The Ryle of Zentule

by Michael Green

  “Andy was here! He saw this.” Letty showed them the sketches. “What did you call this?” she asked, pointing at the symbol.

  “It’s the sign of the Argument—essentially a religious symbol. Its creation is punishable by execution in some places. The ryle spent extra effort hunting down those who could make it,” Quill said.

  “I don’t think there’s a person alive now who knows how to paint it anymore,” Staza added.

  “Is there a trick to it?” Letty asked, inspecting Andy’s awkward attempts on the notepad.

  Quill nodded.

  “Why don’t they destroy it?” Letty asked, staring carefully at the militiamen.

  “Our Mistress says the ryle have a fascination with Seer artistry, even though they can’t see what makes it special: those pigments that give off the brilliant shine,” Quill whispered, looking over his shoulder.

  “In Caspia, Titus told me that Andy discovered the truth about optometrists from another painting. This one here is by the same artist,” she read the placard next to the painting. “Rembrandt. We know that Andy saw the Infiniteye here. So, moving forward, Andy would associate the eye with Rembrandt’s good information. Do you think that changes anything?” she asked.

  “I don’t know, but it’s a start,” Staza said.

  Letty stared at the painting and saw the Seer script. She had the urge to lean in, but, even though she saw no tendrils on this painting, she was afraid.

  “Can either of you read these letters?” Letty tapped a copy of the painting in Andy’s notebook. “I don’t know the language.”

  They both shook their heads.

  Wait. Hold on.

  She found her phone and pulled up a translation application. She typed in the text.

  “Dutch,” she said. She read the translation, “The symbol guides our steps.”

  “If Andy translated the message, he would have been keeping an eye out for the symbol,” Quill said.

  “I’m sure he did,” Letty responded, feeling hopeful, and then nervous as if the hope was premature.

  “She’s right,” Quill responded. “All we need to do is recreate the day everything started. We need to discover where he was. I’m certain that somewhere on his path he came across the symbol, and after reading that,” he pointed to the translation, “he would have followed it and found a portal or the mice.”

  “Titus said he just walked into their city,” Letty said.

  Quill’s face lit up.

  “This is good news,” Letty added, “but I don’t know where he was. I can hardly remember where I was that day. Who knows what he did after the optometrist? He could have gone anywhere.”

  “Well, it wasn’t going to be easy. Do we continue tomorrow?” Staza asked.

  Letty checked the time on her cell and the angry messages from her parents. “Yes. We need to get back,” she said, standing and stretching.

  They were careful on their way out of the museum and had to avoid two inky screens of tendrils before finally exiting.

  As they returned to the subway, Staza stiffened beside Letty and bent to whisper in her ear, “Someone's following us. They have been since the museum—I’m sure of it.”

  Letty grasped the Argument.

  “Stay with me,” Staza said, stepping ahead of the group and leading the way.

  When they rounded a corner, Staza broke out into a run. Letty and Quill followed. They turned down the nearest alley, and Staza drew a dagger from beneath her borrowed jacket.

  “What are we doing?” Letty asked, a glow coming from her hand.

  “Put that out!” Staza whispered.

  Letty loosened her grip. She hadn’t realized that she was clenching her fist.

  Footsteps came closer.

  In a flash, Staza reached out and pulled their pursuer into the alley with them. Their bodies tumbled to the floor, but Staza came out on top, and had her dagger at the man’s throat.

  Letty felt her eyes focusing, and after a few seconds she realized the man was a ryle. The ryle wore a tailored suit, and Letty suppressed the urge to laugh at the curious sight.

  “Do you see it?” Letty asked.

  Quill and Staza nodded.

  The ryle made a sudden move, but Quill struck with his right leg and knocked a pistol from the ryle’s grip.

  “Do it again! I’d love to learn the color of ryle blood!” Staza leaned forward as she whispered.

  The ryle’s fleshy face contorted in surprise.

  “What do you want from me?” he asked.

  “Why were you following us?” Letty replied.

  The ryle’s face twisted into an expression akin to annoyance. “Look at you,” he hissed, “why do you think I was following you? No wonder your side lost.”

  Staza gave the ryle a few gentle slaps with the flat end of her dagger. “Careful now, don’t forget that you’re an inch from bleeding to death.”

  “Just kill me,” the ryle said, pushing himself closer to the dagger.

  “No—you don’t get away that easily.” Letty said, pulling Staza back.

  “They’ll do worse when they find out three mature Seer children just avoided all of my snares, and then…overpowered me in the street.”

  Letty huffed. “Where are your brutox?”

  The ryle huffed right back. “Brutox? At my age? I’m alone in this garbage ward, pulling museum duty. I’ve spent years looking for you little rats. Here are the first ones I find and look what happens. I’m useless spawn at this point.”

  The Seers shared a surprised look. Letty almost felt bad, but Staza had a grin on her face, and Quill could only shake his head in astonishment.

  “Tell us, do you know a ryle named Ziesqe?” Letty finally asked.

  “I know five!” The ryle hissed.

  “Zyzqe Ziesqe,” Quill said.

  “Ah, that tart. He calls himself Ropt up here. Yes, he’s come into some serious trouble recently,” the ryle paused, his beady eyes going as wide as they could. “Of course. It makes complete sense. You are the thorns in his side, eh? And now you’re on a rampage through the city? Tell me, is this a full-scale rebellion, or just an isolated incident?”

  They gawked at how quickly the ryle figured them out.

  “I just would like to know if I’ll be remembered as a casualty of a treacherous coup, or a fool who couldn’t do his job,” the ryle rambled, resigned to whatever came.

  “Hey,” Staza gave him another slap, “pay attention. No editorializing. Where does Ziesqe reside in the Netherscape?”

  “I’m not his mother!” the ryle complained gratingly.

  Quill laughed, and gave the ryle a soft kick in the ribs. “I’m starting to like him.”

  “And why would I tell you anything?” The ryle countered.

  “Fair enough,” Letty said, considering. “How about, you tell us everything we ask, and we let you go.”

  “Yeah,” Staza interjected, “and if we find out that you lied to us, we’ll come back. Don’t forget, we know where you work,” she concluded, a conciliatory expression on her face.

  The ryle coughed up a nervous laugh, as if it were a joke. His eyes shot back and forth between them. “Fine,” he finally agreed.

  “So, back to Ziesqe,” Staza said.

  “He’s one of the richest and most powerful in the city. I don’t know what to tell you. He has interests all over the surface, Pansubprimus, and Euboia. His famous palace is in the Nightmare. It’s called Zentule. They made a big performance about him building the first settlement in the Nightmare for centuries.”

  Letty took the pistol and pocketed it. “That wasn’t so difficult,” she said.

  Staza and Quill released the ryle, and stepped back, their daggers at the ready.

  The ryle stood and brushed itself off. It turned to leave, but then spun towards them, a weak purple blade shot from its hand.

  It swung at Staza, and she parried with her dagger. The two blades locked. Staza’s blade quickly gave way as the purple sword burned t
hrough. Letty felt a sudden pain behind her eyes flare at the sight of the ryle’s blade.

  She grasped the Argument and drew her own blade. The pain in her head evaporated in an instant.

  The ryle stumbled backwards in shock. Its face contorted in agony.

  She swung her blade, and the ryle pulled away, as if he wanted to keep the blades from meeting. He was too slow, and a loud crack echoed in the alley. The pea sized purple orb shot from the ryle’s hand. Letty’s blade also fizzled and the orb flew from her hand as well. Recovering from her stumble, she turned and recovered the Argument while Staza and Quill held the ryle at bay with their weapons, though Staza’s dagger was cut almost to the hilt.

  “It’s a piece of Counter-Argument,” Quill said, unimpressed.

  Letty, her orb in hand, walked towards her foe’s weapon and felt the urge to strike out at it. She summoned her blade.

  The ryle yelled, “Don’t!”

  She struck, and the Counter-Argument burst apart in a small explosion. A stain of what looked like smoky, black and purple glass stretched for many feet, even climbing walls and a metal trash can.

  “No! You can’t imagine how expensive that was!” The ryle whined, before promptly receiving an elbow to the face.

  Staza waved her destroyed dagger inches from his face. “I made this myself, it was one of a kind!”

  Quill restrained her.

  “We should kill it,” Staza complained. “It’s traitorous!”

  Letty blinked, realizing that Staza was serious.

  “Hey!” A voice yelled. They saw a burly man in an undershirt standing at one end of the alley. “What’s going on here?”

  Letty gritted her teeth at being found. “Listen!” she said to the ryle. “We know where to find you.”

  A few more people appeared next to the burly man.

  “Run!” Letty whispered, leading the way.

  They ran out of the alley and slowed to a fast walk when they turned the next corner, but they didn’t relax until they descended into the subway station and hopped on a full train.

  “We should be fine now,” Letty said. “Hopefully no one called the police; there are cameras everywhere.”

  Those people will think we were mugging that ryle, and he’ll probably tell them the same, but will they call the police?

  Letty felt anxious and scanned the length of the car for any activity. She gave Staza a questioning glance.

  “I don’t think anyone followed us,” Staza said.

  A station later, some seats opened up. Letty sat and felt the shape of the gun in her pocket. She remembered it was a revolver.

  What am I going to do with it? I don’t want to throw it away; we might need it.

  She remembered Andy being disarmed by Ziesqe, and something similar just happened to her.

  If Andy had a second weapon, he might have escaped. I shouldn’t toss the gun.

  Letty looked at the others.

  Quill behaved like I expected, but Staza… I need to remember that they come from a violent place. If I’m not careful, she’ll kill someone before I can stop her.

  Staza sighed and Quill noticed.

  “You still have your sword,” he said.

  “I can’t carry it openly,” she complained. Letty sensed that Staza wanted to insult the sad state of surface civilization.

  “Well, we did learn where Ziesqe lives,” Quill said.

  “He said Ziesqe could be in many places,” Staza retorted.

  “What was that name he mentioned? The Nightmare. Do you know it?” Letty asked.

  Quill shook his head, and Staza slumped in her seat.

  Letty leaned back and looked out the window as a station rolled by. Bright lights flashed between pillars as they slowed to a halt. The doors opened and closed with barely a handful of people moving on and off.

  The rest of the ride was quiet, and as they left the station Letty received a call from her father.

  “I told you, we went to the gallery. It was fun. No—we’re on our way back now. We’ll be home in a few minutes.”

  Letty listened for a long time.

  “No, we’ll be back in a minute. I swear. We’re just down the street,” Letty’s voice was suddenly nervous, and the Caspians could tell. “Yes, that’s fine.”

  Letty put her phone away, but her face had gone pale.

  “What’s wrong?” Staza asked.

  “The police came by while we were gone. They have questions for me,” Letty said.

  Chapter 5

  Deliberation

  Andy lay on the bed, gazing up at the slate ceiling. The light coming through the frosted glass window flared and kept him awake. He put a pillow over his eyes, but found the flashing lights were the least of his problems.

  He rolled over and saw the plain, wooden table. A pitcher of water sat next to a slab of something too sweet and gray for his taste, though he had eaten half of the mystery pastry, despite that.

  He felt guilty about Thrag, and far worse about his parents. He tried to accept it: This was his life now. He was the newest piece of Ziesqe’s collection. Thrag was once part of his collection as well, though that hadn’t worked out.

  Andy sat up and saw his new suit of mail resting on a chair near the door. It sparkled against the light from the window.

  Thrag couldn’t have been here for more than a day or two, though they didn’t give him a fancy suit of armor.

  Andy started to resent himself.

  Maybe, if I just slam my head against the wall for a few hours, I’ll lose the ability to feel guilt, or time, or boredom. He chuckled, thinking he might have just figured out Thrag.

  He flopped back onto the bed, but a moment later the door burst open and a handful of ychorons poured in. They bore clothes, buckets of steaming water, brushes, and best of all, a tray of what passed for food in Zentule.

  “Up, up—you’ve work to do,” an ychoron commanded.

  They didn’t wait for Andy to sit up before manhandling him.

  He ignored the brushing and cleaning, focusing his attention on the platter of supposed food. There were strips of purplish meat, which smelled appealing. Yet the orange loaf of bread and its attendant bloody speckled butter, looked more like a Halloween novelty than potential breakfast.

  Curious, Andy reached for the loaf. A swift ychoron swatted him away. “Not until you’re presentable, human!”

  The ychorons were largely uniform in color this morning, with most feathers appearing in solid and dark earthy hues. Most were brown, ocher, or slate, as if to match the walls. The defining differences between them lay in scarring or, most often, in their full body jewelry harnesses. Each piece was markedly different in design, material, and construction. Some featured twisting copper cable, while others were mostly chain links made from precious metals. One, cut like a toga and lined with rubies, stood in contrast to the majority, which were reminiscent of bathing wear.

  With his silk underclothing tied on straight, Andy prepared for his chainmail. His hair snagged on the mail links as they lowered the chainmail shirt over his outstretched arms.

  Andy yelped.

  “That’s what you get for rushing.”

  Finally, they garbed him in fresh robes, much like the ones he had worn yesterday.

  “I can dress myself, you know. Next time just leave me the clothes.”

  They laughed.

  “Dress himself!” One moaned, “Maybe if we wanted to watch paint dry, we’d let you try!”

  “You rhymed!”

  “Did I—ah, try and dry!”

  Andy smirked at the ychorons. They reminded him of the kids in drama club at school.

  Once free, Andy dashed to the chair and started devouring his breakfast. “What’s this?” he asked, suspicious of a chunk of meat, “Forget it—I don’t want to know,” he said tearing a piece off with his teeth.

  “Ravager spawn,” an ychoron said, put off by Andy’s voraciousness.

  “Mmmh,” Andy replied, taking a serrated k
nife to the loaf.

  The bread was still steaming, and the butter had the slightest hint of cinnamon to it. He grabbed at something randomly and took a bite. It was fruit, striped purple and lavender. It had delicate ocher flesh and a pit at the center. Finally, he paused at what looked like a tall glass of teal milk.

  “Seriously? Teal milk?”

  “Aphid nectar. It’s a delicacy.”

  Why not? Andy took a sip. His eyes widened. It was cool and had the faintest taste of vanilla. He finished the glass.

  “Fine then; what is today? Do I fight the giant centipedes bare handed?”

  “Call them ravagers, and no. We are going to the golden library.”

  Andy felt a weight lift off his shoulders. They aren’t likely to kill me in the library.

  Feeling oddly refreshed, Andy approached the door and swung it open. He saw that his guards were surrounded by slithers. Among the horde of slithers were the flapping heads.

  When they saw Andy, the horde went wild. The beetles braced to keep them back, but the slithers climbed the walls and ceiling and a moment later were pouring into Andy’s chambers from above.

  The ychorons slammed the door closed. Andy looked around for a weapon and could only spot the chair. He leveled it, but saw the ychorons had the assault under control. Their hands darted like lightning, snatching the slithers off the walls and jolting them with their strikes.

  A few moments later, there was a pile of fried slithers, and the ychorons leered at Andy like he was being foolish. “Put that chair down before you break it.”

  He obeyed.

  “I think we know what’s going in the stew tonight,” one said with a chuckle, dropping the last slither onto the pile.

  Shuddering, Andy neared the door and peeked through. He saw the beetles throwing flapping heads across the hall and occasionally into the pool.

  “How are you supposed to work around here?” he asked.

  The ychorons laughed, ushering him out of the room.

  Andy fell in with his guards, who, melee settled, were at ease.

  I’ve been down here too long if the insects are starting to look relaxed.

  They marched down the main hall, and, only a moment later, turned down a side passage before taking a set of stairs upward. At the top of the stairs was a round chamber with doors that led into different colored libraries.