Page 70 of A Tower of Half-Truths

Forty-One

“You want to go where!?”

Alain stopped in front of the fireplace.

Though it was unlit, his forehead was slick with sweat.

He’d paced the length of Declan’s sitting room no less than fifty times while recounting everything that had happened that afternoon, from the disastrous spell presentation to the plan to set out for the Innominate Temple.

He’d even shared his theory about the temple’s ties to Aganast and the Order of Asphodel.

From his armchair, Declan stared blankly at Alain. He clutched a glass of whiskey, though he hadn’t taken a single sip during Alain’s rambling and pacing. Beads of condensation dripped down its sides.

Alain sighed. “I know this sounds a bit mad—”

“A bit!” Declan bellowed an incredulous laugh. “I understand wanting to prove your worth to the High Council, but there must be an easier way to go about it.”

“Exactly what I said,” Mavery muttered from the other armchair. Declan had also offered her a glass of whiskey. Not only had she accepted it, she’d already drank half of it.

Alain turned to the bookcase beside the fireplace, and drummed his fingers on one of the bare shelves. For a professor, Declan owned a surprisingly small number of books.

“This isn’t about what I want,” he said quietly. In fact, few things in his life had ever been about what he wanted. “You don’t know Seringoth like I do. He expected more from me today, and I failed to meet his expectations.”

“Sounds like your mind is made up, then,” Declan said. “But I’m struggling to see why you’re asking me for help.”

Alain turned to him. “I have another theory: it’s possible that the temple is protected by an obfuscation ward. Seeing as you invented the Diversion Ward—”

“That was twenty-five years ago, lad. And since then, my career has been confined to classrooms and taprooms.” He chuckled as he patted his stomach, then took a swill of whiskey. “You’re more suited for field work than I am. At least you have youth on your side.”

Alain’s shoulders sank. At this moment, he felt anything but youthful.

“Could someone else in the Gardemancy Department help us?” Mavery asked. “Selemin might not know much about wards, but they seemed pretty knowledgeable about—”

“No.” Alain shook his head. “I’m not trusting anyone from Nezima’s inner circle.”

Declan scratched his mustache. “You know, this is the sort of thing you’d typically contract out.”

“I can’t,” Alain said. “I need to conduct the field experiment myself.”

“Not the ‘experimenting’ part, I mean the ‘finding the temple’ part. A few years ago, Ferikar over in Transmutation paid someone to investigate this very same temple. The lad he hired didn’t find a way in, but he did manage to get around the traps unscathed.

Got within ten feet of the place—at least, that’s what Ferikar claimed. ”

Mavery stiffened briefly before throwing back her glass, draining every last drop of whiskey.

“I reckon someone like that could guide you to the temple,” Declan said.

“It might set you back a couple hundred potins, but it’s better than blindly wandering all around Dyerland Province for days on end.

I’ll see Ferikar at the graduation ceremony tomorrow evening.

I’ll ask if he remembers the name of his contact. ”

“I can’t wait until tomorrow evening,” Alain said. “The High Council has only given me a week to complete the field experiment.”

“Then the best I can do is write you up a scroll or two. Though, without knowing the specific types of obfuscation wards you’re up against, I don’t know how helpful they’ll be.”

“At this point, I’ll take any help I can get.”

Declan hoisted himself out of his armchair and lumbered over to the desk in the far corner. After a few moments of scribbling, he returned with a rolled-up sheet of parchment.

“This is a counterspell for my Diversion Ward. It’s a long shot, but whoever was behind that temple might’ve also figured out a way to trick you into turning back the way you came.

” Declan handed Alain the parchment, then clapped him on the shoulder.

“Take care of yourself, lad.” He nodded to Mavery.

“Her, too. I want both of you to come back in one piece.”

“Thank you, Declan,” Alain said.

He and Mavery left the townhouse but lingered outside on the stoop. It was now dusk, and a lamplighter was making his rounds.

“Well, it was worth a try,” Alain said. He opened his satchel, tucked the scroll into the transmutated pouch.

Mavery offered no counterargument. She crossed her arms as she chewed on a hangnail. She’d been unusually quiet since leaving Steelforge Towers. Alain had attributed her silence to her reservations about his plan, but he now suspected she was formulating a plan of her own.

“Do you have any ideas?” he asked.

She blew out a long stream of air, then turned to him. The dark look behind her eyes tightened the knot in his stomach.

“I do,” she said. “But I don’t think you’re going to like it.”

The Salty Surling was a grimy, weather-beaten shack near the docks.

The sign above the door was, like the clapboards, coated in green mildew.

It depicted a red-eyed, raven-like bird singing drunkenly as its talons clutched a tankard of ale—an oddly whimsical image for a place like this.

Grizzled dock workers shuffled past. Like the air, they reeked of rotten fish and even less savory odors Alain dared not fathom.

Mavery ran her fingers through his hair—an act he would’ve found calming under different circumstances.

Alongside his baggiest trousers, his most understated shirt, and his gray travel cloak, this was the final touch for his “common laborer” guise.

He felt somewhat exposed without a waistcoat, but Mavery insisted it would defeat the purpose of fitting in.

“There,” she said. “Now your look no longer screams, ‘please come pick my pockets.’ ”

“Is that a possibility?”

She shrugged. “Anything is possible in a place like this. Just keep your wits about you, don’t make eye contact with anyone, and let me do the talking.”

Alain tried to voice a reply, but all he could manage was a weak groan of disbelief.

“Trust me, I’m as thrilled about this as you are, but Neldren’s been to the temple before. I’ve no doubt he’s the same ‘contact’ Declan told us about. Like it or not, we need him if we want to find this temple as quickly as possible.”

“You’re certain he’ll accept your offer?”

“We may be desperate, but seeking me out like he did means he’s even more desperate. So long as there’s money on the table, he’ll at least listen.” She cupped Alain’s chin between her fingers. “You don’t have to do this. I can handle him on my own.”

“I know you can, but we’re in this together.”

She smiled, then kissed him on the mouth.

His eyes widened at her unabashed display of affection—and in public, no less.

But the odds of encountering anyone from the University here were less than zero, and a kiss was probably among the least lascivious things to happen in this corner of the city.

So, he kissed her back, and his stomach fluttered at the sheer freedom of it.

She pulled away entirely too soon and smiled at him again.

“Ready?” she asked.

He nodded. She turned to the door, and its rusty hinges squealed as she opened it.

Night had fallen hours ago, and the pub was swarming with laborers and vagrants alike.

The ambiance in the Salty Surling made even the most raucous nights at the Lettered Gentleman look like temple services.

Gruff voices jeered and spouted profanities over card games and pints of sour-smelling ale.

Smoke from cheap tobacco created a thick haze.

Mavery had brought her dagger along, and she kept her fingers against its hilt as she crossed the uneven gray floorboards.

Alain followed her advice and ignored meeting anyone’s eye, though he was tempted to seek out the source of a wolf whistle aimed in her direction. His blood flared, but he kept his gaze fixed on Mavery’s back. She strutted through the room, head high and undeterred by her surroundings.

It then occurred to Alain that, until two months ago, this was the sort of place she frequented. For the first time, he was seeing her in her element.

She came to a stop near the back of the room.

“There he is,” she muttered. “And in his natural habitat, no less.”

Gathered around one of the tables were three men in the midst of a card game.

Alain knew at once which one of them was Neldren, and not because he was the only Nilandoren at the table.

He was undeniably handsome, with long, dark hair and a sharp, stubble-lined jaw.

His commanding presence penetrated the crowded room.

Alain could see why Mavery had been so infatuated with this man.

But this man had also shot someone he supposedly cared about.

A petite young redhead was perched on his right knee. She spotted Mavery from across the room, shot her an acidic glare, then leaned over and whispered in Neldren’s ear. He whipped his head around so swiftly, the redhead nearly lost her balance.

“Well, look who’s decided to grace us with her presence,” he said. “Sorry, mates, afraid I must quit while I’m ahead.”

His announcement was met with grumbles and curses. But Neldren ignored them as he laid down his cards and gathered up his winnings—more coppers than potins—and nudged the young woman, who rolled her eyes before sliding off his lap.

They relocated to the closest thing this pub had to a private corner.

Neldren and the young woman sat together on one side of the table; Neldren draped his arm over the back of her chair.

Alain gathered his resolve before it depleted entirely, then sat beside Mavery, who’d claimed the chair directly across from Neldren.

“And you’ve brought a friend,” Neldren said. He extended his hand. “Neldren Rel’Selayne.”

“Alain Tesseraunt,” he replied stiffly.