Ghosts have appeared in Haunts and Scribbles before, of course. Just last spring an old fellow expired while eating a dish of oatmeal in the refectory. His spirit didn’t wander far. It decided that it wanted to take a bath, and it was only an accident that Sestia Kovahn, rumored to be a great beauty in her youth, was using the bath house at that very moment. Or so everyone said, in an attempt to honor the old man’s memory by ignoring his lechery. Sestia stomped up to the Archivist’s chambers once she was dry and unburdened her feelings with many shouted curses.

  Scholars also die when on their research travels. Some have wandered back to us, crossing great distances and becoming paragons of loyalty and perseverance in the process. Of course, as soon as they arrive people scream and send for a Sasturi adept. It is only afterwards that they are remembered with fondness, and their spectral wanderings seen as a kind of loyalty. If a very great scholar dies, the Sasturi are paid huge amounts of coin, if it is available, to extract the fruits of their scholarship before the ghost is laid to rest. But this rarely happens, as such exertions have been known to drive a Sasturi mad, and Haunts and Scribbles is cash strapped at the best of times.

  Evening came without Lewibindi’s ghost giving us the courtesy of appearing. I made my way to the Dust and Pen with a heavy heart. As I walked along the ice-rimed streets, I rehearsed my discoveries in my head and chose which I would pass on to the odious Malreesi. Lianahndra kept a secret store of bricks. I could say that without much danger, as it was a fact that confused rather than enlightened. I would not say that the Archivist was involved in the plot, the hidden hand behind Lianahndra’s actions. I wouldn’t say that they were both afraid of Lewibindi’s ghost spilling its guts, phantasmal as they may be. If Lew’s ghost returned to the tower, a Sasturi adept would have to be summoned. The scholars would demand it. You can’t have a ghost wandering about when you’re trying to study hauntings. What then? Would the Archivist arrange for her agents to kill the Sasturi? Although wouldn’t that just mean that the murdered adept’s ghost would be collected by some other Sasturi, and have two dangerous tales to tell? Maybe a ghost that has consumed another ghost loses awareness of the first ghost after their own death. No doubt there was some tome in Haunts and Scribbles that explored such questions, but I had never read it.

  So that was it. I would report on the bricks, and nothing else. Maybe I’d show them the one that I had filched, which was still in the pocket of my sleeve. It hung there with the reassurance of a weapon. Just let some secret agent spring out at me from a dark alley. I would gleefully bash their head in.

  When I arrived at the Dust and Pen it was in its usual uproar. A group of youngsters from Old Ancient were crowding about the bar. They had recently begun the habit of mutilating each other’s faces. Many a handsome cheek was disfigured with a dueling scar. Young women had decided that this was attractive, and the fad was spreading to the other towers. I had heard a rumor that the scholars of the fifth tower, known colloquially as Old Roost, had allowed themselves to be called out to a duel with Old Ancient, and that many a fresh-faced visage was now permanently marred. Ah, the excesses of youth. It seemed an over compensation, a way for willowy bookworms to prove their toughness. I blamed the influence of the Azerdondea court.

  I found a spot by the wall and surveyed the room, looking for the agent who was supposed to be meeting me. I saw some acquaintances among the songsters in the first snug. They were leaning towards each other, engaged in very serious conversation. No doubt debating who should be the first to sing. A matter of great importance to a songster, as it is harder to inspire generosity in an audience that is still fairly sober, and they needed to put their best entertainers forward first. I saw that the second snug was occupied by a coterie of elderly scholars, very red-cheeked and pleased with themselves, their faces twisted into expressions of humor and self-seriousness.

  The third snug was occupied, rather shockingly, by young gallants from the court. They were invading our scholarly dens! Apparently they had decided that if we could go to their parties, they could come to ours. But they didn’t mix well. As I watched, a young fellow ventured forth, his brocade robes flashing with silver thread, and attempted to assail a pretty scholar from Old Wondersuch who had draped herself across the bar. Her face told a wonderful story. She listened to the courtier with an expression of surprise that quickly became mocking. Her friends fell silent, listening closely as she ridiculed the young gallant. He became flustered, lost his composure, and gestured wildly with his hands. The young woman leaned forward, like a hawk spotting an unaware rabbit in a field below. Some word of conquest issued from her lovely mouth. The young man was vanquished. He turned with attempted dignity and scurried back to his cronies.

  “Raedel Ongahrie,” a voice said at my elbow. “The Count of Aediestuhn’s third son.”

  I turned and saw that a bland looking man in neat robes had crept to my side. He looked like a minor clerk of the court. My contact, perhaps, but how could I know? Malreesi Muelant hadn’t thought to supply me with a code word. I goggled at the fellow and said nothing.

  “They have a bet this evening. They are to bed a scholar and steal a book from her chambers. Or a scroll. The Baron of Fuhschakeya, the big bully with the copper hair, has dedicated a room in his manor to act as a library for the books and scrolls that they steal. They are calling it the Library of Tumbled Sheets.”

  I followed his gaze to the third snug and saw the Baron, whose face was drawn into an arrogant, humorous expression as the Count of Aediestuhn’s third son returned from his defeat. He said something that his cronies found hilarious. I was suddenly very tired.

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  “You seem well-informed,” I muttered to my interlocutor.

  “About some things,” he allowed. “I would like to be informed about Haunts and Scribbles.”

  “I don’t think that the women of my tower will let themselves be seduced,” I said.

  A pause. “We have only a few moments before someone notices us talking to each other. Don’t be coy.”

  “I’m a little too thirsty for talking.”

  He slipped a coin into my hand. “For after I’m gone. Now, what is happening at the tower?”

  “Well, rumors abound, and everyone is waiting for Lewibindi’s ghost to begin some decent haunting. But it hasn’t, which they find odd. Perhaps it is at large and wandering about the city.” I scrutinized him as I said this, but saw no flicker of expression on his bland face.

  “Not a very well-spent day, if that is all you’ve discovered.”

  “I have also discovered that the conspirators may have stolen a box of bricks.”

  “Bricks?”

  “Yes, bricks. From the building site, perhaps? They’re very plain bricks, but the palace has to be built of something, I suppose.”

  “Strange.”

  “Yes, I thought so.”

  “Anything else?”

  “That is the whole yield of my field of research, I’m afraid.”

  A slight pause. I didn’t look at him. “It seems that young Raedel has been sent back out to try again,” the spy said, thus diverting my attention to the bar so that he could slip away.

  I watched as the young courtier in the silver brocade made a second attempt. I knew the scholar he approached. A lovely, slightly abstracted person who much preferred women to men. She was gentle with him, which he didn’t expect, and her friends didn’t mock. They seemed wary, a cluster of women from The Sangrahahaha who didn’t look at the courtier, but at his cronies, who were watching avidly from the third snug. Bhukahnee was behind the bar that evening, and she was watching them as well. Most of the people in the room were waking to the fact that the courtiers were playing some kind of game. I saw a few scarred faces turn towards The Count of Aediestuhn’s third son, and fists tightened around beer mugs.

  My work was done, and the coin I had been given felt heavy in my hand. I did not want to stay in the Dust and Pen. I slipped up the stairs and paused beside Ipenlaya, who was standing stoically at his post beside the door, gazing out into the wintery street. “You better go down there,” I said. “I believe that a fracas is in the making.”

  He grunted and turned to descend. I was oddly gratified that he had believed me so readily. Never mind. I needed a drink. I toddled off down the street, towards the Bird and Baby.

  Yet when I got there, I didn’t go to the bar, but back to the scullery room. The boy Oulute was sitting on a stool, reading a scroll. Even the urchins are scholarly in Libreigia. He was ignoring the piled mugs on the counter.

  “Your uncle won’t be happy with your lassitude,” I told him as I leaned on the doorframe.

  He looked up at me. A worried expression flitted across his face. “Doefrit.”

  “I have a coin for you,” I said, and held out my ill-gained bounty. “You were very kind to me the other morning. I was somewhat inebriated, but I believe that you bought me a steamed bun.”

  He looked at the coin. He didn’t reach for it. Suspicious behavior in a child.

  “A funny thing,” I continued. “Later on, I found a note in the pocket of my robe. It couldn’t have been placed there earlier in the evening, as I was given a bath by a very inquisitive woman, and I am certain that she searched my clothing. I think that you put it there. And what I would like to know, young Oulute, is why.”

  He was just a boy, and a kind boy at that. His little face scrunched up and he began to cry. “I’m sorry, Doefrit,” he said. “I didn’t think it was wrong. People sometimes pay me to slip a note into the pocket of someone they admire.”

  “Were you approached by a winsome lady or lad? Someone I might have an amorous interest in?”

  “No,” he admitted, and cried harder. “It was an older lady.”

  “A lady with apple-cheeks, perhaps?”

  “Do you mean red cheeks? Yes. She had red cheeks. I thought she was your aunt.”

  I scoffed. “You did not. You were just happy to take the coin. Now, young Oulute, I am well aware that you scurry about our fair city on many an errand. Have your travels ever taken you to the Sasturi Guild House?” He nodded glumly. “Well, I would like to go there. Will you, perhaps, guide me?”

  I had walked passed the Sasturi Guild House on several occasions, and I knew where it was. But I was acting again on my principle that dangerous actions should be witnessed. If I were to die that night, someone would know where I had gone before I met my end. The boy Oulute’s testimony would avenge me.