Noble Dead 7 - In Shade and Shadow by Barb Hendee & J. C. Hendee

Author:Barb Hendee & J. C. Hendee
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Published: 2009-05-01T04:00:00+00:00

“Do not be closed . . . do not be closed,” Wynn muttered over and over as she ran through the streets toward the Upright Quill.

If Master Teagan were still there, she might bluff her way in to retrieve the folio. Perhaps a threat that Premin Sykion insisted on its return might do the trick, regardless that the work was incomplete. Wynn could simply promise to have it back first thing in the morning—and hope that later she wouldn’t be cast out of the guild for interference.

One way or another, she was going to get into serious trouble. But a look at the folio was all that mattered.

“Please be open,” she whispered again, and then halted, her mouth dangling open.

The Upright Quill was as quiet and dark as any other shop on the street.

“Valhachkasej’â!” she hissed—and then bit her tongue.

Swearing in Old Elvish was a bad habit she’d picked up from Leesil. A few profane expressions were about all the half elf could pronounce correctly in his mother’s language. Wynn took a long breath, shuffling toward the shop’s door. Now what?

One window shutter was slightly cracked open, and she hurried over.

Swinging the shutter wide, she flinched when it creaked too loudly. She craned up on tiptoe to peer through the panes.

Light from the nearest street lantern wasn’t enough to fill the shop’s front room, but perhaps someone was still working in the back. She would have to knock at the door after all. Then two closely spaced footfalls pounded inside the shop. It sounded like someone stomping.

Wynn grabbed the sill with both hands, pulling herself up with her face close to the panes. But she saw nothing.

An indistinct form shifted in the dark, near the door to the back workroom.

Wynn’s nose squashed against the pane.

A tall, broad-shouldered man in a dark cloak stood beyond the front counter. His hood was down, and he held a leather folio in his hand.

Wynn’s stomach hardened.

Someone had beaten her here and gotten in, and she tried to make out his face. Besides Master a’Seatt, she’d never seen anyone of such stature here. In the dark, his skin was so light she began to make out a narrow face, straight nose, and red-brown hair, and maybe . . .

Sparkling eyes looked about the shop’s front room.

Wynn stopped breathing . . . and stared at Chane.

The last time she’d seen him was south of the Farlands in the company of Welstiel, Magiere’s undead half brother. Half a world away atop the Pock Peaks, in the library of Li’kän’s castle, he’d promised never to follow her.

He’d promised—yet here he was, holding a folio.

Confusion scrambled Wynn’s thoughts.

It wasn’t possible, not for the way all the victims had died. Except that Chane had kept company with Welstiel for a long while. And Welstiel had been trained by his father’s retainer—Ubâd, that decrepit necromancer and the architect of Magiere’s unnatural birth.

Welstiel was a conjuror. As a Noble Dead he’d had many years to refine his skills. And what might Chane,

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