Miraculously, neither of the windows had been broken or stolen – folk avoided the house, though Mayel did not know why. Shandek insisted it wasn't haunted, and blamed the atmosphere of fear that permeated the district on a rash of recent, unsolved disappearances. Mayel hadn't been quite convinced by that, but the abandoned house was still imposing, even now, so it wouldn't be surprising if it had become the focus of suspicion. He had to admit no one was likely to store goods in a place he feared, so it was more likely Shandek had spread the rumours himself.
Mayel took a lamp down off its bracket and, stepping over sacks full of strange plants and pots of dark, glutinous liquids, took it over to the scarred table in the centre of the room. He noted the lamps were burning low. If the abbot returned from his walk early, Mayel could say he was refilling them. Mayel recognised the heavy tomes that he had personally lugged from the monastery amongst the piles of books that covered the table. He picked up one that lay open and scanned the feathery script, hoping for an indication of what the abbot was work¬ing on. It was hard to read, and even harder to make sense of. At the bottom of one page was a strange drawing, vague lines swirling about each other, that he struggled to understand. He cocked his head to one side and was frowning at the page when it came into focus: a (all figure with sword drawn, standing over a prone knight. The artist had carefully blacked out the sword's blade with ink. The caption below said Velere's Fell. Mayel assumed that the prone figure was Velere, the Elven prince. The archaic text appeared to be describing the feats of an immortal hero called Aracnan, and his particular devotion to his lord, though Mayel couldn't actually work out who this lord was, as his name was never mentioned. There was something about a battle in a field of wild flowers, and a shifting wall of smoke which had aided Aracnan's holy quest. That passage was worn dark, smudged by past scholars who had run their fingers along the line as they read, but Mayel could not fathom why it was important. He knew it was not from the library, but from the abbot's personal collection, and that meant the abbot himself, and maybe past abbots too, had thought that bit important.
'Don't mind that now,' Mayel told himself, 'you're just getting distracted. You're not here to read his books but to find that bloody box.'
The room was in a chaotic state. Mayel hadn't been allowed down here since he'd dragged in the table for the abbot to work at. He continued his search, finding another valuable-looking book, bound in tarnished, silvery metal, hidden under the table. It was wrapped in waxed cloth. The cover looked as if had been inscribed by hand, but the words meant nothing to him – even in the monastery he'd not seen this language before… he thought it was strange that the title had been written on to such a fine book rather than embossed. He tried to open it, and found to his surprise that the cover was glued shut. There was no locking mechanism to be seen, and even turning the book over he could see nothing that would lock it shut. Mayel ran his finger down the inside edge of the hard leather cover and yelped as something sharp dug into his finger. He dropped the book back onto the table and stuck his finger in his mouth. After a moment he pulled it out again to inspect the cut. Blood still welled from a tiny incision but when he licked it clean again he realised the cut was a strange shape, almost like a tiny formal monogram of two entwined characters, V and V. Mayel, intrigued, compared it to the cover of the book. It had the same device on it, within a wreath of ivy leaves.
'Well, that's strange,' Mayel muttered as he turned the book over to inspect it. Oddly, he could see nothing sharp – but when he gingerly ran a fingernail down the same spot, there was a flash of silver as if from nowhere and the same strange shape was cut into his fingernail.
'Magic,' he breathed in wonder. The abbot was a skilled mage, but Mayel had no talent himself. Even holding a book bearing some small enchantment gave him a thrill that took away the sting of his bleed¬ing finger entirely.
A scraping sound from upstairs made Mayel flinch: the kitchen door had been opened. Mayel had jammed a small stone under the door, and it was that scraping that had alerted him. He grabbed the lamp and blew out the flame and as he cast a last glance around the room, he finally spotted the box. It was open, a long red velvet scarf all that remained inside. Clearly the scarf had been protection, but whatever had been inside the lacquered box was gone now.
Mayel cursed softly, then muttered, 'Well, you don't need padding for gold.' With the extinguished lamp still in his hand he opened the door and started back up the stairs.
'Abbot Doren, you're back,' he exclaimed, startling the old man as he appeared silently behind him.
'Yes, yes, I had an idea that I needed to note down.' The abbot scowled suspiciously, but the novice had long since perfected his naive expression for the monastery elders.
'You really should have stayed out for longer than five minutes. You need some air. You ate hardly anything last night, and you worked the whole night again.' Mayel raised the extinguished lamp as though presenting evidence.
Ah, you were changing the oil?'
'Of course, Father.' His face creased into innocent puzzlement. 'You said you didn't want your laboratory tidied, but you still need light to work by.'
The abbot studied his young charge for a moment then scratched at his head in a distracted manner. 'Very good of you.' He looked unconvinced, but lack of sleep had made him a little addled. 'I have an errand I need you to run,' he said finally.
Mayel smiled up at the sun. It was just two hours since dawn and still cool compared to the cruel afternoon sun. The street was deserted, despite the fine morning, though he could hear the city's constant grumble all around him. He jumped at a scurrying sound from the scorched shell of a shack off to his left, feeling suddenly isolated. He could see nothing behind the shack, where bare parches of earth were
interspersed with dark green clumps of grass, not even a rat or feral cat.
'Good mornin', cousin,' called a voice from behind him. Mayel whirled around, a look of panic on his face, only relaxing as he recog¬nised Shandek, who had appeared from nowhere with one of his thugs. His cousin was a burly man of thirty-three summers, with the hair and complexion of a Farlan. Mayel, who was half his age, had darker skin and fairer hair, although he'd shaved his head to get rid of the tonsure that marked him as a follower of Vellern. It felt curiously liberating to feel the breeze curl around his ears and down his nape. Shandek, however, was proud of his long, lank hair, which marked him out on the streets he ruled.
'A better morning than the previous ones that have welcomed us here,' Mayel replied with a smile. Six years in the monastery had left him with a cultured voice as well as an education. Despite Shandek's wealth and influence, Mayel knew his unschooled cousin held a secret regard for those who could read and write, and he was counting on that, because the ties of blood would go only so far.
'True enough. We'd begun to wonder whether your abbot brought the dark clouds with him.' Shandek stepped forward with a grin and slung his arm around Mayel's shoulder. 'How goes your abbot's experi¬ments? Have you yet learned what he's up to?'
Mayel shook his head. 'He still doesn't let me in to his labora¬tory. He tells me it's for my own safety, but I know he's worried about trusting anyone. If Jackdaw could turn on him after years of service, anyone could.'
'I still think we should just go and take it off him,' rumbled Shandek's companion, a man who was wide enough to appear squat despite being almost six feet tall. 'One old man won't cause me an' Shyn any problems.'