few nights grace among the shelves?”
“Of course, Sir, you are more than welcome, at any hour.”
It was strange, some would think, that the libraries charged a fee of visitors, but the expense of hunting new volumes, and the competition among the many libraries for the greatest finds, was fierce. The gold in the librarian’s hand would mean more books, and it was that fact that he was calculating, not his sudden increase in wealth.
“We can find our own way about, if you don’t mind,” said Tirielle sweetly, touching the readers hand. He gulped, as if unused to a lady’s touch.
“Of course. You can find us in the main hall if you need assistance. The lists are on the first shelves, in chronological order above, in alphabetical order below, should you know what you are looking for…” at this he raised an enquired eyebrow, but Tirielle ignored it.
“Perhaps we will call on you before the night is through, should we require anything. Anything at all, my good man,” Tirielle added this last with a cheeky grin, and the squinting reader scuttled off, his back a little straighter.
“You seem to have brightened his evening, at least,” said j’ark.
“And what of yours?”
“My evening is already complete, my lady.”
Blasted men, she thought. But there was little time to waste trying to get j’ark to open to her touch tonight. If only he were as simple to please as the reader.
“We should stay together, I think, don’t you?” she tried.
“We could cover more apart…”
“What if I am attacked?” It was cruel, but she knew it would work. J’ark was only undecided for seconds.
“Very well, we will search together. Where should we begin?”
“We have no idea who we are looking for, the name of the work or author…perhaps, if the wizard is old enough…mmh…chronological lists? If we just find the oldest works, and work forward from there?”
“Sound, I think,” he said with an easy smile that warmed her heart.
She took down one of the tomes, heaving it to a nearby table, and scanned the entries.
“How is your history, j’ark?”
“I know only what I need. I know each and every battle fought by the Sard through the ages, but the wizard was lost before Sybremreyen’s records even began, before our order was born. I do not even know what his age would be called, less when it was.”
“Well, the records begin in the Shard epoch, which was over 700 years ago. It is the best we can do, although I doubt there will be any mention of the old ones, or the wizard, but the Seer says we will find it here, and we have nothing left but to believe her.”
Hefting the book high on her chest, she replaced it, and they walked down the aisle to the Shard wing, and the start of a long night.
But at least, thought Tirielle walking on with a private smile, it will not be lonely.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Roth’s night proved to be more interesting. It prowled the streets, staying in the shadows like it was the most natural thing. Where it was forced to cross a patch of lantern light, it moved swiftly and surely, without so much as a sound.
It stuck to darkened alleyways where it could, and was only seen once. That was because it wanted to be noticed. It was the perfect opportunity, and just what it had been looking for.
Unmindful of the dangers, which admittedly were scarce in any city where the Protectorate roamed (aside from the obvious peril from the Protectorate themselves) a solitary drunk left his cups and tavern and started out wavering on tipsy feet along an alleyway. As Roth watched from a darkened doorway, two men followed unobtrusively behind, but Roth could tell from the way they held themselves that they were armed. One carried a cudgel within his sleeve, his hand turned inward to prevent the weapon from slipping out, the other, from his gait, was wary of a dagger in his loose fitting breeches.
Roth followed the unlikely trio at a safe distance, remaining quiet without seeming to expend any effort doing so.
It did not have long to wait.
The two men quickened their pace, coming up from behind the drunk as he reached the door of his house. Roth reached them as the cudgel was in hand, but before the blow. With a snarl it knocked the thief’s arm aside, breaking the arm with the force of the blow, and smashed the man bearing the dagger to the ground. The drunkard screeched and quickly darted into his house, bolting the door and calling for his wife. He would sober quickly, and in some respects Roth was glad he would live to do so, but that was not what he came for.
One thief was trying to gain his feet when Roth kicked him back to the floor. The other was cradling his broken arm. Roth knelt before them, pulling back the cowl of the robe it wore, and roared. The men scuttled backward, and Roth turned and walked away. As it left, it could hear them fleeing in the night.
Roth was just as careful returning to the Great Tree.
When it reached Quintal’s room, it knocked politely, and was bade enter.
“It is done,” it said.
“That should put the cat amongst the pigeons,” said the leader of the Sard with a wry grin. “Let’s hope Sia is right. Tomorrow night will be harder. Are you sure you can get away unseen?”
Roth barred its teeth in a grin, and nodded. “It is good to be doing something again. I will be ready.”
“Then until tomorrow. From here on, we will all be creatures of the night.”
As Roth left, Quintal smiled and turned back to the window, staring at the moon’s gentle light over Beheth.
Creatures of the night. The Protectorate would rise to the bait. They had to. The night would not be solely their domain any longer.
Chapter Forty
Two thieves sat before the high magistrate, both held fast in iron chains. The man on the left, with a broken forearm, sweated profusely, his face white with pain…and fear.
Flanked by two gaunt-faced guards, and chained as they were, there was no chance of escape. They held no illusions as to their charges. Their guards might be stick-thin, their bodies seemingly emaciated under their long robes, but they were Protocrats, the arm of the magistrate. Neither guard sweated in the growing heat of the morning.
They were motionless, a blade poised to fall.
Gerrard, the thief with a sore head, began to shake. The magistrate still did not look up from his report. Gerrard thought of his wife, and his young son, a mere two years of age. He prayed to Renalon, the god of paupers and thieves — he knew there were no gods to watch over the cutthroats of the world, but he was neither skilled enough to be an accomplished thief, nor had he the patience to be a beggar.
Perhaps Renaleve would hear his plea and spare them.
He held onto the image of his son’s face, the tuft of dark hair that sprouted from the back of his soft head, his gently brown eyes and his endearing giggle, a giggle which from time to time was followed by a high-pitched squeal of delight whenever they played peek and boo, or when tiggled under his chin.
For him, he would die quietly. When they had been found, fleeing along the streets, the Tenthers had asked him where he lived. Even under their blows, he had said nothing. Fortunately, his partner did not know, either. They had only met a week previously, and he had been sensible enough to keep his home a secret from the man. He wouldn’t have blamed Wex for telling them. When they had twisted his shattered arm the man had screamed to
