Lady Stalsun entered, her long dress hissing across the polished wooden floor, with a squad of guards as escort. She sat, and gazed upon her guests imperiously. “Do you know why I have summoned you here today?” she asked.
The three shook their heads.
“I have a suspicion that you returned to the Great Library of the Congress of Alchemical and Magical Academics,” she said.
“Only a suspicion?” asked Praxle, “That’s a weak statement. I don’t think your informants are earning their pay.” He paused and scratched his cheek. “We went there the once,” he added, shrugging, “you know that. We decided it would be too much trouble for not enough help.”
Hathia traded long stares with Teron and Praxle alike.
Teron broke the stalemate. “Why do you believe we’d waste our time returning?” he asked.
She smacked her lips once. “Last night, there was a fire at the Great Library of the Congress of Alchemical and Magical Academics,” she said. “It appears that somehow the entirety of the landscaping surrounding the building was set afire. Our mages were compelled to intervene, casting spells to extinguish the flames and dismiss the outsider that had been summoned to ignite them.” She paused and traced the contours of the carving in her armrest before continuing. “I find it curious that one day after you visit the Great Library, there is a magical fire there. Ill fortune seems to hound your heels.” Her look dared a response.
“Lady Stalsun, I understand your implication,” said Praxle, “but I am an illusionist, not an evoker or a conjurer. I have no talent in creating energy from nothing.”
“I had supposed that you would avow neither knowledge of nor complicity in the arson,” she said.
“How did you know that an outsider was involved?” asked Teron.
“I have sources within the Congress,” said Hathia. “The fires only subsided after a powerful dispelling.”
“If you were to do some more research,” said Teron, “you will find that it was not an outsider, but an elemental. Two originally manifested in the Guild Quarter. Apparently one ran amok and made it as far as the library before being destroyed.”
“And the other?”
“We took care of it,” said Teron.
“So you were nearby?”
“You might say that.”
Hathia tilted her head. “You think you were the targets.”
“I think you were the instigator,” said Teron. “You or your subordinates in the Congress.”
Hathia smiled and dropped her head slightly. “My dear monk,” she said, “my associates are prone neither to carelessness nor failure. I must wonder whether the Cyrans themselves might have unleashed this upon you. Certainly it displays the sort of recklessness I have come to expect from Cyran mages of late.”
Praxle and Teron looked at each other. “But how would they know where to find us?”
Hathia clenched her lips, as strong an expression as the visitors had ever seen her display. “The Cyrans have eyes, as well, feeding their information to a man known as the Shadow Fox.”
Praxle leaned forward. “What do you know of him?” he asked.
“Very little. Rumor has it that he gave up his name after the Day of Mourning, saying that if he had no country, then he had no name. Reports also indicate that he has made inroads among the Cyran expatriates as well as elements of the criminal underworld, and has established independent nests of Cyran agents throughout Thrane.
“Some of those agents are known to mine. We are piecing together the information we have in an effort to discern where this Shadow Fox might have sequestered the artifact in question.” She looked at them. “When we do, and I assure you we shall, I will send for you.”
“You’d hand that information to us rather than to your own government?”
“This artifact has lain in the hands of Zilargo for unknown centuries, as well as within Aundair for decades. In neither of those spans have those who controlled the relic endeavored to use it. The same could not be said of the limited time in which my government held it. Based on what you told me about the Cyran woman at Daskaran, this is something that I would rather never see used again.”
“So you trust us?” asked Praxle.
Hathia stood and moved to the door. She turned and appraised the trio one last time. “Trust is not the issue,” she said. “I simply have no other choice.”
19
Inside the Camat Library
Praxle, Teron, and Jeffers stood by a water fountain in uptown Flamekeep. Praxle stood on the rim that surrounded the fountain, placing him at roughly the same height as Teron. Jeffers loomed over the other two, but his deferential posture made him seem smaller. The splashing noise of the fountain helped keep them from being overheard, they covered their mouths to protect against spies who could read lips, and the presence of a large quantity of water lent a feeling of security against fire elementals.
“What did you think of Lady Stalsun?” asked Teron.
“I don’t trust her,” said Praxle. “I think she knew more than she was letting on.”
“But masters,” asked Jeffers, “if she did know for a fact that both of you tried to approach the library a second time last night, why did she not endeavor to catch you in a lie?”
“I don’t pay you to think, Jeffers,” said Praxle.
“But he’s got a point,” retorted Teron.
“She was probably just gauging our honesty and openness,” said Praxle. “Seeing how much she’s drawn us into her web of lies.”
“I don’t agree,” said Teron.
“Regardless,” persisted Praxle, “I don’t like her, I don’t like her, I don’t like this city, I don’t like this country, and i don’t like the way things are going. Anyone we meet might be a spy for the Cyrans. And it’s a sure bet that almost everyone is a spy for the Silver Flame. I say we strike against the Camat Library tonight, while things are still unsettled, and before someone makes another try against us.”
“That, I can’t argue,” said Teron. “But can you find the Thrane notes?”
“If you can get me in, Teron, I can get the notes.”
“I can get you in,” said Teron. “And I can get you out.”
In the dark of night, three shadows moved through the streets of Flamekeep, avoiding the larger avenues and their attendant lanterns. A small, dark cat flitted about them, occasionally meowing in the darkness. Bright Eyre descended toward the horizon, but unfortunately that meant that both Sypheros and Vult ascended the sky, bloated and bright like a pair of eyes. It wasn’t a good night for darkness.
The three slid through an alleyway toward the library, passing the charred wreckage of barrels and other detritus. The stink of ash still lingered in the air.
“Right,” whispered Praxle. “Jeffers? Remain here, watch our escape. You’ll be the most use if you draw away any patrols that threaten to cut us off.”
Jeffers nodded.
“Ready, Praxle?” asked Teron.
“Naturally.”
The monk and the sorcerer scooted across the street and into the ashen remnants of flora that now surrounded the library. Teron moved slowly forward until he felt the air grow taut with the magical effects of the warding spell. Since the brush had largely burned away, he stood up, looked around, and aligned the posture of his body to a narrow angle to the wall. He hyperventilated. As he felt his lips start to tingle, he sealed his lungs, leaned slightly to the right, and clenched his abdomen as hard as he could. The extra pressure and oxygen combined to push his brain over the edge, and he allowed himself to slide into unconsciousness.
His body fell forward, buckling to the right, and he flopped past the warding without incident. He came to a moment later, and sat up, scanning the area for any alarm.
A gnomish whisper slithered out of the darkness. “That can’t be good for your brain, Teron. You need to take care of it, if you intend to practice more magic.”
“I’ll be fine,” said the monk.