Again, Wynn ignored the slight.
"I prefer to start with his earlier life," she corrected. "Can you direct me to his family?"
At this, Mallet straightened on his stool as if thinking carefully.
Wynn grew worried that she'd asked the wrong thing but had no idea why it was wrong. Had she made Mallet suspicious?
He looked her straight in the eyes. "I do not know an exact location and can only point the way. He hails from the Yêarclág—the Iron-Braids, in your tongue. A small family, and the last I knew, they lived in Chemarré … in its underside."
Wynn faltered once more. "Underground?"
Shirvêsh Mallet didn't answer.
Chemarré, or "Sea-Side," was one of the seatt's four main settlements, situated on the mountain's far side facing the open ocean and the Isle of Wrêdelîd. "Underside" was a polite reference for those living in the deepest—poorest—levels below the surface.
"Go back to the Cheku'ûn market and take the tram to Chemarré," Mallet instructed. "I do not know that settlement's underways, but someone at the Chemarré way station can start you off."
His tone had changed, as if speaking of something embarrassing, but Wynn wasn't finished.
"Shirvêsh, while I'm here, I wanted to conduct research for the guild's archives on the Stonewalkers. So little is … known of …"
Wynn trailed off as Mallet's eyes stopped blinking. His black pupils looked like hard pinpoints.
"Young Hygeorht …" he began, voice lowered, "your guild has ferreted out more than I realized … or did High-Tower mention this to you? How do you know of the Hassäg'kreigi?"
"I've heard the term only a couple of times," Wynn replied. "I know little other than they are a sacred sect among your people."
"Little more is known by my own people," he countered, but the way he spoke implied that he knew more.
Mallet sighed through his nose, plainly resigned to an annoyance he couldn't politely escape. This chat clearly covered much different ground than he'd expected.
"The Stonewalkers, as you call them, are guardians of our most honored dead." He paused, either for emphasis or to weigh his words. "Only Thänæ, who wear the thôrhk around their necks, so marked for their great achievements, are tended by the Stonewalkers. When a thänæ dies … and is to pass into earth … Stonewalkers may come to take him or her to the underworld. In their care, a thänæ of the greatest renown might one far day become known to the people as one of the Bäynæ—what you call our Eternals—and an ancestor to all of us, like our blessed Bedzâ'kenge."
Wynn's fascination didn't stop her from blurting out the obvious questions.
"This ‘underworld,' where the Stonewalkers live … this is a real place? Where can I find it?"
Mallet rolled his eyes and rose, and this time his sigh was disapproving.
"That is not a question to be asked, let alone answered … or recorded!" His tone softened as he patted her shoulder like an indulgent grandfather. "What I have told you is all you need to know. Now, finish your supper, perhaps walk that beast of yours—outside, please! Then focus on your biography of High-Tower. Only the Eternals know if something useful will come of it."
Wynn knew that in his kindness, Mallet had no idea how condescending he could be. She'd pushed the limits of good judgment with her questions, but who knew when she would be granted his undivided attention again? She rose, halting him before he left.
"Shirvêsh, forgive me, but one more question. In all your remembered tales, do you recall anything of a place called Bäalâle Seatt … and someone named Thallûhearag who—"
A rushing pallor flooded Mallet's wrinkled features, and Wynn stiffened in silence.
He looked as if her words had struck him ill. Revulsion spread across his broad face. A long moment followed before his calm finally returned. Wynn grew frightened under his silent scrutiny.
Mallet glanced sidelong over his shoulder, but none of the other shirvêsh had looked up. Either they hadn't heard or they didn't know what Wynn spoke of. Mallet turned on her, leaning into her face as he whispered through clenched teeth, "Where did you hear that title?"
It was so sharp and abrupt that she flinched as she struggled for an answer. She could think of only one.
"Domin High-Tower must have mentioned it to me."
Mallet settled back.
"I am disappointed in my former acolyte," he said. "No one, especially one so young as you, should be told of such a thing … let alone seek it out! It is all but dead in my people's memories, and lives on in fewer by the years … I will not resurrect it!"
The meal hall had grown too quiet.
Barely a murmur passed among the others at the far table. Wynn found herself the object of blank and puzzled stares. She was an outsider who'd given some serious offense.
"Thank you for the meal," she said quietly. "I should check on Chane."
Wynn backed away under Mallet's intense scrutiny, passing her hand over Shade's head to bring the dog along.
"We'll head to the station tonight," she added, "and take the tram to Sea-Side, as you suggested. We might not return for a couple of days."
"You are always welcome," Mallet answered calmly.
But as Wynn hurried toward the main corridor, she grew obsessed with his reaction. Mallet had said nothing of Bäalâle Seatt, and she wasn't about to ask him again anytime soon. But as to Thallûhearag …
Mallet had called that a title, not a name—and a thing not to be remembered. That was a serious condemnation for an oral culture, where loved and honored ones lived on in remembered stories. Why was he so repulsed at the mention? He even wished to deny its immortality in memory … yet whatever, whoever, it was had been given a title, raising it above the common.
It was all very confusing, and try as Wynn might—and she'd done so before—she couldn't decipher the term. Perhaps it was some older form of Dwarvish, one of the most changeable languages known to her guild. As Wynn rounded the temple chamber, her thoughts drifted to Chane.
She and Shade weren't the only ones who needed sustenance. Chane's "food" wasn't pleasant to consider, but she couldn't just let him go hungry. It was unkind, if not dangerous. Wynn looked down, uncertain how much to share with Shade.
Wynn spun about and hurried to the front marble doors.
"Come, Shade. We have an errand to run before dusk."
Chane opened his eyes to a dim glow escaping through slits in the iron pot's lid. A moment's disorientation passed, and as he sat up, the previous night came back to him. He was in a room in the temple of a dwarven "Eternal," and he had fallen dormant while still dressed, creasing and rumpling his clothing.
Rising, he tried to brush out his attire. Without even thinking, he went to check his cloak's inner pocket.
The old scroll case was still there. This action had become a nervous habit.
Deciphering the scroll's mystery was what had brought him to Wynn. It had given him a justifiable reason to seek her out. Losing it would be like losing any chance to stay within her world, aside from the puzzle it held.
His other worldly possessions sat on the floor where he had dropped them, including his cloak and sword. Both packs were lightly stained from a night two years ago when he and Welstiel had abandoned a sinking ship and swum for shore. His own pack contained mainly personal items but also a small collection of texts and parchments acquired from a monastery of healers. They too were water damaged, though he had wrapped them carefully before jumping overboard.
Wynn had not seen these. Considering what Welstiel had done to the monks who had first possessed them, Chane was uncertain whether he would ever show them to her. But it had seemed wrong to abandon them in high, barren mountains.