In Shade and Shadow

Chapter 3

Just before noon the following day, Rodian urged his exquisite white mare up Old Procession Road toward the bailey gate of the Guild of Sagecraft.

Slender aspen trees now grew inside the castle's inner bailey wall, their high branches overhanging its top. At one time the royals had suggested that the entire wall be removed. The prospect of clear sight of the guild's keep might enhance the impression of accessible knowledge in the city. But the sages had already converted the inner bailey into narrow groves and gardens and natural conservatories—except where additional buildings had been added to the keep's exterior. They feared too many people traipsing through their precious accomplishments. Or so they said.

Rodian had his own perspective. These discomforting scholars coveted secrecy, and he wasn't looking forward to this morning's interviews.

He passed through the inner bailey's gate and headed for the fortification's hulking gatehouse. Before his mount entered the long tunnel to the inner courtyard, a stout young female in a gray robe scurried out.

"Premin Sykion and Domin High-Tower are expecting you, Captain," she said. "I'll see to your horse."

He looked into the young sage's face as he dismounted and handed over the reins. Her eyes struck him as dull and vacant, yet somehow she'd proven adequate enough to become an apprentice. Rodian shook his head as the girl led off his horse, and he headed into the gatehouse tunnel.

All three portcullises were open, not that this place needed such anymore. His footfalls on mortared stone echoed around him until he stepped into the wide and square inner courtyard. Today he wore a cloak over his uniform and kept his sword covered. Had it been possible, he would have sent Garrogh here instead.

Sages, so misguided in their ideals, but Rodian knew the truth of higher learning. Something they did not.

Knowledge belonged to the blessed.

Only those with the highest sentience were suited to the use of the highest knowledge—all for the betterment of those less endowed. Anything else was letting a mule drive the cart, while the carter donned halter and harness. And such knowledge had to be coupled with sound moral reasoning versus blind adherence to codes of ethics. Yes, there were laws and rules to be upheld, for such was his calling, but it wasn't the same thing.

If only more sages, particularly their masters, domins, and premins, would join his own brethren, their service to humanity might one day achieve a greater glory. But there were no sages in his own temple congregation. As much as this was a sorrow to his faith in the Blessed Trinity of Sentience, it was a greater loss to them.

Rodian headed swiftly across the courtyard to the main doors of the large keep. And another young sage opened one door before he'd even touched it.

"Please follow me, sir."

The warmth inside felt welcome, but Rodian steeled himself for a private audience with the premin of cathologers, head of the entire branch. Perhaps any masters or domins who knew the victims would be present as well.

The young sage led him through the entryway, and then turned left down a long passage. A low buzz of voices,nlyzz of v footfalls, and other noises carried from ahead, leaving him puzzled. At a wide archway on the right, the boy turned in.

Rodian stepped into a vast common hall where a fire blazed in a great hearth at the rear. Numerous robed figures milled about rough tables, benches, and stools, with books and parchments spread about. Two boys were finishing an early lunch, and everyone looked up.

Rodian exhaled sharply. This wasn't the proper place for questioning.

He ignored curious faces and glanced around until he spotted Domin High-Tower at one long table. The dwarf was muttering gruffly with the tall Suman named il'Sänke. A slight woman in a gray robe stood at the table's head.

Rodian had taken time to review the structure of the guild's orders before setting foot in this place. A long silver braid hung down the woman's back, dangling over the folds of her downed cowl. She was so slender that she might almost disappear from a sideways view. When her head turned, following High-Tower's thick pointing finger, her calm hazel eyes fell on Rodian.

He approached with a respectful nod, expecting her to speak first, but she only held his eyes with her penetrating gaze.

High Premin Sykion—for all the naïveté of sages—had the presence of a calculating intellect.

He cleared his throat, suddenly feeling a need to apologize for the intrusion, but that was a foolish impulse.

High-Tower rose to his feet. "What have you learned?"

Rodian ignored the question, facing only the premin. "I expected a more private meeting. Could we speak in your office?"

Her composure appeared to waver just slightly. "Surely you can give us your report here."

"I think you misunderstand," he offered politely. "I'm here to obtain information regarding the victims, not to make a report."

"What can we possibly tell you that you do not already know?" she asked. "They were attacked in an alley, not here. Would your time not be better spent looking for the murderer?"

Rodian didn't blink nor take offense. Even in his scant years as captain of the city guard, he'd faced such opposition before. Family and friends—even those of superior intellect—rarely understood how a victim's personal life had anything to do with a crime.

"Your office, Premin?" he repeated.

"My study, then," High-Tower intervened.

"Yours is as high up as mine," Sykion returned.

"But closer," he added, then looked to Rodian. "Will that do?"

Rodian nodded, though his attention had drifted elsewhere.

Domin il'Sänke remained silent where he sat. His dark brown eyes, nearly black in the alley, were just as observant now as then. Something about the foreigner's intense dusky features put Rodian on edge, as did the color of his robes—the midnight blue of the Order of Metaology.

Meddlers in the beliefs of others, dabblers in the arcane, who thought they understood a higher reality.

"You come, too," Rodian said.

Il'Sänke cocked his head in acknowledgment, but Premin Sykion intervened in a smooth voice.

"Domin il'Sänke knows nothing of the young cathologers you found dead, as he is not of their order. He is here to provide me with additional understanding of what he observed last evening."

"I insist," Rodian returned, "because he was there last night." He looked quickly about the hall, scanning those present. "Where's the young woman? I'll speak with her as well."

"Wynn Hygeorht is resting," the premin said. "She is easily troubled and should never have been allowed to witness last night's tragedy."

Sykion's steady gaze cast subtle reproach at High-Tower.

"Very well, later then," Rodian said, stepping back. "Which way?"

High-Tower's habitual scowl deepened, but the stout dwarf turned to lead.

They passed out of the hall's north side, walking in silence through long passages and one turn. When they reached an end door somewhere along the keep's rear, Rodian's best guess was that it opened into the castle's old north tower. They entered the tower's lower chamber.

To his surprise an inner wall had been constructed; the curving stairs ran upward between it and the outer wall. They climbed all the way to the third level, where High-Tower paused before a stout oak door. The domin pushed it open, waiting for others to enter.

Rodian stepped inside.

In older times the room had probably been weapons storage, when the keep housed the earliest royals and their armed forces. From Rodian's brief encounters with the domin, he expected the office to be a disorganized mess. He was not wrong.

The age-darkened old desk was nearly buried in books and papers, and even a few small wooden boxes. One hefty volume with a frayed cloth cover lay open atop the pile. A large cold lamp, its crystal still holding a dim glow, sat on one corner near an old mug filled with stained quills. Stacks of parchment or paper were piled on the floor below short oak bookcases, equally as aged as the desk.

Somewhat somber though not gloomy, the study's inner wall appeared to run flush with the tower's outer one beneath the rising stairs. Three sides of the room had narrow, paned windows set deep into its thick walls. These had once been arrow slits for archers to defend the keep. Through one Rodian had a clear western view of the city over the keep's wall and that of the inner bailey.

The dwarf likely expected perfect order from everyone—including himself—outside this room. But here he did as he pleased. Rodian knew the type.

Not wishing to been seen as herding the others, he stepped aside and waited as Sykion and High-Tower entered. Il'Sänke softly closed the door behind all of them.

"Only two chairs," High-Tower grunted.

Rodian gestured for the premin to sit. He remained standing and pulled a small journal from his belt.

"Have you determined a cause of death?" Sykion asked.

Rodian was careful with his answer. "A healer from the city's hospice examined the bodies this morning." And he had specifically sought one outside of the guild's influence. "His findings are not yet complete," he added.

This was a half lie, and he didn't add that the healer could provide no conclusive findings. If the victims had died by some fast-acting poison, inhaled or absorbed through the skin, the healer found no such evidence. However, Rodian couldn't allow this interview to turn around, making him the one being interrogated.

"Does either young man have blood relatives in or near the city?" he asked.

"No," the premin answered. "Jeremy's family is from Faunier, but his parents have both passed over. Elias's family resides on the western coast, near the free town of Drist. I believe his father is a fisherman. We have already sent word of this tragedy."

Rodian nodded and took a few notes. "I'll need the names of the victims' friends and immediate acquaintances, anyone of close personal attachment, and what their daily routines involved and with whom. Particularly if there were any noted contentions, whether of a personal or professional nature. Also the whereabouts of all such individuals last night."

The premin stared at him.

"This is routine, but necessary," he assured her.

Her thin lips parted once and then closed as she turned her gaze on High-Tower.

The dwarf walked around behind his desk and dropped heavily into a wide chair suitable to his people's bulk. It seemed a bit calculated to make Rodian feel like an initiate or apprentice summoned for a private lecture. High-Tower huffed once.

"All apprentices and journeyors here are friends," he growled. "But they are too busy to be close... or sweethearts who form attachments. They are here to study—not chase each other about like goats in spring." He cleared his throat. "And they do not contend with each other, except in betterment of our pursuits. Proper debate is encouraged as the crucible from which we extract truth. You will get no such list of names here... as we cannot provide one."

Rodian warmed with an edge of anger.

If these pretentious scholars thought they could stonewall him, they were seriously mistaken. When he took command of the Shyldfälches, he'd already solved four murders long considered unsolved by his predecessor. He hadn't climbed to his position by being easily waylaid.

"The names will help limit the investigation's scope," he replied dispassionately

"Are you asking for alibis?" the premin demanded, though the barest hint of worry leaked into her reedy voice.

"Of course," he replied. What had these people expected in a murder investigation? "I assume all three of you were in residence last night?"

"This is outrageous!" High-Tower growled, loudly enough that it reverberated from the walls. "Offensive insinuations... and a waste of time!"

"I could ask Lieutenant Garrogh to bring several men to gather this information," Rodian said. "Though that would be more time-consuming—and invasive—they will speak with everyone who lives here. No matter how long it takes. I would prefer to be... expedient."

No one spoke for several breaths.

"I was in the new east library with several apprentices," Sykion said, "instructing them in proper tutoring of initiates. Domin High-Tower, I believe, was overseeing cleanup after supper. We do not employ servants here and equally share all daily tasks. Domin il'Sänke—"

"I was out alone," the Suman interrupted, adding with a shrug, "and I have no one to attest to my whereabouts."

Rodian studied him. "You were out after the supper hour? Why?"

"I took a letter to the courier's office at the docks. Just a note to my home branch of the guild."

"The courier's office isn't usually open past dusk."

"The day passed too quickly," he replied. "I lost track of time and hurried but was too late."

"Why not wait until morning?" Rodian countered. "It could take days or more before finding a ship leaving for the Suman coast."

"I heard of one already in port," il'Sänke answered. "I wanted to be sure my letter was aboard for its return trip."

Rodian made another quick note in his journal. It would be easy enough to check whether any vessel was headed that far south. As he was about to press the matter, High-Tower cut in.

"I am certain you can locate citizens who saw il'Sänke near the docks—which are always busy, Calm Seatt being the most major port to the north! Now, if there is nothing else, I suggest you—and your men—get to the streets with your questions."

"What were Jeremy and Elias doing out after dark?" Rodian asked. "You seemed anxious last night concerning a 'folio' they'd been carrying."

The room sank into silent tension. Il'Sänke's eyes narrowed slightly, and Rodian caught the slight shift of Premin Sykion's slim shoulders.

"The folio has nothing to do with their deaths," the premin said, calm and poised. "And any regret at its loss is meaningless compared to the lives of our own. The work it held can be redone."

Rodian listened politely to the barest rise of pitch in her voiheich in hce. He'd struck a sensitive spot.

Perhaps the folio was only a happenstance theft. Perhaps it had nothing directly to do with these deaths. But it did have to do with something of serious concern to these three.

"Last night," Rodian continued, "Master a'Seatt said that you've been sending draft work to his shop for transcription. He handed over a folio to Jeremy and Elias to carry back. What did Master a'Seatt's people copy for you yesterday?"

Domin il'Sänke shifted one step closer. His dark fingers laced together across the front of his waist.

"None of us would know from memory," he answered. "Master a'Seatt's scriptorium is one of several employed in such work. Drafts are sent to multiple scribes' shops in the city."

"Every evening?" Rodian asked.

"At dawn," Sykion answered, appearing too satisfied with il'Sänke's explanation. "The guild is working on a large-scale project. We do have some sages who are skilled in scripting, but we prefer the expertise of the private scribe shops for materials to be added to our libraries and archives."

She paused, pivoting in her seat to face him fully.

"Captain... this work has proceeded uneventfully for almost half a year, so I see no reason why anyone would now kill for such a theft. Elias and Jeremy were in an unfortunate place at an unfortunate time... and taken by chance."

A large-scale translation project, going on for nearly six moons?

"What is being translated?" Rodian asked.

"We cannot release that information," il'Sänke answered.

"You will release whatever I ask," Rodian declared. "This is a murder investigation."

Premin Sykion's stern frown deepened the lines of her face.

"If you confer with the city minister to the royal family, you will find the project is under exclusive guild authority. The work is of a sensitive nature. Until we are told otherwise by the monarchy, no information concerning the project will be shared with anyone outside the guild."

Her gaze hardened, as if those politely blunt words were all she need say.

Rodian suppressed frustration.

The guild was highly favored by the royals, as it had been for generations. If the king and queen stood behind the sages, it would be dangerous for him to force the issue, even under rule of law. But the more these three evaded speaking of this project and the folio's content, the more Rodian began to wonder.

How little—or how much—did it have to do with deaths of two young sages?

"If you can't tell me what is being translated," he tried, "at least you can tell me where and how the materials in question were acquired."

High-Tower rolled his lips inward, turning his eyes on il'Sänke. The Suman seemed uncertain, and Sykion finally shook her head.

"Surely that cannot be confidential?" Rodian asked. "If the work is so important, every initiate and apprentice in the guild would know where it came from. Rumors are unbridled things."

"Do not attempt to badger any of them," High-Tower warned, "or I will present a formal complaint... and not to the high advocate but to the monarchy itself!"

Rodian was at an end. A tangle of suspicion and frustration choked off any reply. For the moment nothing could be learned here, and he turned to the door. For the span of a breath il'Sänke's darkening expression made him hesitate—then it was gone. Rodian gripped the door latch.

"Have someone send for Wynn Hygeorht—now. I will talk to her alone."

And he pulled the door open.

"Unacceptable!" High-Tower shouted from his desk. "We will not have her bullied by the likes of you! One of the masters will be present."

The dwarf's clear anger brought Rodian a wave of relief.

He much preferred open hostility. Angry people made mistakes, always saying much more than intended. Premin Sykion rose, stepped past him through the door, and headed silently downward.

Rodian glanced back to find both High-Tower and il'Sänke waiting behind him. Obviously they weren't going to even give him a chance at seeking Wynn on his own. He stepped out with both domins close on his heels.

When Sykion reached the turn made on the way to the tower, she motioned to a passing apprentice garbed in the teal of the Order of Conamology, sages who studied in the field of trades, crafts, and practical matters. They also managed the few public schools established by the guild in the king's city. Sykion bent like a willow, whispering in the boy's ear, and the apprentice rushed off with a quick nod.

"I have sent for Wynn," the premin said calmly. "But I agree that she should have someone else present."

She led them out to the entryway, before the large double doors to the courtyard. And Rodian stopped, holding himself in check.

This visit hadn't played out as expected. Misguided or not, he'd believed the sages would want these murders solved—would offer him what assistance they could. Yet they hobbled him, shielded by their favor in the royal court.

All four of them stood in uncomfortable silence until the apprentice burst through the doors.

"Premin..." the boy panted. "Journeyor Hygeorht is not in her room. And no one knows where she is."

High-Tower shoved past Rodian toward the boy. "What? Who did you ask?"

Rodian tucked his journal back into his belt, not waiting for the boy's reply. "I will speak with my liaison to the royal family about this—and I'll btryis—and e back."

With that, he walked out into the courtyard.

For some reason these sages didn't want him speaking with the young woman, obviously driven by desperation beyond protecting a member of their guild. They could hardly be unaware how much more this drew his attention. But before he reached the gatehouse tunnel, a smooth voice called from behind.

"Captain."

Rodian turned to find il'Sänke standing just outside the keep's main doors. Stiff with anger, he stopped and waited.

The tall Suman seemed to float across the flagstones, the hem of his robe barely swishing with his steps. His expression was far too composed for the standoff that had just occurred, and Rodian's instincts cried out in warning.

"What?" he asked sharply.

"Wynn truly is not here. If you wish to stop her from interfering, I suggest you visit the scriptorium of Master a'Seatt. By her nature, I fear she may be looking into this matter on her own."

Rodian paused, absorbing the words. "Why would she do that?"

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.

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 request 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 v hWynn's 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?"

Rodian pulled his horse around, and his calm broke. "Even with my full complement of guards, we cannot be everywhere at all times. Nor can the constabularies. We are few compared to the breadth of our responsibilities."

"You know less than you presume concerning my guild," Wynn countered. "We have our own duties and limits, some dictated from the same sources as yours. We fulfill our responsibilities, but it's your duty to solve these murders—not ours."

Rodian looked down upon her, and she watched his breaths deepen. He shifted uncomfortably, settling both hands upon the saddle's pommel with the reins still wrapped between them. Wynn was tired of this arrogant soldier.

"It's not always easy... what is asked of us," he said quietly.

"Yes, remember that." And she turned away down the street.

"Where are you going?" he called after her.

"Home."

Wynn heard the clop of horseshoes. Rodian's mount appeared beside her, and she hopped aside in surprise. The captain flipped his cloak back and reached down an open hand.

In truth, the afternoon grew cold, and in her hurry she'd worn no cloak. The sun had been out earlier, but the sky was now hee sky w overcast and rain would likely come. Rodian's horse craned its head at her, a pretty white creature with round gentle eyes.

Without a word, Wynn grasped Rodian's hand.

He heaved her up behind himself. As the horse lurched forward, Wynn quickly wrapped her arms around the captain's waist. For a short way the ride was unnervingly quiet. Wynn tried to watch the people in the streets going about their daily lives.

"You are a journeyor, yes?" the captain suddenly asked.

Sitting behind him, she couldn't see his expression. "I said as much," she replied.

"And, as you said, I know little of the guild's ways," he answered. "I was merely curious."

She said nothing to this.

"As such, you have... an assignment? Or so I've heard. Some duty you perform outside the guild, now that you've achieved journeyor status?"

"Yes—no... not anymore."

"Yes, no, which is it?"

Wynn leaned sideways but couldn't quite see his face. What was he getting at?

"I had an assignment, as you call it. It ended about six moons ago."

"So you finished, and now you will advance in rank?"

"It's not that simple... and I haven't finished anything. Not enough to petition and test for master's status, not by far."

"I see," Rodian replied. "At times, in the military, we too must point out our accomplishments to our superiors."

Wynn looked up at the back of his head. This captain had ambition if he was bold enough to do such a thing. That wasn't the way things were done in the guild. And she wondered just what he'd done to gain his post as head of the city's honored guard. Even in that, it seemed a strange place to be, if he was a career soldier.

"It's not like that with us," she said. "Our superior, a chosen mentor in our selected order—usually a domin—advises us when it's time to go before the premin council."

"And you've not been so advised?"

"No."

"But you have no assignment, as a journeyer?"

"Not anymore." And it was her turn to sigh. "I just sit about... waiting."

"I don't understand," Rodian said. "For what?"

Wynn thought she saw him shake his head, and she had no answer for his question.

"What was this assignment you didn't finish?" he asked.

"I went with my mentor and others to help start a new branch of the guildsel of the."

Rodian was silent for a long moment. "That seems quite a venture, but I haven't heard of any new branch in the making."

"It wasn't anywhere nearby."

"Then abroad? I know the Lhoin'na, the elves to the far southeast, have a branch. Another is in the Suman Empire on its western coast. It seems there's no need for one more."

"Not here... on the eastern continent."

"A lengthy journey. You must've been gone a long while. Yet now you do nothing. So the endeavor failed, and you and your mentor returned?"

"No, just me. The others still strive to keep it going."

"Is this a common pursuit... to establish further branches in far-off lands?"

"It's the only attempt I know of—in my lifetime."

"I see," Rodian said, and that was all.

They rode in silence until Wynn spotted remnants of the old outer bailey wall among shops and other buildings along Switchin Way. That wall had opened in many places over the centuries since the guild took over the first castle. The city had flowed in to fill the outer bailey, all the way to what was now called the Old Bailey Road. They turned onto it, looping around the still-present inner bailey wall of the guild's grounds.

"Wynn!"

The thunderous growl carried to her as the captain's horse neared the front gate. Beyond, just outside the gatehouse, Domin High-Tower stood with two apprentices in gray. He began striding down the path, and both apprentices scurried after in nervous steps.

"You'd better leave me here," Wynn told the captain.

He reached back, bracing her as she slid off his horse. Before she could thank him for the ride, Domin High-Tower came at them.

"Get back inside!" he barked at her, but his outraged expression was aimed at the captain. "And you were told no interrogation without supervision."

Baffled, Wynn looked up, wondering what Captain Rodian had done to earn such ire. And what interrogation was the domin referring to?

"By the Trinity, I thank you for the tutelage, Journeyor Hygeorht," the captain said. "Knowledge is always a blessing, when it comes. Perhaps you would teach me more at a better time."

Wynn cringed for more than one reason.

Firstly she knew his reference to one of several religions in the land—they called it the Blessed Trinity of Sentience. Though one of the most reasoned, it didn't sit well with her. Captain Rodian was an arrogant, controlling, ambitious man, but she hadn't figured him as a fanatic.

As he turned his horse down the street, Wynn tried to remember all she'd said to this complicated soldier. And the second reason...

He had played her, but she wasn't sure how well or for what.

At the first intersection along Old Procession Road, Rodian reined in and turned his horse in time to watch the dwarven sage herding Wynn Hygeorht into the guild's castle. He pulled his small journal from his belt and scanned his notes.

Whatever the sages had in their possession and hid from outside eyes under royal protection, he had little doubt where it had come from. Or at least, who had brought those texts to them.

Half a year, Sykion had said, since translations had begun—and six moons since a young journeyor returned alone from abroad. In that time, the project was still ongoing in small pieces. Whatever Wynn Hygeorht brought back from foreign lands, it was more than just a few old scrolls or an obscure tome. But it wasn't all that she'd brought.

Wynn had brought fear to her guild, though they hid this as well.

It didn't matter that these sages dismissed a connection between one folio and the deaths of two of their own. Their emphatic certainty didn't weigh in the balance.

Captain Siweard Rodian believed—knew—this, as sure as his faith.