by Cory Herndon
The steady hail of food grew thicker and more fragrant as they approached Iv’g’nork, who was writhing on his back on the floor of the pit. One of the half-demon’s arms was already useless and the strength was rapidly fading from the rest of him as the Devkarin’s pets devoured the muscle that pumped blood through his veins.
“Slaver,” Kos said, taking care to approach from the left, the side the half-demon’s crippled arm was on. “The elf here says you’re dying, and I’ll bet it feels that way.” Kos placed a heavy boot on Iv’g’nork’s wounded shoulder and reached down to grab the exposed hilt of his short sword. He removed it with a twist that made the half-demon scream anew. “Me, I’m thinking you should stick around a while. We’re just starting to have fun.” Kos kicked the slaver in the armpit once, and again, then a third time. “We’re going to talk about a sale you made recently. Then I’ll give you the choice—the bugs stop eating, or they keep going. And if you don’t tell me what I want to know you’ll get no choice. But I’ll make sure it takes a long time for you to die.”
The restaurant had grown eerily silent.
“Kos?” Borca’s ghost said. “Something’s happening.”
Kos ignored him. He stomped onto the slaver’s wounded shoulder with one foot and leaned in as close as he dared to Iv’g’nork’s hideous face. “You sold a bomb-gob to someone. That someone sent your bomb-gob into a crowded market.” Stomp. “In my city.” Kick. “And blew up a lot.” Kick. “Of.” Stomp. “People!”
“Kos, really, you should—”
“Shut up, Borca,” Kos whispered.
“He’s not going to answer you,” the elf said. “He’s planning revenge. That is it, isn’t it Iv’g’nork?”
The half-demon moaned, and his good hand flapped lazily at his chest as if he could dig the burrowing insects out with his fingertips. “I’ll find your ghost, human,” the creature wheezed. “You will pay for this in eternal burning torment. I will flay your spirit for eternity.”
“I can make it so that never happens, slaver,” the Devkarin said. “Those insects in your chest? With a thought from me, they’ll stop eating and start stinging. Their venom will slowly necrotize you from the inside out. You’ll never really die, half-demon, and you’ll never get your revenge.”
“You’re,” the slaver managed, “bluffing. You’re just a hunter.”
“My sister is the matka,” the elf said. “You’re a fool if you think you know everything about what a given Devkarin can and cannot do.”
Kos couldn’t tell if the elf was bluffing, but Iv’g’nork squealed, then started to scream.
“Information,” the Devkarin said and raised his hand over Iv’g’nork’s face, “and you get to choose life or death. No information, no choice. And no life, no death.”
“Bastard,” the half-demon almost whimpered. “It was one of them. And I don’t care if you believe it, it’s the truth. Now get these things out of me. I’m as good as dead no matter what you do. But I’ll never be a deadwalker.”
“Them?” Kos said. “Them who?”
“Kos, will you listen to me?” Borca said.
The slaver weakly raised his good arm and pointed over Kos’s shoulder. “Them,” he said.
Kos looked over his shoulder without lifting his boot. The huge, canyon-facing picture window that Pivlic had installed at great expense—as he often reminded Kos—held nine faceless white shapes. They hung in the air as if suspended by invisible strings, floating, waiting. But for what?
“Where did they come from?” the Devkarin asked.
“I don’t know,” was all Kos could muster.
“I was trying to tell you,” Borca said.
“Yeah, yeah, it was one of them,” Iv’g’nork repeated. “One of them quietmen.”
Except in cases of egregious abuse (as determined by a superior), no wojek officer shall be held personally accountable for property damage that occurs during the course of any active investigation.
—Wojek Officer’s Manual
27 ZUUN 9999 Z.C., LATER EVENING
Fonn’s attention was so focused on the dining pit she almost didn’t see the white-robed figures that floated up from Grigor’s Canyon and hovered outside the huge, segmented picture window on the opposite side of the restaurant until they were through. In a shower of shattered glass, the quietmen entered Pivlichino’s the hard way. There weren’t many of them, but there didn’t need to be.
She was stunned speechless. The quietmen were tools of the Selesnya Conclave, and tools of the Conclave didn’t tend to storm restaurants like they were Rakdos blood dens.
Pivlichino’s exploded into a riot. The quietmen split apart into three groups of three and moved through the air swiftly. The rough-and-tumble clientele of Pivlichino’s were taken completely by surprise as the white-robed Selesnyan servants engaged any diner they encountered in sudden, savage hand-to-hand combat. Fonn had never seen anything like it. The quietmen had always been a sight that filled her with joy, for it meant the Selesnya Conclave was near—their behavior now was too much for her brain to accept.
“This is insane,” Fonn whispered.
“Yes, this is irregular,” Feather said, and ducked to avoid an ogre one of the quietmen had tossed from the other side of the mezzanine ring as if the creature weighed nothing at all. The ogre crashed into the table behind them, knocking a freshly served meal all over a group of Gruul priests who looked less than amused.
“The convocation approaches,” Feather said. “Perhaps they are here to proselytize?”
“I have to get out of here,” Fonn said. “I’ve got to tell the Selesnya Conclave what’s going on.”
“Look around you. What makes you think they don’t know?” Jarad said as he scrambled over the rail. He leaned back and hauled up Kos, then waved back down to the pit. “Thanks for the lift, I’g.”
“Eat some of them for us,” Kos added.
“Count on it,” a demonic voice rumbled from below. “And if either of you ever sets foot in the Hellhole, I shall skin you and consume your intestines while you yet live.”
“Same to you,” Kos said over one shoulder.
“Lieutenant,” Feather said, “I am glad you survived. I suggest that we make haste for the exit.”
“Where are we going to—” the old man noticed who was standing next to the angel for the first time. “Who is that? That’s no Devkarin. Jarad, who’s that?”
“This is our missing ledev guardian.” Feather answered.
Kos cast his eyes down for a split second, long enough for Fonn to see the wojek didn’t want to look her in the eye. He nodded once to her. “Hello,” he said. “I … knew your father.”
“I remember,” Fonn said. “Hello, Kos.” Well, Fonn thought, it was better than saying what she really thought.
“Ledev,” Jarad barked, “what’s gotten into those life churchers?”
“I don’t know! Nothing’s made sense to me since the goblin blew up,” Fonn said. “The whole world’s gone crazy. But if they’re here, there’s got to be a good reason.”
“We’ll see about that. Speaking of which, we should catch up later,” Kos said. “We’ve got what we need, but it looks like the way to the exit is blocked. Anyone know how we can get out of here?”
“We?” Jarad said. “There is no ‘we’ here, ’jek.”
“Jarad, we need all the help we can get,” Fonn said. “They’re wojeks. You can trust them.”
“You can trust them,” Jarad said.
“We can argue about this later,” Kos said. “Does anyone see any way out of here that isn’t blocked?”
“A fair question, my friend,” Pivlic said as he swooped down and perched on the rail. He raised a hand and pulled the voice blaster from his belt. “I may have an answer. One moment.” The imp raised the thin wand to his lips.
“Pivlichino’s customers, we regret to inform you that we shall be closing early this evening. The management recommends all patrons depart as quickly and efficiently
as possible. All employees are on sick leave effective immediately. Thank you for choosing Pivlichino’s.” Pivlic replaced the wand in his vest and turned to Kos. “Perhaps I could offer you all a ride out of here? I think I need to see my insurance agents, and a quick exit seems called for.”
“One problem,” Fonn said. “My wolf is in your stable.”
“I took the liberty of sending one of my people to fetch him,” Pivlic said. “He’ll be waiting for us on the roof. Follow me.”
* * * * *
They took the steps two at a time as they climbed one of what Pivlic claimed were a dozen hidden stairwells leading to the roof of Pivlichino’s. The stairs, the imp said, were for employees, of course. He didn’t need them. Right now, Kos was thankful for any escape from the carnage in the restaurant. He’d never seen the quietmen do anything like that in all his 110 years. Fonn was right. It was completely insane.
They reached the top of the stairs only a few minutes later. Pivlic tapped a short, rhythmic pattern against the door and it swung open with the hiss of a breaking seal.
The roof was loosely lined on all sides by the still, floating forms of twelve more quietmen, three on each side. These had to be new arrivals, Kos realized, as their robes were all pristine white. No traces of blood.
“What are they waiting for?” Borca asked, a sentiment echoed by Fonn in a whisper.
“I do not know,” Pivlic said, “but let us not find out any sooner than necessary.” He gestured at the long, golden yacht zeppelid that sat parked on the far side of the roof. The zeppelid was a living airship, a giant species of lizard that in the wild grew to enormous size in their high-altitude habitat. Pivlic’s smaller domesticated zepp was bred for speed. The bulbous passenger compartments mounted on its flanks were sleek and aerodynamic, the cockpit set into its cartilaginous skull was topped with a pair of artificial stabilization fins, and a pair of Izzet-designed mana-powered speed-pods were mounted over the zeppelid’s vestigial rear fins. The Orzhov Guild seal was painted on the longer tailfin. A wolf as big as a dromad sat beside the open ramp that led to the compartments.
“Biracazir!” Fonn called.
“No, don’t—” Kos said, but it was too late. The wolf charged toward Fonn, and the quietmen who impassively lined the roof woke up.
“Biracazir, don’t hurt them!” Fonn called. “There must be some mistake.”
“Don’t hurt them?” Kos said. “They’re killing people!”
“But it must be a—” Fonn began.
“Run!” Feather shouted, and Kos could hear the pang of regret in the angel’s voice. He knew she yearned to stand and fight the strange, silent attackers—an angel’s natural state was combat—but they didn’t stand a chance, regardless of what Fonn thought. Something had happened to these quietmen, and they were not mere vessels of the Conclave any more.
Or they were, and the entire Selesnya Conclave had gone homicidal.
They made it almost halfway before the first quietman reached them. It swooped down low, moving through the air as easily as a diver sliced through water, and just missed taking one of Pivlic’s wings with him. Kos heard a crunch as another quietman collided with Feather’s fist but didn’t turn to look.
Biracazir, if he’d heard the wolf’s name correctly, didn’t shirk from the fight, and caught another quietman’s leg in his jaws and flung it into another one. It wasn’t much, but it slowed the pursuers down by a second or two and was more than Kos had been able to accomplish.
They reached the zeppelid with the quietmen closing on their heels. Pivlic, to his surprise, stood at the entrance and waved them in. He’d never struck Kos as the last-man-out type, but there was always a first time.
Kos leaped inside and Borca’s ghost floated in behind. He turned to Pivlic. “We’re in. Come on!” Kos shouted.
“One second,” the imp said. Nine more quietmen, these stained in blood, swooped up from below, having apparently either finished with Pivlichino’s, or decided the zeppelid to be more interesting sport.
“What are you waiting for? More are coming!” Fonn cried.
“I’m waiting for that,” the imp said, pointing at a tiny shape that flitted between the oncoming white-robed figures. It took Kos a second to realize he was looking at a bird and, more than that, a familiar bird—a message falcon named Jit that was attached to the Tenth Leaguehall, if he recognized the markings. The falcon headed straight for Kos and alighted on his left shoulder without a sound. Pivlic followed, and Kos pulled the hatch closed moments before the first group of quietman reached them. A heavy thump, and a round, head-sized dent appeared in the lightweight metal. “Feather! Can you fly this thing?”
“I think so,” the angel called from the cockpit, “though perhaps our host could be of assistance.”
“Just get us started, please,” Kos called. He turned to the falcon shifting from foot to foot on his shoulder and digging its talons through his thin civilian shirt. “Jit? What’s the message?”
“Kos, it’s Helligan,” the bird squawked in a high-pitched avian rendition of the Tenth Leaguehall’s chief labmage. “I don’t know what happened at the infirmary, but I need you at the lab. It’s urgent. Phaskin said you’re off the case, but everyone else is dealing with the convocation. What? Yes. I was getting to that. Kos, I figured out why I couldn’t perform a necrotopsy on the loxodon. He’s still alive. He says you found the missing ledev and to bring her back here. I don’t know if that’s true, but he seemed pretty sure about it. He passed out after that, and he’s not responding to ’drop treatments at all, so I don’t think there’s much time. Get here soon or don’t get here at all. End of message.”
“He’s alive?” Fonn gasped. “But how? He was—Oh no. Kos, I have to get to him.”
“I guess that settles the destination question,” Kos said. “Jit, find someplace safe, I may need you soon.” The falcon cocked its head in acknowledgment and flapped up to a stable perch atop a support strut.
“I need to secure these before we—” Pivlic began but was cut short by a jarring collision that knocked the zeppelid onto its side. The stack of metal boxes the imp had been about to secure, which Kos suspected were loaded with zidos, crashed into the imp’s head. Pivlic dropped like a sack of flour.
“Gods’ sake,” Kos said. He crouched over the imp and felt for a pulse and signs of breathing.
“Is he alive?” Fonn said. “What hit us?”
“We haven’t even left the ground yet,” Jarad said. “It’s them. They’re throwing themselves against the side.”
“Feather,” Kos shouted, “Pivlic’s knocked out cold. You’re on your own. Get us out of here!”
“One moment,” Feather said. “I am searching for the launch nerve.”
A faceless head encased in white linen burst through a small porthole with a crash. Fonn kicked the quietman in the face and knocked it back outside. She stared at her extended foot in horror. “Holy mother,” she said, “I just kicked a sacred vessel in the head.”
“Your holy mother doesn’t seem to be listening,” Jarad said.
“But—”
“Aha!” Feather shouted. The entire zeppelid lurched again. This time it wasn’t the attackers but the speed-pods mounted on the rear of the sporty zeppelid that roared to life and sent everything not tied down flying. Fonn, Jarad, Kos, and Biracazir tried with varying levels of success to stay in one place. And one piece, Kos thought.
“You may wish to find something to hold on to,” Feather called.
Kos looked around the inside of the cabin, which was lit with small orange glowstones of the expensive variety that flickered to simulate firelight. The scattered chests all bore the Orzhov banker’s seal. “This just gets better and better,” Kos said. “What was Pivlic really planning and how long was he planning it? That’s enough coin to buy five Pivlichino’s.”
“What do you mean?” Fonn said. “What are those?”
“I think they’re Pivlic’s life savings,” Kos said and regar
ded the unconscious imp again. “Wish I’d asked him before he got knocked out.”
“Kos,” Borca said, “there are more of them. Get this lizard moving.”
Kos told the others he was going to see if he could be of help to the angel. In truth, he needed to get out of the cabin just to avoid Fonn’s gaze. The old guilt yawned open like a gorge and threatened to swallow him whole, and Zunich’s death felt fresh as an open wound. For the first time since escaping the infirmary, he was having second thoughts. From the way the flying lizard continued to jerk and pitch, a visit to the cockpit seemed like just the thing to take his mind off the past and place it firmly in the terrifying present.
The zeppelid was not a machine, but a specialized breed like Pivlic’s required a pilot that controlled the great beast as though it were a machine. Kos had never owned one, but he’d ridden in a few. He’d tried to fly one once and had come awfully close to getting himself, his instructor, and the zeppelid burned to a crisp by flying too near a sky furnace.
“Have you ever flown one of these, Feather?” Kos asked. He involuntarily ducked as the angel narrowly missed a hanging balcony.
“I’ve flown under my own power,” Feather replied. “I believe that gives me the most experience.”
“Can’t argue with that,” Kos said and settled into the copilot’s seat. The front of the cockpit was open but covered with a thin, golden sheen that magically blocked wind and, in theory, any objects that might want to come through. He gripped the wooden armrests with white knuckles as Feather tapped the Izzet control panel twice and their speed increased again. Towers and windows whipped past so quickly Kos couldn’t even tell what part of the city they flew over and through. He heard a yelp and a series of collisions as Fonn lost her footing and crashed into Jarad, who fell against Biracazir and into a stack of chests in the cabin. Kos turned straight ahead and buckled together the four leather straps affixed at the four corners of the chair’s backrest.