Ravnica

by Cory Herndon

  “Fonn!” she heard Bayul shout, but he sounded distant. His voice bounced around inside her ears like the clapper of a spinning bell. Meanwhile she could not draw breath to save her life. With effort and a grunt, she managed to shove the bloody corpse—the assassin had been human, it seemed, but deathly pale under his skull mask—off her head and chest. She couldn’t feel any broken bones, thanks to the soft, smelly garbage, but she was pretty sure she was about to vomit.

  “Breathe,” came Bayul’s voice, closer and clearer now, whispering in her ears and head. He was speaking with words and with feelings and images in her mind, calming her nerves, her nausea, and her dazed body. Fonn panicked for a second when she realized she couldn’t see, then remembered that she had to open her eyes first. She took the loxodon’s offered hand and let the Selesnya Conclave ambassador pull her to her unsteady feet.

  “Holiness,” she coughed and waved him away. “Thank you. I think that’s all of them?”

  “I agree,” Bayul said. “I sense no more nearby threats.”

  “With respect, Holiness,” Fonn said, “you didn’t sense this one.”

  “No, I did not,” Bayul said, “and you are impudent. But that’s why I like you. The assassin’s magic hid his thoughts from me. It is a challenge to pick even aggressive thoughts aimed at one’s person out of the mass of life and lives all around us. It is glorious, in its way.”

  “It almost got you killed,” Fonn said.

  “No, it almost got you killed,” the loxodon said dryly, and she laughed, which turned into a cough. “But once again, my ledev friend, you did it to save the life of this humble servant of Mat’selesnya, and for that I thank you. Here, that fall may have cracked a few ribs. Let me see what I can do.” Bayul leaned on his walking stick and loomed over Fonn. The smells of the alley and the noises of industry and life faded into the background when he placed a palm on her forehead and began to chant softly in the ancient tongue of the Selesnyan dryads. Warmth spread from the center of his palm over her face, down her skin, and throughout her body. Her lungs drew a deep, painless breath, and she thought she smelled summer flowers mixed with a forest of evergreens. A few breaths later, Bayul was done. Fonn dropped to one knee and bowed her head before the loxodon. She stared hard at the grimy stone of the alley and said, “Holiness, the blessing of Mat’selesnya is upon you.”

  “And upon you,” Bayul said. “Now come on, I know you’re devoted. Save the fawning for the dryads. That’s more to their liking.”

  Fonn grinned and got to her feet. Her nose crinkled as the malodorous air returned to her nostrils, and she prodded the assassin’s still form with a boot. Didn’t hurt to be sure. The body rolled over heavily at her feet, and she and the oversized loxodon stared down into the assassin’s remaining eye. It was glassy and black, with no trace of white, and, as they watched, it clouded over and turned gray.

  It wasn’t the eye that had Fonn concerned. It was the long, razor-sharp silver tooth that hung on a black leather strap around the neck of the dead man. The bare hands of the assassin himself had pulled the tooth from the jaws of a sewer gator, almost certainly.

  “Rakdos,” Fonn said. “The tooth.”

  “Yes,” Bayul said, “it appears so.”

  “Why would a killguilder be working with a Gruul pirate gang? The clans and the Cult hate each other, don’t they?”

  “In the great, wide plane that surrounds the city, yes,” Bayul said. “In the world you and I have spent most of our lives protecting and studying, there is nothing but malice between the two so-called ‘tribal guilds.’ But although we still stand distant from the stone titans, we are more or less in the City of Ravnica now, Fonn. And this city plays by a different set of rules than the rest of Ravnica.”

  “The Hazda, was he—”

  “Dead,” Bayul said, his rumbling voice sad. “His life had drained from him before I could get to him. But his angry spirit will not suffer the path of the woundseeker. I was able to help him find—”

  Fonn jumped at a howling bark that erupted from the street outside the alley and cut Bayul off midsentence. “Biracazir!” she cried and bolted back to the scene of carnage in the street.

  A few curious onlookers had emerged from the buildings and now lined the street. The gawking public didn’t often get to see a fight this bloody without paying good coin. A few enterprising individuals even seemed to be collecting bets.

  The focus of all this attention was the wolf and the Gruul. The pirate had regained his feet and managed to get out from under the wolf’s guard. Fonn seethed when she saw the red fur on Biracazir’s jawline—the hairy thug had cut him, from the look of it superficially. The wolf stood snarling, hackles raised, staring down the Gruul, who had assumed a knife-fighter’s stance, his knife stained red with lupine blood. He growled back.

  “Gruul!” Fonn shouted, sword drawn, as she strode between them. Biracazir, still growling, stepped back to give his mistress room to maneuver as she faced off against the Gruul. Fonn saw a flash of white from the direction of the alley—Bayul making his methodical way back to the street. “Pirate, I gave you a chance to talk, but then you went and cut my wolf. Nobody cuts my wolf.”

  “The next one won’t be a love tap, little girl,” the Gruul snarled. “I’m gonna gut yer precious wolf, stuff yer corpse inside, and turn ye into pterro feed. But that’s later. Ye ain’t gonna die quick.” He raised his dagger with menace.

  Fonn shifted her weight to one foot and raised her own blade into the basic stance of the Weir style, a form she favored when dealing with knife fighters. It let her keep her own blade close to her body to block quick stabs and slashes while she waited for the opening to drop the sword tip and strike back in quick bursts.

  As expected, the Gruul, whose had obviously been faking his leg injury, roared and charged. Keeping her blade up and close, Fonn waited until the last second, then one second past that, and finally stepped to one side as the pirate kept right on going. His wild slash missed both her arm and her blade and gave Fonn an opening to strike at his unprotected side under the armpit. Her sword tip slipped between his ribs and pierced his heart, stopping him cold in his tracks. He coughed up thick blood and tried to curse Fonn, but died before he could form the words through the foaming gore.

  With a weary kick, Fonn pushed the Gruul from the end of her sword and sighed.

  “So much for learning what’s going on,” Fonn said. “Blasted Gruul. Why couldn’t he just stay put?” She left the dead man in the street and gingerly approached Biracazir, while the loxodon went to her fallen foe and offered his spirit one last chance to join with him and through Bayul enter the holy voice of the Selesnya. Even a Gruul killer was welcome in the voice. Judging from the dark look that passed over the Selesnyan ambassador’s face a few moments later, this ghost had refused, as had the others.

  Biracazir’s bloody jaw wasn’t too bad, but he needed attention to prevent infection. Fonn could have asked Saint Bayul for help with the wolf. He was a member of the Selesnya Conclave, the collective that ruled the Guild of Selesnya—one of only three that were not dryads. Of the collective, he was the only one who had traveled so far and wide from the centers of Selesnya that he was known, and indeed loved, by many all over Ravnica. She had seen him breathe life back into a child’s disease-wracked body, witnessed the loxodon help an old woman regain her sight, and certainly had no problem letting Bayul heal her own injuries. But ledev did not let someone else take care of their mounts unless the circumstances were most dire. Ledev and their mounts were joined by more than an empathic bond that let them communicate with what others thought was telepathy but Fonn knew was just high animal intelligence and years of training. The mounts chose their ledev as much as the ledev chose their mounts. Those special beasts—usually wolves, eagles, tigers, or bears—would die to protect their riders. In return, the riders were the source of everything for their mounts: food, water, healing, and friendship. This interdependence made a ledev’s steed more than just a
mount—it was almost a part of that ledev’s soul.

  Fonn pressed her hand against the small wound on Biracazir’s jaw and sang a short, lilting song she had learned from her mother in the Silhana dialect of Elvish, and the fur under her palm glowed softly for a few seconds. Green light closed the cut and burned away any chance of infection, and soon the wolf’s jaw was as good as new.

  “You are skilled,” Bayul said.

  “Thank you,” Fonn said. “My abilities pale beside the glorious warmth of Mat’selesnya, Holiness.”

  “Hey! You! What’s going on here?”

  Another Hazda, this one the sheriff, judging from the cut of his uniform, approached them from the tavern that had produced the earlier, now-dead deputy. A second deputy accompanied him, and both reeked of strong drink. The pair of volunteer lawmen pushed through the crowd that continued to gather on either side of the street, triggering an explosion of conversation among the gawkers. “You, there! What’s going on here?”

  “Perhaps I should explain,” Bayul said.

  “You are the ambassador, holiness,” Fonn said. “I’d appreciate it. Bir and I will see what we can do about getting the bodies into a pile for the local morgue. With luck, we can still get to the city before sunrise.”

  “I hope so,” Bayul said. “We must not be late for our appointment. More than you know depends on it.”

  “We’ll get to Aul House in time, Holiness, if Biracazir and I have to carry you there,” Fonn said. She popped her neck, which had gotten stiff since the fall, and called the wolf’s name. While the loxodon spoke soothingly to the Hazda and gave his testimony about the incident that had left one deputy and several Gruul dead, the half-elf began the grisly work of corpse collecting.

  A ledev always took care of her own mount and also took care of her own messes. Especially any that blocked the open road.

  Don’t wake me for the morning brief.

  —Epitaph of Wojek Sergeant Yrbog Vink

  (2525–2642 Z.C.)

  24 ZUUN 9999 Z.C., EARLY MORNING

  Kos pulled his stack of notes from an inside pocket and forced thoughts of the mysterious ghost vision of the night before from his mind. Zunich had been dead for eight decades.

  The lieutenant eyed the quietman at the rear of the briefing chamber and forced himself to concentrate on the task at hand. There were some thoughts the Selesnya Conclave didn’t need to hear, and Kos had no idea what the thing’s supposed telepathy could pick up. The quietman, if it noticed Kos’s stare, didn’t respond. It just maintained its silent watch—or whatever it did under that faceless, full-body linen mask—at the rear of the room right, recording history. It was not helping Kos’s burgeoning stage fright.

  He had to get through an hour of the most painful mental torture ever devised by the Azorius bureaucracy, and those people knew mental torture. The morning brief.

  Kos shuffled the sheaf of papers on the ancient wooden podium and cleared his throat. “Can you all hear me?” Kos asked.

  “Yes, Captain,” Feather replied. Her voice boomed amid a minor chorus of murmured agreement. There was nothing subtle about the angel wojek.

  “Uh … all right, then,” Kos continued, fighting to keep a nervous tremor out of his voice. “Good morning. Don’t call me Captain. For another week at least I still work for a living.”

  Feather coughed as the joke went over like a cast-iron zeppelid in the silent briefing room. Kos cast his eyes over the crowd of maybe forty lieutenants, sergeants, and constables of assorted rank and charged ahead with the speech he’d concocted over his morning wake-up at the Backwater a half-hour earlier.

  “Most of you know me. I’ve been working the Tenth since before some of you were born. But just in case, I’m Lieutenant Agrus Kos,” he said. “In about a week, I’m told you’ll be able to call me Captain, but for now just stick with Kos. That includes you, Constable Feather.” That got a small laugh. He went over the cascade of promotions that would soon be hitting their section. A few shouts of congratulations rang out, as well as some scattered applause.

  “Thanks. You can buy a round later,” Kos said. “Now let’s get to work.” He shuffled his papers again, squinted at the various notes and lists Phaskin had given him for reference, and quickly gave up. He didn’t really need them anyway. Kos made a point of knowing who was investigating what, patrolling where, and guarding whom at all times anyway. His eyesight, especially at close range, had aged along with the rest of him and only got worse when he was nervous. Kos coughed and pulled a slim pair of crystal reading spectacles from the case he kept tucked in a pocket beneath his uniform tunic and slipped them on.

  Much better. Kos scanned the notes in a few seconds and dropped the papers on the podium. He felt like he’d set down a ton of bricks. He looked out and saw the faces of trusted friends, hardworking colleagues, dedicated ’jeks, and Borca.

  “Now, I’m sure you all remember last week, when Phaskin reminded us all that the new ’jeks arrive for training today. They’re waiting to receive their new assignments.” The room erupted in a few groans. “Cut it out,” Kos said. “We all started there. Sergeants Karlaus and Migellic,” he nodded at a tall, lanky human male with an eye patch and a small, scrappy-looking human female in turn, “you get the training ball this time. After we wrap up here, I want you to head into Briefing Theater Three and divvy them up into two squads. You can get the records from Staff Sergeant Ringor. Have them on the cobblestone by this afternoon.”

  “This afternoon?” Migellic asked. “We’ll be lucky if they know which end of their pendreks to grab by then.”

  “I’m sure you’ll manage,” Kos said. “Sergeants, I want you each walk both groups through your stretch. I need them in the pool the day of the decamillennial.”

  “That’s twice the mandated training, sir,” said Karlaus, his voice rough from scarring and furnace air. “Exactly how green are these rookies?”

  “No greener than usual. But we’re going to double the training as long as we’ve got that the Selesnya Conclave celebration—”

  “Convocation,” Feather corrected.

  “Whatever,” Kos said. “Point is, folks, it’s going to be here soon, and if the number of tourists in my own stretch is any indication, we’re just going to get busier until they convocate or whatever it is they have planned. I want ’jeks ready to transfer to other stretches, maybe other sections, as they’re needed.”

  Karlaus shrugged. “All the same to me. Twice as many spirits to crush.” He didn’t smile.

  “Sergeant Yuraiz, your ’jeks will be covering for Karlaus and Migellic for the morning and assist in training as needed, but consider yourself roving today.” Yuraiz, a viashino who could win a staring contest in a hurricane, blinked and nodded slowly, once.

  “Air Commander Wenslauv,” Kos said, nodding to the thin, athletic woman perched atop a chair just a little more precariously than the goggles perched atop her brow. “Your report? How are the Reaches?”

  “We’ve completed a sweep for squatters outside the Chourn factory site,” Wenslauv said. “Had to clear them out before the Izzet come and demolish the chaff along with those old sky-furnaces.”

  “I can smell my air getting fresher already,” Kos said.

  “We did find a few wild roc nests to clear out over gateside. We’ll want to send a team of tamers out there, I think. Other than that, just the usual assortment of accidents and unintentional suicide attempts.”

  Flight was not uncommon on Ravnica. Massive living zeppelids carried passengers all over the city and the plane, and many different species had tamed many different species of flying mounts, from the giant bats of the Golgari huntresses to the rocs that skyjeks rode on patrol. But in Wenslauv’s oft-stated opinion, private flyers should be kept out of the city proper—especially out-of-town visitors who weren’t used to dense air traffic—or any air traffic at all.

  “Expect to get busier,” Kos said. “In addition to all the pilgrims and tourists I know you love to welcom
e to our noble city, we’ve also got reliable reports from the night shift that Verzit’s gang has been raiding again. They’re hitting zeppelids just outside the district. The zepps are getting backed up out there with the influx of people, and they must make pretty tempting targets. Coordinate with Air Commander Pelerine of the Ninth. His report indicates they’ve been concentrating their attacks in our two sections.”

  “I received a falcon from him this morning,” Wenslauv replied. “Already on it. Odds are they also had a hand in that zeppelid crash at the north end of the canyon.”

  “Exactly what I was thinking,” Kos said. “Two of your officers are due in court to testify on the zeppelid crash today, right?” Wenslauv nodded. “File an ongoing, and get them back in the air. This one might not be ready for a hearing just yet. Keep those two officers flying, and let me know when we can prove Verzit had a hand in it. If Verzit’s got a problem with you poking around, poke harder.”

  “Aye, sir,” the air commander replied. Her frown turned into a half grin. Most skyjeks lived for real aerial combat, and Verzit’s Gruul raiders would be the perfect opportunity for some action. It was only a half grin, Kos knew, because Wenslauv’s eagerness was tempered with wisdom and caution. That was why she was air commander.

  Kos cruised through the rest of the briefing. Lieutenants Zuyori and Groenico were making their usual Upside rounds, following up on a series of robberies at an Orzhov-Magewright construction project that abutted the Reaches. Groenico would be filing paperwork in the afternoon while Zuyori testified in the apothecary burglary trial, a messy bit of business that was likely going to end in the execution of people Kos would have simply escorted to the gates with a warning not to come back soon. Zu was a good ’jek but exhibited the typical overzealous attitude of many postrebellion recruits.