Chane frowned. This was not the safest method for communication, but he could think of nothing better.
“Can you carry an answer to her without detection?”
Nikolas nodded.
Even amid Chane’s suffering, he felt an unexpected—unwanted—twinge of gratitude. The young man must be braver than he looked.
Chane tore Wynn’s note into tiny pieces and shoved the remains into his own pack for later disposal. He pulled out a small writing charcoal and a journal with notes he had taken on the Begaine syllabary. Since almost no one here wrote or spoke Belaskian, he thought that Nikolas might be asked no questions if he was caught carrying a note simply written in Begaine, the compressed syllabic symbols of the sages. Even so, Chane’s grasp of the syllabary was a work in progress with a long way to go.
It took him a while to stroke the symbols for words in his own language, acknowledging Wynn’s instructions—and without using her name. Once he finished and folded the note, he rose from the floor and then hesitated in studying Nikolas Columsarn.
“What excuse did you give when you left the grounds?” he asked.
“An errand to the Upright Quill.”
Chane winced. He had had a few dealings with “Master” Pawl a’Seatt of that private scriptorium. It was doubtful anyone besides him—and Wynn and Shade—knew the man was an undead. Even Wynn was doubtful after having seen a’Seatt visit the guild in daylight.
What if someone later asked at the scriptorium about Nikolas’s “errand,” only to find the young man had not been seen there? When Chane said as much, Nikolas shook his head.
“There actually is something I can pick up,” he said, “so I won’t look suspicious when I return.”
Chane did not like the idea of any sage getting near Pawl a’Seatt, especially while carrying a note to Wynn. But he could not accompany Nikolas unless he covered himself fully, including with that mask and the glasses. That would only attract attention, even if he could last long enough to finish the escort.
Pawl a’Seatt hated other undead. The only way Chane had gotten clear of the strangely potent man had been by Wynn promising to remove Chane from this city. But Chane would never let a sage go into danger, especially not one that Wynn had asked him to protect.
He glanced at Shade and then back at Nikolas.
“Wait a moment,” he said, closing the door.
Chane crouched before Shade, held up his left hand, and touched the brass ring that he wore to warn her. Then he slipped off the ring. The whole room appeared to shimmer like heat on a summer plain, and then his senses sharpened without the ring’s influence on him.
“Shade,” he said, cocking his head toward the door. “Go and protect that sage, but try not to be seen by ...”
He was at a loss, uncertain if Shade would know Pawl a’Seatt by name. Instead, he closed his eyes and focused on the night when they had assaulted Sau’ilahk, the wraith, outside the Upright Quill. Chane had had to flee into the shop when Wynn had ignited the sun-crystal staff. Therein they had all been taken by surprise, finding Pawl a’Seatt in hiding, watching everything that had transpired in the street.
A’Seatt had seen Shade with Wynn, and Chane did not want him associating Nikolas with Wynn—not while Nikolas was acting as go-between. The young man hardly seemed capable of defending himself.
As Chane opened his eyes, Shade growled softly.
“You understand?” he asked.
She huffed once.
“When you get Nikolas back to the guild, return here. Lose anyone who might follow you. I will be waiting to open the back door.”
She huffed again, and Chane surprised himself by saying, “Good girl.”
He slipped the ring back on, then put on his gloves and cloak, pulling the cloak’s hood forward to shadow his face. As he opened the door, Shade rushed past him toward the stairs, startling Nikolas.
Taking in the sight of Chane’s cloak, Nikolas’s expression shifted to alarm.
“You can’t come with me,” he warned. “I heard what happened last night, and if Captain Rodian sees you, he’ll—”
“I am not coming with you,” Chane interrupted, handing Nikolas the note and motioning the sage down the stairs.
Confused, Nikolas led the way. When they reached the bottom, Chane held the young man back, pointing to where Shade waited down the short passage to the back door.
“She is going with you,” Chane said, “and do not argue with me. She will protect you and see you safely back to the guild.”
Nikolas blinked. “Oh.”
“Go out the front door,” Chane instructed. “Head halfway down the street and wait for her to join you.”
Nikolas blinked again but obeyed, turning to leave.
Chane immediately headed the other way. Reaching the back door, he checked his hood and averted his face.
“I will be waiting.”
Bracing himself, he shoved open the door. Even under his cloak, he felt his skin tingle and sting. Shade bolted out, and he jerked the door shut, after which he slid slowly down the wall to sit on the passage floor. A thin crack of light seeped in from beneath the back door.
Chane inched a little farther up the passage. There was nothing more he could do for Wynn besides sit here and wait.
Chapter 10
PAWL A’SEATT DIDN’T often go to his shop during the day. Uncomfortable as sunlight was, this was not the reason. In truth, his ability to walk in daylight remained a mystery to him.
He understood why the undead chose populated places in which to settle and hunt; he had done so, as well. Unlike them, a thriving city fed him to a degree, merely by his presence among so many. Though hunting was no longer a necessity for him, unlike other undeads, the longer he remained in close proximity to the living, the weaker and more listless they became.
In his earliest days—or, rather, nights—it had not been so. He’d once had to feed and exist only in the darkness.
He never discovered what had changed for him. It had happened gradually, over hundreds of years, though he did not always consider it a blessing. He now had to take great care in monitoring how much time he lingered in close company with others—especially the few people with which he interacted regularly. There were times when necessity, need, desire, or something else dictated otherwise.
Today, he had already made his habitual dawn visit to open the shop. When he entered a second time for this morning, this time through the back door, his late reappearance caused an immediate stir in the workroom. Perhaps his employees interpreted this as a harbinger of reprimand for not completing Premin Renäld’s contracted project the day before.
Gangly and bony, Tavishaw took several furtive glances over the slanted top of his scribing desk, the rhythm of his scripting breaking each time like a stutter in the scratching upon the paper.
Even old Teagan glowered openly at being disturbed while inspecting Tavishaw’s work. The scribe master was accustomed to running things his way during the days. Scrawny, shriveled, and half-bald, he peered at Pawl through round, thick-lensed glasses. His amplified pupils above his extended nose gave him the look of a gaunt hound spotting another canine sniffing about his yard.
And Liam began working so hastily that Pawl feared for the quality of the script.
Only Imaret appeared untroubled. Her pace never altered. She rarely even glanced at the content reference sheet beside her, as if the page was already imprinted in her young mind. Hers was a rare gift or talent possessed by only one other person Pawl had ever met. She quietly and efficiently scribed the index for the transcribed copy of the journeyor’s journal submitted by Premin Renäld.