by Barb Hendee
Others called him little Nervous Nikolas, but he wasn’t exactly little. He was slender, but not spindly, and of medium height. Perhaps his constant cringing and the twitching worry in his plain brown eyes had led to that nickname. She wondered what in his past had rooted this perpetual anxiety.
“Come in,” she said, stepping back, “and tell me what’s wrong.”
He quickly slipped past her, but not before glancing both ways along the outer passage.
“I’m . . . I’m . . .” he began in a stammer.
Wynn took a deep breath and waited patiently.
“I’m being sent for tonight’s folio!” he blurted out. “Me, with Miriam and Dâgmund, and they were followed last night!”
Wynn froze in disbelief.
“Domin il’Sänke must have told Domin High-Tower what happened,” he rushed on. “So how could he send more of us out?”
“Nikolas!” Wynn said. “Calm down.”
“I don’t want to go!” he half shouted, and ended in stuttering whimpers. “But if I refuse I will . . . seem unhelpful.”
Pity mixed with Wynn’s frustration. The one thing an apprentice never wished to be called was “unhelpful”—a thinly veiled euphemism for “lazy” or “incapable.” But in spite of two deaths, a ransacked scriptorium, and an account of two messengers being followed, her superiors remained insistent that these events were unconnected and had nothing to do with the translation project.
Nikolas stared at her expectantly, as if she had the power to save him.
“I cannot change their minds,” she said bitterly. “And I can’t go with you. They won’t allow me anywhere near the translation work.”
Nikolas seemed on the verge of tears as his lips began quivering.
“But I can do something,” she said, returning to her table.
Wynn tore a blank page from her journal and scribbled a quick note. She held it out for Nikolas to read with her.
To Captain Rodian, commander of the Shyldfälches,
Two sage messengers returning last night with a folio believe they were followed. Neither was injured, but three more go now, as of dusk. Please send men to Master Calisus’s shop—the Feather & Parchment—and make certain they return safely.
With regards,
Wynn Hygeorht, Journeyor
Guild of Sagecraft at Calm Seatt, Malourné
“I’ll have an initiate run this to the captain,” she said. “He wants no more trouble over the folios. I’m certain he’ll send guards to protect you.”
Nikolas’s brown eyes flooded with relief. “Thank you, Wynn . . . Wait, what if Domin High-Tower finds out? He’s already angry with you over that day you returned home with the captain.”
“I don’t care,” Wynn answered coldly. “All that matters is that the three of you come back.”
If her instincts were correct and the killer was a Noble Dead, Rodian’s men might not be able to stop it. But it had always struck when no one was watching, perhaps wishing to remain unseen. The sight of a few city guards might give it pause, and any vampire would think twice about engaging multiple armed soldiers.
Nikolas dropped his gaze to the floor. “I should’ve thought of this myself. Elias would have. He always knew what to do.”
Wynn patted his arm. “Go get ready, and I’ll find a messenger.”
Nikolas nodded quickly, and they both left the room. As he took off across the inner courtyard, Wynn’s ire at her superiors sharpened. But so did her concern for any innocent sage caught in harm’s way.
The premins and domins were denying the plain facts before their eyes—and it made less sense every night. Rodian left the barracks that evening with Lieutenant Garrogh. They headed for supper at a favored local inn called Mother’s.
Its founder was long dead, and her grandson now ran the establishment. Close by, with modest prices and good basic food, it was popular among the forces of the second castle. Sooner or later most of the city guards and regulars, and even some of the cavalry, stepped across its threshold. Though the barracks boasted a full cooking staff, and the food was healthy and plentiful, sometimes it felt good to eat elsewhere than the meal hall.
Tonight Rodian picked at a bowl of thick seafood stew with his spoon while Garrogh shoveled in mouthfuls. The lieutenant stopped with his spoon halfway to his mouth.
“Don’t you like it?”
“It’s fine,” Rodian answered, glancing idly about.
A group of his city guard sat at a nearby table, though he saw few regular soldiers tonight. The place was packed, just the same. Aside from price and quality, people were more at ease anywhere they saw the city guard—the People’s Shield—take their rest. All around, private citizens and red surcoated Shyldfälches ate and drank with boisterous chatter.
The noise was beginning to bother Rodian.
He’d spent a restless day trying to focus on neglected duties. But his thoughts had kept wandering to dead sages, a ransacked scriptorium, the faces of Wynn Hygeorht and Duchess Reine . . . and Domin High-Tower’s determined glare. As if the guild’s murder investigation were his only duty to attend to.
It wasn’t. Aside from reviewing reports filed by his men, he had his own to write for the minister of city affairs. Why did the sages continually impede his investigation? And why were Duchess Reine and the royal family shielding them from his inquiries?
“You’re thinking on those sages again,” Garrogh said, and took a gulp of ale.
Rodian returned his companion a hard look. He needed no reminder of his continuing failure. He sighed and dropped his spoon, all appetite gone.
“I don’t like having my hands tied,” he answered.
“I know you don’t,” Garrogh grumbled under his breath. He leaned over to clean his bowl, and strands of his unwashed hair dangled in the stew’s gravy.
Rodian grimaced. Though trustworthy and attentive, Garrogh’s personal manners were appalling.
“If you’re finished, we should head back,” Rodian said. “I still have work to do, and it’s getting late.”
He dropped several coins on the table, and they exited into the pools of lantern light along the street. They untied their horses, then decided to walk rather than ride. Snowbird didn’t need to be led, and followed.
“You’re certain nothing but the folio was taken from Shilwise’s shop?” Rodian asked.
This time Garrogh shot him a hard look. “You read my report.”
“I’m not suggesting . . .” Rodian began, and then faltered. “I’m just trying to decide what to do next.”
He’d received written statements from all requested parties regarding the alibis of Selwyn Midton and Jason Twynam on the night of the murders. That left only the razor-thin possibility that one of them had hired an outsider. But in his gut Rodian knew pursuing either of those lines was a waste of time.
He and Garrogh entered the second castle’s courtyard, handed off their mounts to the stable warden, and turned toward Rodian’s office and room. The only useful option left was to press the sages yet again, but the duchess had publicly asked him not to.
“Captain!”
Rodian turned around as Lúcan, one of his men, jogged across the courtyard.
“What now?”
“Sir, a boy from the guild arrived just before dusk, but you’d already left. He has a message for you, but the little whelp wouldn’t give it to me.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s been waiting outside your office the whole time.”
Rodian broke into a trot. He burst through the barracks’ side door, looking down the wood-planked corridor. A boy of eleven or twelve in a tan robe fidgeted before the office door. He was clutching a folded scrap of paper in one hand.
“Give me the message!” Rodian called, hand already out as he strode down the corridor.
The boy jumped slightly. “You are Captain Rodian?”
“Of course,” Rodian barked. He closed on the initiate with Garrogh right behind him.
The boy swall
owed hard and thrust out the folded slip. “Journeyor Hygeorht said I must give this only to you.”
Rodian hesitated before snatching the message. Why would Wynn send a note for his eyes only? He snapped the sheet open and scanned the contents—and his half-full stomach rolled.
Last night’s folio messengers had been followed, and High-Tower had still sent out more this night.
Rodian whirled about, face-to-face with a puzzled Garrogh.
“Get four men and our horses . . . now!”
Once Nikolas, Miriam, and Dâgmund had left, Wynn couldn’t bear waiting in her room. She went and volunteered to help serve supper, hoping time would pass more quickly. No doubt the captain would send someone to protect the messengers. But her thoughts also wandered to the sun crystal.
It might be the only real protection against a Noble Dead hunting sages and folios.
As she served vegetable soup in the common hall, she watched for Domin il’Sänke, but there was no sign of him throughout the evening.
“You missed me,” a small voice said.
Wynn looked down. A little initiate in pigtails looked up at her, a mix of hurt and pouting indignation on her freckled face.
“I’m sorry,” Wynn said. “Here you are.”
As she set a bowl down in front of the girl, Domin High-Tower entered from the narrow side archway. He paused to study her from across the crowded hall.
Wynn had no wish to face the stout domin, but she handed out the last of the bowls on her tray and worked her way through the tables.
“Have you seen Domin il’Sänke?” she asked. “He hasn’t come to supper yet.”
High-Tower’s mouth tightened within his thick beard. “He went out earlier. I haven’t seen him since.”
“He went out? How long ago?”
The domin’s pellet eyes narrowed at her impertinence. “A domin’s comings and goings are none of your concern!”
He strode past her toward the hall’s hearth, his footfalls vibrating the stone beneath her feet. She didn’t even flinch at his admonishment.
Instead Wynn peered toward the main archway. What possible reason could il’Sänke have for going out this night?
Ghassan il’Sänke lingered around the corner of a dry-goods shop, watching across the vacant street as three young sages approached the Feather & Parchment. The only other living thing he saw was a pony harnessed to a small cart in front of the scribe shop.
“Where are they?” Nikolas said too loudly. “Wynn promised—”
“Enough!” Dâgmund snapped. “We can’t stand about waiting for the city guard. The sooner we get back, the better.”
Il’Sänke straightened, glancing up and down the street. How had the city guard learned of tonight’s folio retrieval? There was no sign of the Shyldfälches, so perhaps Nikolas’s expected message had never arrived.
Once again, Nikolas turned hesitantly about, looking back the way they had come.
“Stop doing that!” Miriam squeaked.
“Both of you, be quiet,” Dâgmund warned. “Now get inside.”
He squeezed the front latch, stepping into the shuttered scriptorium. Nikolas nearly tripped over the front step as he backed up, still watching the street. Miriam shoved past, scurrying through the door an instant before him.
Il’Sänke remained where he was, awaiting their departure.
He did not truly need to hide. They would not have seen him if he stood right before their eyes. No one would have . . . not if he spotted them first. And on their return to the guild, it would be easy enough for him to addle their minds, even incapacitate them if necessary. He would have a peek at this latest folio’s contents before anyone else.
And if necessary, no one else would ever see it, leaving only the original texts to be found and dealt with later.
A creak and rattle of wooden wheels carried up the street.
It had not been hard for Ghassan to convince High-Tower of his scheme. He had used the ruse that the messengers were in danger and had to be protected. The old dwarf and Premin Sykion would not risk involving outsiders, such as the inquisitive captain of the city guard. Nor would they send domins or masters to retrieve folios. Such notable messengers would raise general suspicion and interest from any bystanders along the way. The content of the folios was more important—more dangerous—than the guild wanted anyone to know.
They contained more information than the Numan guild members themselves should know, as far as Ghassan was concerned.
A rickety wagon turned the far corner, and a pair of mules hauled it closer under the guidance of a lad at the reins. As one cart wheel hit a deep cleft between cobblestones, the wagon thumped, jostling a shovel and rake in its bed.
Ghassan ignored the refuse wagon. There was nothing along this city block to clean up. He watched the scriptorium’s front door, the dull yellow light behind its shutters, and the occasional shadows of people moving about inside.
High-Tower had been dubious of the plan at first, but Ghassan assured the stout domin that he could guard over the messengers this night. For as little as anyone knew of his full abilities, his reputation as a mage of thaumaturgy carried weight.
And someone else in this city sought the folios.
If that someone appeared this night, Ghassan would see tonight’s folio first, one way or another. Then he would make certain that his competitor never hunted sages again.
The refuse wagon slowed, as if coming to a halt.
Ghassan’s gaze flicked from the scribe shop’s door to the driver. He snorted in frustration as the young man looked his way.
His concentration had slipped. The incantation, which had removed his presence from the trio’s mental awareness, was no longer in his thoughts, ready to be spread to others.
Ghassan blinked only once. In the dark behind his eyelids, lines of light spread.
Sigils, symbols, and signs burned bright within the border of a doubled square. Within the inner space a triangle appeared, and another inside that, but inverted. He did not utter his incantation. The words sounded with greater speed in his thoughts as . . .
He finished that brief blink. And the glowing pattern overlaid his sight of the young driver, centering upon the lad’s face.
The driver blinked as well.
He looked about as if he had seen something, but it was not there anymore. With a shrug he flicked the reins, and the two muscular mules pulled the wagon onward.
Ghassan had not expected any rare passerby to halt and stare. This time he kept the spell’s glimmering pattern in focus, ready for use. Once embedded in a target’s mind, it would last for a while, depending upon how much will and command he put behind it. His presence would not be remembered with certainty by anyone so touched.
The trio finally exited the scriptorium, with Dâgmund in the lead.
Miriam stepped out next, tightly clutching the folio. Nikolas came last, hesitating in the doorway until Dâgmund reached back and tugged him along. All three turned back the way they had come, hurrying along the empty street.
Ghassan slipped around the shop’s corner. He quickly split and tripled the glimmering pattern overlaying his sight.
Three glyph-adorned double squares drifted across his vision, and each centered on one young sage. Three recitations flickered through his thoughts as quick as a finger’s tap.
Ghassan hurried to close the distance to the trio.
Not even his footfalls or the rustle of his robe would register in their awareness.
Rodian slackened Snowbird’s reins, letting her canter through the streets of the outer merchant district. Even so, the pace was too slow as she dodged carts and citizens making their way home. Garrogh’s bay gelding followed behind, and Guardsman Lúcan and three others brought up the rear. Several startled citizens shouted angrily at them, but most rushed aside at the sight of the Shyldfälches’ red surcoats.
Taverns and eateries gave way to shops patronized only during daylight. People in the streets grew sparse, and
Rodian tightened his legs on Snowbird.
“Go!” he called.
She lunged, her light hooves clattering on cobblestones.
When they neared the next main intersection, Rodian reined her in and turned east toward the Feather & Parchment. A small pony and cart waited out front of the freshly painted shop. Otherwise the dim, narrow street was empty. Snowbird skidded to a stop, and a thin man with a flat nose started in surprise. He nearly dropped a heavy iron key ring before he could lock the shop’s door.
