Everyone’s alive here. The dead of Haith make everything slow and stately. When the dead can work through the night without light or rest, there’s less need for haste.
By contrast, Guerdon teeters on the edge of anarchy. Everything gets done, but it’s sloppy.
He finds a clerk who directs him to another clerk. Terevant fumbles through Edoric Vanth’s papers, and finds the name he’s looking for. “Ah, the office of criminal sorcery, please. I’m looking for Dr Ramegos.” If the priest was right, and the watch is holding Vanth’s remains, they’ll be under the jurisdiction of this Ramegos.
The clerk leads him down a narrow but well-lit staircase into the bowels of the fortress. Not a dungeon–no prisoners down here. It’s a maze of offices and storerooms. Walls four feet thick, fortified against cannon fire and miracles. The distant drone of air-purifying fans, proof against alchemical poison and dust bombs. A modern fortress, unlike the ancient castles that guard the approaches to Haith.
“In here.” The clerk shows him into a small waiting room with a few chairs. There’s a map of Guerdon on one wall, flanked by a yellowed notice about registering sorcerous talents; on the other, a framed portrait of Droupe where some artist quested valiantly to find the man’s chin.
Terevant sits. The whirring of those fans and the flicking aetheric light makes it hard to concentrate on the papers he brought with him, so he pulls out his novel, The Bone Shield, and loses himself in that story until the door opens. He glances up; a woman, a few years younger than him, her face bruised beneath makeup, one hand bandaged. She sits down in one of the other chairs to wait, taking out her reading material. He glances at the page she’s studying–weird glyphs crawl across the paper. Some sort of technical notation, alchemical or thaumaturgical maybe.
He finishes the last few pages of The Bone Shield and closes the cover with a flourish.
“Any good?”
“A few passages. Not the ending though–a dull, predictable moral lesson about the folly of esteeming love over duty.” He grins and offers the book to her. “I’m done with it, if you want it.”
“Oh, I couldn’t.”
“It’s fine. I’m fantastically wealthy.” Which isn’t wholly a lie; the Erevesics are rich landowners, but the family fortune mostly goes on maintaining the House troops battling the Godswar. Debts owed to Guerdonese alchemists, Ulbishan money-lenders.
The woman doesn’t appear impressed, but she still takes the book and examines it. “It’s from Haith,” he explains as she scans the frontispiece.
“I gathered that. Do you mind if I borrow it?”
“As I said, I’m done with it. But you can return it to me at the embassy, if you like.”
“Th-thank you,” she says after a moment. “I’m Eladora Duttin.”
“Terevant Erevesic, of the Ninth. No, wait, I’m with the embassy now.”
She stares at him for a moment. “You’re the ambassador’s brother?”
“You know Olthic?”
“I’ve met him a few times, at the embassy. He’s a very impressive man.”
Terevant decides to change the subject. He’s lost count of the number of conversations that have turned into people praising Olthic at him. “What are you doing down here? Reporting something?” He points to her wounded hand.
“No, no. Another matter. I can’t discuss it. And what about you?”
He’s about to explain that he’s here to demand the remains of Edoric Vanth, but he remembers he’s supposed to be a spy, and bites his tongue. “I can’t discuss it either.”
“Ah.”
A long awkward silence follows. Footsteps in the corridor rise and then fall into the distance, and the silence returns again. It’s Eladora who cracks first.
“Do you know why they call this fortress Queen’s Point? When the Black Iron cult took over the city, the royal family fled rather than serve the new gods. Legends claim that the first Black Iron God was an idol, drawn out of the ocean by a fisherman, although Pilgrin theorises that early experiments in, ah, Haith, may have permitted the local gods to m-manifest in material form. Anyway, a priest smuggled the royal family out of the palace at Serran via a secret passage, and they made their way down through the ghoul tunnels to here, where there was a little fortress.”
Apparently, her idea of small talk is a historical lecture.
“The queen ordered her troops to raise the royal pennant so the enemy would know that she was here. The Ravellers hurled themselves against the walls, and eventually consumed her, but…” She pauses, apparently lost in thought. “Forgive me. Anyway, while the enemy was distracted, the young prince fled Guerdon in a ship and went to seek allies against the Black Iron G-Gods. After the war, the place was named Queen’s Point in her honour.”
“The prince never returned?”
“No. The c-common legend is that he’ll return in the city’s darkest hour, but records show that he toured the east seeking allies, spending years at various courts trying to scrape together an invasion force, before he ran out of money and vanished.”
“No cousins? There must have been someone else who could stake a claim?” A momentary and unfamiliar sense of shame–there are no heirs to the Erevesic sword, except Olthic and him, no one else to carry on the line. The Guerdon kingship was meaningless in the grand scheme of things; their crown just a piece of jewellery, not the living sword of the Erevesics.
“The Keepers consolidated power after they overthrew the Black Iron Gods.” Duttin continues, clearly more confident when reciting from a history book than speaking off the cuff.
The door opens, interrupting Duttin’s lecture. Standing there is a grey-haired woman who must be Dr Ramegos. Her robes are decorated with brightly coloured bird motifs, a splash of brightness against the grey concrete, but she also wears an armband with the sigil of the Guerdon city watch. Behind her is a young aide, who carries a gigantic grimoire chained to his wrist.
Duttin obviously knows the older woman, and rises to greet her.
“Are you all right?” asks Ramegos, “I heard you were attacked.” She grabs Eladora’s right hand, examines the injury. “Ach, I remember how much this hurts.”
“I’m… It’s nothing.” Eladora gives the doctor’s hand a squeeze. “I’d like to learn more about warding spells, though. Just in case I’m followed home.”
“Yes, yes. I’ll show you.”
“And, ah, teleport wards. Are such things possible?”
Terevant hastily interjects himself into the conversation, before he’s forgotten. “Dr Ramegos–I’m from the embassy of Old Haith and—”
“Yes, yes. I did notice the periapts. This way.”
Ramegos leads them both down the corridor, whispering to Eladora as they go. According to Edoric Vanth’s notes Ramegos is, among other things, the city’s thaumaturgical coroner, called in to consult on deaths involving sorcery or miracles. He wonders if she’s native to Guerdon–her accent and appearance are both foreign. In Haith, the Crown would never trust an outsider with such responsibilities.
There’s an aetheric tension in the air as they walk down the corridor, and Terevant wonders if there’s some huge sorcerous engine on the other side of those concrete walls. When he blinks, he sees runes and sigils bursting against his eyes.
They stop at Ramegos’ office. Through the doorway, Terevant can see the office walls are lined with books and heavy binders. Chains of tiny divine icons hang from the ceiling, gods from many different pantheons. Fate Spider and Lion Queen jostle for space with the Keeper pantheon, the death-god of Haith, the Star and other gods he doesn’t recognise. All the icons are made by the same hand and are of the same size; the world’s gods classified and collected like butterflies under glass. Then Ramegos closes the door in his face, leaving him outside.
Eladora settles into the chair opposite Ramegos. The thaumaturgist takes her hand, clucks at the injury. “Well, at least you’ve been trying.”
“It was, ah, a practical application of sorcery.
”
“Oh?” Ramegos sits back in her chair. She waves her hand, and a kettle begins to boil. “Do tell.”
Eladora picks her words carefully–for now, at least, she wants to avoid mentioning Carillon’s name. Her cousin’s like an alley cat that will have to be lured down from the New City, and trained to put this second set of god-granted talents to proper use. Ramegos is kindly and generous once you get to know her, but she’s also an extremely powerful sorceress, and doesn’t appreciate insolence. No, best to leave that meeting for another day.
“An altercation in the New City. An attempted robbery, I think. No lasting damage.”
“To you or them?”
“Uh, to me. My assailants were, ah…”
“You know,” says Ramegos, pouring a cup of spiced tea, “if you run around throwing dangerous spells without a full licence, you’ll answer to the Special Thaumaturgist. Who will tell you to practise more.”
“I actually came here with a question.” Eladora sips her tea. “About words to block teleportations, yes?”
Ramegos snorts. “Teleportation’s almost impossible, you know. I’ve only known a handful of human adepts who could manage it. Of all the things to worry about—”
“What about saints? Saints who teleport.”
Ramegos puts down her cup. “No one,” she says gently, “has seen Miren Ongent in the last four months. You don’t need to worry about him.”
Eladora blushes and tries to hide behind her teacup, embarrassed at her transparency. “I, I–in my rooms, I thought… well, there was nothing actually there, but I thought, for a moment…”
“He’s gone, Eladora. I give you my word. You’ll have to trust me on that.” Is she hinting at some secret? Did the city watch catch Miren, despite his talent? “Although,” muses Ramegos, “his miracles might make it easier to use similar sorcery here in Guerdon. Might be worth looking into, when I have a spare year. All that aside, there are ways to block or deflect teleportation. Not especially useful, but good practice for you. We’ll start with our old friend, the Transactional Analysis…”
Eladora groans inwardly as Ramegos pulls a well-thumbed textbook on sorcery out from a drawer. The Transactional Analysis of the Khebesh Grimoire is the foundation of modern sorcery, but it’s infamously complex and dull. She’s not sure how long they spend applying the techniques of Transactional Analysis to the problem, but by the time they’re done, her head feels like it’s full of the alchemists’ fire-quenching foam–heavy, sticky, her thoughts thoroughly extinguished.
“That’ll do for now,” mutters Ramegos. “I’ve got work to do.” She sounds reluctant to stop.
“Thank you.” As Eladora rises, Ramegos picks up The Bone Shield and flips through it. “What’s this?”
“A Haithi novel. Speaking of Haith, I should—”
Ramegos interrupts Eladora. “If this is about the dead Haithi spy that the watch found in the New City, then don’t say anything more. Best you keep clear of that mess.”
Eladora holds her tongue. Ramegos turns another few pages, then looks up. “Did your grandfather ever go to Haith?”
“I-I, uh, I don’t know. Many aspect of J-j-j, of his life are obscure, and family records were destroyed when the family was, ah, also destroyed. Why do you ask?”
Ramegos hands the book back. “No reason. Now, run along. And don’t forget to practise your sorcery.”
The young scribe smiles awkwardly at Terevant as they wait outside for Eladora to finish her meeting with Ramegos. “She won’t be long,” he says, and he’s right–Eladora and Ramegos spent only a minute or so in conversation, but when Eladora emerges she looks exhausted, as if many hours have passed. She yawns as she bids farewell.
“Thank you for the book.” Her voice is scratchy, as if she’s been talking for a long time. “I’ll return it to you in the embassy.”
“I look forward to it.”
Ramegos calls him in. Her desk was covered in papers an instant ago; now it’s bare as bone. He blinks.
“Please, be seated.”
“I’m here about a Haithi citizen, Third Secretary Vanth. I’ve been informed that you have his remains.”
She wrinkles her brow. “Informed? By the First Secretary?”
“No, by other sources.”
“Other sources.” She snorts. “How decorous.”
“Do you have the body?”
She reaches up to her chain of gods, taps the Haithi death-god so that it starts swinging. The vibrations of the oscillating deity run up and down the chain, setting all the other gods clattering and clinking into one another. “It would be better,” she says quietly, “to let me handle this.”
“I’m in charge of embassy security. The murder of one of our diplomats falls under my purview.”
The icons stop moving. Some of them have become tangled, caught in the spindly legs of the Ishmeric Fate Spider. Frowning, Ramegos reaches up and disentangles the Haithi death-god from the rest.
“Well now,” she mutters to herself, “that’s not good.” Shaking her head, she stands. “Let’s get this done.”
She leads him through a maze of corridors and stairs. Despite her age, she sets a fast pace, impatiently ushering him on.
“Did you know Edoric Vanth?” She pauses at the door of the morgue.
“Not really.” Terevant feels like he got to know the man a little, through reading his notes. Vanth loved Guerdon, its messy intrigues and its changing ways. He was observant; he had an eye for quirks of personality or biographical details that provided a key to understanding a case. He was close to Prince Daerinth–both men had been stationed here in Guerdon for years, one in exile, one in comfortable obscurity, while a string of ambassadors came and went. Some of Vanth’s notes reminded Terevant of his own relationship with his father–keeping affairs in order while the older man slowly slips away.
Perhaps he’s been too hard on Daerinth. Haithi decorum would never let the First Secretary admit it, but he must feel Vanth’s death keenly.
Dr Ramegos unlocks the heavy door and invites him into the morgue. There, on a slab, lies a fire-blackened corpse. It’s unsettling to see it in such a condition–Vigilants are customarily stripped of their dead flesh as soon as possible. Death isn’t supposed to be so disorderly.
The worst of the damage is to the head and upper chest, which have been burned almost to the bone. Cracked leather fragments cling to the ruin of the man’s face–it might be scorched skin, or the remains of Vanth’s clothing. Terevant checks the wrists. There, beneath the roasted skin, he can feel the telltale lumps of the iron periapts.
Ramegos sighs. “Do you know what he was doing in the New City?”
“That’s an internal matter.”
The doctor stares at him, and for a moment Terevant feels a sudden weight in his hands, as if he was carrying an object, heavy and invisible–a sword. Sorcery’s crawling through this room, in ways he doesn’t have the talents or training to detect. Subtle forces moving beyond his perception.
Ramegos pauses. “You’re Olthic’s brother, aren’t you?”
He suppresses a sigh. “Yes–what of it?”
“You don’t look much like him, that’s all.” She sounds saddened for a moment, immensely weary as she gestures to the corpse. “I can tell you how he died.” She points at the ghastly wounds. Terevant’s seen much worse in the war, but it’s different here. The stark silence of the morgue is oppressive; seeing a mangled and burned corpse should come with the sound of shouts and screaming, with distant artillery and miracles booming out of heaven. Not this silence, broken only by the ticking of a clock and Ramegos’ low voice, pointing out the gunshot wound, the knife cut, the evidence of sword and fire.
Vigilants can be immensely resilient. Wounds that would kill a mortal are easily shrugged off–it doesn’t matter if you’ve got a punctured lung if you don’t need to breathe any more. Decay, dismemberment or widespread damage are harder to withstand. Still, the body’s mostly intact despite every
thing.
“Miraculous.” Ramegos touches the burned skin, which flakes away like ash.
“I’ve heard a name–the Saint of Knives.”
Ramegos frowns. “Maybe.” She draws out the word, lets doubt seep in.
“You have another theory?”
“Not yet. I don’t know enough. I need more time.” She brushes some ash off Vanth’s sleeve. “We all need more time.”
A thought pops into Terevant’s mind. “Could it have been an Ishmerian?” Ishmeric agents disrupting the supply of alchemical weapons from Guerdon, while their invasion fleet closes on Old Haith. “The chosen of High Umur can hurl fire.”
“If there was an Ishmeric war-saint in Guerdon, I’d know,” replies Ramegos. She sounds tired.
Terevant bends over the corpse again, staring into Vanth’s eye sockets. “You’re still searching for the killer, I presume,” he asks.
“Not personally, but rest assured that the watch is poking sticks into gutters and beating up witnesses as we speak.”
“I’ll take custody of the body now,” says Terevant, sharply.
Ramegos goes to the corner, tugs a cord. Somewhere far away, a bell rings. “Someone will be down in a minute to bring you and the body back to the embassy.” She sits down on a bench at the side of the room, suddenly showing her age. Her young scribe hurries in to tend to her, still carrying his huge book. Muttering to herself, Ramegos opens the tome and pages through to find the first blank page. She takes a pen and starts to write, the nib scratching across the heavy paper.
Terevant circles the table, examining the body closely. Laid out on a tray next to the body are Vanth’s possessions. A steel knife, well used. A few silver coins. A ticket stub, too badly burned to make out any details. A scrap of paper, also burned. He peers at it. It’s a leaflet, crumpled and scorched, but still legible in parts. The fires of Safid will carry the soul, he makes out.
“I want to show you something,” announces Ramegos, startling him. Terevant spins around.
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