by Eddie Han
“Those sound like the words of a Mystic spurned by the Maker. Are you sure your professed atheism is not in reality the tantrum of a child who has not gotten his way?”
Valkyrie laughed. “I should’ve known better than to bait a templar into a theological discussion. I assure you, Champ, the inability to see the Maker or hear his voice is no act. It requires far less of me to believe tales of magic and dancing fairies than to believe all that nonsense.”
“I can see you are a man determined. Only a fool keeps pushing something that cannot be moved. And I am no fool.”
Dale walked and listened. With all he had been through, he was in no mood to comment on the Maker. Merely listening got him annoyed. He fell back a ways so he would not have to listen to the discussion. A few paces back, Dale journeyed with his thoughts as mired as his steps. If there was a Maker, he had some explaining to do—not only for what had transpired in the last twenty-four hours, but also for all that led up to his flight out of Carnaval City. A few more steps and his mind flooded with thoughts of Darius. All along the journey, Dale had been telling himself, Darius would have gotten out. When things got bad, he would have led a few men out of the Ancile before it fell.
Without much care about what he did or did not believe, and not knowing to whom he was talking, Dale prayed.
Please, let Darius be alive.
NO 04
CH 38
THE SAD BOY AND THE SONGSTRESS
In a matter of days, the Balean assault on Carnaval City had decisively turned into an occupation.
The Steam Powered Electric Generator was shut down, which effectively cut off all communication. As the initial assault bore down on the city from the northwest, the City Guards could not warn the other parts of the city. The severing of communication along with the aerial assault made for an attack of overwhelming speed. Within the first few hours, most of the City Guards had been neutralized. With no forewarning, they were ill-prepared to defend themselves, let alone mount any sort of counter-attack. Most were killed in the first wave of the assault. The survivors abandoned their positions and disappeared into the city. Once the city was secured, order was swiftly restored. By the time news reached Pharundelle, Carnaval City was a garrisoned Balean foothold.
Balean generals and Shaldea groups victoriously marched their troops through the city’s main streets, the citizens forced to bear witness. Because of the speed of the invasion, much of the city remained intact. There were only a few buildings left smoldering. The Spegen was restored as soon as Balean officials were given full access to the switchboard stations. Speakers were installed throughout the city to blare daily announcements and propaganda. The first week, a curfew was instituted. A few businesses were eventually re-opened, mostly for the pleasure of the occupying forces. The entire Waterfront District, including Dale’s breaker, was taken for use by the Royal Balean Navy. The occupying forces were strategically stationed throughout the city. By week’s end, the transition from war to governance was well underway.
First priority was restoring the rule of law. Looters were shot on sight. Aside from a handful of incidents, the threat of being shot was an effective deterrent to would-be opportunists. Ruthless as they were, to their credit, the Balean occupiers were no hypocrites. Their law did not exclude them. Four Balean soldiers found guilty of raping a young woman during the assault on the city were hanged. The judgment and sentencing came swiftly. The hanging was public. The bodies were left on display for three days. As intended, it evoked both terror and respect from the locals.
The only thing the Balean occupation failed to anticipate was a threat to their fragile alliance with the Shaldea that came in the form of the Emmainite community living in Carnaval City.
With the invasion aided by the Shaldea, the city’s Emmainite diaspora went from being a marginalized minority community to the ruling party overnight. They came out into the streets to enjoy their newfound status. Some of the suppressed frustrations were vented. Abuses occurred under the watch of, and at times assisted by, the Shaldean fighters. Indiscriminate in their commitment to the law, however, the Balean occupation was forced to intervene and subsequently execute some Emmainites. This would have led to an extraneous uprising had the Shaldea not quickly intervened. Aware that they could not afford a conflict with the Kingdom of Bale, the Shaldea responded by bringing their people under control and justly punishing them themselves in accordance to Balean law.
In the midst of this governing transition, the temple sanctuary became the largest of the many makeshift refugee camps throughout the city for displaced residents who flooded in from the outlying villages. These villages had either been sacked or consumed for use as military outposts.
For weeks, Mosaic waited in the sanctuary for news of her parents. She passed the days scouring boards set up as communication centers for missing persons. Her hope never waned. One afternoon, after posting yet another note, she left the temple to comb the city. The streets were covered in crystal pools from sporadic rain. The sky was a misty gray. She made her way down to the waterfront, where she stopped at the bakery. The doors stood open. The inside was bare.
The clouds thundered. It began to drizzle. Mosaic went inside to take shelter from the rain. The furnishings were gone, and the shelves and cupboards were barren. Spiking inflation and widespread rumors of food shortages made it the most sought-after commodity.
Walking through the kitchen, Mosaic saw her mother’s apron left trampled on the floor. She picked it up, dusted it off, and slipped it on. On the counter, she saw a trace layer of flour where dough was dusted and kneaded daily. She ran her fingers through it. Then she wept.
There was a rapping on the window. Mosaic quickly wiped her eyes, leaving the tip of her nose and cheeks dusted with flour.
“Mosaic? Is that you?”
She looked up. “Sebastian?”
Peering in was her friend, the bespectacled literary elitist. “I thought it was you!” He was with three others—two men and a woman she did not recognize.
Mosaic rushed out and gave him a long hug.
“How are you?” Sebastian asked.
Mosaic tried a smile between her tears. “It’s good to see a familiar face.”
“Where are you staying?”
“The temple.”
Sebastian shook his head. “Listen, those camps, they’re there to monitor you, you know that, right?”
“Really?”
“From what I hear, for every ten refugees, there’s one Balean mole. Temple or not, they’re running the show. Not the Benesanti. If you want, you’re welcome to stay with us. We got a little place near Trivelka Square.”
“Thanks but I’m waiting to hear from my folks.”
“Yeah. I heard about Hoche.” With a grim expression, Sebastian then asked, “You know they got Terry, right? That night at the Flora Crystal?”
“What do you mean ‘they got Terry’?” Mosaic asked in alarm.
“They killed him.”
Mosaic put her hand to her mouth.
“They fired into the crowd,” Sebastian continued. “We rushed some soldiers that were beating a city guard to death, so they just shot at us.” He paused and grit his teeth. “They shot Terry. They killed him.”
Mosaic’s eyes began to well. “What about Rudy? Where’s Rudy?”
“I don’t know.” He glanced over his shoulder, scanning the quiet streets. “I have to go. Look, a few of us are getting together later this week. You should come join us.”
“I’d like that.”
“Good. Meet me at the dry fountain in Trivelka Square on the Fifth Day. Sixth hour of the night, sharp.”
“That’s just before curfew.”
Sebastian hushed her. “Sixth hour. Fifth Day. Got it?”
Mosaic nodded.
“And don’t mention it to anyone else. Especially no one at the temple. I’ll talk to you soon.”
Then he jogged back into the rain to his waiting companions. The four walked swif
tly around the corner. When they were out of sight, a hooded figure emerged from within the shadows of the adjacent alley. He entered the bakery unnoticed.
“Bad idea.”
Mosaic darted around to see Sparrow standing just inside.
“Oh my God, you scared me. Where’d you come from? How long have you been standing there?”
“You get caught past curfew, they’ll jail you.”
“Where’s Dale?”
“The last I saw, he was on a horse headed for the Ancile.”
She gripped her apron and closed her eyes. “Is he okay?”
“I don’t know. But he was on a good horse and it was early. The Shaldea and the Baleans wouldn’t worry themselves with one scurrying soul.”
Mosaic opened her eyes. She stared at Sparrow for a beat, to see if he was telling the truth. Comforted, Mosaic walked back into the bakery. As she walked past Sparrow, she asked, “Why are you here?”
“Don’t go to that meeting in Trivelka Square. Your friend doesn’t know what he’s doing.”
“What is he doing?”
“They’re organizing a resistance. But they are just going to get themselves killed. And you with them, if you go.”
“How do you know all this? Why do you know this? And why do you care?”
Sparrow walked up close to Mosaic so she could clearly look into his eyes. When he saw that he had her full attention, he said sternly, “Go back to the temple, Mosaic.”
She paused, both intimidated and intrigued. Then with equal gravity in her voice, she replied, “I don’t have an umbrella.”
Sparrow turned around. At the door of the bakery, he pulled the hood of his jacket over his head, cinched his collar, and ran out into the rain. Mosaic walked over to the front window and watched him sprint across the street and disappear around the corner.
“Okay, bye,” she muttered to herself.
She went behind the counter and opened random drawers, looking for nothing in particular. In the glass of the emptied display counter, Mosaic saw a reflection of herself. Still wearing her mother’s apron and with her hair pinned up, she saw that her face was smudged with flour. As she leaned close to get a clear picture, she thought, He could’ve said something. After wiping the flour off, Mosaic took another look to make sure she got all of it. Through the display counter, she saw Sparrow standing on the other side. She darted up to see him holding a red umbrella.
“Let’s go,” he said, standing in the threshold.
“Where’d you get that? Did you steal that?”
“We’re going to the temple.”
“You’re coming with me?”
Sparrow nodded.
Mosaic walked around the counter and under the red umbrella. They set off shoulder to shoulder for the Central District. It wasn’t more than two blocks before Mosaic broke the silence.
“So did Dale put you up to this?”
“Yes.”
“Is your name really Sparrow?”
“No.”
“What’s your name?”
“Jūng-geun.”
“So why does Dale call you Sparrow?”
“I don’t know. He’s always called me that.”
Mosaic stopped dead in her tracks. “You’re the sad boy! From Azuretown! I remember you! You’re Dale’s friend from when you guys were little.”
“Keep walking.”
They rounded a corner after a few more blocks.
“You don’t like to talk much, do you?” asked Mosaic.
After a few more steps, Sparrow replied, “You ask a lot of questions.”
Mosaic bridled at the comment but made no retort. They were passing Balean soldiers standing post at a checkpoint. Every few blocks there seemed to be a checkpoint, and soldiers on the move, patrolling in between. The occupying presence was stifling.
When they reached the temple’s West Gate, the templar on post asked them for their papers. He gave an obligatory glance at the documents, not thorough enough to distinguish Mosaic’s authentic papers from the forged ones Sparrow presented. They passed through the West Gate and started up the gray marble steps to the main sanctuary’s double doors.
“I didn’t know you were staying here too.”
“I’m not.”
Mosaic was going to inquire further but held her tongue on account of his last comment.
They entered the vestibule where the watchman cleric greeted them. Once she had confirmed that they were not in possession of any weapons, she sprinkled them with myrrh and gave them a blessing.
Just inside the main sanctuary, Sparrow handed Mosaic the umbrella. “Keep it.” And just before leaving her, he grabbed her by the shoulders. “Mosaic, listen to me. I don’t know when I’ll be able to check on you again. Do not leave the temple. Don’t get mixed up with anyone. Mind your own business, and stay alive. Okay?”
“Okay.”
With Mosaic looking on, Sparrow walked toward the altar at the front of the sanctuary. There, he knelt down. A minute later, a man in common merchants’ attire walked over and knelt down beside him. With his head cast down as if praying, he whispered, “You are late.”
CH 39
A PROMISE KEPT
Magog was in disguise. He had applied make-up to add some tone to his pale complexion and cover parts of his facial tattoo that weren’t hidden below an artificial black beard. In the inconspicuous attire of a common merchant, he looked like any number of the refugee men.
Magog took a peek back to see if Mosaic was still watching. Seeing that she had moved along, he peered sideways at Sparrow. With his head still bowed at the altar he said, “Against my better judgment, I granted you permission to warn your friend. The matter was settled when your friend was warned. Who is she?”
Sparrow didn’t respond. Magog turned his head back toward the floor. “Are you forgetting who you are?”
The Samaeli were the keepers of night, the great equalizers—an organization, the origin of which was veiled in mystery. It was as if they had no beginning, as if they had always been. They were the last line, the final option. When all else failed to reset the balance of power, then and only then were the Samaeli summoned. They did not, therefore, have the luxury of morality, to struggle with “right and wrong.” Ideals, values, they were all laid at the feet of what needed to be done. They were pragmatists who dealt in absolutes, each sworn member unwavering in his commitment to his calling. Disciplined like machines.
Sparrow knew this well. It was not long after he had been initiated that Master T’varche was killed—assassinated by the very organization he’d sworn allegiance to. When in his rage Sparrow sought revenge, it was Magog who had explained to him that this was the nature of the Samaeli and that Aleksander T’varche had welcomed his fate. Having proved himself an adept pupil, it was against this backdrop that Magog had extended the invitation to Sparrow to become the Samaeli’s hand of judgment. And when Sparrow accepted, he knew exactly what he would become—what he was. Vengian.
Magog rose to his feet and hovered over him.
“Are you forgetting who you are?” he repeated.
Sparrow stood and met his glare. They postured up like two fighting dogs before the altar, out of touch with fear, unfamiliar with retreat. Sparrow knew that his long time co-conspirator had no qualms about killing him. Though he was no Vengian, he was just as capable. In the blink of an eye, he would set aside years of close partnership. Sparrow had seen Magog do it before. He himself as the Vengian had done it.
“No,” he finally replied.
Though unsatisfied and still suspicious, Magog dropped the matter by proceeding. “Meet me in the south transept when you’re ready.” Then he disappeared into the refugee camp.
Sparrow noticed Magog had left a satchel where he’d been kneeling. Sparrow grabbed it and walked briskly into the washroom.
Sparrow put on the brown, templar squire uniform he found in the satchel. Then he went to join Magog in the south transept. They walked down a dimly lit corridor
to the Bene-seneschal’s study. There was a single squire posted at the door.
“Good evening, brother,” he said, as they approached.
“Is the Bene-seneschal in?” asked Magog.
“He is, but I’m afraid he’s not taking any visitors at the moment. Is there something I can do for you?”
“As a matter of fact, there is.”
Magog lunged forward with a poison-laced needle between his fingers. Before the squire could react, the needle was in his jugular. His eyeballs rolled back as he extended an arm to grip Magog’s outer garment. When he collapsed to the floor, the Vengian caught him and gingerly laid his body down.
Magog knocked. There was no reply. He knocked again.
“What is it?” a voice called from within.
Magog opened the door and entered alone.
“Gaius, I told you I don’t want to be disturbed…who are you? Where’s Gaius?”
From his one encounter all those years ago in that desert outpost of a town, Magog recognized him. Yusef Naskerazim. There were wrinkles where there was once smooth skin. The hair had whitened, and the years out of the desert sun had softened his complexion. His overall look was quite a departure from the once feral, black-bearded Rajeth of the Shaldean Riders, but the eyes were the same. And in his eyes, Magog saw that he too was recognized.
“Bene-seneschal, I have come a great distance to see you,” said Magog, exposing his silver teeth in a satisfied smile.
As he stepped forward, Magog took note of the chessboard in the corner. The white bishop was indeed sitting on the square, g2, just as the note Sparrow had retrieved from Fairchild’s bedchamber had indicated.
“My name is Magog Siberion.” He removed the beard. “I am the face of an organization your people refer to as the Zaal’mavorte.” The blood-red tattoo of the palm over his mouth confirmed for Yusef what he was already dreading.
Magog flung a dart. Like the squire, Yusef had no time to react. He didn’t know what was happening. The abrupt movement startled him. With a jolt, he grabbed the armrests of his chair. Feeling the sting in his chest, he looked down to see the dart buried there.
