There ahead of him was another high-mounted cold lamp, its crystal glimmering dimly above the library’s central double doors.
When the window’s latch slipped up on the tip of Leesil’s blade, he pushed it open and crawled through into a narrow path. He landed on the floor beside a wall of bookcases facing the window.
Brot’an immediately climbed up and followed him in.
“A library,” Brot’an whispered, looking over the shelves and then up.
Leesil gazed along the wall of books and bound sheaves and saw that the casements didn’t reach the ceiling. He froze when he looked to their tops. He saw what had pulled Brot’an’s attention.
Light from somewhere beyond the shelves shone upon the ceiling beams. Though it was very late, someone else was in here.
Leesil had hoped to find himself in an upper storage area or even an empty room. He hadn’t thought of a library on the third floor of a building. He’d never imagined they would enter a place frequented by someone too obsessed with scholarly notions to just go to bed ... like a normal person.
Then again, he should’ve anticipated this. The whole small castle was filled with sages. How many times on the road had he and Magiere gone to sleep while Wynn sat up by a campfire, scribbling in one of her journals? Here he was, creeping in on some unsuspecting sage like a thief in the night, and, worse, with an oversized assassin behind him.
Leesil took a long breath and motioned to Brot’an as he crept along the shelves toward the left end wall.
Chap and Leanâlhâm had explained exactly where they’d seen Wynn, and once Leesil reached the center courtyard, he’d know where to go. But first he had to search for a way through to that courtyard, and he only knew the general direction in which it lay.
Exactly what was he supposed to do, amid trying to find the stairs out of here, if he ran into some old bookworm hunched over an even older tome?
Leesil reached the end of the casements, where a path led along the library’s southward wall. He peeked around the end, and halfway along the sidewall he spotted a set of downward stairs beyond more rows of shelves. A pot-metal lamp was mounted right above the stairwell.
A sage’s cold-lamp crystal glowed softly within the lamp’s glass.
Leesil couldn’t help but curse under his breath as his anxiety broke. Some addle-brained sage had simply left a light on. With a sigh, he waved Brot’an onward and led the way, checking each row of shelves or open spaces as he headed for the stairs.
Rodian waited impatiently as the last of the wagon’s cargo was unloaded. He wondered again why these supplies arrived in the night. Food stores might be delivered so late if the sages were preparing some special meal for the next day. The notion struck him as eccentric, but it was a possible explanation, if not for the contents of this wagon.
Lashed-up piles of canvas, clinking casks of metal, and coils of rope would make no decent meal. None of this had anything to do with stocking a populated keep no longer used for military purposes. Except for a few closed crates, most of it looked like gear for a large expedition afield—without any perceivable armaments.
How was all this being paid for, and to what purpose?
Rodian knew nothing of the sages’ finances, but they had to be operating on limited accounts. Yes, they had their services among the people, running public schools in some districts and working with local trade and craft guilds. Most of that was likely financed by stipends from the kingdom’s treasury. What little profit they were allowed to take in wouldn’t be enough to cover all that he’d seen in a few nights. And how long had these wagons been coming in before that?
Either the Premin Council had built up funding beyond expectation, or someone outside these walls had a vested interest in whatever the sages were up to. Once again, Rodian saw the hand of Malourné’s royal family at work when no one was watching. But to what purpose?
Once unloading was finished, the four metaologers disappeared inside as the fifth pulled the upper bay doors closed. The driver, who, like his companion, had not stepped off, turned the wagon, clucked to his horses, and headed back toward the gatehouse tunnel.
The driver was certainly tall, even sitting down. Rodian hadn’t noticed how tall until now. Something about the short one on the bench—something familiar—bothered him, but he couldn’t quite place it. He took a step as the wagon entered the tunnel.
Intuition told him to get a better look at these two silent wagon handlers. Then he glanced toward the dormitory barracks. It was even later now, and he still wanted a word with Wynn while all the other sages remained out of the way. That task was more pressing.
Turning, Rodian headed straight for the barracks door.
Peeking through the cracked barracks door, Wynn sucked a breath that actually squeaked in her throat, and she pulled the door shut.
“What?” Ore-Locks whispered in alarm. “What did you—”
Wynn clamped her hand over his mouth.
“Rodian!” she whispered. “He’s coming straight toward us!”
Ore-Locks’s eyes widened until the whites showed all around his black-pellet irises. He grabbed Wynn’s hand, turned about, and then faltered. He appeared caught in indecision, looking at the stairs leading back up and the dark passage beside them.
“Not the stairs,” Wynn whispered. “We’ll get trapped up there.”
The passage led through the keep wall to the initiates’ barracks built long ago in the bailey. Ore-Locks immediately took off that way. They’d nearly reached the dim light of a cold lamp at the far end when Wynn’s panic cleared in a realization.
If Rodian went to her room and found her gone, with the guard unconscious, things would quickly get much worse. He’d sound the alarm, and Chane would be in even more danger. But if she got to her room and blocked the captain from entering so late at night, she could play dumb about the missing guard. While Rodian left to find that irresponsible guard, she could try to get out again.
Wynn pulled back hard, but Ore-Locks dragged her along like a stubborn puppy.
“Ore-Locks, stop!”
He wouldn’t, so she had to smack him across the back. He turned on her with a glower.
She whispered harshly, “I need to get back to—”
The latch on the courtyard door clicked, echoing down the passage. They both froze in the dark as the door began to crack open.
Wynn shoved Ore-Locks, though it didn’t budge him a bit. Backing up, she flattened against the passage’s wall and frantically waved him off, pointing at the other wall. He appeared to understand, though he hesitated, looking at her and then the door.
Hinges creaked as the door began to swing inward.
Ore-Locks grimaced as he turned and fled through—into—the passage wall’s stone.
Wynn had no idea how to explain being found outside her room, but the repercussions would be worse if Ore-Locks was found with her. She crouched, out of the line of sight, and lay down to roll in against the passage wall’s base.
It was a desperate, silly notion for hiding.
Rodian had begun pushing open the barracks door when a loud bang startled him. He turned, his hand reflexively dropping to his sword hilt. What he saw left him in more than mild surprise.
Premin Hawes burst from the center door of the northwest building, where only moments before the other sages had entered after unloading the wagon. She bolted for the keep’s main doors, not even glancing Rodian’s way.
For a moment, he was so stunned that he didn’t move. The premin of metaology crossed the courtyard in full flight, the skirt of her midnight blue robe flapping around her narrow, booted feet. He couldn’t remember ever seeing Hawes in such a state, and perhaps no one ever had.