1633880583 (F) by Chris Willrich

from my perspective. I have dwelled with monks of the Forest. Some of their mad philosophy may be rubbing off. If Innocence Gaunt rejects the power of Qiangguo, so be it. Yet I hope to persuade him it’s yet a worthy goal, to cherish and protect the greatest of the world’s lands.”
    “He seems to have his own ideas,” Gaunt said.
    “He is young,” Walking Stick said.
    “Would that he were younger,” Gaunt mused.
    “Age, if accompanied by experience, is to be welcomed. I hope to become much older yet, for clearly I have much to learn. But . . . you don’t mourn his maturity, do you, Persimmon Gaunt? You regret that you were not there beside him. Now he has that chance—and he has rejected you. That is not right. He is prideful, quarrelsome, insubordinate. Even you, thief, do not deserve such treatment. He dishonors you and my teaching. If only for this alone, I must seek him out.”
    “Is that why you wished to speak with us?” Bone said. “For our blessing to travel with us? As far as I’m concerned, you and the scroll are Snow Pine’s business now.”
    Gaunt nodded. “We may not like you, Walking Stick, but if she tolerates you, we tolerate you. But try to abduct my son again, and . . . well. You have seen that we are determined people.”
    Bone took her hand.
    Walking Stick said, “That is one of two reasons I wished to speak to you. I do want to find Innocence again. And I want you to find him as well. He’s less likely to become a threat to Qiangguo if his parents can influence him. Such is my first reason.”
    “And your second?” Gaunt said.
    “You have an unusual artifact in your possession, do you not?”
    Without thinking about it, Gaunt found her fingers brushing the bejeweled pommel of the saber sheathed over her back. It unnerved her to find herself caressing the magical weapon. “Crypttongue? I’ll have you know I prefer not to use the thing. I’ve released all its captured spirits.”
    “That is important to you, is it not? That you gain no benefit from this murderous thing. You’ve killed, poet. And you fear you will cross the invisible line between one who has had to kill, and one who is a killer. Or at any rate, you hope such a line exists.”
    “Be careful, Walking Stick,” Bone said.
    “And you,” Walking Stick said, “you fear what you have done to her. You are a lost creature, but she had other destinies, before you lured her onto your path. You fear Crypttongue even more than Persimmon Gaunt does. For it represents everything you hope she won’t become.”
    “Do you want the thing, then, Walking Stick?” Gaunt said, drawing the sword.
    She let it clatter at her feet. In the vibration of metal against stone, she imagined she heard a keening, yearning quality.
    “Why give it to me?” Walking Stick said. “It was Liron Flint’s weapon before it was yours.”
    “Flint has many intuitions about Crypttongue,” Bone said. “One is that it chooses new owners. Flint does not think it a good idea to have it back.”
    “Likewise,” Walking Stick said, “I would not take it, even were my fighting style a match. Enough. I had reason to question your relationship to the sword, but any concerns I had are answered.”
    Gaunt hesitated before reclaiming and sheathing the weapon. “Are you quite satisfied?”
    “No. Because that was not the artifact I was speaking of. There is a book in your possession that discusses the Bladed Isles, is there not? You acquired it in faraway Qushkent, and since traveling to the West you have kept it here, in this monastery.”
    Gaunt and Bone looked at each other. By wordless agreement, Gaunt told the truth. “How did you know?”
    “Do not blame Abbot Leaftooth; I have been ferreting out truth on the Empire’s behalf for decades. He does not even know that I know. I’ve had considerable time to ask leading questions and shadow his movements. I know the book you possess is known as the Chart of Tomorrows , or the Carta Postrema , or