Teron nodded. “I’ve had worse.” He sighed, half in relief and half in pain. “With all the ruckus we’ve caused, we’d better hope that Lady Hathia followed through on her promise soon, wouldn’t you say, Praxle?”
But the gnome, engrossed in the notes, made no reply.
The Shadow Fox limped into the Cyran hideout, finding her mages still hard at work trying to unravel the secrets of the Sphere of Xoriat.
“Fetch me the chirurgeon,” she said.
“No time,” said Rezam. “This is a fascinating problem, and we can’t leave just yet.”
She scowled and looked them over, haggard hair, dark circles under the eyes, yet a feverish look of excitement on their faces. “Haven’t you taken a break? Gotten some rest?”
“No time! We’re close! I can feel it!”
“Listen, you two, I need someone to stitch me up. Now.”
Rezam rounded on her, “No! Get one yourself! You—”
The Fox whipped out her kama and slashed the wizard just above the eye, opening a long cut. Blood started welling from the wound, then dribbled into his eye. He cried out in pain and pressed his hand to the injury.
“Why you vicious little—”
The Fox dropped the tip of her kama to the soft spot between his collarbones, ready to pierce his larynx. “Now we both need a chirurgeon,” she said. “Send your assistant to get one. Now.”
The wizard’s uncovered eye glared at Fox, filled with spite and fear. He gestured with his free hand, and a gecko suddenly skittered along the wall and out a door. “My familiar will bring one to us,” he said coldly.
“Thank you.”
“That was unnecessarily cruel,” said Rezam.
“Cruel? Granted,” said the Fox. “But unnecessary? I believe you have forgotten who is in charge of this operation.”
Rezam did not answer, but his one open eye glanced briefly at the Sphere.
It was approaching noon by the time Teron was able to leave the Jorasco compound and return to the boardinghouse. He savored the feeling of having his arm and ankle hale once more. He walked briskly, enjoying the warm sun that shone through the cool air.
As he passed by the Phiarlander Phaire on the way back to his rooms, he saw a familiar sight: a carriage parked in front of the tavern, blazoned with the crest of the Stalsun family. Intrigued, he entered the Phaire.
The crowd was light, but it was still a bit early for a luncheon. As he stood by the entrance and surveyed the interior—dark by comparison to the noonday sun outside—he overheard snippets from a number of conversations about the incident at the library the night before. Afire the first night and lightning the second bad sparked the curiosity of the populace.
At last he espied Lady Hathia at a tall table with Praxle and Jeffers, and began to approach.
Kelcie reached out for him from behind the service counter, “Teron—”
“Leave me be,” he said absently. “This is important.”
He smiled slightly as he approached the table; the elegant and haughty lady had obviously refused to debase her stature by sitting on one of the tall bar stools, and instead stood at the table. As he drew closer, Teron also realized that her posture kept the conversation more formal, which was probably exactly what she wanted.
“Good day, Lady,” said Teron as he pulled out one of the stools and sat himself on it.
“You look well,” she replied.
Teron shrugged. “I am.”
“You’re late, Teron,” said Praxle, “I expected you back an hour ago. I could have been reading more of the notes!”
“Notes?” said Lady Hathia.
“We’ve gathered no small amount of information on the Cyran bandits and their methods, as well as a rota of Cyran expatriates in the city, their location, and employment,” said Jeffers easily. “My master has been endeavoring to discern a pattern in an attempt to deduce who might be involved with the Cyrans, and where their safe house might be.”
Lady Stalsun smiled thinly. “I see,” she said. “My dear gentlemen, you should have saved yourselves the bother. I thought I had made my resources clear to you; I have been tracking all manner of questionable personages for some time.”
“That’s fine,” snapped Praxle, “but—”
“With some selective application of pressure among those my people have been watching, we have pieced together the location of the Cyran hideout. We believe it to be where they are holding this relic you seek.” She looked at each of the three foreigners in turn. “I surmise by your silence that you did not believe me capable of deducing its location, nor to be willing to share same with you.”
“Wonderful!” bellowed Praxle. He hopped down from his stool and unceremoniously pumped Lady Hathia’s hand. “My lady, you have earned my eternal gratitude, and I shall have an eternity in which to bless you for your assistance.” He paused for a moment to regroup, and kissed the lady’s hand. “And the gratitude of the Sivis family, and the University as well, of course. You will be handsomely rewarded for your efforts.”
With a subtle look of disgust, the Thrane lady withdrew her hand from Praxle’s grasp. “Be at my estate at sundown,” she said. “Come prepared. You shall be taken to the location of the Cyrans’ refuge. There, under cover of nightfall, you shall enter and recover your relic. My people cannot assist you; the political standing of my house is tenuous at best. However, I shall deploy them about the vicinity of the Cyrans’ lair to ensure that any city watch patrols that threaten to interrupt your work are instead directed elsewhere. Is that clear?”
The other three nodded.
“Thank you for your assistance. The sooner this dangerous item is out of the hands of the Cyrans and safely away from Thrane, the better.” She turned and started to leave, but stopped and looked askance at them. “I expect that I shall be able to prevail upon the church and the university alike for an equitable consideration in the future,” she said. It was not a question.
Teron nodded. Praxle bowed, and said, “Most assuredly. You will have the favor of the most powerful of … of organizations to be found anywhere in Khorvaire.”
She nodded slightly, eyes half lidded. Then she turned away and walked sedately out the door to her waiting carriage.
Teron sighed contentedly. “Time for me to break my fast,” he said. He turned to the kitchen and called, “Kelcie?”
After a moment, the one-eyed cook appeared. “She done left, masters,” he said. “What can I get for ya?”
“How are you doing, Fox?” Two Cyrans entered the room and closed the door behind them.
“Who’s there?” asked Fox, turning her head on the pillow.
“It’s Dyen.”
The Shadow Fox lay on her stomach on the bed, the bandage over her haunch pink with blood. “I’m not doing very well,” she said.
“This is a nice room,” said Dyen, taking in the comfortable bed, the sunlight streaming in the windows, and the overstuffed chair. “That should help.”
Fox grunted.
“We brought you something to sup on. Thought you might like a tad for your stomach.”
“Thanks,” she said, and took a half a large roll. Her hands trembled as she drew it to her mouth.
“What’s the matter, Fox?” asked Dyen.
She chewed her bread for a moment, then tucked it into one cheek. “I think that bastard little gnome had a poisoned blade,” she muttered.
“Who is he? I’ll kill him for you.”
“Don’t,” said the Fox. “He’s from the University. Pretty high up, I understand. We don’t want gnomes chasing after his killers, prying into our business, right?” She looked at them and saw assent, if not agreement. “There is, however, something you can do to hurt them,” she said. “I know they’ve been chasing the Sphere ever since we found it. And it appears that they, too, know about the Thrane notes.”
“What notes are those?”
“Ah,” said Fox. “Apologies; I forgot you didn’t know. During the Last War, one of our agents discovered that the Thranes had an ancient relic borrowed from Zilargo. We believed it had been used against Aundair and subsequently lost. We also had strong indications that the Congress had extensive notes on the relic locked up in its library.” She propped herself up on her elbows to get a better angle at which to look at her compatriots. “When we chanced upon the fact that the Black Globe might have been found, we pounced on it, and managed to grab it. Since I’ve been back, I’ve been trying to figure a way into the library to find those notes.”