He just said the work wasn't finished… and he wouldn't hand over anything. He sent us off, and I didn't argue. He scares me more than High-Tower."
The three young sages stepped out, likely headed to the main hall for supper. Wynn waited until their chatter grew faint before she descended. But she paused at the door, mulling their words over and over.
If High-Tower risked sending out another folio, its contents must be important to whatever work was still ongoing. Maybe the passages even connected to those taken from Miriam, Dâgmund, and Nikolas. But it didn't make sense that Master a'Seatt hadn't sent the folio back. His shop had never failed to complete work on time.
And yet, a folio was still at the Upright Quill.
This might be her only chance to see just what, among all the texts, was now targeted by an undead.
Wynn rushed back to her room. She grabbed the crystal out of her cold lamp and then paused near the bed.
What would happen if she were discovered? She'd been ordered more than once to keep away from anything to do with the project.
Magiere wouldn't have let anyone stop her, and neither would Leesil. Chap, as well, had always taken his own course.
Wynn couldn't give up her only chance.
Chapter 10
Just past dusk, Chane crouched upon the roof of the Upright Quill scriptorium, listening to all that transpired below. One of the scribe masters had sent the guild's messengers away empty-handed, which meant an unfinished folio was still inside the shop. It was a strange twist, but a fortunate one.
Althou Vwasgh Chane wasn't fluent in the Begaine syllabary, back in Bela, Wynn and Domin Tilswith had explained how it worked. Not an actual alphabet, it was for rendering word parts or syllables. Based on blending and simplifying the strokes of modern Numanese's thirty-eight letters, and combined with additional special marks, it could be used to transcribe almost any known language. It saved space versus almost any other writing system, and for those who could read it, it was faster to take in what was written.
Chane had a passable grasp of spoken Numanese, but he was not fully proficient at reading or writing it. Even in his own notes, any Numanese terms he used were written with Belaskian letters.
The sages' script would be a struggle, but he had to know what kind of texts Wynn had chosen from the vast library of the ice-trapped castle. Especially—specifically—whether any related to the mysterious blacked-out scroll. He had to see what was in the folio, and he waited long before the shop's front door finally creaked open again.
"Out with you," said someone with a reedy voice. "All of you."
"Do you have the key?" a girl asked.
"No, I left it inside to annoy you… now scoot! Master a'Seatt is waiting."
Chane shifted to the roof's edge and peered over the eave.
A dark-haired man in a charcoal jerkin, carrying a wide-brimmed black hat, stood below on the street. An old, balding short man in spectacles shooed scribes from the shop. A young girl with kinky hair and dark skin followed in the old one's hobbling footsteps as they stepped out.
Chane stiffened under a tingle that made him shudder.
Something about the dark-haired man unsettled him. But his extended awareness as an undead had grown dull from his wearing Welstiel's ring for so long.
A key scraped in the lock. Soon all of the shop's staff strode down the street. And Chane lost any hint of that strange sensation. He turned his attention back to the shop below.
Closing his eyes, he lay down and leaned his head all the way over the eave. In a deep inhale, he tried to drink in the scent from the night air—tried to smell for any living thing still inside.
There was nothing but a lingering after-scent. He listened carefully as well, but the scriptorium seemed empty for the night. He pushed back atop the roof, contemplating the best method of entry.
Breaking through the door or a window was not an option. Someone might see or hear him this early at night. There was only one other way. He roused the bestial part of himself that always hungered for a kill.
Hunger surfaced, hardening his fingernails and filling his cold flesh with strength.
Crawling to the shop's rear, Chane dug his fingernails into the roof's shakes.
He pried up and removed seven as quietly as he could and found the underplanking was solid and sound—troublesome but expected. Rising slightly [isiove, he scanned the street once for anyone in sight, and then punched through the planks. He kept at it, clearing a hole large enough to pass through.
As he dropped lightly into the shop's rearmost room, he fully widened his sight. The scribe's workroom was so sealed off from outside light that even he had difficulty. He barely made out worktables, chairs, and the lighter tone of piled parchment and paper.
He felt his way about, recognizing objects clearly only when he was close enough. At the back shelves he found a lantern and an old tin cup full of crude wooden matches. He lit the lantern, turning its knob until only dim illumination filled the space. Leaving the lantern in place, he turned to scan the room.
Where would a master scribe or proprietor secure the folio?
And there it was. A leather folio lay on a short side table beside the largest desk just two steps away.
Chane took those two steps and then hesitated.
Why was it out in plain sight? This seemed too unprofessional. Perhaps the scribes had worked late, being too far behind in their efforts, and the folio had not been properly stored away. But even that did not seem plausible.
Chane picked up the folio.
By its thickness and heft, all the guild notes and excerpts were still inside. He glanced across the near desk and quickly at the others in the room. All were cleared and orderly. No transcription work appeared to be left lying about, so perhaps that had been stored away.
He pulled the folio's leather lace and opened its flap.
At the sight of the sheets, all scribbled upon in ink and charcoal strokes, his shoulders sagged in relief. But he could not linger here, nor turn up the lamp and risk its light being spotted through even the crack of a shutter. He turned down the lamp until its flame snuffed out and quietly hurried out to the shop's front room.
Carefully cracking open a window, enough to do the same with its outer shutter, Chane held the stack of pages close. He angled them until weak light from a street lantern fell upon the top sheet.
This time he sagged in frustration.
Aside from his limited understanding of the Begaine syllabary, some of these sages had terrible handwriting. To make matters worse, the notes were written with sharpened charcoal sticks. Cheaper and more convenient than quill and ink, they often left characters blurred. Even though some notes were not written in Begaine symbols, he could not sound out all of them. Many appeared to be copied in their original languages, which Chane could not even identify.
He turned a few more sheets and finally gave up, realizing he needed more time to decipher the folio's contents—and for that he could not remain in this shop.
A tingle crawled over his skin.
The beast chained within him growled in warning.
Chane pulled the window closed, latched it, and stepped back, watching the street outside through the narrow space of the ajar shutter. A soft shift of shadow flickered to his left.
Beyond the shop's door, the front wall's far side wavered. Wood appeared to bulge inward like an ocean swell, and then settled flat around a tall shape emerging.
A black figure stepped straight through the wall into the shop's front. But it looked as solid as anything else in the room.
Garbed in a flowing robe and cloak, the latter's folds shifting and swaying, the figure paused in stillness. A voluminous hood covered its head and face, and even Chane'
s undead eyes couldn't penetrate the dark within that opening.
He stared as his senses fully awakened.
He had not felt it coming. Not even a tingle, until it had pushed through the wall like water or vapor. Before he could utter a demand or warning threat, the figure raised a hand toward him.
Its sleeve slipped down, exposing forearm, hand, and fingers—all wrapped in strips of black cloth. A soft hissing rose around it, as it slid forward across the floor.
Chane shoved the pages into the folio and backed against the side wall beyond the window. And still it came at him. He vaulted the front counter on his free hand and retreated toward the open doorway to the back room.
The only way out was through the hole in the workroom's roof, or to shatter his way through the rear door. Either path meant turning his back on this thing that had just walked straight through a wall.
Chane jerked out his longsword.
"Do not be closed… do not be closed," Wynn muttered over and over as she ran through the streets toward the Upright Quill.
If Master Teagan were still there, she might bluff her way in to retrieve the folio. Perhaps a threat that Premin Sykion insisted on its return might do the trick, regardless that the work was incomplete. Wynn could simply promise to have it back first thing in the morning—and hope that later she wouldn't be cast out of the guild for interference.
One way or another, she was going to get into serious trouble. But a look at the folio was all that mattered.
"Please be open," she whispered again, and then halted, her mouth dangling open.
The Upright Quill was as quiet and dark as any other shop on the street.
"Valhachkasej'â!" she hissed—and then bit her tongue.
Swearing in Old Elvish was a bad habit she'd picked up from Leesil. A few profane expressions were about all the half elf could pronounce correctly in his mother's language. Wynn took a long breath, shuffling toward the shop's door. Now what?