We stopped at what looked like a junkyard, and the sign for The Rusty Nail was almost illegible. Its owner wasn’t as standoffish but produced results similar to those of The Bell Basket. Neither place carried anything special, and the shopkeeper knew no one in the antiquities market who specialized in documents or languages.

  When I asked the shopkeeper if his clientele might collect old books, he stiffened and shooed me off. He wasn’t open to talking about his customers.

  Bookstores proved exceedingly rare in the continent’s largest city. The few I visited supplemented their inventory with nonliterary items, leaving academia as my only route to learning more about these symbols. After a full year in Belden, it felt like returning to familiar grounds.

  When I got into the carriage, Hickering read my disappointment. “Another dead end, sir?”

  I nodded. “It doesn’t seem like anyone collects old books.”

  The coachee had no comment. “To the uni, sir?”

  “Yeah. Let’s see what stands for academics in the East.”

  “Next stop, Malibar University!”

  After hours of fruitless research, I made no headway in the library. I wouldn’t have found anything even if they cataloged their volumes. There didn’t seem to be a section for serious scholarship. Nothing addressed old civilizations. Librarians pointed to ancient folklore from romantic poems but little on anything relevant to my search.

  My line of inquiry insulted the people of the Eastern continent. Western scholars had more accessible routes to Blyeheath, the northern coast of Miros, so Easterners only knew what the West shared. Tribalism proved to be a communication barrier, and it shocked me to see educated professors embrace it. And yet, something as rudimentary as ego fueled this continental divide.

  Chilly receptions from the professors and support staff confirmed my suspicions. The only archeologist on campus wrinkled his nose when he saw I didn’t dress like nobility. Thaxter’s strange symbols stirred no intellectual curiosity.

  I questioned random professors and got more of the same—shrugs, disinterest, and general advice.

  After a day of searching, I retired to The Gatehead in a foul mood. Fabulosa returned, wrapped in a completely new outfit. After putting in a late dinner order with the staff, she sat down with a pint of ale.

  “You know this isn’t a shopping trip, right?”

  Fabulosa seemed unperturbed by my remark. “And yet, shopping happened. It’s funny how the pages turn. Do you like?” She spun to show off her colorful clothing.

  I shook my head. “Are you wearing armor under all that?”

  “Of course.” Fabulosa tucked in a fold at her elbow joint. “The saleswoman taught me how to layer it so it doesn’t unravel while I walk.”

  “And what if you get into a fight? All those garments are going to get caught up on something.”

  Fabulosa’s eyes narrowed. “That’s why there are ranged attacks. You simply have no sense of taste.”

  I grunted and looked away. Her playful baiting left me unmoved.

  “It sounds like someone had a bad day.”

  After I told her about the mysterious Improved Eye, Fabulosa grunted. She sipped her ale, lost in thought.

  Since she had no comments about my encounter, I changed the subject to something that had been eating me all day. “Eastern cities are supposed to be older than Western Miros. They’re not as old as the ruins in the north, but they’re older. But no one here cares about their history—or discovering new things. Everyone in Miros seems complacent. I’m presenting them with a legitimate mystery, and they act as if it’s an imposition.”

  “Maybe in a world with magic, people get used to mysteries. You know—like not knowing something isn’t a big deal.”

  I nodded along with her logic.

  “You didn’t mention anything about Commander Thaxter, did you?”

  “No. Not that it would matter. People only care what the nobles think. Professors only care about their reputation. It’s like they’re pretending to be academics—without doing any actual work.”

  “Why don’t you play that angle?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Prestige. Talk about how the West’s underdeveloped collegiate networks. Talk about incurious professors in Grayton and Arlington. Then, explain how the Western scholars don’t have the gumption to investigate a genuine mystery.”

  “Use basic child psychology? You think that will work?” Fabulosa’s suggestion sounded so obvious that I couldn’t imagine grown-ups falling for it. I felt stupid just talking about it.

  Fabulosa crossed her arms, grinning in confidence. “Sure. After they agree the East is better than the West, you pop them with a challenge. Tell them no one in the West knows anyone who might recognize the symbol. And then you hit them with Thaxter’s squiggles.”

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

  I laughed. “So play on their egos. Lean into the East versus West thing.”

  Fabulosa lifted her glass. “We have rivalries like that in Texas, except with football games. Oh! And don’t ask them one at a time. Ask in front of their peers. They’ll promise you the moon if they’re with their friends.”

  “Turn their egos against them.”

  “It’s not even against them. Folks are more agreeable if they think they’re doing something that’s their idea. Don’t ask for help. Sell it as a chance to embarrass the West.”

  Renewing my search on campus the following day, I found a student who pointed me to Yara, a folklore professor. Folklore became the Miros equivalent to anthropology, so she seemed the best place to start. Yara’s disheveled appearance reminded me of a cat lady. Her cluttered office barely had enough space on her desk to write. Instead of approaching her, I followed her and attended her lecture on culinary customs from remote locations in the South.

  When she shared tea with other staff members, I made my move. I remembered enough about Mr. Fergus’s anecdotes to kick the conversation in the right direction.

  “Excuse me. I apologize for the intrusion—I realized you’re not in class, but I wondered if you heard about the botched Blyeheath dig five years ago. Wasn’t there a scandal over Grayton’s top archeologist quitting? Something about rampant nepotism? It happened before my time, but I understand it rather embarrassed Grayton.”

  They laughed and nodded.

  A kind-faced gentleman tightened his lips in a grimace. “How could we not? How bad is it when a master digger leaves over a misappropriated commission? Who did they give the funding to—wasn’t it that Earl from Westlake?”

  One of them nodded, then shook their head. “A frightful debacle, really. It’s a wonder Grayton ever restored the frescos to presentability.”

  Yara held out her hand in a stopping gesture. “I wouldn’t give them that much credit. I heard they had to go to Tireas to date their findings. They used Master Ludick—who reassembled the fresco incorrectly! If an assistant hadn’t found the error, they would have presented it with four transposed panels.”

  Smiles and chuckles rippled through the group. They searched one another for affirmations between sentences as if working on a unified front. As far as I could tell, they operated like a hive mind.

  I didn’t understand their references, but Yara seemed to know a little about archeology.

  I raised my hand out of habit to get their attention. “What subjects do you specialize in, may I ask?”

  Each took their turn to list their concentrations. Their answers ranged from mathematics to philosophy.

  When Professor Yara affirmed her specialization in folklore, I showed her Commander Thaxter’s scribblings. “Could you tell me what you make of this? Would you believe that no one in Grayton even knew of a linguist who could recognize these symbols? I bet an Eastern scholar would know.”

  Yara’s initial grimace made me think I’d lost her. She couldn’t decline the challenge in front of her peers, so she had to give me something.

  “Hmm. I can think of one person—Hana Bakir, but she’s not a proper academic. She’s more of an amateur historian.” Yara turned to one of her colleagues. “You know the one. She authors the crackpot books about the northern coast and antediluvian Miros?”

  A graying gentleman next to her shook his head. “Very sensationalized claptrap, I must say. More fiction than fact. You’d do well to steer clear of her, boy. Indeed.”

  I repeated her words in a question. “Antediluvian Miros?”

  “It speculates over the continent’s ancient history—Miros before humans arrived. Hana claims reptilian humanoids built cities long before humanity civilized the continent. It’s a presumptuous theory, but it’s popular with poets and fantasists.”

  Yara’s description sounded like the lizardfolk I’d seen in the two temples by the kobolds. I blurted out more questions before letting her wriggle out of the conversation. “Who is Hana Bakir?”

  Yara shook her finger as she spoke. “She’s an insult to accredited historians—tearing down peer-reviewed traditions with outlandish poppycock! No wonder the masses favor her.”

  The first gentleman who spoke shook his head. “The only threat is her selfish acquisitions. Imagine! Out-bidding the university on significant finds. She belongs in the stocks.”

  One of her companions, a graying gentleman, waved his hand in annoyance. “This inquiry is quite beyond the pale, young man. An aspiring academic shouldn’t trifle with such dribble.”

  I pressed on, not caring if they felt uncomfortable. “Where does Hana Bakir live?”

  Yara made a shooing gesture. “Near Eastpoint Palace. Her estate has a red gate facing the Temple Fount. Now, please, run along like a good boy. We’ve important matters to discuss.”

  After giving a generous bow of thanks, I withdrew to my carriage. Hickering’s face lit up when I described the location. He affirmed its proximity and took me there.

  Hana Bakir’s red gate stood open, and I rang a bell outside her door.

  A tall man in formal attire answered. His nameplate read Riggley, House Butler.

  “I’m an admirer of Ms. Bakir’s writing, and I have some information that might advance her theory on antediluvian Miros. Is she receiving company?”

  The butler eyed my weapons.

  I shifted my shoulders to slide my shield hanging off my back. Wearing arms might be commonplace for many parts of Miros, even in the cities, but my arsenal looked overzealous. I wasn’t used to someone openly judging me by my kit, so I self-consciously avoided his gaze and stared at the garden alongside the mansion. Given her natural charm, positive attitude, and keen fashion sense, it irked me that Fabulosa would have breezed right through this exchange.

  “Wait here, please.” Riggley shut the door, leaving me to wait on the doorstep like a salesperson until he opened it and beckoned me into the foyer.

  An elegantly dressed woman greeted me. She held herself in a guarded yet well-mannered posture. “Good afternoon. I am Hana Bakir. Riggley tells me you have information relating to pre-human settlements. How may I ask, did you happen across the lizardfolk?”

  I couldn’t help but smile when I nodded. While in the dark about the lizardfolk’s culture, it grounded me to meet someone who knew of their existence. “I saw them through a spell called Mineral Communion.”

  Hana’s complacent mannerisms shifted. Her tightly pursed lips opened, as did her eyes. “You have the stone sight?”

  “My mentor, Mr. Fergus, guided me toward it.”

  Hana scrutinized my face, as if weighing my integrity, until I mentioned the name. “A protégé of Jerimiah Fergus? Please come in. I’m sorry, I missed your name. Riggley, please fetch us a tea plate, my dear. The Pale Hirum setting will do nicely, I think.”

  Riggley bowed before leaving. “Hirum, it is, ma’am.”

  “I’m Apache, Governor of Hawkhurst.”

  Hana smiled and covered her lips.

  I immediately forgave her amusement for my lofty title. Someone my age presiding over a settlement had never seemed ridiculous until now. It dawned on me how much faith everyone in Hawkhurst had placed in the brash young warriors from Belden.

  Hana bade me into her house, and we sat on cushioned furniture in a parlor. Hana Bakir kept a stately home, beautifully furnished, yet she’d crowded the interior with nonmagical scrolls, books, and artifacts. The wall space had entirely succumbed to framed charts, maps, and ledgers.

  Hana reached for a piece of parchment and dabbed a nearby quill into an inkwell. “A Governor, no less? You must tell me, Governor Apache, where have you been, and what have you seen?”

  I gave her a synopsis of my adventures, from the ward worm, the demon dungeon, and the relic. I played down fighting the Monster Squad of Winterbyte and Femmeny, merely citing the involvement of gnolls and wererats. My only conscious omission included mentioning the Artilith, the celestial core from the relic’s destruction. I didn’t need the news of a purple core to reach the ears of another player.

  “Young man, I believe you and I can help each other greatly.”