A Wind in the Night

by Barb Hendee

  Who had been tending the gate yesterday?

  Hurrying down the passage to the entry alcove and the main front doors, Wynn stepped back out with Shade into the courtyard’s chilly air.

  “We need to see Premin Hawes again,” she said.

  Shade huffed in resignation.

  Wynn wanted to know more about the texts that Master Columsarn had requested. But the question of the messenger, trusted to travel so far with such a package, wouldn’t leave her thoughts.

  “We make one other stop first,” she added.

  Shade simply huffed again.

  • • •

  Chane was back in his room struggling through a basic history text written in the Begaine Syllabary. He had not encountered Osha nor heard that other door across the passage open. He could only guess that Wynn’s past “acquaintance” was sitting in there brooding . . . hoping to gain Wynn’s pity, should she notice that Osha had not come out to eat this night.

  It was insufferable.

  Trying to focus, Chane turned a page . . . and a rapid, firm knock sounded at the door. He would have known it anywhere at any time.

  For this was how Wynn knocked whenever she had her teeth into something of urgency.

  “I am here,” he rasped.

  The door opened enough for her to lean in.

  “I need a favor,” she blurted. “Can you find something out for me?”

  In truth he was desperate for anything to do, but her brusque manner irritated him, as if she knew he would say yes. Not yet getting up, he raised one eyebrow casually.

  “What is it you want to know?”

  • • •

  After sending Chane off, though he’d been annoyingly difficult, Wynn hurried back to Premin Hawes’s study and arrived nearly breathless. The premin quickly drew her and Shade inside, and none of them bothered sitting. Shade sniffed about, seemingly ignoring both women.

  “And?” Hawes asked.

  “Not much,” Wynn admitted. “Only that Nikolas was called home because his aging father is not well, and that the young duke, Nikolas’s friend from childhood, is also not well. . . .” Wynn quickly recounted all else that she could, including a mention of the duke’s behaving strangely. “But Nikolas is desperate not to go. There is something wrong about all this, and . . .”

  She hesitated, uncertain whether she should go further in another direction, but she did not have to ask the next question.

  Hawes’s stare almost made her fidget. The premin turned away to her desk, picked up the same folded piece of paper she’d held earlier, scanned it, and then pinched its edge at one place. She held the written side out before Wynn’s eyes.

  Wynn scanned one line near the tip of the premin’s finger.

  The Processes and Essence of Transmogrification.

  Her gaze snapped up to meet the premin’s icy gaze. “Transmogrification?”

  Hawes let out a slow breath through her narrow nose, but those eyes of hers never blinked. She stared so long that Wynn wondered whether Hawes was calculating how much to say.

  “Master Columsarn expressed more than I told you earlier,” the premin finally said. “He says in the letter that there have been unexplained changes in the land, people, and even wildlife and livestock of the duchy’s territory. I assume he felt the need to give me a reason for requesting such texts.”

  As Wynn opened her mouth, Hawes shook her head once. “He does not go into more detail than that.”

  Again the premin appeared to grow distracted, and Wynn began to think it had to do with more than this situation regarding Nikolas and his father.

  “What are you going to do?” she asked.

  “Do?” Hawes turned away. “I’m going to gather and prepare the material he requested. He is a master sage, and—for now—I have no reason to refuse him. Perhaps he has true need of these texts.”

  • • •

  Chane crossed the courtyard toward the gatehouse tunnel, or rather the door to the right in one inner tower that framed it. And what was he to say when he got there?

  Wynn had given him a cursory explanation for why she wanted a description of a messenger who had dropped off a small package for Nikolas Columsarn the previous night. She had told him the package contained an inner, sealed letter for Premin Hawes as well, and all this had to do with the “errand” Wynn had been executing for Hawes.

  Chane hoped this had something—anything—to do with getting them a direction to the last orb, but logically he did not see how. There were two offices, one on each side, in the small inner towers of the gatehouse. In the evenings, after the outer portcullis was lowered, two apprentices usually stood watch, but only one would be down the tunnel.

  He knocked first and then opened the door. “Hello?”

  Stepping inside, he found two surprised apprentices in the cerulean blue robes of the order of Sentiology: a young man and a girl who looked to be shy of twenty. Both sat at a small table with a glowing cold lamp atop it. The girl was attractive, with long red hair, and the pair appeared engaged in some game using draughts on a circular board. One of them should have been watching the tunnel’s far end at the portcullis until at least the quarter-night bell.

  Few sages had ever spoken to Chane, but many knew him on sight; he had been Wynn’s guest here more than once.

  “Can I help you?” the young man asked, rising to his feet.

  Both stared up at Chane’s height and his pale face where he stood in the open doorway. He was not armed, as it was improper to bear arms inside the guild grounds. Still somewhat at a loss, he assumed a settled air of authority.

  “Forgive the intrusion,” he said. “Premin Hawes has sent me with a few questions.”

  “Premin Hawes?” the girl repeated.

  Chane was well aware that the premin of Metaology was widely viewed with a bit of nervous awe by many of this branch’s lower ranks. Even the assertive young man stalled with a glance at his companion.

  “Who was attending here last night?” Chane asked flatly.

  “I was,” the male answered.

  That made this easier, and Chane nodded once. “A message was delivered for Nikolas Columsarn. Did you take it?” He watched the young man, who might have winced slightly in sudden tension.

  “Yes . . . sir,” he answered. “Is there a problem? Should I not have?”

  “Premin Hawes wanted to know who delivered it. Can you remember?”

  “Remember?” The young man sat back down. “Of course.”

  Chane stepped inside, closing the door quietly, and stood watching the young man while waiting. When further elaboration did not come immediately, he raised an eyebrow without blinking.

  The girl reached across the table to touch her partner’s hand. “It’s all right. If Premin Hawes sent him, you should tell him.”

  Finally the young man nodded. “I heard knocking out at the bailey gate, though maybe it was repeated more than once. I was reading a bit while standing attendance. When I heard it for certain, I was about to go open the gate, and . . . he or she stood right outside the raised portcullis, holding out a package that probably contained documents, by its size and shape. It was windy out, so perhaps I didn’t hear the gate open.”

  “A man or woman?” Chane repeated. “Could you not tell the difference?”

  The young sage shook his head. “Either a tall woman or a very slender man, wearing gloves, a black cloak with the hood up, and . . . a mask. All I could see was dark eyes.”

  One detail fixed in Chane’s mind.

  He had a mask, which had been made along with other accoutrements. As an undead, he needed these things should he ever have to move briefly in daylight while protecting Wynn. He also wore special glasses with near-black lenses, like the ones she carried for a different purpose, but the messenger’s eyes had been exposed.

 
“A mask?” Chane echoed sharply, and the rasp of his voice caused a flinch in both young sages. “Why . . . What did it look like?”

  “Leather, by its color, but it looked carved or etched with swirling lines. Maybe some other markings, but I couldn’t see it clearly inside the hood. The hand holding the package was gloved . . . and something like leather armor was on the forearm. Hardened leather, also patterned, though I only got a brief look before the messenger dropped that arm inside the long cloak.”

  Chane was at a loss for what all of this meant. “What did this person say?”

  “Nothing. She—he—handed me the package and stared at me. When I took it and looked at it, the outside was addressed in ink to Nikolas Columsarn, care of the guild at Calm Seatt, Malourné. But when I looked up again . . .”

  Chane waited less than a breath at the hesitation. “And?”

  “The messenger was gone.”

  Chane was the one who hesitated this time. “Did you hear the gate this time?”

  At that, the young man paused, perhaps not having thought of this before. He shook his head.

  “Thank you,” Chane said, turning for the door before any reply was uttered as he hurried off to find Wynn.

  Chapter Three

  It was well past dusk when the Cloud Queen made port in Soráno. Leesil was up on deck, while the others remained below.

  Captain Bassett descended the aftcastle the moment the ramp was lowered to the pier. He was a thin, wiry man with gray stubble on his jaw and dressed in worn boots, an oiled hide jacket, and a battered brown hat. The captain kept his eyes averted when Leesil or any of his companions were on deck, as if he couldn’t bring himself to even look at them anymore.

  Leesil, like Magiere, could hardly blame the captain.

  “Call the rest of your group and get off,” Bassett said without preamble. “There’s plenty of time for you to find an inn tonight.”

  Leesil suspected arguing was futile but still asked in his broken Numanese, “Stay tonight? Leave morning?”

  “Off,” Bassett repeated.

  Leesil headed for the aftcastle door to the passengers’ quarters below. When he reached the cabin he shared with Magiere and Chap, he found Magiere already packing. No surprise in that. She was dressed in her studded hauberk and cloak, with her falchion on her hip. She must have expected to be thrown off the moment they docked. Well, they all had.

  “I take it Brot’an and Wayfarer are packing up, too?” he asked.

  Magiere nodded without stopping, and her black hair fell forward over one shoulder, for she hadn’t tied it back. In the dim light of a single-candle lantern, Leesil could barely see the bloodred tints in her tresses. Her beautiful, pale features tightened with worry, always about everything from their journey’s success to the littlest tasks at hand . . . or the not-so-little things.

  “Wayfarer will be fine,” Leesil assured her, and hoped he sounded more certain than he felt.

  Magiere didn’t respond and continued stuffing their meager belongings into two packs and their small travel chest.

  Leesil glanced at Chap, who was resting on one bunk and watching Magiere.

  —The girl will . . . have . . . to be—

  The dog’s words, drawn from Leesil’s own memories, rose in his mind: a new little trick learned from Wynn . . . and Shade, Chap’s daughter.

  —We have . . . no choice . . . but to continue—

  This time Leesil didn’t snap at Chap to stay out of his head.

  Chap was right: they had no choice but to reach il’Dha’ab Najuum, the westernmost nation of the Suman Empire. There they hoped to find a first clue or lead to locating the orb of Air. Privately Leesil longed to forget everything about the orbs and go home to their little tavern, the Sea Lion, nearly halfway across the world. That wish was pointless.

  Magiere would never give up the search, and wherever she went, he stayed at her side. When this was over—all over—he knew she would gladly go home with him, and they could finally have some peace together.

  “That’s all of it,” she said, taking one pack and handing him the other before she hefted the small travel chest over her shoulder.

  There was little else to say. If they stayed much longer, the captain would throw them off, one way or another.

  Leesil shouldered his pack and picked up his weapons. As they headed into the passage, with Chap in the lead, Brot’an, followed by Wayfarer, stepped out of the next cabin. Both were ready as well, but fear was back in Wayfarer’s green eyes.

  “Léshil,” she said, pronouncing his name in an’Cróan Elvish. “Must we?”

  There was only one answer, one she didn’t want to hear—one he didn’t want to say. For all his resignation, he knew this wasn’t going to be easy. Magiere said nothing, either, and jutted her chin down the passage.

  Chap nosed Wayfarer out ahead as the rest of them followed. Leesil was the last to come up on deck and find Alberto and Paolo standing under a glowing lantern. Behind them was a muscular dark-haired man; Dirken always seemed to wear that ever-serious expression.

  Leesil and Magiere had rescued these three from a slave ship back in a cesspool of a port called Drist. Dirken had taken responsibility for both boys and managed to find all of them a place among the ship’s crew. His eyes fixed on Leesil.

  “We have to stay,” he said.

  “Of course,” Magiere answered. “It’s best for all of you.”

  The last thing Leesil needed was two boys to watch over; keeping Wayfarer safe when none of them would ever truly be safe was hard enough. Still, he felt strange at saying farewell.

  “Captain . . . is good man,” he said. “You have good life here.”

  Dirken nodded once, but both boys stared at Wayfarer. Alberto’s lower lip trembled, and Paolo was pale with a tight expression. And, to make matters worse, as Wayfarer looked at each of them, none of them said anything.

  The young often had no idea how to say good-bye or why it had to hurt.

  Leesil had no false comfort to offer, such as You might see each other again. That would be a lie, as it would never happen, and he didn’t have the strength to sell a lie right now. Instead he took hold of Wayfarer’s hand.

  “Don’t let go,” he told her in Belaskian.

  She gripped down on his palm, and as the captain watched from the aftcastle, Leesil led everyone down the ramp and onto the pier. They left the Cloud Queen for the last time and walked into the port city of Soráno. This time Brot’an brought up the rear.

  Leesil glanced back more than once to see the old assassin watching all around, perhaps even more than Chap did out ahead. Leesil never let down his own guard, though he knew there was little chance that any of the anmaglâhk team trailing them could have beaten them to this port. For tonight they were likely safe. As to the port itself, he had no idea what to expect.

  This far south, the night air was warm, and the small city appeared orderly and well maintained. But as he strolled along with Wayfarer clinging to his hand, one startling thing about the people on the well-lit street sank in suddenly. Magiere beat him to the first words.

  “They all look like Wynn,” she half whispered with shock.

  She wasn’t wrong.

  Fine boned but round and oval faced, these people weren’t as tall as the Numans of Malourné or as dark skinned as the few Sumans they had met. Nearly everyone walking past wore strange pantaloons, cotton vestment wraps, or long shifts of either white or soft colors to their ankles. But every one of them had olive-toned skin, and light brown hair and eyes, just like Wynn.

  Even Chap, with ears pricked up, slowed a little ahead in watching the passersby. Wayfarer was staring a bit too much. Anyone walking by who noticed merely smiled with a slight nod.

  “Did she come from here?” Leesil asked.

  Chap looked back once, for he needed a sight line to ans
wer. —I don’t know— . . . —She was . . . left . . . at the guild . . . as an infant—

  Oddly Chap knew more about Wynn than anyone else did. Leesil recalled some mention of the troublesome little sage “growing up” at the guild. It suddenly bothered him that he’d never asked her more, perhaps because he didn’t like talking about his own childhood . . . as a slave and then a spy and assassin to a warlord.

  Soráno’s streets were made of clean, cobbled, sandy-tan stone. Smaller open-air markets, rather than the big central ones of Leesil’s land or even those back in Malourné, popped up everywhere. Many stalls were still open for business, and everyone not on the move appeared to be some kind of merchant of dry goods or a farmer with a small harvest from a spring crop. The number of offerings for sale was overwhelming.

  Arrays of olives, dried dates, fish, and herb-laced cooking oils were abundant. The scents on the air were spicy and unfamiliar. He slowed briefly as they passed stacked bolts of fabrics with wild, earthy patterns.

  At the sight of glass bottles filled with oil and black olives, Leesil considered pausing for a purchase or two. Then he took a glance at Wayfarer.

  Any surprise or puzzlement over so many people like Wynn was gone from the girl’s triangular face of tan elven features. The old fear of being among too many humans was clear to see there.

  Leesil looked behind at Magiere and found her watching the girl as well.

  “We should find an inn,” she said quietly, and he nodded.

  So far Brot’an had been completely silent, and that left Leesil suspicious. The old anmaglâhk master continued his vigil.

  Like Chap, Leesil still struggled for a way to be rid of Brot’an’s company. As yet, no opportunity had presented itself. As they headed down the strange street lit by glass lanterns that bulged like perfectly made pumpkins of pale yellows, oranges, cyans, and violets . . .

  Brot’an quick-stepped past Leesil and even Chap to get ahead. He stopped one of the locals with a nod and raised hand.