While Hunter had been spending his days training and sparring, Fawkes had been ranging over the Weald along Elder Rook’s braves, combing the forest for signs on what had been preying on the Brennai. They’d found precious little.

Blacktalon, Elder Rook’s Behemoth, was apparently equipped with some ancient machine that allowed its crew to communicate with the crews of other Behemoths. Their voices traveled through the air, heavily distorted but faster than the fastest wind. Fawkes had heard of machines like that before, but had never seen one up close. She had tried asking Haleth about it. She and the young woman were practically joined at the hip these days, as Elder Rook had assigned her to be Fawkes’s escort. Fawkes didn’t mind her. She was pleasant enough, as escorts went. Jolly, talkative. When it came to discussing the Behemoth and its secrets, however, Haleth clammed up. So did the rest of Blacktalon’s crew. Vexing as it was, Fawkes approved of the secrecy.

According to reports from Bonebreaker’s crew, who were still stationed in the village, there had been no other attacks. This wasn’t saying much, necessarily. The alderman and his council of elders had decided venturing into the Weald was too dangerous, so none of the Brennai dared to go past the treeline. Whatever the thing killing them was, at least it wasn’t bold enough to do so outside the woods.

The other thing that vexed Fawkes was that Elder Rook had apparently been trying to prevent her from getting any proper chance to talk to Muirden, the Transient. After the little talk they had before departing for the forward camp, they’d spent precious little time in the vicinity of one another. Elder Rook had made sure they were never posted in the same scouting party or lookout post. That was also part of his tendency to only divulge information about his crew on a need-to-know basis, and an outsider like Fawkes didn’t need to know much.

What had piqued her curiosity most about the Transient was that he didn’t seem to need to pop off to his own side of things like Hunter did. He’d expected him to spend nights away, retreating to his own home world. To Fawkes’s best knowledge, however, he did not. Fawkes had at least managed to get Haleth to open up about that.

In the end, her curiosity and impatience got the better of her. Late one night, after most of the crewmen and women had retreated to their tents, she went out to find Elder Rook. She found him studying a bunch of hand-drawn maps of the area under the cold, heatless light of a glowstone. A pair of eyeglasses were perched on the bridge of his crooked nose, under eyebrows arched like the wings of a bird of prey. The man had little need for rest, or so it seemed.

“What is it?” he asked, not bothering to raise his eyes from his maps, his tone edged with irritation at the interruption. He was clearly not happy to be disturbed.

“I think it’s time we had a sit-down, Elder.”

“About?”

“Your Transient.”

“What about him?”

“I get the feeling you’ve been keeping him away from me.”

Elder Rook raised an eyebrow as he slowly turned to face her, his interest finally stirred.

“Come in,” he told her. “Sit with me.”

She did.

His tent was like any other Brennai tent she’d seen, a construct made from sturdy animal hides sewn together meticulously and supported by wooden poles. A thick layer of woven mats covered the floor, providing minimal comfort but effective insulation against the cold earth. A few simple wooden crates served as seating and storage, their surfaces worn smooth from years of use. A single, low table stood in the center, its surface cluttered with maps, scrolls, and a few utilitarian tools. Unlike the more permanent setups she’d seen back in the village, though, the Behemoth nation’s tents had no fire pit.

Fawkes took her place by the low table across the Elder.

“Well? Out with it,” he said.

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“As I said,” Fawkes started, “you’ve been doing your best to keep me from getting an opportunity to talk with what’s-his-name. If you believe I need your permission to do so, I’m here to ask for it.”

Elder Rook reached for a leather pouch made of rough leather and produced a cigar and small metal contraption. With a flick of his hand, a small, controlled flame leapt to life from its mouth, and the Elder used it to light his cigar.

Fawkes waited for him to be done, unfazed. If that was some tactic to amaze or intimidate her, it fell flat as a poor man’s pancake. It was far from the first time Fawkes had seen a lighter.

“Who put you up to this?” Rook sneered, blowing aromatic smoke. It smelled earthy, woody. Slightly sweet. “Was it Wroth? Was it that bandit lout, Jack?”

“I don’t know any bandit called Jack,” Fawkes told him, matching his sneer. “And, with all due respect, I don’t give a rat’s arse about Elder Wroth or the little rivalry you two share.”

“There’s no such thing.”

“Whatever. As I told you, I don’t give a rat’s arse.”

Another Brennai Elder would have taken her manner as an insult. Not Rook. Instead, he looked at her with mild interest. He was ready to talk shop now, it looked like.

“And what do you give a rat’s arse about, Fawkes of the Lodge?”

Fawkes frowned, searching for the right words.

“As you probably know, I’ve taken a Transient under my care myself.”

“So do the rumors say,” Rook took another big drag from his cigar.

“All I’m interested in is learning more about their nature.”

“To what end?”

“He’s my apprentice,” she shrugged. “And a friend, to boot. Is that not enough of an end?”

“He’s also one of Wroth’s Aspirants,” Elder Rook said. “Or so he’s boasted.”

“If anyone’s, he’s my Aspirant, not his. The big buffoon actually tried to persuade him to drop out.”

“Why so?”

Again, Fawkes took a moment to find the right words.

“If your Transient is anything like mine, then you probably know they are of different stock. Their world is not like ours. I can’t imagine many of them measuring up to Wroth’s expectations of what an Aspirant should be.”

“Wroth is short-sighted,” Elder Rook agreed. “Small-minded.”

“Exactly. A man who loves the smell of his own flatulence too much.”

That drew a chuckle from Elder Rook.

“He does, does he not? Wise is not the man who grows to believe his own tall tales. Was he disappointed in his shiny new Transient Aspirant, then?”

“Very.”

“And what do you think?”

Fawkes reached out with a gloved hand, took the cigar from the Elder’s fingers, and took a big drag herself. If he was bothered, he did not show it.

“I see that you and your crew do not share some of your compatriots’ shortcomings, Elder, so I will be frank. What do great Brennai warriors like the oft-celebrated Wroth get to face in battle? Deer? Boars?” Fawkes chuckled and blew a ring of smoke. “The occasional bandit?”

“Mostly,” Rook agreed.

He was quick to catch Fawkes’s drift. Good.

“Wroth wouldn’t know a worthy Aspirant if he danced before him buck-naked.”

That drew another chuckle from the Elder.

“You are quite a character, Fawkes of the Lodge.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“In any case, you are correct. I guess that man that got Vanchik’s feathers all ruffled-like is right about a few things. The one who claims to be of the Ghost Nation. What was his name?”

“Brother Marten,” Fawkes said.

“That one. He’s right about one thing. The Brennai have forgotten the Old Ways. Most days, that’s a good thing. Other days…” the Elder frowned and glanced outside, towards the dark Weald beyond the tent’s flap. “Other days, not so much.”

“In any case,” Fawkes handed Rook his cigar back and changed the subject, not too keen to get involved in Brennai politics, “I need you to let me have a talk with your Transient.”

“Muirden is indentured to me and the Blacktalon. He possesses information it would not be prudent to share with an outsider like you,” said the Elder. “With all due respect, as you said.”

“Naturally.”

What the Elder was not saying was that yes, he was willing to let Fawkes have a sit-down with the Transient. But first he wanted to have his Behemoth’s wheels greased, so to speak.

That was good, Fawkes thought. That, she could work with.

“Of course, I would be willing to provide you and the Blacktalon with some form of, let us say, honorarium. As a token of goodwill for your trust and acceptance.”

The Elder nodded, satisfied. They were on the same page at last, speaking the same language. They might as well skip forward to the ask he wanted to make of her.

“That would surely help.”

“What would you require that I might possess?”

“You may start by recounting the events of your visit to the Vale of Shadows. And spare no detail, if it pleases you. I am particularly fond of a good story.”

“What I could share, I already shared with the other elders, as you may already know. The rest… I’m afraid I am under oath.”

He expected that, of course. But he still acted as if he was slighted by her response. All part of the old dance, Fawkes guessed.

“I see,” he said, giving her the cold shoulder. “Then I guess it comes down to a matter of priorities.”

That, it did. She’d given her word to Sister Peregrine; she'd never breathe a word of what she saw and heard down in the Halls of the Cor Ancestors. But then, Sister Peregrine had given Fawkes her word she would take him to Reiner, fully aware that Reiner was dead.

“Make yourself comfortable, then,” she told Elder Rook. “There’s a lot to cover. And light one of those cigars for me, too.”