“What’s in there?” Karigan asked in surprise.

“The offices and workshops of the caretakers.”

Karigan thought it clever that the entrance was concealed within the wall. This way, the presence of the caretakers remained unobtrusive and allowed the tombs to retain their overwhelmingly sepulchral impact.

The corridor they entered was more utilitarian and not at all sepulchral. The doorways they passed opened into offices where people worked at desks doing who-knew-what. It reminded her very much of the administrative wing in the castle above. What in the tombs could require so much office work? She asked Brienne.

“The same as Green Riders, I would guess,” the Weapon replied. “The ordering of supplies, the keeping of accounts, the scheduling and oversight of all aspects of caretaker life. The tombs are almost a city unto themselves.”

It was so strangely ordinary, Karigan thought.

“Beyond the administrative area,” Brienne continued, “are the workshops of artisans who create and repair many objects in the tombs, including sarcophagi and statues. Many of the burial goods are very old and require special care, particularly textiles.”

The caretakers they encountered in the corridor gazed curiously at Karigan. “Have you brought us a new caretaker, Brienne?” a man asked.

Like all the caretakers Karigan had ever seen, his skin was smooth and pale from never having seen the sun, and he wore robes of muted gray.

“This is Sir Karigan,” Brienne replied, “a Green Rider and honorary Weapon. She has freedom of passage.”

The man bowed. “Welcome, Sir Karigan.”

“Thank you.”

As they continued on, Brienne said in a hushed voice, “A green uniform is a novelty down here, but most will know who you are and that you are not trespassing, and that this isn’t your first time here. Ah, here we are.”

They halted at a door, and Brienne knocked and entered. Agemon’s office was not large for all that he was the chief caretaker, but it was crammed with books and scrolls of all sizes, and broken bits of sculpture. Paintings on the walls depicted ocean and forest scenes, almost as if they were windows into the outer world, one he had never seen.

Across his desk lay what appeared to be a schematic of the tombs. Karigan gazed curiously at it, but it looked very complex. He rolled it up before she could make sense of it.

“Greetings, Agemon,” Brienne said. “I have brought Sir Karigan as you requested.”

“You are late,” he replied in the querulous voice Karigan remembered well. His specs slid down to the end of his nose. Though his long hair was gray, it was difficult to judge his age with his smooth skin. His manner, however, indicated someone in his elder years.

“Not by much,” Brienne replied. “I’ll wait outside.”

“No, no you will not,” Agemon said. “What I ask this—this green may be useful for your ears, as well. What is this world coming to that Black Shields are bringing green into the silent halls?”

“You know, Agemon, that Sir Karigan is our sister-at-arms.”

“Yes, yes, but to me it has no meaning. You Black Shields are turning the world upside down. What is it coming to? ‘Here, Agemon, translate this. Here, Agemon, translate that.’ The Silverwood book, you remember? It left me in the ward of the death surgeons for an entire week. An entire week!”

“I remember,” Brienne replied, “but it is the king who requested these things of you.”

“Yes, yes, His Majesty. Then I am set to impossible tasks. Seek and find. Does he realize how great this domain of the sleeping is?”

“I think he has some idea.” Brienne’s tone was placating, and Karigan knew she had to deal frequently with him. “Can’t you get anyone to help you?”

“I do have scholars assisting with the translations of the Green Rider material.” He looked pointedly at Karigan. “But this . . . this cryptic thing, this dragonfly device I am to seek in the vastness of these halls . . . Do you know how many objects, how many artifacts lie hidden here?”

“Yes, Agemon,” Brienne replied. “Why don’t you tell us why you wished to see Sir Karigan.”

He peered through his specs at Karigan. “You,” he said. “You disrupt my tombs at every turn. You, you, you.”

THE BIRDMAN’S VOICE

“Me?” Karigan said.

Agemon pointed a shaking finger at her. “Yes, yes. You take the great Ambrioth’s sword; you turn my tombs into turmoil. You come as a false Black Shield. You take royal robes from the dead and stain priceless carpets with blood. You.”

“Agemon!” Brienne snapped. “You know it was the king who wanted Sir Karigan to have the use of the First Rider’s sword back then, and you know it was returned unscathed. As for the other things, she saved your hide that night, and prevented the Silverwood book from falling into the hands of Second Empire.”

Agemon glowered in response.

“May I remind you,” Brienne said, “that you are the one who asked her to come here today?”

Karigan placed her hand on the Weapon’s arm. “It’s all right, Sergeant. It seems I am overdue to offer an apology.” The tombs were Agemon’s entire life, one of order and serenity, until she had come and disrupted it all. She imagined that before that first time she and the others had entered the tombs, there’d been almost no contact between the caretakers and the outside world and its problems, with the exception of the tomb Weapons doing their duty as they had for centuries. Now the outside world was interfering with Agemon’s day-to-day routine by asking him to translate old documents and search for an artifact that may not even exist.