by JM Guillen
“Yes,” he nodded. “I do.”
We bounced along the cobbles for long moments before he spoke again.
“So you think it was a mercy.” It wasn’t a question.
I sighed. “Rebeka Ortiz is one of the most humble, open-hearted women who ever gave her time to the Havens. If you asked me if she was a merciful soul, I would say yes.” I sighed. “But if you asked me if she could shoot a man in the face, I would say no. Yet I saw what I saw.”
He leaned back in his seat. “I suspect she’s the only one who knows the truth of it. She looked to be killing for vengeance. That’s the story that will be all across the Warrens by morning.”
No one could prove Rebeka was sane enough to shoot the man in cold blood, but the streets cannot keep secrets. The streets whisper to anyone who will listen, and the whisperings surrounding this night would be stories that few would forget.
Who was she? Rebeka Ortiz, or Rebeka Il Ladren?
Only the woman herself knew.
2
The next couple of days were mostly debriefing and paperwork. Before that particular horror visited, however, we assembled a detail to return to the Argyrian House. Legate Madigan filed the writs, and Wil and I led the delegation of three judicars. We even had a special assignee, a young, dark haired woman who was apparently going to be requisitioned for training in the next few weeks.
It seemed we might actually get an extra pair of hands in the Warrens.
Unfortunately, we found nothing. Not even Rebeka’s shoes.
The lock had been removed from the door, and there was no trace of any of the bodies or strange alchemy. It was a frustrating day and did nothing to quell the secret worry that was gnawing away at me.
This wasn’t over. Not really. If I had any doubts of that, I lost them the moment I saw the scrawling back of the door, mocking me.
Next, Wil, Alejandro, myself, and four other judicars served papers at the Gallery Auric, the guildhouse for the Twilight Blades. It seemed that Sebaste had been having difficulties all his own with almost two dozen of his men abruptly vanishing, the most prominent of which was thirdman Blythe. In the end, Sebaste was obviously as confused about everything as we were and even claimed he had no idea that Rebeka had been taken to begin with.
Curiouser and curiouser.
Once everything was clear, Legate Madigan asked me to file my forms with the Forge of Altheus as well. Even though, in the end, it seemed as if there was only alchemy and madness at the Argyrian House, the legate liked to be cautious.
If later, we discovered that there had been taint in the area, then we would know we had followed protocols.
Unfortunately, that also meant I had a nice visit with the inquisitor who was responsible for my borough, Lilah Crucian. Dealing with Lilah was one of my least favorite activities, as it always brought back memories of the Haven’s fire and the inquisitors who had questioned me after.
Needless to say, we didn’t exactly have the friendliest relationship. I gave her as little information as I could get away with and left her to file the paperwork on her end.
Within five days or so, Scoundrel was up and around again, begging me for food and making a nuisance of herself. Her wing was only lightly sprained, according to the Rookmaster.
“You did fine by yer girl, Thom!” The man gingerly felt her wing. “Keep this bound for a few days, and she’ll be back by yer side by Sundering morn, I’d say.”
I grinned. “For a nonce there, I thought I’d need a new bird.” I scratched her head.
“Bird. Good bird.” She cawed at me, eating a small wafer from my hand.
“That’s right. Maybe I’d get a good bird. For a change.” I shrugged. “I had hoped so, at least.”
Scoundrel croaked. “Good, pretty girl.” She canted her head at me, one eye gleaming.
“You’re right. My new bird might have been pretty. That would be something .” I laughed.
“Yer cracked, Havenkin,” Rookmaster Aeriin gave me an odd look, but I just smiled.
I was just happy Scoundrel would be well.
One afternoon I came home to find a small envelope pressed in the crack of my door. I unfolded it, a little concerned.
“That’s how far this has gone,” I chided myself quietly. “You’re afraid of envelopes now.” I was a city official, after all. My post came by runner or raven, not secret notes.
The writing was familiar. We still have business, Havenkin. Don’t forget.
She didn’t need to sign it. It was exactly like the script she had left in the Deepingway—Judicar, she lies ahead.
At some point, I knew, the Warren’s Spider was going to show up, demanding some artwork that didn’t exist. I half thought I should commission it, just to have something to hand over but I thought that might be a poor idea. What if she was watching and then believed I was having a second portrait created?
That was a meal I was going to have to eat, I just didn’t know when.
Admittedly, things were still a bit on the wind. I still had no idea how Thane had gotten everything so tangled, or how he had known so much about me. I was a touch suspicious of drunks on the street, of street orphans. Were they addicted to his mysterious “drops”? Were they watching everything I did? Where were the missing Twilight Blades?
My days held shadows in every corner.
I took to taking extra-long patrols. Wil had more free time because of my diligence and made good use of it training the young woman that we had been assigned. Seven days passed, and I was really only returning to my flat for sleep.
Still, there was nothing to be found.
The Red Hands all greeted me like an old friend when they met me in the street, a situation I found uncomfortable. On three different occasions, they offered to buy me something to drink. Latigo even offered a shot of his snuff, but I didn’t partake.
Everything should’ve been fine. The world was moving on.
But I couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t.
Ware the Unreal Man.
The Last Home of Man-
An Epilogue
Year 607 of the Forsaken Aetas, Month of Nighharvest
Ripened week, Sundering
Second Bell, Dusking
I should have known that it would take a woman to put me at my ease.
I was still half-sleeping one morning when my fat, loud bird slipped through her wind-door and leaped onto my head. I rolled away from her, cursing.
“No.” I opened one eye. “Rutting damn, bird. Absolutely not. There is cheese set out for you.”
It was my own fault, of course. I was the one who had gone to the Firstreaping masquerade and stayed out until third bell, Dawning. I had certainly had too much sachrae.
Still, I could hardly be blamed.
“Thom?” My good girl hopped closed, and I covered my head with my pillow.
“Let. Me. Sleep.” I growled, wishing I didn’t feel quite so hung-over.
It had been a busy night.
I had made a promise to Sefra, after all, before all this began. She had a surprise for me and she had been quite good about waiting. There had been questions I had needed answered, and so it seemed as if a meeting should be arranged. I sent her a message, and her reply, by runner, was more than intriguing.
There’s a Riogiin masquerade, over by the Trickledowns, Ninth bell, Eventide. I’ll let you wonder about my outfit.
It had been a stunning harlequin outfit that left almost nothing to the imagination. When she saw me, she laughed and covered my lips with hers. We spent the evening making certain we understood one another and she explained what had happened.
“I owed Blythe, plain and simple.” She scowled as she spoke of the man. “My brothers had borrowed money from the Blades and skipped out on paying.”
“How?” I was into my third cup. “I mean, where can you possibly run to escape the Blades?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “I suspect they may have run off to some outlier of the ci
ty, but that’s just a suspicion. Blythe made it clear that I personally owed him.”
“Yeah?” I grit my teeth at the thought of Blythe pawing Sefra.
“True fact.” She took a sip of night-cherry bitter. “When he told me he would let me be clear and that all I had to do was go on a date with a judicar—”
“A dashing and daring judicar.” I nodded sagely. “Sounds like the better choice.”
“I was completely unawares that the man wanted you dead. When he gave me the pin, I had no idea why he would want you to have it.”
“I still don’t know.” I smiled, although the pin was not something to smile over. It was still in my desk, and as far as I was concerned, it could stay there.
“He was powerful angry at the Coilwerks. Said you weren’t wearing it, and asked if I had cried him out.” She threw up her hands. “I didn’t even know what I was crying him out over! Our deal was ‘take the judicar out. Give him this.’ I didn’t see the harm.”
I grunted, not enjoying the topic. So many things about all this were unanswered.
I was fairly certain they would remain that way.
“Maybe I can make it up to you?” She ran her finger up the inside of my leg. The woman took delight in teasing me.
To be fair, I took delight in it as well.
As the month passed, the Reaping festivals were really starting to get going. It seemed as if Sefra knew where all the good ones were. Sometimes, we would go to three parties in a single night, and she exhausted me.
I liked the ways she exhausted me.
She could dance like the wind off the ocean. When I was with her, I wasn’t thinking about the Argyrian House or the plague-masked man.
Sefra made me smile. She set my mind at ease.
Finally.
This morning, the woman kept me out far too late. Honestly, I almost hadn’t made it home at all. She certainly hadn’t wanted me to leave. Sefra was positively wicked, and creative enough to always keep me guessing. The last revel had still been going at fourth bell, Dawning, but I had finally given up and stumbled to a foot-cab.
Once home, I collapsed into my bed.
“Thom.” Scoundrel’s rough squawk was almost exasperated. “Here, Thom. Here.” She jumped closer to me, holding out her leg.
“What—?” I paused. For a long, terrifying moment, I thought Scoundrel had brought a small phial of serum from the Offices of the Just.
I was not ready for another assignment.
“Here, Thom.” She hopped closer again. I could see the small silver trinket she was playing with. She had obviously stolen it, or found it in the gutter.
Thank the lost gods, not a phial. I sighed in relief.
“Fine.” I sat up, giving her a foul look. She gave me a fowl look in return.
“Good Thom.” In one hop she sat on my lap.
I sat on the edge of my bed, blinking against the morning light shining in the wind-door. I could smell the city, hear her waking up.
I could breathe. For the first time in days, it seemed.
Children were laughing outside, and a street-crier was calling the day’s news. I could even hear the bells on the shoes of a runner and smell the mist off the ocean.
“Pasties! Sweetmeats. Come on out! Break-fast treats!” It was Nans, the woman who made rounds every morning on my street, selling her baked goods.
If I hurried, I could get one.
I sat, in my shortclothes, listening to Teredon awaken. A slow, lazy smile spread across my face.
For the first time in days, the world was not made of shadows.
###
Notes on the work
Thom Havenkin has more outlined stories than any other we have met this far—twelve titles in the works. His world is an important one to our story. In it we see a world that has fallen to darkness, the same darkness we stand against in the Rational World.
With Thom, we shall witness the battle to restore the light.
Also notable is an interesting reference to the Vyriim.
“Oh—” There were diagrams on the same wall that the door had been set into, intricate drawings I hadn’t seen from the outside. I held the candle close, peering at them.
They looked like anatomy drawings, but of creatures I had never seen.
There were long, tentacular appendages, something like a cuttlefish or nautili might have, only there seemed to be no central body per se. Instead, they seemed to wind around each other, having specialized orifices and organs at the end of certain tentacles. The drawings were remarkably detailed, as specific as anything in a dociere’s textbook.
I traced my fingers along the brittle, yellowed paper, my eyes wide. I held the candle closer, studying the detail placed into the creatures’ mouth structures and the tiny, hook like teeth.
Before returning to Rational Earth, let’s look more closely at Thom’s world—this time from a perspective of five hundred years in his past. In this age, the Riftingwar rages—the same kind of conflict that the people of Earth may one day face.
But our story doesn’t begin with the Riftingwar. It starts with a young woman, a woman who finds herself in quite dire straits indeed…
Calyptin Station
Remnants of Eld Riog
Year 5170 of the Gilded Aetas
Calyptin Station stood as a collection of broken spires of crystal, brass, and inoxydable steel, the last outpost before the wastes. Beyond emptiness and madness beckoned under a lurid sky.
Lightning flashed blood red and angry in that impossible distance. Moments after, thunder grumbled and the world trembled. The lightning came again, red light flickering through the window.
Good, I hoped it lent a terrible fire to my eyes.
“You’ll be letting him go.” I hefted the small axe in my hands, fury boiling in my heart. The men had no idea I was even in the room, since they had been so focused on their “discussion.” Royce had my da pinned against the wall next to our kiln; he’d been whispering something to him in sharp, intense bursts.
For a long moment, the room fell silent.
“Ysabel…” My da’s voice absolutely dripped with despair. He looked so small there, so weak and frightened, pinned against the wall.
“Watch yerself, girl.” Royce squeezed just a touch, and my father gurgled. “It’s not as if I came alone.”
Of course.
Ogrim loomed in the corner, a huge, shadowed hulk of a man who looked as if he could crush me with one fist. He nodded as I glanced at him, a casual bob that the gargantuan man might have made on the street.
Good day, that nod said. Don’t mind me, just passing through.
“Let. Him. Go.” I raised the axe and gave them a wide, sharp smile.
Royce contemplated me, as if he believed I might charge across the room and slash him like a wild woman.
I’ll admit I was pleased at Royce’s discomfiture.
“I’m not toying, Royce.” Either of them could simply grab me and cart me off, but maybe the axe would lend weight to my argument. “Drop him.”
“Maybe I will.” A wide, leering grin spread across his face. While holding my father’s neck with one thick hand, Royce backhanded him fiercely. When he released my da, I watched my father slump to the floor moaning.
“There.” Royce smirked at me. “I let him go. Drop the axe.”
“Royce.” My father begged. “Please don’t take—”
“Shut up, scutmouth. We’re done with you.” Royce turned back to me, grinning. “I said drop the chopper, girl. Lest you want me to pick up yer old man again?”
“No.” I lowered the axe but didn’t set it aside. “You need to leave.”
“Now that”—feigned sorrow dripped from Royce’s crooked mouth—“we can’t do. I’m afraid yer ol’ da owes me a bit much, Ysabel. I can’t let him slide. It’s bad for business.” To Ogrim he asked, “Isn’t that right?”
“Bad fer business.” Ogrim nodded. “Let’s the wrong kinda folke get the wrong kinda ideas.”
“Da?” I glowered at my father. “Is this true? Again?”
“Ysabel, I—”
“Why do you even ask?” Royce took a step closer, and I could smell the sweet tabac wafting off him. “You know it is, sweetling. Yer old man can’t stop, don’ matter whether it’s tiles or cards.”
My da wouldn’t meet my eyes.
“How much does he owe you?” My thoughts stepped to my small but valuable library. Those books were easily worth—
“Too much.” Royce’s tone defied my hopes like stalwart iron. “More than this little hovel is worth.” He shrugged, a little too casually. “That’s what this little palaver is all about, sweetling.”
“Ysabel.” My da pushed himself upright against the wall. “You don’t have to—”
Royce issued one withering glance, and my father shut his yap.
“’Ere’s the deal, sweetling.” Royce sighed and held up thick, grubby fingers. “If yer ol’ man here had my money, that’d be one thing. But it’s not littlecoin this time. He owes me paper certs.”
“Oh. Oh, Da.” My eyes widened as I looked at my father, crumpled on the floor. I knew the story without being told. My da had been rambling on about his plans only a few nights before. It was always the same wild, reckless, very expensive fantasy.
“Teredon, my girl.” Da always went on after he had a few, gone eloquent with drink-dreams. “We’ll buy our way past the Riogiin lines and from there it’s a straight shot.”
“Yes, Da.” I hadn’t looked up from my book. It had been the same story since I was bitty, though, so I knew how to play along.