Wynn swallowed hard and quickly suppressed rising images of Magiere speaking of Chane's actions within the orb's cavern. He'd used his sword to slice off several of Welstiel's fingers. In the aftermath, Wynn had wanted to believe Chane was trying to help Magiere. She hadn't truly believed it even then, and now…

Disgust must have surfaced in her expression.

"I could not have escaped the castle without it," he said defensively. "You asked, and I told you—far more than you have said concerning your staff and its crystal. I assume you went to great lengths to acquire it—yes?"

Wynn mutely pushed him onward.

They came within yards of the bailey gate, framed by its two small barbicans. It was shut tight, and Wynn flattened against the wall.

She couldn't step out and open it to let Shade through—not in plain sight of the portcullis guards. Shade would have to draw one of them down. Wynn couldn't think how to explain this with memories.

Then Shade ducked around her and headed out.

"What is that animal doing?" Chane hissed.

Shade paused before the gate, looking back, and a memory rose in Wynn's head… her own memory of running the other way along the inner bailey wall.

"Come on," Wynn whispered, and pulled on Chane's arm. "She knows what to do."

When Wynn reached the bailey wall's southern turn, Shade's first barks filled the quiet night. The dog was drawing attention to herself. Hopefully one of the guards would let her back inside.

Chane stalled and looked back along the wall. A strange, wary tension flooded his features at the dog's noise.

Wynn jerked him onward. Creeping around the wall's bend, she watched for city guards in the open road.

"So… what do you have in mind for us?" she asked.

"To scale the wall," he answered, and before she blurted out disbelief, he pointed along the wall's southeastern side. "Get to the corner where that jutting barbican joins the wall."

Wynn looked ahead. A shallow inward corner existed where the bailey wall bulged outward in a wide half-round shape, like a small tower. In older days, when the royals' ancestors lived here, soldiers and archers could've stood atop that open barbican and fired along the wall's outside. Should enemy forces have breached the original outer bailey wall, now broken into remnants, this would be the last line of defense against a direct assault upon the keep.

Wynn scurried along the wall's base and ducked in beside the barbican's outward surge. As Chane joined her, she tilted her head back and peered upward.

The tops of the wall and barbican were beyond the height of a footman's pike, as any sensible fortification should be. She could still hear Shade barking in the distance.

"Now we climb," Chane said, and unshouldered his pack. "You first."

Wynn glowered at him. "No one can climb this."

He withdrew a coil of narrow rope from his pack, but there was no weight or hook on either end. Obviously it was just something he still carried from his travels rather than part of any carefully considered plan. He began making a large loop in one end, and Wynn couldn't believe they were going to try this.

Chane collected rope coils with the loop. He glanced both ways along the road, stepped away from the wall, and flung the gathered rope upward.

The rope uncoiled, but its end barely cleared the barbican's wall through a space between two rising ramparts. Chane huffed in irritation. Wynn didn't know why until he pulled on the rope, and it all came tumbling down. She realized that he was trying to loop one of the ramparts.

"Did you even think this through?" she whispered.

"I do not recall you offering a plan of your own."

She wasn't sure what angered her more—his half-witted scheme, or that she couldn't think of a better one.

Chane crouched against the wall and drew his sword. Before she could berate him again, he pulled off his cloak. He wrapped it around the blade and cinched the material tight by knotting the rope around the sword's midpoint. Wynn watched as Chane flung his muffled makeshift anchor, and then flinched at the dull thump somewhere above.

And that was all she heard.

Wynn straightened, looking off toward the rounding of the wall's southern corner. Shade had stopped barking.

Chane stood with the rope's end in hand and looked off the same way. "Is she in?" he whispered.

"I don't know. Maybe," she answered, and Chane scowled at her. "I think she needs a line of sight to… Oh, never mind, just hurry up!"

Chane pulled on the rope, and it drew taut this time.

Wynn crept along the barbican curve but didn't make it far enough to peer around. The soft clomp of boots on cobblestone carried along the street. She quickly sidled back along the wall, waved at Chane, and jabbed a finger back the other way.

Chane glanced once and couched low. He hooked a thumb in the air over his shoulder, pointing toward his own back. Wynn went wide-eyed and glanced up the wall.

Get on… now! he mouthed.

It was one thing to be caught breaking curfew. It was entirely another to be found breaking in by the city guard.

Wynn gave Chane a scathing look, but she climbed upon him, trying to grip his shoulder with her right hand. She placed her staff crosswise between her chest and his back, and then wrapped her arms around his neck. Chane lurched to his feet, hoisting her off the ground.

With one boot braced against the wall stones, he pulled hard on the rope.

Wynn lost track of footfalls on the road as Chane hauled both of them up the wall as quickly as if he were walking on flat ground. He stopped just before a space between two barbican ramparts and whispered, "Climb over."

Wynn pulled one arm from his neck and grabbed her staff. She slid it over the wall's top, and then felt Chane's hand cup under her left foot. That he managed to hold them both up with his one-handed grip surprised her. She quickly clambered over him through the rampart's space.

His cloak-wrapped sword was anchored across the opening, but when she turned back to help him, he was already up. He pushed her down, crouched beside her, and began hauling up the rope as fast as he could.

Wynn heard the footsteps again.

They came from right below in the street as the rope's trailing end flopped onto the barbican's platform. She and Chane remained still, waiting for the steps to pass by.

Then silence—the footfalls stopped altogether.

Wynn's stomach knotted.

It was far too long before the footfalls resumed, moving onward until they grew faint somewhere off toward the bailey wall's southern corner. Chane rose just enough to peer through the rampart space. He nodded to her.

Wynn glanced down at his sword. "You need to do something about that. Sages do not carry such weapons."

He nodded. "I will hide it better once we are inside."

Wynn wanted to kick herself. No matter what Chane did, he would never pass for a sage. And even without current circumstances, visitors weren't commonly allowed after dusk. What would anyone say or do if they caught her sneaking an unknown man into the guild grounds? Especially one so burned.

Wynn frowned. They wouldn't say anything at first, because they'd be wondering how she'd sneaked out.

She led the way along the wall's ramparts and kept glancing up. But she never saw even a flicker of light in any of the tower windows.

When they reached the library on the northeastern side, Chane boosted her by one foot. She peeked through the nearest window, but by the light of wall-mounted cold lamps she saw no one along the nearest shelves facing the windows. When they climbed inside, Wynn peered around the casement's end. The next row and the cubby beyond it were empty as well. When she turned back for Chane, she found him scanning the texts upon the shelves.