“Patrick,” I hissed.
“What?”
“Teeth.”
Teeth of all sizes—infant and adult, animal and human. Yellow, white, and gray. Patrick made a face of distaste and took it from my hands. “Charming,” he said.
“We make use of … unconventional materials,” said someone over my shoulder. “The Temple doesn’t condone it, of course, but if you’re going to create something truly powerful … Well, the usual just won’t cut it.”
I turned and saw a young woman standing behind us. She was tiny, perhaps a foot shorter than me, with brown skin and an abundance of hair, as if to make up for her stature—black with shimmers of red, like candlelight shining through a rich wine. A thick, rigid apron covered her front, but the way she carried herself made it seem like a bespoke gown. She pulled off her hide gloves and wiped her hands on it as she approached us.
“You’re a … monk?” I asked.
She grinned. “Do I look like a monk? No, I’m just a maker.Themaker, down here. My name is Tamara.” She twitched backa curtain a little to reveal a small cot-bed and basin. “I live here. And work here. For certain trustworthy clients.”
“Like us?” I said.
“Enough money paid up front automatically makes you somewhat trustworthy,” she said cheerfully. “At least for the duration of the commission.”
“Money paid up front?” I murmured to Patrick, who just smiled. “You paid upstairs too, didn’t you, for the book we don’t really want them to make?”
He raised his eyebrows questioningly. “What of it?”
“Just how much money do youhave?”
“Enough,” he said.
“So, what are you after?” said Tamara. She peered at me. “You’re a mage, aren’t you?”
I stammered something, and Tamara shrugged. “You don’t have to tell me. I have a knack for noticing it, though. When you’ve worked with enough of them, you recognize the tells. How can I help you folks? What kind of spellbook do you need?”
“There is a book we’re looking for, but it has already been made,” I said. “It passed through here, we think. We were looking for something more along the lines of … records. Information. Maybe letters?”
“Ah,” said Tamara, scratching her head. “Well, we can take a look, but I can’t promise anything. What’s the name?”
“Edevane. Margotte Edevane.”
She went over to a chest of drawers and starting rifling through it. “Records down here are a little … patchy, if you get my drift. Sometimes we’re paid to forget we made something. By the way, Brother Antony, any news from the surface? I haven’t been able to leave the workshop for a while.”
“Lordsmen attacked a band of Followers and killed their Priest!” said our little monk with ghoulish relish. I was starting to think he was a bit of a gossip.
Tamara’s pleasant face became shadowed and fearful.
“Followers? Do we know any names?
“I’m afraid not,” said the monk.
“I can’t believe it. Every time I hear news from up there, it gets worse and worse. Attacks on Temples, riots in the cities, the king half dead … and now the Followers! I used to be a Follower. Well, my parents were. As soon as I was old enough, I got out of there … But they’re good people. They don’t deserve that.”
“Wait,” I said slowly. “Your name is Tamara?”
“Yes.”
“And your parents were Followers?”
“Yes …?”
“I think I may have met your sister,” I said. “She’s a Follower, too? Trained to be a Priest? I’m sorry, I don’t know her name. She said she had a sister who went to study at the school for bookmaking in Quell, and she hadn’t heard from her in over a year …”
