Althou Vwasgh Chane wasn't fluent in the Begaine syllabary, back in Bela, Wynn and Domin Tilswith had explained how it worked. Not an actual alphabet, it was for rendering word parts or syllables. Based on blending and simplifying the strokes of modern Numanese's thirty-eight letters, and combined with additional special marks, it could be used to transcribe almost any known language. It saved space versus almost any other writing system, and for those who could read it, it was faster to take in what was written.
Chane had a passable grasp of spoken Numanese, but he was not fully proficient at reading or writing it. Even in his own notes, any Numanese terms he used were written with Belaskian letters.
The sages' script would be a struggle, but he had to know what kind of texts Wynn had chosen from the vast library of the ice-trapped castle. Especially—specifically—whether any related to the mysterious blacked-out scroll. He had to see what was in the folio, and he waited long before the shop's front door finally creaked open again.
"Out with you," said someone with a reedy voice. "All of you."
"Do you have the key?" a girl asked.
"No, I left it inside to annoy you… now scoot! Master a'Seatt is waiting."
Chane shifted to the roof's edge and peered over the eave.
A dark-haired man in a charcoal jerkin, carrying a wide-brimmed black hat, stood below on the street. An old, balding short man in spectacles shooed scribes from the shop. A young girl with kinky hair and dark skin followed in the old one's hobbling footsteps as they stepped out.
Chane stiffened under a tingle that made him shudder.
Something about the dark-haired man unsettled him. But his extended awareness as an undead had grown dull from his wearing Welstiel's ring for so long.
A key scraped in the lock. Soon all of the shop's staff strode down the street. And Chane lost any hint of that strange sensation. He turned his attention back to the shop below.
Closing his eyes, he lay down and leaned his head all the way over the eave. In a deep inhale, he tried to drink in the scent from the night air—tried to smell for any living thing still inside.
There was nothing but a lingering after-scent. He listened carefully as well, but the scriptorium seemed empty for the night. He pushed back atop the roof, contemplating the best method of entry.
Breaking through the door or a window was not an option. Someone might see or hear him this early at night. There was only one other way. He roused the bestial part of himself that always hungered for a kill.
Hunger surfaced, hardening his fingernails and filling his cold flesh with strength.
Crawling to the shop's rear, Chane dug his fingernails into the roof's shakes.
He pried up and removed seven as quietly as he could and found the underplanking was solid and sound—troublesome but expected. Rising slightly [isiove, he scanned the street once for anyone in sight, and then punched through the planks. He kept at it, clearing a hole large enough to pass through.
As he dropped lightly into the shop's rearmost room, he fully widened his sight. The scribe's workroom was so sealed off from outside light that even he had difficulty. He barely made out worktables, chairs, and the lighter tone of piled parchment and paper.
He felt his way about, recognizing objects clearly only when he was close enough. At the back shelves he found a lantern and an old tin cup full of crude wooden matches. He lit the lantern, turning its knob until only dim illumination filled the space. Leaving the lantern in place, he turned to scan the room.
Where would a master scribe or proprietor secure the folio?
And there it was. A leather folio lay on a short side table beside the largest desk just two steps away.
Chane took those two steps and then hesitated.
Why was it out in plain sight? This seemed too unprofessional. Perhaps the scribes had worked late, being too far behind in their efforts, and the folio had not been properly stored away. But even that did not seem plausible.
Chane picked up the folio.
By its thickness and heft, all the guild notes and excerpts were still inside. He glanced across the near desk and quickly at the others in the room. All were cleared and orderly. No transcription work appeared to be left lying about, so perhaps that had been stored away.
He pulled the folio's leather lace and opened its flap.
At the sight of the sheets, all scribbled upon in ink and charcoal strokes, his shoulders sagged in relief. But he could not linger here, nor turn up the lamp and risk its light being spotted through even the crack of a shutter. He turned down the lamp until its flame snuffed out and quietly hurried out to the shop's front room.
Carefully cracking open a window, enough to do the same with its outer shutter, Chane held the stack of pages close. He angled them until weak light from a street lantern fell upon the top sheet.
This time he sagged in frustration.
