If it is a tale as old as time,

  Why are you in such a rush to share it?

  ~~Rofust, Grand Archivist

  The second stack of books Morn brought bore no fruit—just more stories of famous Scriptors doing unbelievable feats of magic that couldn’t be attributed to Seedlings any more than they could be to high-level grimoires.

  After receiving the third stack, Callam laid them carefully atop the reading desk. There were nine of them in all: four with thick covers that smelled of tallow and ink, three small journals, and two sheafs of parchment tied together with string. Five had hand-drawn sketches of wild vegetation within their pages. Those were the ones he was most excited about, but he made sure to approach them all with the sharp-eyed scrutiny of a swindler looking for a mark.

  Anything with a dramatic beginning, he carefully moved aside. Those books would make great novels or mummer’s plays, but he was searching for something more academic.

  That left five.

  Of those, he slipped the three journals into his bookbag—they wouldn’t fall apart inside, and both were tagged with little stars, meaning he could take them back with him to the dorms. Morn had nodded and pointed to the insignia when Callam had asked if any of the books could be borrowed.

  Two remained. The first was thick and royal, with a purple cover like those first books he’d seen in the Writ’s library. It piqued his curiosity enough to warrant a closer look, and he had promised himself he’d read one of those tomes, one day.

  He was sorely disappointed. The book only cataloged the rainfall and growing patterns of the West Isles, with a special focus on soil composition, best seeding practices, and harvesting. With a press of his lips, he moved it aside, then reached for the glass of water Morn had brought earlier. He drank deeply. Only then did he turn his attention to the last leaflet. It was a collection of yellowed paper with the words, “Food for Thought,” in large font across a title page. A grimy string had been looped through three holes in the margins, then tied off.

  Callam flipped the first page over.

  His heart sped up as he digested the first lines. He pored over them again.

  “Rothu once joked that the making of man is bravery. I disagree. It’s certainly misary.”

  There was only one person he knew with such a weary view on life; that man taught Puzzlework, and didn’t seem the type to misspell a word. Still… if Olenid had authored this story, why were his writings tagged as relevant to Seedlings?

  “To think that that fool would be granted a Seedling, and not me. The man is a halfwit, if you split a halfwit, by half. He struggles to climb and spends his day whispering riddles. They never whisper back.

  I’ve checked.

  I shall chronicle his madness here. So, you, reader, may be the judge.

  Seventh day, second cycle of Harvest. Riddle spoken over coffee.

  ‘What is hidden by the plots,

  Now is found,

  When the bee is turned once around.

  Hear her buzz, let her sing,

  For words are strong and carry sound,

  Yet writing shares truths abound.’

  I’ve spent the better part of Arithmetic working at it. What in the Poet does he mean?”

  Callam blinked.

  A dozen fresh questions shot through his mind. First, Olenid had been cradling a plant the last Callam had seen him. Maybe this riddle hinted at why? Or spoke to how he’d gotten his Seedling?

  Those thoughts lingered as Callam waited for his streetwise talent to give any indication he was on the right path. When it didn’t, he turned his attention back to the leaflet, unsure of what to make of it. In the dim overhead light, shadows twisted the page. The paper was brittle to the touch and warped, as if once soaked then let to dry. The penmanship was erratic. It deteriorated further with each poem shared—every loop and curve had been scrawled in haste, every scratched-out word and dotted i gouged deep into the page.

  A chill crept down Callam’s spine.

  I should stop.

  Ignoring the impulse, he read on, becoming more the voyeur with every line. Here was a rare glimpse into those prying, private thoughts mind-sick men learned to keep inside. Just seeing them felt like a transgression. Yet what choice did he have? There was the smallest chance these poems mentioned Seedlings, and only starving men left riches unread.

  “Nineteenth day, First Cycle of Seedling. Budding. Shared before our ascent.

  And the lackwit laughed the whole time. Laughed!

  ‘How typical, how ignorant,

  To steal my words from me

  Take the second, add the fourth,

  And a Poet you will be.’

  Steal my words? I knew him a plagiarist… a thief. A jackal. I’ve finally my proof. I’ve finally fair cause.”

  Callam’s throat tightened as he put down the last poem. He sat frozen for a while, the unease he’d felt earlier coiling in his stomach. When rubbing his Seedling’s scar did little to steady his pulse, he downed another sip of water. The liquid cooled his throat, though his fingers trembled as he put down the glass. They hadn’t done that since his heist.

  What should I do?

  The riddle’s solution hadn’t been given, but any lackwit could figure it out: calling the Poet typical and ignorant was hardly complex wordplay. And the simple jibe only reaffirmed the obvious: this leaflet chronicled either the ramblings of a madman or the resentment of a compulsively jealous mind. Maybe both.

  None of it sat well with him.

  Olenid had clearly been in grave danger, or was a grave danger to others. Sure, the Puzzlework professor did not seem the type to harm anyone, not with his strange plants and bad jokes, but…

  Images of himself tinning as a kid, while the older sootskins picked the unexpecting mark’s pockets shot through his head.

  …but innocence makes the perfect ruse.

  Callam’s neck prickled as he pushed himself up off the gnarl of roots. The headmaster or Rote had to be warned that Olenid was stealing Seedlings, or at least biding his time to do so.

  He sat back down. The hard wood bit at him like an iron vise.

  What would the professors do? Nothing. They’d do nothing. Scriptors had been quelled for less, and rumor had it that Olenid had been vital to clearing the twentieth floor. That alone likely insulated him from any accusations, even if the other professors thought the findings credible and not simple coincidence. Surely more than one tomebound had spoken about the makings of man.

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  No, the truth was Callam was better off keeping this to himself. He’d tell Lenora, since she already knew he was researching poems, and together they could scour the roots for information on Rothu, but no one else needed to know.

  For now, at least.

  It was good to have a plan, yet it still took several more minutes of staring at the leaflet for the feeling of wrongness to begin to fade. He forced himself to ignore it. To breathe slow and steady. It didn’t help. Yet rushing off here to shout the alarm would not change the way of the world, nor help the chapelward.

  Sometimes standing tall requires waiting.

  Groaning, he rubbed that space between his eyes. An impatient ache built within his legs. He hated waiting.

  ~~~

  The books on spellworks and poetry did not disappoint. At least they didn’t once he managed to concentrate on them. He must have read the first few paragraphs of Systematic Seeking ten times, his mind still on his earlier findings.

  No amount of water had stopped his mouth from tasting sour.

  The red-and-blue-tagged volume confirmed what he already suspected: Infer Intus, Ater, Infer Intus, was an alternative pentameter called a tronche, usually taught in year three. In it, the syllables were reversed to mirror iambic. Ms. Mae, the author, insisted that such variations to ‘grimwork,’ the term she’d coined for her work, were far more common than reported but that Seekers kept the subversion quiet so as to not attract undue attention.

  Callam could understand that. Had he not already had his back to the fire, he’d have kept his head down too.

  “Morn,” he said, looking up for the first time in quite a while, “I know this book bears no star, but is there a way for me to reserve it?” It made sense that they would have a trade-slip system—even pennypawners did, to help unbound and Ruddites track whatever someone stored. And those places didn’t keep hundreds of thousands of items.

  The man nodded from where he stood quietly in the alcove’s shadowed corner. He looked like a statue there, against the stone. A figurine. Callam had offered him a seat over an hour ago, but the Ruddite had shaken his head. Rings darkened his eyes.

  “How many days?” Even as Callam said it, he wished his tone had been kinder.

  Morn raised eight fingers.

  A quarter cycle, then. Excellent.

  Question answered, he returned to his studies. He’d come back sooner than that anyway.

  Tower Poems and their Provinces gave him the first hint he needed to solve the chapter in his grimoire. Namely, it clarified what he had to bring to Solom’s door. This whole time he’d assumed the answer would be complex. It proved annoyingly obvious.

  “Strangest of all are the rumors that Solem loves knowledge. For a Keeper to collect words as the commonplace dog does sticks… it begs the question, is he truly illiterate? Alas, such hopes are wishtales. The beast could not separate a stanza from a couplet. He is but a bird mimicking sound.”

  Which meant he was searching for a novel. Novels hid secrets, told stories, and could not lie. Sure, their authors could, but not the novels themselves. One involving sisters? Warmth tickled him as his streetwise talent affirmed his guess.

  That still left thousands of options.

  Leaning over, he collected his bookbag and pulled out his grimoire. His heart sank when he rifled through it to discover the chapter had not progressed, nor had the deadline shifted. The only difference was that his spell now said, “reveals hidden beasts,” under its description. He still only had three cycles to finish the chapter.

  Just under ninety days.

  He yawned his protest. Once. that would have been a lifetime. Now, with climbing and classes, it felt a heartbeat away.

  Despite his anxiety around Olenid, Callam slept the night through. The path back to the dorms was quicker now that he knew it, and he’d only gotten turned around once.

  The next morning, the other boys filling the four post bunks were not so well rested. “Close the window,” one grumbled, while another swore on each Poet’s name that he’d kill whoever snored next. A little much, but then again these tomebound hadn’t spent years wondering when they’d find something that could pass for a bed.

  Stretching, Callam pushed his blanket aside and got up. The stone floor was cold against his soles. A glance down at his hand bought relief: his seedling was not glowing, so he wouldn’t need fresh bandages today. The small laundry pile collecting in the corner of his bunk did not give him such joy. Not that he liked being dirty—he just couldn’t kick the feeling that the river stones were damaging his clothes with every pass. Washing twice a day as Siela had seemed the better gamble.

  Hard to wash that often now that I’m not seaside though.

  A tug brought over his bookbag. Another pulled open the flap. He counted two rymers, and three copper. It was more money than he’d had his whole life, and it was not nearly enough. Between his debt to Merra for hosting the orphans, and his promise to rebuild the chapelward, he needed every bent cent he could get.

  And that was before he considered tuition—this semester had been sponsored by the city, but come next quarter he’d start accruing dues. They’d claim his Tower earnings until they were paid in full.

  At this rate I won’t have a penny to spare.

  The coins felt heavy in his hands as he put them away.

  Five steps later and he reached the drapes. He drew them taut. Today promised to be busy, what with his planned climb, and his discovery of Oledin’s ramblings. He still had to make sense of them, ideally with Lenora's help.

  Another breath helped stop the previous night’s anxiety from creeping up. God but he hated waiting. He glanced back at his clothes.

  His friends wouldn’t be up for hours, and his chores weren’t about to do themselves. He’d use that time to think.

  ~~~

  “The line between fear and patience is paper thin,” Callam mumbled, feet several inches deep in the frigid stream threading through the castle’s larger courtyard, hands working his shirt. Not the most poetic stanza—and certainly not when compared to those he’d read last night.

  Another repetition didn’t solve the issue. The words still didn’t flow right, yet the line was as close an approximation to what he was feeling as he could get. For as long as he could remember, he’d always considered taking action to be a precursor to bravery. Now he wasn’t so sure. More than anything, he wished he had Seila around to talk it through.

  She’d loved planning, and had also been the bravest person he’d known.

  It wasn’t that he couldn’t plan. He was pretty good at it. Choosing a mark required strategy. So did every heist, escape, and purselift he'd ever done. No. It was more that… preparation was simply a chore to be completed. A stepping stone to his goals.

  Movement was what separated the heroes from men. Anyone could plan. Or so he’d thought.

  But now? When faced with the knowledge that a professor might have stolen a Seedling? A finding with implications far outside his own needs? He was beginning to appreciate the type of resolve it took to hold still and not act.

  Sunlight finally peeked over the battlements, and he hung his shirt to dry. The shadows cast by it could have fit a giant. He barely noticed. Slipping on his shoes, he made for breakfast. Thursdays meant sausage and onion, and it had been a while since he’d enjoyed his favorite meal.

  The mess was quiet as he entered. Bright too, from the spellworked constructs someone had hung across the hall’s arched ceiling. A few tomebound sat in a corner, whispering among themselves. Four had started a game of Tilted Tiles. Callam had yet to try that one out.

  He joined the small line at the hearthway. Ruddites rotated the pit that charred the onions and kept the meat hot, while a floating pan delivered eggs from somewhere in the kitchen. Callam grabbed a plate of each and sat at the nearest free bench. Without Rote’s tonic, he’d need his strength for this afternoon.

  “Mornin’.”

  Callam looked up at Moose in surprise. The second-year was never up this early—only Lenora was. The boy had donned a weathered pair of pants and a brown robe that matched his complexion. He carried three plates in his hands. All were full of meat and vegetables, and one also held a mound of eggs tall enough to rival the lighthouse.

  “Sleep alright?” Callam asked, putting down the sausage he’d speared. He wiped some grease from his chin.

  The boy grunted, sat, and began to eat. After a while he said, “Better than most nights. Still can’t get used to the bunks, even after my first year. Forticraft don’t help none.”

  Callam’s ears perked. He was still fascinated to learn about three-star specialists and how their magic worked.

  “Ah, the tragedy of the nobleborn.” Irony tinged Tavis’s voice as he placed a coaster down to Moose’s right. The well-dressed boy hadn't joined them since the three of them had played Seeker’s Talent together. “Real tearjerker of a play. You must know the one, Callam. A broken home. A nanny’s love. Two jilted sock puppets comparing the size of their stockings.”

  Callam struggled to hold back a laugh.

  “Mind if I join you?” Tavis asked, taking a sip of coffee. “Irem has me running drills before class. Says I’m not fit to climb the third floor, if you can believe it.” He flexed a rather soft-looking muscle.

  “Sure can.”

  “What’s that, Moose?”

  “Sure can believe it.”

  “Oh, I thought you were inviting me to sit,” Tavis replied, then did.

  Lenora didn’t join them for another half hour yet. When she finally arrived, she slid next to Callam without a word as if she’d been there all along. A small necklace with a silver charm hung along her collarbone. Her blue eyes reflected the morning light like still water. Already, she’d wrapped one sandwich of bread and egg in paper, and she busied herself preparing a second while they ate. “Sebastian’s free at fifth bell,” she whispered once Tavis had left. "I spoke to him near the Masters hall. Meet me after third? I’ve a few prairieplights left to kill.”

  They nodded.

  “Should be easy,” Moose said.

  Conditioning sure wasn’t.