"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 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.

There was still time to abandon her present course. She could return to the guild's warmth and the safety of her room. She could leave all of this to premins, domins, and the city guard.

Wynn took a deep breath and climbed the three steps to the scriptorium's door. A little bell tinkled as she cracked it open.

Amid the warmth inside, a hint of parchment dust tickled her nose, and by comparing the chill outside she realized how quickly autumn was passing. No one was present in the entry room, not even behind the old counter, with its two heavy doors to the shop's rear. A few wooden stands about the room held open books on display with ornate scripting as examples of the shop's work.

"Hello?" she called.

Wynn was trying to decide if she should sneak into the shop's back when the left door behind the counter swung outward.

A small, wizened man wearing round spectacles emerged, looking tired and strained. Startled by the sight of her, he closed the door and looked her up and down.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

His tone didn't suggest eagerness to assist, and Wynn mentally translated his words as, What do you want? Now that she was here, she hardly knew what to say.