At first light the next day, Riniock set to work, determined to find any reason – no matter how small – to incriminate Arthian. In the meantime, he had sent a letter to Linry, urging her to either fabricate or acquire evidence he could use against him.
Through careful reconnaissance, Riniock quickly pinpointed Arthian's cabin – located on the second floor of the lower deck, the 35th cabin on the starboard side.
For three days, as he awaited Linry's response – his sole informant aboard the delegation's ship – he studied Arthian's habits and routines with meticulous precision.
'Right on cue,' Riniock murmured, glancing at the sky to gauge the hour.
Arthian strolled onto the upper deck, moving with an air of ease, unconcerned with the watchful eyes upon him. He had a particular fascination with the ship's idol, a stone-carved depiction of a maegi standing at the Absconder's fore. The figure, draped in flowing robes, extended its hands outward, frozen flames of solid rock erupting from its palms. Its face was contorted in a silent scream, hollow eyes void of emotion.
Like clockwork, Arthian visited the idol at the same hour each day, leaning against the banister as if admiring its craftsmanship.
With his back turned, Riniock could never discern his true intentions. Was he merely intrigued by the carving, or was there something more to his routine?
Despite Riniock's fabricated accusations – rooted in a single careless remark from Balidor – Arthian had shown no indication of wrongdoing. Either he was exceptionally skilled at hiding his true motives, or he simply had none.
'Come on,' Riniock silently urged. 'Do something…anything that gives me a reason.'
Yet, time and again, Arthian carried himself with the poise of a perfect emissary, leaving Riniock with nothing to exploit.
By afternoon, Arthian always retreated to his quarters, making it nearly impossible for Riniock to continue his surveillance. Even when he pressed his ear against the cabin door, straining to catch the faintest sound, there was nothing – no movement, no murmurs, not even the shuffle of feet.
It was maddening.
Days passed with little progress, and Siegmun grew impatient. He would check in frequently, demanding updates, but Riniock had nothing to offer beyond the same tired observations.
'Time is running out, Riniock,' Siegmun warned. 'A storm is approaching. Use it to finish the job before we return to clear skies. Anything you do after that will be too easily noticed.'
'I can't rush this,' Riniock countered. 'You wanted proof – I'm doing everything I can to get it.'
'I know, I know,' Siegmun sighed. 'Just don't lose track of time.'
'I won't.'
Siegmun caught his arm before he could turn away. 'I trust you, but remember – the proof isn't just for me. It's to bring Balidor and Aikan fully on board. We need them.'
'Understood. I'm doing my best.'
Sure enough, the storm caught up with them, thick clouds and torrential rain swallowing the ship in a shroud of grey. Visibility was cut to nothing, and soon, even the delegation's vessel had vanished from sight.
That day, Arthian remained locked in his cabin, not even emerging for meals.
Then, as Riniock sat waiting in his own quarters, a thin sliver of light pierced through the shutters. A familiar glow.
'The coffer!' he realised, eyes widening. 'Linry finally answered.'
He hurried to open the small container, revealing a single piece of parchment resting within. He unfolded it, scanning the words.
Orders. Instructions. A daily chore list.
On the surface, it seemed mundane, but Riniock understood immediately. Linry couldn't openly communicate, not with the enchantment binding her, but this was her way of confirming something crucial – Arthian had written orders as well.
This was the proof he needed.
Now, all he had to do was get into Arthian's cabin to find it. A task difficult on its own.
Arthian wasn't leaving his quarters.
Riniock tapped a finger against his temple, thinking. 'I need to lure him out.'
Inside his cabin, Arthian sat hunched over his desk, carefully adjusting a trinket despite the ship's erratic movements. A map lay stretched before him, detailing the surrounding land and sea – the very waters they sailed. A compass rested nearby, a clear indication of his work.
'We must be nearing the Pedora Isles,' he murmured, cross-referencing the location with his tools. 'I need to inform the master and the units on land.'
Reaching for a fresh parchment, he began noting down coordinates, double-checking his calculations.
It was no accident that he had been chosen as an emissary. Amongst the students of Ikshar Academy – particularly those in the delegation – Arthian was the most adept at cartography. His skills allowed the Iksharis to track the Absconder's journey with unsettling precision.
He pulled out an odd-shaped trinket, ready to make contact when, with an erratic rhythm, his door knocked.
Arthian jolted upright.
'What in Murat…'
Heart pounding, he hastily tucked the parchment beneath a candle burner before rising to answer the door.
The moment he cracked it open, a body collapsed into him.
Warm, reeking, and retching.
'Gods!' Arthian recoiled in disgust. 'What in the rot of Kromulum?'
It was Elred who appeared before him.
The Gorlean acolyte slumped against him, breath thick with alcohol, bile staining his robes. His face was vacant, lost in a drunken haze.
'What do you want?' Arthian demanded, trying to shove him off. But there was no response.
Elred only groaned, his weight dragging them both down until he lay sprawled at the threshold, unmoving.
Arthian exhaled sharply, glancing up and down the corridor. It was empty, void of activity. With the storm raging, most passengers had confined themselves to their cabins.
'Of course.' He pinched the bridge of his nose before shooting a look back at his desk.
There was no helping it. He folded his sleeves up. 'Let's get you to your seniors.'
As they moved away from the cabin, the door began to swing shut on its own. Just before it could close completely, something shot out from the shadows – a dagger, lodging itself in the doorframe and stopping it in place.
A figure emerged from the darkness, glancing around cautiously for any signs of movement. Riniock, silent and swift, pressed himself against the wall, retrieved his dagger, and slipped inside. He eased the door shut behind him, turning slowly as his sharp gaze swept over the cabin.
Everything appeared normal at first glance.
But Riniock wasn't one to be deceived by appearances. He got to work immediately, moving carefully to avoid disturbing anything in case his search turned up empty. He sifted through drawers, checked beneath the bed, behind the closet, and in every possible hiding spot.
One thing, however, stood out to him.
The chair at the desk had one leg that appeared to be oddly fastened. Riniock knelt beside it, flipped it over, and twisted the leg free. Sure enough, the hollowed-out space inside concealed a rolled piece of parchment.
His lips curled into a grin. 'Got it.'
Sliding the parchment into his pocket, he returned the chair to its original state. But as he straightened, his eyes caught something else – the corner of a paper sticking out from beneath the candle burner on the desk.
He leaned in, lifting it slightly.
Coordinates! A precise record of their location.
Riniock's grin widened. 'That's even better.'
With everything he needed now in his possession, he turned towards the door, ready to slip out unnoticed. But before he could reach for the handle, the door abruptly swung inward.
Standing in the doorway, eyes filled with confusion, was Arthian.
'Riniock?' he said, recognising him instantly. 'What are you doing in my cabin?'