A Whymer Maze to be sure.

Even I wait for answers, he realized.

Rudolfo thought of his formidable betrothed, who also waited for answers, no doubt outside the room and angry that she’d not been permitted to enter.

He thought of the child she carried, his son-Jakob, named for Rudolfo’s father. It was a sudden and unexpected gift that Jin Li Tam had brought to the middle of his road, in the shadow of war, at the time of Rudolfo’s greatest unrest. She’d told him the night he returned from confronting her father. Vlad Li Tam’s confession was still playing itself out behind his eyes when she had joined him in his dead brother’s room and shared her news.

Earlier tonight, he’d thought perhaps they were making the world and that the knives he passed forward to his son must be sharp and balanced for him to continue that work.

But perhaps, Rudolfo realized, the world was making them. And perhaps the blades best be sharp and balanced so that Jakob-and the Ninefold Forest Houses-could survive that making.

Petronus

Fear, Petronus thought, is a powerful thing. It gripped him now, squeezing his chest and turning his stomach to water.

He squinted into the dimly lit room in the direction of the voice, gripping the fishing knife tightly in his hand. Shadows from the guttering fire danced in his one-room shack. His mouth was dry, but he spoke around it.

“Who are you to punish me for P’Andro Whym’s sins?” he asked. “Who are you to declare my kin-clave with him?”

“Who I am is unimportant.” This time, the voice came from a different corner of the room. “You are Petronus, King of Windwir and Holy See of the Androfrancine Order.”

Petronus sneered. “Windwir and the Order are no more. My question stands. Who are you?”

The voice moved again, and when it spoke, it did not answer Petronus’s question. “Put down your knife, old man. You can’t stand against me.”

Petronus knew it was true. He was in no shape to face down a magicked assailant. Those earth powders of the Old World, when ingested, rendered a man stronger, faster, quieter in addition to bending the light around him and making him all but impossible to see in bright daylight. Here, in a shadowed room, Petronus would be dead before he saw the faintest trace of his attacker.

But why hasn’t he simply killed me? Petronus swallowed. “I may not be able to stand against you,” he said, “but I’ll still take what flesh I can.”

The low voice chuckled. “My master sent a squad for the others. He sent me alone for you because you are old and alone.” There was a rush of wind, a strangely sweet odor, and Petronus felt fire on his cheek as cold, sharp iron drew a line of blood. He lunged forward with his own blade but found nothing. Another chuckle. “I can cut you all night, Last Son.”

Because you are old and alone. The words settled in. “Last Son?”

The wind rushed again. This time, the knife slid through the sleeve of Petronus’s nightshirt to draw a long, shallow gash down the length of his left upper arm. Wincing, Petronus swiped at the air with his blade again. He gritted his teeth against the pain. “Are you here to kill me or to hurt me?”

“Both,” the voice whispered.

In that moment, the door and windows of his shack burst inward. Glass and splinters showered the room as a hurricane swept in from the windless night outside. He heard the sudden, muffled sound of boots on wood and heavy breathing from at least three points around the room. The attacker cried out, and Petronus braced himself; but this time, when the wind surged toward him a wall met it and the magicked blades made a muffled clinking noise as they clashed. A single eye, bloodstained and blue, appeared near Petronus’s own eye. “Stay out of the way,” a new voice said. “Leave us to our work.” Then, the storm continued as something heavy hurled across the room to fall into his wooden chair and collapse it beneath the weight.

The voice was familiar to him. A voice from long ago that he could not place. Petronus pushed himself back into the corner, where his cot met the wall, still holding the knife out ahead of him though he knew it was a useless gesture. He watched the wind sweep his room, breaking furniture, scattering papers, shattering dishes as it went. It was impossible to know how many were in the shack now, but he heard the muffled grunts and cries of at least five men amid the magick-dulled clank of steel. Twice, he heard heavy bodies falling to the floor, and once he heard the hushed fluid whistle of a punctured lung. The fight seemed to last for an hour, though Petronus knew it could only be minutes.

The fire sparked and went out as something fell into it and the room went dark. The scuffling continued, then suddenly stopped.

Petronus heard scrambling and hushed whispers. He thought he heard the words “Both dead.”

The new voice was near him now when it spoke next. “Where is your constable?”

Petronus blinked, not sure he was truly being addressed until the voice asked again, this time louder. “Third house down from the inn,” he finally said. When he spoke, his voice shook.

“Balthus, quietly borrow the good man’s manacles.”

They’ve taken him alive. “I have rope in the boathouse,” Petronus offered.

“Rope won’t hold him. Not until his magicks wear off. And I don’t know how long the kallacaine will keep him down.” The familiarity of the voice nagged Petronus. He’d heard it long ago, but he’d also heard it more recently. He added it to what he already knew. They were magicked, and they were versed in pharmaceuticals. There were six of them, but two were now dead. And he knew their leader from somewhere.

“Let me see your arm,” the voice said.

A spark flared, and the lantern glowed to life. The room was a shambles of papers, broken glass and pottery, overturned furniture. His front door was down and his three windows were out.

Petronus extended his arm, feeling the sting of the cut. “It’s not bad,” he said. He felt fingers gently pushing back the bloody sleeve and opened his mouth to ask who exactly his rescuer was when the realization struck him like a trout strikes a line. Grymlis.

Petronus didn’t realize he’d said it aloud until he heard the old soldier’s grunt. “Yes, Father.”

He still calls me by my title. The last time he’d seen the Gray Guard captain, he’d sent him and his soldiers away. With Rudolfo’s Gypsy Scouts to protect the new library there’d been no role for the scattered leftovers of the Androfrancine army.

Once, years ago, Grymlis had been the captain who carried out one of Petronus’s darker orders. The Marshers had attacked the Order’s protectorate and ransacked a convoy; Petronus had sent the Gray Guard up into their lands to burn out a village as reprisal. They’d left the dead unburied, adding grievous insult to their message, and the young Pope had ordered that weathered captain to show him the village so that he would understand fully what he’d done.

Not long after, Petronus had left the Order and Grymlis had gone on to serve Introspect, and for a time, Sethbert’s puppet, Pope Resolute.

“The last time I saw you,” Petronus said, “you were burying your uniform in the Ninefold Forest.”

Grymlis chuckled. “Aye, Father.” He was cleaning and dressing the wound now, his face close enough that Petronus could see its dim outline in the lantern light.

A question chewed at him. Dozens did, Petronus realized, but he pushed them aside and ordered them as best he could. “How did you know to be here tonight?”

“I’ve had two men on shifts in Caldus Bay since the week you returned from the Forest,” Grymlis said.

Magicked this entire time, Petronus thought. There was a clatter in the doorway and soft footfalls as Balthus returned with the manacles. “Chain him in the boathouse,” Grymlis said, “and gag him.” The old soldier finished bandaging Petronus’s arm and then stood. “When you’re finished, load Marco and Tyrn into the boat and cover them. We’ll bury them in the bay.”