“The Guild,” said Nio. “The Guild and this fellow they call the Knife. Ronan of Aum. Both of them made-up names that tell us nothing of the man, other than his vaunted position in the Guild and his own arrogance.”
He was pacing back and forth in the library. The wihht stood silently. Only its eyes moved, slowly shifting back and forth to keep its gaze on Nio.
“I want you to find the Court of the Guild, the court of the so-called Silentman. It’s somewhere in this city, that’s obvious, and I’ve heard enough rumor to guess it’s underground. A cellar, tunnels, something like that. Find one of these thieves and squeeze the truth out of him!”
“Is it permitted to then end his life?”
“What? Yes, yes—whatever you want. I don’t care. Just keep it quiet, d’you hear? The last thing we need is the attention of the Lord Captain of Hearne and his men. And if you hear or see anything of the boy Jute, find him too.”
“I remember his taste,” said the wihht.
“If you catch him, bring the miserable rat to me. I’ll wring his neck myself. Mind you, the Guild’s more important now, not that guttersnipe. Find me a key that’ll get us into the Guild, and I don’t care how many bones you break along the way.”
“Ah,” said the wihht.
Nio stalked to the window and stared out. Water streaked down the glass. It was raining again. The street below was virtually empty. One solitary figure hurried by, shoulders bent and head hunched against the rain. It was a miserable day. Most of the city would be holed up like rats in their houses, Guild and non-Guild alike. The wihht would have a more difficult job of it.
“Concentrate on the inns,” he said. “They’ll be crowded, no doubt.”
“And the man called the Knife?”
“I daresay you’ll have an easier time finding the Gerecednes than that man. Find me my key. And I don’t care if it’s a key made of metal or one of flesh and bones.”
The door closed silently behind the wihht.
Nio flung himself down in a chair and picked up a book. A Concise History of Harlech, written by some long-dead Thulian duke with aspirations of being a scholar. It was a short and concise book. There was little to know about Harlech, for they did not give up their secrets easily and they were not fond of strangers.
Travel in Harlech is not advisable in the winter due to the harshness of the climate, the frequency of wolves, and the peculiar fact that the roads and paths seem to rearrange themselves at will, particularly for the misfortune of visitors. The towns are few and the inns, while excellent and well-appointed, exist more for local traffic, rather than for travelers from afar. Furthermore, those who live in Harlech tend to be inhospitable unless some happy twist of fate has given one a reason to form an acquaintance, for if they give their friendship, they will remain so until death. If their enmity has been aroused, however, one would be advised to stay far away from Harlech, for they are implacable and feared in all of Tormay for their skill in battle.
Nio tossed the book aside. It made for dull reading. Particularly on a day like today. He got up and again went to the window. Rain. The drops ran down the glass and blurred his sight.
He still remembered her name. Cyrnel. Cyrnel, the farmer’s daughter. For several years after he left the Stone Tower, he had purposed to return. To return once he had made a name and a fortune for himself. He would have rode up on a fine horse to the admiring glances of the students. The teachers would have invited him in to hear his tales. And then he would have ridden off south along the coast to the little valley and the farmer’s daughter who lived there.
She was probably married and fat now. She probably even had grandchildren by now. He could not remember her face.