Clement said, “Explain these cards to me, as you explained them to the raven.”

“I could not explain the pattern to the raven, and I cannot explain it to you.”

“You cast the cards without understanding them?” said Gilly in dismay. “What good do you suppose it did the raven?”

The storyteller said, “The raven did not seem disappointed.”

The dawn bell began to ring. Its crisp sound could be heard clearly in the small cell. The storyteller said, “This is the twelfth day of the new year. Now I am done telling stories.”

And, though Clement and Gilly both asked increasingly frustrated questions, the storyteller remained as implacably and unreadably speechless as her cards.

Chapter Thirty‑Five

In one of four rented rooms, in the center of a table, there lay a small, bloodstained file. A raven had filched it from a dead woman’s pocket and had brought it to Karis, who had carried it in her own pocket for the last five days of their grueling journey to Watfield. Next to the file lay Emil’s pocket watch, ticking merrily, oblivious to its exile from the little room where Emil and Medric studied, questioned, and argued over a pattern of glyph cards laid out on the floor. The twelfth day of the first year of Karis G’deon had dawned–and Karis sat at the table with her head in her hands, still waiting for her two wise men to tell her what to do.

Nearly six years had passed since Garland left Watfield to become a wandering exile. Last night he had returned, hauling a sledge packed with blankets and cooking gear, surrounded by a dozen companions, including Councilor Mabin and six of her Paladins, plus one bored and irritable little girl, and a raven too tired to fly. To find shelter at that late hour for such a number of travelers had proven quite difficult. Garland had heard the midnight bell ring in the garrison as they finally built up the fires in their rented rooms.

Just past midnight, Norina had sat beside Karis at this very table. “It is time for the storyteller to die.”

Karis said, “The Sainnites imprisoned her this afternoon. She’s safely out of your reach.”

Norina had silently studied her, until Karis hid her face in her hands and told her to leave her alone.

Norina said to Garland, “Has Karis slept at all since Long Night?”

“She’s slept a little, some nights.”

“She has a sturdy constitution, but she can’t continue like this.”

Karis said, “Leave the nagging to your husband–he does it better. And go away.”

Norina had complied, but not for long. The Paladins, sent out to locate some specific townsfolk, began to return with them: more of Emil’s numerous friends, Mabin’s agents, members of the local Paladin company–all confused by this abrupt summons from their beds, and inclined to react with amazed tears when they were introduced to Karis. She endured their adulation with a certain graceless patience. Mabin and Norina talked with these people all night, and Emil’s incomprehensible work with the glyph cards was frequently interrupted as he was asked to greet newcomers, or to answer questions.

Soon after dawn, when the city elders arrived, Garland went out to purchase a nearby baker’s bread as it came out of the oven. But Karis could not eat anything. Now, the two of them sat alone, waiting.

Clement and Gilly arrived in Cadmar’s quarters a few moments behind Commander Ellid. They walked in on her complaint about not having been forewarned of Clement’s actions, but Cadmar was still too dumbfounded at what he was hearing to have yet become angry.

Clement attempted to explain herself.

Ellid, who knew nothing of the political matters that concerned Clement, lapsed into a bewildered silence, which she broke only once to comment, “Well, perhaps there was some justification.”

But Cadmar scarcely seemed able to hear what Clement was saying. “I told you to rest!”

“Yes, general.”

“And instead you took it upon yourself–”

Gilly said, “General, in this one case, perhaps …”

Cadmar roared, “I will not overlook it!”

In the past, Clement’s frequent disagreements with Cadmar had always been resolved by a combination of persuasion and manipulation in which Clement and Gilly had usually collaborated. Clement knew better than to oppose Cadmar directly: Cadmar loved to fight and delighted in displaying his superiority, and she could not possibly win against him. Now, the flood of Cadmar’s rage washed over her, and she could only endure the shouting, seething at the waste of time.

At last, she was able to say, “I apologize, general.”

But to Clement’s surprise, Ellid said, “General, if I may speak, it does seem that what Clement has learned is quite urgent.”

Cadmar glared at her, then turned a suspicious look on Gilly, who managed to be preoccupied with trimming a pen. Cadmar said reluctantly, “Tell me again what you’ve learned, Lieutenant‑General.”

Clement told him again. When she finished, he was staring at her with such disbelief that her heart sank. She had thought she was prepared to battle him into comprehension, but her will simply failed her.

She said hopelessly, “Whether I’m right or not, general, we must have some kind of plan–”

At that moment a shame‑faced soldier came in, carrying a glittering knife that was cautiously wrapped in a piece of leather. Gilly had taken custody of the storyteller’s glyph cards, and Clement had told the soldiers on guard there to search the storyteller, and to block the cell window to prevent any further conversations with ravens. The soldier gave Clement the knife he had found on the storyteller’s person, saying, “Careful, Lieutenant‑General. It’s got a wicked edge on it.”

As the soldier left the room, Cadmar, still in a temper, began vehemently stating the various reasons why it was impossible to develop a strategy without any solid information about the enemy’s plans. Of course he was correct; but that their task was impossible did not alter the fact that they needed to do it. It would be easiest if Cadmar could argue himself into accepting that fact, so Clement pretended to listen to him, while with feigned abstraction she unwrapped and examined the little knife.

It was the most beautifully crafted blade she had ever set eyes on. The metal shone like polished silver, and though its surface was smooth as glass Clement could see wavery lines, like ripples in sand on a beach, as though the molten metal had been folded and hammered flat, over and over. Clement was no expert in metal‑craft, but the skill displayed here seemed, simply, beyond possibility.

Clement stepped over to Gilly and showed the knife to him. He stared, and muttered, “No mastermark? A metalsmith of such skill, working in secret?”

Cadmar paused in his argument to glare at them. Clement had not taken off her coat, so she dropped the blade into her pocket. And then she noticed a stinging in her fingertip, and a swelling bead of blood. She could have sworn she had not even touched the blade’s edge.

One of the Paladins had brought in a plate of hot dumplings for Karis, but the plate remained untouched. Garland picked up Emil’s teapot and refilled Karis’s cup: a bit of porcelain the size and weight of an empty egg shell.

Karis gave a flinch. “How hard is it to avoid cutting yourself?”

“What?” Garland said.

“Zanja’s knife. Every time someone touches it, it draws blood.” Karis poked the raven‑scavenged file with her fingertip. “Even an act so innocent as making a knife, or a file, isn’t innocent at all. Blood is shed. People die.”

The file, rolling away before her fingertip, struck Emil’s watch with a metallic ring.

“And yet I must act,” said Karis heavily.

The door opened. Mabin, apparently immune to weariness, came briskly in. “How long does it take to read a handful of symbols?” Karis did not even look at her.

The old councilor sat down, and looked at the ticking watch. “When do we run out of time?”