by Barb Hendee
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'Seatt.
"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—idtr an in" 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 detain 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.
Journeyors were scarce at the guild, as most were off on assignments, but neither did Wynn note any domins nearby. After supper initiates were supposed to be in their quarters if not in the common hall.
"What's going on?" she asked.
Two apprentices turned eyes on her. As they shifted aside Wynn saw Miriam, a stocky apprentice with a cloak draped over her gray robe. Another cloaked apprentice shivered beside her as if they'd both just come in from outside.
"Oh, Wynn," Miriam said, as if glad to see someone—anyone—of higher rank. "Domin High-Tower sent us to Master Shilwise's scriptorium to retrieve today's folio… and Master Shilwise wouldn't give it to us! He said the folio was too intricate, and his scribes hadn't finished. He wouldn't turn over unfinished work."
Wynn was stunned. Nothing sent by the guild was ever to remain overnight. That much, if nothing else, was well-known concerning the translation project.
"What about the drafts?" she said.
Miriam shook her head. "He said they would finish first thing in the morning, and he kept the whole folio. He shooed us out and locked up his shop! What is Domin High-Tower
"Yes," Wynn answered wearily. "Now, you two take off your cloaks. Nikolas, take them to the common hall and get some tea."
Without waiting for a reply, she headed off for the north tower.
When she finally climbed the curving stairwell to the third floor and approached High-Tower's study, the heavy door was shut tight. He did this only when he preferred not to be disturbed. Wynn grasped the iron handle anyway.
Muffled voices rose beyond the door.
She didn't want to disturb whatever was going on inside, but if she waited the domin would be even angrier at not being told straight off. She'd barely raised a clenched hand to knock when someone inside half shouted—in Dwarvish.
High-Tower's home was Dhredze Seatt, the dwarven city across the bay on the mountain peninsula. The journey wasn't long, but she'd never known him to have visitors from home before. And whatever she'd heard passed too quickly for her to translate.
Wynn stood in indecision. She couldn't leave, but she shouldn't stay and listen either.
"You will stop!" someone roared from inside—or so Wynn thought. And the voice had a strange quality, like gravel being crushed under a heavy boot.
She read Dwarvish quite well, but their written terms didn't change as much as their spoken words. Unlike Elvish, even the old dialect of the an'Cróan, pronunciation of Dwarvish mutated over generations. Yet the dwarves never faltered in understanding one another. When she was a young girl, Wynn's tutor in the language had been High-Tower. She'd enjoyed attempting conversation with him, much as he smirked at her diction.
"It is not within my power!" High-Tower shouted back. "And unfair of you to ask."
"Sages—such foolish scribblers!" the first voice declared. "You will exhume our ruin!"
"Knowledge is not the enemy," High-Tower shot back. "And translation will continue."
"Then you risk betraying your own, to shame and remorse," a third voice shouted, "if you let others know what you find."
Wynn wasn't certain she understood it all correctly, but it was the best she could make out. And that new voice was so much different from the other. More somber and reserved than the first, though equally passionate, it held a strange warning. The first voice demanded that High-Tower put a stop to translating the ancient texts, but the other one seemed less resistant, so long as what the sages learned was shared with only… whom?
Footsteps pounded toward the door's far side.
Wynn scurried down around the stairwell's bend. She heard the door jerk open and held her breath as she peeked carefully around the inner wall's rising arc.
A dwarf stood in the open
doorway, head turned as he looked back into High-Tower's study. Wynn caught only his profile.
Wide features, with a dim undertone of gray, were deeply lined as well as flushed in rage. He was old, though he stood strong and tall, at least as tall as Wynn but over three times her bulk. At best guess he had to be well over a hundred years old, as dwarves often made it past two hundred.
He swallowed hard, trapping anger down. And his attire was… stunning—like that of no dwarf she'd ever seen.
Over char-gray breeches and a wool shirt he wore an oily black hauberk of leather scales. Each scale's tip was sheathed in finely engraved steel, and two war daggers tucked slantwise in his thick belt had black sheaths with fixtures to match.
Then another face appeared over his shoulder. Armed and armored like the first, this dwarf had hair of a reddish hue and he was clean-shaven. Something about his face looked familiar to Wynn, though she knew she'd never seen either of these two before.
As the second visitor came up, the first turned back toward the stairwell.
Wynn ducked away, but not before she glimpsed something more.
They both wore thôrhks.
Those heavy, open-ended steel circlets rested upon the collars of their scaled hauberks. Each end knob flanged to a flat surface that bore an intricately etched symbol. Wynn couldn't make it out from a distance, but she couldn't help remembering a thôrhk of ruddy metal given to Magiere by the Chein'âs—when Magiere and Leesil had visited "the Burning Ones" on the last run to find the orb.
Magiere's open-ended circlet wasn't the same in make as what the dwarves wore. But it had been close enough that "thôrhk" was the only term by which Wynn could describe her absent frnother absiend's device.
Thôrhks were gifted only to thänæ, those among the dwarves most revered for their accomplishments. They were also worn by the leaders of the tribes and sometimes clans, and a few others of social status. These two dressed like warriors, but skills in battle weren't all that the dwarves found virtuous. And most warrior thänæ took service by their own choice, swearing no allegiances and serving wherever they saw need.
