Stepping Wild (Dungeon Runner 04)

"Stop fidgeting," Herns said, attaching cut fabrics around Tibs's arm with needles. "I'm sure you've been poked by sharper things."

Tibs was more concerned with having to explain the lack of blood, if the tailor noticed he'd pieced flesh.

The fidgeting came about because he'd been forced to stand still too long. Knowing the fitting needed to be done didn't keep him from wanting to be out of them and on to more productive things.

"I can't believe they all let you do this to them." He didn't look forward to having to do this again.

Herns laughed. "Theater costumes don't need to be this accurate. No one in the audience will notice if they hang loose, or crooked on an actor. You, on the other hand, will be scrutinized. No noble, or would-be nobles, lets their tailor do less than impeccable work with the material they are provided."

Tibs considered essence training as a distraction, but the one he had that didn't outright create an effect, because Tibs had yet to crack the wall of his reserve, would lead to too many questions if this was when it happened. He settled on planning the etchings he'd test, and going over the ones that failed. He'd yet to figure out how he'd made mistakes, but there had to have been one.

It wasn't as effective as actively testing the etchings, since as soon as someone spoke to the tailor, Tibs was reminded he was still stuck in place.

Extricating from the crudely assembled shirt, when the work was finally done, was an exercise in itself, even with the tailor's help. That went onto the mannequin, then Herns started work on attaching the pieces that would form the pants on Tibs.

* * * * *

When he was finally allowed to leave the tailor's shop, Tibs was surprised his legs didn't protest having to work after an afternoon of standing still.

The actors on the stage were engaged in a sword fight atop a mountain, by the backdrops, but they kept talking; exchanges of taunts and pleading. From what he understood in the length it took him to cross from one side to the other in the dark, the male adventurer had wronged the female one. She wanted him dead for what he'd done while he was trying to explain himself.

It made little sense to him, from them being on a mountain, to not fighting to subdue the opponent; explanations could come when she was disarmed. But the people filling the benches watched, captivated. He figured he'd have to endure the whole thing for work out why they did what they did.

But he had to give the actors one thing.

Even with them pausing to talk, their fight looked more real than anything a bard had ever sung.

The sounds of the play dulled to indistinct murmurs well before he reached Ismael's shop. She was carving a cylinder of wood nearly her height when he entered. The lines were too irregular to be a column, but what else it could be, he didn't know.

She put the knife away. "I was wondering when you'd come by. It's been done for a few days."

"I didn't want to press you." He nodded to the door. "Herns needed me for a fitting."

She unwrapped the bundle she took from a drawer and the clay crest rested on the fabric. Like the ones he'd seen in the safe, it was in the form of a heater shield with a flattened bottom. Gold wire had been used to make wheat stalks, and silver to make clouds. Blue tinted bags of coins were etched in the clay, spilling gold and silver coins at the feet of the stalks. The crest's edges were banded in the wood he'd brought her, polished to a pale, but imperfect sheen.

"The Atharan family made their way into the nobility through the trading of grains," she explained. "The stalks and sky as supposed to represent their humble beginnings as farmers."

"You sound like that isn't true." The clay's color wasn't even, the way the one of the wall was. This was streaked with pale and deep browns, as well as reddish ones. He'd seen them when he collected it, but he'd expected her to mix it until it was the uniform color he thought he remembered the ones in the safe being, but he hadn't taken the time to study them.

She shrugged. "Might be. But a lot of the nobles who do business with the common fold, like the Atharan, make up a history that brings them closer to those folks. All I can tell you is that if they ever worked the earth, it was well over a century ago."

"Can I take it now?"

"You paid for it. Just be careful how you show it around. Even the minor nobles don't like hearing someone got their hands on their crest."

He wrapped it and placed it inside his vest.

Now that he had that, the papers, gold, and the right clothing, he'd be able to get into the university.

He headed to his lodging. Forced himself not to think about it, to go over his etchings. He'd wait a few days, then he'd take the best of Herns's noble costume, and start on his research.

* * * * *

He walked with a regalness he never felt. His back was straight, his head high, and if he met another's eyes on his travel through the street, he filled them with judgment. Nobles were always judging others.

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He did the same when the guard by the door demanded his credentials but, unlike those in the street, she didn't look away.

He handed the crest and papers as he'd watched other nobles do. Her eyes scrutinized them, while her ungloved fingers ran along the edge of the crest. Tibs hadn't questioned the imperfections among the polish. He trusted the quality of Ismael's work. Therefore, they were there on purpose. For the guard to feel an confirm it was authentic.

She handed them back, demanded a gold, then let him in.

He fought against being amazed, yet again. Universities and libraries always did that to him. Their vastness, all that knowledge. The work that went into building such structures. Even if magic had been used, it remained impressive.

But awe was beneath a noble. They respected books were precious. Knowledge held value. But they refused to show it.

Tibs considered the fact such places existed at all amazing. That people were allowed to enter and look through the books, gain knowledge for, in some places, as little as a handful of coppers. But even the gold he'd paid to enter didn't compare with how valuable the knowledge he could acquire while here.

Large windows with colored glass depicting people reading and writing, and discussing, chased away nearly all the shadows. Lamps on columns chased the little they didn't, and more would be lit as the sun set, so that people could read well into the evening.

Some libraries never forced people to leave once they'd entered, so long as they read, or wrote.

How books were organized changed from city to city, but they all had volumes in the kingdom's language listing where specific subjects could be found. Cities that saw a lot of visitors from other kingdoms, usually capitals, would also have copies of those books in varying languages. Universities were more likely to have them, since they would get scholars from every kingdom looking to contribute.

Once he reached the knowledge repository, the first two, large, set of shelves on each side of the center tables contained those books. Those were the first thing Tibs needed to consult. He'd spent a lot of time thinking about where he might find the information he needed.

He couldn't look up dungeons. All that would get him were books on the existing one. The ones the adventurer's guild knew about and controlled. Those in the mountains. He wanted those they didn't know about. Those in the forests. So there would be nothing in any of the books directly about them.

What he had to go by was what he'd experienced in Iritel. How they had thought of what happened because there was a dungeon in their forest. It was dangerous. There was a monster.

Which books would document places like that? Dangerous forests. Places reputed to have monsters.

There were books where bards songs were recorded, but those wouldn't be reliable. Books on the histories might, but they usually focused on the people who shaped it more than the kind of places in it.

That left legends and histories so old their truth was debatable, but he'd have to start there.

Searching through the tomes to learn where the books on legends were shelved took most of the day. Asking one of the scholars he saw would speed things up, but they might demand proof of who he was, and he hadn't mastered the kingdom's language yet. He doubted the local nobles spoke with an accent.

By the time he'd learned which of the balconies, in which of the repository, the books were located; the lamps were being lit and his stomach reminded him that unlike what bards thought, even people with elements needed to eat.

He'd be back in the morning.

Now he needed to get this minor noble he pretended to be some lodgings so he could change into something more comfortable and find a tavern with food, and then sleep.

* * * * *

He closed another book.

The problem with legends, he realized, was that they might as well have been penned by bards. Unless he found someone who had gone to one of those places—and they would have to be adventurers—he couldn't trust what he read. Dealing with adventurers was a problem in itself, since the guild still wanted him caught for attempting to kill one of those in charge of it.

He returned the book to the shelf and took another one. He couldn't stop just because the stories recorded sounded too farfetched. One of the legends might be something close. Something someone in the city might have a better understanding of, a more accurate version of it.

At least, he knew most of the language those books were written in. His early days of research had been spent searching for books written in Kadalisaran and reading that even if it had nothing to do with what he wanted to learn about.

* * * * *

Tibs stepped into the repository he'd been hoping to delay until after he was done in this city and well on his way to another.

Unfortunately, he'd promised his team a job. The clothing Herns was making him and Cynta were more than halfway done, so he couldn't delay picking the target of his revenge.

While he'd told his team he had followed her here, he had leeway. He hadn't said she was from his city, only that she'd been there when she hurt him. He also hadn't said when she'd arrived in Brokentia. All he needed was someone with so many coins his team would have more than they'd ever need, who had arrived here over the last decade.

Here, the city's ardent documenting of anyone entering the city worked in his favor. Even the nobles had to explain who they were and why they were entering the city. That told him who had arrived when. Working out their wealth came in the form of the city's taxation. Every building, as well as the size of the plot it was built on, a noble owned needed to be accounted for. Those with mercantile investment needed to document those as well.

It gave him a sense of scale, and with that, he built a pool of potential targets. He narrowed it further by looking at how often they 'helped'. Only those with a lot of money and a need to impress made sure every instance of their help was documented. The few who were genuine in wanting to help rarely called attention to it.

Outside of a few kingdoms, nobles like that barely existed.

When he'd narrowed the pool as much as he could by reading about nobles, all that would be left was to visit each of the houses to learn what their coffers offered.

When he closed the final book, the lamplight was all that he had.

He had six names. Six families with an important woman who could have hurt him who had arrived over the last ten years. One of them would give his team the best return for the risk involved in taking their money.

He was sufficiently tired he almost headed for his room directly. He remembered in time he was a noble, and it wouldn't do for someone like him to be in poorer neighborhood at night. He might sleep in the noble's room this once. A short one and he'd be good to run the roofs.

The house was silent; the other residents already sleeping.

The lone person awake was the cook, who also saw to the cleaning and lighting of the lamps. She didn't acknowledge him as he stepped past her and up the stairs. Servants didn't question what nobles got up to, or why they returned at such a late hour.

The key turned loudly in the silence, but the door opened without sound. The key turned just as loudly locking the door, and the sound was followed by the striking of a firestarter.

Tibs spun as the sparks caught on the lamp's wick.

"I think you owe us an explanation," the man seated next to it said as he set the crystal chimney in place.