quickly shut the old book.
'Off with you,' he huffed, almost to himself. 'I should've come sooner and rousted you for supper.'
Wynn stared back. 'Supper?'
'Cooked, consumed, and cleaned up,' he replied gruffly. 'An apprentice just brought down my meal. Best get upstairs and find some leftovers.'
Wynn hesitated. Now that she had a lead, there was still so much to do.
'Be off!' Tärpodious snapped, already gathering sheets into sheaves.
'Thank you for the help,' she said, and retrieved her belongings. 'And again, I apologize. I'll be more discerning next time.'
Wynn slipped out, turning right down the corridor, her cold lamp lighting the way between the laden shelves and the catacombs' old stone columns and walls.
'Wynn!'
Tärpodious's sharp call made her whole back cinch tightly. She couldn't help a groan, thinking he'd found some blot of ink she'd missed. She reversed course and peered hesitantly around the edge of the antechamber's opening.
Domin Tärpodious scowled silently at her, and Wynn's stomach sank into her boots.
The old archivist raised a hand, pointing one bony finger toward the passage's other direction.
Wynn flushed, nodded quickly, and hurried off the correct way.
Chane waited in the shadows across the street from the Inkwell scriptorium as two young sages emerged with a folio.
He recognized the pudgy girl in gray. She had occasionally been sent out before. But he had never seen the tall young man in a deep blue robe—too old to be an apprentice but perhaps not old enough for a master or domin. It seemed strange that the guild sent a journeyor of metaology to help retrieve tonight's folio.
Chane pulled farther back out of sight.
As the pair passed by, continuing down the street, the girl clutched the folio to her chest and peered nervously about. When they reached the next intersection, Chane pulled up his cloak's hood and followed from a distance. He had no wish to be seen and remembered.
He kept himself in check rather than close too quickly. But he longed to open the folio and read its contents, and driving desire pressed him forward.
The tall journeyor stopped and turned around.
Other city dwellers moved about in the early evening, and Chane continued walking casually. The blue-robed sage scanned the street, noting a man lighting street lamps, two merchants engaged in conversation, and a flower girl closing her stand… and Chane.
'What is it, Dâgmund?' the pudgy girl asked.
'Nothing,' the young man answered. He moved on, tugging his shorter companion along.
Chane kept his gait even.
In his time in Bela with Wynn, he had learned enough of the orders to know each branch's general emphasis. To his best knowledge, those in metaology studied metaphysics and lore and related fields. Few if any became practitioners of magic, and those were mostly thaumaturges, working in pragmatic practices of artificing, such as alchemy. Even if this one had gone further, there was still no way he could detect Chane for what he was by spell or device.
Not while Chane wore Welstiel's old 'ring of nothing.'
This one possession masked his undead presence from anyone with extraordinary awareness or arcane skills of detection. But still, he had been seen, and he could not allow them to realize they were followed.
Chane turned down a side street.
Once beyond sight, he ran for the next intersection. He turned up a street parallel to the sages' route and slowed a bit. He tried to keep a pace even with the messengers'—or just a little ahead of them. And he knew where they would have to turn.
Three cross streets up, he slowed to hover near the corner.
The pair appeared in the intersection down the way, still following their course. As they passed beyond sight, Chane slipped down the side street to follow them directly.
The main street was slightly more populated with shopkeepers and wanderers heading home for the night, and he might blend in more easily. He glanced aside as a man struggled to calm a slender horse pulling a tarp- covered cart. The horse stomped and snorted. But the sages hurried onward, the girl tightly clutching her folio in both arms.
And the sound of screaming cats exploded on Chane's left. He turned on instinct.
Two large felines spun out of an alley, hissing and swiping at each other. The horse behind him screamed.
'Look out!'
Chane dodged at the shout, but as the panicked horse raced by, the cart clipped his side. He spun and stumbled, but didn't fall. Everyone around stopped to gawk.
'Are you all right?' the vegetable man asked, running up.
Chane didn't answer. Both sages had stopped, and the tall male stared straight at him. Recognition dawned on the journeyor's face. Had he been seen back near the Inkwell?
'I am fine,' Chane answered in a hoarse whisper. 'Go catch your horse.' He slipped back down the side street, cursing himself.
Wynn emerged in the main hall, tired, hungry, and disoriented by how quickly time had passed in the catacombs. Only a few others were still about, talking, reading, or sipping tea at the tables.
Domin il'Sänke sat reading by the fire.
'Wynn?' someone called anxiously from her right.
She turned to find Nikolas awkwardly waving her over. Two covered bowls and slices of buttered bread sat on the table in front of him.
'I waited for you,' he said.
Domin il'Sänke glanced up from his book.
Wynn offered him a tired smile and went to join Nikolas. His robe was slightly disheveled, and his straight hair still hung into his eyes, but she couldn't recall the last time someone had waited supper on her.
'I had research to do,' she said, her journal, lamp, and quill still in hand. 'Keep the bowls covered a little longer. I'll run these things up to my room and be back.'
Her answer brought an odd relief to his face. She knew how it felt to be lonely, or just alone, and when company mattered more than food.
'The lentils will keep,' he said. 'I'll put our bowls by the hearth.'
Wynn headed for the hall's main archway. A chill breeze rolled in as she approached, as if someone had opened the keep's doors. She heard someone heave up from a chair too quickly behind her, and she glanced back. Il'Sänke strode straight toward her with a hard gaze, and then Miriam's frightened voice echoed from the entryway.
Wynn hadn't made out the girl's words, and il'Sänke rushed by in a trot, his robes swishing around his feet. She waved to Nikolas, and they hurried after the domin.
Around the corner beyond the main archway, Wynn spotted a panting Miriam standing before il'Sänke halfway down the hall to the front doors. The girl was clutching a folio to her chest, and Dâgmund stood behind her, lowering his cowl.
Miriam's hood was thrown back, and her face glistened as if she'd been running. For once she didn't cringe in il'Sänke's presence.
'Domin…' she breathed. 'We were followed! Someone followed us!'
Dâgmund looked less frightened than Miriam, but he was clearly troubled.
Wynn pursed her lips. Why had Domin High-Tower sent a journeyor metaologer out with Miriam? A few more initiates and apprentices from the main hall began gathering in the passage behind her.
Il'Sänke turned stern eyes on Dâgmund. 'Is this true?'
The young man nodded once. 'A tall man in a long dark cloak. I saw him twice. He had to be the one.'
Il'Sänke held out his hand. 'Give me the folio.'
