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⬠S
Out with you,⬠" said someone with a reedy voice. ⬠S
All of you.⬠"
⬠S
Do you have the key?⬠" a girl asked.
⬠S
No, I left it inside to annoy you . . . now scoot! Master a⬠"!Seatt is
waiting.⬠"
Chane shifted to the roof⬠"!s edge and peered over the eave.
A dark-haired man in a charcoal jerkin, carrying a wide-brimmed black hat,
stood below on the street. An old, balding short man in spectacles shooed
scribes from the shop. A young girl with kinky hair and dark skin followed in
the old one⬠"!s hobbling footsteps as they stepped out.
Chane stiffened under a tingle that made him shudder.
Something about the dark-haired man unsettled him. But his extended awareness
as an undead had grown dull from his wearing Welstiel⬠"!s ring for so long.
A key scraped in the lock. Soon all of the shop⬠"!s staff strode down the
street. And Chane lost any hint of that strange sensation. He turned his
attention back to the shop below.
Closing his eyes, he lay down and leaned his head all the way over the eave.
In a deep inhale, he tried to drink in the scent from the night air⬠ tried to
smell for any living thing still inside.
There was nothing but a lingering after-scent. He listened carefully as well,
but the scriptorium seemed empty for the night. He pushed back atop the roof,
contemplating the best method of entry.
Breaking through the door or a window was not an option. Someone might see or
hear him this early at night. There was only one other way. He roused the
bestial part of himself that always hungered for a kill.
Hunger surfaced, hardening his fingernails and filling his cold flesh with
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strength.
Crawling to the shop⬠"!s rear, Chane dug his fingernails into the roof⬠"!s
shakes.
He pried up and removed seven as quietly as he could and found the
underplanking was solid and sound⬠ troublesome but expected. Rising slightly,
he scanned the street once for anyone in sight, and then punched through the
planks. He kept at it, clearing a hole large enough to pass through.
As he dropped lightly into the shop⬠"!s rearmost room, he fully widened his
sight. The scribe⬠"!s workroom was so sealed off from outside light that even
he had difficulty. He barely made out worktables, chairs, and the lighter tone
of piled parchment and paper.
He felt his way about, recognizing objects clearly only when he was close
enough. At the back shelves he found a lantern and an old tin cup full of
crude wooden matches. He lit the lantern, turning its knob until only dim
illumination filled the space. Leaving the lantern in place, he turned to scan
the room.
Where would a master scribe or proprietor secure the folio?
And there it was. A leather folio lay on a short side table beside the largest
desk just two steps away.
Chane took those two steps and then hesitated.
Why was it out in plain sight? This seemed too unprofessional. Perhaps the
scribes had worked late, being too far behind in their efforts, and the folio
had not been properly stored away. But even that did not seem plausible.
Chane picked up the folio.
By its thickness and heft, all the guild notes and excerpts were still inside.
He glanced across the near desk and quickly at the others in the room. All
were cleared and orderly. No transcription work appeared to be left lying
about, so perhaps that had been stored away.
He pulled the folio⬠"!s leather lace and opened its flap.
At the sight of the sheets, all scribbled upon in ink and charcoal strokes,
his shoulders sagged in relief. But he could not linger here, nor turn up the
lamp and risk its light being spotted through even the crack of a shutter. He
turned down the lamp until its flame snuffed out and quietly hurried out to
the shop⬠"!s front room.
Carefully cracking open a window, enough to do the same with its outer
shutter, Chane held the stack of pages close. He angled them until weak light
from a street lantern fell upon the top sheet.
This time he sagged in frustration.
Aside from his limited understanding of the Begaine syllabary, some of these
sages had terrible handwriting. To make matters worse, the notes were written
with sharpened charcoal sticks. Cheaper and more convenient than quill and
ink, they often left characters blurred. Even though some notes were not
written in Begaine symbols, he could not sound out all of them. Many appeared
to be copied in their original languages, which Chane could not even identify.
He turned a few more sheets and finally gave up, realizing he needed more time
to decipher the folio⬠"!s contents⬠ and for that he could not remain in this
shop.
A tingle crawled over his skin.
The beast chained within him growled in warning.
Chane pulled the window closed, latched it, and stepped back, watching the
street outside through the narrow space of the ajar shutter. A soft shift of
shadow flickered to his left.
Beyond the shop⬠"!s door, the front wall⬠"!s far side wavered. Wood appeared
to bulge inward like an ocean swell, and then settled flat around a tall shape
emerging.
A black figure stepped straight through the wall into the shop⬠"!s front. But
it looked as solid as anything else in the room.
Garbed in a flowing robe and cloak, the latter⬠"!s folds shifting and swaying,
the figure paused in stillness. A voluminous hood covered its head and face,
and even Chane⬠"!s undead eyes couldn⬠"!t penetrate the dark within that
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opening.
He stared as his senses fully awakened.
He had not felt it coming. Not even a tingle, until it had pushed through the
wall like water or vapor. Before he could utter a demand or warning threat,
the figure raised a hand toward him.
Its sleeve slipped down, exposing forearm, hand, and fingers⬠ all wrapped in
strips of black cloth. A soft hissing rose around it, as it slid forward
across the floor.
Chane shoved the pages into the folio and backed against the side wall beyond
the window. And still it came at him. He vaulted the front counter on his free
hand and retreated toward the open doorway to the back room.
The only way out was through the hole in the workroom⬠"!s roof, or to shatter
his way through the rear door. Either path meant turning his back on this
thing that had just walked straight through a wall.
Chane jerked out his longsword.
Â
⬠S
Do not be closed . . . do not be closed,⬠" Wynn muttered over and over as
she ran through the streets toward the Upright Quill.
If Master Teagan were still there, she might bluff her way in to retrieve the
folio. Perhaps a threat that Premin Sykion insisted on its return might do the
trick, regardless that the work was incomplete. Wynn could simply promise to
have it back first thing in the morning⬠ and hope that later she wouldn⬠"!t
be cast out of the guild for interference.
One way or another, she was going to get into serious trouble. But a look at
the folio was all that mattered.
⬠S
Please be open,⬠" she whispered again, and then halted, her mouth dangling
open.
The Upright Quill was as quiet and dark as any other shop on the street.
⬠S
Valhachkasej⬠"!â!⬠" she hissed⬠ and then bit her tongue.
Swearing in Old Elvish was a bad habit she⬠"!d picked up from Leesil. A few [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]