his common room door, the tapers were snuffed and the fire smoldering. Since leaving Shannon, his excitement and fear had faded. Now his empty stomach groaned, his wounded cheek throbbed, and his exhausted eyes stung.
“Fiery heaven,” he grumbled, picking his way across the darkened common room. What if he were not excused from apprentice duty in the morning? Would he have to avoid a golem while mopping—
His left shin slammed into something hard. Whatever it was clattered on the floor. “Blood of Los!” he swore. By feeling around with his hands, he discovered a chair’s square legs. The squeaking of a bed frame came from Simple John’s room.
Nicodemus righted the chair. “Bind those idiots for not cleaning up,” he growled. “When I—”
A door opened to spill a vertical beam of firelight into the darkness. “Simple John?” Simple John asked.
Nicodemus’s anger melted. “It’s all right, John. I just tripped.” The door swung wide to fill the common room with the shifting light of the big man’s fire. “John, I’m fine.”
Simple John inspected Nicodemus’s face with concern. “No,” he said while plodding over to his fellow cacographer. A powerful hand landed on Nicodemus’s shoulder.
“Really, John, the cut was just a research accident. There’s no need—”
“No,” Simple John said before enveloping Nicodemus in a hug. “Simple John,” Simple John said while mashing Nicodemus’s head into his chest.
At first Nicodemus leaned into the massive wall that was John and let his arms hang limp. But after a moment, he half-heartedly returned the hug. Simple John released him and said, “Splattering splud!”
“Splattering splud,” Nicodemus agreed. “That about describes my life: splattering splud.”
They exchanged goodnights and Nicodemus stumbled into his chamber. He’d forgotten to put the paper screen in the window and now the room was cold.
“Oh, hang it all,” he sighed and tossed the ignition words into the fireplace. Soon a flame danced among the logs and illuminated his room’s usual disarray. He untied his belt-purse and tossed it onto his cot.
At the sound of a knock, he turned to see Devin standing in the doorway. She was pinning a cloak about her shoulders and trying on different frowns.
“I heard you come in,” she grunted. “I’ve been put on nighttime janitorial duty. The bloody provost wants the refectory cleaned in the dark so that none of the foreign—blood and fire! What happened to your cheek?”
Nicodemus covered it with his hand. “Nothing. An accident during Shannon’s research.”
“Nico, don’t be stupid about wanting a linguist’s hood. If Shannon’s giving you work you can’t safely handle you should—”
“Dev, I’m fine.”
She held her hands up. “All right, all right. No need to be fussy. But it proves what I was saying about how Starhaven treats us. You think illiterates get cut up when doing their chores?”
Nicodemus sat heavily in on his sleeping cot. “And, Dev, I’m sorry about what I said today in the refectory—about your wanting to get married. I just assumed that because you gossip so much about who’s fooling around with whom…well, that—”
“It proves you’ve got donkey dung for brains, I agree,” Devin retorted. “But you’re not entirely worthless; everything you told me about Los becoming the first demon helped with Magistra Highsmith today.”
Nicodemus opened his mouth, but before he could make a sound she said, “Anyway, like I said, I have to go to janitorial in the refectory. I’ll be back at some unholy hour in the morning. It’s just you and John here tonight. The young ones are asleep despite all the excitement the sentinels outside caused.”
She ticked off a few obscenities about sentinels writing wards on their door. “I have to call out and wait for the guards to open the door.” She looked up. “You know why they’re bottling us up or why we’re not allowed to leave Starhaven?”
Nicodemus shook his head. He had promised Shannon his silence.
“Well, if any of the cacographic girls get upset tonight they’ll be coming to you. Think you can handle that?”
When Nicodemus said that he could, she left without closing the door. Tiredly he rose and shut it himself. When he turned back, he saw his newest knightly romance lying under his cot. A weak smile creased his lips.
After lighting a bedside candle and covering the window with its paper screen, he sat on the bed and retrieved the book. It was The Silver Shield.The peddler had wanted seven Lornish pennies for the romance; Nicodemus had talked him down to four.
It was a plain codex, leather-bound, without metalwork, and clasped with a simple rawhide cord.