She scurried about cleaning up her desk, and Pawl waited in silence. She had just set to cleaning her quill heads when a knock carried from the shop’s front room. Imaret turned, one quill still in hand.
“Who could that be?” she whispered.
Pawl glanced down to find her right behind him, peeking around his leg.
“Wait here,” he instructed.
He grabbed the dimming lantern off its hook before heading out to the shop’s front. That anyone came knocking so late was unusual, more so if expecting to find anyone on the premises. Such conditions rarely meant anything good waited outside, and he opened the front door, ready to demand an explanation.
Pawl stopped before a word escaped.
A cloaked dwarf carrying a stout iron staff stood outside, looking up at Pawl with a frown. He was clean-shaven—unusual for a male dwarf—and something about his features and red hair brought Domin High-Tower to Pawl’s mind, though this one’s hair was not shot with steel gray.
“We are closed,” Pawl said coldly. “Come back during the business day.”
“You are Master a’Seatt?” the dwarf asked, and when Pawl didn’t answer, he went on in a low voice. “I have a private message for you concerning one of your scribes.”
Again, Pawl hesitated, glancing along the street at all the shops, now dark and shuttered for the night. It was doubtful this had to do with Imaret’s tardiness and parents, yet the coincidence bothered him. Still, it was only a dwarf, and he stepped back to let the visitor inside. Before he could even close the front door, he heard the swinging doors behind the counter.
Imaret emerged from the back room, disregarding his instructions, and peered over the top of the counter. Perhaps she thought it might be Nikolas, though it was far too late for even one of his visits. To heighten Pawl’s wariness, the dwarf fixed on Imaret’s dusky young face and dark, kinky hair curling in all directions.
“Are you Imaret?” the dwarf asked.
That captured Pawl’s full attention, and he stepped between them. “Who are you?”
The dwarf raised one red eyebrow. “I am here on behalf of Journeyor Wynn Hygeorht. She believes your people might willingly get a message to a Nikolas Columsarn at the guild, who in turn could deliver it to Premin Hawes in private.”
“Nikolas!” Imaret gasped.
Pawl raised one finger at her for silence, though he kept his eyes on the dwarf.
“What is in this message?” he asked.
“Simply a request to meet, though Journeyor Hygeorht does not wish this to be known by anyone else. There are difficulties with the guild that she would like ... solved. Premin Hawes has offered assistance.”
Pawl studied him. Difficulties with the guild, solutions and private meetings outside of that place ... What did it all mean? The one thing he wanted more than anything else was for the translation project, and his attached transcription work, to proceed—for the pieces of those ancient texts to once more flow through his shop. Any difficulties between Wynn Hygeorht and the guild might be linked to the work’s halt—or not. Any solution might solve both those impediments—or not. But Pawl was not involving one of his scribes in such subterfuge.
“All that’s required is that this message reach Premin Hawes?” he asked.
The dwarf frowned. “Yes, but—”
Another knock sounded, this one much sharper and louder than the first.
Pawl started slightly, sensing another close-by life outside his door. What was going on that his shop should become the center of midnight activity? Suddenly the latch turned and the front door opened, for Pawl had not locked it upon letting in the dwarf.
Captain Rodian stood in the opening, and his gaze shifted away from Pawl at the sight of the dwarf.
“Forgive the late intrusion,” the captain said, still not looking back at Pawl. “I did not expect to find you conducting business so late.”
“Yet you enter just the same,” Pawl returned.
“I stopped by, on the chance you were here, before checking at your residence.”
The last implication set Pawl on edge. How did Rodian know where he lived unless the man had checked the commerce records for all shop owners? Even during the unfortunate business last autumn, Rodian had never set up a meeting at Pawl’s home.
The dwarf ignored the captain and looked at Pawl. “May I count on you for this ... translation?”
He held out a folded paper. One edge was ragged, as if torn off.
Pawl hesitated. If events were to continue as he hoped, then he could not refuse. His shop had worked with Hawes on projects for her various journeyors. If he visited the guild tomorrow and told the guard at the gate that he needed to see her, even if they kept him waiting at the portcullis, she would come. There was no need to involve Imaret or Nikolas.
Pawl took the folded sheet. “The work will not be completed until tomorrow. You may expect the results after dusk, at a guess, and no sooner.”
“My thanks.” And as suddenly as the dwarf had appeared, he slipped out and was gone.
“A bit late for a customer,” Rodian commented, closing the front door.
“Or for a visit from the Shyldfälches,” Pawl countered, and then gestured to Imaret. “One of my scribes worked too late. I need to get her home, so please ... be brief.”
“I am looking for Journeyor Wynn Hygeorht,” the captain said.
Pawl slipped beyond suspicion but remained silent. This was one too many synchronicities in one night.
The captain went on. “She was taken from the guild tonight, and in the past, when ... difficulties have occurred for her, she’s been found here more than once. I simply wished to check again. Have you seen her?”
“Taken?” Pawl repeated, ignoring the rest, and then grew angry with himself for sounding so incredulous.
He knew better than to expose any reaction to one such as the captain. From what Pawl had witnessed, Wynn Hygeorht had not been “taken” by anyone. Whether the captain knew so or not was in doubt, but the implication of Rodian’s choice of word warned of further complications.
“Have you seen her?” Rodian repeated.
“No.”
“What about you, miss?” Rodian asked.
Pawl turned the full intensity of his gaze on Imaret. She in turn glanced more than once between him and the captain.
“No ... no, I haven’t seen Wynn in a long time,” Imaret answered.
Rodian nodded and turned to Pawl. “I thought not, but had to check. Don’t be alarmed if you see one of my men somewhere outside tomorrow. The royal family is anxious to have the journeyor found and returned safely. So we must cover anywhere she has connections.”
Pawl remained outwardly passive at his shop being put under watch. “Of course. Thank you for informing me beforehand.”
“And you will let me know if you see her ... or her dog. You know the one.”
“Certainly.”
With the superficial exchange concluded, the exhausted-looking captain nodded and headed out the door. As soon as the door shut, Imaret rushed out from behind the counter, straight at Pawl.
“What’s going on?”
“I don’t know. Now get your cloak, before we are further delayed.”
He waited as Imaret scurried off to the workroom, but his thoughts turned to her again. He knew the owner of a local eatery who owed him more than one favor. Tomorrow, he would make arrangements to have cooked meals delivered to Imaret’s house each morning until further notice. He made a mental note, as well, to tell Teagan to find some local girl for a maid to visit the home at least once per quarter moon ... until further notice.
Chap was familiar with the social discomfort observed in humans during awkward silences. However, as a member of the Fay, born into flesh within a majay-hì pup, he had rarely been affected by such.