Eleven had left together, but someone else had shadowed them. Even along the way, after the second death and before they knew for certain, Dänvârfij could not bring herself to believe it. Only on the night when she had seen his unmistakable, immense shadow with her own eyes did she acknowledge the truth.
Eight had reached this city, and now seven remained. The traitorous Brot’ân’duivé had been picking them off one by one, across half the world. A greimasg’äh, a master among them, was killing his own.
There had been no deaths among them since a moon before they reached Calm Seatt. Dänvârfij had hoped they had lost Brot’ân’duivé. It had been a very desperate hope.
She glanced at Rhysís. He appeared oblivious of his head wound as he met her gaze. Of all she had selected with Fréthfâre, she knew him best and had never seen him openly angry before. He was slender and thin-lipped, always wore his hair loose; it was now matted on his forehead with his own blood. His eyes smoldered in his silence. Rhysís had liked Wy’lanvi, the youngest of their team, and had often played “elder brother” when the need arose.
Dänvârfij took a step back, but he moved closer, looking into her face as he whispered, “In silence and in shadows.”
She did not need his words, the creed of their caste, to remind her of their purpose. The mission was all that mattered. Their targets were here in the city. Though only six of her remaining team were still able—as Fréthfâre was not—that would be enough.
“Let me see to your head wound,” she said. “Fréthfâre, will you tend Tavithê’s shoulder? Én’nish, how bad is your arm?”
Én’nish was not listening, and began pacing, exhaling hissing breaths.
“I had him,” she spat. “I had my wire around his throat.”
“Brot’ân’duivé?” Fréthfâre asked in surprise.
Dänvârfij almost scoffed at such a notion. “Léshil,” she guessed out loud, watching Én’nish with growing concern.
Vengeance was like a disease, and Brot’ân’duivé was the carrier that kept spreading it among them. Dänvârfij looked warily upon Rhysís again.
“That is not all,” he said quietly. “He was not alone. An archer on the rooftops hit Én’nish and then fired at Owain.”
Dänvârfij grew cold and shook her head. “No ... besides Brot’ân’duivé, who would fire on their own caste?”
No one answered her, but Rhysís would not have said it unless he was certain. Dänvârfij took a clearer look at Én’nish’s arm as Fréthfâre unwrapped it.
“Are you disabled?” she asked.
“No, it was only through the skin. Eywodan broke and pulled the arrow easily.”
“Did you double back to follow their escape?” Dänvârfij asked.
Rhysís glanced away, and even Én’nish remained silent. Tavithê settled in a chair to suffer Fréthfâre’s ministrations and shook his head.
“We could not,” he said bluntly. “With three of us injured and Wy’lanvi missing, our only course was to retreat ... with the majay-hì harrying us. Only Owain turned back, once we lost the majay-hì.”
Dänvârfij nodded. Tavithê had broad shoulders for an elf. His grasp of human languages had never been strong, but he was almost unparalleled in hand-to-hand combat. Dänvârfij could only assume he had been fighting Brot’ân’duivé to take a wound like that.
Tavithê had been correct. Better to regroup and plan rather than to counterstrike blindly in defeat.
“This will have to be sewn up,” Fréthfâre said, peering at Tavithê’s wound.
Tavithê grimaced. He would fight four armed opponents at once but did not care for needles. Dänvârfij decided further questions, ones that Fréthfâre had not seen fit to ask, could wait.
Pieces of the evening were still missing. She needed to learn everything as quickly as possible and reestablish a watch on the guild’s castle. Then it would be time to report to Most Aged Father. All that mattered now was acquiring their targets.
Eywodan, the oldest of the team, had not spoken so far. He kept glancing out the window, perhaps watching for Owain’s return. Something needed to be done, and questions were all Dänvârfij had left, regardless of the wounded.
“Tell me everything, step by step,” she said to Eywodan, “beginning at the Guild of Sagecraft.”
Chane stood on the docks of Beranlômr Bay, watching two sailors near a small, two-masted schooner unloading crates from a wagon. One of them stumbled getting down out of the wagon and then staggered, thumping the crate against the wagon’s tailboard. Clattering and clinks of glass sounded from inside the crate.
“Easy with that!” a third, wide man ordered. “There’s a score of bottles of spiced mead for a thänæ in there. Break ’em, and you’ll be making up the cost for the next season!”
Both sailors flinched, taking greater care as they crept up the plank onto the schooner’s deck.
The mention of a thänæ—an honored one among the dwarves—was fortunate for Chane.
“Are you the captain of this ship?” he asked, approaching the wide-chested man. “And bound for Dhredze Seatt?”
The man looked him up and down.
Chane was well aware that he no longer resembled a well-dressed young nobleman, much as he once had. His boots were too dusty and more worn than even his clothes. He spoke Numanese well, but his accent and maimed voice would always draw some attention.
“And if I am?” the man challenged.
“I am a friend of Shirvêsh Mallet at the temple of Bedzâ’kenge,” Chane explained. “I need a letter to reach him as quickly as possible.”
Chane pulled out his coin pouch and loosened its tie. There were few coins in it, and he was not about to show them until he heard the cost. It should not be much, considering the captain already headed for the needed destination.
The captain’s expression shifted with concern. “Mallet? Is the letter important?”
“Yes.”
The captain held out his hand. “I’ll make sure he receives it, soon as we reach port.”
Chane took a little relief as he tilted the pouch to pour out coins. “How much?”
The captain shook his head. “Mallet’s done me a good turn more than once. Gained me business among the clans of his tribe.”
Chane blinked in hesitation. As the son of a harsh father, a noble in his homeland during his life and later as an undead in hiding, preying on the living, he had been given little in his life that had not cost him in the end. Certainly, rarely, had it ever come from a stranger.
He did not know what to say, at first, but he had no wish to be obliged to anyone.
“I have dwarven slugs of no use to me,” he offered. “Take some.”
The captain shrugged with a half smile. “As you wish.”
Chane counted out three copper slugs with holes in their center, not truly knowing what they were worth. The captain took them along with the folded-up paper, and he looked it over.
“No addressment?” the captain asked, for Chane had not marked the outside wrapping sheet.
“Not necessary,” he answered. “Shirvêsh Mallet will understand.”
“He’ll get by midmorning,” the captain said with a nod, and tromped off up the ramp to his ship.
Indeed, Chane had not addressed the letter, for he could not. Its ultimate destination was not the hands of Shirvêsh Mallet. He needed help, and this was his only method of sending for it, and hopefully Mallet would quickly pass it on to the true recipient.
Chapter 8
PAWL A’SEATT CROSSED the small front room of his scribe shop, the Upright Quill, and locked the door for the night. The space was neat and sparse, with only an old counter across the room’s back and a few wooden display stands supporting open books with ornate examples of the shop’s script work. He flipped the counter’s folding section to step behind it and checked that everything beneath it had been stored away in orderly fashion. Finally, he turned to head through the right door behind the counter and into the workroom.