Chapter 3 - Behind The Edifice 

The river carried them in silence. Minus Grunk and Rennik, who had split off from them upon exiting the inn. They would meet after Mara was freed, and if anything went wrong, Grunk assured them they had their backs.

They had scoured the docks for something unattended, and ended up with a leaky dinghy which Pen had liberated from the side of a cog. All the while, Hootalin made another invisible pass around the Assembly building, glimpsing into windows where ever the curtains were not drawn. Still no conclusive sign of the Dwarf.

The boat rocked beneath their weight as they drifted toward the Assembly building. The tall windows were mostly dark at this hour, like rows of half-lidded eyes. Pen adjusted a small flask of lamp oil at his belt, a modest purchase before they had set out. Useful in an archive, but not, in this case, for reading at night.

The dinghy drifted in the shadow of the Assembly’s waterfront wall, its hull knocking softly against the stone. Hootalin crouched near the bow, Zander’s key turning slowly between her fingers.

“Let's hope they don't have any anti-invisibility wards,” Pen said a little too loud, prompting Larnala to shush him.

Larnala was gazing at the opposite side of the river, where crooked buildings loomed in darkness. “Just get inside, scout around, and find us a good place to get in."

Ruffstrom leaned in towards Hootalin, lowering his voice. “And if you find anything of value—purely academic interest, of course—do let us know.”

“The dwarf first, thievery second,” Hootalin said, already turning away.

A whisper of motion, and she was airborne, gracefuly rounding the corner and crossing the last stretch of dark water alone. She landed on the stone mooring platform and turned to the heavy door. The key rattled into the lock, a soft click, and she slipped inside and vanished from sight, her magical invisibility settling over her like a held breath.

An imposing hall unfolded before her—marble floors, high ceilings, everything polished to the point of vanity. A grand central staircase went up to another large double door, two stories up. People were talking up ahead. 

Hootalin silently flapped up to ceiling and hovered above the steps.

At the first floor landing, four guards stood, three of them leaning on their halberds and one on his harquebus, mid-conversation.

“…telling you, something big's about to happen—”

“—you said that last time—”

“I'm telling you, they're gonna ship of us on some half-baked quest for a dragon's hoard or sumthin'.”

Hootalin glided past them, close enough to see the stitching on their uniforms, and reached the door at the top. It was an ornate door that demanded attention.

She started pulling on the handle. The door creaked loud.

“…you hear that?”

A guard came up the stairs and stopped before the door, eyes scanning his surroundings with the slow, reluctant suspicion of someone who hoped this would turn out to be nothing. 

Still, he opened the groaning grand door and diligently poked his head inside. He seemed unwilling to enter the room, instead opting to lean forward, giving Hootalin—who had made herself small at the side of the door—a chance to slip, sidling past him under his outstretched arm. Once inside, she turned to the guard, who frowned and pulled the door shut again. 

A meeting chamber stretched out to her left. widening after an intial entranceway. Along the walls stood rows of armor. She checked around the corner, where a great fireplace loomed, unlit but cavernous enough to hide a few bodies. 

Her attention settled on the mural at the far end, which to a human would be shrouded in darkness, but her eyes were well adjusted to it. It dominated the chamber, stretching from floor to ceiling, its presence impossible to ignore. The composition was split cleanly in two, one side coloured in a deep red while to the right the tone shifted to green. Several figures were portrayed on the mural—someone who was kneeling before a human, a robed figure and some sort of celestial being who hovered above them all. 

She sneaked through the room, passing beneath the watchful gaze of empty visors, to study the mural more closely. Curiosity, as always, outweighed good sense. Up close, the details sharpened. She felt it was hiding something. 

On the left, the red was not uniform—it bled and darkened in places, thick with texture. The kneeling figure’s hand was raised, palm open, as if offering something. Before them stood another, their bare skin marked by lashes. On the right, the green softened the eye. The robed figure stood alone, posture composed. Above them, the winged presence hovered in quiet suspension, its form radiant but indistinct.

Hootalin flapped closer, her gaze narrowing, and then she saw it. A slight imperfection in the stone, subtle enough to escape notice unless one had the eyes of an owlin. Near the kneeling figure’s reaching hand, a small section of the mural did not sit entirely flush with the rest.

She reached out with one of her feet, her claws brushing the surface. A faint, protruding, engraved text revealed itself beneath the dust.

For Devotion.

Hootalin tilted her head, and pressed it. The letters slid into the mural, and it felt like some mechanism was supposed to catch it, but didn't. The text slid back to its original position.

Behind her, the sound of shifting metal broke the silence.

Shit.

She turned slowly, already aware of what was happening, but not willing to face the consequences yet. 

The suits of armor stirred. A gauntlet tightened around a hilt. A helm turned by a fraction. The faint scrape of metal on stone as one of them took a single, deliberate step forward.

They can't see me... I think?

They began to move with measured steps. Blunted greatswords lifted with mechanical rigor as they advanced towards the mural. But not to her, instead ambling aimlessly near her. Hootalin exhaled quietly. She fluttered just beyond the reach of the nearest suit, her invisible form keeping her from becoming a target.

She turned back to the mural, scanning it for more secrets. There were two more. Above the angelic figure, hidden in the painted light, another engraving.

Under Grace.

And near the robed figure’s feet, carved so subtly it might have been mistaken for a flaw in the stone—

In Solitude.

She leaned in slightly, eyes tracing the composition again, fitting the pieces together.

Maybe there's an order to this?

She didn't get the chance to test it. A sudden blow came from behind. The blunted greatsword crashed into her side with enough force to knock the breath from her lungs, the impact ringing through bone and muscle alike.

Her invisibility shattered instantly. Hootalin stumbled forward, air catching sharply in her throat, as all the suits of armor turned to face her. 

“—right,” she hissed, already reaching for the spell again.

Magic snapped back into place around her, the world swallowing her outline once more. A quick push of force and she vaulted upward, landing atop one of the long tables as another strike cut through the space she had occupied a heartbeat before.

With a small, practiced motion, she shaped an illusion across the room; a figure shimmered into existence, vague and indistinct, but convincing enough for the suits of armor. Most of them chased the false intruder, weapons raised and metal clanging. But one did not move, it remained near the mural, much to Hootalin's annoyance.

She hovered just above the table, gaze flicking between the three hidden elements, invested in the secret the mural clearly held. But she also had a job to do, reminded of her own words to Ruffstrom. Time for some brute force.

She hit the three faded texts in different orders, punching them in while the suit ook another random swipe, hitting nothing but air. Eventually, she heard the internal mechanism faintly shifting.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then the wall responded. A low, grinding sound rolled through the chamber as part of the mural’s stone surface swiveled inward, revealing a hidden compartment carved into the wall behind it. Gold gleamed within, laying atop heavy, sealed envelopes. Hootalin quickly swept the contents into her satchel while behind her, the illusion faltered as one of the suits cut through it.

A suit's blade cleaved across the hidden compartement, mere moments after Hootalin retreated her hand, but not before she pulled a small lever inside the compartment. The stone frame swung shut with a heavy crack. Another wild swing was close enough that she felt the displaced air brush against her cheek. Another followed, delivered with a certainty that this time it had aimed for the correct area.

Time to go, Hootalin tought, as pain from the earlier impact flared up. She pushed off the table, moving for the exit before the suit could land another hit.

Hootalin slipped out of the meeting room with considerably less confidence than she had entered it. The guards had now descended the stairs again and spread themselves across the lower floor, out of earshot of the animated suits of armour clanking about the chamber, the heavy door muffling much of the sound.

Keeping light on her talons, Hootalin moved deeper into the first floor, following a corridor that bent and branched until it reached a barred door. An unused section, perhaps. The Assembly building had grandeur where people could see it, but the further inward she went, the more the place felt neglected.

She remove the plank keeping the door shut, and passed through. The corridor continued. Dust lay thick along the skirting boards and window ledges. Doors stood crooked in their frames. Offices with faded plaques and cracked glass fronts lined the hallway. Hootalin checked room after room and found very little besides stale air and the lingering smell of damp paper. She stifled a sneeze. No side entrance. No open balcony. No forgotten servant’s stair. 

Then one room gave her pause: a faint golden light leaked through the crack of its half-open door, warm against the gloom of the corridor. Hootalin tilted her head and listened. Nothing. No scribbling of some clerk condemned to an after-hours shift. She eased the door open further and peered inside.

It was a smaller office than the others, stuffed with old books and rolled documents on shelves. A desk sat under a shuttered window, its surface surprisingly neat. But what drew her eye sat on a side table near the wall: a round, brass-bound container with its lid slightly ajar, from which that amber glow spilled out.

Hootalin stared at it for a moment. Whatever was inside must be valuable. 

If I'm not taking it, Ruffstrom will...

She reached for the pot, her fingers brushing the warm metal rim—

The door slammed shut behind her. Hootalin spun at once, feathers bristling, and heard the unmistakable metallic clunk of a lock falling into place. She checked her body to make sure she was still invisible. The air in the room changed and so did the lighting; becoming more chilly and the ember glow turned a muted gray. The skin under her feathers tightened as she walked backwards towards the door.

A figure stood at the opposite corner of the room, as if it was always there, but she only just registered it. It was translucent, human-shaped, and dressed in clothes that looked expensive in the stiff, joyless fashion of an earlier century. The apparition lifted its head and fixed on her. Its face was pale and indistinct, as though memory had done a poor job preserving it. 

Hootalin felt the pressure of its gaze slam against her mind like icy fingers digging for purchase. For a brief moment the room seemed to tilt, as though something unseen was trying to prise open her thoughts and root around inside them. She clenched her beak shut and held firm.

The pressure receded. With a slow and almost disappointed motion, it raised one transparent hand and pointed toward a bookcase. Hootalin followed the gesture. Tucked between two leaning volumes was a yellowed sheet of paper. She approached it carefully, keeping one eye on the spirit. The writing on it looked strange at first, warped by age and old flourishes, but after squinting at it she recognised it for what it was: an older form of the Ariac script.

She sounded out the words, struggling with the text until she understood what was written.

"Why do you want my orb?" She read out loud, then glanced at the glowing container and back at the ghost.

“I don’t,” she said softly. “Not enough to die over it.”

The spirit did not move.

“I’m not here for your orb,” she went on. “I’m looking for someone. A prisoner. A dwarf.”

The paper trembled. Slowly, new words scratched themselves across its surface.

I know nothing beyond this hall.

While unhelpful, at least it was honest—more than could be said for most people Hootalin dealt with. She inclined her head slightly. “Then I’ve disturbed you for nothing. My apologies.”

There was a pause, and then, from behind her, the lock gave a neat little click. The sound was so welcome that Hootalin nearly laughed. She backed toward the door, opened it, and slipped out into the hall. She moved on at once, without looking back, leaving the dead man to his orb and his dusty little prison.

She forced herself to reflect on the two brushes with death she just experienced, all because of her uncontrolled curiosity.  

Focus, damnit. Let's get the rest inside so someone can hold me back. 

The windows of some of the abandoned offices looked out over the river. The haunted hallway would be a perfect place for her compatriots to inflitrate—no-one had set foot in this section of the building for a long while. Hootalin found a window that could be opened and peered down into the darkness below, where the others still waited on their little vessel. She hopped out of the window and drifted down to to rejoin them, letting her invisiblity drop again.

"Okay, I think the best way in is that window." She winced as she pointed at it, her injury still fresh.

Pen noticed. "You alright?"

"It's nothing, got into a little scrap. But we're still undetected."

"Did you take someone out?" Larnala asked. 

"No, I found something, but it activated a trap. I'll show you later." She stroked her bruised ribs, and nodded at the window. "Give me the rope, I'll tie it to something sturdy up there." 

The rope she had fastened to a desk inside the corridor held firm enough. One by one, the others climbed up and through the window into the forsaken first-floor wing, arriving with varying degrees of grace, Pen's larger physique barely fitting through.  

As soon as they were inside, she warned them about the spirit in the nearby room and the glowing golden pot it seemed to be guarding. With the mention of that last detail, it was as if the first detail was never mentioned.

"Gold, ye say?" Gok’s eyes sharpened, and Ruffstrom looked as though he had just been told that virtue itself had taken physical form and could be pawned. For a few moments both weighed the value of cursed treasure against the inconvenience of being strangled by the dead. With a firm "No" from Pen, they decided against it.

"Any clue where they are holding the Dwarf?" Larnala asked Hootalin.

Hootalin gave a small shake of her head. “Not exactly. I found guards, old offices, angry statues... I don't think she's in the main building. I'm thinking she's either at the very top, or very bottom.”

Gok moved off, running a hand along the wall at the end of the corridor. “Now, I'm no ar-ki-tekt, but by all rights, this hallway ought to be connected to that corner tower, the one you saw a stairwell in from the outside, owlin."

Gok knocked against the paneling with his gauntlet. The sound that came back indicated that it was hollow beneath the surface.

"I need a light," Pen said, who was the only species in the group without eyes that were well adjusted to the dark. Gok materialized a small flame from his gauntlet.

Pen drew a blade and began prying away the wooden paneling with patient violence. The others looked at each other, but couldn't muster the courage to interrupt the goliath. Splinters cracked softly. Dust sifted down in lazy streams. Before long he had stripped enough away to reveal not an open passage, but an older, solid wooden wall behind it.