In Shade and Shadow

by Barb Hendee

  “Selwyn had a partner, Mêthos Smythe,” Nikolas answered. “They lent only to desperate people who’d never go to the authorities. But a caravan owner couldn’t pay back his loan, let alone the interest—probably half the reason he couldn’t clear the debt. He confessed to the high advocate and lodged a legal complaint. A judge ordered Selwyn to turn over all ledgers and entry keys necessary, but Mêthos was the one who handled the books. He vanished that night, taking the master ledgers with him. Selwyn called in Jeremy to make altered copies in Mêthos’s handwriting . . . Jeremy was that good.”

  “Oh, dead deities!” Wynn breathed.

  She began rubbing her temples at a sudden throb in her head. A murdered sage had been paid for forgery by an illegal moneylender. If this ever got out . . .

  “Maybe Jeremy didn’t fully understand at first,” Nikolas continued. “But he kept at it, even when he started suspecting. I was scared of what might happen to him when the work was finished.”

  “You should’ve told someone!” Wynn exclaimed.

  “I am telling someone!” His voice broke on a squeak. “They were my only friends, and I know the domins won’t want anyone outside to hear of this. But someone should pay. . . . I can’t tell the captain, or anyone, because I can’t lose my place here. I have nowhere else to go.”

  Wynn didn’t understand the last part. Perhaps, like herself, Nikolas was an orphan. Pity for him, as well as confused second guesses, overwhelmed her. What had actually happened to Jeremy and Elias? Then another question surfaced.

  Among those ledger names, whom had Jeremy recognized and worried over? Who would an overworked apprentice sage even know, who needed money enough to go to the likes of Selwyn Midton and Mêthos Smythe?

  Members of the guild came from all regions, including other countries beyond Malourné and the Numan Lands. With some of them far from home, their closest companions were always others within the guild.

  Wynn immediately thought of the sun crystal she had begged for.

  Premin Sykion had demanded an explanation from il’Sänke when she saw the guild’s recent ledgers. Wynn didn’t know how Premin Hawes, head of metaology, had reacted. Just how much had the sun crystal cost, not just in money but in time and resources? The night Domin il’Sänke had come with the crystal, he’d said something about “at least those I listed.” So how else—and where else—had he acquired what was needed?

  There was no doubting il’Sänke’s skill, but she’d pressed him to do something never tried before . . . as quickly as possible. He’d agreed, and he was still working on the crystal.

  Wynn reached for Nikolas’s shoulder to offer comfort but stopped herself.

  “I’ll speak to the captain,” she said. “I’ll keep your name out, for now. But sooner or later this will come to the attention of the domins . . . and the premins.”

  Nikolas stared at his feet and didn’t answer. Wynn couldn’t bring herself to dismiss him outright, no matter how badly she wanted to disappear to her room.

  “Come with me,” she said. “We’ll get some tea in the common hall.”

  Nikolas looked up in surprise.

  “It would do us both good,” she added halfheartedly.

  As Nikolas fell into step, Wynn glanced back through the gatehouse tunnel. But she caught no glimpse of shimmering fur in the night beyond its far end.

  Evening settled beneath a light patter of rain as Rodian sat at the square table that served as his desk. Unlike that of Domin High-Tower, his office was simple and orderly. He paged through his notes within his office at the barracks for the Shyldfälches inside Calm Seatt’s second castle.

  The wide grounds around this fortress didn’t sport gardens. Instead its inner bailey was filled with stables, barracks, and housing available for officers. A full standing army hadn’t been necessary for many years, but Malourné’s border cavalry and regulars were still carefully maintained. This second castle of Calm Seatt was the heart of all the military, with the exception of the Weardas—the “Sentinels.”

  That smallest elite force protected the royal family and was housed within the last and greatest castle of the sprawling city. Placed upon a rise nearer the shore, it looked out over the open sea, the wide port of Beranlômr Bay, and the peninsula at the bay’s far side, home of the neighboring nation of the dwarves at Dredhze Seatt.

  The Weardas answered only to the royal family.

  Rodian’s position and relative young age drew envy among older members of the Shyldfälches. Though most officers in the regulars saw the city guard as a dead-end career, others recognized its advantages beyond military life. Affluence could be gained in many ways, and so much the more within the ranks of the Shyldfälches.

  But not half as much as among the Weardas.

  Someday Rodian would lead that force. If only the Blessed Trinity continued to cast its lessons into his path, elevating his knowledge and wisdom.

  Not long ago he’d resigned his commission in the regulars and immediately accepted a lower rank in the city guard under its previous captain, Balthild Wilkens. After that he rose quickly to first lieutenant by numerous—and correct—arrests, with all the necessary evidence for clean convictions. He gained notoriety in protecting his people and formed strong connections with other officers and a few nobles. He took pride in both his service and his accomplishments.

  Unlike his predecessor.

  Captain Wilkens had married the niece of Lord Kregâllian, a close confidante of the royal family. By happenstance and some effort, Rodian discovered that Wilkens had set up house for a former prostitute in one of the city’s mercantile districts. He visited her whenever possible, and perhaps a bit more than he did his own wife, who lived in a remote fief. After one brief warning from Rodian, Wilkens announced his early retirement. He recommended Rodian as his replacement.

  No one else learned of the ex-prostitute, as Rodian believed in keeping his word. To his knowledge she remained well cared for by the former captain, but no such man belonged protecting the people’s welfare.

  Rodian felt no personal guilt or regret over his tactics. He’d already proven himself much more effective than his predecessor. He didn’t gamble nor visit brothels. He didn’t indulge in drink, besides one mug of ale but twice in a moon or a glass of wine at a formal dinner. Men who practiced complete abstinence were rarely viewed as trustworthy, and appearances were everything.

  But tonight his thoughts turned inward with concern.

  Two young sages had been dead for nearly a full day, and he hadn’t gained a single sure lead. There were only entanglements and the frustrating shroud surrounding the sages’ hidden project.

  An oil lantern burned brightly on the table, and he glanced out the window.

  Night had come. He’d waited long enough for his appointment at Master a’Seatt’s scriptorium. As he headed for his cloak hung upon the perfectly placed peg near the door, the image of a face pushed to the forefront of his mind.

  Wynn Hygeorht.

  Her uncombed brown hair. Her wrinkled gray robes. The soft tone of her olive skin. The way her eyes pierced him as she said, “It’s your duty to solve these murders.”

  Rodian didn’t notice pretty girls or women. He had a certain kind in mind for when it came time to marry. Face and form were not primary criteria. Virtue, social position, possible wealth, and most certainly education mattered more for someone who would be his ally for life. But no one had ever spoken to him quite like that little journeyor sage returned from abroad. Criminals cursed him and peers whispered behind his back, but Wynn Hygeorht’s quiet scrutiny left him unsettled.

  And she knew more of these murders than she said—as did il’Sänke. Perhaps she knew more than even she was aware of. Rodian would find out, as always. But as he opened the office door a shadow moved in the outer hallway.

  Rodian shifted back and his hand dropped to his sword’s hilt.

  The shadow came forward into the door frame, and lantern light illuminated the form of Pawl a’S
eatt.

  “Apologies,” he said. “I thought we had an interview this evening.”

  Rodian stepped farther back to let him enter. “Yes . . . but at your shop, I believe.”

  “I thought to save you the inconvenience.”

  Rodian wondered at this polite turn. He hadn’t forgotten the tail end of Imaret’s story. Pawl a’Seatt had gone looking for those two sages. The girl had seen him. And that night, Imaret had said, the scribe master sent her away to rouse the constables.

  “Sit,” Rodian said, not pressing the matter. He could always visit the scriptorium later.

  He stepped around the table, took out his note journal, and sat as the scriptorium owner settled across from him. He studied his visitor’s face and found the man hard to read.

  Black hair hung straight to a’Seatt’s shoulders. A few streaks of dark gray could be seen there. Clean-shaven, his complexion was rather light, possibly from a life spent too much indoors, poring over books and parchments. But Pawl a’Seatt did well for himself, by the cut of his charcoal suede jerkin. His intense brown eyes were calmly watchful, though their mundane color seemed too vivid in the lantern light.

  Rodian also considered the man’s name.

  “A’Seatt” might mean “from” or “of” the seatt—a name of a place, likely referring to this city, rather than any surname of Numan origin. Obviously taken by choice rather than heritage, it couldn’t be the man’s true family name.

  “How well did you know Jeremy and Elias?” Rodian began.

  “I had seen them a number of times. They were among those selected to deliver folios and return finished work to the guild.”

  “Last night how long were they in your shop before you sent them off?”

  “A few moments at best.”

  “Imaret said that you requested they come back with confirmation of the folio’s safe delivery. Is that normal?”

  Pawl a’Seatt’s pause took no longer than a blink, but Rodian caught it nonetheless.

  “Imaret told you this?” the scribe master asked.

  “Is it normal procedure?”

  “At times. The guild pays us well and has asked for utmost care.”

  “What do you know of the project itself?”

  “Nothing. Scribes are not concerned with content, only the perfection of the final copy.”

  “Can you read what is being copied?”

  This time a’Seatt paused so long that Rodian continued rather than give the man time to think.

  “I learned that translations are written in shorthand or some code created by the sages. Can you read it?”

  “Yes,” Pawl answered, “though it is not a code or a shorthand. Most master scribes, in working with the sages, develop some familiarity. But the Begaine syllabary is both complex and mutable. Again, we do not concern ourselves with content. If you are asking what information the folio contained, I do not know. And if I did, I would not tell you . . . unless authorized by the guild or court-ordered to do so.”

  Rodian leaned back. He’d already hit this wall with Sykion and her cohorts. As yet, he hadn’t found enough connection between the deaths and the sages’ project to challenge any royal backing for secrecy—even with the sanction of the high advocate.

  “Why did you go looking for the young men?” he asked.

  Pawl a’Seatt’s strange eyes blinked twice. Perhaps he wondered how Rodian already knew he’d done so.

  “Too much time had passed,” a’Seatt began. “They should have returned with confirmation. I grew concerned and stepped out, hoping to see them coming back late. I did not, so I followed the assumed path they would take. But when I passed the side street near my shop, I heard a cry. I went to look and heard more noise down the alley at the side street’s end. I had just found the bodies when Imaret appeared. I immediately told her to run to the local constabulary station. I assume they notified you, since you arrived shortly after.”

  Rodian frowned. So Imaret had followed a’Seatt into the alley and seen him with the bodies.

  “You saw nothing,” Rodian asked, “and just came upon the bodies?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the folio was gone?”

  “Yes . . . no, not precisely. I did not notice its absence until after Domin High-Tower’s arrival. I was too shocked over what I had found.”

  Rodian stalled for an instant—“shocked” wasn’t a word he would use to describe a’Seatt’s state that night.

  “So . . . you cannot verify that the folio was missing when you found the bodies.”

  “I do not remember.”

  Rodian stopped to jot down notes. Pawl a’Seatt’s answers were precise, and thereby offered no more than was necessary. Certain details were still missing. And for all the man’s concern over the safe return of a folio, Rodian found it hard to believe the scribe master hadn’t once looked for it in the alley.

  “You said Imaret came after you?”

  Another pause followed, and a slight crease appeared on a’Seatt’s forehead.

  “Yes, though I had told her to stay inside the shop.”

  “An upsetting sight for the girl,” Rodian added, but a’Seatt didn’t respond. “How is it that you have such a young girl working so late in your shop?”

  His tone was not accusatory, but he knew the words might bite with insinuation.

  “She is gifted,” Pawl a’Seatt answered without reaction. “I wish to see that gift nurtured.”

  “Gifted? How?”

  “She can recall any text she sees with accuracy. Her hand is not yet refined but adequate—better than any of her age and experience.”

  Rodian saw new potential in this. “So she remembers everything she reads?”

  “No.”

  “But you said—”

  “Every piece of text she sees—not reads,” a’Seatt clarified. “She does not know the sages’ script. She understands only contemporary Numanese and its common writing and the western Sumanese dialect. But at a glance she can recall the pattern of half a page of strokes of any kind and render a clean copy. What she can read she recalls with accuracy, but that does not include the Begaine syllabary.”

  Unfortunate, but it might still be of use, and Rodian turned down a connected side path.

  “Imaret obviously has a mixed heritage. I take it her parents paid for her apprenticeship.”

  This time it was Pawl a’Seatt who stared intently. “I fail to see what this has to do with your investigation.”

  “Imaret is a witness,” Rodian countered, “though after the fact. I need basic information on all involved.”

  Pawl a’Seatt’s eyes remained fixed and steady.

  “Her father was a sergeant in the regulars, now retired. Her mother was an apothecary in Samau’a Gaulb, the capital of il’Dha’ab Najuum, one of the nations of the Suman Empire. They offered tuition, but it was not necessary.”

  Rodian stopped scribbling in his journal. “Unnecessary? Why?”

  “As I said, she is gifted. I pay her adequately for—”

  “You are training an apprentice for free?” Rodian asked. “And paying her for her training?”

  “Captain,” a’Seatt said slowly, “several of my employees are still at my shop, but recent events have left them shaken. If you have no more relevant questions, some of them must be escorted home.”

  Rodian found this scribe shop owner troubling, one who took on an unusual apprentice without tuition and yet hadn’t noticed a missing folio of importance sent off with two young sages. And again he wondered why Pawl a’Seatt had come all the way to the barracks rather than wait at his shop.

  “Visits from the city guard are the fodder of rumor,” a’Seatt said, as if catching Rodian’s suspicion. “I prefer this unfortunate business be kept as far as possible from my staff and shop.”

  Rodian had heard such excuses before, as if an interview with the captain of the city guard suggested a taint of guilt. Sometimes it did. For now he could think of no further reason to d
etain this man.

  “I regret any gossip,” Rodian offered, “but the killer or killers must be caught. If . . . when . . . I have further questions, I will try to exercise discretion.”

  Pawl a’Seatt looked slowly about the office, taking in its scant and orderly fixtures. Rodian thought he saw the man nod slightly to himself.

  “Good hunting,” a’Seatt said softly, and then rose and left.

  Wynn stepped through the guild’s main doors with Nikolas close behind. At panicked whispers, she paused and spotted a small cluster of initiates and apprentices in the entryway. Nikolas’s eyes widened in like confusion.