Reyn had never liked lifts. He’d always rather do the climb than endure the sickening lurch and sway and the unpredictable hitches and halts along the way. He clenched his teeth and hoped the man was good at minding his line and pulleys. Neither Leftrin nor Skelly said much. Leftrin was huddled in his borrowed waterproof, while Skelly grinned and peered out at the night as if fascinated by every detail. Suddenly, Reyn was glad she had come along. He suspected that Malta would get more out of interrogating the girl than quizzing the reticent captain.

Once the lift halted, he’d been eager to unlatch the safety net. “Along here,” he’d told them as they trooped out of the lift basket after him. “I’m sorry it’s so dark. There’s little to rent in Cassarick; the town is too young yet to offer the sort of inns and taverns that Trehaug has. We’ve had to take whatever temporary lodging we could get for this visit. Mind the guide ropes. They’re set lower than they should be. Across that bridge, a loop or two up the trunk steps, one more bridge, and we’ll be there. And I do thank you for coming. Very sincerely.”

As they finally drew near to the rented cottage and Reyn saw the darkened windows, he scowled to himself. If Malta had decided she was too weary for this and gone to bed, he’d be embarrassed to have dragged these two so far through the storm. But the scowl was more for the worry he felt. If Malta had given up on them and gone to sleep, it meant that she was far wearier than she had indicated when they’d left the concourse.

He pushed the flimsy door open and ventured into the darkened room. “Malta?” he said quietly into the darkness. “Malta, I’ve brought Captain Leftrin for you . . .”

His words tapered off as he felt the emptiness of the chambers. He could not have explained it to anyone. He simply knew that she was not there and had not been there since he had left. He stepped to the table and ran his fingertips lightly across a jidzin centerpiece there. The Elderling metal responded to his touch by bursting into life, giving off a ghost light, bluish but penetrating. He lifted it and it lit the room. Malta was not there. Cold flowed through him. He heard himself speak in a deceptively calm voice.

“Something’s wrong. She isn’t here, and it doesn’t look as if she’s been here.”

The hearth for the small chambers was not much more than a clay platter. He found a few embers still burning and coaxed them back to life and lit the lamp again. The stronger light only confirmed what he already knew. She had not come back from the meeting. Everything was exactly as they had left it when they hurried out of the door.