‘Did they take anything?’, I wanted to ask.

  I said, “Tell me what they took. It will save time, once I start rearranging their insides.”

  She lowered her eyes to the satchel again, slower this time. She tipped the content onto the bed, and everything was still present: books, bone slivers, her personal knife.

  “…no,” she said finally.

  I waited. She picked up the book again, flipping through several pages this time, checking margins, the little folded corner near the back. “I don’t remember putting this on top,” she murmured. “And this knot—” She tugged at the strap. “I would’ve tied it the other way. I always do. Whoever was here, they weren’t here to steal.”

  “Did you not change the passphrase, my lord?” She asked.

  I couldn’t. I didn’t know how to.

  She didn’t wait for my response to hurriedly cross the room and crouch beside the hearth. Her fingers brushed along the crack where two stones met in the wall. She pressed her thumb into the mortar line. Stone dust displaced itself, revealing a narrow hollow behind it as well as the keychain inside.

  So she’d hidden the keys, possibly when I was busy cleaning myself up.

  “… It looks undisturbed,” she said. “But… it is never good when someone intrudes your personal chamber.” Anabeth exhaled, then retied the satchel strap. “We should depart Branfield at first convenience.”

  I nodded. She was right. They were watching us now, even if they hadn’t decided what to do with us yet. I had stepped into enough righteous messes to know how they ended, and I had no intention of dragging Anabeth further into mine. I was not a hero. I was not even particularly brave.

  Anabeth’s head tilted. She frowned, then took a step forward. “… my lord,” she said quietly. “There is someone outside the door.” Her fingers tightened against the edge of the bed. “Oh dear. Do you think they’ve realized I falsified my name? That would be… inconvenient. Misrepresentation to a Synod functionary will reflect poorly on my academic record.” She paced around the room. “Armas was an actual name I’ve seen in the Synod records, so I don’t think they’ll be able to tell. They shouldn’t be able to tell. We’ll be fine! They know nothing.”

  Then came a knock at the door. It sounded administrative.

  Anabeth gave away the faintest wince. “I shall answer, my lord,” she said.

  I raised a hand. “You will not.”

  I had done enough damage already. If there were consequences, they would attach to me.

  I stepped to the door and opened it.

  Priest Calsen stood just beyond the threshold, flanked by the same two guards. “Representative,” he said mildly. “I trust the accommodations have proven satisfactory?”

  I simply nodded.

  “Good,” he said. “There is some business the Concord would like to discuss with the… representatives. Merely a clarification of mutual interests. If you would follow me.”

  I held his gaze.

  Priest Calsen smiled.

  “If you would follow me,” he repeated gently. “This will not take long.”

  I felt the familiar itch to activate Intimidation Aura. I did not invoke it. This was not a dock official or a jumpy guard captain. This was a Concord priest, robed in legitimacy and shielded by doctrine. If the aura failed, it would only confirm their suspicion. If the aura worked, it would garner me so much infamy I’d never hope to be able to establish a righteous guild. And if it didn’t… I didn’t dare think of the consequences.

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  Priest Calsen turned without waiting for a reply.

  We followed.

  The corridor outside had been cleared with quiet efficiency. There weren’t any servants or onlookers within sight. The guards did not touch us.

  At the end of the hall, the doors to the administrative gallery stood open.

  Someone waited inside.

  She was younger than I expected, robed in Synod grey edged with copper thread, possibly reserved for itinerant auditors and field examiners. A mage, unmistakably. She held a slim folio under one arm, her other hand resting loosely at her side.

  She looked up as we approached.

  “Inspector Armas,” Priest Calsen said, inclining his head. “Thank you for your patience.”

  Anabeth stiffened beside me. I scrunched my nose. An actual Inspector from the Synod named Armas coming to Branfield at this exact point in time? What were the odds?

  “Of course,” the inspector said. “I was told there might be a discrepancy regarding the visiting representatives.”

  Calsen smiled, the same mild expression he’d worn at the door. “Ah. That may have been my error. Brother Halvic relayed the names to me—his hearing has been… unreliable of late. One hates to waste a Synod inspector’s time over a mishearing.”

  He looked at Anabeth.

  “Perhaps you would be so kind,” he said, gently, “as to restate your name for the record, miss?”

  I looked at Anabeth. If there was panic within her, it had burned off internally, converted into structure. “My given name is Bertha,” she said at once, with polite clarity. “Armas is a scholastic appellation.”

  Inspector Armas’s pen paused.

  “A cognomen?” the inspector asked.

  “A working name,” Anabeth replied. “Adopted during my junior research term. It appears on several abstracts and correspondence submitted under Synod-adjacent review. I did not anticipate that it would cause confusion at the level of inspection.” She inclined her head, respectful, appropriately contrite. “That is my error.”

  ... Nobody would believe that reasoning. Would they?

  Inspector Armas flipped open her folio. “You are aware that the Synod discourages the use of appellations that overlap with active registrars.”

  Ah. They had started to use vocabulary I couldn’t follow. Time to bow out.

  “Of course,” Anabeth said. “Which is why I did not present myself as Inspector Armas, nor claim any authority attached to the name. I used it solely in an academic context, as permitted under the Fourth Addendum on Scholastic Attribution. I would be grateful,” she added, “if this interaction be logged under my proper name. I have no wish to complicate your work.”

  Inspector Armas studied her for a long moment—then made a small notation in the folio.

  “That will be determined after verification, but thank you for the clarification.” Inspector Armas closed her folio. “Well,” she said, “that clarifies the matter for the moment.”

  “Indeed,” Calsen said. “In that case, there is no cause for further inconvenience today.” He turned slightly toward Anabeth. “However, given the timing of your arrival, and the minor confusion surrounding credentials, it may be… prudent for you to remain in Branfield a few days longer. The Concord is hosting a small martial exhibition. A tournament, if you will.” She glanced at me. “Your champion’s participation would be most welcome. It would allow us to observe your delegation’s methods firsthand. Entirely informal, of course.”

  Entirely a leash.

  Calsen added, “With a Synod inspector already present, it would be a shame not to make proper use of the opportunity.”

  Inspector Armas did not object.

  I looked to Anabeth.

  In their eyes, I was not the decision-maker. I was an accessory. A blade that belonged to someone else’s scabbard.

  For a heartbeat, she looked ready to decline. Then she offered a smile to Calsen and said, “Of course. It would be discourteous to depart under unresolved administrative ambiguity. We will remain for the duration.”

  Calsen inclined his head. “Excellent.”

  The matter, apparently, was settled.

  Or so Calsen seemed to think.

  As the priest turned away to confer with one of the guards, Inspector Armas made a small notation in her folio. Then she looked up, as if she had just found exactly what she was checking for.

  She called out, “Miss Bertha. A moment, if you would.”

  Calsen inclined his head and withdrew a few paces, far enough to offer privacy. Armas turned and gestured toward a side door set discreetly into the gallery wall.

  “If you would follow me,” she said lightly. “Somewhere less… porous.”

  Anabeth hesitated only a fraction of a second before complying. I followed, because that appeared to be the theme of the day.

  The door closed behind us. The room beyond was smaller than the gallery, but infinitely more controlled. Privacy wards engaged the instant we crossed the threshold, oven so finely into the chamber that they barely disturbed the air. The chamber itself was even more luxurious than ours, with deep-cushioned chairs upholstered in dark blue velvet. A low table of polished stone veined with silver runes.

  “Please,” Armas said, setting her folio down. “Sit, if you like. This will not be logged as a formal inquiry.”

  Nobody sat.

  Armas stepped closer to Anabeth, close enough that I could feel the aetheric pressure of a working spell. “I am quite curious,” she said, conversationally, “what brings you to Branfield under such elaborate circumstances, Miss Bertha.”

  Anabeth laughed nervously. “Oh! I was merely—”

  Armas interrupted her, “Hear me closely before you ruin your academic standing further, Miss Bertha. Or should I say, Anabeth von Silberthal?”

  The color drained from Anabeth’s face so quickly it was almost impressive.

  I looked between the two of them, wondering if I had accidentally sat down in the front row of an academic execution.