“Doing fine,” Seren replied. “I feel like I’m back in Wroat. I miss Warden Thomas, though.”
“That’s not what I mean,” Tristam whispered harshly. He tinkered with the lantern, twisting out enough wick to set it alight. “I mean can you find a way out?” He was quiet a moment, reflecting. “Wait. You were on first terms with the Wroat prison warden?”
“Don’t be jealous, Gorbus,” she teased.
“You should relax,” Dalan said. “Be more like Seren. As crises go, this is relatively minor.”
Tristam rolled his eyes at Dalan and returned his attention to the thick metal door. He peered closely at the lock, studying the tumblers inside.
“If anything, we should utilize this opportunity to assess the information we’ve gathered thus far,” Dalan continued. “We need to plan our next move. That was a clever move, Seren, taking those speaker posts.”
“How is poetry going to help us?” Tristam asked. He looked into the lantern’s sputtering light, his expression thoughtful and distant.
“Like all dragonmarked craftsmen, the speakers of House Sivis are proud of their trade,” Dalan said. “Their original posts all bear certain numerical codes, printed discreetly in the corner of the page. These codes verify their authenticity and also indicate their point of origin. For that reason, most spies learn to swiftly copy and destroy their original speaker posts so that they will not be traced to their point of origin. Taria Marcho, it seems, would make a poor spy.”
Tristam looked up at Dalan. “You mean that we can use Devyn’s letters to his mother to find out where he’s been?” he asked.
“Possibly,” Dalan said. “As Marth’s helmsman, most of those points of origin would mean little. Presumably he spent a great deal of time flying the Seventh Moon. But if we can discern a recurring location we can perhaps determine where Marth is stationing his soldiers. Zed can decipher the codes when we return to Karia Naille, and from there we can determine where to go next.”
Tristam fell silent, staring into the lantern again. He turned and sat with his back against the door. “No,” he said.
“No?” Dalan asked archly. “You have a better suggestion?”
“It all makes sense now,” he said. “I know how Ashrem did it.”
“Did what?” Dalan asked. “What are you talking about?”
Tristam looked up at Dalan, eyes intense. “I know how he carried the Dragon’s Eye out of Zul’nadn. How do you carry fire, Dalan?”
“Enlighten me,” Dalan said.
Tristam held up the gleaming lantern.
Dalan looked confused. “Ashrem put an elemental manifest zone in a lantern?”
“So to speak,” Tristam said. “I think he used Dying Sun’s elemental containment housing. Airship cores are already enchanted to prevent elementals from returning to their home plane. Why couldn’t one be modified to do the same thing to part of the Dragon’s Eye? He used the heart of his own ship to fuel the Legacy.”
“Incredible,” Dalan said. “Are you certain this is even possible, Tristam?”
“I can’t think of any other way he could have done it,” Tristam said. He pondered silently for a long moment before speaking again. “There’s only one way to be sure. We need to find the Dying Sun. If her elemental core has survived, we have to destroy it. Otherwise Marth might find use it to stabilize his Legacy.”
“Impossible,” Dalan said. “Dying Sun crashed in the Mournland. She could be anywhere. We could search for a lifetime and never find her.”
“But we already know where she is,” Tristam said. “Ashrem was headed for Metrol, the Cyran capital. He took Kiris Overwood with him. Obviously the Sun caught up with him before the Day of Mourning began, because Marth rescued Kiris and flew back out in Dalan’s ship. Dying Sun has to be in Metrol.”
“Hardly a comforting distinction, Tristam,” Dalan said. “Do you realize how large a city Metrol was?”
“We have to start somewhere,” Tristam said.
The sound of a heavy thump from the end of the hall ended the conversation. It was the sound of a body hitting a stone floor.
“Zed?” he called out. “Ijaac? Omax, is that you?”
There was no reply. As he stared into the door’s lock, he imagined he saw the tumblers slowly move. A heavy tick echoed inside the mechanism. Tristam jumped as the door creaked slowly open. A thin figure darted into the room and threw Tristam back against the wall, forcing him to gasp in surprise. Shaimin d’Thuranni’s cold blue eyes stared into Tristam’s. The artificer felt a chill of metal as a thin blade pressed against his throat.
“Shaimin, don’t do this now,” Dalan said urgently. “There is more at stake here than your reputation. We need Tristam.”
“There is nothing of greater significance, d’Cannith,” Shaimin said, though he stayed his hand. “If you can give me a reason to spare the boy’s life, speak quickly.”
A metal click from behind drew the elf’s attention. He cocked one eyebrow and peered over his shoulder. Seren stood in the doorway, aiming a guardsman’s crossbow at the assassin’s back.
“Drop the knife,” she said.
“That seems reason enough,” Dalan said.
Shaimin looked back at her with a crooked smile.
“Thuranni,” Dalan whispered. “Don’t. Some things are more important than pride. I know you already have your doubts.”
“You cannot manipulate me, Dalan,” the elf said. He held his knife steady, his eyes locked on Seren’s.
“Then consider this reality,” Dalan said. “Kill Tristam first and Seren will bury a bolt in your heart. Kill Seren first and you will give Tristam a chance to call upon his magic, surrendering your advantage of surprise. How will your reputation fare when your family learns that you died at the hands of one of these children? Put your knife down.”
“As you say,” Shaimin said, still smiling at Seren. He let the knife fall to the floor and stepped away, hands spread loosely to his sides, as if beckoning the girl to shoot him. “I did not expect to find Xain here anyway. The opportunity will come again.”
Seren’s face darkened. Her finger tightened around the trigger. Shaimin’s eyes gleamed.
“Seren, don’t,” Dalan warned. “Lower the crossbow.”
“Dalan, you know this assassin?” Tristam asked angrily.
“I’m negotiating,” Dalan said. “If Seren does not cease threatening Master d’Thuranni, this negotiation will take a negative turn.”
Seren frowned and lowered the crossbow, setting it gently on the floor.
“Make a right out of this cell and you will find your possessions in a closet at the end of the hall on the left,” Shaimin said. “The guards will not interfere with your escape.”
“Did you kill them?” Seren asked.
“I don’t work for free,” Shaimin said. “Not unless the target intrigues me.” He leered. “They guards are unconscious and will remain so long enough for you to depart and make haste back to your airship.” He reached into the pouch at his belt, drawing out a thin envelope and tossing it into Dalan’s lap. “The information you requested, d’Cannith.” With a florid bow, Shaimin snatched up his dagger, tucked it into his belt, and darted out of the cell. “Another time, Xain.”
Seren looked at Dalan, her face red with anger. Tristam grabbed her arm gently. “Not now, Seren,” he said. “We need to get out of here. Dalan, when we get back to the ship you have a lot of explaining to do.”
“Naturally,” Dalan replied, tucking the envelope into his vest.
The trio rushed out of the cell, stopping long enough to take their gear from the closet and equip themselves again. Tristam ran to the door, warily peering out at the street. A patrol of watchmen were picking their way through the noonday crowd toward the jail, in no particular hurry.
“Be casual,” Seren said, pushing past him and walking out into the street. “None of those guards have seen us before. They don’t know we’re prisoners. Don’t run. Don’t give them a reason to chase.”