In Shade and Shadow

"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 btryis—and e 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?"

Il'Sänke shrugged, and his dark hands, fingers still laced before him, separated in a smooth gesture of empty palms.

"Who can say why another does anything? But I would hurry… if I were you."

Gritting his teeth, Rodian turned and jogged into the gatehouse's long tunnel, shouting for his horse.

Wynn stood in the street outside the Upright Quill, the scribe shop of Master Pawl a'Seatt. An autumn breeze pulled strands of hair across her eyes. She had always liked this street and could see why Master a'Seatt would choose it for his place of business.

Lined with squares of red stone, worn by years of foot traffic and coastal weather, when wet with rain the cobble glistened like deep burgundy. All shops here bore brightly painted shutters and signs. Rather than a street for needs, it was a place for pleasant wishes.

Citizens could buy a variety of items within the span of a few blocks, from scented candles and ornate stands on which to place them to finely crafted teapots and serving sets. One little bookstore down the way did business in conjunction with the scribe shop, and she could smell aromatic oils sold by a perfumer across the street. Cardamom and lavender were so rich in the air she could almost taste them.

Wynn wished she were sixteen once again, that this were nothing more than another errand for Domin Tilswith. And that she possessed no knowledge of unnatural things that lunged from the dark.