Si glyph [https://i.imgur.com/mHhTdaF.png]

With Jonas leading, they padded quickly along deserted corridors. Sometimes there came the quiet murmur of voices and laughter behind closed doors, but no alarms sounded, no one shouted or appeared to stop them.

‘So this how nobles live,’ Vikki muttered. ‘I expected more gold.’

Simon smiled. These dark wood-panelled hallways did lack glamour. Even to him everything looked smaller and shabbier than the House of his childhood memories.

‘Gold is gaudy,’ Jonas said. ‘We prefer the understated look.’

They climbed the stairs to the Lord’s study. Gloom shrouded the gallery and hall below. All remained quiet.

Jonas tried the door. ‘Locked,’ he whispered. ‘Can you open it, Vikki?’

Vikki crouched by the keyhole, prying with a small tool and a length of stiff wire. The small scraping noises sounded loud in the quiet house. Tense minutes passed before the lock clicked.

Jonas opened the door. They slipped into the dark room and shut the door softly behind them. White light bloomed as Jonas kindled a small cold-lamp.

The room was as Simon remembered, save the desk with its inlaid map was clear of papers. The ledgers and books sat in order on their shelves. Though Eranon presumably worked long hours here every day, he had left nothing behind of himself, no personal effects, no clue that he’d ever been here.

A chill tingled down Simon’s spine. He wiped sweating hands on his trousers.

‘Where’s this hidden door?’ Jonas whispered.

Simon walked round the desk. He ran his hand along the shelf. Finding nothing, he tried the next shelf. After a moment, Jonas and Vikki joined him.

‘Do you know what you’re looking for?’ Vikki whispered.

Simon bit back a retort. He remembered Eranon putting his hand to the underside of the shelf, he was sure he had the right place — and then he felt it, an uneven spot in the polished wood. It was so slight he had dismissed it at first, but it must be the catch he was looking for.

He pressed firmly, and was rewarded when the door hidden in the shelving swung open.

‘Whoa,’ Jonas said appreciatively. He and Simon went in. Jonas peered at the shelves. ‘Quite a stash. Some of these books are pretty valuable.’

‘I know.’ Simon scanned the shelves. Most of the books were old and showed it, their leather bindings faded and worn. The crisp, bright red binding of the codex should be obvious. He couldn’t see it. ‘It must be here somewhere.’

Jonas pulled a book from the shelf, frowned at it, and put it back.

Simon glared at the books. The red binding failed to magically pop into view, yet he was certain Eranon would have put the codex here, with his other treasures. Where else could it be?

He stepped back. Under his feet, beneath the rug, a floorboard rocked slightly. Even in the inner sanctum of Lord Oryche, not all was perfect. He deliberately shifted his weight again. The floorboard flexed.

Jonas was randomly pulling books from the shelves, as if he thought the codex might be hiding in disguise.

Simon lifted the edge of the rug. ‘Give me a hand with this, will you?’

The smallness of the room made it awkward. Between them they rolled up the rug and shoved it aside. Simon crouched to examine the floorboards. They looked entirely normal, but when he ran his hands over them, he found one was loose. He pried it up and set it aside.

Brass glinted in the light of the cold-lamp. He pulled up more boards — though the joins were invisible, they were easily removed — exposing a cavity under the floor. The hole contained an iron strongbox with an ornate brass lock.

‘This must be it.’ Jonas patted him on the back. ‘Simon, you’re a genius. Vikki, can you unlock this thing?’

Simon rose and swapped places with Vikki. She knelt on the floor over the strongbox, toolbag at her side, and examined the lock. He watched her prodding and muttering for a minute. The lock, it seemed, was a tricky one.

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He left them to it, removed himself to the study and sat at the desk. The leather-cushioned chair moulded itself to his form. He rested his hands on the map of the world spread before him.

For years his father had sat here. His hands had stroked the agate landmass of the Sothron Empire, just as Simon’s hands did now. Was it the same chair he’d sat in? What had he felt and what had he thought? Had he known his death was coming?

Simon had meant to search for information to use against Eranon, but now he was here, he had no idea where to start. Even the idea seemed foolish. What should he look for? If Uncle Aric had murdered his father (or more likely, paid someone else to do so) it was hardly likely he’d write it down, let alone that Eranon would leave evidence of his guilt lying around.

Yet Eranon must have a secret, something he feared coming to light. Otherwise, why would he want Simon dead? And if Eranon did have something to hide, where would he keep it?

The smooth reddish stones of the Windward Isles were cool under his fingers. He traced them round the Circle Sea to the north, toward Athanor. The city was a red dot on the edge of the white north. Sark was just a thumb-width to the west: a tiny distance in the vastness of ice and snow running to the top of the world. Ice that ground southward, year by year, inching toward the green coastland and its feuding norther kingdoms.

His father had shown him a trick once, in a rare moment of indulgence. Simon remembered with sudden clarity how he’d stood beside him and peered beneath the desk, watching him open the secret drawer. His father had thought it amusing, the idea of any Lord of Oryche trusting to such a flimsy hiding place. ‘If a secret is important to you,’ he’d said. ‘Don’t write it down. If it must be written, conceal it in plain sight where no one will think to look.’

Simon had never needed the advice, for he had no secrets to hide. Eranon though — Eranon seemed to have a childish fondness for hiding places.

He felt beneath the desk. Aha. Just as he remembered, the little ridge of wood lodged against his fingertips. He pulled, and a lid dropped, exposing a space just large enough to fit his hand. And there was something in there: a book.

Not the codex — it was a small, well-thumbed notebook with ruled pages, densely filled with text and figures. An account book, he realised, but not like the hefty ledgers of House Oryche.

He flipped through the pages to the latest entries. The dates were recent. This must be Eranon’s private dealings. Repeated names caught his eye: Lim, Snake, Z, Anders, many others too, most abbreviated to initials. Those including a P, he guessed, might represent members of House Phylaxes, but that wasn’t much to go on.

Whoever the people were, large sums of money were changing hands. The only obvious conclusion was that Eranon had been spending big. But on what?

Sa glyph [https://i.imgur.com/plK5EWM.png]

‘Sam,’ Ellise said. ‘These are my friends Shy, Paet, and Kizzy. Sam says he’s hungry.’

The other three were older than Ellise, though not exactly grown-ups. Shy was a thin young woman with pale spotty skin and red hair. Paet was a gangly brown youth with big white teeth, awkward in his green robe. Kizzy was dark, chubby, and beamed with overflowing cheerfulness. She handed Sam a piece of bread.

‘Thanks,’ he said.

The queue of claimants shuffled forward, grubby hands outstretched. Kizzy shoved bread into the clawed fingers of an old woman whose eyes were filmed with white. Urchins pushed her aside. Some of them were only toddlers. All were ragged, filthy, and painfully thin.

Sam felt bad about taking the bread now. He wasn’t really that hungry. ‘Can I help?’

Paet passed him a basket of bread. ‘Hand that out.’

Ellise came with him, and they worked their way down the queue, filling hands with bread.

‘A lot of northers come to the city,’ Ellise said. ‘Cos the winter’s worse than usual. Then they got no work and nowhere to live, so they end up down here. And the harvest was bad, see, but there’s more people, so food prices are high. Even them as have jobs, wages is low, cos there’s more people want work.’

Snotty nosed children grabbed the last crusts from the basket with mumbled thanks.

Sam frowned. Nana always complained about the price of food, but he’d never considered what that meant, that some people might not be able to afford what they needed. Sark had its thin times, its hungry winters — but everyone always had food of some sort, enough to scrape by. No one ever starved.

A withered old man stared at the empty basket. Sam handed him his own bit of bread. He’d only nibbled the edge. It was stale anyway.

‘We’re with the Seekers of Celestial Light,’ Ellise said. ‘We don’t have much ourselves, but we try to help people.’

‘That’s good.’ With the bread gone, the crowd was thinning. ‘Someone should.’

She tucked her arm through his and walked him back to the others. He handed in the empty basket, earning a smile from Kizzy.

‘Sorry. That’s all for today, folks,’ Paet announced. The few people still hoping for food began to shuffle away. ‘We’ll be back tomorrow with more food, and if anyone’s sick, let us know — we can bring medicine too.’

Sam helped them stack the baskets and greasy soup bowls.

Kizzy laid her hand on his arm. ‘Thank you, Sam. You’ve been a big help.’

Though he really hadn’t done much, her earnestness gave Sam a warm, pleasant feeling inside, especially as Ellise was watching and smiling at him. ‘A pleasure,’ he stammered.

‘We have to go now,’ Ellise said. ‘Do you want to come with us? There’s dinner.’

Sam hesitated. He’d stayed out longer than he’d meant to. He ought to get back. As it was, Nana and Dad would be angry with him. Dinner with Ellise and her friends would be nicer than being scolded, but he had to go home sooner or later. Besides, Nana and Dad only got angry because they worried, and he didn’t want to scare them. ‘I’m sorry. I should go home. Say, can you tell me how I get to sector 42?’

‘Sure.’ Ellise pointed. ‘Take that exit, follow the main corridor. At 51, turn right, follow that corridor to 48, then right again and you’ll be there.’

‘Thanks.’ Sam turned to go, and then turned back. ‘Will I see you again?’

‘I hope so.’ Ellise dimpled at him. ‘I’d like that. Goodnight, Sam.’