the Fifth Land from Weldon.
“Rich country,” he said. “Well-forested.”
“My father owns a thousand tracks. He baited bears and boars with the hounds. I used to sneak off to play with their cubbies.”
Laurelle shied away from that memory. She had mostly snuck off silently to the cubbies when her father had been beating her mother. Her family did not speak of such matters. Bruises and welts were hid under powder or behind lace.
Laurelle brushed a hand through her hair. “I should find Delia. Real or not, she should know of the threat we overheard.”
Kytt stepped to the door. “I will accompany you back to your floor.”
“I know my way.”
“Of course you do,” he said, mimicking back her own words from a moment ago.
She glanced to him and noted a ghost of a smile. She returned the same. It was rare to hear any ribbing from the young man.
“Best you have an escort.” He grumbled a bit, glancing away as shyness overcame him again. “Barrin can watch over the little ones.”
“Thank you. I would appreciate that.”
Laurelle gathered her things and the two set out. Lorr’s floor was only two above hers. The walk was shorter than she would have preferred. She even found her steps slowing. Too soon, they reached the level that housed Chrismferry’s Hands.
The hall was empty, all locked away or about their own concerns. The diminutive Master Munchcryden, the regent’s Hand of yellow bile, had a preference for wagered games, whether played with die or board, while the shaven-headed twins, Master Tre and his sister Fairland, seldom left their rooms, preferring the company of books and private reflection.
But such privacies were harder to come by now.
The warden could not indulge an entire floor for the regent’s company any longer. Especially with Tylar fled. The vacant rooms had been filled with a goodly number of the masters who had been chased out of their subterranean levels. The halls now reeked of strange alchemies, and the occasional muffled blast would echo down the hall from some combination gone bad.
Laurelle led the way. Her room was not far off the landing. It was a small blessing, as the deeper halls were clogged even heavier with alchemical vapors, but it meant stepping away from Kytt sooner than she would have liked.
“I’ll see you at the seventh evening bell,” Laurelle said as they neared her door.
“The whelpings always enjoy your visits.”
“Just the whelpings?” She lifted an eyebrow.
Kytt shuffled his feet-but he was saved from answering by a sharp outburst off by the stairs.
“The skull is gone! Why do you harp so on the matter?”
It was Master Hesharian.
Laurelle quickly freed her key and unlocked her door. Kytt stared back at the stairs. Once her door was open, she tugged the tracker inside with her. She leaned the door closed, but she kept a crack open to peer out.
Master Hesharian entered the hall with his usual dog in tow, the milky-eyed ancient master.
“Leave it go, Orquell,” the head of the Council groused. “My midmorning meal awaits, and I’d prefer my breads were still warm.”
A reedy voice argued. “But I spoke with Master Rothkild. He related how he had cored samples from the skull. Even a tooth. He had them stored within glass flutes in alchemical baths.”
“And I heard the same. He insists the mixtures had rendered any Grace down to dregs. Nothing that could prove useful.”
“Master Rothkild does not have my experience with Dark Grace. There is much I can discern if I could retrieve those bits of bone.”
“The warden will not allow another trip down to the Masterlevels. Whatever lurks below remains quiet, and he wisely does not wish to stir it anew. With the regent gone, there may be a chance the storm will blow away and afterward our levels could be cleansed with fire. Then you can collect those bits of skull.” Hesharian sniffed. “So let the matter die for now. I’ve my meal to attend and am near to famished.”
The pair passed Laurelle’s room. Master Orquell glanced in their direction as he passed. She and Kytt pulled back. Neither wanted that gaze to discover them hiding and spying.
“Then I’ll leave you to your meal,” Orquell said. “There is a matter I wish to attend anyway.”
“Very good. You attend. I’ll see you in the fieldroom at the next bell.”
They continued down the hall.
Laurelle met Kytt’s eye. “Can you track that one?”
“Who?”
“Master Orquell. I’d like to see what he’s about when he’s not in Hesharian’s shadow. It is seldom the two are apart. This may be our only opportunity.”
Kytt looked hesitant.
Laurelle pulled her door wider. “It will not take long. You heard. No more than a bell. Then Orquell will need to return to the maps and plottings in the fieldroom, falling once again into Hesharian’s shadow. As privy as that new master is to what is discussed in that room, I’d like to see what matters he attends when alone.”
Kytt nodded reluctantly.
Laurelle waited until the two masters were out of sight, then led Kytt back into the hall. Together they headed off after their prey. With Kytt’s keen senses, they could keep well back. They passed Hesharian’s room. His voice carried out, haranguing some scullery about the state of his jam.
They continued past.
At a crossing of passageways, Kytt stopped and sniffed. Laurelle did the same, but all she smelled was burnt alchemies. They stung her nose, and she felt sorry for Kytt.
But he did not complain-though his eyes watered slightly. He pointed the correct path, and they continued their hunt.
Master Orquell’s pace was surprisingly fast for one of his age and thinness of limb. He led them on a crisscrossing trail into the dustier regions of the level. The ceiling lowered and bits of fractured stone littered the floor. As this level had been intended only for Tylar’s retinue, the underfolk had not cleared these back spaces very well.
Laurelle began to grow concerned as the path grew more abandoned. Rooms here were not habitable without the shoring of rafters. The path grew darker, lined by doors rotted and crooked-hinged. Off in corners, she caught glimpses of tiny red eyes and heard the telltale scurry of small claws.
She began to wonder at the wisdom of this adventure. She had believed the warden had all of Tashijan ablaze, placing much security in the abundant flames. But now they had ventured beyond lamp and torch.
Her feet slowed.
Now it was Kytt’s determination that dragged her forward, their roles reversed. He straightened from examining a scuff in the dust and waved her to follow.
Turning a corner, they saw flickering light, fiery and welcome.
Kytt warned her to proceed cautiously. He pointed to his eyes, then down to his footprints in the dust. He wanted her to step where he stepped, so as not to alert their quarry.
But as they slipped closer, it was plain that Master Orquell was lost to all but the flames he had stoked in a cold hearth in an empty room. From down the hallway, they caught glimpses of him through a broken door, limned in firelight, features aglow.
He sat on his knees, rocking back and forth.
One arm reached out and sprinkled something across the flames. Sparks flew higher and a sound escaped with them, not unlike the flutter of a raven’s wings. Laurelle wrinkled her nose at the stench of the smoke in the hall. She caught a whiff of something rotted and foul behind the woodsmoke. Perhaps brimstone.
Then Orquell’s voice reached her as he rocked.
“Your will is my own, mistress. Show me what I must see.”
