Gael pounded up the Cliff Stair even more furiously than he’d pounded down the Regenen Stair earlier in the morning. Only this time he was furiously angry instead of furiously worried.

His ankle clicked with the same fury that hammered through his veins, but if the joint hurt he didn’t notice. He wanted to hit someone. Or break something. Or batter his way upward without stopping, past the battlements, past the clouds, beyond the daylight at the top of the sky into night, far far away from this citadel of trolls.

Well, lacking wings, he’d have to stop. But there were more than thirty twists around the newel post of the Cliff Stair between the melee gallery and the quarters of the magus. And he’d need them all to be able to confront the magus with his wits about him.

He felt sick. He felt disgusted. He hated everything and everyone. So long as he dwelt in Belzetarn under Carbraes, he would be called upon to do deeds he deplored. To condemn heroes to death. To deploy the energea that he’d renounced before ever he entered Carbraes’ ban. Even—he faced it squarely now—to equip the troll legions that waged war on the innocent and unafflicted.

He hated himself. And he still wanted to hit someone, to batter some outer enemy to a pulp.

The stink of the latrines halted him three steps above the clogged hole in the wall where he’d found two of his missing bronze ingots last night. The impetus to keep going throbbed like his pulse, but he forced himself to be rational. He needed to know if his trap had been sprung . . . or not.

The stench rolled out as he opened the latched door. He swung it closed behind him reluctantly, shutting himself in with the smell. He couldn’t afford to let someone see him lingering in the stairwell while manipulating energea.

Opening his inner sight took almost no concentration. Was the practice yesterday and today making him faster? There was an unwelcome thought, amongst all the other unwelcome thoughts. But it was obvious that his trap remained undisturbed. He would check it again later.

Back out on the Cliff Stair, all his former fury descended afresh. He’d expected the hiatus brought by the discipline of observing energea might have yielded a lasting calm, but it did not. He’d set a trap for the troll who’d stolen his bronze, but Gael was the one who felt trapped. And enraged to be so. How dared life serve him up such wretched choices. To be a troll. To do evil to live. To be here. Gah!

He gnashed his teeth, just as the brigenen of the First Cohort—the one who rumor said had started a gladiatorial ring, Dreben—hurtled down around the newel post.

Dreben looked even more infuriated than Gael felt, his fists clenched and his jaw bunching. The brigenen was a little troll, shorter than Gael, but wiry and bandy-legged. His nose hooked down, like Gael’s, but more so. Lines bracketed his bright eyes. A brown leather cap secured by a chin strap framed his angry face. Matching leggings were tucked into his boots. His suede tunic was short and of a very dark red.

The instant he perceived Gael, Dreben screeched, “You foul skunk! Hiding in the regenen’s skirts to keep chambers that should go to the magus!” and aimed a punch.

Gael was ready for it. More than ready, he welcomed it, using the momentum of Dreben’s strike to drive his own fist home, once, twice, thrice. The ribs, the side, quick duck, the chin. He’d wanted to hit someone, and the meaty thunk of his blows connecting felt more than satisfying. Again! Again! And again!

Dreben must have mistaken his opponent for the restrained and mannered troll that Gael ordinarily presented himself as, one who sat at a desk far more than anything else, because the first few moments went entirely Gael’s way.

Once again! Twice. Thrice. Three more solid blows drove Dreben up a few steps and off balance.

As Gael leaped to seize his momentary advantage, one of Carbraes’ messenger boys came rattling down from above, legs pumping as he descended, but face turned over his shoulder, calling an answer to someone out of sight and on high.

Dreben’s foot went back and to the side as he struggled not to fall.

The messenger’s leading shin caught abruptly on Dreben’s calf, and the boy plunged head first.

Gael envisioned the sickening possibility of a fractured skull, a blood-spattered step, the blank, empty face of a dead boy, and his next act took no thought at all. He lunged for the boy, hands frantically grasping for something—anything—that would give him purchase and break the lad’s fall.

His fingers tangled in the folds of the messenger’s caputum—loose across his chest like Keir’s—and Gael gripped. Hard.

His momentum carried the boy up against the newel post, battering the messenger’s thin shoulders against the stone, but arresting his plummet downward.

Dreben hesitated no more than Gael had hesitated to save the boy. The brigenen’s blows smote Gael from behind, punishing in their precision: left kidney, right kidney, tailbone.

Gasping, Gael thrust the still teetering messenger upward and at an angle, allowing the boy to encircle the newel post with his arms, so that he would not topple when Gael let go. And then Gael pivoted, just in time to take Dreben’s next strikes on his ribs.

The impact of the brigenen’s fists packed more power than his spare size should have permitted. Gael felt bruises blooming in his flesh, a sharp jabbing in his guts, and a choking blow to his throat. He stumbled, then fell, rolling down uncounted steps to a landing, where his hip thudded against the wall painfully.

Before he could scramble to his feet, Dreben was on him again, seizing the neck of Gael’s tunic and hauling him up, then punching his gut brutally.

Gael started to reach for his energea, and then stopped himself. Just as a secretarius was no match for a warrior, so a warrior would be no match for a magus. And Gael had foresworn those skills. The regenen might prevail upon him to revive them. But for himself, when solely his own fate hung in the balance? No. Never!

A thunderous blow to his solar plexus deprived him of breath, and blackness crashed over him.

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The castellanum accompanied Gael, even though only Gael had been summoned, and a most unpleasant companion did Gael find him. All the way down the Regenen Stair, Theron nattered on about the customs of the royal keeps in southern Istria and the duties of their seneschals and stewards and chatelains.

“When a sovereign possesses more than one stronghold—as does our Lord Carbraes—he gives the entire governance of each over to one personage. So much more efficient to do so,” said Theron fussily.

Gael paid little heed to him, his thoughts on what lay ahead. He had a bad feeling about the situation awaiting him in the melee gallery. He didn’t bother to correct Theron’s assertion that Carbraes ruled several citadels. The outlying beacon towers and war camps were paltry compared with the might of Belzetarn, even though only a fraction of the legions were rotated home at any given time.

The proportion of warriors to scullions might be reversed in the war camps, but Belzetarn’s fortifications stood unmatched.

“Dividing the responsibilities between four, who must then coordinate their efforts, is so inefficient,” complained Theron. “I believe the ancient Hamish found it so, as well, and concentrated authority in one senescalh. And this is a Hamish tower, after all. It would be proper to follow the old tradition.”

Gael couldn’t imagine why Theron believed Belzetarn to be Hamish in origin. The tower was far taller than any structure built by the Hamish-folk, even during the brief interval of years when they’d imported the sophisticated techniques of legendary Navellys. Belzetarn was a troll’s creation, drawn up out of the earth, stone by stone, using energea—the dangerous and more powerful kind, searing orange—and modified in after years by its various overlords. Carbraes had added the kitchen annex, using the muscle power of his followers, not energea. The troll before him had expanded the smithies.

“The magus, the march, and the secretarius should really fall within the purview of the castellanum’s office,” continued Theron, his voice in his most cultured modulations.

But Gael was no longer giving even a sliver of his attention to his irritating companion. They’d arrived at the melee gallery.

Shafts of sunlight shone down from the upper embrasures like holiness through a temple’s oculus or rays of heaven through a break in the clouds, the bright beams piercing the shadows below and illumining the vignette of a prisoner surrounded by troll warriors.

Gael’s heart sank further.

The prisoner—a Ghriana man from the western mountains—knelt on the stone floor, his hands shackled in bronze behind him, his head bent, face obscured by the hanks of his wooly black hair. His tunic had been torn from his shoulders, to hang at his hips over his trews, revealing his muscled back. Fresh blood gleamed on his cinnamon skin.

Gael’s footsteps echoed sharply as he surged across the court, leaving Theron behind.

The scent of sweat drifted to meet him, rising off the Ghriana, acrid with the man’s fear.

Lord Carbraes stepped out from amongst the clump of troll warriors, the butter yellow of his tunic abruptly lit like the sun itself as he left the shadows. His face was stern as his gaze turned to Gael.

“Is he a troll?” Carbraes demanded.

The weight dragging on Gael’s heart increased, pulling every part of him down, as though he might sink into Belzetarn’s very foundations and be buried there.

“I will inspect the configuration of his arcs and nodes, my lord,” Gael answered.

Carbraes nodded. “Do so,” he said.

Gael took the necessary long in-breath, followed by the slow out-breath. He couldn’t imagine relaxing under the circumstances—the usual prelude to opening the inner sight—but, despite his tension, the beautifully curving arcs of the prisoner’s energea kindled in his mind’s eye. So healthy. He knew what he would see next and dreaded it: from the clear violet node at the crown, through the aqua node at the thymus, to the pure silver node at the root, the Ghriana’s energea remained anchored. He was not afflicted. He was not a troll.

“Well?” asked Carbraes impatiently.

The Ghriana man looked up. Gaelan’s tears, but he was young, just emerged from his youth and clinging to courage in his desperate predicament, ferocity in the straight lines of his mouth and the fire in his eyes, belied by the stink of fear.

Hells! Gael delayed his answer to Carbraes’ question. He could lie, of course. And then what? When the Ghriana spy memorized the defenses of Belzetarn to carry back to his superiors, would Gael speed him on his way? For the prisoner was undoubtedly a spy; the mountain people sent them regularly behind troll lines. Even could Gael bring his mouth to utter the falsehood—‘he is a troll’—the matter would not end there.

Gael studied the Ghriana youth, so beautiful in his unafflicted grace, even when kneeling in the moment before his death.

“He is human,” Gael said.

The youth flinched.

Gael looked away as Carbraes’ warriors bustled around their prisoner, seizing his arms and unlocking his manacles, hacking away the longer locks of his hair to his chin, dragging a wooden block out of one of the storerooms.

Gael frowned. Where was Theron in all this? Not lingering in the passage from the place of arms, where Gael had left him. Not standing at Gael’s side. Not even moving graciously forward to give the regenen the benefit of his sagacious advice. Not anywhere in sight.

Gael stifled a snort. The castellanum was all show, with little substance. He wanted stature and honor, without understanding that such qualities must be earned to be real. He might receive the counterfeit of them, because he was castellanum, but he would never inspire real respect. Gael knew this, had known it almost from the first. Why had he expected that Theron might contribute here and now?

The troll warriors forced the Ghriana’s neck down onto the heavy block and locked his wrists to the shackles on each side at its base.

Gael forced himself to look as the brandished axe reached the top of its arc, forced himself to watch as the blade fell, forced himself to see as the severed head bounced on the floor and the blood spurted.

He would not pretend that he bore no responsibility in this, much as he wished that were so, much as he wished Lord Carbraes had summoned anyone other than him. Looking away would not lift this death from him.

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Gael encountered the castellanum much sooner than he expected: on the landing outside his own tally chamber. Theron had just turned away after rapping on the door. He looked very regal, garbed in robes of deep blue suede embroidered with silver. His straight silver hair glinted in the sunlight, almost silken, and he stared down his narrow nose.

“Ah. Secretarius.” He seemed displeased, even though he’d obviously been seeking Gael. But then—when had Theron ever been pleased to see Gael?

“What is it, Theron?” Gael felt less patient than usual.

“Perhaps in private?” suggested Theron, all delicacy in his tone. He glanced at the padlocked door to the tally chamber.

Gael crossed his arms across his chest, standing pat.

Theron sniffed. “As you will, then. I want your notary.”

Gael’s chin jutted pugnaciously. “Feel free to do so,” he said.

Theron’s eyebrows rose. “What? You’ll let him go? Just like that?”

“Not at all.” Gael’s nostrils flared. “You may wish to employ Keir as much as it pleases you to so wish. I shall not gratify your desire.”

“You’ll find I can compel you,” stated Theron.

“I doubt it.”

“Oh, yes.” Theron smiled thinly. “Your friend—what is his name? Barris?—yes, Barris works within my jurisdiction. I think I have some leverage there, do I not?”

Gael’s belly felt abruptly cold. Where was Barris? Summoned on some necessary errand? Or sequestered in a locked cell? Placed there at the castellanum’s command?

“What have you done to him?” he demanded.

“Done to him?” repeated Theron lightly. “Why nothing. Yet.”

“Where is he? Where have you put him?” grated Gael.

“Really, Secretarius. You’re so abrupt. Are these the manners you learned in Hadorgol?” Theron snickered.

“Any courtier can learn to lie sweetly,” Gael reposted. “Only a man or a woman of honor dare be blunt.”

“And we are all trolls here,” said Theron, ever so sweetly. “Yet surely a troll may be mannerly, even if honor lies beyond him.”

Gael reined in his emotion. The castellanum might delight in the exchange of poisonous nothings, but Gael had better things to do. “You’re forgetting I have the regenen’s trust,” he said gently.

“Ah, the regenen.” Theron chuckled. “I think you’ll find that his trust is not infinite.”

“You plan to shatter it, I take it? How, may I ask?”

“You may ask, my dear Secretarius, you may. But I shall not answer you. I shall show you.” Theron’s mocking gaze chilled. Gael’s ire cooled with it. He was abruptly in full control of himself. If Theron’s plan involved stealing Gael’s tin, Gael was on to him. If not, Gael would discover soon enough where Theron saw weakness. It was not his friendship for Barris nor his guardianship of Keir, whatever the castellanum might think. And in either case, Gael’s power within Belzetarn was not inconsiderable. Theron was bold to declare his enmity so openly.

“I shall look forward to your revelations, Castellanum.”

“You’ll rue them!” Theron snapped, whirling toward the stairs up.

Before the discomposed troll took another step, a young messenger dashed onto the landing and skidded to a stop in front of Gael.

“Secretarius! Secretarius!” the boy cried. “My lord Carbraes needs you at once! In the melee gallery!”

Gael resisted the sinking sensation within. Just so had Carbraes’ summons—delivered through Keir—reached Gael yesterday, depositing the unpleasant matter of the gong upon his shoulders. What might this summons gift him with?

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Gael positively pounded down the Regenen Stair, squinting as he passed into the bright sunlight streaming through the arrowslits, blinking when he returned to the shadows that filled the inner loops of the spiraling descent. His ankle clicked more fiercely than ever, jabbing at each heavy footfall. But Gael didn’t care.

He had to talk with Barris and prove the cook innocent of his own suspicions. Or guilty. He could be guilty. That had been Gael’s first thought upon hearing Keir’s account of the tin ingot that disappeared from the privy scullion’s carry sack while the boy dashed from the vaults to the smithy.

But now Gael felt he’d been over hasty in leaping to that conclusion. Keir had believed the theft occurred in the stairwell, not the servery. And Keir had witnessed the scullion’s entire passage. Gael had not. In the wake of Arnoll’s betrayal, it was easy to fear that another friend might do the same. Easy, but not fair. So he would ask Barris straight out, and then judge his answer.

If the cook confessed to theft—Gael’s heart contracted at the possibility—that would be painful. If he lied about it, that would be worse. But Gael couldn’t believe that Barris would lie. Not Barris. And the likeliest thing was that Barris was innocent, and Gael’s suspicions utterly unjust.

But he had to know. And he couldn’t bear to wait.

He stumbled as he reached the servery, staggering a few steps toward the hatch before he caught his balance. Leaning against the hatch counter, he peered into the regenen’s kitchen.

Light flooded through the high eastern casements, illuminating every scorch mark and scuff in the lofty space. Scullions bustled about sweeping, mopping, and schlepping dirty pots away to the scullery. One cook consulted with another, no doubt planning the start of any evening courses that required long roasting. The morning meal was over, and the respite between its preparation and those for the night’s feast would be short.

Gael beckoned one of the scullions over.

“Where is your opteon?” he asked.

The boy blinked nervously, but before he could answer, one of the cooks gestured him furiously back to his broom. The other cook approached the hatch.

“How may I help you, my lord Secretarius?” he said.

“I have a question for Barris.”

“Ah!” The troll drummed his fingers on the counter. “The opteon was called away.” He shook his head. “Just at the height of the serving rush, too.”

“Do you know where he went?” asked Gael.

The cook called his colleague over from the storeroom. “It was one of the castellanum’s messengers who summoned Barris, was it not?”

“Yes, quite urgent about it, he was, too. I heard lots of ‘right away’ and ‘need an immediate decision’ and so on.” The troll frowned. “Odd timing.”

“Do you know when he’ll be back?” probed Gael.

Both cooks looked perplexed. “Should be back now,” said one.

That was worrisome: Barris unaccountably missing, mysteriously summoned away. Gael was tempted to search for him, but Belzetarn was a big place, with its tall tower, its artisan yard and all the lodges there, and its bailey with yet more of the offices: tannery, butchery, kennels, stables, and on and on. One troll searching alone would turn up . . . nothing and no one.

He thanked both cooks, asked them to tell Barris that Gael had a question for him when the opteon returned, and took his leave, feeling strangely bereft. All his impetus to confront his friend and know the truth reaching this deadend left him unenthusiastic about moving on to anything else. But he’d planned to interview both the castellanum and the magus, and the sooner the better.

Resolutely, he trudged back up the Regenen Stair. The castellanum would be in his headquarters off the main great hall at this hour, ordering his messengers here and there, the living strings by which he controlled the housekeeping of the vast citadel.

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Standing beside the sea in the cove below her home, with Pater behind her, his hands warm on her shoulders, Keiran had been learning how to herd fishes.

She’d scarcely felt the brisk wind on her face or the cool sea spray against her shins. Scarcely tasted the salt on her lips. All her attention narrowed to focus on the dark and monstrous presence she’d encountered when she followed her energea out across the waves and then plunged deep beneath them.

The ominous swimmer turned and glided, lethal in intent, seeking to do violence with an implacable calm.

She’d caught him with a noose of energea, and now he came to her, surging shoreward with the muscular movements of his colossal body and powerful strokes of his mighty flukes.

On and on, he came, seeking his captor. Seeking her.

Keiran became aware of her pater shouting, his fingers gripping hard on her shoulders. “Release him! Release!” he bellowed.

But she couldn’t. The monster of the deeps that she’d snared had snared her, hooking her energea more strongly than she’d entangled his.

She began to struggle, flailing like a mackerel in a net and with as little effect. The behemoth of the sea reeled her in, reeling himself in, his aspect gaining distinct traits as he neared: sleek black skin, tall dorsal fin, conical teeth made for tearing, white underbelly.

On and on he came, cold hunger in his innards, colder rage in his eye.

Keiran’s pater released his grip on her shoulders to thrust her toward the dunes behind him.

And then she could see her monstrous captive, a gargantuan fish—shining black on his upper surfaces, gleaming white below—streaking between the two headlands of the cove, launching himself inland with his toothy maw opened wide.

Pictwhale. Sword of the sea. Hell-sent and wrathful.

Orca.

Keiran screamed.

And then she pulled—hard—on her energea, blasting it out to batter the fearsome creature as it plowed up the beach.

She felt something within her rip, and her energea flashed gold with black edges.

At that moment, the orca swerved, his belly grinding against the pebbles and broken shells in the surf before he regained the deeper waters of the cove, heading back out to sea.

Keiran fell, her backside thudding into the sand. Pater whirled, horror on his face.

He roared.

“Pater?” faltered Keiran.

“Stay here!” ordered Pater. “Stay right here.”

And then he left, limping, running. Pat, thump, pat, thump, pat, thump.

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Keir looked around the oxhide vault, relieved to be tallying there instead of in the more cramped ingot vaults on the level above. The oxhide vault possessed two casements, and she’d opened both. Shouts from the artisan yard below arrowed in, along with the strengthening sunlight of the advancing morning, shining on the weighty copper oxhides leaning in stacks against the walls.

Keir sniffed the air. Before her sojourn at Belzetarn she wouldn’t have guessed that metal possessed any scent. Indeed, were she to hold one of Martell’s ladles up to her nose, she would smell nothing. But large stores of metal gathered together generated . . . something close to an aroma. Maybe it was the energea which produced it, but the tin vault and the pebble vault possessed that characteristic flat, dry odor which Keir found oppressive. This oxhide vault featured a much more pleasant, warm, and full flavor on the air.

She opened the flap of her portfolio to get out her tallying supplies of parchment, quill, and ink.

Gael had been apologetic that she must tally the oxhide vault and the pebble vault a full deichtain ahead of when they were due. She’d reassured him, saying, “No, we have to know if there’s another leak in the stream of metals besides in the privy smithy. I’m guessing we have more than one thief.”

Gael had looked down at that. She knew he hated the idea that someone (or more than one) within his acquaintance was stealing from him. She admired his fortitude in not shirking the idea. And she wondered how he felt about Arnoll taking that one ingot. He hadn’t really told her much about exactly what had happened.

She couldn’t forego disliking herself just a little for her own secrets, the obvious one of her sex, and the other one she had buried, not even letting herself think about it.

Gael had replied to her mention of the possibility of multiple thieves prosaically enough. “That’s it, of course. And if we have more than one thief, those thieves may pilfer from different sources. We have to know if we have more metal missing than we’re currently aware of.”

When she’d suggested tallying the bronze vault again, he’d agreed, although he obviously thought it less a priority. And then he’d hurried away without telling her where he was going, what he wanted her to do after she finished her tallies, or anything of his further plans for their day. Which was strange. Gael was ordinarily so punctilious about the work of the tally chamber.

Was he angry? Dismayed? Or just in a rush? It had something to do with her report of the tin ingot stolen from the privy scullion’s carry sack on the stairs, but it reminded her unnervingly of the last time her pater had hastened away from her.

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Just a few steps inside the door to the tally room, Gael paused. He’d lifted the door latch softly, and Keir hadn’t realized his master had come in. The boy had opened not only the shutters, but the casements themselves, and bright sun along with cool air poured through the embrasures and across the stone floor. The shelves on each side of Keir’s desk made his working surface into a pocket of dimness, but Gael’s assistant sat very straight, his quill held between slim fingers at the correct angle, his blond head bent only slightly.

Young eyes, thought Gael, his affection for the boy welling from some place within. He could almost imagine his tally room as his old laboratory in Hadorgol and Keir as his apprentice learning magery. Innocent magery. Safe magery. The blue energea that purified water or encouraged a poisoned wound to heal. Not the searing and dangerous orange energea of the truldemagar.

Gael shook his head. This was Belzetarn, not Hadorgol, and his tally chamber had its own compensations.

He inhaled slowly, savoring the warm redolence of the parchment mingled with the dry scent of dust, and moved forward into the welcome quiet, broken only by the scratching of Keir’s quill.

The boy turned at Gael’s footfall and looked up, his jaw-length hair swinging back from his smooth face. “The tallies from yesterday all match,” he said.

“Even that of the privy smithy?” asked Gael, surprised.

“Even Martell’s,” said Keir. “Although, not in any way we would wish,” he added, laying down his quill and corking his ink jar.

Gael sighed and came farther into the room, drawing the chair from his own desk next to Keir’s. “Tell me,” he said.

Keir nodded. “The wastage from the smelteries was less than usual.” He smiled. “I think my pose that the tally room was seeking greater efficiency moved them to extra effort.”

Gael snorted. “Hardly needed.”

“No,” agreed Keir. “But those opteons pride themselves on wringing every last drop of ore from the oxhides and pebbles.”

Gael was well aware of it, but he said nothing. Keir would communicate his full report without prompting.

“The lodge tallies and those of the grinding, annealing, and hilt smithies all match exactly,” the boy continued. “The wastage from the armor smithy is normal.”

“But the blade smithy?” asked Gael, surprised again. The blade smithy never possessed anomalies.

“No discrepancies,” Keir assured him quickly, “but one of the blade pours failed.”

“Hells,” Gael swore softly. “Then how was the smith so calm when I saw him in the afternoon?”

Keir grinned. “He expected it to fail. He’s bringing one of his decanens along, and this was the fellow’s first blade.”

“Ah.” Gael looked skeptically at his assistant.

Keir’s grin faded. “But look at this.” He drew a parchment from the stack he’d been working on.

Gael leaned forward to get his face further out of the direct sun.

Keir tapped the first three items listed on the sheet. “Here are the ingots we issued the privy smithy yesterday morning: eighteen ingots of copper, four ingots of tin, and one ingot of bronze. That’s twenty-three pounds of metal.”

Gael nodded. Now they were getting down to it.

Keir continued. “And you’ll see that the items listed for the day’s work also add up to twenty-three pounds.” He tapped the bottom of the sheet. “But it makes no sense. And we both know why.”

“The privy notary is fudging the weights,” said Gael.

“We knew he was, Secretarius,” said Keir quietly, “but I had no idea how bad it was until I saw him myself this morning. Martell would have grabbed the ingots before his notary got anything at all tallied, and I’m sure he does the same in the evening. I thought there was some estimation going on, but it’s all estimation. You can see it right here!” Keir tapped the parchment again. “Look! We issued four tin, right?”

Gael nodded.

“And here are the tin-lined sauce pans that Martell used half an ingot on.”

“Yes,” agreed Gael.

“The rest of the list was all poured in the one-nineteen bronze that Martell thought should have been one-twelve bronze.”

Gael could see the problem. Martell thought he’d used one-and-a-half ingots of tin to make his bronze, but the bronze itself had shown that he’d used only one ingot of tin, maybe less. Since the privy smithy had received four ingots of tin, and Martell had used only one-and-a-half ingots of tin, where were the other two-and-a-half ingots?

Well, Gael knew where one of them had gone. Arnoll had taken it. And it had not been tin, but merely copper disguised to look like tin. But that still left one-and-a-half ingots utterly unaccounted for.

Keir had more to say. “Since Martell’s bronze for the day was made from eighteen ingots of copper, one ingot of bronze, and one or less ingots of tin, the most his output could have weighed would have been twenty pounds. Hells!” Keir never swore, but he was swearing now. “There would have to be some wastage. And, yet, here his notary claims twenty-three pounds of bowls, platters, and so on.” Keir poked the parchment savagely.

“That’s where our tin thief is getting his ingots then,” said Gael.

“But we’re no further ahead than we were before,” grated Keir. “We knew it had to be the privy smithy supplying the thief.”

This was a new side to Keir, displaying a touch of heat rather than his customary cool.

Gael straightened, squinting as the sun caught his eyes. “No, we suspected the privy smithy served as our thief’s source. We did not know it.”

Keir puffed a breath out. “Do we even know it now? We’re giving the other smiths the benefit of any doubt, based only on our assessments of their natures. We could be wrong. Should we observe them the way I’ve observed Martell?”

Gael suppressed a smile. Keir was nothing if not logical, and he did have a point. But the boy forgot that Gael had worked with these trolls for much longer than the two years Keir had known them.

“We’ll follow this lead for now. If it peters out, we’ll consider other possibilities, such as investigating the other smithies. But our lead is going somewhere, wouldn’t you agree?” said Gael.

Keir’s sudden spurt of energy abruptly congealed.

“What is it?” Gael asked quietly.

Keir bit his lip. “It mayn’t be anything.” The boy swallowed. “I hope it’s nothing.”

Gael frowned. “Yes?”

“Ravin, one of the tin smeltery scullions, saw Arnoll take an ingot of tin from the privy smithy yesterday morning,” blurted Keir. “He thought Arnoll was correcting a mistake, and I thought so, too, when he told me. But”—Keir shook his head—“Arnoll hasn’t told you or turned the tin ingot in, so it can’t be that, can it? Arnoll was stealing. Arnoll.” A slight flush colored Keir’s cheeks.

Gael relaxed. He’d been wondering how to keep Arnoll’s secret, while yet explaining the returned copper ingot. Keir’s disclosure meant Arnoll’s secret was already out—part of it—which meant Gael need not choose his words quite so painstakingly.

“Arnoll was following the directive of a higher authority when he took the ingot,” said Gael.

Relief chased across Keir’s features. “You knew?”

“He told me himself,” said Gael.

“But who? And why?” asked Keir.

That was something Gael still needed to conceal.

Keir’s brows drew down as he cogitated. “The regenen?” he guessed.

Gael had to stop that line of reasoning. Keir would unravel far too much if permitted to continue.

“I’m not free to speak,” Gael stated.

Keir’s eyebrows flew upward. “The regenen,” he said.

“Keir, Arnoll returned the ingot to me, because it was not tin. It merely looked like tin.”

Keir’s face went white.

Gael started to reach for the boy, but stayed the impulse. What ailed the lad? Gael hadn’t yet revealed the most troubling fact about that disguised ingot—that it had been disguised through the manipulation of energea. Something strange here, just as little strangenesses had emerged all through Gael’s initial probing into his two mysteries.

“Keir?”

Keir swallowed. “How—how could it look like tin, but not be tin?” he choked out.

“I think you already know what I was going to say,” answered Gael.

“Someone broke the regenen’s ban?” asked Keir.

“It was a copper ingot energetically disguised as tin,” confirmed Gael.

Keir swallowed again. “That’s—that’s bad,” he whispered.

Gael nodded. “Our thief is likely powerful, willing to defy Carbraes, and a practicing magus.”

Keir straightened his hunched shoulders. “So the copper ingot you left on my desk—”

“—was the ‘tin’ ingot Arnoll removed from the privy smithy,” said Gael.

Keir’s chin lifted. “But the bronze ingots! Where did those come from? And we were missing only one, not two.”

Gael cleared his throat. “I suspect that if you were to tally the bronze vault at this moment, you would discover that the return of the two ingots brings us to exactly the right number.”

Keir’s eyes widened and his lips parted. He seemed to be looking a long ways away.

Gael took the opportunity to recount his and Arnoll’s chase after a fugitive in the Cliff Stair and the finding of the bronze ingots in the bucket niche of the latrine.

Keir’s attention came back from whatever distant place his thoughts had carried him. He narrowed his eyes. “So Arnoll had one ‘tin’ ingot, but he’s not the troll we’re looking for. Someone else took two bronze ingots and hid them in the latrine. And someone else took one-and-a-half tin ingots—” the boy tilted his head “—how do you steal half an ingot anyway? But we don’t know where they are. And none of this hangs together.”

“It doesn’t,” agreed Gael.

Keir’s hand reached out to grip Gael’s wrist. “Secretarius, there’s one thing more.”

“Only one?” joked Gael. He felt immune to startlement at this point.

“I don’t know why I didn’t tell you it first.”

“I suspect the matter of Arnoll and the fudged privy smithy tallies distracted you.”

“They shouldn’t have,” said Keir. The boy seemed to be regaining his balance. “One of the porters or scullions on the Regenen Stair stole an ingot of tin this morning right out of the carry sack of the privy scullion.”

“Surely not,” said Gael.

“I tallied every last thing that went into his sack from the vaults,” declared Keir. “And I watched the privy notary tally each thing as it came out in the smithy. One ingot of tin was gone.”

A feeling of cold crept into Gael’s stomach, dousing the nibblings of hunger arising there. He usually broke his fast properly in the morning, eating much more than the snack he’d cadged from Barris on his way to the yard. “But you did not see the theft as it occurred?” he questioned Keir.

“I did not.”

Gael really did not like where this might be leading. In his mind’s eye, he could see Barris’ hand moving underneath that tray of smoked fish. Wasn’t it enough that one friend had betrayed him? Was a second to prove equally . . . fallible? Or had Barris merely been steadying that tray?

Keir was looking down at his lap. “But what would a mere scullion do with an ingot of tin anyway?” he asked.

Gael gripped his feeling of incipient loss—hard—and stuffed it down.

“A scullion might steal at the behest of another, and that is what I think has happened,” answered Gael. “I learned from the mine teamsters that the magus has been poking around both the copper mine and the tinworks where he has no business. And . . .” Was it wise to disclose this to Keir? Gael firmed his lips. Yes. Keir needed to know to be on his guard. “. . . the castellanum has always disliked me, as you know. Last night I discovered that he felt you should have come to him as notary rather than to me. And his resentment is the stronger thereby.”

Keir’s face went blank, and then he chuckled. “You think the castellanum might have bribed a kitchen scullion to steal tin, just because he hates you?”

“I did not say that Theron hated me,” chided Gael.

“He does, though,” said Keir.

“No doubt. But you should be wary of him, Keir,” said Gael.

Keir’s lips quirked.

Gael abruptly remembered other words spoken at the high table. Words spoken by Nathiar. “I’m serious, Keir.”

“Yes, Secretarius.”

“Be even more wary of the magus,” Gael added.

Keir’s chuckles evaporated. It seemed he took the magus at least more seriously.

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The Tally Master, Chapter 8 (scene 42)

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The Tally Master, Chapter 8 (scene 40)

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After locking all three oxhide ingots in their vault, Gael trudged back down to the artisans’ yard. The morning sun had risen higher in the sky while the copper teamsters prepared to depart. The copper mines were close and they’d arrive there by midafternoon. The tin works lay more than a full day’s travel to the northeast, and the tin teamster had to camp in the forest en route.

The copper teamsters finished tidying their mules’ straps and moved off. Passing them, a single mule loaded with two capacious sacks emerged from the gatehouse between the bailey and the lower yard—troll companion striding lazily alongside, but with a slight limp. He wore a tunic of ragged shearling, fleeces outward. His grizzled hair, wild and woolly, fell to his shoulders.

“Fintan!” Gael called, waving a hand on high. He’d been expecting the new chap, not this old regular.

The tin teamster waved back, a cursory swipe at the air. He paused to say something to the gatehouse guard and then led his mule along the lodges lining the lower yard, following the gradual slope up to where the lower yard merged with the upper, and only then turning toward Gael.

A kitchen scullion scampered up the steep stairs between the two levels while Gael waited, but most of the traffic in the yard had ebbed away to a lodge mess or one of the great halls in the tower, there to break the night’s fast.

“Gael!” said Fintan, grinning as he approached nearer. He quickened his stride. His limp grew more pronounced.

Gael stepped to meet him, clasping both of the teamster’s forearms, feeling Fintan’s returning grip on his own.

“How is this?” Gael asked. “Surely the leg needed another deichtain of healing.”

“Nah. I’d coddled it too long, although Lannarc thinks like you.”

That was the troll who’d been accompanying the tin pebbles for the last two moons. Gael raised an eyebrow.

“He wants my job permanent,” Fintan explained, “But he’s not getting it, even if he does prefer walking through the forest over raking the gangue for missed nuggets of pure. The forest’s mine.” Fintan gave a short laugh. “Never mind that. Help me get these sacks off Hoopoh here.”

Gael patted the mule’s neck and then set to work on the straps securing the sack on one flank, while Fintan tackled the other. Both leather receptacles bore intact wax seals over their top folds. Gael braced himself to take the weight as he loosened the last buckle, letting the forty-pound sack slide to the ground.

A scrap of suede, dragged from its spot behind one of the straps, fell beside the full sack. Gael bent to pick it up. As he straightened, Fintan dragged his sack around to sit next to Gael’s.

“What’s that you’ve got there?” the teamster asked.

Gael turned it over in his hands; not a scrap, but a small drawstring pouch, ornamented with rivets resembling rose blooms. He frowned. There was something peculiar about the purse, but he couldn’t place it. “Isn’t it yours?” he replied.

“Nah. Never seen it before,” said Fintan.

Gael compressed his lips, shook his head. He still could not place . . . whatever it was. He whistled a yard scullion over.

“Fetch two tower porters and then water this mule,” he ordered.

“Yes, Secretarius!” The boy bobbed his head and dashed away.

Fintan protested, “One porter would be enough. I can carry my sack.”

Gael held back a smile. “No doubt you could, but I doubt your physician would say you should. How did you break the bone anyway?”

Fintan gave his short laugh. “Fell into a gangue trench like a boot. The medicus cursed me for a fool for climbing right back out again, but the damage was already done. He’d have made me lie abed for a deichtain anyway.”

“He kept you abed that long?” Gael couldn’t see it. Fintan was an active sort who stayed outdoors from the moment he awoke until fatigue sent him to sleep at night.

“Only by hiding my crutches,” explained the teamster.

Gael chuckled.

Fintan’s lips twisted. “I’d have come along with Hoopoh here”—he patted the mule’s rump—“if the magus hadn’t put forward his porter from the tower.”

Gael frowned again. Fintan meant Lannarc, the troll who’d taken Fintan’s place while his injury healed. Gael had forgotten Lannarc was tower, not mines. A porter . . . who had run a lot of Nathiar’s errands. But what had Nathiar been doing at the tin works?

“The magus was at the tin works when you broke the leg?” he probed.

“Oh, aye. Said he might as well check the tributary streams for tin while the regenen had him out of the tower surveying for metals. He’d just been at the copper mines. Said he didn’t care to make two trips. Best get it all settled all in one go.”

Gael nodded. It made sense, but he doubted it. Nathiar was up to something.

“Keep an eye on Lannarc for me, will you?” he said abruptly.

Fintan cocked his head. “Spy for the magus?” he asked.

“Maybe. Maybe not. Just . . . notice what he does. What he says. Who he talks to.”

“Will do,” Fintan agreed.

Gael looked again at the small suede pouch he held in one hand. He turned it inside out. Glints of tin dust sparkled in the leather’s nap. Tin. He turned it rightside out again and studied the decorative rivets, shaped like opened rose blossoms.

Hells!

The pouch belonged to Nathiar.

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The Tally Master, Chapter 8 (scene 41)

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The Tally Master, Chapter 8 (scene 39)

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The copper teamsters were waiting for him in the upper yard, two of them wrestling a weighty oxhide ingot off the first pair of mules. Another, their opteon, stood some distance away, surveying the second and third pairs of mules, all four still burdened with their ingots, but dipping their heads to crop the lush green grass.

The sun had cleared the wall enclosing the yard, and morning light cast long shadows from the various artisan lodges. Scullions dodged in and out of their doorways, a few fetching water from the well, others carrying bundles of wood. One boy approached with a full bucket to water the mules.

Gael ambled down the ramp from the annex, shading his squinting eyes against the brightness.

The teamsters’ opteon, Emon, moved jerkily to meet Gael at the bottom of the ramp.

Emon was a small, wiry troll with a quick, anxious manner. His wizened face showed a mass of wrinkles, darting eyes, and was very tan. He wore the undyed suede tunic and trews of Belzetarn’s miners. Gael could smell the rock dust caught in the nap of the leather. The teamster greeted Gael—typically—with his latest worry.

“Ah’m not sure ’bout that new seam, Secretarius. It’s narrowin’ fast. Ah think it’ll play out soon. Ah think th’ magus was a wrong ’un ’bout his seam.”

Carbraes had sent Nathiar to the copper mine two moons ago at Gael’s recommendation. The old seam of ore-laden rock they’d been following since before Gael arrived at Belzetarn had been plunging ever deeper into the earth. Deep enough that the poor air supply was killing as many miners as the exploding rock—produced when they directed a stream of cold water on the fire-heated working face. Mining was dangerous, no question. They had to have the ore-rich rubble for shoveling into the furnace. Thus the heat, the sudden chill, and the resultant explosion were necessary. But poor air . . . would eventually extinguish the fire, as well as the miners.

“The magus traced the new seam precisely,” said Gael. “The map in my tally chamber shows it narrowing at the current location of the working face, but it will widen again once we get to the waxing moon.”

Emon shook his head. “It don’t have th’ look of a meander,” he insisted. “It’s thinnin’ down fast, like it’ll go to a trickle, then a thread, then nuthin’. We’ll have to go back to th’ old seam.”

“The magus won’t have been mistaken, Emon. But if this seam plays out, Carbraes will send the magus again to find another seam altogether. I’m not willing to sustain the casualties that the old seam produced.”

Emon nodded, reassured. “Wull, that’s good hearin’, Secretarius. But th’ new seam’s weaker than th’ old seam. And if th’ magus’ next seam’s weaker still, you’ll be gettin’ one oxhide ev’ry other day ’stead o’ three.”

Emon was definitely a worrier. His face was creased with it as he finished his pessimistic forecast.

“The magus did mention that this narrow neck in the seam was less rich than the wider areas before and after it,” Gael reminded him.

“But it isn’t. It’s narrow, but the rock is just as rich as rich. We should be gettin’ four ingots, not three!” he burst out.

“Surely not,” said Gael.

“The magus took a long look at our furnace,” said Emon. “Spent all day at it. But it’s workin’ worse than ever.”

“When?” asked Gael, surprised.

Emon frowned. “When what?”

“When did Nathiar examine your furnace?”

“Last waxin’ moon.” Emon was calming, even as Gael grew . . . concerned.

“A deichtain ago?” Gael probed.

“Aye. But it weren’t nuthin’. Just a clogged tap, and th’ magus worked out a plunger to keep it clear. Just after th’ slag rises to float on the molten copper, th’ furnace troll opens the slag tap to draw it off, then works th’ magus’ plunger—one, two, three—and then opens the oxhide tap.”

“I didn’t know the magus had visited the mines last waxing moon,” probed Gael.

“Oh, aye. We sent word for ’im when th’ tap clogged. And he fixed it good.” Having discharged his anxiety, Emon was wholly relaxed.

Gael was not. Nathiar’s second trip to the copper mine—unauthorized by Gael—would bear looking into.

The two teamsters wrestling the first oxhide ingot had finished rubbing down the pair of mules that had borne it. They hoisted the heavy metal to their shoulders, one fore and one aft, and started up the ramp to the annex. Gael followed in their wake, pondering the surest way of detaining Nathiar.

He was tempted to bump the interview of the magus ahead of the one he planned for the castellanum.

Next scene:
The Tally Master, Chapter 8 (scene 40)

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The Tally Master, Chapter 8 (scene 38)

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