'…for a moneylender named Selwyn Midton,' he mumbled. 'I went with him sometimes.'
Wynn let out huff. 'Nikolas!'
'I know, I know!' he whined. 'It's against guild rules, but the payment was so much. Elias was taking Elvina to all the best inns, and Jeremy wanted to help him. And Jeremy also had his eye on a fine set of calligraphy quills that he wanted before being sent off on assignment. He has—had—a good hand, enough to have been a scribe. But after he took the job with Selwyn, we started learning things. Selwyn didn't have a charter for moneylending, and he was charging ridiculous rates on illicit loans. But that wasn't all of it…'
Wynn couldn't believe what she was hearing. How had this taken place with no one's knowledge? High- Tower always seemed to learn everything about his charges. Or had he been so embroiled in the hushed translation work that he never even noticed?
'I couldn't read all of Selwyn's ciphers,' Nikolas went on. 'But I think Jeremy may have figured out some of his clients. He was very quiet a couple of times heading back to the guild, like he knew some of them.'
Wynn slumped against the keep's side.
Most citizens seeking loans for business went through one of the few banks or chartered lenders under the sanction of the ministry of commerce. But there were people—many others—who didn't have collateral. Moneylending, legal or otherwise, was frowned upon, but it still took place in any major city for those who had no other recourse.
Sages should never be involved in anything so sordid.
Initiates and apprentices were forbidden involvement in private enterprise. Aside from masters, only journeyors were allowed to do so, if whatever assignment they were given was explicitly in a legal enterprise. It wasn't just about protecting them from exploitation. The guild couldn't risk tainting its reputation as a public institution.
'What happened?' Wynn demanded, not certain she wanted to know.
'Selwyn had a partner, Mêthos Smythe,' Nikolas answered. 'They lent only to desperate people who'd never go to the authorities. But a caravan owner couldn't pay back his loan, let alone the interest—probably half the reason he couldn't clear the debt. He confessed to the high advocate and lodged a legal complaint. A judge ordered Selwyn to turn over all ledgers and entry keys necessary, but Mêthos was the one who handled the books. He vanished that night, taking the master ledgers with him. Selwyn called in Jeremy to make altered copies in Mêthos's handwriting… Jeremy was that good.'
'Oh, dead deities!' Wynn breathed.
She began rubbing her temples at a sudden throb in her head. A murdered sage had been paid for forgery by an illegal moneylender. If this ever got out…
'Maybe Jeremy didn't fully understand at first,' Nikolas continued. 'But he kept at it, even when he started suspecting. I was scared of what might happen to him when the work was finished.'
'You should've told someone!' Wynn exclaimed.
'I am telling someone!' His voice broke on a squeak. 'They were my only friends, and I know the domins won't want anyone outside tn'tone outo hear of this. But someone should pay… I can't tell the captain, or anyone, because I can't lose my place here. I have nowhere else to go.'
Wynn didn't understand the last part. Perhaps, like herself, Nikolas was an orphan. Pity for him, as well as confused second guesses, overwhelmed her. What had actually happened to Jeremy and Elias? Then another question surfaced.
Among those ledger names, whom had Jeremy recognized and worried over? Who would an overworked apprentice sage even know, who needed money enough to go to the likes of Selwyn Midton and Mêthos Smythe?
Members of the guild came from all regions, including other countries beyond Malourné and the Numan Lands. With some of them far from home, their closest companions were always others within the guild.
Wynn immediately thought of the sun crystal she had begged for.
Premin Sykion had demanded an explanation from il'Sänke when she saw the guild's recent ledgers. Wynn didn't know how Premin Hawes, head of metaology, had reacted. Just how much had the sun crystal cost, not just in money but in time and resources? The night Domin il'Sänke had come with the crystal, he'd said something about 'at least those I listed.' So how else—and where else—had he acquired what was needed?
There was no doubting il'Sänke's skill, but she'd pressed him to do something never tried before… as quickly as possible. He'd agreed, and he was still working on the crystal.
Wynn reached for Nikolas's shoulder to offer comfort but stopped herself.
'I'll speak to the captain,' she said. 'I'll keep your name out, for now. But sooner or later this will come to the attention of the domins… and the premins.'
Nikolas stared at his feet and didn't answer. Wynn couldn't bring herself to dismiss him outright, no matter how badly she wanted to disappear to her room.
'Come with me,' she said. 'We'll get some tea in the common hall.'
Nikolas looked up in surprise.
'It would do us both good,' she added halfheartedly.
As Nikolas fell into step, Wynn glanced back through the gatehouse tunnel. But she caught no glimpse of shimmering fur in the night beyond its far end.
Evening settled beneath a light patter of rain as Rodian sat at the square table that served as his desk. Unlike that of Domin High-Tower, his office was simple and orderly. He paged through his notes within his office at the barracks for the Shyldfälches inside Calm Seatt's second castle.
The wide grounds around this fortress didn't sport gardens. Instead its inner bailey was filled with stables, barracks, and housing available for officers. A full standing army hadn't been necessary for many years, but Malourné's border cavalry and regulars were still carefully maintained. This second castle of Calm Seatt was the heart of all the military, with the exception of the Weardas—the 'Sentinels.'
That smallest elite force protected the royal family and was housed within the last and greatest castle of the sprawling city. Placed upon a rise nearer the shore, it looked out over the open sea, the wide port of Beranlômr Bay, and the peninsula at the bay's far side, home of the neighboring nation of the dwarves at Dredhze Seatt.
The Weardas answered only to the royal family.
Rodian's position and relative young age drew envy among older members of the Shyldfälches. Though most officers in the regulars saw the city guard as a dead-end career, others recognized its advantages beyond military life. Affluence could be gained in many ways, and so much the more within the ranks of the Shyldfälches.
But not half as much as among the Weardas.
Someday Rodian would lead that force. If only the Blessed Trinity continued to cast its lessons into his path, elevating his knowledge and wisdom.
Not long ago he'd resigned his commission in the regulars and immediately accepted a lower rank in the city guard under its previous captain, Balthild Wilkens. After that he rose quickly to first lieutenant by numerous—and correct—arrests, with all the necessary evidence for clean convictions. He gained notoriety in protecting his people and formed strong connections with other officers and a few nobles. He took pride in both his service and his accomplishments.
Unlike his predecessor.
Captain Wilkens had married the niece of Lord Kregâllian, a close confidante of the royal family. By happenstance and some effort, Rodian discovered that Wilkens had set up house for a former prostitute in one of the city's mercantile districts. He visited her whenever possible, and perhaps a bit more than he did his own wife, who lived in a remote fief. After one brief warning from Rodian, Wilkens announced his early retirement. He recommended Rodian as his replacement.
No one else learned of the ex-prostitute, as Rodian believed in keeping his word. To his knowledge she remained well cared for by the former captain, but no such man belonged protecting the people's welfare.
Rodian felt no personal guilt or regret over his tactics. He'd already proven himself much more effective than his predecessor. He didn't gamble nor visit brothels. He didn't indulge in drink, besides one mug of ale but twice in a moon or a glass of wine at a formal dinner. Men who practiced complete abstinence were rarely viewed as
