They sat in a congested conference room on the twelfth floor of Crownhold. On his highly anticipated second elevator ride, Silas learned the upper levels of the fortification held clerical and administrative wings. Many conference rooms were scattered throughout these floors. The larger and more frequented rooms were occupied for more important meetings, so the trio was forced into their current space. The congested cubical room was stifled by a lack of windows and saturated lighting. The small, rectangular desk was covered in maps, charts, precarious stacks of parchment, and other miscellaneous articles. Silas and Oscar sat next to each other, the duo facing Stroud across the table. Stroud insisted on securing snacks for Silas and coffee for herself before settling in, anticipating a long and onerous planning session. Silas sat tall in his cushioned chair, feeling important behind his stack of parchment and stylus. The setup reminded Silas of war councils he'd read about in history books. His limbs tingled with excitement and anxiety—eager to participate in this pivotal briefing and fearful of what tomorrow's journey to Coldspire would bring.

  Stroud sipped her coffee slowly, studying Oscar's nervous squirming over the rim. While pacified by Stroud's apology, Oscar remained flighty as he followed her from the archives. Maybe what he read in there did phase him, Silas surmised, watching the twitchy man from the corner of his eyes.

  Stroud set her coffee mug down like a gavel, calling the room to order. Silas sat taller—his rear nearly levitating from the seat as he stretched. Stroud flicked her chin at Silas's stack of parchment. He grabbed his stylus and wrote, the ink burning into the page.

  "The archives make no sense to me," he hastily scrawled. "The information in there is too big to be lying around like that. How can everyone who works at Crownhold have access to it? How has none of the information leaked?" Silas passed the parchment to Stroud, his hand still firmly grasping his stylus.

  As Stroud read, amusement flashed behind her eyes. "Silas, why do you assume that everyone has access to that archive room?"

  Silas shrugged with one shoulder.

  Stroud sighed—the sound hiccuping from her throat like a chuckle. "That is my archive room. That room houses the cold files of the Arbiter of Aberrations." Stroud handed Silas his parchment back and leaned into her seat. "Remember what I said when we first met? That I handle all cases concerning Unspoken and treason against the Empire?"

  Silas nodded, Stroud's words pulling him back to that early encounter in the dungeon's interrogation room.

  "That title—Arbiter of Aberrations—is what I am. Every senior-ranked Arbiter performs a specific duty. We each have our own archive, our own staff” —her attention flicked to Oscar as she said this— “and our own spoken oath to the Emperor. When my predecessor retired, I took my oath and pledged my life for the sake of Brassanthium. Nothing has ever leaked because the Empire has the means to keep our tongues tied." Stroud cleared her throat softly, her gaze downcast. She mumbled, "Few see those files, and fewer still have the gall to try and share them."

  Her words struck home. Silas ducked his head, his attention fixed on the grain of the desk as if it could steady him.

  In school, the great feats of the Brassanthium Empire had been instilled in Silas's mind. Its exploits were repeated each school syzygy, another hymn to its splendor. Brassanthium had seemingly always existed—a testament to the strength of the human race. Humanity's Empire grew stronger with time as its victories against the Unspoken accumulated. It was the natural order—the right of the stronger species to prevail. But what Silas read in the archive contradicted these teachings. They told a tale of secrets buried deep beneath layers of lies. If the Empire withheld the truth about the Unspoken's behavior, what other stories had it twisted for its own gain?

  Silas put stylus to parchment, pressing so hard the nib bent. "Why did you not scold me for looking around? You said your staff have free rein there, but I do not work for you. I am your prisoner, yes?"

  Stroud frowned, the expression deepening the longer she read. "I did not scold you because you have scurried too deep into this hole already. Trying to hide this from you would be like trying to hide cheese from a mouse." She paused. "However, I wouldn't say you are my prisoner, not anymore anyway. For the time being, you and Oscar are both honorary Arbiters. Rejoice!" Her words were laced with their usual mirth, but her flat voice betrayed her melancholy.

  "Silas, what did the Archarbiter say to you? He whispered something in your ear twice, and you grew more nervous with each word. What did he tell you?"

  Silas hesitated. The thought of writing Malrick Sorne's words for others to read made his stomach twist. His mind rebelled against the memory—trying to force it down with his fight-or-flight response. He fought against his fear, his breath deepening as he scribed the Archarbiter's words. With trembling hands, Silas passed the parchment to Stroud. He released the stylus to the table, wringing his hands in his lap as she read.

  She gaped at the parchment. "What in the frozen hells is this 'Concordia…?'" she trailed off, flicking the parchment to Oscar. "Again with these blockades and cryptic rubbish." She huffed through her nostrils. "Well, if the Archarbiter wants to play games with us, we shall be the ones to beat him before he even makes the first move. I won't wait for him to bottle-feed me the information I want. I will hunt for it with spears I forged myself."

  Silas watched Oscar read. The Warden scrunched up his face in confusion, stealing fleeting glances at Silas. He set the page down.

  "Arbiter, I don't understand. Who is this boy, really?" he stared at Silas, the Warden's glare forcing the boy to look away. "I only caught bits and pieces of what was going on. The Archarbiter and Junior Arbiter came in so fast, and the next thing I knew, we were interrupting you in the interrogation room—"

  "Warden, stop for a minute," Stroud said, silencing Oscar by raising her palm. "I apologize, let me back up. Of course, you wouldn't know the full story." Stroud rubbed the bridge of her nose. She looked at Silas like she was asking for his permission.

  He nodded. If Oscar was in this deep, what harm was there in pushing him all the way over the edge?

  "After the events of 47 Brimthorne Lane, there is evidence that Silas can… hear what the Unspoken say. He can communicate with them."

  Oscar paled, his complexion taking on a pallid sheen.

  "It's a bit more than that, though, isn't it?" She smiled thinly at Silas, her lips white with tension. "It seems that his mind can be used as a weapon against them."

  Not just against the Unspoken! Silas thought, his gaze drifting to Stroud's bandaged ear.

  "The Archarbiter says he wants to test Silas's 'usefulness,'" Stroud continued, glowering at her coffee mug. "Today, we will hypothesize what exactly he means by that, and plan for tomorrow accordingly. If the Archarbiter aims to test Silas, he will find that the boy already knows the answers."

  Silas beamed at Stroud, her assurance lifting the weight from his shoulders. Stroud's face softened when she peered at Silas. She flashed him her usual cocky half-grin, adding a playful wink to the ensemble. Silas relaxed, his back sinking into his chair.

  "Silas, I am sorry to say that I do not know what Concordia is, or what that troglodyte Archarbiter means when he says you are a child born from it. But I do know that you are not a blade, and you are not a tool to be wielded by that man's hand." Stroud slammed her palm onto the table, the force rattling the rugged bottom of her coffee mug. She addressed Oscar with a hard stare; the man nodded his pale face in response.

  "Get comfortable, boys. We have a long day of research ahead of us." Stroud waved her hand, the resulting gust fluttering the maps and charts scattered along the table. "Operation Coldspire begins now."

  Silas stared at the map sprawled on the table before him, squinting in concentration. He nibbled on a cracker absentmindedly, flakes of salt and crumbs dusting the table below his chin. He had no idea what he was looking for. Stroud told him and Oscar to "divide and conquer," to scour the charts, maps, and piles of parchment, digging for answers. She wanted to find clues, to pick the Archarbiter's mind and read the end of Coldspire's narrative before Sorne had finished writing it. Yet Silas could make no sense of the twisting, curling lines that illustrated the pathways of the Great Canals. For that matter, how did studying Coldspire's geography help them predict what the Archarbiter had planned? Silas drummed the edge of the map with his stylus. Ink splattered from the nib, soaking into the absorbent material. He was more concerned with the "test" the Archarbiter had in store for him…

  "Here's something," Oscar said, sliding a newspaper clipping toward Stroud. "Within the past eclipse, the squatters and vagrants that frequent Coldspire have been deviating from their usual behavior." Oscar tapped the table with his index finger, the staccato sound of his nail punctuating his words. "That article says they've been mercurial lately. They've been packing up and fleeing, where before they stubbornly refused to leave. And a few days ago” —Oscar slid another clipping across the table— "they disappeared altogether. They up and vanished."

  Stroud hummed, quickly scanning the clippings as she sipped her coffee. "How peculiar," she said, raising her eyebrows at Oscar. "Any idea what could have caused this?"

  Oscar shook his head, leafing through other clippings. "I haven't found anything else about this yet, but I'll keep looking…" he trailed off, focused on his search.

  Stroud turned her attention to Silas. Her irises flicked down to the map, noting his lack of progress. His gaze sheepishly returned to the parchment, feigning interest. Stroud cleared her throat.

  "Let me have a look at that," she said, her palm outstretched.

  Silas stared dumbly at her open hand. She curled and uncurled her fingers expectantly. Silas started, understanding. He rolled the map up and handed the tube to Stroud. She closed her fingers around it, her arm retracting to reel the map in.

  "I will worry about geography and topography. Silas, have a look at this instead."

  She reached into her trousers pocket and pulled out a spiral-bound notepad that looked exactly like the one Ravelin usually carried. Stroud placed the notepad in Silas's outstretched hand. He flipped through the first pages of handwritten notes. They were detailed observations, written from the perspective of an Arbiter, a Junior Arbiter, by the sounds of it.

  "Those notes belong to Junior Arbiter Maris Calloway, who you met earlier today," Stroud explained, reading Silas's face like a book. "She is completing her Juniorship under Senior Arbiter Renald Drascourt—the Arbiter of the Commons." As Stroud explained, Silas flipped to the beginning and began reading in earnest. "The Arbiter of the Commons fights against poverty. He and his staff have been trying to deal with the squatter problem at Coldspire for syzygies." Stroud nodded at Oscar, who glanced up briefly. "Perhaps the missing piece of Oscar's puzzle will be found there."

  Silas munched on a cracker as his attention devoured Maris's words. She wrote in a neat, delicate script that rivaled the most nuanced printing presses. Her words were succinct, her observations clinical yet poetic. Silas skimmed over the earlier pages, finding their content irrelevant. He did not care to read about Maris and her Senior's exploits in attempting to dislodge the homeless from their Coldspire encampment. He slowed in the middle of the notepad, his focus loitering over every word. A particular passage was especially chilling. Silas put down his cracker and reread it again, and then for a third time. It said:

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  The beggars are oddly unified tonight. They move together as a flock, their scant belongings bundled over their shoulders. They are agitated, perturbed. They give no resistance to Senior Arbiter Drascourt and I's wrangling. One of them stands out to me—an elderly man with crazed, wild eyes. He keeps repeating an unknown word over and over again, the fierce wind sweeping along its identity. Drascourt dismisses the rambling as drunken nonsense, but I am unconvinced.

  There was a space between this entry and the next. The date advanced a day, and Maris's script continued:

  Tonight we return as usual. The Depot is silent. There is not a living soul. Drascourt and I search everywhere. We find nothing. No camps. No tents. No blankets. No clothing. No furniture. No people. It is as if the canals have swallowed the vagrants whole and left not a morsel behind. I ask Drascourt what could have done this. He is conceited, convinced that the departed vagrants are the fruits of his labor. I suddenly realize what the elderly man kept repeating yesterday. "Eyes. Eyes floating above water. Eyes." I say nothing to Drascourt; I let him savor his success. But I fear what lies below the water, and what hovers above its placid surface.

  Silas's mouth went sand-dry. He lunged for his glass of water, sloshing it dangerously as he gulped it down past the knot in his throat. His fingers found his too-tight collar and tugged it away from his neck.

  "My, my, something's caught your attention, I see."

  Stroud was studying him, her map forgotten. Oscar stared at Silas, puzzlement wrinkling his forehead. Silas looked between them—his breathing rapid and shallow. Maris's words petrified him. How could he face Coldspire tomorrow after reading that?

  Stroud took the notepad and read. She inhaled through her mouth, exhaling through puffed cheeks and pursed lips. "What a splendid mess this is," she said, tossing the notepad to Oscar. "Silas, I wager this mystery is something the Archarbiter aims for you to solve."

  Stroud took the notepad back from Oscar when he had finished—the Warden's face taking on a sickly grey hue. She passed Silas the notepad and said, "The notepads the Juniors write in have a dual purpose. They ensure the young Arbiters chronicle everything they observe. This streamlines evidence analysis. But the Archarbiter and his staff screen everything documented in here." Stroud reached out and tapped the notepad, which lay open in front of Silas. "They are a way for the Archarbiter to keep tabs on his Seniors without needing to observe them himself. Notice how Maris detailed Drascourt's behavior. This is something Academy pupils are schooled in during their training." Stroud snapped her mouth shut, her teeth grinding.

  "I digress," she said, frowning. "The point is, I smell foul. Maris is correct—something stimulated the vagrants to move, and it wasn't Renald Drascourt. Do you have any ideas, Silas?"

  Silas looked down at the notepad, his attention landing on the part about eyes floating above water. He picked up his stylus and wrote on a fresh piece of parchment. "Perhaps carrion wolves. We are assuming there is something related to the Unspoken waiting for us at Coldspire, correct? That way, the Archarbiter can test my” —Silas paused, his hand hovering midair— "abilities. From what I understand, carrion wolves domesticated by the Unspoken are mindless: blank creatures that do the Unspoken's bidding. But wild carrion wolves are nothing more than animals. They are predators attracted to prey, and weak squatters would be easy pickings for them."

  Silas felt vile writing this. Thinking of people as food for those bloodthirsty monsters made his stomach churn. He fought down the memory of the Foundry School attack—forcing it deep into the abyss of his subconscious. Now was not the time for losing himself in such musings.

  Stroud hummed to herself as she read. Oscar scooted his chair closer to Silas so he could read over the boy's shoulder as he wrote. Stroud looked up with a finger squeezed between her lips, her teeth gnashing on nail.

  "Let's go with that then," she said. She reached across the table and freed a blank piece of parchment from Silas's stack. "Silas, you encountered carrion wolves at the Foundry School attack. Did you notice anything at the time? Anything like what happened at 47 Brimthorne Lane?" Stroud jotted something down using a stylus she procured from her breast pocket.

  Silas shook his head. Unlike the Unspoken, carrion wolves had no Voice. They were nonsentient beasts incapable of—

  He paused mid-headshake—his lips parting in realization. He fumbled with his stylus in haste, smearing ink onto his fingers. He remembered the way the carrion wolf that had mauled Pa seemed to hesitate in response to Silas calling out for mercy in his mind. Maybe the Unspoken used their Voices to control carrion wolves! And maybe he, too, could manipulate them with his thoughts.

  Oscar gasped, leaning forward so close he seemed to snatch Silas's words right off the parchment. "That—that would explain a lot, actually." He blinked hard at Stroud. "If Silas can influence carrion wolves the way he does the Unspoken, he would be an immense asset to the Empire."

  Stroud's eyebrow twitched. She slammed her stylus down and said, "Indeed. This is exactly the sort of thing the Archarbiter is looking for." Stroud's attention leisurely crawled from Oscar to Silas. When it landed on him, her eyebrow's spasm ceased. "So what's the play? Let's say carrion wolves are what drove the vagrants from Coldspire. Do we assume they are still loitering in the area?" She looked down at her map, brushing away obstructing documents to view its entirety. "There are plenty of places for them to hide at the Depot…" Stroud circled several points on the map, drawing lines to connect points. "The surface canals are only the tip of Coldspire's iceberg. It is called Coldspire because it extends deep underground, like an inverted steeple."

  Stroud drew a diagram to illustrate. Silas tilted his head incredulously, trying to estimate how many floors below the surface Coldspire plummeted based on Stroud's drawing and the topographical map she used as reference. First Crownhold, now Coldspire. Why were there so many structures in Brassanthium that penetrated deep below the ground? Silas held his elbows in opposite hands, hugging his arms close to his chest. Coldspire became less appetizing the longer they let it marinate.

  "—the Archarbiter? What do you think, Silas?"

  Silas jumped. He timidly peeked at Stroud and shrugged before hanging his head. She sighed—a long, dilated exhalation.

  "Do you require a break, little mouse?"

  Silas shook his head. He picked up his stylus to show he was ready. When Stroud only offered him an unconvinced glare, he shot her two thumbs-up and a sheepish smile. The corners of her lips turned upward.

  "Alright, then. As I was saying before you drifted away to someplace more entertaining, we need to plan our moves now so we can reenact them with rehearsed accuracy later. We need to decide if we give the Archarbiter what he wants or feign incompetence. I'm leaving it up to you, Silas." Stroud took a sip of coffee, the mug trembling in her jittery grip. "Personally, I think it would be better to prove to him that your abilities are real. I don't like how vague he was when I asked what he intends to do with you if you are of no consequence…"

  Silas looked down at his parchment, his gaze unfocusing as he thought. He recalled how the Archarbiter drew into himself as if reflecting on a sour memory when Stroud asked him to elaborate. Malrick Sorne knew a great deal more than he let on, and he was intentionally withholding information. Silas agreed with Stroud. He feared the Archarbiter might dispose of him if his compatibility as a weapon was not realized. Silas could worry about evading the Archarbiter's attempts to wield him later; now he had to prove that he was worthy of being preserved.

  "I say I show him that I am of 'consequence,'" Silas wrote, grimacing at the Archarbiter's diction. "However, I think he will find my hilt too ponderous a burden. I will show him what I can do, but not so I can bow before him. I will show him what I can do so he understands the threat he aims to tame."

  Oscar pursed his lips and let out a shrill whistle. He watched Silas appraisingly, as if seeing the boy in a new light. Stroud cackled, her head thrown back in jubilation. Silas put on a brave face, yet his heart galloped in his chest. He wrung his hands in his lap to burn off the nervous energy. He hoped his acting tomorrow was as bold as his words.

  "Splendid, Silas. I like your audacity."

  Silas was beginning to see that Stroud enjoyed that word very much.

  "The hard part's done. Now for the technical details."

  Stroud focused her attention on Oscar, delving into a tedious discussion about logistics. Silas tried to pay attention, but his understanding wavered the longer the conversation elapsed. Stroud spoke with Oscar about procuring materials for their journey. Evidently, syzygies of neglect had left many of Coldspire's structures dilapidated. They would encounter hazards in the rusted sluice-gates, collapsing wharfs, and rotting foundations. Stroud wanted ropes, lanterns, and incendiaries to navigate cave-ins and slippery, dark tunnels. She planned to acquire a surplus of ammunition for her flarepistol and urged Oscar to hang up his cudgel for a more potent weapon. Stroud explained that she would be their guide and lead combatant, and Oscar would be tasked with guarding Silas through the Depot. They spoke for what felt like hours. Silas ran out of crackers and found himself fighting somnolent boredom. He was nodding off—his chin bobbing on his chest—when Stroud loudly scooted her chair back, its legs scraping against the floor.

  "We've gabbed enough, good Warden” —Stroud beamed at Silas as he rubbed his sleepy eyes— "I believe it's time for us to quiet down and learn about the silent way Silas communicates."

  "Pardon, Arbiter?" Oscar asked, wearing a puzzled expression as he stared at Silas's parchment stack.

  "Whether or not you care to join me, Oscar, I will be learning some sign language today." Stroud leveled a threatening glare at Oscar. "However, I do believe knowing how to talk to the boy during a life-or-death situation would be a boon. I'd recommend you be on your best behavior and give our teacher your undivided attention."

  Silas blushed. He fiddled with his parchments for a moment before resting his sweaty palms on the table. He glanced up. Stroud and Oscar stared at him, barely blinking. Silas cleared his throat.

  "Help me think of some important words to teach you," Silas wrote. "For tomorrow, I think it would be good if you knew the signs for danger, run, help, wait, and safe. I think those will get us through the bulk of tomorrow's travails."

  "I want you to teach me the signs for Unspoken, carrion wolves, and Voices, too," Stroud said. "Oscar, do you have any more suggestions?"

  "I-I think that covers it," he said, looking at his hands nervously. "That is probably more than I can handle, but I will try my best to learn."

  Silas dove right in. He wrote each word on a separate piece of parchment. He held up each piece like a flashcard, and showed Oscar and Stroud what the sign for the word looked like. He then stood and walked over to them, helping bend their fingers and shape their hands into the words. He had them practice each word repetitively and made minor adjustments to their postures as needed. Once every word had been addressed, Silas shuffled his deck of parchment to randomize the order. He held up a piece of parchment and made the two show him the correct sign. Oscar fumbled constantly, but kept at it with dogged determination. Stroud picked up on the signs with ease. Her focus was razor-sharp; soon she signed as if she'd practiced for syzygies.

  "You're certain I am doing this right?" Stroud asked when Silas finally called it quits. "If I get this wrong and we die, I'll haunt you."

  Stroud and Silas laughed. Oscar weakly joined in, his nervousness palpable.

  "I don't think I'm cut out for this," he said, his fingers shaking. He was tensing so hard the "danger" he was trying to spell out was distorted, looking more like "dagger."

  Silas smiled warmly. He gently eased Oscar's fingers into the correct position. He then scurried over to his parchment and wrote, "You are doing great, Oscar. You need to relax, is all. And remember, you don't need to be able to sign the words perfectly; you only need to be able to read what I sign proficiently when needed. But physically shaping the words with your own hands is the best way to learn sign, which is why I am making you do this."

  Oscar nodded, releasing a relieved exhale through his nostrils.

  A prolonged pause ensued. Nobody spoke. Nobody moved. Everyone melted into themselves; their thoughts were their only companions. Silas stared at the master list Stroud had compiled, outlining their plans for tomorrow. His attention was drawn to the words written in all capital letters and underlined at the top of the parchment:

  THE MOUSE'S GAMBIT

  Silas's lips tugged upward at Stroud's humor, but his gaze stayed wide and haunted. For all his posturing, he was terrified of what tomorrow would bring. He curled his fingers into fists and pressed them into his lap. Can I really do this? he asked himself. What if I fail and the Archarbiter decides to dispose of me? Self-doubt clutched at Silas's heart. He bent forward in his seat to rest his forehead on the table.

  "Well, this has been fun, but I think we should call this meeting adjourned."

  Silas shot upright. He caught Stroud watching him before her eyes darted back to the master list she was reading.

  Oscar yawned. "I agree," he said, snapping his jaw shut and smacking his lips. "I guess I'd better get those supplies," he added unenthusiastically.

  "After you drop Silas off at his cell, yes," Stroud agreed. She waved her hand as if swatting away a pest.

  Oscar stood and arched his back, groaning as his spine snapped and popped. Silas followed suit, stretching his arms and stomping his feet to get the blood flowing. He balked at another night in the dungeon, but quickly relented.

  "Make sure you two get sufficient rest tonight," Stroud said, her face hidden behind parchment. "I can't have you flagging tomorrow when the going gets tough."

  Oscar said "Mhm" in the back of his throat and departed, the door swinging open and closed after him. Silas lingered in the doorway, watching Stroud. She held herself with practiced fortitude—shoulders squared, chin high—but the shadows under her eyes and the tremor in her fingers told a different story. Silas left the room heavy with worry that tomorrow it would be Stroud's stamina that failed first.