by Barb Hendee
Il’Sänke shrugged, and his dark hands, fingers still laced before him, separated in a smooth gesture of empty palms.
“Who can say why another does anything? But I would hurry . . . if I were you.”
Gritting his teeth, Rodian turned and jogged into the gatehouse’s long tunnel, shouting for his horse.
Wynn stood in the street outside the Upright Quill, the scribe shop of Master Pawl a’Seatt. An autumn breeze pulled strands of hair across her eyes. She had always liked this street and could see why Master a’Seatt would choose it for his place of business.
Lined with squares of red stone, worn by years of foot traffic and coastal weather, when wet with rain the cobble glistened like deep burgundy. All shops here bore brightly painted shutters and signs. Rather than a street for needs, it was a place for pleasant wishes.
Citizens could buy a variety of items within the span of a few blocks, from scented candles and ornate stands on which to place them to finely crafted teapots and serving sets. One little bookstore down the way did business in conjunction with the scribe shop, and she could smell aromatic oils sold by a perfumer across the street. Cardamom and lavender were so rich in the air she could almost taste them.
Wynn wished she were sixteen once again, that this were nothing more than another errand for Domin Tilswith. And that she possessed no knowledge of unnatural things that lunged from the dark.
There was still time to abandon her present course. She could return to the guild’s warmth and the safety of her room. She could leave all of this to premins, domins, and the city guard.
Wynn took a deep breath and climbed the three steps to the scriptorium’s door. A little bell tinkled as she cracked it open.
Amid the warmth inside, a hint of parchment dust tickled her nose, and by comparing the chill outside she realized how quickly autumn was passing. No one was present in the entry room, not even behind the old counter, with its two heavy doors to the shop’s rear. A few wooden stands about the room held open books on display with ornate scripting as examples of the shop’s work.
“Hello?” she called.
Wynn was trying to decide if she should sneak into the shop’s back when the left door behind the counter swung outward.
A small, wizened man wearing round spectacles emerged, looking tired and strained. Startled by the sight of her, he closed the door and looked her up and down.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
His tone didn’t suggest eagerness to assist, and Wynn mentally translated his words as, What do you want? Now that she was here, she hardly knew what to say.
“I’m from the guild . . . ,” she began weakly.
He raised one eyebrow, as if to say, Obviously.
“I need to speak with someone . . . a scribe,” she added. “A girl with dark brown hair, slightly frizzed and curled and—”
“Imaret?”
Wynn didn’t know the name but she nodded. The old man’s face softened with something close to sadness.
“Come,” he said, and opened the other door behind the counter. “I’m Master Teagan. Imaret is working in back.”
Wynn had seen Imaret crying last night, which suggested the girl knew Jeremy or Elias. Sages in training occasionally made friends with working scribes, as such connections could be useful later. And it wasn’t uncommon for apprentice scribes to seek schooling with the guild.
Master Teagan must have assumed Wynn was another companion come to offer condolences. He flipped open a hinged panel in the counter to let her through, and she suppressed a pang of guilt at her deception.
The scriptorium’s rear was quite different from the front. The large back room was filled with tables and desks, chairs and tall stools. Bright lanterns stationed about the room provided ample light as scribes worked upon sheets amid scattered quills, blotting pads, and trimming knives. Shelves lined the back wall around the stout rear door with its iron bar. These were filled to the top with stacks of blank parchment, bottles of ink, jars of drying talc and sand, and other sundry supplies.
Only a few scribes sat at work, and Imaret was easy to pick out.
She sat at the room’s far corner behind a short table suitable to her stature. That by itself showed she was an exception here, aside from her surprising age. What professional scriptorium would have such a young girl working as a scribe?
But Imaret wasn’t scribing anything.
She stared blankly at her tabletop, quill poised in stillness above a blank sheet. She seemed locked in a moment other than here and now, as if time had stopped.
Wynn approached, and Imaret finally looked up. Her eyes widened with two blinks. On instinct Wynn lifted one finger to her lips. She didn’t wish for Imaret to gasp.
Master Teagan hung nearby, but he leaned over to check the work of another scribe.
“You were there . . . last night,” Imaret said loudly enough to be heard throughout the room.
Master Teagan glanced over with a confused frown.
Lying didn’t come easily to Wynn. “My name is Wynn . . . and Jeremy and Elias were my friends at the guild.”
Imaret’s dark eyes turned glassy and wet. One tear spilled down her brown cheek.
“I thought so, when you became so . . . They were my friends, too. And Nikolas. Is he all right? I thought he’d come today.”
Wynn didn’t know how Nikolas fared, but she stored Imaret’s question for later.
“Much of the guild is in mourning. We’d like to know more of what happened last night, to try to ensure the safety of our messengers. Were you here when Jeremy and Elias arrived?”
“Yes, just me and Master Teagan . . . and Master a’Seatt.”
Imaret spoke the last name so softly that it caught Wynn’s attention the most. Her next question was risky, but she blurted out, “How did Master a’Seatt come to find Jeremy and Elias in the alley?”
The bell over the door in the front room tinkled.
Imaret lowered her voice. “He asked them to verify the folio’s delivery, but after they’d been gone a short while he seemed . . . bothered. He kept pacing, and . . .”
Wynn waited, and Imaret glanced at the back door. “And?” Wynn finally said.
“He kept looking at the back door, but he never opened it. Then he just stopped suddenly and stared at the wall.”
Imaret’s gaze shifted, and Wynn glanced along the girl’s line of sight. But she saw nothing except the back room’s far wall beyond the end of the storage shelves.
“Then he grabbed his cloak and told me not to leave the shop.” Imaret trembled slightly. “He rushed out the back . . . and didn’t even stop to lock the door.”
“What’s this all about?” Master Teagan sputtered.
Wynn straightened. She’d learned a thing or two about keeping up a lie from watching Leesil.
“Two of our people are dead, and the folio in their charge is missing. Domin High-Tower wishes to know the events beforehand.”
“Then why didn’t he come himself?”
“We are in mourning, and he has greater matters to attend. I’m Journeyor Wynn Hygeorht.”
Teagan blinked, his pupils exaggerated by his thick-lensed glasses. And Wynn could tell he recognized her name.
Perhaps he knew she was the one responsible for the current wealth of scribe’s work—and good payment. Domin High-Tower and Premin Sykion had warned her against speaking to anyone concerning what she’d brought back. But of course there were many at the guild who already knew she was the one who had caused so much “fuss” for the last half year.
Teagan’s scraggly eyebrows wrinkled, but he finally grumbled off to check on the other scribes. Wynn turned her attention back to Imaret.
“So . . . Master a’Seatt became worried about the length of their absence and went after them?”
“Yes,” Imaret said, her eyes growing distant. “I knew Jeremy and Elias had plans to meet up with . . . other friends. I thought they might deliver the folio and ignore Master a’Seatt’s re
quest for confirmation, so I decided to go after them. And I left the shop.”
Wynn sighed. Aside from Imaret disobeying her employer, a young girl shouldn’t be wandering about alone at night.
“Then I heard a scream,” Imaret whispered. “I didn’t know where it came from until I heard footsteps . . . in the side street down the way.”
Imaret choked off, and Wynn put her hand gently on the girl’s shoulder.
“I went to look . . . and saw them,” the girl whispered, “but he was there . . . Master a’Seatt was already there.”
“That is quite enough!” Master Teagan sputtered. “If Domin High-Tower wants any more morbid details, he can damn well—”
“Speak with me,” a deep voice cut in, “after my investigation is complete.”
Wynn jerked upright.
Captain Rodian stood in the workroom’s doorway, glaring at her.
How long had he been listening? He wasn’t due at the shop until evening, as Master a’Seatt had requested. Rodian strode across the room, his swinging cloak dragging a few parchments from an unattended table.
“Mistress Hygeorht, is it?” he demanded. “What are you doing here?”
In last night’s fear and sorrow, she hadn’t taken much note of him.
At first nothing about him stood out. Of medium height and build, he wore the typical garb of the Shyldfälches, but beneath his open cloak his red tabard was carefully pressed. His cropped hair was an almost colorless shade of dark blond, but the slightly darker close beard along his jawline was perfectly trimmed. His eyes struck her the most—large for the rest of his face and a light shade of blue.
Wynn swallowed and calmed herself. He would be just like Premin Sykion or Domin High-Tower—another obstacle to the truth.
“I’m asking after dead friends and our lost folio,” she answered. “Is that against the law?”
“That depends upon circumstances . . . or any interference in my investigation.”
He glanced once at little Imaret, then turned his heated suspicion past Wynn to Master Teagan. The old scribe returned it in kind for another unwelcome outsider. The captain appeared to compose himself.
“Forgive the intrusion,” he said, but it hardly sounded apologetic. “I’ve just come from the guild, though no one there seems able to tell me what was in the folio that Jeremy and Elias carried. Perhaps one of you can help.”
And his gaze settled back on Wynn.
Both Teagan and Imaret frowned in unison.
“Did the sages not explain about their script?” Teagan asked.
“No,” Rodian returned, but he never took his eyes off of Wynn.
Wynn grew nervous, then agitated, and then angry over being scrutinized. As usual she started babbling.
“Even if the scribes were allowed to speak of their work—which they are not—only a few have enough experience with our Begaine syllabary to read any of it. They are concerned only with aesthetics and precision of copying and are trained to carefully rescribe a draft. Only journeyors or higher among the guild are fluent in this writing system, which is more than some standardized set of letters.”
Master Teagan ignored her and spoke to Rodian. “No work from the guild was delivered today. I didn’t pay attention to pages scribed yesterday and have nothing to say regarding their content. By our contract with the guild, you’d better have a court order before you ask that again. I was under the impression that you would be visiting us this evening. We have work to do. Master a’Seatt should be present tonight for any sort of . . . interrogation.”
Rodian’s eyes flicked only once to Teagan, with a mild twitch of annoyance.
Wynn knew he wouldn’t likely question scribes right in front of her. So why had he come here unannounced?
The captain finally nodded to Teagan, but he settled a strong hand on Wynn’s shoulder.
“Wynn Hygeorht . . . please come with me.”
Instead of waiting on her answer, he pushed her with slow, steady force toward the door to the front room. Wynn wished she had some way out of this place other than in the captain’s company.
Imaret stood up, and her stool scraped sharply across the floor. The tears had already dried on her cheeks.
“She’s only asking after friends,” the girl cried, and her small voice filled with hysterical anger. “The sages are like a family! I only wish that I knew . . . that I could remember more, but when I saw Jeremy . . .”
Poor Imaret broke, and Wynn’s guilt overwhelmed her. Her interest lay only in what had killed the messengers. She tried to turn back to the girl but couldn’t get out of the captain’s grip.
“If you think of anything else,” Wynn said to Imaret, “will you send for me?”
“No,” Rodian ordered. “She will send for me.”
He shoved the door open and propelled Wynn out. Once they passed through the counter’s hatch and stepped outside, he took his hand away and pointed toward his horse down the street.
“Over there.”
Wynn followed beside the captain, noting the point of his sword’s sheath trailing beneath his cloak’s hem. Heading for Rodian’s white mare, they passed the very side street leading to the alley of last night.
Wynn was lost in resentment when a skittering sound reached her ears, like the click of claws on cobblestones, and she turned her head.
At the side street’s end something dark darted away into the alley.
Wynn slowed, almost turning aside, but then thought better of it. It was probably just a dog scavenging behind the shops. For some reason that brief glimpse wouldn’t fade from her thoughts, though she hadn’t seen it clearly.
Suddenly she missed Chap so much her chest ached.
“What’s wrong?” the captain asked.
Wynn found him paused in the street, studying her again. She shook off the strange melancholy remembrance. Part of her wondered if Premin Sykion, High-Tower, and others weren’t right about her. Was she losing her wits?
“Nothing,” she answered.
He rounded the horse, motioning Wynn to follow, and they stood out of the chill breeze between his white mount and a pottery shop.
“Do not interfere,” he began. “Every question you ask may change an answer I seek later, when someone thinks they’ve already mentioned something of importance. I’ll find who murdered your brethren, but only if I’m able to gain information untainted or second-guessed. Do you understand?”
She glanced down at the street stones, wondering if he would be of any use at all to her. At least he now spoke to her as an equal.
“Yes,” she answered.
“Last night, when you began searching the body . . . what were you looking for?”
The sudden question took her off-balance. She peered up, again trying to estimate his nature. If there was an undead in the city, she would need help when the time came to deal with it. At present she had no one except Domin il’Sänke.
In Rodian’s cold blue eyes, meticulous appearance, and zeal for order, she saw a man determined to advance himself. He bore no title other than rank and had probably worked his way through the military by effort rather than favor. But he might still tell the royals and their officials exactly what they wanted to hear. How would he react if she told him an undead had attacked Jeremy and Elias, drained the life from them, and taken a folio for some purpose of its own?
“I was simply shocked by their condition,” she half lied. “Your lieutenant didn’t warn us.”
“You were looking for wounds,” he said flatly.
“And you didn’t? With their faces so twisted, skin paled too quickly . . . yet they bore no wounds, did they?”
His jaw didn’t even twitch at her challenge, so she knew he had checked the bodies. But he also said nothing at her insinuation concerning the mysterious way they’d died. No, she couldn’t look to this captain for any help.
“So, have you been sworn to secrecy as well,” he began suddenly, “concerning this project of your guild?”
Wynn sighed. “I am only a journeyor. I have no part in the translation project.”
“Even if you did know, would you tell me?”
“No,” she answered honestly.
This time his jaw clenched. He put his foot in the stirrup and swung into his saddle.
“I don’t understand your people. You all claim to want these murders solved—the killer or killers caught—yet your project seems to mean more than two lives.”
“Perhaps you should stop blaming my guild for your shortcomings,” she answered. “You are the captain of the Shyldfälches—the People’s Shield—established by the monarchs of Malourné. Where were you when two of my people died?”