Second floor Dadafodd, threshhold of a door. It was half opened and I half stepped through. I glanced frowning up at the sky. I was thinking. As wrong as he was, Ehnym was right. About one thing at least. The difficulty wouldn’t be catching Hinte. It would be finding her. Even Rhyfel and Ushra were having trouble with that. Any gradient was long blown away by now. Where could I even look? They had said she was going to Chwithach⁠ ⁠—⁠ at least, that had been where they were looking. But Ehnym said Chwithach was fleeing⁠ ⁠—⁠ and whoever had the other shell was audibly flying. (Was that a coincidence? Why was Chwithach running? I didn’t want⁠ ⁠—⁠ he couldn’t be tangled up in all this conspiracy. But he had something secret going on.) The other teacher Hinte had⁠ ⁠—⁠ the other one who’d know enough about humans to... hunt them⁠ ⁠—⁠ he was Aurisiuf, that’s what Zelle said. There was nothing more to add to that fork of thought. A sharp kick from behind! My grip slipped off the door. Unheld, it started falling shut and would have closed on me⁠ ⁠—⁠ crushed me with its stone weight! ⁠ ⁠—⁠ but stopped suddenly. “Can’t you hear me? Move.” I scrambled forward⁠ ⁠—⁠ till I could turn around. Tall cliff-dweller drake, annoyed jaw working, angry eyes looking down. At me. I... hadn’t stepped through the door, had I? I must’ve been blocking the way. “Sorry, sorry!” I was out, out on the balcony. Thank the stars: the cliff-dweller, after spitting off to the side, sulked on pass. The railing-less catwalks were slung from this balcony to a far butte, and in short order the dragon was forgotten down their length. Thinking, thinking, thinking. It was a well-worn path in me. I could think, easy, I could think until someone got tired of me thinking and pushed me out of the way. I should do something. What could I do? Chwithach wanted me to have the magic talky shell. It carries sound from the distance, he said. The librarian would be on the other side of it, and it’d be just like in the library: I’d speak into it and he’d speak back, conversation. Magic conversation. “Chwithach-sofran, hello?” I spoke, then held the thing up to frill. Still wings beating, still winds rushing. Nothing doing. I stared at it. It had worked earlier, at the library. Something must be wrong⁠ ⁠—⁠ there had to be something I could do to make it work again, and get to talk to Chwithach again, and ask him what was going on. Where the half-seashell-looking thing would be hinged if it were a seashell, there crawled out three little bent fingers of metal. I poked them and they had some give and I twisted and bent them. The sound shut off or amplified deafeningly or unleashed to this most gruesome roar like of a dread beast from beyond the stars and it in volume rose and rose and rose. I dropped it like a boiling mug and it went clank against the balcony’s stone floor and now it had a dent. I looked around, but there was nobody staring. Some dragons on the street below the catwalk glanced up but couldn’t fully see me or whatever kind of mistake this was. After a few false starts, after telling myself nobody was going after me because of this, after reminding myself it would be ridiculous (hilarious, absurd, silly) if I called forth a demon just by flicking some rods, and after maybe a few more false start and the hatching of some nerves, I brought the magic shell to my earhole again, praying the stars it wouldn’t roar. Wind and wings couldn’t be heard, not anymore. There were bugs chittering and birds hooting like in the depths of the cliffs. A few beats, and the voices spoke. One a murmuring report, and the response was the welcome textured growl. Chwithach was on the other side. But the voices sounded to me small, like the came from afar of the other magic shell. Maybe I could have scrunched my frills and made out a word or half of one, but the dull humming, that opaque tone, still lingered in the sound that issued from the shell. Intelligibility just wasn’t there. But Chwithach was there! I heard his voice. I went back to the metal fingers and made sure they were in the same alignment I’d found them in. Time to try again. (Because of course he wouldn’t hear me while flying⁠ ⁠—⁠ but now, maybe?.) “Chwithach?” I asked the shell. They talked more⁠ ⁠—⁠ no hitch in their conversation like they might’ve heard. Nothing doing. I wanted to throw the shell. Watch it smack against the far butte or hit some passerby on the head or go careening off into the night. But the librarian had trusted me with it. It would be safe with me. That dent was nothing, right? I wiped the shell on my foreleg, then licked it and rubbed it to shine. It was fine. Back into my bag it went. Listless, thoughtful, I looked up at the stars. I should do something, I thought. Look at what you accomplish when you try to do anything, another me responded. It was a voice like mine (or Uane’s⁠ ⁠—⁠ still fresh in my mind). Acerbic and airy. My voice was capable of it, I was sure. But Kinri didn’t talk that way. I sighed. Maybe it had a point, though. What had I accomplished? I did kinda know where Chiwithach was, now? Somewhere in the cliffs. He was with someone. And their murmuring voice was telling. Now the choice was: stay here, or leave. Leave for the Moyo-Makao, or for the cliffs? I felt the vog over my mind, I knew if I stayed too still I’d skip a thought and find it was morning. It was late. And did Mawla even want me to stick around? I saw the last look she gave me. Was she having second thoughts, finally? I would leave. And I’d have to go to the cliffs. If it was a chance to stop Hinte, it was a duty. I felt with my tail the magic shell. I would figure that vexation along the way. Three fingers, how many configurations could it have? It couldn’t be worse than patterning a Specter cloak. I’d figure out why Chwithach couldn’t hear me, fix it, and I knew I would⁠ ⁠—⁠ did⁠ ⁠—⁠ have an ally in him. It was a plan. I took a step toward the catwalk. It might not be polite to takeoff here (I hadn’t seen anyone else do it) so I started across to the other butte. I had a plan. I smiled. I skipped forward⁠ ⁠—⁠ and stopped when bamboo planks gave too readily under my weight. A plan. This was good. Maybe at some unconscious depth I remembered him. Maybe I picked his voice up across the distance, over all the other talkers outside. Maybe the stars saw to it, in some starly way. But however it came, I did glance backward, and did see Digrif still sitting outside the Dadafodd, the little bush beside him half plucked clean in nervous impatience. I saw him looking all around, searching, calling confusedly, till his gaze locked to something. I followed it. I saw a hooded dragon approaching Digrif outside the Dadafodd. “You look around like you’re waiting for someone.” “Well, I am. I’ve been out here for a ring at least, but they haven’t shown up. I⁠ ⁠—⁠ I’m starting to think maybe they just won’t show up.” Nervous as it sounded, Digrif’s deep voice rang in the night. When I saw them, I had darted off the catwalk. Now, back on the balcony, I couldn’t crane my head too far over the edge⁠ ⁠—⁠ I wouldn’t risk that⁠ ⁠—⁠ and so the face beneath the cowl remained unseen. But the way Digrif looked at her⁠ ⁠—⁠ probably it was a knowing smile she gave him. Either way, the warm gray drake sputtered a little, then started, “Unless⁠ ⁠—⁠ it’s you?” The figure stepped toward him, found a spot on the bench. “Not so loud, little dragon. Do you want someone to hear?” A hitch, a pause. “No!” I could hear the falseness in the tone. Could the figure? At length, the reply: “Good.” A large brown wing slipped from under the cloak, and found itself wrapped around the warm gray drake. “I trust you found your way here safely?” “Well, yes.” Digrif flicked a tongue in thought. He glanced up, probably saw the dark scaled head peeking from above. I drew back before the figure followed his gaze. I heard him say, “So, are you with the thieves?” “We aren’t thieves, drake. Do you think those apes belonged to the faer?” There was an edge like the first crack of glass in the tone. Subtlety, Digrif, subtlety. Do you want them to catch on? “Well...” The wing wrapped around him patted the drake. “Of course not.” “But you messed with the guards, and fought some of them! That’s not exactly a good thing to do, is it?” The glass of their tone chipped further. “The guard is not justice, child. Don’t assume the red sash confers any special wisdom.” “But there’s still no reason to resist the guard like that.” I peeked. The brown wing had slipped a little lower, like the cloaked figure was waning in wanting to keep it there. “How fledgless, how naïve. Do you have any grasp of what’s truly at stake here?” Digrif might’ve opened his mouth for an instant, but the figure was swiftly adding: “No, you wouldn’t. The vexations of secrecy, I suppose. Come, child, I can take you to someone who can explain the matter so very clearly.” “Couldn’t you?” Digrif blurted. “Don’t you, uh, don’t you have a grasp of what’s truly at stake?” Did the glass break? All was quiet. Then there was their voice, it was also quiet. It said only, “Quiet. Come with me.” “I think⁠ ⁠—” “Did you come here for more than the wastage of my time? I thought you wanted an audience. I thought you wanted to understand, to help.” “I, I don’t grasp”⁠ ⁠—⁠ why Digrif, why that word?⁠ ⁠—⁠ “howcome you can’t just tell me, here, simply.” “Here in the open night, in the quiet, where any might hear? Tell me, little dragon, is that truly what’s the matter? Or are you hoping that your friend above will hear this as well?” “Well, I⁠ ⁠—⁠ don’t have a friend above.” “You don’t? Truly? Perhaps it was just a shadow. My apologies.” “Accepted.” “Thank you. I am not your enemy, child. I don’t want to sabotage you. Come with me; there’ll be a tavern full of witnesses. I cannot harm you.” “It’s not⁠ ⁠—⁠ I’m not worried about harm. I⁠ ⁠—⁠ well, I like Adwyn and the guards. I don’t want to betray them.” “Nonsense, child. You won’t have to betray or work against any of your friends. Soon you’ll taste that this little misunderstanding with the guards is a speck in the scheme of things.” “I guess.” “Will you come with me or will you not, little dragon?” I darted to the edge of the balcony. “I... hm. I think I’ll hear what you have to⁠ ⁠—” I jumped, then. “Digrif, stop!” I said. Twisting under the balcony and landing in front of them was a trick, but I was a sky-dweller. “Kinri?” Was he surprised, or did he pretend surprise? Either way, I grinned at the drake. (Why was the hooded figure smiling subtly too? They looked at Digrif, and behind them a tail lashed.) Unperturbed, I spoke. “Remember what I said earlier, about Hinte?” I got a nod. “I finished what I had to do in the Dadafodd. We can go after her now, stop her.” Mouth parted, brilles cleared, he said, “Oh.” “So c’mon! It⁠ ⁠—⁠ it might already be too late.” If the flat, fading tone of my words wasn’t a bummer, the way it emerged so abruptly after the chipper ‘c’mon!’ made it so. Appropriately, Digrif’s brow knit in worry. But he glanced to the figure. That was answer enough, and I knew⁠ ⁠—⁠ I could read⁠ ⁠—⁠ where he’d fall. I turned around. “Kinri.” There was a warmth to that voice. There was one other wiver in all the world who’d spoken my name that kindly. I knew the figure had to be a wiver now; only a mother could nurse that tone. “Don’t be so hasty, darling. I think you of all people should see the big picture, hear what Hinte and Chwithach aren’t telling you.” It wasn’t enough to make me turn around, it really wasn’t. I took a step forward. “There’s more! Call it a token of our goodwill.” I heard the slice of something sharp pulled free. A glance back sealed it all. It was an obsidian blade, light catching on glinting glass. It was Hinte’s knife. And it reflected light enough to her features to see the wiver’s beatific smile, to see the inviting way my reflection lingered in her eyes. “All yours if you take the time to hear us out,” she said in temptation. “All yours.” * * *