In Shade and Shadow

trustworthy, and appearances were everything.

But tonight his thoughts turned inward with concern.

Two young sages had been dead for nearly a full day, and he hadn't gained a single sure lead. There were only entanglements and the frustrating shroud surrounding the sages' hidden project.

An oil lantern burned brightly on the table, and he glanced out the window.

Night had come. He'd waited long enough for his appointment at Master a'Seatt's scriptorium. As he headed for his cloak hung upon the perfectly placed peg near the door, the image of a face pushed to the forefront of his mind.

Wynn Hygeorht.

Her uncombed brown hair. Her wrinkled gray robes. The soft tone of her olive skin. The way her eyes pierced him as she said, 'It's your duty to solve these murders.'

Rodian didn't notice pretty girls or women. He had a certain kind in mind for when it came time to marry. Face and form were not primary criteria. Virtue, social position, possible wealth, and most certainly education mattered more for someone who would be his ally for life. But no one had ever spoken to him quite like that little journeyor sage returned from abroad. Criminals cursed him and peers whispered behind his back, but Wynn Hygeorht's quiet scrutiny left him unsettled.

And she knew more of these murders than she said—as did il'Sänke. Perhaps she knew more than even she was aware of. Rodian would find out, as always. But as he opened the office door a shadow moved in the outer hallway.

Rodian shifted back and his hand dropped to his sword's hilt.

The shadow came forward into the door frame, and lantern light illuminated the form of Pawl a'Seatt.

'Apologies,' he said. 'I thought we had an interview this evening.'

Rodian stepped farther back to let him enter. 'Yes… but at your shop, I believe.'

'I thought to save you the inconvenience.'

Rodian wondered at this polite turn. He hadn't forgotten the tail end of Imaret's story. Pawl a'Seatt had gone looking for those two sages. The girl had seen him. And that night, Imaret had said, the scribe master sent her away to rouse the constables.

'Sit,' Rodian said, not pressing the matter. He could always visit the scriptorium later.

He stepped around the table, took out his note journal, and sat as the scriptorium owner settled across from him. He studied his visitor's face and found the man hard to read.

Black hair hung straight to a'Seatt's shoulders. A few streaks of dark gray could be seen there. Clean- shaven, his complexion was rather light, possibly from a life spent too much indoors, poring over books and parchments. But Pawl a'Seatt did well for himself, by the cut of his charcoal suede jerkin. His intense brown eyes were calmly watchful, though their mundane color seemed too vivid in the lantern light.

Rodian also considered the man's name.

'A'Seatt' might mean «from» or «of» the seatt—a name of a place, likely referring to this city, rather than any surname of Numan origin. Obviously taken by choice rather than heritage, it couldn't be the man's true family name.

'How well did you know Jeremy and Elias?' Rodian began.

'I had seen them a number of times. They were among those selected to deliver folios and return finished work to the guild.'

'Last night how long were they in your shop before you sent them off?'

A few moments at best.'

'Imaret said that you requested they come back with confirmation of the folio's safe delivery. Is that normal?'

Pawl a'Seatt's pause took no longer than a blink, but Rodian caught it nonetheless.

'Imaret told you this?' the scribe master asked.

'Is it normal procedure?'

'At times. The guild pays us well and has asked for utmost care.'

'What do you know of the project itself?'

'Nothing. Scribes are not concerned with content, only the perfection of the final copy.'

'Can you read what is being copied?'

This time a'Seatt paused so long that Rodian continued rather than give the man time to think.

'I learned that translations are written in shorthand or some code created by the sages. Can you read it?'

'Yes,' Pawl answered, 'though it is not a code or a shorthand. Most master scribes, in working with the sages, develop some familiarity. But the Begaine syllabary is both complex and mutable. Again, we do not concern ourselves with content. If you are asking what information the folio contained, I do not know. And if I did, I would not tell you… unless authorized by the guild or court-ordered to do so.'

Rodian leaned back. He'd already hit this wall with Sykion and her cohorts. As yet, he hadn't found enough connection between the deaths and the sages' project to challenge any royal backing for secrecy—even with the sanction of the high advocate.

'Why did you go looking for the young men?' he asked.

Pawl a'Seatt's strange eyes blinked twice. Perhaps he wondered how Rodian already knew he'd done so.

'Too much time had passed,' a'Seatt began. 'They should have returned with confirmation. I grew concerned and stepped out, hoping to see them coming back late. I did not, so I followed the assumed path they would take. But when I passed the side street near my shop, I heard a cry. I went to look and heard more noise down the alley at the side street's end. I had just found the bodies when Imaret appeared. I immediately told her to run to the local constabulary station. I assume they notified you, since you arrived shortly after.'

Rodian frowned. So Imaret had followed a'Seatt into the alley and seen him with the bodies.

'You saw nothing,' Rodian asked, 'and just came upon the bodies?'

'Yes.'

'And the folio was gone?'

'Yes… no, not precisely. I did not notice its absence until after Domin High-Tower's arrival. I was too shocked over what I had found.'

Rodian stalled for an instant—idtr an in' shocked' wasn't a word he would use to describe a'Seatt's state that night.

'So… you cannot verify that the folio was missing when you found the bodies.'

'I do not remember.'

Rodian stopped to jot down notes. Pawl a'Seatt's answers were precise, and thereby offered no more than was necessary. Certain details were still missing. And for all the man's concern over the safe return of a folio, Rodian found it hard to believe the scribe master hadn't once looked for it in the alley.

'You said Imaret came after you?'

Another pause followed, and a slight crease appeared on a'Seatt's forehead.

'Yes, though I had told her to stay inside the shop.'

'An upsetting sight for the girl,' Rodian added, but a'Seatt didn't respond. 'How is it that you have such a young girl working so late in your shop?'

His tone was not accusatory, but he knew the words might bite with insinuation.

'She is gifted,' Pawl a'Seatt answered without reaction. 'I wish to see that gift nurtured.'

'Gifted? How?'

'She can recall any text she sees with accuracy. Her hand is not yet refined but adequate—better than any of her age and experience.'

Rodian saw new potential in this. 'So she remembers everything she reads?'

'No.'

'But you said—'

'Every piece of text she sees—not reads,' a'Seatt clarified. 'She does not know the sages' script. She understands only contemporary Numanese and its common writing and the western Sumanese dialect. But at a glance she can recall the pattern of half a page of strokes of any kind and render a