"It is not within my power!" High-Tower shouted back. "And unfair of you to ask."

"Sages—such foolish scribblers!" the first voice declared. "You will exhume our ruin!"

"Knowledge is not the enemy," High-Tower shot back. "And translation will continue."

"Then you risk betraying your own, to shame and remorse," a third voice shouted, "if you let others know what you find."

Wynn wasn't certain she understood it all correctly, but it was the best she could make out. And that new voice was so much different from the other. More somber and reserved than the first, though equally passionate, it held a strange warning. The first voice demanded that High-Tower put a stop to translating the ancient texts, but the other one seemed less resistant, so long as what the sages learned was shared with only… whom?

Footsteps pounded toward the door's far side.

Wynn scurried down around the stairwell's bend. She heard the door jerk open and held her breath as she peeked carefully around the inner wall's rising arc.

A dwarf stood in the open doorway, head turned as he looked back into High-Tower's study. Wynn caught only his profile.

Wide features, with a dim undertone of gray, were deeply lined as well as flushed in rage. He was old, though he stood strong and tall, at least as tall as Wynn but over three times her bulk. At best guess he had to be well over a hundred years old, as dwarves often made it past two hundred.

He swallowed hard, trapping anger down. And his attire was… stunning—like that of no dwarf she'd ever seen.

Over char-gray breeches and a wool shirt he wore an oily black hauberk of leather scales. Each scale's tip was sheathed in finely engraved steel, and two war daggers tucked slantwise in his thick belt had black sheaths with fixtures to match.

Then another face appeared over his shoulder. Armed and armored like the first, this dwarf had hair of a reddish hue and he was clean-shaven. Something about his face looked familiar to Wynn, though she knew she'd never seen either of these two before.

As the second visitor came up, the first turned back toward the stairwell.

Wynn ducked away, but not before she glimpsed something more.

They both wore thôrhks.

Those heavy, open-ended steel circlets rested upon the collars of their scaled hauberks. Each end knob flanged to a flat surface that bore an intricately etched symbol. Wynn couldn't make it out from a distance, but she couldn't help remembering a thôrhk of ruddy metal given to Magiere by the Chein'âs—when Magiere and Leesil had visited "the Burning Ones" on the last run to find the orb.

Magiere's open-ended circlet wasn't the same in make as what the dwarves wore. But it had been close enough that "thôrhk" was the only term by which Wynn could describe her absent frnother absiend's device.

Thôrhks were gifted only to thänæ, those among the dwarves most revered for their accomplishments. They were also worn by the leaders of the tribes and sometimes clans, and a few others of social status. These two dressed like warriors, but skills in battle weren't all that the dwarves found virtuous. And most warrior thänæ took service by their own choice, swearing no allegiances and serving wherever they saw need.

Wynn heard the study door slam shut.

She held her place for a few shaky breaths and then peered around the stairwell's turn. No one stood upon the landing, though she heard voices again inside High-Tower's study. The three spoke too softly, so she crept up the stairs, crouching low near the narrow space between the floor and door to listen.

"The war happened!" High-Tower growled in Dwarvish. "You know it… we know it. But now we have the means to prove it. And something that—"

"You will not find it in those rotted texts!" the gravel voice roared. "All you will find is ruin and—"

"And the shame of the Hassäg'kreigi?" High-Tower finished.

A moment of silence followed, but Wynn was already lost in confusion.

She couldn't make out that final word. Was it some kind of name or a dwarven clan or tribe? She struggled to think of root words from which it had been formed.

The root chas'san, if she recalled correctly, meant "passage," and hassäg sounded like a verbal noun in the vocative. Something about «passages» — no, someone making passage or using a passage—a «walker»? And chregh—"stone" — she knew well enough. In the vocative plural it might be pronounced kreigi.

"Stonewalkers?" Wynn whispered.

Then she flinched at her own voice, but no one inside seemed to have noticed.

"Even some of our own people are sick of your secretive ways," High-Tower growled, "especially the rare few who still know the myth of Bäalâle Seatt."

"Watch your tongue, brother!" the younger voice countered. "Thallûhearag was no myth!"

Wynn's eyes popped wide. High-Tower had a younger brother? That was why the younger visitor had looked strangely familiar.

"Spare me your misguided faith!" the domin answered. "And don't speak to me again of that thing. I do not share your belief. I do not accept you or it. You do not even know that false abomination's real name… and no one should, if he ever existed!"

"I believe," the same voice answered.

"Faith that denies fact is fanaticism," High-Tower spit back. "Not faith at all, when it tries to hide from truth. I will find truth. If you have no stomach for it go back to praying in your crypts."

Dead silence trailed on. Wynn finally rose to her knees, leaning an n s, leaniear close to the door.

"I said get out!" High-Tower shouted.

Wynn recoiled in panic. With no time to gain her feet, she scrambled down the stairs on all fours. One hand slipped and she tumbled over.

Wynn flopped and slid along the stairwell's downward curve until her trailing knee smacked a step. She yelped before she could stop herself, and her back hit the outer wall. Finally at a stop, she rolled to sit up and dropped another step. Her rump hit stone as she grabbed her aching knee. Panic-stricken, she bit her lip and stared up the flight of steps, waiting to be caught.

No one came down. She never even heard the study door open. And another tense moment passed.

Wynn finally found the courage to rise and limp upward, but not as quietly as she wanted. She paused, listening at the study's door, but heard no voices.

"Yes?" High-Tower growled from within. "Well, come in or be off."

With everything else she'd done to lower the domin's opinion of her, the last thing she needed was to be caught snooping about. She gently gripped the handle and slowly opened the door.

Domin High-Tower sat behind his desk, scribbling on a scrap of paper, as if merely at work. But his rough features were flushed, and perspiration glistened upon his brow beneath the wiry tufts of his gray-streaked reddish hair.

Domin High-Tower was alone.

Wynn looked about the room. Where had the other two gone?

The only way out of the room was the door. Even so, no one had come down, and the other way led up to the tower's next level—which was the top. Had they slipped out, and gone up, and she hadn't heard them? But why and to where?

She stepped in, still uncertain if she'd been overheard outside.

It was uncommon for High-Tower's people to join the Guild of Sagecraft—and some even considered it an unworthy choice. He was the only dwarf among sages that she'd ever known. High-Tower never spoke of this, but Wynn guessed he had suffered over the decision of his chosen path. He finally looked up and let out a growling sigh.

"Well, what is it?" he asked.

Perhaps he'd been so caught up in arguing with his visitors that he hadn't heard her outside.

"News that couldn't wait," she answered quickly. "Today's folio wasn't returned. Master Shilwise's scribes didn't finish, and he refused to turn over work to our messengers… he kept the drafts as well."