After a pause, he said, “But she cannot aid you, Queen. I have spoken with her. She heard nothing that you do not already know. Only Master Ungabwey’s insistence on safety for his daughters was unexpected.”

When Third Father was done, silence filled the chamber. Lylin showed no reaction. Magister Oblique nodded as if the monk’s reply confirmed her own conclusions. The librarian’s eyes betrayed a hint of wildness despite their blindness. She may have been hoping—

Queen Estie drank another swallow of wine. “So,” she announced. “We cannot look for help there. I have a better thought.”

At once, everyone stared at her. Even Third Father raised his gaze.

“Tell me,” said the Queen with an edge in her voice, “how it was done.”

Oblique’s mouth shaped the word, Done? Magister Threnody gaped like a woman in shock.

“I am familiar with gunpowder,” explained Estie. “And I know the smell of fuses. But I cannot imagine how the gunpowder was put in place unobserved. And I truly cannot conceive how the fuse could have been timed and lit so that the explosion would occur when it did, without smoke or smell.”

Despite her blindness, the librarian’s attention had force. She seemed to think that Queen Estie was poised to produce an appalling revelation.

After a moment, Magister Oblique managed to admit, “Placing the gunpowder would not have been difficult. Magister Marrow was often away from his workroom. And the room has never been guarded. Anyone who observed his movements could have found an opportunity.” Her voice faded.

“It is here,” blurted Threnody. “All of the knowledge is here. In the books. The composition of gunpowder. The making of fuses. The making of fuses that do not smoke or smell.” Her eyes flicked from place to place, searching her new memories. “Several texts discuss such subjects. A dozen? Perhaps one or two more.” Then her regard snapped back to Estie. “But they are summarized in Estervault’s Methods for Devising and Using Bombs of Gunpowder. It includes sections on timed fuses. And on ones that give no smell because they do not smoke.”

Again, Magister Oblique protested. “But how does that help us? That knowledge is open to all. Only the books of sorcery are kept aside—not to preserve their secrets,” she insisted, “but because they are useless to those who lack the necessary gifts. Anyone could have read—”

Estie cut her off. Concentrating on Magister Threnody, she inquired, “You know the books, librarian. Do you also know who reads them?”

“Who reads—?” That question struck the woman like a slap. She had inherited Magister Marrow’s awareness too recently. “Who reads—?

“It is possible,” she breathed as if the idea astonished her. It should be. If I can remember—” Abruptly, she jumped to her feet. “I must leave you.” She smacked her forehead. “There is so much— I cannot sort it all. I must have quiet. And time.”