The Tower of the Twelve was a pyramidal fortress of smoke-gray stone floating high above the tree-lined colonnade of the park. Magic coruscated silently along the underside of its massive base. Elemental airships landed or disembarked along the docking platforms that jutted from several of the thirteen tiers. It seemed a place far removed from the natural order of the world, and why shouldn’t it? The Tower housed the collective efforts of centuries of arcane study.
As they rose into the air she looked down at the Tower’s great shadow which shrouded the park. She gripped the Vadalis rider more tightly around the waist, and despite the cold, she enjoyed the purifying sensation of the wind through her hair. The last day had seen an excess of blood and some dizzying revelations-plausible criminals, a paradoxical priest, and a tinkering lizard. What did the next day hide?
Soneste’s black-coated pegasus landed on the Tower’s lowest dock as gently as a stag upon the forest floor.
“Thank you,” she said to the rider, dismounted, and waited for Jotrem to climb down from the gray-feathered mare.
Four guards met them with ready weapons and polite words. Resplendent in lavender tabards and shining chain shirts, the guards wore the chimera insignia of House Deneith and rune-carved helms. Soneste guessed them to be duskblades of the Defenders Guild, warriors who wedded martial skill with arcane magic.
She displayed her papers and the Civic Minister’s writ even as one of the men probed them with a spell of divination. Soneste hoped her association with House Tharashk would help.
“You will be granted admission,” one of the duskblades said after reading the documents in their entirety, “but only a minister of the Twelve can expedite your request. You will have to wait.”
“Thank you. That will be fine.” Soneste had expected this. “Please just remind your superiors of the time sensitivity of the matter.”
A pair of tall and aureate metal doors swung open at the guards’ command. Soneste hesitated, excited. Some of Khorvaire’s most impressive magical advances had been conceived within this institution: the speaking stones of House Sivis, the lightning rail of House Orien, and even the warforged were allegedly first devised in the Cannith workshops. Soneste smiled, imagining the look on Thuranne’s face when she told her about her visit to the famous Tower. Few people without strong dragonmarked affiliation were allowed inside.
A cool wash of power flowed across her body as she stepped over the threshold. She guessed it to be a thorough analysis of all magical and psychic trappings on her person. She could sense even the Riedran crysteel of her dagger register under its scrutiny, no doubt observed by an unseen wizard. Could it read her mental talents?
After Jotrem had stepped through the threshold, two robed arcanist approached from within. “Excuse me, sir,” one of the young men said, “We need to speak with you alone.”
Soneste turned. “What’s wrong?”
Jotrem’s face flushed, but he didn’t look surprised. “It’s all right. This will only take a moment. I will join you within.” The older inquisitive steered the arcanist out of earshot, perhaps too hastily.
The other arcanist beckoned for Soneste to follow.
The prodigious hall served as both waiting room and museum gallery. It was furnished with elegant chairs and tables neatly arrayed with game pieces, while bookshelves and statue-adorned alcoves formed the wide perimeter. Large stone models of the Twelve Moons floated smoothly overhead along unseen currents. A handful of other visitors idled across the chamber.
Soneste studied a series of plaques upon one wall. One vaunted prestigious students, while another, smaller plaque displayed the names of blacklisted students-even the Twelve had its outcasts, she mused. She scrutinized the latter, comparing the list against her considerable roster of memorized names should any prove of use for the future.
She turned at the sound of approaching steps. Jotrem offered his customary frown, but there was something else in his eyes, a cunning she hadn’t noticed before.
“What was that about?” she asked. “What are you carrying that they found of interest?”
Jotrem lifted up his right hand, displaying the opal ring of the Order of Rekkenmark. “It was this,” he said without even looking back at her. “When I retired from active service, I paid for an enchantment to be placed upon it. The effect shields my body from certain spells often used against inquisitives in Karrnath, but the magic is technically … necromantic in nature. I suppose that makes it suspect, so I was questioned about it.”
“Ah.” Soneste settled herself in one of the richly upholstered chairs, staring into the orrery above. Necromancy? Magic involving the dead questioned in Karrnath, of all places? She didn’t buy it. Jotrem was lying to her.
As they waited, Soneste kept an eye on the older inquisitive. What did he have to hide? Her thoughts turned to Tallis. She had allied herself with a wanted criminal, risking far more than her investigation in doing so, and he was trusting her to keep her word.
Before Soneste had left Verdax’s shop, she’d demanded that he get some sleep. With Olladra’s favor, what she learned here would point her to the assassin’s lair. Tallis needed to be rested for whatever came next. She didn’t know yet if the next phase of the plan would involve the Justice Ministry or not. Either way, they had agreed to rendezvous in Wollvern Park.
“Miss Soneste Otänsin?”
A woman’s voice rolled across the hall, buoyed by some minor enchantment, stirring her from her thoughts. Jotrem had remained standing and approached the speaker without hesitation.
Soneste leapt to her feet and joined him at an open doorway at the far side of the hall where a woman only sleightly older than she waited. She wore a red and gold academician’s tunic and a pair of spectacles that enlarged her inquiring eyes. The crooked shape of the Mark of Finding extended from the woman’s hairline and framed one eye.
“Miss Otänsin? I am Lady Erice d’Tharashk, savant wizard in service of the Committee of the Twelve. I have been asked to assist you in identification of a piece of evidence?”
Soneste introduced herself and Jotrem. Erice led them on a winding path through a network of corridors lit by the most elaborate cold fire lanterns Soneste had ever seen. A gray cat emerged from the shadows of a doorway and slinked purposefully behind them. A familiar, Soneste mused.
As they walked, Lady Erice spoke. “I admit, I was surprised your request had come to my house. Most identifications are brought straight to the Canniths for obvious reasons.”
Soneste had deliberately avoided inquiring with House Cannith. There was too much uncertainty surrounding the House of Making as far as she was concerned. She wanted a fresh perspective.
“My agency in Sharn has ties to House Tharashk,” Soneste replied with an innocent smile. Erice’s accent suggested she had not been raised in Karrnath. Soneste would use that. “My employer, Thuranne, is of the Velderan family of Tharashk. I thought some familiarity was in order.”
Soneste inclined her head at Jotrem, who walked behind. “You see, Karrnathi hospitality has me homesick.”
The women giggled. Jotrem offered an uncharacteristic half smile. Did a sense of humor lurk somewhere within that cold stone body?
The savant soon led them into a small laboratory several levels up where Tharashk maintained its research facilities and classrooms. When Erice had shut the door behind them, she gestured to an empty table. “You are carrying out an investigation, aren’t you, Miss Otänsin? Does this relate to the Brelish ambassador?”
Soneste pulled the cloth-wrapped bundle from her haversack. “I’m sorry,” she answered genuinely, thinking of Jotrem whose eyes were ever upon her. “I’m afraid I can’t speak freely about the nature of the case. In fact, your objective examination of this evidence would be especially useful.”