Wandering in an oblivious way through all this dirt and racket is the Chief Scribe, a plump and pale elderly man, scattering linseeds for the crows. The birds waddle and leap toward him, eager for the food. More swoop down from their perches on the walls, or from the narrow ledge of the chapel’s small window. The scribe’s blue robe scrapes the dirty stones of the yard, and a bag of seed embroidered with a pattern of delicate feathers swings from his girdle. Why he’s feeding the birds now rather than at a quieter time in the courtyard, Cal doesn’t know.
The scribe’s name is Daffran, and he’s lived in the castle all his life. Cal sees him at Small Council meetings, writing down proceedings in a looping hand, or in the courtyard, feeding the birds. The rest of Daffran’s days are spent in his small, high-ceilinged library in the tower, working on his chronicle of Montrice.
Daffran shuffles in Cal’s direction, giving him an uncertain smile.
“Morning.” Cal nods at him.
“Good morning, Holt,” the Chief Scribe says in a wavering voice, then clears his throat. “I wonder if I might trouble you, if you have a moment?”
“Is something wrong, sir?” Cal asks. Daffran rarely addresses him directly. He’s always suspected that the scribe is a little afraid of assassins.
“Perhaps—in private?”
“I’ll walk with you.” Cal’s glad for the opportunity to leave the recruits to their own pathetic devices for a few moments. He accompanies Daffran, at a frustratingly slow pace, back to the tall stone tower linked to the hall keep by a covered passage. On the lowest floor is the chapel, which Lilac visits every few days, and the vestry where her priest, Father Juniper, studies. The scribes’ library is two floors up. The young assassins jokingly call the tower Old Man’s Leap, because only elderly men live and work there. Even the junior scribes have white hair, or no hair at all.
Outside the main door Daffran pauses, as though he’d changed his mind about entering. Cal stands with him in the portico, puzzled. What is so important that the scribe sought him out? Is all this training of troops interfering with the bird feeding?
“I wonder,” says the scribe in a low voice, “if it’s better to speak out here, where none are too close to us, and the noise of this place will help keep our words secret.”
“Fine,” Cal replies, even more mystified. “Not inside the tower?”
Daffran shakes his head, his watery blue eyes darting from the tower to the courtyard and back.
“I trust no place,” he whispers, standing so close to Cal that his scent of beeswax and linseed oil is overpowering. “And no man but you, Chief Assassin.”
“If this is about the stories of what happened in Stur . . . ,” Cal begins, but Daffran shakes his head again.
“It’s about what is happening here, in Mont, within these very walls.” His whisper is barely audible. Cal has to bend down to hear him. “I have seen things.”
“What things?”
“The shape of a man.”
“One man?” Cal hopes this isn’t like the story of Lilac’s face in the sky. He’s bored with people reading things into cloud formations and lightning bolts.
“A hooded man in dark gray robes. I saw him on the stairs outside my library, when I had left the door open. Last night. I was waiting for my supper, you see, which I always take alone. Just a little wine, because I find it helps to relax me after long hours writing.”
“The man you saw?” Cal prompts.
“Just a flash, as he passed my door. I could not see his face, so I can’t be sure if he wore the black mask of the Aphrasians. But he looked to me to be one of the dark monks. There and gone, in an instant.”
“A dark monk?” Cal is whispering too now. “But you didn’t see his face. Are you sure it wasn’t simply another inhabitant of the tower? Father Juniper, say.”
“Father Juniper wears white,” Daffran replies. “My junior scribes wear the same blue robes as mine. None of us are in possession of dark cloaks or robes.”
“Perhaps a servant delivering food?”
“Gray robes are not permitted in the castle,” Daffran hisses. “They are associated with the Aphrasians. Apologies, Holt, for my tone. You are new here, and do not know our ways. No servant of the King of Montrice may wear a gray or black cloak. Some ladies of the court may dress themselves in black, if that is their wont. I understand it is the fashion, perhaps, of our times, though I don’t care for it myself. But I am not one to criticize any member of the king’s retinue—please, do not think that for a moment.”
He blusters on, and Cal realizes that he’s talking about the king’s current favorite, Lady Cecilia, who likes to wear black gowns and has been known to wear a black-feathered eye mask to balls and other revelries. Cal has to interrupt to get Daffran back to the point.
“What did you do when you saw this—figure?”
Daffran doesn’t reply at once. Cal wonders if he just sat trembling in his chair, too afraid to move.
“The page arrived with my supper, and I asked him if anyone had passed him on the stairs. He said no. After he left, I bolted the door.”
“You said to me earlier that you saw ‘things,’ not just one thing. Have you had any other sightings of this kind?”
“Early this morning, at first light, I rose to feed the birds.” Daffran’s voice is trembling. He seems genuinely afraid. “But when I descended the stairs, I saw the dark figure again, slipping out this very door.”
Daffran points to the iron-studded door to the tower.
“You followed him?” Cal asks, knowing the answer. Daffran hangs his head.
“I had not the courage, Chief Assassin. All my life I have lived in fear of the gray monks, and I doubt I would emerge the victor from any confrontation with one. I wondered, too, at the testimony of my own eyes. I am old. Perhaps I see things that are not there. I don’t know. But if anyone should be told of this, it’s you. I know you have fought the Aphrasians and lived to tell the tale.”
“Thank you, Chief Scribe,” Cal says, patting Daffran’s rounded back. The old man is evidently rattled by what he’s seen—or thinks he’s seen. “I will station guards at the tower’s door, and they will conduct a thorough search of the building at sundown and sunup every day.”
“I would appreciate that. Thank you. And please, Holt?”
“Yes?” Cal bends even lower to hear Daffran’s whisper.
“Rest assured that I will not share this story with anyone unless you tell me to do so. There is enough conjecture and fear in the city as it is. We can say the guards are there to protect our ink and vellum from a thief, perhaps. They are costly items, you know.”