Tonight, twenty-plus sages of lesser rank milled about the hall. Most were initiates in their plain tan robes, while others were likely apprentices, garbed in the colors of their chosen orders. It was difficult to know if anyone was a journeyor like Wynn, but few such remained at the guild unless awaiting assignment abroad.
Nearly everyone looked up as Wynn entered with Domin il'Sänke. No one called a greeting, and Wynn wished she'd stayed in her room.
Aside from those who thought her somewhere between addled and half-mad, others considered her "above herself" as a journeyor. Even sages weren't beyond envy, considering that she'd returned home bearing the greatest scholarly find in the guild's history. And worse, no one but the domins and premins even knew what the find entailed.
Wynn had few, if any, friends here, and privacy was becoming a standing habit. Her gaze settled for an instant upon a stooped young sage wearing the gray robes of a cathologer.
"Nervous" Nikolas Columsarn sat reading by himself in the hall's near right corner. Even sitting, he kept his shoulders turned inward, as if he curled into himself. Straight, unkempt brown hair fell forward to nearly cover his eyes and shadow his sallow features.
How could he read like that? Wynn knew his name only from hearing it, but she'd noticed him a few times. His only companions were two young journeyors he occasionally tagged along behind. More often he kept to himself, as Wynn did.
Il'Sänke ignored all the staring or averted eyes and headed straight through for the hearth.
"We shall pull chairs by the fire," he said, "and arrange for tea. Hopefully something other than the weak stuff you drink here in the north."
Wynn sighed, about to follow, and a voice like grating granite rose behind her.
"Ghassan, you are back."
Wynn flinched, reluctant to even turn about.
There in the arched entryway stood the broad form of Domin High-Tower. It wasn't his family name; dwarves preferred to be called by their given names, usually translated into Numanese to keep inept humans from bumbling over the Dwarvish language.
Wynn had read ancient folklore of the Farlands that spoke of dwarfish beings as diminutive. She knew better firsthand, having grown up in Calm Seatt.
High-Tower, like all of his people, was an intimidating hulk compared to such myths. Though shorter than humans, most dwarves could look her directly in the eyes. What they lacked in height they made up for in breadth. High-Tower had to turn sideways to get through any standard human doorway. His shoulder width was more than half again that of a man.
Stout and wide as he was, even under a gray robe he showed no hint of fat. Coarse, reddish hair laced with gray hung to his shoulders, blending with his thick beard braided at its end. His broad, rough features made his black-irised eyes seem like iron pellets embedded in his pale and lightly freckled face. Wynn always thought of a moving column of granite whenever she heard his voice or heavy footsteps.
Though she would never say so aloud, she thought that long, straight-cut wool robes were hardly flattering to the dwarvish form. High-Tower's people were more impressive in their breeches, iron-shod boots, and thick leather clothing.
"Back?" il'Sänke replied politely.
High-Tower entered like a war machine, moderate but steady, and no one would dare step in his way. He glanced at Wynn with scantly concealed disapproval and folded his barrel-like arms to look up at il'Sänke. The master cathologer made no secret of his dislike for the visiting Suman sage.
"Yes, I saw you go out earlier," High-Tower said, "and was wondering if you had seen Jeremy or Elias about. They were due back a while ago with a folio."
Il'Sänke blinked once and seemed to contemplate his answer, and Wynn wondered why he'd gone out after dark. Upon returning he must have gathered the crystal and come straight to her room.
"I saw no one from the guild while out," he answered. "I was hurrying to reach the docks with a letter to my home branch. But I arrived too late. The port office was closed, and there was no way to find any ship going as far as the Suman coast."
Domin High-Tower frowned. "You waited to take it yourself? Why not send an apprentice earlier?"
Il'Sänke didn't need to answer. He'd been called to assist with translating Suman passages of the texts Wynn brought back, but he'd come to Calm Seatt with no apprentices or attendants. High-Tower knew this but goaded him just the same.
Il'Sänke smiled with another cock of one eyebrow. "The walk was welcome after a long day in stillness. You might consider it yourself—or even a night's row in the bay."
High-Tower snorted, and Wynn glanced away.
Really, such a jest was in poor taste. Dwarves walked everywhere they went, as few mounts could hold them upces hold t. As for a leisure boat trip, no dwarf cared to be on water. Even without armor or weapons, they sank.
Before either could exchange another barb, two apprentices in gray bolted through the entry. Wide-eyed and panting, they never got out a word before someone strode in purposefully on their heels.
Tall with long, tangled hair, the man wore a red tabard over his chain mail vestment and padded hauberk. As frightened as the apprentices appeared, his expression was twisted somewhere between anger and anguish. The man's sword sheath was embellished with an inlaid panel of silver engraved with the royal crest and a panorama of Calm Seatt.
His red tabard marked him as military, but the silver plate suggested more. This one was an officer in the Shyldfälches—the "People's Shield" — the contingent of the city guard.
Wynn had no idea why he was chasing two apprentice sages of her order.
"Where is the premin of cathologers?" he demanded.
Both young sages stepped aside as Domin High-Tower closed on the officer.
"Why do you seek the premin?" the dwarven sage demanded with twice the officer's force.
The man calmed slightly. "Pardon… I'm Lieutenant Garrogh. Captain Rodian sent me to bring either the premin… or a domin of the cathologers. Two bodies were discovered in an alley. The master of the nearby scribe shop identified them, but only knew their given names… Elias and Jeremy."
Murmurs of shaky voices rose in the common hall, and Wynn heard a stool scrape as someone stood too quickly.
"Bodies?" High-Tower growled. "They are dead?"
Wynn's mind blanked as others in the hall drew nearer. She barely noted the varied degrees of shock and fright on their faces. She didn't recognize the names mentioned, even when a frightened, breathy voice repeated them.
"Jeremy… Jeremy Elänqui… and Elias Raul?"
Nikolas surged from his corner stool, his face paler than usual. At the lieutenant's continued silence, his gaze wandered and he began to shiver, backing toward his corner. When he dropped upon the stool he teetered, nearly slipping off. His jaw clenched as tears rolled down, shaken out of him by his shudders.
Wynn's thoughts cleared. Nikolas knew them both, likely the same two she had seen him with. But try as she might, she couldn't remember their faces.
Lieutenant Garrogh licked his lips nervously at all the attention he'd drawn in his haste.
"My condolences," he said quickly to High-Tower. "But the captain requires an authority from the guild. By your robe, you'll do as well as the premin."
High-Tower's dark glower broke. He turned his iron eyes on one apprentice who'd led the lieutenant inside.