The Arcana: Shadow Wars, Codex I

XIII

Caravanserai

In which Sheridan deals with Aristarchus

Sheridan’s nerves jangled. A week and three days since his last furtive meeting with Ironwing, and he hadn’t found a way to speak to her since. Landfall was imminent, but his mistress was leaving this part in his hands. How pleasing that she trusted him so.

And how terrifying.

Easy enough for Ironwing to be confident. A dryad queen backed her authority, and even the Huntress offered Her assistance …

… By sending an astral warrior. Why did the thought of such a being make him uneasy? Maybe all those stories he grew up with about foolish sorcerers coming to brutal ends at the hands of their infernal “assistants”?

Except he’d never heard of astral warriors until one showed up. Flummoxed though he was, he reasoned to himself that it wasn’t logical to map the behaviors of an abyssal onto the behaviors of a celestial. He dreaded becoming like those sorcerers who were so casual in their dealings with entities from Erebossa. Respect was due, whether the entity traveled from the Abyssal Serpent’s realm, or the realm of the Everlasting Lands.

Ironwing’s interpretation of aid from the celestial guardians made sense, he decided. And his teacher never once gave him reason to doubt her wisdom. Which was fortunate, as he was obliged to put his faith in it now.

Thrill and terror coexisted in a strange equilibrium in his heart and mind. Life was now more exciting than he ever dreamed, in ways he never expected. Traveling by boat, for instance. How had he never considered that he must do such a thing to explore the Gold Sea? And traversing the sea was an experience.

For one thing, it obliged him to sleep in a bed. The rocking of the boat, and the length of time it took for him to gain his sea legs, discouraged Sheridan from his custom of sleeping on the floor. The first day of wrenching and heaving his innards found him staring in baleful contemplation at this odd bit of furniture. Would a bed be worth the effort? People must have a good reason for sleeping in the blasted things, right? Even Ironwing used one.

Finally he figured it might be something to tell hypothetical grandchildren about. He gave it a go.

It was strange.

The bed was too soft, and he wondered if his back would be ruined. Still, though, it was exciting. And excitement was what he sought, wasn’t it?

Tranquility. The quintessence of life in Grandfather’s cottage. Having nothing to compare it to, Sheridan felt only contentment at the quiet uneventfulness of his environment.

Then he met outsiders.

Strangers who came not only from beyond his forest, but from beyond even the lands beyond the forest. Two of them hailed from Rasena Valentis, and for the first time Sheridan heard of the Gold Sea.

Ten years old and his mind awakened, with an appetite whetted for adventure.

Passing peddlers provided him with scrolls and maps revealing to him the vastness of Lyrcania, and the breadth of the Gold Sea. Many lands, many many lands in and around the Gold Sea, all holding the promise of new and fascinating adventures.

When Sheridan began to range beyond the distance he could travel and return home before sunset, Grandfather decided it was time: Sheridan must be trained. In his youth Grandfather had befriended an itinerant venator, a priest of the Huntress. To him he entrusted with cultivating Sheridan’s affinity for the wilds, and his sense of stewardship over them.

And so the priest trained Sheridan in the ways of the Huntress. On his fifteenth birthday Grandfather presented him the opportunity to journey to a temple to further his training.

The venator explained, “You would make a great priest, young man. You understand the way of our Exalted Eagle, and I believe you’re a fit candidate to learn Her Mysteries.”

So came his first journey, to a temple a two week’s walk from the woods of Serica. For several years Sheridan trained and studied, until his teachers approached him one morning.

“There is a temple dedicated to the Huntress in Ebon Cove. If you would serve our goddess, prepare yourself and go there.”

Ebon Cove. A city. A city. Shouldn’t the temples of the Eagle Eyed One only be found in the wilderness? What was this one doing in a city? Then common sense caught up with him: a sorcerer’s powers diminished in the absence of a temple to the deity they pledged allegiance to. They drew powers from the worship and sacrifices of the faithful. And of course, they themselves must make sacrifices upon the altars dedicated to their god or goddess.

“Something is afoot there,” the priest said. “I think you will find your skills are needed, if not your unswerving devotion. Go.”

Coming to Ebon Cove introduced the side effect of encountering a multitude of people, more than he ever met before in his life. Before he could fully adjust to the experience the priests introduced him to Ironwing.

To this day Sheridan was unsure what he thought of her. The isolation he grew up with gave him little to compare her to, but he already understood she was unsettling. Add living with her into the mix, and well … he still wasn’t sure. Too many aspects of her left him mystified, and not only because she was the youngest woman he ever talked to for any length of time.

Now he had to pretend to be someone else, even though he yet had a shaky grip on how to blend in with society as himself.

Silence.

That was Sheridan’s policy: say as little as possible. Let Aristarchus feel the silence, let him talk, and he would engrave a target on every bullet in Sheridan’s sling, as it were.

And boy did the man talk. Something troubled the smuggler. So much so he spent the first part of their voyage ranting about the extreme disruption Ironwing inflicted on his business. Oh, he didn’t name her—he didn’t realize she existed. All he knew were the consequences of her actions, but the flayers had loomed large in everyone’s talk with him. The flayers distracted him so much he didn’t look too deeply into the cause of his misfortune.

At first Aristarchus attributed happenstance to the flayers’ attack on Fellrath. Because Fellrath was his protector and facilitated his operations, it made sense Fellrath’s death resulted in disaster. It would have to, wouldn’t it? The timing was bad, that’s all.

But when Sheridan revealed the flayers were targeting everyone involved in abducting the dryads, Aristarchus lost his everlovin’ mind. It took all of Sheridan’s strength to block the door of his cabin and prevent the hysterical man from running out to the secret compartment to retrieve the sarcophagus. The man wanted to heave it into the depths, but Sheridan appealed to his probable fear of the Sea Lord.

“Maybe the Great Dragon King won’t be indifferent about you drowning the daughter of the Huntress. Leave the thing alone.”

Aristarchus then wanted to open the sarcophagus and throw himself on the mercy of the dryad he thought was trapped inside. But as the ornate stone coffin was filled only with honey — the usual preservative for long-distance transport of the dead — Sheridan was forced to stoke the man’s terror.

“Will she listen to you? Or will she summon a flayer to eat you alive? Better to get her to the other side and deliver her to an aerie. Tell the priests there to open the sarcophagus at sunset or sunrise or whichever time gives you enough of a head start so they can’t pursue you.”

Lyrcanians referred to the temples of the Huntress as aeries, partially because they were frequently built in mountains or hill summits; Sheridan assumed they were also called such in other nations as well.

The idea didn’t calm Aristarchus for he had another worry, one more immediately apt to inflict agony: Ironwing had cost him money. The Watch’s raid on his cargo resulted in several lucrative lost sales, and the loss of valuable contraband. Buyers he had lined up in Xia now would be cheated of the goods they had made a down payment on. He owed other ‘associates’ money, and his lost commissions severely compromised his ability to pay that money.

So, Lyrcania’s waters were at a simmer for him, and he needed to flee before they boiled over entirely. To the Western Reaches he would seek refuge, or to Gandhar at the very least. Every day Sheridan listened to Aristarchus run down different strategies to overcome his circumstances.

Sheridan indulged him with sympathetic noises. Really? Oh, my. What a shame. How awful for you.

By the Huntress he missed Ironwing! She who never spoke unless she had something to say! An endearing trait she shared with Grandfather. Aristarchus acted as if he were under a compulsion spell to speak, but he did so to little purpose. If only he would reveal enough secrets to justify the noise he made!

Aristarchus perked up after they made landfall on the Isle of Katabasis. He sussed out old contacts, and called in a few favors.

“They’ll pacify my buyers in Xia,” he reported to Sheridan when he returned to the ship. “Might even dream of showing my face there again. Damn that Watch! Damn that Palamara bastard to the outer Abyss! If only the Lords of Chaos had managed to kill him, then I wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“Uh-hmm,” Sheridan murmured. The lout believed ignorance superior to valor, so why enlighten him? From the way Aristarchus spoke, he knew of the shadow faction, but not the who or what about them. Only that Junius had held them on his leash, and they did his bidding.

While on the one hand, staying with Aristarchus seemed less useful if the man wasn’t going to enlighten him, on the other hand Ironwing hadn’t given him leave to change course. Besides, Aristarchus had yet to reveal where he took the dryads.

So Sheridan accompanied Aristarchus when they disembarked, and remained with him when they entered the Riftwater Gate. A rippling pool of light that shocked his senses even at a distance when he came within fifty feet of it, and astonished him utterly when at last he stepped through it.

On the other side of the gate the lush lands of Anshan beckoned. In the days to come Sheridan would regard the landscape as a forager’s delight: nettles for medicine, rope, or fabric. Hawthorns for the medlar, although it was much simpler to buy the harvested fruits which had been bletted and turned into treats he bought in street markets. The persimmons he plucked as he pleased, along with the almonds.

In the meantime he found the time to slip away, and pass along a message to Tregarde.

The sorcerer. While the man was a fellow huntsman, it wasn’t lost on Sheridan that the sorcerers of Ebon Cove were corrupt. Maybe it was because he spent so much time with Ironwing investigating the Brotherhood, but from where he stood all Ironwing should have had to do was sound the alarm, and all of the other sorcerers should have joined together in hunting and slaying Fellrath & Friends.

That other venatori in Ebon Cove permitted Fellrath to go unchecked for so many years served as a warning to Sheridan: trust no sorcerer who was not directly allied with Ironwing. The cases he worked with her tested so many of his assumptions. Tests in which the city itself was found wanting.

Now from out of the aether comes a sorcerer committed to the Huntress? Devout and able in serving Her? How…convenient. Was it not more likely Tregarde served the agents of Erebossa, if not Fellrath? Somehow, Sheridan must find a way to test Tregarde the way Ironwing said he’d tested her.

The sorcerer could knife Ironwing in the back when she least expected it, or find a way to thwart her from their mission. To spy on her, or kill her—these he was well-placed to do, if he possessed the will to do so.

Thus, what terror haunted Sheridan on the voyage was not for himself, but for Ironwing: might Tregarde throw her overboard? For her sake Sheridan prayed to the Huntress, that the Exalted Mother would spring on Tregarde any trap he set for Her faithful servant.

When he was finished with Aristarchus he was going to find out Tregarde’s intentions once and for all.

Five grueling hours after passing through the Gate, the inspectors released them. Most of the crew of the Obsidian Stinger remained on the other side of the Gate, but Aristarchus brought along enough to form a small party to bring himself and Sheridan to a caravanserai a mile beyond the Gate.

An underground caravanserai. This detail fascinated Sheridan, and he hoped to have time to explore this wayfarer’s resting stop. Partly an inn, a bathhouse, a marketplace, and whatever else, the caravanserai seemed a wondrous place.

A place Aristarchus must visit often, because he proved to have a ‘usual’ suite. The staff at the caravanserai knew him, and took care to confirm which of his favorite refreshments and amenities they should bring to him. Which meant, Sheridan noted, that Aristarchus lived as a man who never expected to be prey: he should have left a well-marked trail for them to follow.

Proof of this came swiftly enough, when the innkeeper handed Aristarchus a stack of sealed letters, all addressed to him.

In the sitting room of his sumptuous suite Aristarchus tore through the seals and read the letters. With each one he became more and more agitated, until the final letter when he rose up from his couch, seized a vase and hurled it against the wall. He let out a shout so fierce Sheridan was tempted to make himself scarce.

But he kept his nerve. “Anything I can do?”

Aristarchus kicked over a tripod bearing another vase and let the vase shatter at his feet. Heedless of the sharp fragments now littering the floor he stalked to the one chest he hadn’t had sent to his bedroom.

From this chest he brought forth a cipher cylinder.

Black obsidian glass gleamed in the glowlights suspended from the ceiling as Aristarchus held up the cylinder, and turned it over in his hands.

Memory overtook Sheridan, of the vanished doors and windows of Junius Fellrath’s study. And of the singular threat represented by the monster figure guarding the cylinder.

Soul thief.

So Ironwing named the monster later, after her visit with the dryad queen.

Every muscle in Sheridan’s body contracted. It took him longer than he liked to tamp down all signs of nervousness before he ventured to ask, “What do you do with that thing?”

No need to feign or suppress curiosity; the cylinder was unusual enough that only a dullard would not openly wonder about it. Or so Sheridan gambled. If Fellrath’s top men could be believed, then very few in the Brotherhood would have seen those cylinders.

Aristarchus smiled wolfishly. “Insurance. Raw power. And a way out for me.”

“Oh?” Did Aristarchus’s cylinder also contain the “nectar” of the abyssals? “Does that thing summon monsters of your choice? I see the leukrokrotta, and lamia, and the wolf sign—”

“Yeah, this doesn’t do that, boy.” Aristarchus returned to the couches and set the cylinder on the low table between his couch and Sheridan’s. “My buyers in Xia might be appeased, but that damn Palamara cost me far too much over on this side. Thought I could sail here ahead of the news and tell it in my own way, but with Junius dead”—he exhaled through his teeth—“I can’t sail faster than a call globe.”

Right, Junius had wielded the power to transport ships extraordinary distances in the blink of an eye.

“What do they know? The people on this side?”

Only one of the letters, carelessly tossed to the floor, was visible from Sheridan’s vantage point. Unfortunately, he didn’t recognize whatever language it was written in.

“What do you think? My lost cargo this, and my lost cargo that. Oooh, I’ll rip that Palamara’s tongue out and make him eat it! Oh, and they found out about him, too, that he’s watching, and I can’t take a piss in Lyrcania without him knowing about it.”

The smuggler’s stubby fingers hovered over the cylinder monster. Sheridan held his breath. True to form, Aristarchus filled the silence.

“Junius had him a covenant with the Queen, and it covers me. Limits my options, though. Still have one move to make, with what I’ve got in here.” He tapped the cylinder. “If this doesn’t work I’m dead. So now comes the time you make yourself useful to me, boy.”

“Sure,” Sheridan said cautiously. Then he decided on another gamble. “Look, I’m not sure about this Covenant—I’m just an errand boy, right? But if it comes down to knives out I’ll watch your back if you’re watching mine. Tell me what you need.”

For several uncomfortable moments Aristarchus eyed him. “Yes. Yeah, I think you are going to help me. Listen up.”

They met in a backroom, near the stables. Precisely at noon, when the sun climbed to its zenith in the sky above ground. A significant time, especially if sorcery was afoot, or so Sheridan learned during his training. Sometimes the sun’s location mattered even when the spell casters were conducting subterranean conferences.

“Timon, old boy, you came,” Zenon trilled, in what Sheridan learned was an Anshani accent. Though he bowed low, he kept his eyes raised. Assessing them, as Sheridan assessed him in turn: Rich man who clothed his wiry frame in fine silk trousers and a smart tunic. Anshani fashions, as Sheridan concluded based on the passersby thronging the caravanserai.

So. This was the Anshan side of Fellrath’s operation.

Aristarchus smiled tightly. He took Zenon’s hand in his own and kissed his gold signet ring. “Fine fettle you look to be in, my friend. Life has been good to you?”

“Indeed. And you? Have you a new errand boy?” He eyed Sheridan with open curiosity.

“Point of fact, Zenon, he’s for you. A learned scribe, to educate your children. I found him in Lyrcania, and he can speak Pelasgian ever so fancy. And Rasenan, too.”

The cover story Aristarchus came up with, and Sheridan agreed to play along. So he looked his most biddable and only nodded, mute.

Zenon was astonished by Aristarchus’s generosity. What had he done to deserve such favor? An apt question, and the most sensible thing Sheridan had heard all day in Aristarchus’s presence.

“Besides being a faithful and loyal business partner? Of course, you need him more than I do. Did you bring the good wine? Let’s drink.”

This was Aristarchus being charming? Huh.

Zenon’s always been a slippery weasel. Tells two lies for one truth. With this nectar he won’t put one by me. I’ll know when he lies. But when I speak he’ll fall in line. Can’t resist me. Not with this in my blood. When it’s all over, he’ll be on my leash.

So Aristarchus said, before putting the bottle of fell liquid to his lips and knocking it back. A chance to discover what powers an Erebossan’s ichor conferred upon the one who consumed it, and for this reason alone Sheridan decided not to slip away.

Zenon gestured to a little table he’d already prepared. Only two chairs, which naturally excluded Sheridan. The excuse he needed to stand behind Aristarchus and size up the three bodyguards trailing in Zenon’s wake.

Of course Aristarchus didn’t bring any guards. Why should he, with infernal blood in his veins? What threat could any mortal man pose to him? Nor was he counting on Sheridan to protect him, as he didn’t provide him with any weapons. Neither did he know Sheridan carried his own weapons, carefully hidden on his person.

All the same, Zenon’s guards were not soft men. They loomed over Sheridan. Fighting them head on would be sheer folly on his part, given his sparse experience with hand-to-hand combat. Shots from his bow scared off poachers without him standing face to face with them. Outlaws tended to give Grandfather’s cabin a wide berth, on account of patrols by venatori such as Grandfather’s friend.

Instead of fighting, Sheridan’s own skills ran to tracking. Quarry did not evade him, absent cunning stratagems. Whether four-legged prey in the countryside, or two-legged in the city, if Sheridan set out to hunt for it, he found it. This fact he took pride in, because he didn’t require sorcery, just skills he spent a lifetime cultivating and honing. From the time he learned to walk Grandfather insisted Sheridan learn the mundane methods of being a huntsman.

Our Huntress blesses those who learn Her ways to the best of their abilities. Don’t call on Her for every little thing you could do yourself, if you but make the effort.

However.

In a crowded marketplace, the multitude of travelers created too many variables. Which meant Sheridan took the practical option of laying a trail by imprinting his aura on certain objects he passed by as he walked in the wake of Aristarchus.

Ironwing—or Tregarde—would read his auras with ease. They would know if he sensed danger, and be on their guard as well.

Zenon poured. As though he were a man of refined tastes, Aristarchus sniffed at the wine in his cup. A cup wrought of beautiful cameo glass depicting frolicking naiads, the sort of object Ironwing referred to as “a work of skilled hands.”

“Ah, you did bring the good stuff,” Aristarchus said, smiling widely. “To many more successes—”

“Not so fast,” Zenon interrupted. “I don’t wish to be crass, but there is still the matter of your delivery. I notice you have brought no men with you to carry anything. Should I take that as a sign?”

“A sign of what?”

Zenon glanced at his bodyguards. “Do you think me unaware of events in Ebon Cove? The flayers. Junius Fellrath. Did you know the temple has fallen as well? Haven’t peeled the full onion on that one, but something scary happened there. And the next day, those damn huntsmen destroyed it.”

Raised eyebrows from Aristarchus. “The temple fell? That’s news to me. Are you sure it’s gone? Who could have done that?”

“Reports are still coming in. I keep hearing one name, though. Someone they wanted to take down, a battle priestess of the city watch. And I hear tell she’s the one who summoned the flayers. Our people captured her and brought her in. Couple hours later, she walked out. By herself, so Markos tells it. Every priest who was in the temple that night is dead.”

Zenon watched Aristarchus’s face.

“I’m confused,” Aristarchus said. “Who is this priestess? Flayers this, flayers that—it’s all those whoresons at the Watch went on about. Flayers killed Junius. Bastard Watchmen robbed me. I barely got away before they snatched the smallclothes off my ass. Now you tell me we ran an operation against an agent of a False One? Who authorized that? Why didn’t I hear about it?”

“You make it sound as if they answer to you.”

Sheridan’s ears perked up.

Aristarchus’s nostrils flared, like a bull’s. “Don’t talk like I’m some lackey. Do you have any idea what this cock-up has done to my business? I want a name. Who ran this so-called raid? Rav? Clawfoot? If they’re that damned sloppy they need to be replaced.”

By the smile playing on Zenon’s lips, Sheridan suspected he was enjoying some measure of power over Aristarchus. Apparently in Fellrath’s Brotherhood, power and control went to whomever hoarded the most knowledge.

“To what end? Soon enough, none of this will matter,” Zenon said. “My word is my bond on this; trust me. I suggest you hide yourself somewhere safe place, Timon. The Eel will be sweeping in soon, as per the best of my sources. Keep alert for news in the West. And get yourself right. Anybody found wanting is gonna wanna stay far, far away.”

Aristarchus grabbed the front of Zenon’s tunic and yanked, forcing Zenon to lean over the table. Everyone started, with Zenon’s guards gripping their sword hilts and Sheridan sidestepping to the right. The better to get closer to the door. Unsurprisingly the infernal effluent made Aristarchus short tempered, but did it also confer unnatural speed? Could he intercept Sheridan before he made it thirty feet to the door?

“Stay away? Why?” Aristarchus demanded. “I got the dryad. The last one out, looks like. Going straight to the Eye. The Eel’s got no cause to be angry with me. Lies! Every word that passes your teeth is a lie!”

Now Zenon’s men moved in. One of them grabbed Aristarchus’s neck, and shoved him back. Zenon collapsed on the table top, knocking over the cups. Red wine spilled, pouring over the table and cascading to the floor.

Followed by blood.

With one hand Aristarchus seized the bodyguard’s forearm, and with his left he sliced into the guard’s inner elbow and kept going. The bodyguard screamed, looking from his bloody stump to the forearm still in Aristarchus’s hands.

What would haunt Sheridan was the expression on Aristarchus’s face. The man stared in obvious confusion at the arm in his hands. His eyes grew wide and his lips trembled as horror took over. Then, almost as quickly, his expression hardened, his mouth formed a rictus … and something inhuman looked out through his eyes.

Cackling with wild abandon, Aristarchus wielded the man’s forearm like a club, knocking him out. Zenon righted himself, gaining his feet and scrambling back. Sheridan and Zenon’s guards skipped backwards.

“Timon!” Zenon cried.

Aristarchus shoved aside the table, clearing a path to Zenon. Frozen in place, Zenon stared dumbly at Aristarchus, but the lone sorcerer in his guardsmen proved to have faster reflexes. The sorcerer whipped out his wand and shouted. In the blink of an eye the tip of his wand bloomed red. Sparks burst and flared on Aristarchus’s clothes. In three heartbeats he became a human fire lamp.

Yet still he moved.

Aristarchus growled. Still holding the first guard’s arm, he swung for the third guard. Crunch. The man fell to the floor.

Fire swirled about him, burning away his clothes, but Aristarchus was not consumed: his skin remained unburnt.

This time Zenon’s cries were wordless, accompanied by sobs. Trembling, he cowered behind his sorcerer, who in turn danced sideways, desperate to escape the flaming maniac.

Sheridan found his voice. “Run!”

Aristarchus lunged. He narrowly missed the sorcerer. The guard bolted, brushing past Sheridan as Zenon fell forward, landing flat on his face. Aristarchus wheeled. Zenon screamed again.

There was no time to even think about it. Sheridan reached into his tunic and pulled out the flintlock. Don’t panic. Don’t panic. DON’T. PANIC!

His hand shook. No precision shot was needed here; it sufficed to aim for the body in general. He fired.

Aristarchus recoiled. He clutched at his heart. Zenon busied himself screaming and trying to stand up. He managed to half crabwalk and half rise before finding his feet again. He dashed past Sheridan.

The flames subsided. Aristarchus dropped to his knees. Blood trickled down his chin. He stared at Sheridan, brown eyes wide with astonishment.

He started to speak, but blood bubbled out first.

Sheridan edged to the door. He was not sure what would happen if he killed the man. Would a demon be unleashed? Or would he die like any other man?

“By the Huntress. What a party we missed, eh Saka?”

Sheridan spun on his heel.

Ironwing and Tregarde had arrived.

“Contain him, Tregarde,” Ironwing ordered.

“One abyssal container, coming right up,” Tregarde said. With a snap of his fingers, a silvery bubble enveloped Aristarchus.

The sea captain tried once more to speak, but all that came out was a wheeze this time. His eyes rolled into the back of his head.

The death rattle was unsettling, loud and shifting, the way the air was disturbed when a large dragon was flying overhead. Sheridan jumped back; Ironwing coolly kept her eyes on Aristarchus.

She reached inside her tunic and pulled out her astrolabe, which she’d transferred to a necklace. She eyed Aristarchus.

Sheridan calmed. It had taken a few minutes for the abyssals to rise from the shadow priests, he remembered. Ironwing must have wanted to find out exactly how long it took.

“Are you hurt?” she asked.

Sheridan shook his head at first, but she still wasn’t looking at him so he forced himself to speak.

“Nothing happened to me. I think Aristarchus meant to do something to the wine, but Zenon didn’t drink it. Zenon!”

Ironwing jerked her head up.

Sheridan explained.

Ironwing narrowed her eyes. “The Eye again. And now an Eel?”

Without warning the body began to shrivel. Mottled skin turned various shades of green and grey as it wrinkled, as though pulled close like a drawstring bag. Nothing further happened, though, and Ironwing snapped her watch shut.

“Tregarde,” she said. She reached into her satchel and pulled out an iron stylus.

The sorcerer took it. He reached inside the shield and slashed into what was left of Aristarchus’s chest. By the time he handed the instrument to her, Ironwing had already taken out her blood codex.

She wrote his name with a swift, sure hand. Ink snaked down the page, forming words. Names. Sheridan’s heart skipped a beat; the magic of the book unnerved him.

Ironwing slammed the book shut. “Zenon.”

But Zenon had to wait. Alia’s first priority was the disposal of Aristarchus’s body, which she accomplished by burning it with holy fire fueled by dragon’s blood.

It was safer that way.

The other two bodies were less readily disposed of, but Alia had an idea. Finding Zenon was but the work of a moment. All they had to do was follow the echo of shouts to the epicenter of the hysterical racket in the caravanserai’s antechamber.

Zenon was arguing back and forth with the innkeeper. He was forced to divide his attention between the keeper and his porters, but it looked as if sheer force of will and persistent shouting was going to win the day.

Alia stepped forward. She screamed.

It came out loud and piercing, and several people clamped their hands over their ears. With everyone’s eyes on her, Alia dramatically unfurled her arm, extending her index finger unmistakably in Zenon’s direction.

“He’s the killer!” she cried. “He killed those men! Oh my stars. Oh my goodness, he’s the killer! Arrest that man!”

Silence.

Alia put a little more effort into it, trying to do what she thought Serafina would do if she were in one of her plays.

Suddenly, the others moved. Guards swarmed out of nowhere, surrounding Zenon. One of them came over to Alia, and gently asked her to explain. In dramatic fashion she recounted hearing the screams of the men and seeing Zenon run from the room.

Though he babbled frantically, Zenon could not overcome the guards’ instincts to pay heed to a beauteous damsel in distress. Thus, they dragged him away, to be taken to the local authorities.

The crowd dispersed, the excitement over.

“You know we’re just gonna have to break him out of there,” Tregarde pointed out, drawing even with her. He and Sheridan had hung back.

“Unnecessary,” Alia assured him. “We just need Zenon out of the way so Sheridan can slip in with his men, and they will take us to the place they’re sending the dryads.”

Tregarde arched an eyebrow. “Removing an enemy from the battlefield in plain sight, without him realizing you’re his enemy? Impressive, ‘Lady Saka.’ Impressive indeed.”