THE SEAM OF IDIA.
It had been Shop who’d alerted him to it. To suggest that, if by some miracle, the myth of the Stewards was real, then the Seam was, too. It could be the answer. The end to this crisis.
But months had passed, and they had yet to find a single living Scribbler who could read Verian Script.
The book now sat on his tea table. They balanced saucers upon it.
How long had he stared at its porous pages, the ghost strokes of ink? How many times had he tried to find a lick of something recognizable in those strange glyphs.
But if any bloodyseamexisted, it was hidden in the nonsensical scratching of some archaic Crafter, and if Idia watched somewhere above, she laughed at Tanner now.
There must be some scholar, some Scribbler somewhere on this godforsaken continent that could draw meaning from it. He would find them.
And once he found the Seam, he would need the means to unearth it. There was only one Artisan with the means.
“It wasyouwho insisted I employ gentler measures with Nina Clarke,” Tanner said through clenched teeth. “You made a case for courting her to our side in her years as a student.”
“Yes, but I fear that route is now foiled. Perhaps if you hadn’t taken her mother as your hostage—”
“Do notlectureme. She deserted her station. Refused her duty!”
“And spent seven years no better than a beggar. You might’ve employed a willing agent, had you offered her rewards instead of threats. You’ve made her into a revolutionary.”
Tanner chewed his tongue, simmering. He was inclined to take the teapot and throw its contents in Lord Shop’s face. “Careful,” he said. “We are schoolboys no longer.”
“No, my lord,” Shop nodded, no less grave. “I only think it prudent we speak plainly. Time is of the essence, as you know.”
Tanner bloody well knew. His last dose of idium waited in a safe beneath his bed. After it was spent, he’d be as base as the man who’d written that damned fairy tale.
“It is imperative that the girl do as we bid her, and if my son cannot persuade her, then we should revert back to the course you originally set.”
Tanner raised his eyebrow. “The mother?”
Shop seemed to consider it for a long moment before sighing. “I’m afraid so,” he said. There was no small amount of reluctance in it.
Artisans were not creatures of cruelty. They were merely pragmatists. Every representative of their House knew that the cost of success, while substantial, was carefully weighed. They were the gatekeepers of Idia’s enduring life source, after all. That duty did not come without its share of the unsavory.
“The hand must be heavier this time,” Shop continued, his mouth a grim line.
“A demonstration, then,” Tanner said, and though he tried to put on an expression of regret, there was no help for the thrill that cycled up his spine.
CHAPTER SEVENPATRICK
Theodore came in first, his father after him.
The two were both alike and not. Theo’s father was taller, more severe, his face cast in shadows. Beside him, Theo looked hopelessly young. A boy. They shared the same grave expression, the same posture, but years in Kenton saw Theo with broader shoulders, calloused hands, bronzed skin. It made him strange in his navy robes.
They found Patrick alone where he’d been left in the dusty room of shelves. John had been collected and led away long ago. The only thing left of him was a clot of drying blood by the door.
The terranium on the table remained untouched.
Theo brought food. Potatoes, judging by the smell. Green beans. Bread. Gravy. Patrick’s stomach volleyed painfully.
Terrence Shop introduced himself in his affected way.
“What do you want?” grunted Patrick.
But the lord shook his head. “A meal, first, Mr. Colson,” he said. “Then we shall speak like humans.”
