Damien’s brow furrowed, hands behind his back. ‘My mission in the Sanctecano Islands,’ he began, ‘was to eliminate you to keep you from talking—that was before I even knew you were in captivity. I was given no indication that Sera had Idari blood. And this Doctor Mathieson—he should not have known that I had been sent to eliminate you. No-one should have.’
‘Yeah, well, even Cronin has loose lips. Maybe Mathieson kept his diary for insurance. Too late to ask him now.’
‘Forgive me, Tyson—had I known their reasons for wanting you dead were so flimsy…’
‘They’d have sent someone else like you to do the deed.’
‘There is no-one like me. Not any more.’
Gallows didn’t know the whole story behind the demise of the organisation Damien used to run with, and now wasn’t the time to ask.
‘Fallon won’t stop,’ said Gallows. ‘With Thackeray dead, he’ll only dig deeper.’ And if he gets to Cronin before me, the son of a bitch lives.
Damien sat behind his desk, tapping his index finger on the wood. ‘If whoever killed Hessian knows she hired us, that puts the entire Hunters’ Guild at risk. We should inform Sheva, and perhaps reconvene with your Major Fallon. If we’re to-’
‘Uh, Damien, listen—no “we”. I’m out. I’m washing my hands of all of this.’
Damien stopped tapping. ‘Just like that? With what you know now?’
‘Damn right. Sera died, Damien. I should have died. I’m done with all of this. Once I talk to Veronica and tie up some loose ends-’
‘You’re going to kill Confessor Cronin.’
Gallows held his partner’s gaze. ‘You’re goddamn right I am.’
‘And,’ continued Damien, ‘you hope that you will die as a result?’
Gallows looked away. ‘Of course not.’
‘You’re lying.’
‘So what? What does it matter if I live or d-’
Louder than it had ever been before, the nearby Information Tower roared to life.
‘Citizens: The time is nine o’clock on the Twelfth Day of Terros. The time is nine o’clock on the Twelfth Day of Terros. An important announcement follows.
‘My people.’ The voice croaked through the static buzz that infected every syllable from the Info Towers, but its owner was unmistakeable: Pyron Thackeray. ‘Your Prime Councillor addresses you. I am speaking live from a secret location.
‘To the people of Dalthea: Please accept my sincerest regrets for the fresh tragedy that has befallen us—I know you share my grief, shock and anger. But our resolve is strong, and I promise you: We will prevail.
‘I have in my custody the orchestrators of the terrorist attack—know that there will be no quarter afforded to them.
‘Proclamation Six Nine Seven Two has been suspended. Removing your civil rights is exactly what our enemies want. Citizens are free to travel within city limits. However, checkpoints will remain in place, the military will patrol the streets, and travel rights outwith the city are suspended. These steps are being taken to ensure the safety of our citizens and our infrastructure.
‘Emergency reserves of water are being distributed as I speak. At this demanding time, emotions run high and questions need answered, but I urge you to remain calm and not hinder the military and the Watch as they carry out their duties.
‘To the perpetrators, terrorists and murderers that carried out yesterday’s attacks: You have failed. Resolutely, you have failed. You have not broken the spirit of this kingdom. You have not silenced us. Know this: All conspirators and collaborators who assisted in yesterday’s tragedy will be arrested and executed. None of you are safe. By the Great Gods and the Lesser, we will strike back with the wrath of Aerulus himself.
‘Justice is coming.’
Chapter Eighteen
‘Citizens: The time is ten o’clock on the Twelfth Day of Terros. The time is ten o’clock on the Twelfth Day of Terros. An important announcement follows…’
The news of Prime Councillor Thackeray’s survival had been recycled over and over for the past hour. Serena dismissed it; right now she was only focused on what Edlond had told her.
And if what he said was true, she was in even more danger than she’d realised.
‘This way,’ urged Myriel. ‘Come on.’ They pressed through narrow alleys, squeezed between slum shacks and shoved their way through clumps of people fighting over water. Myriel moved at a pace Serena could hardly keep up with.
‘Would you slow down?’ Serena called.
‘You heard what that wretched man said: You’re being followed.’
‘Yeah, but not right now.’
Myriel spun around. ‘How would you know?’
It may have been the thirst but Serena’s mouth turned barren, and the press of sunlight on her back did nothing to banish the shiver dancing over her. Myriel was right—someone had been watching her and she’d never even known. ‘Yeah, point taken.’
Proclamation Six Nine Seven Two had been suspended but the palpable fear ensured the streets were near-empty. Every time a passing patrol spotted Serena and Myriel, they eyed them with naked animosity.
Serena wiped sweat from her face. She’d wrapped one of Myriel’s shawls around her hair but it made her want to stick her head into a bucket of cold water. In the sky, the RSF’s new warship circled like a dragon.
‘This way, this way,’ Myriel commanded. ‘We’ll use open roads only if we have to.’
A thoroughfare sprawled before them, its rows of stalls picked clean and bereft of people. A man curled at a doorway, scratching his arms and mumbling nonsense. Scuzzer.
Myriel flicked a copper aeron his way without even glancing at him. ‘Onward, onward,’ she kept saying. After tying Edlond up and sticking him in the basement with a small canteen of water, Myriel had pulled Serena out the door. They were on their way to meet some contacts of Myriel’s, people she used to travel with or something. ‘Libertines, frauds and liars,’ the mage had called them, but it didn’t sound like an insult. Her eyes even lit up.
‘What’s this guy’s name again?’ Serena asked.
‘Francois Thrashwood.’
‘And he’s-’
‘Hush, girl, hush.’
Serena sighed. She didn’t see how hiding away with babysitters was going to help. All Myriel had said was that they’d need to get her away before the Confessors came knocking, and afterwards they could worry about proving Edlond killed Marrin. On that note, Myriel said she’d take care of the captive watchman as well.
His words rang in her head. You’re a weapon.
But he was full of it, right? Myriel had said so herself—prophecies, legends and all that crap didn’t mean a thing.
Old Town Square was just up ahead; gone were the swarms of people that choked the streets to get their papers renewed, pay licences and all the rest of it. Some big courthouse was in there as well. Dixon once told her that the man-made rivers ploughing through the city all led to a maze of fountains in the centre of Old Town Square. She’d love to have seen it.
‘We won’t get to Five Hawks Road through there,’ said Myriel, crossing a dusty road and into another alley. The path curved and sloped downward. Domed towers reached to the sky, casting thick shadows on the ground.
‘Won’t we be safe in the courthouse?’
‘If Edlond is telling the truth, you can be sure the magisters have your description. When a chicken crosses to the other side, he doesn’t do so via the butcher, yes?’
‘Uh, sure.’
‘My friend will keep you safe, Serena—but all the same, don’t confide anything in him. And don’t drink any of his liquor either.’
‘Why? Is this a guild house? Does he have grog? Beer?’
‘Not for you, he doesn’t.’
‘You say it like I’ve never drank before. I’m a Raincatcher, remember.’
‘There—a gatehouse. Widow’s Trail.’
‘Thank the Gods,’ muttered Serena, keen to sit and take the ache from he
r legs. The pain in her twisted ankle had just about faded, but it flared from walking so much.
A tense exchange with a watchwoman demanding a bribe followed. Myriel eventually convinced her that she’d given her last aeron to a scuzzer in the street. The cop scowled at both of them, but she let them through all the same.
‘Isn’t this where Barra’s Bazaar is?’ Serena asked.
‘Indeed. Any other day, the district would be buzzing.’ Myriel rounded a corner and ducked into another side street. ‘Through here.’
‘Gods, is this city, like, made of alleyways?’
‘Water… Water…’ An old woman with white hair brandished a damaged pewter tankard.
‘Apologies, Elsie, take this instead.’ Myriel conjured another coin—a silver aeron this time—and flicked it into Elsie’s mug.
‘Thank you kindly, Myriel.’ Elsie turned to Serena. ‘Girl,’ she said.
Serena smiled and looked away, face burning.
After twenty minutes, Five Hawks Road materialised. In the distance, deep reds and purples, blues and greens, oranges and yellows shimmered—canvases draped across a forest of stalls. Barra’s Bazaar.
‘I can see where you get your interior design inspiration from.’
‘Other way around, dear. Come.’
As they got closer, the aromas of coffee, spices and kringla swirls swept through the air, even though the bazaar was deserted. The sweet smell reminded her of Milo, of his thin and sickly frame. She hoped he wasn’t anywhere near yesterday’s attacks.
Her finger ran along the edge of the ticket he’d given her—sunlight glinted off its foil lettering. It had bent while stuffed in her overalls pouch, but it still looked grand. A shame she wouldn’t get to see Genevieve Couressa.
‘I wouldn’t be advertising you have that,’ said Myriel. ‘No idea who’s watching, and that would fetch a pretty price.’
A run-down lighthouse jutting up from a cliffside reached high in the sky. The faint but distinct acid odour from the Poison Veil sheared through the fragrances from the stalls.
‘Ah, here we are,’ said Myriel, motioning to the entrance of an apothecary shop.
‘Really?’ asked Serena. ‘Your secret society is in a junk shop?’
‘The Black Harp isn’t a secret society. Well, yes, it is, but really it’s just a group of like-minded people.’ Myriel produced an old iron key. ‘Well, “was” would be more accurate.’
‘I figured your key would be, like, in the shape of a skull or a harp or something.’
‘Oh no, much too obvious. Incognito is, well, key. Ha!’
The door squealed inward. A blanket of cheap smells hugged Serena. Rows of jars and candles filled rosewood shelves. Dust covered the counter, the shelves… Everywhere. The tattered floor carried the scratched paintwork of what was once a vibrant mosaic.
‘This way.’ Serena followed Myriel through a beaded curtain and into a back room. ‘Now, the secret knock—let’s see if I can remember…’
Myriel marched to a dark, wooden door, lifted her fist, and knocked once.
Serena waited.
A second passed.
Then another.
‘Well as far as secret knocks go, that seems easy to-’
Myriel’s fists puttered on the door in a series of impossible-to-follow patterns and rhythms.
The door opened with a gradual, prolonged creak. ‘Ah, The Seven Blessings & Curses of Angelique of Adeline,’ sailed a man’s voice. ‘Angelique’s Fall: A Sonnet For Winter.’
‘Abridged,’ said Myriel. Serena could hear the smile in her voice.
‘Best song in the entire show.’ A hacking cough rumbled behind the door. Then the voice took on an ominous, melodramatic timbre. ‘Come, ye who dare, into the sanctum of the Black Harp, and may you leave enlightened from its melodies!’
‘Go on, Serena,’ said Myriel.
Great. What kind of weird-
‘Francois will keep an eye on you.’
‘What? You’re not coming in?’
The door crashed into the wall. ‘What? You’re not coming in?’ Francois asked.
He was a thin old man in a loose, brown cotton shirt and red trousers. He looked to be around Myriel’s age with greying skin that clung to his bones. A pair of spectacles hung on the bridge of his nose, highlighting his glazed, bloodshot eyes.
‘I’m afraid I cannot,’ said Myriel, looking first to Serena and then to Francois. ‘My ward here is in need of-’
‘Babysitting?’ shot Serena.
‘Effectively.’
Francois painted a smile on his face. ‘How long has it been, Myriel?’
‘Now, Francois,’ started Myriel. Mischief played in her eyes but her voice was all steel. ‘We’re not here to reminisce. Can I count on you to look after my companion for a spell?’
Francois looked startled, like he had no idea Serena was there. He patted his jet black hair down. Serena—something of an expert on odd hair colour—did not for a second believe it was natural.
‘Of course, of course,’ he said. ‘How do you do, young Miss Serena?’ He bowed low. ‘I am Sir Francois Thrashwood of Rhis, proprietor and Very Illustrious Sovereign Master, Founder, Supreme High Superior -’
‘He’s the boss of the Black Harp,’ said Myriel.
‘Thanks,’ said Serena.
‘Aaah, Myriel…’ Francois’s syllables tripped over themselves. ‘Do you recall the night we visited the Laguna Lounge, danced and drank our woes away?’
Myriel rolled her eyes. ‘It’s tough to forget considering it’s all you ever speak of. Francois. Francois.’
‘Hm?’ He spluttered. ‘Forgive me, forgive me, nearly found myself asleep.’
‘If you could give Serena some water—not liquor—and food, I’ll square you up. If the Watch or anyone else comes calling, tell them nothing.’
Francois saluted. ‘Delighted to assist. You’re sure you can’t stay? I have some fascinating new books we can discuss.’
Myriel answered with a look.
‘Right you are, then.’ He trundled back through the door.
‘He’s a touch… eccentric, but he’s a good man. You can trust him.’
Serena was far from convinced, but it wasn’t like she had a choice. ‘Do you need to go?’
‘Afraid so but I shan’t be long. I will attempt to secure us transport out of the city.’
‘Hey, I told you I ain’t running.’
‘It doesn’t hurt to have an escape plan. I’m friends with Father Talbot.’
‘Really? He teaches us about airships and stuff.’
‘He is an expert in that field. Owes me a favour. It’ll be a tall order, but I may be able to secure us passage once the skies open again, should we need it.’
‘Okay. Thanks. Hey, what are you gonna do with Edlond?’
‘Haven’t the foggiest. Keep him locked up, most likely. Confessor Cronin will find him eventually, however.’
‘And you don’t reckon he’ll arrest Edlond, or Enfield?’
‘Oh no—not a man like Cronin. He’s a fanatic, Serena; if the Council ordered him to drown a baby in the name of the Fayth, he’d so with a smile. No, we’re on our own I’m afraid.’
‘Alright.’ Serena unfurled the shawl around her head. ‘I’ll sit tight.’
‘Stay safe.’
‘How is he alive?’ spat Gallows.
He stood by Damien’s side, gazing out at the Information Tower as if doing so would yield answers. Gallows ran his fingers halfway through his hair, then stopped. ‘Unless… Son of a bitch.’
‘Yes?’
‘Gods above…’ Gallows paced the room, muttering to himself.
‘No-one likes it when you do that,’ Damien said. ‘Please elaborate.’
‘It’s a frame job. He faked it, Damien. This is what Fallon was investigating… Holy shit.’
‘You believe Thackeray staged his assassination? To what end? To hurl us into another war?’
‘If you take his point of
view, the war never ended—we just stopped shooting.’ Weariness still tugged at him, but Gallows had gained a second wind. ‘Okay, so Fallon had a man in Outpost One Three Seven; he found evidence that the ignogen bomb was Dalthean in origin. But when we got there-’
‘The scientists were being executed.’ Damien rested his hand in his chin. ‘You think-’
‘Thackeray was tying up loose ends. Fallon’s man is dead; so is the other watchman he worked with, a guy called Kyatis.’
‘Marrius Kyatis,’ Damien chorused, his head inclining. ‘The Watch claim Tiera Martelo murdered him.’
‘Shit. Do you know where he died?’
‘His body was discovered in Dustwynd, probably moved. Continue.’
‘Right. So, Thackeray has Kyatis offed because he knows about the bomb and all the other shit—probably made Tiera do it; why get someone else’s hands dirty? Then, not long after, Thackeray’s seemingly assassinated in full view of the city—the world—by a woman everyone is quick to say is an Idari agent. But the Watch are already there, and they try to kill her before she can talk.
‘Bombs go off around Queen Iona Bridge—killing Thackeray’s biggest threat.’
‘Alspeth tal Simara,’ nodded Damien.
‘And reps from other countries.’
‘Uniting every nation with a common purpose.’
Gallows shook his head. ‘Which is something Thackeray’s critics always said he was lacking. And it won’t hurt that Tiera is Phadrosi—they’ll be quick to denounce her. And after Thackeray “dies”, suicide bombers strike—a common tactic of Idari fanatics, just to seal the deal.’
‘And amidst the confusion and terror, no-one is able to check on the Prime Councillor.’
‘Right.’ Gallows marched back and forth, heart catapulting in his chest.
‘And when the death squad you encountered in One Three Seven eliminates everyone who worked on this “ignogen” bomb-’
‘No-one left to talk. Boom, case closed.’ Gallows planted his hands on the desk. Damien set himself into his seat. ‘He’s been planning this.’
‘With the Council gone and war on our doorstep,’ started Damien, ‘Thackeray will have no obstruction to passing his laws—he is the majority of the Council now. The Proclamation was just the start—he’ll distribute firearms to the Watch, afford them executioner powers-’
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