Declaimer's Stand: The Spoken Books Uprising, #4

By D. T. Kane

"Get your coat, Rox. You're going home."

 

Monsignor Scrivener. Dragon Rider. Orator. The titles bestowed on Baz sound as ridiculous to him as he suspects they do to everyone around him. But Tessa appointed him leader of the uprising, and Baz intends to keep those entrusted to him safe. Except, that's proving exceedingly difficult. Erstwhile's army has discovered a new weapon that renders spells useless; Baz's sole advantage over Erstwhile's much larger force, his one remaining dragon, is badly hurt; and Baz's troops are exhausted. They'll be overrun for sure before they reach safe haven at Tome. But there is one chance: escape into the Icy Heights and head for the frozen city of Enigma.

 

Meanwhile, Deliritous is coming to grips with his choice to return to his place at the top of society, opposing the rebels Baz is leading. When his aunt reveals a stunning secret, Del finally thinks he knows where his life is headed. But in the upper echelons of Oration, schemes run rampant as a fire in a Library of old books, and Del's never been one for scheming.

 

As betrayal strikes both Baz and Del, their paths will once more cross. But they'll both discover that war has a way of dividing loyalties that once seemed unquestionable. Will Baz find a way to save his rebellion from a premature demise? Will Deliritous finally decide who he truly wants to be? Find out in Declaimer's Stand, Part IV of The Spoken Books Uprising!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eremite Publishing
• Release date: Sep 16, 2022
• ISBN: 9781735069982

Book preview

A close up of an animal Description automatically generated

For all those who have sent me kind words

about my writing—this book is for you.

Declaimer’s Stand

Map of Oration

Map Description automatically generated

VISIT https://dtkane.com/resources/map-of-oration for a full-size version of this map.

Bonus Preview

KEEP READING PAST THE last page for a free preview of Into the Dragon’s Maw, Part V of The Spoken Books Uprising!

Order Today!

https://books2read.com/intothedragonsmaw

Prologue

BUT, MY DUKE, AWL said. It is my sworn duty to protect you.

Not tonight, Octavinal Torchsire said. Where I’m going, no one can protect me.

Octavinal gave his Harbour a wry smile. Awl was built like a barrel with limbs, low to the ground and solid as granite. He attempted to maintain a stern aspect to his expression, but even the hardened bodyguard couldn’t stop the suggestion of a smile from touching his mouth.

Very well, sir, he said. I will see you in the morning, then.

With a final, knowing glance, the Harbour strode away down the corridor. Octavinal had already forgotten about him as he turned toward the door of his bedchamber.

For so long, he’d compared this life to a prison sentence of interminable duration. His power obliterated and prestige forgotten, he’d contemplated ending it all more than once, rather than deal with the mundanity that was now his existence.

But then he’d met her. A love he’d never thought he’d find again. And, against the odds, they’d had a healthy boy together. Octavinal had been a caretaker once before. He had forgotten the satisfaction it brought him.

This night, though, wasn’t for his boy. Just back from trade negotiations at the Frozen City, he was chilled, tired, and in need of a woman’s touch. He breathed deep in anticipation and already had his shirt half unbuttoned as he opened the door.

A woman’s gray eyes met his own. For an instant, Octavinal permitted his smile to broaden. But it wasn’t his wife’s eyes staring back at him from across his marriage bed.

For several moments, surprise paralyzed him. His wife was present, lying in the bed, her gown of translucent lace suggesting she’d had ideas similar to Octavinal’s own about this night. But his arousal turned to dread as he looked at his spouse’s face. Her eyes bulged open, unnaturally large, thick spittle foaming over her lips. Her limbs twitched uncontrollably. A discarded glass vial was nestled in the sheets on Octavinal’s side of the bed, a wet stain of its dregs showing across the fine cotton.

Above his wife stood a second woman, the one Octavinal had locked eyes with upon entering. She was clothed in close-fitting, dark leather, a mask pulled over her hair and mouth, revealing only her eyes, which were the shade of storm clouds before a gale.

The assassin’s expression contorted in surprise as she seemed to realize who Octavinal was. She made to move around the bed, toward the open servant’s door that she’d apparently used to sneak in. But Octavinal recovered himself and rushed to block her. The killer paused, expression altering from surprise to contempt.

Do not test me, Hoarder. I did not come for you this night, but I would cry not a tear if you force me to end your life as well.

The cold confidence of the woman’s tone ought to have been a warning. But in that moment, it only enraged Octavinal. With a guttural cry that would later haunt his dreams, the Torchsire Duke launched himself at the assassin, bare hands outstretched, already flexing in anticipation of wringing the woman’s neck.

It was only a flash, but enough for Octavinal to see the quintet of colors that sparkled forth from the woman’s blade. Then his world was a red agony, both his hands afire with pain, the tips of several severed completely.

Somehow, he kept his feet and lunged once more at the woman. She muttered what Octavinal thought to be a curse. He didn’t realize it had been a spell until he was flung backward, slamming into his bedchamber’s far wall. By the time he regained his senses, the assassin was gone. For several moments, he simply sat there in a daze of pain and confusion. Then movement from the bed caught his eye.

Dayen! His wife’s name sounded like the final note of a dirge, cloaked as it was in the agony and shock he felt.

He rushed to the bedside. Dayen was convulsing uncontrollably now, the bed creaking, the canopy above it threatening to collapse. Her blonde hair stuck to her forehead, full red lips contorted in agony she couldn’t express through the froth pouring from her mouth. Octavinal reached out to steady her but pulled back, confusion caused by his blood loss leading him to think how upset Dayen would be if he stained her silk gown with his bloody fingers.

Papa?

Octavinal slowly lifted his head from his dying wife. In the doorway stood a young boy, not yet old enough to begin his Reading lessons.

I heard a noise, the boy said. He clutched a hat too big for his small head against his chest, a present Octavinal had just brought back from his travels. What’s wrong with mama? Why isn’t she moving?

Octavinal dropped his eyes back to his wife. His confusion turned to rage as he realized that the boy’s interruption had distracted him from Dayen’s final moments. He snarled, turning now-fiery eyes back on the child. The love he’d felt for his newfound family drained away in scarlet drops from his severed fingers.

Part 1

Chapter 1

HE WAS SURROUNDED BY people and very alone.

Baz stared up into the darkness, trying to slow his racing heart, focusing on Ehma’s steady breaths beside him. Munch lay close by, head resting on the fluffy tail of Eromér the Book Dragon. Baz’s hat covered the youth’s face and quivered every few moments from Munch’s snores.

It was absurd. Baz was a grown man, and here he was afraid of the dark. But even with the horrors of Leamina’s dungeons more than a month past, the absence of light still brought tremors to Baz’s numb fingertips.

Hey, you awake?

For a moment, Baz thought it was one of the voices in his head, and his heart stopped. They were always there, but rarely discernable. What would it mean if he began to understand what the voices were whispering in his subconscious? Ehma stirred but didn’t wake. Steeling himself, Baz glanced up.

Oh, good, Tax said, crouched over top him. Do you ever actually sleep, little brother?

Baz glowered, but didn’t respond, not wanting to wake Ehma or Munch. Or Eromér, for that matter. Baz forced himself not to look at the scars on the Book Dragon’s hide that still had yet to fully heal, where he’d been pierced by elemental arrows.

Tax nodded and wordlessly motioned for Baz to rise and follow. Baz cast a quick glance at Munch. He almost woke the boy but thought better of it. Munch got even less sleep than Baz some nights, often waking with a scream or sob in his throat. Let him rest. He’d be fine here with Ehma.

Baz wrapped his cloak tightly about himself as he followed Tax. It was the same one he’d had since leaving the island of Fable a month prior, an old Xavier Librarian’s cloak, bright red cloth fringed in violet. It wasn’t cold enough during the days to warrant a cloak, and supplies were sparse as it was, so Baz hadn’t bothered replacing it yet. Glancing down at it now, though, Baz wished he had, as it brought to mind the memory of Xavier Tower collapsing to rubble during the Battle of the Dozen Book Dragons. How many people had died in that building?

Once they were far enough away that their voices wouldn’t wake the others, Tax said, I was on guard and heard something. Might be nothing. But might be an ambush.

Baz had been about to complain about how Tax had nearly sent him into cardiac distress. Instead, he found himself at a loss, heart once again in his throat. Baz looked out over the dying campfires and tents in their camp. Nearly a hundred and fifty people. All Baz’s responsibility.

Finally, he located his voice and hissed, An ambush? Then why are you creeping through the night instead of raising the alarm?

Tax frowned, causing Baz to look away.

Like I said, might be nothing.

He sounded so certain of himself. Wouldn’t that be nice? Baz tried to stamp out the resentment he felt bubbling up within him. He was only moderately successful.

You’re the one who wanted this army, Baz snapped, then immediately grimaced. He’d been on edge around Tax ever since rescuing him from Erstwhile, but he was still Baz’s older brother. Tax’s expression was difficult to read in the dark, but Baz shifted his weight uncomfortably beneath it all the same, then took a deep breath before continuing. These people are my responsibility now, Tax. We should alert someone. Shouldn’t we?

"We have to keep them safe, Baz. You’re not alone. Tax grasped him by the shoulder. Come on. I’m probably just jumping at shadows. But I brought this for you just in case."

Tax held up a Bookpack. Baz took it without question, hoisting it over one shoulder. Amazing how quickly things could change. Not too long ago, he’d have blanched at the mere thought of carrying a bag full of Spoken Books.

Tax murmured a few Words and a globe of light appeared over their heads. Dim, but enough that they wouldn’t trip over a hidden rock or carelessly stowed piece of gear. Tessa had trained her soldiers well, but after two weeks on the run, Erstwhile’s Army of Daggers nipping at their heels all the way, organization was the last thing on most minds when they made camp at night.

The light reflected off Tax’s green eyes, making them glow like jewels. The vibrant tattoos along his arms and chest gleamed as well. Tax hadn’t worn a shirt since they’d rescued him from Erstwhile. Baz hadn’t built up the courage to ask him about it yet, but had his suspicions.

Hey! cried a voice out of the darkness. What do you think you’re doing? Stop!

Tax sighed and murmured a few additional Words, the globe brightening to reveal two men dressed in the sandy uniforms of Tome’s army. Each had a sword drawn, stances suggesting the weapons weren’t just for show.

Oh, Monsignor Scrivener, the guard who’d shouted the challenge said. Apologies. Didn’t expect anyone to be about at this hour. He gave a bow that his companion copied. For the first few days, Baz had insisted they stop doing that. But he’d very nearly lost his voice with how often he’d had to issue the admonishment and finally begun to suffer the ridiculousness in silence. These people fought to end oppression, yet insisted on bowing to him like he was one of the Scribes?

And Captain Yeltax, the guard continued. He bowed again, even more deeply than he had to Baz. This time, though, his companion didn’t copy him, instead raising a hand in a half-hearted salute while eyeing Tax warily. Baz nearly said something, but Ehma had explained that proper decorum only mandated that the Monsignor Scrivener be bowed to, so technically the soldier had done nothing wrong. Indeed, the other guard’s conduct was arguably just as questionable, according Tax the same level of respect as Baz. Still, the lack of faith some of the men still showed in Tax irked Baz.

At ease, gentlemen, Tax said. The Monsignor Scrivener couldn’t sleep, is all. Just making some rounds. You’re holding up alright?

Just fine, sir, the first guard said. He eyed his companion when he didn’t respond.

The other man shrugged, then said, Could do for some proper action. All we’ve done is run since the Book Dragons left. But the Madame Scrivener told us we were here to wipeout the Readers. Can’t rightly do that if we never fight them.

Baz opened his mouth but halfway to speaking discovered that he actually agreed with the soldier. It’d been a steady, two-week retreat. Baz hadn’t thought Erstwhile held enough people to field an army the size of the one Octavinal had mustered, certainly not after the casualties they’d sustained during the Battle of the Dozen Book Dragons. He’d been wrong.

Hold your tongue, Ohne, the first soldier snapped. The Monsignor Scrivener’s got enough on his mind without the likes of you—

It’s alright, Tax said. He just wants his shot at the Readers. Can’t say I blame him. But we’ve got to be smart about it. Tax tapped a finger against his temple. Patience, men. You’re doing well.

Ohne inclined his head, though that didn’t conceal his scowl. The first soldier nodded solemnly, then bowed again as Tax started off. Baz followed him, trying to ignore the hairs rising on his neck as Ohne’s glower followed them.

That’s another reason I didn’t raise an alarm, Tax whispered. The men need a win, but we can’t afford to get their hopes up only to dash them when it turns out it was just a doe and her babe munching grass.

Baz nodded. Why hadn’t he thought of that? Before Tessa had died and left orders for him to take her place, he hadn’t even known what the word tactics meant. And now he was supposed to lead a whole army? Bloody burning Books! He ran a hand through his hair. Most men would have considered it little more than fuzz, but Baz couldn’t remember it ever having been so long—they’d shaved it weekly back in Torchsire Library.

They entered a grove of trees a quarter mile outside camp and Tax slowed, his light dropping toward their feet and all but winking out. He crouched behind a dead trunk covered in moss and Baz knelt beside him, boots nearly slipping on the forest floor’s moist earth as he did so. Clouds had moved over the moon and Baz couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of him. Crickets chirped, a gentle breeze rustled some leaves above them. They waited in silence.

Baz began to feel silly. He ought to be sleeping and opened his mouth to tell Tax so.

Snap.

Tax grasped Baz’s shoulder, motioning off to their left. Nothing there. Spilled ink, it probably was just a deer. Except... Baz still couldn’t see anything, but his ears were working fine. No, not a deer. Deer didn’t mutter while grazing in the darkness.

A moment later, an orb similar to the one Tax had summoned popped into existence, illuminating more than a dozen men and women, dressed all in black, save for a red dagger stitched over the shoulder of either sleeve.

Erstwhilian soldiers.

Baz clamped his mouth shut to keep his teeth from chattering. He began to grow lightheaded. The Readers were easy to pick out, mobile lecterns hanging from their necks. But it was the men in leather masks who caused Baz’s blood to run cold. Harbours, each with razors out and ready for murder. None of them was Rox, which ought to have been a relief. That man was a walking death sentence. Yet somehow Baz felt regret at the giant’s absence. Baz tugged at Tax’s arm.

We’ve got to go back, alert the camp.

Tax shook his head. "No time," he mouthed as he began edging out from behind the log.

Baz increased his grip on Tax’s arm, forcing him to stop. He couldn’t do this. Baz was no fighter. He’d seen the horrors of battle back at Leamina Library, and discovered he couldn’t stomach them. This would be a disaster if Tax tried to fight here, expecting Baz’s help. He readied himself to forcibly drag his brother back toward camp and—

Baz?

A voice, off to their right, the direction of camp.

Baz? it repeated, a groggy quality to it. You out here?

Munch? Baz murmured.

Tax cursed under his breath.

The Erstwhilian ambush halted, the Harbour who’d been leading them holding up a hand, peering into the darkness. He pointed at his eyes with two fingers and motioned in the direction of Munch’s voice. A Reader moved up beside him, Speaker at his shoulder. Another globe of light popped into existence, illuminating the Book on his lectern. He turned a page, then began Speaking.

Baz? That you?

At that moment, the clouds moved away from the moon, giving a clear view of Munch. He had Baz’s hat on and was glancing about the trees uncertainly.

Illiterate ink!

Tax, we’ve got to do something!

I’m thinking, I’m thinking.

But there was no time for thinking. Baz dropped the sack of Books from his shoulder, not caring who heard. He yanked the first Book out of it that he could get his hands on and flipped it open. He could barely see the Words but began Speaking anyway. Tax made as if to stop him, but then seemed to think better of it. Interrupting him after he’d already begun Speaking could be just as disastrous as Baz giving away their position. So instead, Tax began murmuring under his breath too.

Almost immediately, the inside of Baz’s mouth was bleeding, his poor pronunciation of the spell in the low light causing its power to backlash against him. But he plowed forward, Speaking faster than he’d thought himself capable.

Nearing the spell’s conclusion, he looked up, pouring every ounce of concentration he could into imagining that the Speaker who was targeting Munch was nothing but dust in the wind. Baz spoke the spell’s final Word.

Light burst from the sky, so bright Baz would have sworn the Burning had come again. No lightning, just a solid bar of pure energy, like what Baz had seen Eromér and some of the other Book Dragons use. Men cried out. Baz couldn’t see a thing, blinded by his own spell, but judging by the sudden snapping of twigs and crunch of dead leaves, many of them had fallen to the ground.

When Baz’s vision cleared, a smoking hole was all that remained of where the Speaker, Reader, and lead Harbour had been. Baz barely even saw that, though, eyes darting frantically.

It was the hat he saw first, upside down on the leaf-strewn ground. Munch was a short distance away, prone, but moving, rubbing at his eyes.

There!

The shout brought Baz’s attention back to his more immediate problem. Three Harbours, razors extended, were charging his and Tax’s position. Baz frantically looked back down at his Book, but there was no time for another spell.

Read, Baz, Read!

Tax vaulted over the log they’d been hiding behind. Baz reached out a useless hand to stop him. What could Tax hope to do other than die, running at a trio of Harbours completely unarmed?

Except, Tax wasn’t unarmed. It was difficult to see in the dark, especially after that light spell had nearly blinded him, but in one hand Tax held a sword. At least, that’s what it looked like. But it wasn’t made of steel, or any other metal. It was a weapon of pure elemental power, summoned from the tattoos etched on Tax’s flesh. A katana of shadow. Immediately, the voices in Baz’s head grew louder, but he ignored them and took his eyes off Tax. Baz had seen what such a weapon could do and didn’t wish to witness it again, so he followed Tax’s admonition and began Reading once more.

This time was even worse than the first spell. His mouth felt as if he’d bitten into a wasp’s nest. It didn’t help that at the back of his mind he was waiting for a Harbour’s razor to slice through his neck, bringing his life to an abrupt conclusion. A crazed shout caused Baz to glance up from his Reading.

He nearly bungled the spell completely at the shock of the scene. One Harbour was already dead, his corpse a blackened husk, eye sockets empty and smoking. The other two were edging away from Tax, his tattoos glowing like a lightning storm. Baz’s brother shouted like a lunatic, throwing himself at the closer of the two giant men. The Harbour raised his razor to defend against Tax’s attack, but his shadow blade passed right through the razor as if made of smoke and struck the Harbour. It didn’t cut the man, but as soon as it touched his flesh, the Harbour jerked, head snapping back. A brief, pained cry escaped his lips before he crumpled to the ground, skin already blackening from the effects of the shadow power coursing through Tax’s weapon.

Tax laughed, spitting on the dying man before turning to the third Harbour.

Baz kept Reading, glad he didn’t have time to dwell on the chilling scene. As he neared the spell’s conclusion, he looked up once more, focusing on a Spoken Trio that seemed to be rallying to counter against Tax and cried out the final Words.

A glow like daybreak illuminated the clearing once more. Baz had the good sense to shield his eyes this time, and when he lowered his arm was greeted by only the silence of night. A few mutters that Baz immediately recognized as Tax, and the globe of light returned, bright enough to give them a clear view of their surroundings. Baz’s stomach convulsed.

Three Harbours lay at Tax’s feet, each body in various states of desolate decay, Tax’s shadow blade having rendered each of them ashen husks with burned-out holes where their eyes should have been. Baz looked away. He didn’t care how bloodthirsty Harbours could be. No man deserved the gruesome fate dealt by the powers of shadow.

The death Baz had dealt was arguably worse, though. His first one had simply seared three people straight from existence. His second hadn’t been nearly so clean. Bloody shirts and random body parts lay strewn about the forest floor. A shredded, smoking boot lay atop a burning stump. An arm with part of the torso still attached hung trapped in the dead branches of a nearby tree. The tips of Baz’s fingers began to tingle, and his vision swam.

Baz?

The voice snapped Baz from his traumatized torpor and he sprinted toward it. Munch was huddled against a tree, knees drawn up to his chest. He’d retrieved Baz’s hat and donned it. The boy’s face was almost entirely obscured by its brim, just his ungainly nose poking from beneath it.

Thank the Scribes, Baz said, kneeling before he’d even stopped running, sliding the last several feet to Munch and wrapping him in a hug.

Why’d you leave? Munch asked. I woke up and you weren’t there and...

Munch’s voice broke and Baz increased the strength of his grip, feeling like an idiot. Because of Baz the boy had already lost his brother, the only family he had, and now he puts Munch at risk like this?

What in the Enigma’s name is going on?

Baz looked up to find Ehma and what seemed half their army behind her. She had a Book poised on a mobile lectern, eyes shining with a mix of outrage and fear. Her gaze landed on Baz. For an instant, he thought she was going to cry. She hurried over and embraced both him and Munch.

I thought they’d taken you, she murmured.

It’s all right, Baz said. I’m—

All right? she cried, pushing away from him. All right? It’s not all right. You can’t just go skipping off in the middle of the night. Not when you’re the Monsignor Scrivener. What was so blasted important that you—

A great victory!

Ehma’s eyes darted away from Baz. Good thing, too, as the rage in them likely would have cooked him alive had they stayed fixed on him much longer. Tax was walking toward them. He held a razor in both hands. From its tip hung a torn and bloody uniform, the red dagger crest of Erstwhile’s Army plainly visible.

The Monsignor Scrivener discovered our enemy setting an ambush and put a stop to it. Two dozen of our enemy, killed!

The soldiers who’d accompanied Ehma looked back and forth at one another for several moments, then burst into cheers. Tax stabbed the razor into the ground, its bloody standard flapping softly in an early morning breeze, and grinned at Ehma. The anger didn’t leave her stare.

You attacked a raiding party without raising an alarm?

Wasn’t anything we couldn’t handle, Tax replied.

Two dozen men? Not more than you could handle?

Well, perhaps I exaggerated that number just a bit, Tax said, quietly enough that the soldiers who’d accompanied Ehma couldn’t hear.

Baz chuckled, but quickly stopped when Ehma turned her cold, gray eyes back at him.

This is no laughing matter. You’ve any idea how reckless this was? What if they’d snuck up on you?

Calm down, Ehma, Baz said. Tax is right, we managed. And the army needed this. Look at them. They haven’t had a single thing to smile about since, umm...

He’d been about to say since Tessa had died but realized that would be a poor choice of conversation given present company. Baz’s silence prompted Ehma to move her glare back and forth between him and Tax for several moments, then she threw her hands into the air.

And what about Munch?

Baz swallowed. What about him?

"What if he’d been caught in your crossfire and killed? Would we have needed your little victory then?"

Baz dropped his eyes, suddenly unable to hold Ehma’s glare, and even Tax kept quiet.

Unbelievable, Ehma said, stalking away.

After several more uncomfortable moments, Tax broke the silence with a wry chuckle.

She was just worried about you, Baz. She’ll get over it.

Tax was probably right. Ehma had been a jumble of emotions since her mother’s death. Still, Baz found himself wondering at what she’d said. Maybe that ambush wouldn’t have killed many, even if it had been successful. But Baz couldn’t stomach the thought of even a single man dying under his watch. So many had already died since he’d joined this rebellion. He’d done exactly what he needed to do—protect those under his care. He should feel good about that.

Still, as he helped Munch off the ground and headed back to camp with the rest of his men, Baz couldn’t shake the cloud of doubt that had settled over him. He wondered if Tessa had constantly questioned the decisions she had made as leader, but found he already knew the answer.

Monsignor Scrivener, indeed.

Chapter 2

THAT’S NOT QUITE RIGHT, Baz said, Speaking the spell’s Stop Rune and raising a hand to stop Munch’s recitation. There’s an accent over that character there. Your enunciation needs to be sharper.

Munch glowered up at Baz and shut the Spoken Book he had propped on his knees. Two days had passed since Erstwhile’s attempted ambush and the Army of Daggers seemed to be hanging back, licking its wounds. That was providing the whole army a much needed rest. They couldn’t afford to stop for too long—they still had more than a week’s worth of traveling to get to Tome—but they wouldn’t get there at all if the troops collapsed from exhaustion. Baz had actually seen a few smiles in camp this morning, a welcome change. It seemed his brother had been right—they had needed that victory.

This is useless, Munch said. I’m never going to learn this fast enough, and besides, I can’t kill anyone with Influence. Munch scratched at the scales branded on his forehead, pushing back the brim of Baz’s hat, which he still wore.

Baz restrained a sigh, absently scratching his own brand. Had he been this difficult when Tax had tried to teach him to Read?

Killing’s not all it’s cracked up to be, Munch, Baz said. Besides, Influencers are the rarest of the Speakers, er, Orators. We’ve only got three right now. The army could use another.

He hated the words as soon as he said them. Sure, Baz. Munch is just another tool to insert into the war machine, to use for the rebellion’s benefit. That attitude is sure to endear you to the kid.

If Munch was offended, though, he didn’t show it. But neither did he agree with Baz.

Yeltax seemed to like killing the Harbours well enough.

Baz grimaced. Munch had seen more of their battle with the Erstwhilian ambushers than Baz had thought, including Tax’s maniacal savaging of the Harbours.

How about a sword? Munch continued. Or even a dagger. I could go out with the infantry next time the Readers send a raid.

Absolutely not, Baz said. You’d get yourself killed.

Munch yanked on the brim of Baz’s hat. Baz missed having it on his own head but didn’t have the heart to ask Munch for it back.

I’m not a kid, Baz, Munch said. I got into my share of street fights back in Erstwhile. I can handle it.

You had Oges back then to watch out for you, Baz replied.

Munch immediately looked away from Baz, but not quickly enough to hide the tears that sprang into his eyes at the mention of his dead brother. Wow. He really was bad at this.

Munch, I’m—

I didn’t need Oges to watch out for me. I killed an Enforcer all on my own without him.

What?

You don’t believe me? Well, it’s true. After I ran, down in the sewers. One of them came after me, tackled me. But I grabbed his belt knife and... The boy’s face paled and he closed his eyes, squeezing tears from them.

Munch, I didn’t know, Baz murmured.

They sat there in a stilted silence. Munch began shaking and Baz looked around helplessly. He wasn’t equipped for this. Hadn’t asked for this. How was he supposed to know what to do? How to comfort a kid who’d lost everything? He wished Tax was here.

Since words seemed entirely inadequate, Baz put an arm around Munch’s shoulder and pulled him close. Maybe he wasn’t good enough to take the boy’s pain away, but he could at least remind him that he was there for him. For an instant, Munch tried to pull away, but Baz held firm. After a moment, the boy huddled close into the crook of Baz’s arm. They stayed that way for several minutes, Baz wishing he could do something more.

There you are!

He looked up to find Ehma approaching. She was dressed all in black, tight britches and a loose jacket over a high-necked shirt. The only color in her outfit came from a pin on her collar shaped like the Great Library.

Scribes help him! How had she found them? He’d purposefully picked this spot because it was out of their camp’s line of sight.

Baz wasn’t avoiding her. Not exactly. But she’d been so angry after Erstwhile’s ambush. It had just seemed best to keep out of her way. The thought of running from her briefly crossed Baz’s mind, but she’d clearly seen him already. Plus, he was still hugging Munch, and there was no easy way to disentangle himself from the boy without pushing him aside, and Baz wasn’t about to do that. So he swallowed and waited for the storm to descend upon him.

Ehma stopped a few paces away. Her brows were lowered, expression stern. But there seemed more worry in her eyes than anger. She cast a concerned glance at Munch, then looked at Baz. He shook his head. Pointing out the boy’s tears would only embarrass him further. The next moment, Munch realized Ehma was there and hurriedly pushed himself back from Baz and wiped at his eyes. Ehma sat down beside Baz and glanced at the Book he’d been trying to teach Munch out of.

How are the lessons going? she asked.

Boring, Munch said.

Baz grimaced, but Ehma was undeterred. She looked back down at the Spoken Book as if in deep thought, then said, That’s a good one. I’m no Influencer, but my mother made me study all the languages. I wish we had someone who could Read the spells from it.

Munch frowned. The army’s got three other Influencers.

"Yes, but none of them are good enough to Read this Book. This is one Baz brought back from Fortune."

Oh, Munch said, raising his brows. Well, maybe I could keep working on it. As long as it helps us kill some Readers.

Oh, I think we could do quite a bit of damage with the spells in this Book, Ehma said.

Munch grinned and then winked at Ehma. Winked! He grabbed the Book back from Baz.

I’ll go practice!

He rose and hurried off, the giant Book seeming liable to tip his gangly frame should he take a wrong step.

Baz shook his head, watching Munch