by Jon Sprunk
“Remember your amulets and sigils, lest you be the victim of evil sorcery. Remember to honor the Sun and the Moon and all the heavenly bodies, for they were placed in the sky to guide us. Remember the waters of the rivers and seas, for they once gave us life, and so shall all life someday return to their womb.
“Remember…”
Horace sat back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. The air in the governor's reading room was deathly still and smelled of roses. The administrator of Sekhatun had a penchant for the flowers; every room in the palace had a vase of fresh-cut roses, and the reading room had two. Horace was beginning to abhor the scent.
He sat at the governor's rosewood desk, reading from the borrowed tomes he'd brought from Erugash. He still had the feeling they held an important clue about what happened to Lord Mulcibar.
He'd started this morning with The Ninety-Ninth Day, but after an hour without seeing anything that pertained, he switched to the Codex. Horace paged through it, pausing now and again to make out a passage, but it was more of the same. He was about to move on to the third book when he came across a drawing he'd seen just a few minutes ago. He flipped open The Ninety-Ninth Day until he found its match, and he put the books side by side. Two pictures of a sleeping serpent at the bottom of a subterranean sea, nearly identical.
The written passage above the drawing in the Codex spoke of a time before the world was made, how Erimu—the “chaos mother” if he was translating correctly—gave birth to the gods, who in turn created the world of men. The gods repaid their mother by placing her in an enchanted slumber and chained her to the bottom of a vast ocean in the underworld.
He shoved the tomes away. It was all nonsense, and he was a fool for thinking some old books were going to tell him why Mulcibar had been killed. He suspected he knew the reason anyway. The nobleman had been investigating the demon attack on the palace. Whoever conjured those things must have discovered this and put an end to his snooping. And here I am following in his footsteps, reopening this old wound. But I can't just let it go. Whoever sent the creatures had been trying to kill me. And the attacks haven't stopped with Mulcibar's death. If anything, I fear more for my life now than ever before.
He was closing both books when a small mark in the Codex caught his eye. He almost took it for an ink smear until he realized it was two very small characters written close together. The characters for the sounds hur and ris. Those characters meant nothing when put together as far as he knew, but say them aloud and they made…
Horace.
Beneath the characters was a notation written in a hand Horace recognized. Another message from Mulcibar from beyond the grave. It simply said “dead book,” and a number. One hundred twenty-four.
Horace dragged over the Book of the Dead and turned to page one twenty-four. Most of the page was filled with cabalistic diagrams, circles and lines and squiggles that made no sense to him. At the bottom were a few lines of text.
Seven are the Lords of the Abyss,
Seven the evil fiends who tear at the souls of men.
Seven are the steps on the ladder down to the underworld,
Seven the watchers at the Gates of Death.
Horace sat back in his chair. What was Mulcibar trying to tell him? He knew he was being targeted, and he counted on me to track down these clues. All right. So what are they supposed to mean?
He was poring over all three librams again, looking for more notes, when Mezim entered. Horace looked up. “Do you have those new reports?”
Much to his surprise, the town council had actually begun the work he'd ordered last night. He'd asked Mezim to keep an eye on the wall repairs and the recruitment drives specifically, because he considered them the most vital aspects of their defense. The rebels usually attacked with small bands—no more than fifty or sixty fighters. They'd have a difficult time assaulting a town this large with sturdy ramparts manned with a couple thousand soldiers.
“Nothing to report just yet, Master,” Mezim said. “But the militia officers are confident they will sign up three hundred able-bodied men before day's end. Barracking and outfitting them will likely be the biggest problems.”
Horace nodded as he returned to his study. “I trust you to make the necessary arrangements. Just tell everyone you speak with my voice.”
“Ahem. As you wish. Two messages arrived for this morning.” He held out one scroll. The royal seal was stamped across a blob of purple wax. “This came by flying ship. Captain Muranu will wait to carry back your response.”
The queen is running that man ragged. It must be important.
Horace took the message and started to peel it open. “You said two?”
The queen's letter was brief. She was beset on all sides by enemies. She wanted him to finish in Sekhatun and get back to Erugash as soon as possible. Her final line tugged at him.
You are the only one I can trust, Horace. Return to me before I falter.
Mezim cleared his throat. “The other was from Master Naram of House—”
“Just burn that one. Maybe he'll leave me alone.”
“It's interesting you say that, Master. The message wasn't another challenge. Master Naram has invited you to witness his death.”
“What?” Horace stood up. “What's that supposed to mean?”
“The heir of House Nipthuras intends to immolate himself this evening. At sunset.”
“Is this because I won't fight him?”
“I believe so. The act is meant to shame you.”
Horace sat back down, shaking his head. I'll never understand these people. No matter how hard I try, I can't fathom their fascination with dying.
“Fine,” Horace said. “Send his family a note with my condolences.”
“That will be viewed as a grave insult—”
“I don't care. Do it. And get those progress reports for me.”
Mezim bowed and left, closing the door behind him. Horace let out a deep breath as he tried to get back to his reading, but the mood was gone. He needed to get some fresh air. He went through the bedchamber to put on sandals before heading out.
The soldiers in the corridor came to attention as he stepped out the doorway. Horace nodded to Captain Gurita, glad to see a familiar face among the now fifty-strong escort Governor Arakhu kept adding to his retinue.
They went down to the ground floor. Functionaries stopped and bowed as Horace passed, but he didn't know any of their names. As he went out the front entrance—with ten more soldiers holding open the doors and saluting—Horace wished he'd thought to ask Mezim where the wall repairs were being done so he could supervise the work. I'll just poke around.
The sky was somewhat overcast with banks of low, gray clouds covering large swathes of the firmament. The sunlight was dampened as if it couldn't be bothered to show up today.
Horace strode through the great plaza fronting the palace, noting that it was emptier than it had been the day before. A few clusters of people stood together, but otherwise the square was vacant. Even the labor crew working on the statue was absent.
The sense of emptiness persisted as he led his horde of guards west down the street. It occurred to him that it might be a holy day—the empire had dozens of them—and the people might be at worship.
When they reached the western gatehouse, Horace asked for the officer in command, and a lieutenant of the militia was brought before him. The man bowed several times. “How may I serve, First Sword?”
“I've come to see what progress you've made in the fortifications.”
“Very good, Great Lord. Please, come with me.”
The large gates were opened. Horace and his guards followed the lieutenant outside and south along the wall. Up close, Horace could see the many pits and cracks. Though the wall appeared sturdy enough to repel common bandits, he worried how they might hold up if the rebels got hold of some siege weapons. He suspected the ancient brick would crumble under a concerted attack.
As they passed the base of a square tower,
Horace spotted a chain gang up ahead. Twenty men shackled together at the ankle, most of them also wearing iron collars. They were hauling large bricks from a pile over to the wall where a crew of masons worked at creating a new layer to the existing bulwark.
The crew stopped working and climbed down to bow as Horace approached. The handful of guards watching the slaves forced their charges to kneel in the dirt, heads down. Horace used both hands to gesture for everyone to get up. After a moment's confusion, the guards dragged the captives to their feet.
“Who's in charge of this work?” Horace asked.
One of the workers stepped forward. He was one of the few not wearing a collar. “I'm the foreman, your lordship.”
Horace looked along the wall, which followed the lay of the plain as it sloped down to the river. He counted four more crews working down the line, laying fresh brick. Gangs of slaves carried pots of mud from the river to a site where it was mixed with crushed gypsum and sand. The resulting mortar was then hauled to the crews at the wall. “How long will it take you to finish?”
“Fourteen days for the walls, your lordship. And another eight days for the tower facings. After that, we've been ordered to begin reconstruction on the main gatehouses.”
Twenty-two days. I don't think we have that long.
He considered using his power to augment the repairs. He might be able to use the Kishargal dominion to strengthen the brickwork, or Mordab to dry the mortar faster. But considering his recent problems with the zoana…I'd probably do more harm than good and set the schedule back even farther.
“Foreman,” Horace said. “Tell your superiors I'm authorizing you to recruit every craftsman in the town to assist your effort. I want these walls finished in six days. Is that understood?”
The foreman bowed. “I will tell the guildsmen right away.”
As the crew returned to work, Horace continued to look around. He felt bad for them, especially the slaves, but he couldn't afford to be merciful right now. They needed this wall fixed right away. After I figure out how to defend this town, I'll do something about the slaves.
He had no idea what that “something” might be, but he was serious about tackling the problem. If he was given a town like Sekhatun to rule as he saw fit, he could free the slaves and show Byleth how much better things could be.
He was dreaming of this plan when he noticed one of the workers walking past him carrying a stack of bricks. The man didn't look like the others in the chain gang. For one thing, he wasn't undernourished. He had the tall, lean body of a warrior. Horace also noticed the man didn't wear a collar, although he had scars around his neck suggesting he may have once been a slave. Thinking of Mezim, who had bought his freedom and risen high to a post in the royal palace, Horace addressed the man. “You, worker.”
The man stopped and turned with a hard look in his eyes.
“What's your name?” Horace asked.
When the man didn't respond, the nearest guard struck him across the back with a baton. “Answer his lordship!”
“Goram,” the man muttered. His voice was deep and surly.
The squad leader of the guards hurried over. “My apologies, Great Lord! This one has been nothing but trouble. I shall have him executed at once.”
Horace held out a hand to forestall the man. “No. That's not necessary. Why is he a prisoner?”
“I believe he was out past the curfew, Great Lord. He might have avoided a labor sentence, but he fought against the men who arrested him and hurt one of them very badly.”
It was a shame to have man like this in chains, fixing the walls when he should be manning them. Horace stepped closer and looked him in the eyes. “If I freed you, would you fight for this town?”
The man smiled. It wasn't a kindly grin. It was the sneer of a wolf right before it lunges for your throat. “I wouldn't fight for you if my life depended on it.”
The guard lifted his baton for another strike, but Horace shook his head. “All right. I respect that. But when a thousand blood-hungry rebels come over these walls, you might regret not facing them with a spear in your hands instead of those bricks.”
As he motioned for the guards to get the workers moving, Horace saw something change in the man's gaze. Just a subtle shift, but he wanted to believe it was a measure of admiration, however small and begrudged.
He wished he had more time to complete these defensive measures, and then he wished they weren't necessary in the first place. Leading his entourage back inside the town, he thought back to that day in his office when the queen had shown him Ubar's head. He still couldn't believe Jirom was responsible for such a thing. Perhaps he wasn't. After all, I'm part of the queen's inner council, but I can't be blamed for every decision Byleth makes.
Praying there was more to this entire affair than he could see, Horace headed back to the mountain of work waiting for him.
Alyra studied the house from the shadow of an abandoned glassblower's shop.
The moon was a pale sliver above the crooked street, here in the west end of the Bronze Quarter. It's an odd place for a safehouse.
The Bronze Quarter was home to many of the city's artisans and businesses. Its streets were patrolled day and night by militiamen, and laws broken here often incurred a harsher penalty than anywhere else in the city except the royal palace. So why would the network risk discovery?
She'd spent the day trying to sleep, but her mind kept racing, going over the events of the night before again and again until she started to think she might be losing her sanity. As soon as the sun went down, she came to track down Cipher. She needed to know what happened. More importantly, she needed him to know that she didn't appreciate being treated like a toy. If the network sent the second assassin, then either they didn't trust her or they didn't have faith in her abilities. She was certain about one thing: she was glad she'd held onto some of Lord Qaphanum's letters. It had been just a hunch, but leaving them in the queen's suite might lend Horace some cover. In spite of everything, she'd decided to trust him, come what may.
Moving cautiously through the city, she'd gone first to the house where she was given the mission, only to find the place empty. She'd even broken inside to make sure. The place was a dead end with no furniture, no clothes, no pots in the kitchen, nothing. Just a decoy. Cursing herself for not being more scrutinizing, Alyra had hurried to the Dredge to the old safehouse. She arrived just as Cipher, in a long skirt and cloak, was leaving the house through the side door and heading down the alley. Her first thought had been to accost him right then and there, but by the time she reached the alley she'd decided to follow him.
So she shadowed him through the River Quarter and into the Bronze, and finally to this street. He'd gone right inside without knocking or giving any special signal that she could see from her vantage at the end of the block. Welcoming light poured out of the doorway as he entered and promptly vanished as he closed the door behind him, returning the street to its moonlit gloom.
Alyra leaned against the wall of the glassblower's home. She still wanted answers, but she wasn't keen on breaking into an unknown location. The place looked innocuous on the exterior—just a two-story townhouse with yellow shutters and a flat roof—but there was no telling who or what was inside.
Taking a deep breath to calm her jumping nerves, Alyra eased out of the shadows. She went around to the side of the house and peeked in a first-floor window. What she saw cooled the ire running though her veins.
Cipher stood in a parlor room, embracing a woman a few years older than Alyra. Two small children, a boy and a girl, climbed on them. Holy Father, this is his home!
Alyra watched as the family moved to another room where a meal was set up. They sat down to eat, the children talking while their mother filled the bowls and cups, and Cipher smiling as he broke a bread roll and gave half to his daughter. Alyra found it all so surreal. Her idea of bursting into the house, waving her knife, died a quick death.
She went around to the back of the
house where a small plot of grass was enclosed inside a low brick wall. Children's playthings were scattered about the yard—wooden soldiers, a ball of stitched hide, a doll with a missing eye. There was also a rear door. Alyra sidled up onto the short wooden porch and tried the latch. It opened smoothly without a sound. She slipped inside.
She moved through a small, cozy kitchen that smelled of olives and fresh herbs, into a hallway leading toward the front of the house. An archway on the right opened into the dining room. She went to the archway and paused, hand on her knife, considering her options. Damn me, I don't want to scare the children.
Steeling herself, she leaned her head into the doorway. Cipher sat with his back to her. “Eat your cabbage, Dir,” he said to his son.
“I don't like it!”
Alyra was about to reach out and tap Cipher's shoulder when his wife looked over. The woman almost jumped, her mouth falling open. Alyra placed a finger on her lips. Then she pointed at Cipher and gestured for him to come out. The woman didn't move for a moment.
“Kissare?” Cipher said. “What's wrong?”
“Go to the kitchen, husband,” the woman said. “I left some figs on the cutting table.”
“Of course.”
Alyra darted back to the kitchen and waited. When Cipher entered, she pulled back her hood, and he halted in his tracks. “Alyra, how did you—?”
Alyra half-drew her knife from its sheath. “Keep your voice down. We wouldn't want to alarm your family.”
She felt guilty threatening his loved ones, until she heard shuffling feet and the closing of the front door. They had escaped, probably figuring her for a burglar or worse. Damn me!
“Are you all right? What are you doing here?” he asked.
“You sound surprised to see me again. Was that not a part of your plan?”
“I've spent every minute since last night trying to locate you. What happened?”
“That's what I'm here to find out. I have questions, and you'd better have the right answers.”
