Deafening Silence groaned, and rolled away from the sound of Cadryn’s voice. She had been quite clear that morning. “I thought you understood,” she muttered through a blanket.

“It’s not about that,” he replied. “I talked to Mareth, she said she could help if I took care of something Sefton assigned her, a crate in the storerooms.”

Silence sat up, blinking away asleep, “The Larder and Fight Pits? Or the Underground Cells? Doesn’t matter, at night, you’re mad.”

“The what?” Cadryn said, testily. “Is there ever just one name for something around here?”

“The Toll house, but it’s new.” Silence answered. “Did it not occur to you, that there was a reason Sefton assigned a task like that to the only mage amongst us? And the former apprentice of a warcaster at that.”

“She is?” Cadryn said, “She can’t be more than twenty.”

“Twenty five, if my math is right, but they’ve been dangerous years. She lost her Master on the field, and failed to die with him . . . now she’s here.” Silence tossed aside the blanket, began to dress. “If you’re to avoid his fate, you’ll need me to go with you.”

Cadryn wasn’t about to argue, but was less than reassured when she strapped on her cudgel and collected two heavy torches.

“That’s the crate,” Mareth confirmed, a smile tugging at her cheeks. It was nearly dawn, and Sil had gone back to bed, surly and peevish. Cadryn had fallen asleep, leaning against the knee-high box where they’d carried it to; the top of the stairs up to the Citadel’s Marshaling Yard.

“It is,” Cadryn said, nodding sleepily. “It wasn’t easy to find.” That, was no lie. The Storerooms, as the Imperial plate claimed, had indeed been a veritable labyrinth of profane larders and cells, clearly the work of a dark and ineffable intellect. One whose name Sil had refused to utter while they crept through the dank, and entirely too creepy, rooms.

“Yet, you did find it,” Mareth was saying, she waved him off of the crate, and, using the iron base of her staff, levered open the box. Crouching down, she began to examine the contents, lining them neatly on the stone beside her. “I imagine Silence was tired.”

“She was . . . less than happy to be up half the night.”

Mareth snorted, “The old need their sleep,” she said.

“Si— Silence isn’t old, is she?” he asked, suddenly doubtful.

Mareth the Meek stopped her sorting, and steeling herself, spoke her mind. “The Assemblage grants its faithful many boons, from healing and curing diseases to more vain things, like a delayed dotage.”

“She never mentioned that,” Cadryn said, suddenly feeling somehow taken advantage of.

“She’s old enough to be your grandmother, or mother, at least.” Mareth replied. “That kind of trixery alone is enough reason to avoid them.” She collected three of the jars from the crates contents, and, opening her robes, slid them into large pockets on the inside facing.

The partial disrobing revealed that the burn scars went all the way up her arms, and covered a good part of her torso. Seeing him looking, Mareth scoffed. “Real power comes at a price, Cadryn of the Day, anything that doesn’t is just servitude, well hidden.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said. “I take it you’ll help with Takis?”

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

“Yes,” Mareth replied, closing and tying her robes. “What I’ve taken should be enough to keep him busy for a week or two, no matter his project. Karl should resume his normal service.” She yawned, covering her mouth with an oversized sleeve, “Now if you’ll deliver the rest to Sefton. I need my beauty sleep.”

Cadryn did not laugh, and began to re-pack the crate, looking up he saw a toothy grin on Mareth’s face.

“That was joke,” she offered.

“It’s not funny,” Cadryn said, “you’re already pretty.”

Despite her tan, Mareth’s blush remained visible as she retreated up the stairs to the Lower Gardens.

Cadryn napped through most of the next day, doing his best to avoid Silence’s jabs about being kept up all night. Sefton was pleased with Mareth’s apparent overcoming of her fears of the dark, and location of the missing alchemy supplies, but not as pleased as Korbinian.

Late in the afternoon, an Imperial shipment arrived, some type of new Semaphore system that would need to be installed on one of the spire’s the following day. Gita spent the evening complaining bitterly over it at Amber’s. For his own part, Cadryn was too busy thinking of how he would deal with the stranger the barkeeper had asked him to stop . . . or the revelation of Silence’s unnatural youth.

He decided to sleep on it, alone.

The following day began with a pleasant surprise: the new Semaphore system had been installed overnight on the side of Beacon’s spire. Cadryn made a mental note to thank Mareth when he saw her next. Gita soared happily amid the flags before joining him on the roof of the Citadel.

“It all seems to be in working order,” Gita reported cheerily.

“Excellent,” Cadryn said, and made for Sefton’s office to report their success. Maybe they’d get the day off, that hope, was soon dashed by a simple question.

“How does it work?” Sefton asked over his crossed hands. “I won’t question the rapidity of the task’s completion, but we need to make sure the desired outcome is in place.”

“I’m not much on signaling,” Cadryn admitted.

“We’re there instructions, in the crates?” Sefton asked of Gita.

The Batsel quirked her head left, and right, as if suddenly unable to speak.

“So we have no idea what the flags say?” Sefton asked, anger beginning to creep into his tone.

“Apparently, not.” Cadryn replied, having now learned not to offer definitive explanations for events.

Sefton rubbed his temples, “Very well, report to Toll duty, send Silence to me, maybe she can make something of it.”

“Right away!” Gita replied, darting out the window.

Cadryn took the long way around, and in so doing, managed to avoid passing Silence, whom had noticed his attempts at avoiding her and reacted, well, reasonably given his lack of explanation. Manning the Guard Post alone, he fell into the mindless routine of taking payments, checking papers, and sending people on their way. That was, until a man with amulet of a caged heart walked into the courtyard.

At a glance, Cadryn knew the man for a foreigner, from the cut of his clothing to the heraldry painted on his breastplate. One of the smaller southern kingdoms he guessed, perhaps even one in the orbit of the Gravanik States. The man’s features were sharp and weather worn, and a knife scar traced from one ear to the bridge of his nose. The smell of spice filled the air at his approach.

“Please state the nature of your travel,” Cadryn said, attempting to appear disinterested.

“My travels are long, and arduous, but what, of worth traveling to, is not worth some discomfort?” the man said in barely accented Provalian, he smiled, revealing silver capped teeth.

“Your business, then?” Cadryn asked.

“Is my own,” the man answered, “but I understand the need of asking. If it soothes your mind, Guardsmen, I travel this way in pursuit of a dangerous fugitive from my lands.”

Cadryn’s guts began to twist. “Is that so?” he asked.

“Just so,” the man said, and angled his hat to better block the noon sun. “A murderess and worse . . . last report I had, placed her in one of the frontier towns beyond this Tower. You wouldn’t happen to have seen anyone, well, of your kind of mix.”

“We’re not that uncommon,” Cadryn replied.

“True,” the man answered, “Another question then; what can you tell me of the nearest town? That cart-master over there says Kellen’s Veld is a nice place to rest one’s feet.”

Amber’s words wormed around his skull, but, seeing Silence returning to the Guard post, Cadryn decided on another path. “It is, it makes the off-hours enjoyable.”

“Ahh-hah, I’ll spend the night for sure then,” the man said, and, paying his toll, began to walk for the gate.

Cadryn watched him, noting the well used hand ax and shortsword at his belt. He flagged down Silence and took the steps up to the watch post two at a time.

“So now you’re talking to me?” She asked, a hand on her hip in the doorway.

“Yes, well, I was before, but listen: There’s something I need to check out. Cover for me?”

“I’d rather not,” she said, “but you can owe me.”