"Why did you go looking for the young men?" he asked.

Pawl a'Seatt's strange eyes blinked twice. Perhaps he wondered how Rodian already knew he'd done so.

"Too much time had passed," a'Seatt began. "They should have returned with confirmation. I grew concerned and stepped out, hoping to see them coming back late. I did not, so I followed the assumed path they would take. But when I passed the side street near my shop, I heard a cry. I went to look and heard more noise down the alley at the side street's end. I had just found the bodies when Imaret appeared. I immediately told her to run to the local constabulary station. I assume they notified you, since you arrived shortly after."

Rodian frowned. So Imaret had followed a'Seatt into the alley and seen him with the bodies.

"You saw nothing," Rodian asked, "and just came upon the bodies?"

"Yes."

"And the folio was gone?"

"Yes… no, not precisely. I did not notice its absence until after Domin High-Tower's arrival. I was too shocked over what I had found."

Rodian stalled for an instant—idtr an in" shocked" wasn't a word he would use to describe a'Seatt's state that night.

"So… you cannot verify that the folio was missing when you found the bodies."

"I do not remember."

Rodian stopped to jot down notes. Pawl a'Seatt's answers were precise, and thereby offered no more than was necessary. Certain details were still missing. And for all the man's concern over the safe return of a folio, Rodian found it hard to believe the scribe master hadn't once looked for it in the alley.

"You said Imaret came after you?"

Another pause followed, and a slight crease appeared on a'Seatt's forehead.

"Yes, though I had told her to stay inside the shop."

"An upsetting sight for the girl," Rodian added, but a'Seatt didn't respond. "How is it that you have such a young girl working so late in your shop?"

His tone was not accusatory, but he knew the words might bite with insinuation.

"She is gifted," Pawl a'Seatt answered without reaction. "I wish to see that gift nurtured."

"Gifted? How?"

"She can recall any text she sees with accuracy. Her hand is not yet refined but adequate—better than any of her age and experience."

Rodian saw new potential in this. "So she remembers everything she reads?"

"No."

"But you said—"

"Every piece of text she sees—not reads," a'Seatt clarified. "She does not know the sages' script. She understands only contemporary Numanese and its common writing and the western Sumanese dialect. But at a glance she can recall the pattern of half a page of strokes of any kind and render a clean copy. What she can read she recalls with accuracy, but that does not include the Begaine syllabary."

Unfortunate, but it might still be of use, and Rodian turned down a connected side path.

"Imaret obviously has a mixed heritage. I take it her parents paid for her apprenticeship."

This time it was Pawl a'Seatt who stared intently. "I fail to see what this has to do with your investigation."

"Imaret is a witness," Rodian countered, "though after the fact. I need basic information on all involved."

Pawl a'Seatt's eyes remained fixed and steady.

"Her father was a sergeant in the regulars, now retired. Her mother was an apothecary in Samau'a Gaulb, the capital of il'Dha'ab Najuum, one of the nations of the Suman Empire. They offered tuition, but it was not necessary."

Rodian stopped scribbling in his journal. "Unnecessary? Why?"

"As I said, she is gifted. I pay her adequately for—"

"You are training an apprentice for free?" Rodian asked. "And paying her for her training?"

"Captain," a'Seatt said slowly, "several of my employees are still at my shop, but recent events have left them shaken. If you have no more relevant questions, some of them must be escorted home."

Rodian found this scribe shop owner troubling, one who took on an unusual apprentice without tuition and yet hadn't noticed a missing folio of importance sent off with two young sages. And again he wondered why Pawl a'Seatt had come all the way to the barracks rather than wait at his shop.

"Visits from the city guard are the fodder of rumor," a'Seatt said, as if catching Rodian's suspicion. "I prefer this unfortunate business be kept as far as possible from my staff and shop."

Rodian had heard such excuses before, as if an interview with the captain of the city guard suggested a taint of guilt. Sometimes it did. For now he could think of no further reason to detain this man.

"I regret any gossip," Rodian offered, "but the killer or killers must be caught. If… when… I have further questions, I will try to exercise discretion."

Pawl a'Seatt looked slowly about the office, taking in its scant and orderly fixtures. Rodian thought he saw the man nod slightly to himself.

"Good hunting," a'Seatt said softly, and then rose and left.

Wynn stepped through the guild's main doors with Nikolas close behind. At panicked whispers, she paused and spotted a small cluster of initiates and apprentices in the entryway. Nikolas's eyes widened in like confusion.

Journeyors were scarce at the guild, as most were off on assignments, but neither did Wynn note any domins nearby. After supper initiates were supposed to be in their quarters if not in the common hall.

"What's going on?" she asked.

Two apprentices turned eyes on her. As they shifted aside Wynn saw Miriam, a stocky apprentice with a cloak draped over her gray robe. Another cloaked apprentice shivered beside her as if they'd both just come in from outside.

"Oh, Wynn," Miriam said, as if glad to see someone—anyone—of higher rank. "Domin High-Tower sent us to Master Shilwise's scriptorium to retrieve today's folio… and Master Shilwise wouldn't give it to us! He said the folio was too intricate, and his scribes hadn't finished. He wouldn't turn over unfinished work."

Wynn was stunned. Nothing sent by the guild was ever to remain overnight. That much, if nothing else, was well-known concerning the translation project.

"What about the drafts?" she said.

Miriam shook her head. "He said they would finish first thing in the morning, and he kept the whole folio. He shooed us out and locked up his shop! What is Domin High-Tower

"Yes," Wynn answered wearily. "Now, you two take off your cloaks. Nikolas, take them to the common hall and get some tea."

Without waiting for a reply, she headed off for the north tower.

When she finally climbed the curving stairwell to the third floor and approached High-Tower's study, the heavy door was shut tight. He did this only when he preferred not to be disturbed. Wynn grasped the iron handle anyway.

Muffled voices rose beyond the door.

She didn't want to disturb whatever was going on inside, but if she waited the domin would be even angrier at not being told straight off. She'd barely raised a clenched hand to knock when someone inside half shouted—in Dwarvish.

High-Tower's home was Dhredze Seatt, the dwarven city across the bay on the mountain peninsula. The journey wasn't long, but she'd never known him to have visitors from home before. And whatever she'd heard passed too quickly for her to translate.

Wynn stood in indecision. She couldn't leave, but she shouldn't stay and listen either.

"You will stop!" someone roared from inside—or so Wynn thought. And the voice had a strange quality, like gravel being crushed under a heavy boot.

She read Dwarvish quite well, but their written terms didn't change as much as their spoken words. Unlike Elvish, even the old dialect of the an'Cróan, pronunciation of Dwarvish mutated over generations. Yet the dwarves never faltered in understanding one another. When she was a young girl, Wynn's tutor in the language had been High-Tower. She'd enjoyed attempting conversation with him, much as he smirked at her diction.