“Stop! It’s just some urchin,” bellowed a commanding voice as Morgyn reached the first alley, leapt a fallen pile of lumber, and splashed in the waste that was so common in the side paths of Rostane.
Just some urchin. Not the worst she’d been called. And, not true anymore. Now, she was a traitor, a killer, a spy, and an urchin. Basically, she was the worst kind of person. But that didn’t matter.
Morgyn continued down the alley, ducking behind a pile of pungent trash in one smooth motion. It was a familiar move, a comfortable move. How many times had she darted into the cracks between buildings in order to hide amidst refuse? It was sad how natural it felt for her to dwell among the filth of Rostane. She’d become a fucking maggot.
She waited several moments, but saw no signs of further pursuit. Why waste the manpower chasing some piss-poor little guttersnipe? There were enough of them languishing in the dirty parts of Rostane, mostly the leavings of prostitutes, and one more throwaway wouldn’t threaten national security. Truth be told, she’d counted on that.
Morgyn took a second to take a bite of an apple she’d filched earlier in the day, her last bit of food. She was starving, but ate sparingly; who knew when she would get her next meal? Hunger was a familiar feeling; she been struggling for scraps of food for her entire life and it showed in her diminutive, malnourished frame. Her mother (the woman who she figured was her mother, anyway) was a tall woman—quite a leggy whore—but those traits did not manifest in Morgyn. She was like the undersized puppy that couldn’t reach the teat.
At least she could use her size to her advantage. People tended to underestimate her.
That wouldn’t help her now, though. Being underrated might help her, say, smack a hulking idiot in the side of the head in the darkness, but it wouldn’t protect her from the people she needed to deal with. Bad people. Terrible people.
People who made the things that Morgyn had done seem like charity work.
Morgyn twisted up from her crouch and darted down the alley, easily avoiding the refuse that had always littered her world. She was off to report to her superiors, to share how she’d stabbed an old woman in the back. As if they wouldn’t already know.
She was off to find the Patriarch of Recherche Oletta.
***
In advance of meeting with an important person, some would worry about their appearance, about their cleanliness. About their odor. But Morgyn had learned that she was less likely to be struck when a potential striker worried more about catching a disease—or getting lice—from a filthy little guttersnipe. Dirt was her friend in this.
The location of the Patriarch and his ilk was ever-changing. But, for one who knew the signs, he was relatively easy to uncover. Morgyn continued down that first alley until she came to the rear of an antiques shop, a place that she’d often visited to hock her various finds. She hadn’t lied to Escamilla that night in the ruins—she loved exploring and relished the opportunity to discover old artifacts and the remnants of those who’d come before her. If she hadn’t needed to eat, or if she’d had a single safe place to store them, Morgyn would never have sold any of them. She loved her spearheads and her carvings. Her old writings in languages that she didn’t understand. Her shiny rocks, said by the superstitious to be remnants of great magical battles from the earth’s beginnings.
She wasn’t a Scholar or a Savant, though, unlike most of her acquaintances, she could actually read the trader’s tongue. No, her interest in old things was not academic. Rather, it was a sort of reminder that there was something bigger than all of Rostane. Bigger than all of the people who spit on her and hit her and ignored her. Something greater than this so-called modern city that allowed little girls to be dumped in the gutter, forced to live in shit, and to steal and lie and fight for a bit of old meat. That forced little girls to kill.
And, it reminded her that if something even greater than Rostane could fall, then so could this cesspool of a city.
Morgyn pulled out her ogra, a thin, black stone that she kept hidden in a buttoned pocket, or in a shoe or hanging on a thong—wherever she could keep it from prying eyes. The thing was opaque from a distance, just a shiny black rock, thin as paper but seeming to reflect all light. But, when held to the eye…
Everything was tinged in red. The wall, the sky, the crud at her feet. And, scrawled in bright white letters was a series of numbers. Morgyn repeated them silently a few times, and then tore the ogra from her eye. The thing always made her feel dizzy and wrong. And, it made her feel… furious.
The numbers were coded, as well, but Morgyn had that memorized. It was a simple code. She supposed that, when you had to have a strange rock to even see these numbers, a simple code was as good as a complex one. It gave her an address on the eastern side of town, a rougher part of town. A place where she had spent most of her life.
Of course, that would probably not be her destination. It would just be the location of the next code. Which would probably lead to another. And maybe another. She was rarely lucky enough to find the right code the first time. With a tired sigh and a suddenly grumbling stomach, she set out toward her next stop.
The numbers on the east side led her to the Oaken Barrel, which was luckily not much further. The tavern was a favorite of the Recherche Oletta, partially because the terrible food would keep out most decent folk, and partially because the apartments upstairs provided a good deal of privacy.
Morgyn sat down in a corner of the dreary tavern. Though it was still light outside, none of that light thought to enter this place. Why would it bother? Nothing worth seeing happened here. She squinted in the dim light, glancing at the occupants. Mostly sad drunks at this time of day—decent folk would still be working and the prostitutes would not yet be out of bed. Well, they would still be sleeping—that was the point. They spent most of their time in bed.
“What you want?” A serving woman limped up to her—a Wasmer woman. Few enough of those wandering around Rostane, and she recognized this one. Female Wasmer were much smaller than their male companions, but otherwise similar in appearance. They had the dual fangs, fuzzy faces, and extended fingers of the men, though women tended to be more delicately featured. Narrower chins, no lower beards, tighter cheekbones, and smaller ears. This woman was brunette, and she wore her hair in the trademark braids of the Wasmer people. She must have had dozens of the things springing from her head like vines springing from a single stem.
“Dilys, how are things?” Morgyn asked, adopting her wide-eyed, eager young girl persona. Most everyone liked her better when she acted like that, lilting her voice and speaking quickly, asking questions and talking about her little adventures.
Had she not been born to a whore, perhaps she would really have been that girl.
“Little Morgyn Aranon! I be missing your smiling face near here! It be brightening this dark place.” Dilys mouth split in a smile, grotesque but at least authentic, making her a joyful gargoyle. “Where you be being, little girl?”
“Oh, here and there. I found a great, new place to play, and some new friends! Though, one was a bit of a blockhead.” Fenrir. That old fuck.
“There always be one like that.” Dilys was all affection. When most Rostanians saw a Wasmer, they averted their gaze or crossed to the other side of the street. Others would taunt and shout. A select few might hurl more than insults. It was quite similar to how they treated Morgyn, she knew.
Dilys was one of the few people who was truly kind to her. Not so much a friend—Morgyn had none of those—but always friendly. Always kind, though she was treated so poorly. Perhaps she sensed a kindred, ostracized spirit in Morgyn.
“Yes, there is. But I really needed to come home, you know, Dilys. There is so much to do, and I do have to work.”
Dilys’ face darkened at that. “You be knowing what I am thinking about that, little girl. You be too young to mix up with those people. It not be safe.”
“Oh, Dilys. That is exactly why it is safe! No one would suspect that a little g
irl might be listening to them.” As far as Dilys knew, Morgyn was simply a spy. Not an agent navigating the dangerous bounds of multiple underground organizations. Not a thief, and definitely not a killer.
“Anyhow, little girl, you be needing to take care.” Dilys briefly rested her elongated fingers on Morgyn’s shoulder. Maybe, this was what it would have felt like to have a mother, Morgyn thought briefly. “I be getting you some stew, no needing to pay, of course.”
“No, Dilys. I just need you to send a message.” Her stomach was chewing on itself, but she needed to get this over with or she might lose her nerve. It was too important for that to happen, though.
Dilys sighed, a growl coming from her bestial mouth. She gave Morgyn a firm look. “I will let them know that you are here.”
The Wasmer limped away toward an opening in the back of the inn, one that led to the upper levels. A shaggy fellow sat nearby, staring blankly at his mug as if the alcohol within held all of life’s answers. Dilys touched his shoulder and whispered something into his ear. The man twisted to his feet, belying his obvious drunkenness, and disappeared upstairs. A different man rose from the bar, staggering a bit, and fell into the seat by the door a few minutes later. Sentries.
It wasn’t long until the original sentry returned and tapped Morgyn on the shoulder. She jumped and cringed. Time to play the cowering, broken street girl, in terrible awe of Recherche Oletta. This was less of a pantomime, given what these people had done and were willing to do.
Morgyn hunched her shoulders and reluctantly followed the man upstairs.
Down a run-down hallway, they came to an unassuming door. Certainly not a portal to Pandemonium, though Morgyn wouldn’t have been surprised if Ultner were on the other side. Her escort rapped on the wood three times in quick succession and the door squeaked open a crack, a beam of light falling on Morgyn’s face. Like the sun shining through a hand lens onto a bug.
Her escort patted her down, even checking her boots. He caught her eyes before he spoke. “No sudden moves. No resistance. Answer all questions when they are asked, and do not speak otherwise.” The man reeked of booze, but his breath had the faint aroma of mint. Clever and careful. That was Recherche Oletta.
Morgyn took a deep breath and pushed into the room.
Just an office, as always. The set-up was always the same, though the location was transient. There was a chair behind a heavy oaken desk, which she assumed had to be disassembled and reassembled every time there was a shift in location. Morgyn studied the very unusual imperfection in the wood while averting her gaze from the man standing behind the desk, hands braced behind him in a very formal posture.
“Morgyn, my little double agent, finally returned from her failed quest,” came the nasally voice of the man.
“Patriarch,” Morgyn said, leveling her gaze at him. Her demeanor switched yet again, to that of a brazenly confident, street-wise thug. She had found, with the Patriarch, that he was going to beat her regardless. If she were submissive to begin with, he would hit her for longer. If she were brash, he would beat her into submission, which ultimately led to less pain. It was counterintuitive to wear this mask in front of this man, but it brought her the least pain.
The Patriarch of Recherche Oletta was a slightly stocky, but somehow agile, man of average height, and likely Alganian, although his heritage was unclear because of the almost sickly pallor of his skin. He always wore dull brown robes, outwardly to signify his obeisance to the greater good and his rejection of wealth, although his robes were crafted from the finest silk. Upon his flat nose sat a set of spectacles, like a scholar might wear in order to avoid squinting at their books. But, his spectacles were not made of glass. No, they were formed of shiny black ogra.
The Patriarch was intelligent, meticulous, and terribly erratic. He was the waterfall at the head of the Tullane River, with its white, rushing water somehow contained within this man. In contrast, Morgyn’s mouth was as dry as an old whore.
“I did not fail,” Morgyn said.
The Patriarch did not move. No immediate beating—that was unusual.
“You did not fail? You did not fail when you aided our enemies in leading Lady Escamilla in her escape? You did not fail when you were caught in Brockmore? Though, I must say, you must have done some fast talking to get out of being executed.”
“I did not fail! I stabbed Lady Escamilla in the back, right through the ribs. If she did not die immediately, she surely did soon after.” Morgyn remembered that night vividly. She had feigned sleep for hours, waiting for those pompous captains to finish their discussion. That Duke Eric Malless, especially, had made the night drag on. Morgyn had nearly drifted off every time he’d opened his mouth.
But Morgyn had known that it would be her last chance at Escamilla—she’d been alone with the lady so rarely. The army had decided to retreat, and, in the midst of the confusion, she had hoped that she would find an opportunity. Escamilla had slumbered when an attack came—those same terrible screams that Morgyn had heard in the ruins. They’d served for a much better opening than Morgyn could have imagined. She had crept up behind Escamilla while the woman had spoken with Emma, taken a deep breath, and driven a purloined dagger into her back. Then, she’d escaped Emma’s clumsy attempts to catch her and run off amidst the battle.
The flight that night had been terrifying. Pale white shapes darting through the night; primal screams weakening their legs. Escamilla’s soldiers being murdered all around her, some in their underclothes as they struggled to arm themselves against the unexpected attack from those fierce, indefatigable enemies. Morgyn had fled, blindly, to the north. When morning had come, she’d still been stumbling through the fields north of the battlefield. No pursuit. For all she had known, the entire Army of Brockmore had been destroyed.
It had been a long journey back to Rostane, too. Morgyn had traveled slowly, staying off the main paths and taking a circuitous route in case of pursuit and to avoid any armies or foraging troops. She’d stolen food wherever she could, but the countryside had been picked clean by the armies. She had gone hungry, more often than not, but it hadn’t been the first time. She’d still continued moving forward, the rough journey both distracting her from her thoughts and giving her time to think.
She hadn’t wanted to kill Escamilla. The woman had been kind to her, treating her as if she were more than a street girl, more than a tool. Under the worst circumstances, Escamilla had begun to treat Morgyn almost like a daughter. But, Escamilla hadn’t been her family.
And Morgyn hadn’t had a choice.
“What good would Escamilla’s death be to me when her army had already arrived at Florens?” the Patriarch demanded. “When they had already killed thousands of Rostanian troops?” His posture was tight, as if he were working to control his anger. But he still did not move.
“Besides,” he added, “Escamilla still lives.”
What? She had felt the knife slide between the lady’s ribs! The blood had stained the fine clothes that Escamilla had given her, and had dried on her hands and in her hair.
Every Morgyn’s cocky persona had nothing to say to this. She felt a sudden dread.
“But, no matter. I fear that I have put too much on you, girl. More than you can handle. I can sometimes be… reactive.” Morgyn could see her surprised reflection through his ogra spectacles.
What trick was this?
“I can handle whatever you send my way,” she said, licking her lips.
“Can you, girl? Could you, perhaps, help me take this city, this country? Could you help squash the opposition, that bastard Tennyson and his ilk? The resistant nobles, the foolishly stubborn merchants?”
The Patriarch turned suddenly in a smooth motion that hinted at his strange agility. His back was to Morgyn as he considered the blank wall. The room was silent for a long moment, and Morgyn began to fidget. Why was he acting like this?
“Like I said, I can handle anything.” Her voice rang hollowly through the small room that suddenly
seemed much larger.
“Perhaps I will take you up on that offer, girl. Now, sit for a moment. Please, girl.” The pleasantry had grated from his mouth, as if those words had rarely crossed his lips.
This was more chilling than the Patriarch’s typical violent streak. He seemed like a great, black-eyed spider, ready to wrap her in his web and inject her with his venom.
“Aye,” Morgyn said, sitting on the visitor’s side of the desk and learning forward on her elbows in a bold pose. What she wanted to do was shrink into this chair, but she clung to her false confidence as if she were hanging from a rain gutter, dangling over the city streets.
“Now, tell me what you’ve learned.” The Patriarch spun back toward her, lowering himself into his chair with the easy grace of an alley cat.
And so Morgyn spoke, telling him of her time with Escamilla, amidst her forces. She told him of Fenrir, the buffoon who’d beaten the shit out of her and hung out around the mercenaries. Fenrir was already infamous, having killed Little Duke Penton. She told him of Emma, the serving girl who’d seemed to gain power among the army as they’d marched, and that she was Escamilla’s successor. She even mentioned that strange woman, Merigold Hinter, who’d purportedly blown some of Ferl’s Company to bits with magical powers.
The only bit she held back was the discussion of religion with that chaplain, Ignatius Pender. The Patriarch likely didn’t want to hear of the proselytizing. And besides, Morgyn kind of… well, yes, she liked the story of Yetra. It gave her a strange, unfamiliar feeling. Hope, maybe?
The Patriarch stayed silent throughout the entire story. He may have been asleep behind his ogra spectacles, for all the expression on his face.
“Anything else?” he asked, expectantly.
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