In Shade and Shadow

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?

One window shutter was slightly cracked open, and she hurried over.

Swinging the shutter wide, she flinched when it creaked too loudly. She craned up on tiptoe to peer through the panes.

Light from the nearest street lantern wasn't enough to fill the shop's front room, but perhaps someone was still working in the back. She would have to knock at the door after all. Then two closely spaced footfalls pounded inside the shop. It sounded like someone stomping.

Wynn grabbed the sill with both hands, pulling herself up with her face close to the panes. But she saw nothing.

An indistinct form shifted in the dark, near the door to the back workroom.

Wynn's nose squashed against the pane.

A tall, broad-shouldered man in a dark cloak stood beyond the front counter. His hood was down, and he held a leather folio in his hand.

Wynn's stomach hardened.

Someone had beaten her here and gotten in, and she tried to make out his face. Besides Master a'Seatt, she'd never seen anyone of such stature here. In the dark, his skin was so light she began to make out a narrow face, straight nose, and red-brown hair, and maybe...

Sparkling eyes looked about the shop's front room.

Wynn stopped breathing... and stared at Chane.

The last time she'd seen him was south of the Farlands in the company of Welstiel, Magiere's undead half brother. Half a world away atop the Pock Peaks, in the library of Li'kän's castle, he'd promised never to follow her.

He'd promised—yet here he was, holding a folio.

Confusion scrambled Wynn's thoughts.

It wasn't possible, not for the way all the victims had died. Except that Chane had kept company with Welstiel for a long while. And Welstiel had been trained by his father's retainer—Ubâd, that decrepit necromancer and the architect of Magiere's unnatural birth.

Welstiel was a conjuror. As a Noble Dead he'd had many years to refine his skills. And what might Chane, a conjuror himself, have learned under that madman's tutelage?

Everything kept racing along twisted paths in Wynn's mind, and they all led to Chane.

She remembered spirits, walking corpses, and dismembered body parts floating in milky fluids within Ubâd's hideaway. Chane had been there as well, trying to save her, but looking back...

Wynn's chill faded, and bile burned in the back of her throat.

It was him. Chane was murdering sages... her own kind.

He suddenly shoved the folio under one arm, and a long line of silver appeared before him in the dark shop.

Wynn quickly realized it was his sword—but why was he drawing a weapon? He wasn't looking her way but off toward the shopfront's far [opfly side. She tried to shift left along the window and glimpse the room's far right side.

A black form floated across the floor into sight.

Wynn's eyes widened as she followed it—and then she flinched back.

Chane was looking right at her. His eyes widened as well, but he quickly returned his attention to the black mass.

She thought she saw the shape of a black hood and cloak upon a tall form—just before a shout filled the night street.

"Move in!"

A strong arm latched around Wynn from behind and heaved her off the ground.

Chane heard a male voice shouting outside, and then Wynn cried out.

He glanced toward the window, but the shutter's narrow space was empty. And the wafting black figure rushed him—straight through the counter.

Chane didn't even think to swing his sword. He twisted sideways into the door frame, blade out, but he still couldn't make out a face within the hood.

The figure hesitated. Was it looking at the sword? Then it surged forward, and Chane slashed.

The blade's tip passed through the figure's midsection.

The steel didn't even drag, as if cutting only air. Lack of resistance took him by surprise, and he lost the sword's balance. It jarred against the door frame, and the figure's cloth-wrapped fingers shot out at him. On instinct Chane jerked the sword's hilt upward, blade tilted to block.

The black hand glided straight through the steel and sank into his chest.

Agonizing cold spread through him before he could shut out the pain. The frigid cold in his chest was so harsh it felt as if he burned. Something seemed to gnaw at him from within.

Chane's knees buckled in weakness. Then a hollow moan filled the shop. It rose to a shriek, piercing his ears with equal pain.

The black figure jerked its hand from Chane's chest. It held up shivering fingers, as if it had suddenly succumbed to the same searing cold.

Chane wobbled, and his shoulder struck the door frame before he could catch himself.

A hiss grew inside the shop.

The sound seemed to rise all around as the figure's pit of a hood turned to its own raised hand wrapped in shreds of black cloth. Its fingers twitched in convulsions as it retreated through the counter. And the hood's opening turned once more toward Chane.

He felt the cold fade within him and his strength returned.

He had no notion of what had just happened, but it had not been what his attacker expected. Once its hand jerked from his body, the sudden weakness simply faded. As if it tried to d [it berain his strength and failed.

And Chane had felt something else in that painful contact—empty of life.

He righted himself in panic. This thing that walked through solid walls was undead, but unlike any he had ever seen or heard of. Chane quickly glanced to the rear door and then up to the hole in the roof.

He had to escape, and Wynn was still out front. But he would never gain the roof quickly enough, nor have time to get past the rear door's inner bar. Not before...

He glanced back again. The rear door's brackets were empty, and the bar leaned against the wall beside it. The door might still contain a basic lock, but why had it not been barred when the staff left the shop?

The robed form curled its fingers into hooks and slid through the counter again.

Chane dodged out the doorway and behind the counter. The back room was too tight and cluttered for fighting. At best, he would have to break through a front window and run. Then the folio was jerked from under his arm.

"No!" he rasped.

He snatched hold of the leather case with his free hand and spun about, swinging his sword back in reflex.

Chane watched his blade pass through a black-wrapped forearm and hit the countertop. The figure's fingers still clutched the folio's other end. Chane barely blinked as something struck the side of his head.

He felt the figure's other hand driving his head sideways and down. He thought he smelled spices—perhaps cinnamon—and dust. Then his skull smashed against the counter's edge, hammering the side of his jaw.

Darkness swallowed Chane's sight as he felt the folio ripped from his hand.

Wynn struggled, kicking back at her captor, until she heard him shout, "Move, all of you!"

The voice behind her head was deafening, but she recognized it. Captain Rodian held her off the ground with one arm.

"Take the back door first," he called.

Three red-surcoated Shyldfälches ran into sight with swords drawn. One took position at the shop's front door while the other two watched the front windows. Wynn heard more running feet and the sound of battering and breaking wood from somewhere at the shop's rear.

A grating hiss rose into a hollow wail inside the shop.

Wynn shivered inside, wanting to cover her ears.

"Move, all of you!"

Chane barely heard the shout through the ache in his head. He tried to push himself up, but gouged his hand on a piece of broken wood. His balance failed, and he toppled against the second door behind the counter. He had no idea what was happening, but he heard that voice again outside the shop.

Take the back first!"

Chane crawled to his knees and peered into the rear workroom. The back door bucked and crackled as something heavy struck it from the outside. It had been locked but not barred, which would slow any escape but still make it possible to force entry from the outside. Chane grabbed his sword off the floor and struggled to his feet.

The figure stood just beyond the counter.

Its cloak and robe were quiet and still, and the folio remained gripped in its hand. Its hood turned slowly, as if whoever hid within it looked from one front window to the door.

How could this thing be solid and then not, at the same time? Yet it never showed a sign of that change.

Finally it fixed upon the other window—the one where Chane had seen Wynn—and it stopped.

Another slam hit the rear door, and Chane heard wood splintering sharply. Someone had set a trap here—but to catch him or this thing? He threw himself over the countertop's remains, rolling to the far side. As he lunged for the folio, the figure slipped beyond reach. It flew straight at the window like whipping cloth driven on a windstorm—and passed straight through.

No glass shattered; no wallboards broke. Not even the shutters beyond the panes swung in its passing. Then the folio in its grip hit against glass—and did not pass through.

The black figure might be noncorporeal, but the folio was solid.

Chane lunged for it.

An angry wailing shriek echoed outside, and the window shattered outward.

The shop filled with the sound of breaking glass. Then the noise of breaking wood and shouts carried from the rear workroom.

Chane bolted for the broken window as a scream erupted outside the shop.

Rodian watched something blacker than night bleed through the shop's front wall. He still held on to Wynn, but the sage had ceased struggling.

The blot spread quickly over the shop's wood planks, blocking out one window. Then it bulged like a shroud cloth in a gale. It took shape in something he'd seen once before.

The black-cloaked and — robed figure halted, one arm stretched out behind it. Its hand was still beyond one pane of the window. And Rodian saw what it held in its trailing grip.

It held a folio, still stuck behind the window, inside the shop.

The pane creaked and began to crack.

Rodian dropped Wynn and shoved her out of the way, and the window exploded outward.

He raised his sword arm before his face. Glass fragments tinkled off steel and across his glove. A wailing scream rose before his sight line cleared.

Then Wynn cried out, "Captain!"

He'd kept three guardsmen with him out front: Shâth, Ecgbryht, and Ruben.

And Shâth was rushing toward the black figure.

"Stay back!" Rodian ordered, raising his sword.

The figure stood before the shop, folio in one hand, as its cloak writhed around its robed form. But its other hand...

Black fingers lanced through Shâth's chest and out his back, like barbs of shadow emerging from the guardsman's body. The rest of its hand followed instantly as Ruben and Ecgbryht closed in. Shâth hung impaled and shuddering as the figure's hand clenched into a fist.

Mute crackling rose as Shâth choked, but he never screamed. A dark stain spread across the back of his tabard around the figure's protruding wrist. The robed figure wrenched its arm back.

Shâth arched as the black fist ripped back through his torso.

Blood spattered over Ecgbryht as Shâth collapsed. His body hit the street hard, with his face frozen into a gaping mouth and eyes.

The front of his tabard and hauberk were torn around a mangled hole.

It happened so fast.

A low hiss rose all around in the street. The dark space of the figure's wide hood turned toward Rodian—no, beyond him, toward Wynn. And it rushed her like some coal-colored ghost, solid and real and yet not.

Rodian dodged in, uncertain what he could do against this thing. Ecgbryht was closer, and swung hard at the figure as Wynn scrambled back across the cobblestones. Rodian stepped in front of her.

"Wynn... stay away! Do not let it touch you!"

Those rasping words came like a shout. Rodian didn't know who'd given this warning, but then he saw someone crouched upon the shattered window's sill.

The man wore a long dark cloak with its hood thrown back. His face was pale and narrow, and there was something wrong with his eyes. Two killers emerged from the scribe shop—but why had the second one warned Wynn off?

"Stay behind me!" Rodian shouted at her. He swung, aiming for the black figure's wrist just above the clutched folio.

Too much happened at once.

The black figure swung its free hand and latched it solidly around Ecgbryht's throat. Rodian's blade passed through the figure's wrist with no resistance, and its tip clanged off a street stone.

Garrogh bolted out of the shop's front door with two guards, Lúcan and Taméne, running behind him... just as Ruben charged the figure, trying to force it off Ecgbryht.

The second killer upon the sill, sword in one hand, reached out and grabbed the folio.

All this passed by the time Rodian righted his sword.

Locked in the figure's grip, Ecgbryht drew short, rapid breaths. His features twisted and paled. The robed one released him, and he crumpled instantly. It tried to pull the folio back, and the second killer slipped off the sill to the street. Garrogh closed on the other would-be thief clinging to his end of the folio.

"Get back!" Rodian shouted at his men. "It's a mage!"

The robed one turned its hood toward Wynn.

"No!" the other thief hissed. "You will leave her alone!"

He jerked hard on the folio, and Rodian faltered.

The two caught in his trap were at odds, but not just over the folio. Another conflict existed between them over the journeyor. Rodian set himself against either coming at Wynn.

And then a snarl trailed into a howl somewhere in the open street. He heard rapid claws on cobblestone and had to turn his head.

A tall, dark-coated dog charged along buildings in the thicker shadows beneath their eaves. Or was it a wolf?

Rodian thought he saw a streetlight catch upon its eyes, which glittered like pale blue gems.

Wynn barely spotted Chane before Rodian stepped in her way. All she saw around the captain was the robed figure. When she stared into its hood, the pitch-black within it seemed to bleed over everything in her sight. She couldn't look at anything else.

Then she heard a distant snarl.

It seemed so far away, but so did every other noise around her. Then it trailed into a familiar wailing howl. She'd heard it so many times she knew it like the voice of an old friend in her head.

Chap was here, and he was hunting!

She wasn't mad, delusional, like everyone whispered. This thing killing her people was an undead. No other reason would cause Chap to howl like that.

For an instant his face rose in her thoughts—fur so silver it might tint blue in moonlight, and eyes like crystals catching an afternoon sky.

A hissing shriek rang in her ears as she heard claws scrabbling on cobblestones. Another deep snarl sounded as a dark gray form rushed past her. It spun and circled before her on four long legs ending in large paws, and its head swung briefly toward her.

Wynn saw the outline of tall peaked ears over a long muzzle—and pale blue eyes gazed at her. Then the dog wheeled, facing the robed undead beyond the captain. She reached out, screaming his name.

"Chap!"

Rodian sucked a breath. He'd lost all control here. Everything splintered into chaos.

Garrogh grabbed the pal [rabplie-faced man by his cloak, jerking him back. The man lost his grip on the folio but ducked around the lieutenant and took a swing. His fist landed hard, and Garrogh twisted away under the impact, slamming against the shop's front.

"Don't let him escape!" Rodian shouted.

Lúcan rushed the pale man, while Ruben swung his sword at the robed figure's back.

A hissing shriek broke over the noise and shouts.

Rodian lurched sideways as the robed figure recoiled. Only then did Ruben's sword connect and pass straight through, not even ruffling robe or cloak. The figure's hood remained fixed on Wynn somewhere behind Rodian. He glanced back.

Her eyes were wide yet vacant as she stared up and beyond Rodian, as if locking her gaze with whoever hid inside the robe's large cowl.

And the wolf rushed in between him and Wynn.

Rodian instinctively turned his sword point toward the animal, but it didn't go for the sage. It circled her quickly, coming around between her and everyone else. Its charcoal fur was nearly as dark as the robed thief, but strange shimmers showed wherever muscles rolled beneath its coat. It was taller than any wolf that Rodian had seen, and its eyes scintillated blue in the dark.

The animal glanced once at Wynn and then rushed at Rodian, snapping its jaws.

Rodian lunged aside, raising his sword.

"Chap!"

He flinched at Wynn's voice and saw her reaching out after the wolf, and the animal raced by him. Jaws clacking beneath snarls, it went straight for the robed figure.

The murderous, faceless mage cowered back—and then bolted, folio still clutched in its hand. Ruben was behind it, and Taméne was the only guard still standing in its path. The figure struck him across the face. Rodian heard bones crack as Taméne went down limp and flopping.

And the wolf ran after the figure. An eerie baying rose in its wake.

Rodian was stunned. But Ruben and Lúcan both instantly spread wide to either side, boxing the pale man against the shop's front. Garrogh climbed to his feet, blinking as he shook his head once. The lieutenant spun about and lifted his sword.

Rodian regained his wits, pointing at the pale man. "Put him down, if you have to," he barked at Ruben and Lúcan. "But don't let him get away."

With a quick wave for Garrogh to follow, Rodian rushed after the fading howls of the wolf.

Chane locked eyes on Wynn, but she did not look at him. She looked down the way, where the officer had vanished.

"Chap?" she whispered weakly.

She teetered around, and at the sight of him, Chane heard breath rush between her clenched teeth. The fear in her eyes was nothing co [wased mpared to the hate that followed, spreading quickly over her face.

He had fallen so far from what she had once thought of him.

He had given her up that night in the ice-bound castle. With all the time that had passed, it should not still hurt this much. But after all she had been through, and seeing him in Welstiel's company, what else could he expect from her now?

"Drop your weapon!" one guard barked.

Chane let the sword sag in his hand and could not take his gaze from Wynn's hate-filled brown eyes.

Wynn's head ached. She had to find Chap, but here was Chane, staring at her. How could his gaze hold even a hint of remorse after all he had done?

"Drop your weapon!" one guardsman ordered.

Chane sagged, but he never looked at the pair of guardsmen ringing him in. He looked only at her, eyelids drooping, and his sword tip dipped toward the paving stones.

And Wynn faltered.

Three city guards lay in the street, the first still staring up at the night sky with a mangled hole in his chest. Chane hadn't done that, and something else had come for the folio as well.

"I said drop it!" the guard shouted again.

Wynn looked from the dead man to Chane. His eyes were fully open again as he studied that same lifeless body.

The guards inched in on him, yet he neither released nor raised his sword. He turned his eyes on her, nearly colorless in the dark, and slowly shook his head.

"Not me," he rasped.

He spoke in Numanese, her language. How had he learned it so quickly? When his gaze returned briefly to the mangled body, it suddenly hardened. He shook his head again.

"It was not me!" he snapped hoarsely.

"Shut your mouth and do as you're told!" the second guard demanded.

Doubt crept in upon Wynn.

She knew nothing of how he was involved here, but she might never learn if he were arrested. Not that two living men had a fair chance of containing an armed undead. There was only an impulse to guide her.

"Run!" she called.

One guard turned wide eyes on her. The other cursed under his breath and charged.

Only then did Wynn go chill inside, realizing what she'd just done.

Chane whirled.

He caught the charging guard with an elbow in the man's chest and slashed at the other with his sword. The blade's tip clipped the second guard's shoulder as the first one buckled wi [onest th a gasp. Both toppled as Chane bolted up the street, disappearing beyond sight.

Wynn turned all the way around.

She searched the night, listening for Chap's voice. But all was silent save for the curses and muffled groans of the guards. Alone with the wounded and the dead, Wynn went numb.

Somewhere ahead, the wolf's howls ceased.

"Where are they?" Rodian shouted. "Do you see them?"

"There!" Garrogh panted, and he pointed west down a side street. "Down there, I think."

His expression was furious as they ran on, and Rodian felt the same. Their own trap had turned against them.

They burst out of the side street into a wide main way, but it was empty. Rodian saw no dark wolf or black-robed fugitive. Frustration choked him.

He'd had the killer in sight, cornered by his men, and then the second one appeared. Worse still, they had seemed at odds with each other. Just how many thieves and killers was he trying to catch? How many unknown individuals found some gain or threat in whatever the sages were doing with Wynn's texts?

"Garrogh, do you hear anything?"

His second cocked his head for a long moment, and then his expression fell into a weary scowl.

"No... nothing."

"Damn it!" Rodian struck the street with his sword. A quick, sharp scrape mingled with a steel clang rolling along the vacant avenue.

"Wait," Garrogh whispered, and then pointed. "There!"

In the edge of a pool of lantern light lay a leather folio upon the cobblestones.

Rodian ran for it and snatched it up. The leather lace was broken, snapped rather than untied, and he flipped the folio open.

All the pages were still inside, but it didn't matter. They were fakes, arranged by High-Tower and a'Seatt in this effort to lure and trap the killer.

Rodian raised his eyes, looking through the dark broken pools of lantern light.

Had their quarry—at least the one who'd gotten away—realized the pages were a ruse? How could anyone have even glanced inside the folio during flight?

"Ruben and Lúcan should have the other in custody," Garrogh said. "We'll get some answers out of that one!"

Rodian simply nodded. Turning, he headed back at a trot, all the way to the Upright Quill. But upon drawing closer to the scriptorium, he slowed in caution.

Four of his men lay in the street.

Only Lúcan was on his feet, hovering with sword in hand over Wynn, as the sage tended Ruben's bleeding shoulder.

Shâth lay with limbs askew where he'd fallen in a bloody mess.

Far to the shop's right lay Ecgbryht's limp form, his head cocked up against the shop's wall. Nearly all color had faded from his rough face, making the stubble of his blond beard stand out. His features were frozen in shock beneath tangled strands of gray-streaked hair. Taméne lay where the figure had struck him... his eyes open, his neck broken.

And the pale-faced man was nowhere in sight.

"Where is he?" Rodian snarled. "Where's the other one?"

"Ask her!" Lúcan snapped, nudging the sage with his boot's toe.

Wynn held a torn wad of tabard against Ruben's bleeding shoulder. She didn't even look up.

"What have you done now?" Rodian demanded.

Her shoulders curled forward as if she might collapse in exhaustion. Then she squeezed her eyes closed in a pained cringe.

"Gods damn you!" Rodian snapped, not caring what anyone thought. "You are under arrest."

Wynn tucked the makeshift bandage inside Ruben's split tabard, closing the edges over it. She rose up to lock eyes with Rodian, and then movement in the corner of Rodian's sight made him jerk around.

A shadow-cloaked figure approached along the deeper darkness of the next shop's awning. Rodian raised his sword, inching toward the silhouette draped in a black cloak and... a hat?

Pawl a'Seatt stepped out, wearing a black cloak over his matching vestment and a pressed white shirt.

Upon his head was the flat-topped hat of black felt with a brim almost wide enough to shield his shoulders. He swept his gaze over the scene, pausing briefly on the shattered window of his shop.

"What are you doing here?" Rodian demanded. "You and yours were to keep away until I told you otherwise."

Master a'Seatt didn't answer.

"Did you find the dog?" Wynn whispered.

Rodian glanced back in disbelief. Wynn gazed down the empty street like a child who'd wandered off and only just realized she was lost. Rodian didn't care.

After all the careful setup and planning, he'd failed. There had been not one but two perpetrators here this night, and both had escaped. Three of his men were dead and another injured—and he had nothing to show for it. And it was all wrapped around one meddling little sage.

"Garrogh, see to the men," Rodian growled, and he snatched Wynn by the arm, dragging her down the street.