All through the night and into the next day, people had been arriving and departing in an endless procession of visitors. The sound of knocking at the door, the sound of it opening and closing, had become background noise. Jordan had been freed from his studies for the day, but Yddris was at the castle and everyone else was busy, so instead he'd been left to his own devices in the house, unable to leave but unable to bring himself to work anyway.
After the weeks he had spent living with the Unspoken, this murder felt much closer to home. He hadn't slept; all night he had watched the window for a cloaked figure with a curved sword, and listened to Astra crying in the next room. The screams and howls of demons had seemed less threatening than silence.
He felt useless. There was nothing he could do to help, and nothing he could do to distract himself as a result. He didn't know the customs in Nictaven or within the Guild itself. He didn't know Astra like Koen did, so his presence wouldn't help there, either. Nika seemed to be doing everything in his power to distract himself and was rarely around, and he couldn't leave the house by himself.
So he drew.
He was reaching the end of his sketchbook, and had already used up two of the pencils Nika had bought him. The beginning of the book was light-hearted; a sketch of the family cat, his sister's face, a study of the kettle. Then, in the middle, it went dark, morphing into pages of runes and drawings of demons. Using his mirror he had tried to do a self-portrait, and hadn't recognised the man he'd drawn. Dozens of cloaked figures were scrawled across some pages as he studied the Unspoken, and by now he could draw the cut of an Unspoken cloak with his eyes closed. At the back was an hour's absent-minded doodling that he'd looked through the next day and realised he'd drawn a man with one blank eye and a large scar.
"You draw?"
Jordan jumped, pencil rolling off the bed and clattering to the floor. Ren squeaked and dived after it.
The opening and closing of the door had become so ingrained in the rhythm of each passing hour that Jordan hadn't registered when it was his; it had startled him, but not as much as the identity of his visitor.
He and Darin Blackheart eyed each other warily from opposite sides of the room. It was clear Jordan was not forgiven; clear that Blackheart was not here of his own free will. He swallowed, but the lump in his throat wouldn't shift.
"Your apprentice friend let me in," Darin said, feigning lightness. He closed the door behind him, and Jordan felt a trap snap shut. "I said I wanted to thank you for saving me from demons a couple of weeks ago."
He met Jordan's eye, a glance which told Jordan in no uncertain terms that no thanks were forthcoming.
"I'm sorry," Jordan croaked. "I'm so sorry."
Darin's expression didn't change, but Jordan thought – or perhaps only hoped – his eyes softened a little.
"I've been told to give you a message." Darin's mouth curled into an unhappy little smile. "I think you know who from." He reached into his pocket and retrieved a crumpled piece of paper. If he could have thrown it so he didn't have to come closer, Jordan thought he might have, but with visible effort Blackheart crossed the room and handed it to him. Jordan took it with trembling fingers.
The handwriting was spiky and written quickly, judging by the ink splotches and the letters that faded to nothing mid-word. For some reason Jordan had assumed Arlen couldn't write, but the handwriting was neat enough. With a sinking stomach he realised Arlen had overlooked one crucial detail – Jordan could only barely read it. An ugly flush of embarrassment crept up his neck when he realised Arlen probably expected him to have picked it up faster than he had. He thought he grasped the gist of the note, but couldn't possibly be looking for a missing leg. He read again.
"What's ei... eide?" Jordan spelled it out cautiously, certain he was saying it wrong, but Darin seemed to know what he meant.
"A quote," he said flatly, "as in a monetary quote." He cleared his throat. "This is probably a good moment to tell you that I've been expressly forbidden from knowing the contents of that note on pain of a thorough beating-up in a dark alley. So don't tell me what it says."
Jordan swallowed. "Right."
He frowned. Arlen's crossbow wound had looked bad; he could only gather from the few words he'd singled out that what he really wanted was either quotes for a doctor to remove the leg, or quotes for something to replace the leg. He would have to look in two very different places for each, and neither would be easy without raising questions.
He experienced a moment of dizzying unreality. Not only was he irreversibly tied up with an assassin, but he was now that assassin's errand boy, without ever having explicitly agreed to anything.
"I don't understand why I have to do it," he muttered. Surely Arlen had friends who, for a start, knew what he wanted. Unless the situation was dire – and if that was the case, how would Arlen force his hand?
"He thought you'd say that. He wants me to tell you that whoever he sends to fetch your results will be reason enough." Darin looked at the floor, then eyed Jordan from under his brows. "My bet would be on that big Varthian thug he keeps on a short leash. You met him?"
Not Usk, Jordan groaned inwardly. The man looked as though he could crush skulls by pinching them hard enough. "I have."
"Mm." Darin swallowed. "Got yourself in deep here, kid, and no mistake."
"Tell me about it," Jordan mumbled around the ache in his throat. His hands were shaking, and he hoped Darin hadn't noticed. "How'd you know the other bloke?"
"He tries to keep me out of his business," Darin said. "I suspect I don't know the half of what he gets up to. But there are some things you have to make sure you know, like which murderous sons of the Pit he hangs around with."
"Makes sense."
They both fidgeted, trying not to look each other in the face. Jordan watched Darin's feet out of the corner of his eye, waiting for them to move towards the door, but they stayed hovering there. He waited; clearly Darin wanted to say something else, and he couldn't help but get nervous about what it might be. There was nothing he could think of to say that would be appropriate to fill the gap, and no way in existence that he could convince Darin he was harmless. Because I'm not, and we both know it.
"You should change your name," Darin said abruptly.
"Eh?"
"Just my advice," Darin continued. "You'll need a name for dealing with them for similar reasons you'll need a name for being Unspoken. Keeps them separate. For you as well as everyone else. And pick one before you meet too many more people who would happily use your identity against you."
He turned and walked out, as abruptly as he'd come in, without giving Jordan a chance to respond. He'd heard the front door close before he'd gathered the wits to move. He looked at the note again, and when he heard voices in the hall, shoved it in his pocket in a bolt of panic.
Koen paused as he rounded the corner. "He gone already?"
"Just left," Jordan croaked, and had to try again when his voice vanished. The Unspoken behind Koen was Nika, he realised, and grabbed onto the distraction with both hands. "How are you doing?"
"Been a lot better." Nika chuckled, but it was half-hearted at best. "How about you?"
Jordan shrugged noncommittally, mostly because he couldn't even gather enough fake enthusiasm to lie. "Is...is Ortin here?"
There was a pause, and then Nika said warmly, "He's upstairs."
Koen also seemed to be holding something back, and with a sinking feeling Jordan realised they knew what he intended to do. "Anyway, when you're done – if you fancy a trip out into the city, Hap needs to do a supply run. I can't go with him and he won't ask, but you seemed to be at a loose end, and..."
"Of course," Jordan said. "I'll go."
"Thank you," Koen said, relief showing in his stance. "I'll go and tell him to wait."
"I don't mind helping," Jordan said in a small voice, when Koen had hurried off.
"It's not that," Nika said. "Hap is...stubborn, when it comes to his injury. He won't ask anyone for help with that."
"No, I mean...." Jordan picked Ren up off the bed and tucked her into his hood. His breathing almost immediately eased as she licked his ear and settled down. It was starting to feel strange when she wasn't in there. "I just feel like I should be doing something to help. But I can't run patrols and I didn't know him very well, and..."
"Jordan," Nika interrupted, coming forward and grasping his shoulders. "No one is expecting it of you. We will ask if we have a task you can help with. But," he said, holding up a finger to stall Jordan's response, "don't wish it all on yourself too early. Once you start fighting, you can never stop. Make the most of this."
Jordan nodded, unconvinced and uneasy.
"In the middle of the dark season, there's an undercover market that pops up for a few days in the city centre. I picked something up for you."
Jordan hadn't noticed that Nika was carrying a satchel until he started digging around in it, and produced a rectangular parcel wrapped in thin linens. Jordan unwrapped it to reveal a beautiful leather journal. Small patterns had been stitched into the cover, and the paper was thick and lightly scented.
"I noticed you were running short on space," Nika said. Jordan just nodded again, once more made grateful for his hood, since he'd started crying before he'd even fully uncovered it.
"Thank you," he croaked. "I...I can't let you pay for this, I...."
"It's a gift," Nika said. "I don't know when your nameday is, so I thought I'd give it to you now."
"My nameday?" Jordan repeated, and then realised what that meant. He counted back the weeks he'd been in Nictaven, and his stomach sank lower. "It was a while ago." He hadn't even noticed it pass.
"Well then," Nika said, and if he had gathered as much from Jordan's tone he didn't address it. "It can be a late one."
"Thank you," Jordan finished lamely. "It's amazing."
"I'm glad," Nika replied, "Ortin is on patrol soon. You should go and see him now."
Jordan had only barely pulled himself back together when he ascended the stairs to the training room, which he hadn't been into since Yddris had started playing host. It was no longer bare; belongings lined the walls, and someone had located a large workman's table. Ortin was the only one present, sitting at the table and writing into a vast ledger.
"Ah," Ortin said, putting down his pen. "I wondered when I might be seeing you up here."
Jordan flushed. He had been putting it off for days, and he wondered if Ortin had noticed. He shuffled closer, and at a gesture from the Unspoken helped himself to the remaining stool on the opposite side of the table. He clasped his hands in his lap and waited, because the idea had seemed so simple up until he was doing it and had realised he had no idea how it worked.
"So. Naming." Ortin clasped his hands over the ledger. "An important aspect of your life, so you should pick something you will be happy to stick to for the rest of your working days. When you have decided, I record it in the Guild's ledgers, and at first you may only choose to share it with a few people. Your official naming day tends to occur around the first anniversary of signing your apprenticeship contract. Your official casting-off of your old name is the day you take the black, though many apprentices have already done so before this point."
Jordan fidgeted at 'casting off'. It sounded clinical, like identities were things you could just swap in and out. Though he had had a name in mind for a while, he couldn't imagine ever answering to it naturally like he did with his given name. He supposed – hoped – the passage of time would help with that.
"Yddris said it was best if I told you first, even if I wasn't sure," Jordan said. His voice felt small and thin compared to Ortin's steady assurance.
"It's a precaution," Ortin said. "Partly to make sure it is recorded with proof that it is indeed yours, and partly to ensure there is no one in the Guild who already has it. It prevents a great deal of confusion."
"Wonder why," Jordan mumbled, but he felt far from amused. It was starting to feel like a bad idea; the few names he'd given himself to choose from all sounded stupid now. He didn't know enough about naming conventions in Nictaven to know whether he would sound like an idiot if he picked them, but Darin's warning was echoing in his head too. He had a horrible feeling he would want to put some distance between his two lives soon enough, and a name might help, however little.
"I'm gonna be honest," he said, "I don't know if...."
"There are no wrong answers." Ortin interrupted him firmly, but not unkindly. "The most important thing is that you feel it fits you."
"Thorne," Jordan blurted, and then hurried to add, "I found it in a book, I don't even know if I'm saying it right..."
Ren whined in his ear in response to his embarrassment, and he reached into his hood to bury his fingers in her fur. Her nose nudged his palm.
"Thorne," Ortin repeated. Jordan was relieved to hear no ridicule or disapproval, but couldn't make himself trust it. "He was actually Unspoken, the last Thorne I knew of. Passed away just before the Annexe War. Indeed, if the guild had followed his advice, the war might not have had as many casualties as it did." There was a smile in his voice now. "Not a bad choice of footsteps to follow."
"I didn't know where it was from," Jordan said, "I could only spell out the name."
"A lucky coincidence, then." Ortin began to flick through the ledger. "I am almost certain there is no one currently serving who has that name, but it doesn't hurt to be sure."
Jordan waited, hands knotted in his lap. He was still expecting someone to jump out and call him stupid, that he'd picked the wrong name, and how could he be so conceited as to choose the name of a long-dead peacemaker when he had an errand note from an assassin burning a hole in his pocket? The lump in his throat swelled until the tightness hurt and his eyes watered. When Ortin closed the ledger again without saying anything, it only dissipated a little.
"It all seems in order. I will pencil it in, and you may tell whoever you choose. In a couple of weeks, if you are still sure, I will enter it permanently. In this period of transition, I suggest you only tell a select few people."
Jordan nodded, grateful for the grace period. He had been certain all the way up until telling someone else, but he had no other ideas that he liked as much.
"Yddris," he said, "Good place to start."
"I'm sure your tutor would be more than a little miffed if he wasn't the first to know," Ortin said, amused. It tugged a reluctant smile from Jordan's face, which faded as Astra passed below in the corridor, crying again. A moment of silence took up all the air in the room.
"Nika," he murmured, "Perhaps Hap and Koen. I don't know anyone else very well."
"Sensible," Ortin acknowledged, also sombre. "I will enter it. Do not hesitate to come and see me if you have questions."
"I will." Jordan got up, suddenly reluctant to leave. A moment before he would have been happy to bolt at the first opportunity, but then he remembered what was waiting downstairs; grief, and loaded silences, and the oppressive presence of the body in the cellar. The coroner had been that morning. Jordan hadn't had the guts to leave his room for the whole visit, and he hoped he and Hap had left by the time Harkenn's secretaries came to discuss the funeral arrangements. The few snatches of conversation he'd overheard told him both bodies of the murdered Unspoken had been officially released to the guild, and it was only a case of where they would be allowed to erect a pyre.
He found the house almost empty. Hap was waiting for him by the front window, looking out into the street.
"Well met," the old man said. "Are you ready?"
"Aye," Jordan said.
"Good. Let's get off, then. We've almost completely run out of food, so I hope you're feeling strong today."
Jordan couldn't remember the last time that was the case, but couldn't muster the energy to make a joke of it. He took a step towards the door, and a vice-like hand clamped around his arm from behind. He whirled, and came face to face with Astra, who let go of him like she'd been burned.
"You cannot live in three pieces," she said. Her voice was cracked and raw. "One of you must leave, and one must make peace."
"I'm sorry," Jordan stammered, "but what?"
But she was already walking away. Jordan turned to Hap, who also looked completely taken aback.
"Is she..." Jordan began, and stopped himself before he said something awful.
"Astra sometimes makes eerily accurate predictions about people," Hap said, "I've never known anyone like her for reading aura. But they usually make sense." He sighed. "I would pay it no mind until she explains it herself. She is under a lot of strain."
Jordan stared at the doorway Astra had disappeared into. He hadn't even seen her arrive; he had thought she'd left the building. He wanted to ask more questions, but he could tell from Hap's stance that the matter was closed.
The chill he felt as he stepped out of the house had nothing to do with the wind.