In Shade and Shadow

by Barb Hendee

  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.
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  “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 voice. 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 be 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?”