Rounding a corner, he slipped in beneath the eaves' shadows as he approached the scriptorium. The entire street was empty—no lights in the shops he passed, and he heard no voices—and he silently cursed himself again. Then he stopped one shop away, looking at the front of the Gild and Ink.

Chane slowly stepped forward to the scribe shop's corner.

All its windows were dark, like the other shops along the street, but the front door…

Shattered wood shards lay across the cobblestones before the Gild and Ink. In place of the door was only a dark opening into the shop. No scribes, no sages, the shop closed for the night, and someone had broken in…

Chane glanced at the door's remains. No, not in—someone had broken out.

He crept closer to see inside, but then voices reached him from down the street. Had someone seen this and called for constables? He could not be seen here, especially not now.

Frustrated, wildly wishing to enter the shop and see what had happened, Chane slipped into the shadows, moving quickly away.

Chapter 5

Rodian woke the next morning to knocking on his chamber door, adjacent to his office.

His needs were few—a bed, a basin to wash in, a mirror for grooming, and a chest for extra clothes. After spending long hours at each day's end filling out reports and updating log entries, he felt it best to have his personal space close at hand. He'd chosen an office with an empty adjoining room to convert for personal space.

Rodian sat up quickly, instantly alert. No one knocked this early but Garrogh, and not without a good reason.

The top drawers on both sides had been shoved outward, their locking mechanisms torn from the desk's front. The deeper bottom drawer on each side was still in place. The right was filled with journals or ledgers, but the left was empty.

He crouched and studied the broken desk, running a finger over the top's outer side, and then he glanced at the exposed edges of the desk's walls. He saw no marks of a pry bar, but he hadn't expected to find any. Whoever had done this had been in a hurry—and had strength to fulfill such urgency.

"What was in the folio?" Rodian demanded.

Master Shilwise's tone changed. "Excuse me?"

"The pages—what did your people copy for the guild?"

Shilwise glanced at his two scribes, who were watching Rodian in equal confusion.

"How would we know that?" one of them asked.

"You were transcribing sages' notes, yes?" Rodian started coldly, and then he calmed. "I take it what they sent was written in their script?"

Shilwise looked at him in surprise. "You know of the Begaine syllabary?"

"Can you read it?" Rodian asked.

Shilwise's face tinged slightly pink. "I fear not. I bought this scriptorium, so my title is master, but it is my business and no more. I hire certified scribes to do the work. I am not… a master scribe myself."

"Like Pawl a'Seatt?"

Shilwise snorted with a scowl, and his pink turned to red.

"I can read a bit of it," said one of the young scribes.

"Shut your mouth!" Shilwise barked, and turned back to Rodian. "If you've spoken with a'Seatt, then you know all scriptoriums working on this project have signed contracts of silence, backed by decree of the royal family. Until you have written court orders to counter that, I won't be caught in a breach. I have a reputation to maintain."

"It wouldn't help anyway," added the young scribe. "It's mostly gibberish."

"What did I just tell you?" Shiheyell youlwise warned.

"Be quiet!" Rodian barked, and pushed past the paunchy shop owner, closing on the scribe. "What do you mean?"

The young man was rather gangly, with oily black locks pushed back from his high forehead. His deep-set eyes flickered once to his employer.

"The syllabary is just a system for recording… syllables… how things are spoken—in any language. It saves space, and hence paper or parchment, versus all the different letter systems for various languages. But what little I can make out, I couldn't make sense of."

"Why?" Rodian asked. "What languages did you encounter?"

"I couldn't even say. Bits of it seemed like Sumanese, but I don't know. And others…" The young scribe just shook his head.

"That's enough," Shilwise warned. "Captain, if you want to know any more, go ask the sages. I've no idea why someone did this to my shop for a folio of nonsense. But if I find out the content was dangerous, my solicitor will file charges with the high advocate… for the guild offering work under false pretenses."

Rodian ignored the shop master's blustering threat and looked about the workroom.

"You're certain nothing else is missing?"

"I'm certain of nothing," Shilwise snapped. "Not until we sift through all of this. But it's the only thing I've noted so far. Now, if you're finished, may we start putting things back in order?"

"No." Rodian waved the scribes aside and pushed through the swinging door. "When my lieutenant finishes questioning your neighbors, he will go over the shop. Do not touch anything until he tells you."

Rodian headed out, his gaze fixed on the empty front door frame.

One massive blow seemed to have smashed out the door, for wood shards lay in a sprayed pattern, suggesting they all fell at the same time. How—and why—would someone who had managed to get inside, ransack the workroom, and steal the folio, then have to break out to escape?

How had the culprit gained entrance?

Perhaps someone had let him in. But then why break out?

This was the second folio to have gone missing in the span of two nights. He still had no information regarding the content of either one. Once again Rodian's only option was the sages.

Ghassan il'Sänke slowed in surprise upon entering the guild's common hall for breakfast.

There was Wynn, sitting between two gray-robed apprentices of her order, eating a bowl of boiled oats.

He knew she preferred to eat in her room, but not this morning. Her left-side companion was a young man the others often called Nervous Nikolas.

Wynn looked up, and her spoon halted halfway to her mouth. She nodded aze. She npolitely to Ghassan. Normally he too preferred to take his repast in his quarters or while working elsewhere. But this uncommon sight, of her willingly out among the populace, piqued his interest.

"Boiled oats again?" he said as he approached. "At my home branch there are honey cakes every morning, in case nothing else seems appealing."

Wynn half smiled, setting down her spoon. "Then how do you stay so thin?"

"Oh, ages of living in near-constant distress," he answered.

She smiled openly at this. "You are hardly that old."

No, Ghassan thought, one would not think so. Nikolas and the other one—Miriam was her name—both stared in fright as he sat down across the table.

"I… I need to get started on cleanup," Miriam stammered, rising quickly to scurry off.

Such a plain-faced, pudgy girl—her eyes were too small for her face. But apparently High-Tower had found something promising in her. The old dwarf once mentioned that he had rarely known such an apprentice who comprehended the syllabary's complex system so easily. But most apprentices grew uncomfortable in Ghassan's presence.

For one, he was an exotic-looking foreigner, taller than normal for his people, and of distinguished elder appearance—or so he liked to think. Second, he was a domin of metaology.

The Order of Metaology in Calm Seatt was smaller and less prominent than in Ghassan's own branch, but still treated with some reserve—as were all the metaologers. In most cases rumors of the order's abilities were exaggerated. The only true work they did in magic was mostly in thaumaturgy via artificing, which included alchemical processes. They were responsible for making cold lamp crystals and other minor items used by the guild.