gargoyles would steal the eyes if it slept with them in.
The gargoyle inserted each marble sphere into its socket, then studied Shannon. “I siphoned a message for you from the last colaboris.” It drew from its belly a glowing, golden rectangle.
Shannon took the paragraph. The Numinous runes felt glassy smooth in his hands. He translated:
Shannon let out a long, relieved breath. This response to his original message, sent earlier that morning, was better than expected. He ripped the sentences apart and began mulling over the answers.
The Sons were always well informed of academic politics. If they did not know of a plot against him, then he was sure none existed. That, taken with their ignorance of Nora Finn’s briber and murderer, provided strong evidence that the creature Shannon had encountered was not connected to the academy.
Amadi’s allegiance to the counter-prophecy factions was more troubling. Sentinels were prohibited from wizardly politics: a fact that did not stop many sentinels from covertly advancing a faction’s interests.
More important, Amadi’s allegiance explained why the provost-a counter-prophecy supporter-had appointed her to lead the investigation. It also explained her interest in Nicodemus’s scar shaped like an Inconjunct and why she had wanted to know what the provost had thought of it. Amadi had also asked the boy if he noticed that chaos increased around him. She must suspect that Nicodemus was not the Halcyon, but the Storm Petrel-a destroyer predicted by the counter-prophecy to oppose the Halcyon.
“Magister, how do you answer?” the bat-faced gargoyle croaked.
Shannon started; he had forgotten about the Sons’ offer of assistance. “Construct, have you read the message?”
The spell wrinkled its bat nose. “I have, as my author intended me to.”
“I do not accuse you, gargoyle, I simply need some answers. How many constructs do the Sons command? Do they still control the compluvium?”
The gargoyle lifted a chubby hand to stroke a long, batlike ear. “We do still hold that portion of the roofworld. As well as two Lornish towers and five Spirish ones. We number fifty-four light- and middle-weight gargoyles; twelve war-weight brutes-only two of quickness. There are also three guardian spells.”
Shannon idly scratched Azure’s neck and thought about this. “I would require both war-quick gargoyles to reside in the compluvium. There must also be enough middle-weight gargoyles to work the Fool’s Ladder.”
The bat-faced construct began stroking his other ear. “Your purpose?”
“I may need the war texts to guard and perhaps evacuate nine cacographic boys.”
The gargoyle blinked. “Their value?”
“They are living, breathing boys,” Shannon snapped.
The bat-faced thing shrugged. “The brutes can be edited immediately, but the Fool’s Ladder will take at least three hours to assemble.”
Shannon took a long breath. It would have been better if the Sons had committed some of their members. Powerful as war-quick gargoyles were, they were no substitute for living authors. Worse was the asking price. Publicly pledging his support to the Sons would end Shannon’s freedom from politics. He would have to commit himself to any cause the faction chose. It would make him, once again, a game piece on a bloody board.
Shannon slowly exhaled as he thought about Nicodemus. Without warning, his memory came alive with the image of his long-dead wife, her dark eyes…
“I pledge myself to Ejindu’s Sons,” Shannon announced as he forged a Numinous proclamation of his allegiance.
The construct struggled up onto its infant feet to formally accept the paragraph with a bow.
“One more thing,” the grand wizard said, removing a long cloth-wrapped object from his robes, “do you know of a creature or construct that forms flesh when vital but once deconstructed becomes this?” He unwrapped the object.
The gargoyle made a long, frowning study of the severed clay arm. “No, Magister.”
Shannon grunted. “Thank you, gargoyle. You have served me well. I wish you quiet dreams.” He bowed.
Clumsily, the construct returned the bow before plucking out its eyes and settling down on the roof to sleep.
Shannon walked back into the tower. He wasn’t any closer to discovering who or what the murderer was, but at least he had taken steps to confound the creature’s next assault.
THINKING MURDER, THE creature stepped through the aspen thicket and grumbled about Shannon’s failure to mount a defense. Already one dire surprise awaited the old goat in Starhaven, and soon the creature would rip another life away from him.
He wondered what could be keeping the fool from responding. True, the murder investigation would prevent Shannon from alerting the sentinels. And true, the old human probably thought he had won time by cutting off the creature’s arm.
The memory of silver text slicing through tendon and bone made the creature flex his new hand. Maybe he’d wrench off Shannon’s arm and see if it came back.
The creature’s task in Starhaven, though of paramount importance, was a dull one. And though he looked forward to killing Shannon, he desired more practice matching wits against a human. His survival might one day depend on understanding the beasts.
All around the creature stood white aspen trees. The chill autumn nights had lacquered their leaves with bright yellow. Above, beyond the brightly colored canopy, stretched a vivid blue sky interrupted only by Starhaven’s many dark, incongruous towers.
The creature stopped, shifted his white cloak, and considered the ancient city. Different civilizations had dressed up the towers, but underneath the human frippery stood stones still Chthonic. The flowing of each thin bridge into its towers, the undulation of the walls-they spoke of stone fluidity. How the humans had slaughtered the Chthonic race was a mystery beyond the creature’s comprehension.
Indeed, the creature found human nature itself mystifying. In groups, the beasts delighted in codifying laws, religions, grammars. And yet, the creature had yet to encounter a human who did not daily commit a crime or a sin or both. Worse, humans spoke and wrote carelessly, erratically-violating their own grammars, yet easily understanding their own illogical language.
At times, the creature was amazed he had learned human communication at all. His former master had allowed him little contact with the beasts.
Perhaps more intense observation would help. He had already edited a gargoyle near the top of the Erasmine Spire so that it would monitor the wizard’s colaboris spells. Further infiltration of Starhaven’s gargoyles might be useful. The creature had thought of writing a small, rat-sized gargoyle with augmented hearing. Such a construct could gather information about how the humans lived.
A scrub jay’s cry brought his gaze downward. Twenty feet ahead lay a clearing where the younger wizards went to drink stolen wine or roll together in the grass.
The creature walked to the trees’ edge. His white cloak matched the aspen trunks. Below stretched a small clearing of knee-high grass.
As he waited, the creature thought about Shannon. The wizard had disappointed; this next counter-strike might cripple the old man.
The creature did not need to return to Trillinon now that the flawed dragon had flown. The other demon- worshipers had their orders. That left plenty of time to find the boy and replenish the emerald-a task so important,
