He placed his ear to the door to listen, hoping to be able to discover the number of guards inside. He heard a few murmurs, then he heard a bell start to jangle insistently. Teron pulled back from the door and hid on the far side of its protective enclosure. Within a few breaths, bells rang throughout the building and the guards within the tower began moving with speed and purpose.
Teron gritted his teeth and ran for the edge of the roof. Behind him, he heard a shout and the distinctive snap of a crossbow. He veered to the side, and the quarrel whistled by. Next he heard the gears of a ballista rattling as someone cranked it to full cock. Not relishing the idea of an inch-thick piece of hardwood impaling his torso, he mixed his zigzag run with occasional tumble. The ballista didn’t fire, perhaps due to his skillful evasion or possibly for fear of sending a pike flying through a student’s window in the Dormitorion.
Teron reached the edge of the roof and had to pause to find one of the building’s decorative spines. Crouching low to spot one, he heard the loud crack of the ballista. In the dark, he had no hope of seeing the projectile in time, so he used his crouch to jump up into a back flip, twisting to the side to present the minimal silhouette. He heard the low whoosh of the pilum zipping past, felt its breeze as it narrowly missed him. He landed on his feet, and a second later he heard the wooden shaft splinter itself on the Dormitorion wall.
Teron scuttled a few feet across the roof’s edge to one of the ridges that climbed the building’s side. He heard the tread of numerous feet on the rooftop; without hesitation he dropped off the edge of the roof and grabbed the ornamental spine with his hands and feet.
He let his feet slide along the carved sides as he lowered himself hand-under-hand as quickly as he could. This was where he was the most vulnerable; there was no room to maneuver when one hung from one thin projection. He heard voices above him, but thankfully none seemed to have any missile weapons.
About twenty feet from the ground, he halted his descent and pushed himself forcibly from the wall, diving to leap all the way over the wide greenery below. He twisted in the air, then pinwheeled his arms to get his feet beneath him. He hit the street and tumbled into a roll. His arms slapped against the cobbles to devour his momentum. He finished by handspringing to his feet, then took off running to the alley. Crossbow quarrels spattered in the street about his heels.
He glanced back toward the library from the concealing shadows. Lights were springing on all through the building, and he heard the chorus of many alarmed voices. One voice from the rooftop boomed out insistently: “The alley by the Dormitorion!” As if to provide punctuation to the cry, a small, bright bead appeared at the roof’s edge, arcing right for the darkened alley. Teron waited, tensed to spring, and as the speeding mote got close, he leapt into the street and dodged to the side.
A massive flash of fire erupted from the alley as the glowing ember struck the ground, but as soon as the flames spat past his shoulder, Teron ducked back into the alley and sprinted past the burning debris.
17
Tremors
In the pre-dawn hours, Praxle opened the door to their rented room, only to find Teron standing there, fists clenched, a grim set to his jaw, and a dark fire burning in his eyes.
“Dolgaunt!” he spat.
“What?”
“I told you I’d scout the library myself!”
“Well, I—” started Praxle.
“Reckless idiot! Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” shouted Teron.
“I’ve done nothing!” yelled Praxle.
The guests in the next room pounded on the wall.
Teron leaned down, almost to Praxle’s height, and gestured with an extended finger. “I was almost in,” he hissed. “I had almost figured out the best way to enter. Instead, you raised the alarm and almost got me killed!”
“I did no such thing!” persisted Praxle.
“Then where were you when I got back? Were you at the library?”
“Well, yes,” admitted Praxle, “but—”
“But nothing!” yelled Teron. “This is why I operate alone!”
“Yes, fine, I left for the library, but I had every reason to!” said Praxle. “This is my artifact! It belongs to my family! The Thranes took it from us, you lot hid it from us, and the Cyrans stole it from us, and I absolutely will not let you cheat it away from me again! Grouse all you want about it, that’s fine, but let me say this: Nowhere between here and Khyber did I raise the alarm!”
The neighboring guests pounded on the wall again. Praxle’s eyes flicked to the wall for just a second, and in that eyeblink Teron shot out a hand and grabbed the gnome by the neck, lifting him off the ground. Praxle kicked and clawed at Teron’s wrist, his tongue starting to extend out of his mouth from the pressure.
“Gentlemen!” said Jeffers. He stepped forward and gave both parties’ ears a brutal tweak, then stepped back out of range. They both glared at him. “I may be speaking above my station, but you will, the both of you, desist this ruckus and listen! Teron, put my master down. Master, shut up.”
Teron set Praxle down and took a wary step back. For his part, Praxle seemed utterly content to massage his neck, swallow repeatedly, and stay out of arm’s reach of the monk.
“I accompanied my master upon his sortie, Teron,” said Jeffers. “I assure you that we had only just approached the street opposite the library when the klaxon rang out. Thus, while my master did indeed intend to pursue some exploration of his own, he was unable to consummate the deed. I tell you this upon my word of honor. Now that you know the truth, you may opt to judge or forgive such trespass as you wish.
“As for you, master,” continued the half-orc, “in my appraisal it would be better not to round upon your fellow, but rather to work together. We were not close, and Teron was almost in. Therefore someone else must have caused the hue to be raised. We should endeavor to deduce the identity of said interloper.”
Teron’s eyes darted back and forth between Praxle and Jeffers, fading from loathing to righteous indignation to suspicious calculation. “The Shadow Fox,” he said at last.
“I’m inclined to disagree,” said Praxle. “I was rather thinking it to be Lady Hathia Stalsun.”
The Shadow Fox quietly admitted herself through the arcanium’s secret entryway and closed the door behind her. The everbright lanterns had not been shuttered in the room ahead, and she heard low discussions. She knocked on the wall as she entered the arcanium proper. The magicians present—Rezam and an assistant were left at this hour—looked up.
“Did you get the papers?” asked Rezam.
“Not this night,” she answered, shaking her head. “I had just gotten past the hedges and was pulling out my nullifier ring when this damned cat leapt out of nowhere, hissing and clawing. It startled me, as you might imagine, and I touched the library’s warding. Roused the guards and gave me a vicious shock—I wasn’t sure my legs would even let me run after that; they were trembling and weak—but the guards started chasing after some beggar or small-time burglar instead. Never even looked for me.”
“Lucky.”
“Yes, I had a lot of luck,” she agreed, “both good and bad.”
She walked over to the laboratory table that stood in the center of the room. The Sphere sat on a silver pedestal, shrouded with a gossamer cloth. A nimbus of olive energy swirled around it, the shifting energy fraying into paisley patterns like stirred smoke in a shaft of light.
“What’s the field?” asked the Fox, leaning her hands on the back of a chair.
“Abjuration,” said Rezam. “You were right about it; it has certain disquieting qualities when viewed with the naked eye. It … enticed our eyes and hands. We needed to make it less distracting to get on with our work.”
“So it … called to you?” asked the Shadow Fox.