Page 101 of The Ninth Element

At the top of the stairs, we turn right and come face-to-face with a massive wooden door. Zanyar produces a set of lock picks from his pocket and goes to work. A few clicks later, the lock springs open.

“No magic spell to unlock it?” I wave my hand dramatically.

“I’d rather not risk losing my wit at this particular moment. Not all of us are as keen on self-sacrifice and playing with the rules as you.” Oh, right. I’d forgotten he’d seen my little healing stunt in the arena.

“Well, if anything, me not being disqualified shows that if you don’t use sorcery to change the outcome of the trial, it’s not against the rules.”

“Thanks. I’ll remember that for the next time, I run a spy mission in the middle of a cutthroat trial,” he says with a flat voice.

The room is small and crammed full of clutter—books, scrolls, weird-looking statues, you name it. A massive desk dominates the space, covered in papers and maps. Zanyar starts poking around, inspecting everything.

“Well,” I ask, leaning against a bookshelf that looks like it might collapse at any moment, “what exactly are we hunting for in this treasure trove of junk?”

“Clues,” he replies, his eyes glued to a scroll.

“Ah, clues,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Of course. How foolish of me. But hey, maybe if you were a little less cryptic, I could, in fact, I suppose, help?”

He finally looks up, those intense emerald eyes fixing me with a stare that would have made me cower a few moons ago. But not anymore. I’ve faced monsters and jumped across chasms. I can handle a little staring contest.

“You look good like this,” he finally says, completely unexpectedly.

My eyebrows shoot up. Is Zanyar Zareen, the king of stoicism, actually complimenting my new look? In the middle of a secret mission? What is this madness?

“Yes, yes, orphan rags to riches must be amusing. Though I’m not sure how my attire is relevant to finding whatever it is we’re looking for,” I say, trying not to be distracted by his words.

“Not your attire. I meant… ” He hesitates like he is trying to find out how to say something seismic. “You’re different these days. Bolder. More direct. More… wolfish.”

Wolfish? Is he making fun of me? Reminding me of how timid and scared I used to be back in Firelands?

I narrow my eyes at him. “This wolf has learned to bite.”

A spark of amusement dances in his eyes. “Indeed. And a glorious sight it is to behold.”

Those golden-green eyes are no longer icy, and the air between us crackles with a strange tension that is unsettling.

“So,” I clear my throat, trying to break the tension, “are you going to tell me what we’re looking for, or are we just going to stand here admiring each other’s attire choices and sudden change of character?”

Zanyar’s lips curve slightly. “Bakewell’s wealth comes from Martysh’s coffers. He controls the flow of goods to and from the Martysh strongholds. While his trade routes may seem ordinary, they hide the movement of Martysh forces. I was hoping to gather some information from him about his recent trades when he was drunk enough. However, with a Martyshyar present, that plan won’t work. Instead, I am searching for anomalies and patterns in his writings that could uncover hidden strongholds or secret gatherings.”

Understanding begins to take hold in my mind. “So, you think that by tracing the supply lines, we’ll uncover the locations where Martysh is searching for the Star?”

“Yes,” he confirms.

This is brilliant. Everyone expects Zanyar to try to sneak into Martyshyar’s wing, like the Izadeonians. Instead, he looks somewhere that no one expects him to look.

He picks up a scroll and unrolls it, revealing a detailed map of the continent, then rummages through the mountain of scrolls and documents until he finally snatches up a massive leather-bound book and flips it open to reveal page after page of numbers and scribbled notes. Yes, that is the merchant’s ledger, all right—the key to his little hunt.

“That looks… ancient,” I say, peering over his shoulder. “Looks like it’s been through a war or two.”

The pages are yellowed and crinkled, the ink faded and splotchy. It is a miracle it hasn’t crumbled to dust.

Zanyar’s eyes scan the pages, inhaling the information. “A goldmine!”

My gaze darts to the door, half expecting Lord Bakewell to materialize at any moment. “Should we take it with us?”

Zanyar shakes his head. “If we take the ledger, it will alert Bakewell, and he’ll inform Martysh. We can’t risk revealing Firelands’s intentions.”

My eyes scan the endless columns of figures and cryptic notations. “It’s a hefty tome. Deciphering its secrets will take time that we simply don’t have.”

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