by Will Wight
“Where’s the chamber pot?” she asked.
With one black-gloved hand, Kerian pointed to a small wooden door that Shera had assumed to be a closet. “We have indoor plumbing here.”
“Indoor what?”
Kerian looked away from her mirror, pity evident in her expression. “You poor, poor child. Let me show you the true hallmark of civilization.”
~~~
Glance out any window, and it seemed that the Gray Island was almost entirely untouched by mankind. Besides the towering white reception hall, where Consultants received guests and potential clients, there were only a few visible roofs and structures anywhere on the island. All the rest was rolling green hills and dense patches of trees.
As Kerian led her across the island, Shera saw a different perspective.
The unchallenged reign of nature was all an illusion. The home of the Consultants was every bit as packed with buildings as any street in the Capital.
Underneath the canopy of trees lashed together for camouflage, a team of workers patched screws and leather into a contraption that looked like a saddle the size of a house. From anywhere outside the woods, the scene would be completely invisible.
They passed by a hill that had been shorn in half, leaving the side closest to them little more than a wall of rough stone. As they walked by, an unremarkable square of rock spun out noiselessly on an oiled hinge, revealing a hidden door. Two men backed out of the door, carrying something green and tentacled that hissed when it spotted Shera.
Hidden in the shadow of that hill, Shera noticed something that seemed like a forest stripped of its bark and branches. Tall poles of solid wood stood thickly bunched together, and figures in black jumped from the top of one pole to another, occasionally spinning or sliding down the pole. After tapping the ground, they would shimmy back up to the top.
“Drills,” Kerian explained, without looking twice at the Consultants. “When you’re home, it’s twice as important to keep the muscles sharp.”
They walked through a few more drills behind the hill. In one, a line of black-clad Consultants threw tiny knives at targets painted onto archery butts. Not one that Shera could see missed the bulls-eye.
Kerian shook her head sadly, braids swinging. “Lenient. In my time, we had to hit the center of the target while under attack by Sandwolves. Let me tell you, that takes concentration.”
One structure that Shera assumed was a giant boulder turned out to be another house, and a small copse of trees—from a different angle—became a watchtower.
When she asked Kerian about it, the Consultant took the opportunity to explain. “Perception is greater than reality. When the clients come here, we want them to see as little as possible of what we actually do.”
“Who would care?” Shera asked honestly. “If they saw all this, wouldn’t they be impressed by what you can do?”
“What we can do,” Kerian corrected. “You’ll have to start talking like one of us. And the point is not to show off how skillful we are. Our skill is in the minds of our potential clients. The less they know about us, the more mysterious we are. The greater the mystery, the greater our imagined powers. We are strongest when we are unknown.”
At that moment, Shera spotted a man ladling white paint into a dozen hollow ceramic dolls. “Why is he doing that?”
“That’s confidential. And because it is, you must speculate. It could be some personal training he set himself, or decoration, or perhaps he’s preparing for a trap. As long as you don’t know, it could be any or none of those.”
That made sense, Shera supposed. But she still found the knife-throwing more impressive.
Kerian stopped in her tracks, shading her eyes with one hand and peering at the man filling dolls. “Actually, I’m not sure I do know what he’s doing. Maybe it’s for fun.” She stood there for another second, then shrugged and kept walking.
They traveled on and on, into the gray horizon; the swirling wall of Bastion’s Veil covered the island in mist. It was as though the island had been swallowed by a hurricane, with the eye clear and walls of fog on all sides.
By the time Kerian slowed to a stop, Shera was beginning to fall asleep on her feet.
“I feel it’s my responsibility to warn you,” Kerian said. “It can be difficult to find the doors.”
Shera looked up blankly. They had reached the end of the island: a grassy outcropping that ended in an obvious cliff. All she could see beyond the grass was gray.
The Consultant stood nearby, appearing to expect something, so Shera started searching in the tall grass. “Is this one of those hidden doors?” she asked.
“Yes,” Kerian said, and walked up to press her hand against the wall of mist.
Instantly the cloud swirled away, revealing a gray, three-story building that blended perfectly into the Veil. She could barely make out the edges of the wall against the background of mist. More, as she looked closely, she realized that every inch of the building was covered in doors. There was no room for a stretch of wall between them, so identical doorframes butted heads with identical doorframes. There looked to be a ladder that reached the second row of doors, though she couldn’t see any way to reach the third story.
Kerian took a key out of her satchel—the key was, like everything else, dull gray. “Welcome to the House of the Masons, one of our most respected orders.” She appeared to select a door at random, turning the key in the lock.
It swung open, revealing a fat man in an apron.
He had the pale skin of an Izyrian and a fringe of gray hair. By far his most distinguishing feature was his impressive mustache, hanging down like the tusks of a walrus. He clutched a carving knife in each hand, and he instantly pointed one at Shera.
“Young lady! Is that any way for an alchemist to dress? Did you finish rendering that compound I asked for? Stormwing ichor doesn’t come cheap.”
Shera shot a glance at Kerian, but the Consultant was rummaging around in her satchel again. Caught on the spot, all she could say was, “What?”
He eyed her for a moment and then heaved a disappointed sigh, pressing the heel of his hand into his forehead. “What? What, what, what? What am I to make of ‘what,’ Kerian?”
“You get common responses most commonly, Zhen.”
Zhen tossed both knives in the air, where they disappeared behind the doorframe. “I don’t need common! I need those who can be common on command. Young lady, for your information, a real alchemist would have told me that it didn’t matter what she wore, as long as she’s not in the lab. Of course you haven’t finished rendering any compound, as we’ve never met. And you could have forced me to explain what I needed Stormwing ichor for in the first place. You could have said anything, and from all the words in the Imperial language you chose ‘what.’ Next time, I expect you to say something clever.”
The knives didn’t fall back down, so Shera assumed they had gotten stuck in the ceiling.
She thought for a moment, afraid to speak, and then cautiously said, “Something clever.”
She continued watching his hands, wary of the knives.
It wasn’t enough. He tugged a knife out of the ceiling and flung it in her direction. She staggered back, but the blade still sunk into the soil between her feet.
“No! None of that!” Zhen made a retching noise at the back of his throat. “False wit! I can think of nothing more disgusting.”
Shera shivered—had he wanted to, he could have put the knife through her foot before she had a chance to react. She did pull the knife out of the soil and grip it into her fist. She never liked to pass up a free weapon.
Kerian pulled a silver pocketwatch from her satchel and popped it open. “We’re spending a lot of time in your doorway, Zhen.”
“I’m very careful about the sorts of people I allow into my house,” Zhen said, stroking his moustache. He glared at Shera again. “And before I permit her to pass, I must have an honest answer to one question. What is the average annual rainfall in the
Dylian Basin?”
This time, Shera was ready. “How am I supposed to know? Go find an almanac, but don’t waste my time with pointless questions.”
She looked up hopefully. As she understood it, the purpose of this game was to test her response to unanswerable questions. If she could deflect him, he might consider that enough to pass.
Zhen considered for a moment, idly juggling the other knife he’d pulled from the ceiling. He flipped it from hilt to blade, snatched the tip out of the air with two fingers, then spun it around and reversed his grip. “Six out of ten,” he said at last. “The outrage was enough for a young lady, you redirected the burden of the conversation back onto me, and you were specific enough to direct me to an almanac. We can do better, though. Oh, yes we can.”
He nodded and backed out of the doorway. Kerian walked in, seemingly absorbed in winding her pocket watch. Shera followed, and he held out a hand.
In a profound act of trust that made her shiver even as she did it, Shera gave him his knife back.
~~~
On the inside, the house looked like a textiles warehouse that had been struck by a tornado. Scraps of cloth hung from hooks and pegs, so thick that Shera couldn’t see the wall’s original color. A row of scarves hung down above the door in a rainbow of colors, and the wall opposite was papered in jackets. From the ceiling hung pairs of shoes, bound together by the laces: boots, slippers, dancing shoes, moccasins, sandals, even a pair of flippers that looked like a fish’s fins.
Experimentally, Shera reached out and plucked a feathered purple hat from a stand in the corner. A paper tag had been pinned to the inside, with cramped handwriting spelling out, “Young woman aged between 16 and 25, dark complexion—high fashion in the Heartland.”
She replaced the hat before Zhen could notice. Costumes, she realized. This is where they keep the costumes.
Maxwell had dressed them appropriately for their missions, but his outfits were hardly disguises. He insisted that he needed his trainees for what they were: poor, innocent children of the streets.
The two Consultants and Shera marched through a hall of capes, mantles, and cowls, pushing aside a curtain of aprons into a pristine kitchen. A side of meat rested on a stone slab, half-chopped. At least that explained why Zhen had been holding carving knives. Shera had pictured him carrying the weapons everywhere.
A layer of frost formed on the meat. Judging from that and the thin white smoke rising from the stone, Shera assumed that the slab was invested to keep meat cool. She couldn’t imagine how expensive a device like that would be, but she supposed the Consultants could afford it. White quicklamps burned steadily at every corner of the kitchen, casting shadowless light brighter than noon.
Zhen reached up to pull a thin metal chain hanging from the ceiling, and water flowed out into a metal basin. He began scrubbing his knives in the stream.
Shera stared at the water. Surely they hadn’t built this house under a stream—there was nothing above them. Her eyes followed the water, trying to trace the pipe.
“Plumbing again,” Kerian said, answering her unspoken question. “Pipes carry the water up from underground.”
Shera nodded, relieved. She still wasn’t entirely clear about how water flowed up from underground, but she didn’t want to waste questions on pipes. She hadn’t had breakfast.
“What kind of meat is that?” she asked.
Zhen pointed a knife at her. “Any questions from you, young lady, had best pertain to dialect and character. If you can’t pose as a Heartlander house servant or an apprentice of Kanatalia by the end of the week, then I’ll have to retire.”
With quick, smooth motions, he began slicing the meat into strips.
Kerian took off her satchel, hanging it from a peg next to a white apron. “I don’t need her as a Mason. I need her briefed and ready for the Garden.”
Zhen froze, looking from Kerian’s dark eyes down to Shera and back. Shera felt a brief flash of irritation that they were leaving her out of the conversation, but she quickly reminded herself that she didn’t care. As long as they kept feeding her, it didn’t matter if they brought her to this ‘Garden’ or put her to work cleaning the kitchens. If it ended up being too much trouble, she could always run away. On an island with this many hidden homes and secret doors, there had to be somewhere she could hide.
“There must be more to you than I can see, young lady,” Zhen grumbled. “Or less, perhaps.” He resumed his butchery. “Tell me, what do you know about the Am’haranai?”
She responded instantly. “How am I supposed to know? Go find an almanac, but don’t—”
Zhen slammed two hanging pots together, interrupting her. “Zero out of ten! Never repeat a story! And this is not a test, it is a genuine question.”
“Oh. Well, then, nothing. I’ve never heard of it.”
Zhen let out a deep breath, blowing out his moustache, and Kerian rubbed the scar on her forehead. He noticed.
“You should fix that habit,” he said. “Draws attention to your scar. Dark skin like yours, you’d go unnoticed anywhere in the Heartland. People would believe it if you told them you were a child of the Emperor, but not if you insist on flaunting your one memorable feature.”
Kerian scowled at him. “The idea is that I not be seen at all. Shera is the one in need of an education, not me.”
“We are all in need of an education, my dear. Some more than others.” He drew an onion and a handful of peppers from a cabinet, pushing the meat aside. “Girl. The word ‘Am’haranai,’ in a language that predates Imperial, means ‘hidden counselors.’ What’s another word for a counselor? A word, perhaps, that relates to your present location?”
“Consultant?” Shera asked hesitantly.
Zhen shook his head. “Correct, but you should present your guesses as statements, not questions. You should sound most confident when you have no idea what you’re talking about. Yes, we are the Am’haranai. The Consultants. And do you know what we do?”
“People come to you with questions,” Shera said, sounding as confident as she could. “If they can afford to hire you, then you’ll answer them.”
“Eight out of ten,” Zhen said with approval. He poured a capful of oil into a pan, followed by a handful of sliced peppers and onions. “Most children forget that we charge a fee. You’re absolutely correct, but you have forgotten our slogan.”
“The client is Emperor,” Kerian said.
“The client is Emperor,” Zhen repeated. “There are two meanings to this.” He pulled a vial out of a cabinet, and carefully poured three drops into a small opening underneath the frying pan. Instantly, a wave of heat washed over the table, and the onions quickly started sizzling. “First, it means that we treat our clients...”
He trailed off as he saw that Shera wasn’t listening. She was still staring at the food. How had he called the heat so quickly? He hadn’t even started a fire. Maybe the pan was invested too, to stay hot. But he had added some kind of liquid, so that meant alchemy. She knew that you could start a fire in seconds with alchemical matches, but it didn’t look like he’d struck a match.
“Alchemical stove,” Kerian said, once again reading her mind. “Clean-burning, convenient, and with very little risk of burning your house down. It’s mostly used by professional alchemists and old, rich families, because the fuel is worth far more than its weight in gold.”
Zhen brandished a stirring spoon in one hand, stroking his moustache with the other. “Where else should I spend my vast fortune, if not on the preparation of delicious food? Now, back to the slogan of our Guild. Remind me, what are the words again?”
It took Shera a second to realize he meant for her to answer. “The client is Emperor,” she said.
His spoon paused for a moment. “Correct. You were paying attention, then, that’s good. Can you speculate as to the first meaning of this slogan?”
Shera was far more interested in breakfast than in Guild history, and she stared at the pan as she answered. “Yo
u treat the client as if they are the Emperor.”
“Nine out of ten,” he said, dumping the strips of meat into the pan. The room filled with the savory scents of onion, peppers, and something like pork. Shera wondered if all the clothes would start to smell like onion soon, or if they had some way to prevent the scent from clinging. Maybe they had some alchemy for laundry, or maybe you could tell a Consultant by the lingering smell of peppers and onions.
He nodded to her. “And the second meaning?”
She hesitated too long, so Kerian rescued her. “We treat our temporary clients as if their word is Imperial law, but we ultimately have one client whose interests supersede all others. The Emperor himself.” The Consultant had seated herself at a nearby table, and she spoke without taking her eyes from her book. ‘The Adventures of Lady Clearlove,’ the title announced.
“Essentially, these words speak to the heart of who we are,” Zhen went on, folding his arms and leaning back against the counter as the meat cooked. “When a client hires us, they do not retain our services for a single task. Most of the time, they think they do, and they have a single purpose in mind. But as long as we are retained, we are the loyal servants of the individual who hired us. It is the main reason why our time is measured in hundreds of goldmarks. The only thing we do not do, that we will never do, is threaten the Empire.”
Kerian spoke up from behind her book. “We are the architects who designed the Empire, and the masons who laid its foundation. We were born before the rule of man, and we will shepherd its people until the end. We are the counselors in the dark, the hand in the shadows, the gardeners among the weeds. It is through us that the Empire continues to prosper.”
“A quote from Foundation of Night,” Zhen explained to Shera. “Written by an ancient Architect regarding the foundation of our Guild. It’s a piece of literature almost equal to that literary treasure in your hands, Kerian. Tell me, did it cost you a full five marks, or did you find it on sale?”