Morlock had a tray of his own by that time and a mug of tea. He came and sat on the floor next to Aloê. He knew why she was sitting there, of course. She reached out the hand she wasn’t eating with and tangled it in his crazy hair. She saw Naevros looking, saw him look away. She didn’t bother to stop on his account. She had made her choice, the right choice, a century ago.

There was contented semisilence for a while, as the Guardians slew their hunger with weapons of food and drowned their thirst in oceans of drink.

“Morlock,” said Sundra Ekelling after a time, “you are the master of all makers.”

“Injustice!” sputtered Deor. “In the kitchen, I am the master. Eight parts of what you are eating is my work, and one of the others is either underdone or overdone.”

“You lay wonderful eggs, Deor,” Jordel remarked.

“You may laugh, Vocate, but laying an egg is relatively easy compared to cooking it properly—neither seared paste nor raw, slippery glook.”

“Whoever made these wonderful little filled flushcakes has my eternal gratitude,” Sundra said.

“Oh. Well. I suppose they’re not so bad. Those are Morlock’s, to tell the truth. Master of all makers of pancakes, you should call him. But apart from that: what a menace! Morlocktheorn, won’t you have some wine?”

So Deor had noticed that, too. It was a little thing, but connected to the deep fear within her.

Morlock shook his head: he would drink no wine.

Deor persisted: “If you don’t like the ones we brought up I could run and get you something else from the cellar. We have some golden Plyrrun, from that sunny island off the coast of Southhold. Salty and sweet and refreshing all at once. Or Barkun, from Westhold. That’s a fine, bold red wine.”

“No, Deortheorn,” Morlock said. “The day’s work isn’t done. I never drink while I’m working.”

“There!” shouted Deor. “I made you say it! Go on, then, Morlock: what’s your evening’s work, and how many precious talismans of the Graith’s magical armory will it destroy?”

“Deor,” Naevros said mildly, “give the man a rest. We all had a long, bitter day.”

Deor’s flat, gray face looked wounded. “It’s him that doesn’t want to rest. I meant no criticism of my senior in the Order—” he rolled his eyes at this “—and in Theorn Clan.” He did not roll his eyes. “I enjoy breaking things, personally, and it is many hours before I must sleep. Come on, Morlock!”

Morlock shook his head. “Thinking now,” he said. “Talk later.”

“This may take a while, then,” Jordel said. “These people who are particular about thinking always take so long to choose their words! Now, me, I never bother to think before I talk, which reminds me of the time—”

He was instantly pelted with rolls, bits of stray bread, and catcalls.

“I’m going to ignore that,” he said, “partly because I know you don’t mean it, and partly because your suffering is to me merely the butter on this delicious bread. This was back when—you’ll remember this, Naevros—”

Jordel’s stories at their best—and this was a pretty good one—required audience participation: cries of disgust or disbelief, exclamations of confirmation or denial, alternate versions of events in more temperately colored prose, occasional doses of applause. It served Jordel’s end of making everyone forget their troubles—except Morlock, who sat eating and drinking his damned tea and thinking, thinking, thinking.

They were sitting in the roseate aftermath of Jordel’s ridiculous anecdote when Illion appeared in the doorway, his apple-nosed jester’s face looking unwontedly serious.

“I tried to ring the bell,” he said, in apology, “but this big eye just opened in the door, and then the door opened to let me in. I thought it was really weird, and I want one.”

They shouted for him to come in, and they got him a cup of wine. They were going to make up a tray for him out of their leavings, but Walking Shelf woke up when he came in, reached inside itself and brought forth from a hidden warming box a tray for Illion. It stumped over and handed it to him.

“Thank you,” Illion said to it bemusedly.

“Walking Shelf, go: go back to the corner,” said Deor in a singsong voice, then he glanced at Morlock. “So you were right. How did you know Illion was coming?”

“I didn’t know,” said Morlock, “but I did ask him to.”

“I’m glad you did,” said Illion, perching on a chair and setting down his food and drink on a nearby table. “The hospitality of Tower Ambrose is strangely excellent and excellently strange.”

“Like the compliments of Illion the Wise,” Jordel said wryly.

“Let him eat! Try the rolled flatcakes, Illion. They’re good.”

Illion ate and drank, and the conversation became general. Morlock didn’t partake in it unless someone addressed him in particular, and then he answered as briefly as possible. He got up to pour himself some more tea, then came back to sit by Aloê and drink it. He was waiting.

Eventually Illion pushed away his food, accepted a refill of wine, and turned to Morlock. The waiting was over. “Listen,” he said, “why did you break the Stone rather than kill Kelat? Either would have broken the hostile rapport.”

“Something in him,” Morlock said.

“There was, and it was still in contact with Rulgân. You have no doubts about who the speaker was?”

“None.”

“Well. I didn’t say so earlier, but: good work, Guardian. My throat thanks you, from the bottom of my heart.”

Morlock opened his free hand and waited.

Illion sighed and drew something from his pocket. It was like a gem, the kind often used as a focus of power. It looked like a white diamond veined with red ruby. “Here it is,” he said. He tossed it to Morlock.

Morlock held it up to the light, and thought, and said nothing. Aloê watched him.

“You cut it out of his brain?” Deor asked. “Is he dead? Oh, of course he is.”

“No,” Illion said, “he didn’t die. Not permanently, anyway. We sealed his brain, his skull, and his skin and Noreê took him off to the lockhouse in the west side where the surviving Khnauronts are being kept.”

“Will he die?” Morlock asked.

Illion shrugged and drank. “We all will, Morlock.”

“Some sooner than others, if that icy witch has her way,” Deor remarked. “Telling truths, Guardians,” he said when some protested.

“Is he sane?” Morlock asked Illion.

“Yes. He remembers things about his life, for instance, that he didn’t before. He’ll remember more, in time. And we inscribed a protection against dragonspell in kharnum letters on his naked skull, so he won’t fall prey to that trap again.”

“Good of you.”

“It was Noreê’s idea.” He turned to Deor. “I know why you say what you say. But there is more to her than you know.”

Deor raised his mug in salute. “I honor you for defending your friend, Illion.”

“It’s not just that. It’s about justice.”

“Aha, but what about that thing you people are always saying? ‘I don’t judge; I defend.’”

“Perhaps I’m in the wrong line of work,” said Illion. “I like justice, when I can get it.” He turned back to Morlock. “What do you think of the thing, Morlock the Maker?”

“I think this gem did not grow in the veins of the ground,” Morlock said thoughtfully. “There are makers in the unguarded lands who can do work like this, but they are mostly dwarves.”

“Unlikely that they would take a commission from a dragon. Or do you think this was stolen?”

“No, I think it was crafted to be a vessel of power for Rulgân in particular. It vibrates with draconic force.”

“And therefore . . .” Illion said, and waited.

Morlock didn’t speak.

Jordel said, “You can’t suppose that someone in the Wardlands made it for him?”

“I have supposed it,” Illion said, “and it’s not impossible, you know. The Wardlands are wide and there are many people in them, thinking their own thoughts and going their own ways. Maybe someone’s path brought them to this. But no, I think there’s something else even likelier.”