"I can read a bit of it," said one of the young scribes.
"Shut your mouth!" Shilwise barked, and turned back to Rodian. "If you've spoken with a'Seatt, then you know all scriptoriums working on this project have signed contracts of silence, backed by decree of the royal family. Until you have written court orders to counter that, I won't be caught in a breach. I have a reputation to maintain."
"It wouldn't help anyway," added the young scribe. "It's mostly gibberish."
"What did I just tell you?" Shiheyell youlwise warned.
"Be quiet!" Rodian barked, and pushed past the paunchy shop owner, closing on the scribe. "What do you mean?"
The young man was rather gangly, with oily black locks pushed back from his high forehead. His deep-set eyes flickered once to his employer.
"The syllabary is just a system for recording… syllables… how things are spoken—in any language. It saves space, and hence paper or parchment, versus all the different letter systems for various languages. But what little I can make out, I couldn't make sense of."
"Why?" Rodian asked. "What languages did you encounter?"
"I couldn't even say. Bits of it seemed like Sumanese, but I don't know. And others…" The young scribe just shook his head.
"That's enough," Shilwise warned. "Captain, if you want to know any more, go ask the sages. I've no idea why someone did this to my shop for a folio of nonsense. But if I find out the content was dangerous, my solicitor will file charges with the high advocate… for the guild offering work under false pretenses."
Rodian ignored the shop master's blustering threat and looked about the workroom.
"You're certain nothing else is missing?"
"I'm certain of nothing," Shilwise snapped. "Not until we sift through all of this. But it's the only thing I've noted so far. Now, if you're finished, may we start putting things back in order?"
"No." Rodian waved the scribes aside and pushed through the swinging door. "When my lieutenant finishes questioning your neighbors, he will go over the shop. Do not touch anything until he tells you."
Rodian headed out, his gaze fixed on the empty front door frame.
One massive blow seemed to have smashed out the door, for wood shards lay in a sprayed pattern, suggesting they all fell at the same time. How—and why—would someone who had managed to get inside, ransack the workroom, and steal the folio, then have to break
How had the culprit gained entrance?
Perhaps someone had let him in. But then why break out?
This was the second folio to have gone missing in the span of two nights. He still had no information regarding the content of either one. Once again Rodian's only option was the sages.
Ghassan il'Sänke slowed in surprise upon entering the guild's common hall for breakfast.
There was Wynn, sitting between two gray-robed apprentices of her order, eating a bowl of boiled oats.
He knew she preferred to eat in her room, but not this morning. Her left-side companion was a young man the others often called Nervous Nikolas.
Wynn looked up, and her spoon halted halfway to her mouth. She nodded aze. She npolitely to Ghassan. Normally he too preferred to take his repast in his quarters or while working elsewhere. But this uncommon sight, of her willingly out among the populace, piqued his interest.
"Boiled oats again?" he said as he approached. "At my home branch there are honey cakes every morning, in case nothing else seems appealing."
Wynn half smiled, setting down her spoon. "Then how do you stay so thin?"
"Oh, ages of living in near-constant distress," he answered.
She smiled openly at this. "You are hardly that old."
No, Ghassan thought, one would not think so. Nikolas and the other one—Miriam was her name—both stared in fright as he sat down across the table.
"I… I need to get started on cleanup," Miriam stammered, rising quickly to scurry off.
Such a plain-faced, pudgy girl—her eyes were too small for her face. But apparently High-Tower had found something promising in her. The old dwarf once mentioned that he had rarely known such an apprentice who comprehended the syllabary's complex system so easily. But most apprentices grew uncomfortable in Ghassan's presence.
For one, he was an exotic-looking foreigner, taller than normal for his people, and of distinguished elder appearance—or so he liked to think. Second, he was a domin of metaology.
The Order of Metaology in Calm Seatt was smaller and less prominent than in Ghassan's own branch, but still treated with some reserve—as were all the metaologers. In most cases rumors of the order's abilities were exaggerated. The only true work they did in magic was mostly in thaumaturgy via artificing, which included alchemical processes. They were responsible for making cold lamp crystals and other minor items used by the guild.
In other rare cases, rumors fell slightly short of the truth—something Ghassan kept to himself.
