Canticle

Chapter 10

Neb

They rode in silence, low in the saddles and pushing their horses as hard as the magicks would let them. Behind them, pack horses kept up without effort, led by the scouts bringing up the rear. The hooves struck the wide, flat stones of the Whymer Road, but instead of sparks and a drum-pounded gallop, they offered the slightest of coughs as the magicks bent sound around them even in the same way that the scout magicks bent light. The landscape whipped past quickly too as their enhanced strength carried them across the rocky terrain.

Neb clung to the saddle and leaned forward, letting the cold wind wash over his back as it spilled over him. He tried to keep his eyes fixed on the scout ahead, but the scenery kept pulling his attention away. There was a beauty in the shattered lands they rode through, and it tugged at his heart.

And these are just the far edges of it. Deeper into the Wastes, glass mountain ranges cast bloody shadows over forests of bone. And near these dead cities, expanses of white, coarse, glass where sea salt, left behind when the water boiled away, had fused with the sand to make razor-edged dunes that the wind moaned over. At night, creatures hunted there by the light of a blue-green moon. Indescribable leftovers of an age long past, driven mad by Xhum Y’Zir’s Seven Cacophonic Deaths.

He’d seen it in his dreams and had no doubt now that it awaited him somewhere ahead.

But for now, the landscape was simple rock and sand and scrub. Outcroppings of granite shaped by years of wind and dark straggly brush that squatted low to the ground. It looked nothing like his imaginings.

They’d entered the Wastes just ten minutes behind the metal man who fled them. If it had noticed, it paid them no mind. The mechanical moved fast, and just before they’d lost sight of it, it had still been upon the Whymer Way and moving east, the sun glinting off its bare head in the distance.

Neb feared now that they sought a solitary pearl in a vast ocean, but he was hesitant to say so. Beside him, Isaak rode uneasily in the saddle and kept his amber eyes on the road ahead, and his head swiveled to the left and right as he scanned the hills that lined the highway.

Finally, Aedric pulled forward and said what Neb wouldn’t say. “I think we’ve lost him,” he said, slowing his horse. “Even with the magicks, the horses can’t keep up.”

The others slowed as well.

“I can catch him,” Isaak said. His eye shutters flashed open and closed, the glassy jewels still fixed ahead.

Aedric shook his head. “We need to stay together. General Rudolfo would not-”

But he was interrupted when something hard bounced off the side of Isaak’s head with a dull clunk. A small stone clattered across the pocked surface of the highway. They heard giggling above. Neb and the others looked up to the rocky outcroppings that hemmed them in.

“Rainbow Men and Metal Men far from home,” a voice shouted. Its tone and timbre was off-it went high when it should’ve gone low and vice-versa. “No Ash Men to guard you.”

They stopped, and at Aedric’s low whistle, the men reached for their bows and backed their horses away from the direction of the voice. Aedric fixed his eyes in the direction of the voice. “We do not wish violence.”

More laughter. “Who ever wishes such a thing? But in the basement of the world violence simply is.” Another rock-this one smaller-pitched and arched slowly, giving Aedric time to sidestep his horse. “Where do you ride in such a hurry, Rainbow Man? And without your shovels and wagons?”

Aedric raised his voice and answered. “I am Aedric, First Captain of the Gypsy Scouts. We’re here on the business of Rudolfo, General of Wandering Army and Lord of the Ninefold Forest Houses.”

Other voices joined in the giggling now, and the laughter bounced from stone to stone, filling the sky above them with what seemed an army of voices. “What forest, Rainbow Man? What general? What lord? Why do you speak nonsense to your orphaned boys? You come from the Luxpadre of the West. Say ‘aye’ to it and bring forward your payment. We will guide you truer than Renard.”

Neb looked up. Isaak did, too, and their eyes met. Neb’s hands moved quickly. Ask about Renard, he signed. Aedric nodded.

The First Captain turned his horse, looking above in the direction of the voice. “Who is Renard? Where can we find him?”

“No one and nowhere. You deal with Geoffrus now. Renard is mad. Geoffrus will see you to your digging holes.”

Aedric’s eyes narrowed. “Why don’t you come down so we can discuss this properly?”

This time the laughter continued on for a bit. There was an eerie quality to it that unsettled Neb’s stomach. He heard danger in it. “Rainbow Men with bows and knives. Do you offer kin-clave to me and mine?”

“Aye,” Aedric said. “For now. If you’ve stopped throwing stones.”

There was the scrabble of dirt and rock cascading above and behind, and Neb looked up to it. A slight form slipped into view, a slender man in patchwork cloth and scraps of rough leather. He moved lightly on his feet as he slid down the side of the hill to land with a flourish before Aedric.

“I am Geoffrus at your service,” he said, chuckling. “And these are my men.” A half dozen heads rose to peer down at them. “Kin-clave you offer and kin-clave we take. Payment for service is rendered upon agreement.”

The man seemed off balance to Neb, but at first he could not tell why. Then he realized that his eyes never quite landed. They moved over everything. His left hand twitched at his side, and when he opened his mouth, his teeth and gums were black from some foul-looking substance he chewed and sucked at while he waited for Aedric to speak.

Finally, Aedric cleared his voice. “You wish me to pay you. What service will you render?”

“I will guide you true. Take you where you want to go.” Then, as an afterthought: “Safely.”

“And what payment for this service?”

Geoffrus smiled and danced a jig. “Knives and meat. Meat and knives. And rainbow scarves for me and mine.”

Aedric looked to Neb with raised eyebrows. His hands moved. Do you think we can trust him?

Neb looked at the patchwork man, then back to Aedric. He could read what Aedric thought clearly in the way the First Captain sat in his saddle. No, he signed.

He glanced at Isaak. The metal man was watching the direction their quarry had fled to, eye shutters opening and closing as if calculating distance.

Aedric saw the same and made a decision. “We will consider your kind and generous offer for a later time,” he said. “But for now, we must ride.”

Geoffrus howled. He leaped and spun in the air, beating his chest with his fists. Above him, in the hills, other voices hooted and howled as well. “Rainbow Man, why do you spurn me and mine with the kin-clave so lovely between us?”

A new voice rose above the din. This one was deep and gravelly, and the laughter that it rode upon was bemused. “The Rainbow Man is wiser than you credit him for, Geoffrus,” the voice said. A figure stepped onto the highway. “Perhaps he knows that the only digging holes you’ll lead him to are shallow graves to hide their meat-picked bones. Perhaps the Luxpadre told him about the Ash Men you killed and ate.”

Geoffrus’s cavorting stopped. He fixed his eyes onto the figure, and Neb followed his gaze, surprised at the fear and rage that replaced the mirth so quickly. The newcomer was slender as a willow and tall, wrapped in the charcoal cloak of a Gray Guard. Beneath the guard’s cloak, he wore the rough fabric robes of an Androfrancine archaeologist. His salt-and-pepper hair and beard were both close-cropped, and his crooked smile betrayed a relaxed confidence. His eyes were hard points of bright blue. He held a long lacquered wooden stick loosely; a large bulb of some kind at the base of it rested easy in the palm of one hand. The man stepped forward, and the wind rustled his cloak and robes as he came.

“We have kin-clave with these men,” Geoffrus started, taking a step back. “We have nearly reached agreement.”

“It sounds to me,” the man said, “as if they seek a more polite way of extricating themselves from your company.” He took another step forward. “I will not be so kind. I hold the contract with the Ash Men. I hold the letters of introduction and credit from the Luxpadre that say so.”

He raised the lacquered stick and pointed one end at Geoffrus. Neb noted the dark mouth at the end of it and wondered what the strange object did. He did not wonder for long. With the slightest squeeze of the bulb, a small cloud of what looked like pollen spat from it, and something small and hard shot out, hitting the paving stone near Geoffrus’s feet with surprising force and clattering off to clack against the canyon wall. Geoffrus jumped back, the anger fading as the fear took front and center in his eyes. “No call for such, no call for such,” he cried, raising his hands in supplication. “Geoffrus knows an unwelcoming lot.”

“If you keep following these men,” the robed man said with a smile, “then you and yours will be the eaten and I will sell your skin to the Waste Witch for carrots and pepper.”

Geoffrus looked around at the silent Gypsy Scouts, looked up to the heads that watched quietly from above, and his shoulders slumped. “No kin-clave here,” he said, his mouth hard and straight. His eyes met Neb’s for a moment, and Neb saw the hatred and hunger in them. Bowing with a flourish, he spun on his heels and clambered back up the rocky slope.

When Geoffrus vanished, the newcomer looked to Aedric. “You pursue the metal man,” he said simply. “I doubt you’ll catch up to it unless it wishes you to.” He looked to Isaak. “They’re crafty, these, and dangerous.”

Isaak said nothing. His bellows whispered quietly, and the massive stallion he rode shifted beneath his weight.

Next, the guide studied their uniforms. “And you’re not from the Luxpadre’s Gray Guard, yet you play with his toys. You have the look of Forest Gypsies about you.”

Aedric nodded. “The world beyond the Keeper’s Wall has changed. Windwir is fallen. The Order is no more.”

Neb thought the news would carry more impact. But instead, the man patted a courier pouch that hung from a worn leather strap around his neck. “Then these letters will be worthless now. I’d wondered when the caravans stopped coming and going so suddenly last year.”

“Lord Rudolfo has inherited the Order’s holdings, including the Eastern Watch,” Aedric said. “I am empowered to honor or execute any contracts on his behalf. Are you Androfrancine, then?”

The man shook his head. “I’m not. But I’ve served them long enough, and my father before that.” Stepping forward, he extended his hand. “I am Renard,” he said. “I will gladly escort you to Fargoer’s Town, where you may secure other arrangements to go after your wayward metal toy.”

Aedric nudged his horse forward, leaned over and shook the man’s hand once, releasing it quickly. “I am Aedric, First Captain of Rudolfo’s Gypsy Scouts.”

“Well met,” Renard said with a nod. He turned, lifting his stick with one hand and pointing northeast. “Fargoer’s Town is yonder. We could reach it by nightfall.” His eyes shifted from Aedric to Neb and then last to Isaak. “We should reach it by nightfall. The Wastes aren’t safe by night.”

Aedric’s eyes narrowed. “And how do we know we can trust you to guide us true?”

The crooked grin was back. “You are a dozen. I’m alone. But more than that. ” He opened the flap on the pouch, rummaged about inside, and withdrew a tattered letter. He passed it to Aedric.

The First Captain read it quickly, then ran a finger over the seal at the bottom before passing it to Neb. It was a letter of introduction signed and dated by Pope Introspect some twenty years earlier, declaring that Renard son of Remus bore the grace of His Holiness the Pope and could negotiate freely such terms and conditions on behalf of the Order as necessary for its work in the Old World. Neb couldn’t resist; he also touched the imprint of the papal signet before handing it back to his First Captain. He’d seen the signature many times before, and he’d carried that signet in his pocket for days before passing it to Petronus there near the craters that marked the Great Library’s grave.

Renard looked up to him and winked, digging a black bit of root from his pocket and sucking it into his mouth. “You’re Hebda’s boy,” he said as he chewed it. “You’re early, but your father told me to expect you.” Then, he turned even as Neb opened his mouth to speak. “We’ve a lot of ground to cover,” their new guide said over his shoulder. “Let’s run.”

He set out at a jog that stretched into a sprint, and Aedric whistled them forward. At first, Neb wondered how it was this strange Waster thought he’d keep ahead of magicked horses moving at full speed. But even as they spurred their mounts forward, he saw that Renard had no difficulty matching his pace to theirs. His feet slapped the broad paving stones of the Whymer Way, and he threw back his head, laughing wildly as he ran.

Your father told me to expect you.

Later, he would ask about that. But for now, something was happening to him. Something he could not fathom nor explain.

As Neb leaned forward in the saddle, something caught in his soul and expanded. It was as if they’d crossed an invisible border that marked their true arrival in the place he’d longed for since earliest childhood. The air carried the smell of burnt spices and ancient dust. It tasted bitter on his tongue when he opened his mouth, and the sun, hanging like a golden wafer in a bright and cloudless sky, called for him to laugh as well, to give himself over to something feral and mad in this place and run with the wind to places long forgotten. To the graveyards of the former Age’s light.

This place will seduce me and swallow me if I let it, he realized.

And with that realization, Neb forced the smile away from his lips and bent his mind to watching the road roll past beneath the whispering hooves.

Rudolfo

When they rounded the bend in the lane and approached the small shack and its nearby boat house, the memory of the place struck Rudolfo like a fist.

I’ve been here before.

His men had followed the magicked Gray Guard back to this place and had watched it through the night from the cover of a nearby thicket. In the late morning, after he’d availed himself of the innkeeper’s best fare-poached eggs and broiled salmon with seasoned potatoes and sweet, black beer-Rudolfo and the rest of his men had joined them. Two birds had gone out from the back window of the boat house, and there was no movement whatsoever in the shack. Its windows and door had been boarded up, and no smoke leaked out from its stone chimney.

Had he known back then that this was Petronus’s home? He didn’t think he had-he thought he would’ve remembered such a thing. But those had been dark and tumultuous times, and there had been days, washed in the grief and rage of Windwir’s loss, of Gregoric’s loss, that he’d not even remembered his own name.

Still, he remembered this place. He remembered the men outside the door, waiting. He remembered the stink of feces and urine in the boat house and the croaking of Sethbert where he hid in the corner, demanding to see Rudolfo, threatening to hurt him but having no blade in his hand with which to do so.

“I will hurt you with words,” the mad Overseer had croaked.

And he’d spoken truly. Those words had twisted Rudolfo’s life into a black and angry river, for it was there that he first learned of Vlad Li Tam’s work in his life and of House Li Tam’s role in the murder of his family.

The memory of that day tasted like copper in his mouth, and he swallowed it. He looked to the men that flanked him and signed for them to watch and wait. They scattered, taking up positions and melting into the underbrush to guard their liege.

Rudolfo went to the boat house door and rapped upon it lightly. “It is Rudolfo,” he said in a quiet voice. “And I no longer have the time or forbearance to wait.” He paused, then offered, “I’ve a medico among my scouts and you’re ill.”

At first, he heard nothing behind the heavy wood. Then, he heard faint coughing and quiet, careful movement. There was the sound of a bar being lifted and the door opened a crack. “You followed me for nothing,” the voice said plainly. “I’ve no word for you, Gypsy King.”

Rudolfo easily pushed the door open, and the Gray Guard fell back. The odor of sickness and bird droppings choked him as he stepped into the room, letting the sunlight spill past him. The haggard man was nearly visible as the magicks gradually released him. Still, it could be too late. The magicks required years of gradual, measured use to build up immunity to their darker side effects, and these Gray Guard couldn’t have been using them for more than a handful of months. The Order stood above such things, though they tolerated-and even encouraged-their neighbors to use such reminders of the former times. The Gypsy King whistled, and one of his men slipped forward. “Are you alone?” he asked the Gray Guard.

The Gray Guard said nothing, and Rudolfo’s eyes narrowed. He let menace and honey mingle in his voice. “I have kin-clave with your master, regardless the Order’s standing. I am the Guardian of Windwir and the heir of P’Andro Whym’s holdings. I expect you to deal truthfully with me according to the Articles of Kin-Clave and tell me what I need to know that I might be on my way. I’ve business to attend with Petronus, and I’ve been gracious thus far. But I will not let the stubbornness of a dying man bring about more death.” He took another step closer to the man. “I will speak and you will answer,” he said. “Are you alone?”

The man coughed, bending as he did, and when he vomited onto the floor Rudolfo saw blood flecked with white foam. “There are two of us. Jarryd is sick, as well.” He nodded to the far corner of the room.

Rudolfo stepped over the puddle of blood and let the medico in. The scout took the man by the elbow and guided him to the shadow-wrapped pile of blankets where the other guard slept. “Do you have what you need to treat them?”

“Aye, General,” the scout said. “What I lack, the Bay Woman will have.”

Rudolfo nodded. “Send for what you need.”

While the medico went about his work, Rudolfo looked around the familiar room. It wasn’t very different, but of course it had not been so long ago that he’d stood here. The boat was there, overturned, and the small sail was folded neatly. The mast lay along the far wall and the oars hung from pegs throughout. Other pegs held the various nets and rods of a fisherman. But in the back, where the smell of birds hung strong, Rudolfo saw one large difference.

What had once been cabinets and a tool bench had been cleared to make room for bird coops, and nearby were stacks of parchment and spools of thread. Scarlet for war, green for peace, white for kin-clave, blue for inquiry, black for danger. The rainbow colors of kin-clave-the rainbow colors of the Forest Houses-were all there along with a half dozen pens and a dozen bottles of ink.

Rudolfo moved closer and heard the cooing of the birds. Even as he approached he heard a soft thud and looked up to see a brown sparrow tangled in a catching net that hung from a small opened window. He went to it, ignoring the sound of a struggle behind him as the sick Gray Guard sought to rise and attend the tiny messenger.

Or prevent me from attending, Rudolfo thought.

Clucking his tongue, he stretched his fingers and lifted the bird from the net. It lay still and chirped in the palm of his hand. He pulled the blue thread from its foot. The small scroll came with it, and he gently lowered the bird into an open cage. He placed it onto its perch, then set the note aside.

As a boy, he’d loved the birder’s coops as much as he’d loved Tormentor’s Row or the secret passages that laced the Forest Manors where he’d spent his childhood. He’d learned how to mix the feed and how to find the voice that would send them to the places he would have them go. And he’d learned the codes-dozens more than he’d needed to know.

“First,” Garvis the Birder had told him through his broken old teeth, “you feed them, you water them. They work hard for His Lordship, bearing the word. After they’re fed,” he said in a rhyming, singsong voice, “the message is read.”

So even now, Rudolfo reached into the smaller feed pouch and pulled a pinch of the treated grains that gave them speed and uncanny direction. He placed the tiny bit into the small wooden thimble and added a larger pinch from the other sack. He mixed them with his little finger and placed the thimble into the cage. Then, he filled a small wooden cup with water and placed it beside the grain.

After, he closed the cage and picked up the note. He ran the thread between his forefinger and thumb, looking for knotted words. Nothing. Next, he opened the note carefully and read it through once. It was a letter to the fisherman Petros about a borrowed book-An Exegesis of the Metaphysical Gospels of T’Erys Whym by the scholar Tertius-stating that the book would be returned within the month on a vessel bound for Caldus Bay and sailing out of Carthas on the lower Delta of the Three Rivers. The note was written in standard cipher and inquired after Petronus’s health, offered a few lines about the “recent troubles on the Delta” but all in all had nothing particularly useful. But the code was there, and though Rudolfo could see it, plain as plain, he could not read it.

He looked around the bench and saw no other letters. Just empty parchment, though the box of matches and the metal pail on the floor nearby explained why. Bending slightly, he sniffed the bucket and wrinkled his nose at the scent of fish guts and smoke.

Bringing the note, he walked to the back of the boat house where his medico bent over his two patients. Rudolfo put his hand on the scout’s shoulder and pressed his message into the hard muscle he found there. Prognosis?

The medico straightened, handing off a steaming mug to one of the scouts who assisted him. The scout knelt and resumed soaking a cotton bandage in the bitter-smelling elixir, pressing it to the lips of the unconscious Gray Guard. “They’ll live, but they’re not well. They need to be abed in a warmer, dryer place.”

The one who’d answered the door coughed so violently that he shook, but he still tried to sit up. “The bird,” he said, his eyes wild and wide.

“The bird is safe and sound,” Rudolfo said. “But you are neither safe nor sound here. The powders are undoing you, and you will need better care and rest than this hovel can afford you.” He nodded to the coops behind him. “You’re running a message post,” he said. “Why?”

The man swallowed, his eyes lighting upon the note in Rudolfo’s hand. “I am under Grymlis’s orders.”

Rudolfo leaned closer. “And what are those orders,” he asked, “exactly?”

The man’s eyes were glazing over from the exertion of sitting up. He shivered and fell back. “I don’t know the codes,” he said. “I can’t tell what I don’t know.”

Rudolfo gritted his teeth. The damnable paranoia of the powders combined with the normal caution of a loyal man were wearing his thin patience thinner yet. “I’ve not asked the codes. I’ve asked your orders.” He forced a reasonable tone to his voice and he lowered it. “I am a friend of the Order,” he said. “You’d know this if you were in your right mind.”

The man laughed. “The Order has no friends.”

Rudolfo sighed. “Very well. You’ve left me little choice.” He whistled, and First Lieutenant Jaryk entered, concern washing his face. “Dig up scout uniforms for these men, and when they’re dressed, bring the horses. Two of our own will stay here with me to mind the birds. I will hope to sort this puzzle out myself.” He gestured to the two Gray Guard. “These you’ll deliver to the inn in Kendrick’s Town. Lodge them there for three weeks’ time under my good credit.” He waved his hand. “Tell the innkeeper the truth-that they’re overmagicked and crazed from exhaustion.” His eyes narrowed. “They should be restrained at all times until in their right mind.”

The Gray Guard’s eyes went wild. “No, Lord,” he said. “We can’t leave our-”

Rudolfo’s voice lowered to a near whisper. “You are leaving your post one way or another. You either leave it in the care of my fully informed Gypsy Scouts or you leave it in more haphazard straits.”

Swallowing one part pride and a good measure of phlegm, the Gray Guard passed his orders on to Rudolfo. Rudolfo knelt beside him, listening carefully, as he did.

By the time the soldier finished and sagged back into his filthy bedding, Rudolfo knew all he needed to know. Taking the note, he scribbled his own code into the letter carefully. He worked the message into each jot and tittle, each smudge and blur of ink. Then, he pulled the next bird from its cage and tied the modified message to its foot with the green thread of peace.

Suddenly, he remembered another bird, over a year past now, under the same color and going to Sethbert at the edge of the Desolation of Windwir. This felt just as much the lie as that message back then. He looked at the other threads scattered across the workbench.

“They should all be red,” he said aloud in a voice that sounded more tired than he thought he should be.

Lifting the bird to the window, he whispered a name and gave his message to the grayness of the sky.

Petronus

Hushed voices met his ears as Petronus’s unseen escort guided him through the streets. Blindfolded and magicked, firm hands kept him on his feet and moving forward though his legs were gone to water and the sound of his heartbeat filled his head.

“You’ll be fine,” Rafe Merrique had told him that morning with a wink. “You may have a few nightmares. Beyond that, you’ll be good as new by morning.”

Petronus had agreed reluctantly, letting the pirate dab the traces of the white powder to his shoulders and feet, forehead and tongue. Then he’d felt his stomach wobble-along with the room-when the magicks took hold.

Now, he and his men were being jostled quickly through what sounded and smelled like a fish market. He listened for any telltale clue that might speak to their location but found, instead, all of his attention went to staying upright and moving forward. He did not know how Grymlis and his men maintained themselves so well, coming late as they did to the powders. And then there were men like Rudolfo’s Gypsy Scouts, bred to the magicks and knives and using both as if made to do so. It awed him.

His stomach knotted into a cramp that caught his breath in his throat, and he staggered. “I’m going to be sick,” he said in a muffled voice.

No one answered, but a hand on his shoulder squeezed in a reassuring way. It took him a moment to get his brain around the tapped message.

We’re nearly there. He had no idea whose hand it was; he didn’t care. Instead, he gave himself to putting one foot in front of the other. He reached into his memory to find one of the hundred Franci meditations he’d used to bring calm and comfort, but none of the muttered words could blot out the drumbeat of his heart, now pounding just out of time with the other hundred heartbeats within earshot. He heard the rasp of breath in and breath out, the jangled cacophony of a thousand other simple actions, all enhanced by the magicks, and he understood why their use had been forbidden by the Articles of Kin-Clave under all but extreme circumstances.

Then, the afternoon light that burned into his scalp vanished and he felt shadows enfold him. He felt solid, stone steps beneath his leather boots. The press of bodies around him moved down like a river that carried him in its current; cool air licked his face and arms.

They turned and turned again, a Whymer Maze of corridors. At some point, he was separated from the others and opened his mouth to protest. But before he could speak, the hand was back to his shoulder. Your host wishes a few minutes alone with you.

Resolved, Petronus allowed himself to be led farther into the maze.

Finally, they stopped and hands went to the back of Petronus’s head. More hands settled him back into a chair. The intensity of light when the blindfold came down stung his eyes and he blinked.

“When I was ten years old,” a voice said from across the room, “I heard you speak in Carthas during the Year of the Falling Moon. Two years later, I mourned your death and swore vengeance upon your assassins with all of the fervor of a twelve-year-old boy.” There was a pause. “When I took my vows to the Order, I did so under your portrait in the Great Library.”

Petronus looked in the direction of the voice. A stocky man with a careless beard and spectacles smiled. “You are still under the magicks,” the man said. “You have my apologies for that, Father. I know they’re. uncomfortable.”

Petronus opened his mouth and found it dry. He licked his lips. “You’re Androfrancine, then?”

“I was.” His smile faded. “I guard another light now.”

Petronus dug through his memory for snippets of code brought by the bird. What was his name? It came to him suddenly. “You’re Esarov the Democrat, then.”

He nodded. “I am.”

Petronus chuckled. “You’ve been busy. How many of the city-states are a part of your congress now?”

“Four as of yesterday.”

He remembered the declaration Esarov and his cronies had posted on the door of the Overseer’s puppet Council of Governors. It had been a bold move on the heels of Sethbert’s unjust attack on Windwir and the war it spurred. With its economy broken and the war lost, that small seed of unrest grew into a choked forest of revolution, with this man-the author of the declaration-at its forefront.

Petronus looked around. It was a simple room-a workroom with benches and tools strewn about on one side and stacks of books and papers on the other. A small wooden trestle table sat in the middle with a modest fruit bowl and half of a loaf of bread. A water-jeweled pitcher stood near a handful of empty mugs. Esarov waved to the table. “Please,” he said.

Petronus’s stomach twisted at the sight of the food. “Later perhaps,” he said. “Meanwhile, I have questions.”

Esarov smiled. “I’m happy to answer them.” He squinted at him. “Ah, you’re coming more into focus now.”

“You’ve offered me refuge here, in a place where I may or may not necessarily be safer.” His eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“We have a common interest in recent events,” he said. “I think we have shared suspicions of a larger threat.”

How does he know? Petronus said nothing, waiting for his host to continue.

Esarov’s voice lowered. “I know about the secondary Tam network,” he said. “I know about the forged documents that led Sethbert into war.”

Petronus blinked, grateful that the magicks masked his eyes. “Forged?”

The revolutionary nodded. “Planted by House Li Tam,” Esarov said. “The same network that continues to operate in the Named Lands despite Vlad Li Tam’s rather sudden departure.”

Another network, Petronus thought. Esarov believed House Li Tam responsible for the Desolation of Windwir. To the outside eye, that made sense. But not to Petronus. Vlad Li Tam had certainly changed in the years since they’d been boys together that summer in Caldus Bay, but Petronus still believed his last assurance that day in the Gypsy King’s Seventh Forest Manor.

Rudolfo was Tam’s work, he’d told him, just as Petronus was his father’s work. And Petronus remembered Tal Li Tam though they’d only met once. He’d been a tall, powerful figure with a tawny red mane and large, calloused hands. There’d been ruthlessness in those blue eyes that had chilled the young man when he’d reached out to shake his friend’s father’s hand.

A secondary network, operating within the Order and within the complex kin-claves of the Named Lands, to bring down Windwir? It was plausible, but to what end?

“I’ve been following the goings-on for months now,” Petronus said in a quiet voice. “It does appear to be manipulated.” But I count your so-called revolution among those manipulations, he thought but did not say. Even back into the days of the Younger Gods there’d been no circumstance where self-rule had not eventually reverted back to some form of hierarchy with a strong central leader.

“And the Marshfolk are turning violent,” Esarov said. He pursed his lips. “This, too, could be manipulated. The Remnant is shrinking. Androfrancines are being attacked by Marshers in the north, those that aren’t hidden in the Gypsy King’s forests or hidden behind the locked gates of the Papal Summer Palace.” The revolutionary’s eyes narrowed. “And Rudolfo is a curious case. He’s the only one that appears to have actually profited from Windwir’s fall. And he was curiously untouched in these last attacks.”

Petronus felt a spark of anger rise. Or was it defensiveness? “I’m the one who signed over the holdings to him,” he said. “I can tell you with surety that Rudolfo had nothing to do with Windwir. Sethbert did that, with or without the Tams’ involvement.”

But of course the Tams had been involved, right down to Petronus signing over the accounts and lands of the Order, as much as he hated to admit it.

And now the Ninefold Forest is the only stable corner of the New World.

“Regardless,” Esarov said. “It is curious. I smell the work of House Li Tam in it.” He stood by the table now, facing Petronus. “And you are working through it all like a Rufello cipher, trying to untangle the truth.”

Yes. Petronus looked down, saw his leg fading gradually into view. Then, he met Esarov’s eyes, though he doubted the man could tell that Petronus was staring at him. “I believe there is a threat outside the Named Lands,” he said. “I don’t believe all the papers were forged, though some signatures certainly were. I believe that the unrest in the Named Lands-and here on the Delta-is a product of that outside threat. I’m looking for evidence of it.”

Esarov smiled. “You can look, but you won’t find it. We’re doing this to ourselves. But it’s irrelevant. We gain more by working together. And. ” His voice trailed off.

“Yes?”

“I believe you can help me. Erlund is holding someone important. An Androfrancine.” He dug in his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He handed it to Petronus. Scribbled on it was an uncoded note in a reckless script:

I am the Arch-Engineer of Mechanical Science for the Androfrancine Order in Windwir. I bear an urgent message for the Hidden Pope Petronus. The Library is fallen by treachery. Sanctorum Lux must be protected.

Petronus read it again, slowly. “Charles is alive.” He’d not seen him in over thirty years. Then, the young man had been newly promoted from acolyte to Engineer, attracting the See’s attention with his reconstruction of Rufello’s mechanicals. Petronus handed the note back. “How old is this message?”

“By the context, we think nearly a year.”

Yes, Petronus thought. It had to be from before he had announced himself and stepped out of hiding there in the midst of the grave-digging of Windwir. The hidden Pope Petronus.

Somehow, Charles had known. Could Introspect have told him? And why? What purpose did it serve?

And what was this Sanctorum Lux that now required protection?

As if reading his mind, Esarov answered. “I believe it’s a replica of the Great Library,” he said. “A sanctuary of light. But I’m hoping you can tell me.”

Petronus shook his head. “It’s not familiar to me. But that doesn’t mean anything.” He thought about the forged signature authorizing the work around Xhum Y’Zir’s spell. “Still,” he said, “if the message is from Charles. ”

The gears and wheels of the Rufello lockbox fell into place for Petronus, and as he looked to his host, he saw himself shimmering, fading in and out of focus, in the reflection of Esarov’s spectacles. “You need my help negotiating for his release.”

Esarov nodded slowly. “In a way, yes.”

Petronus stood. “You need someone Erlund wants more than Charles. You want to make an exchange.” He felt something cold and hollow take root inside him, growing alongside a seedling of hope. And maybe, just maybe we restore the library. All of the library, he realized, not just what the mechoservitors carried about in their memory scrolls. He wondered in that moment if Esarov realized the exactitude with which Xhum Y’Zir’s spell had surgically removed all of the war-making knowledge the Androfrancines had guarded. All that had been left was a hand cannon that he’d sent Neb to destroy. The hand cannon that Resolute had used to take his own life and end the war. Thousands of years of digging and storing, and that was all of the weaponry that remained. Not even the spell had survived, according to Isaak, though Petronus thought that to be a miracle in their favor. Still, Santorum Lux was nothing more than an obscure reference from a man who could very well be dead by now.

But Petronus knew that no matter how unlikely, they needed to be sure.

“He may not want you more than Charles, but our laws will compel him to bargain with us and to arrest you. Sethbert was near-kin to Erlund and was executed without a proper trial,” Esarov said. “This could be a tremendous opportunity both for your light and mine.”

Petronus studied the strategy he saw before him and wondered if this indeed was part of a larger conspiracy or if Esarov had truly struck this note of genius under his own power. He saw an elaborate net laid out that could, if set well, expedite the end of this civil war and eventually rally the people behind the fledgling Democratic movement. It was as brilliant and careful as any Tam intrigue. “A trial for the man who killed Sethbert?”

Esarov nodded. “But more than that. Our legal system relies on the Jury of Governors. He’ll be forced to acknowledge the four new governors, duly elected by the people, or show himself truly for the dictator he is. And if you invoke your rights to Providence of Kin-Clave, based on your actions as a king. ” He offered a tight smile. “My emphasis at the Order-before I left-was New World law as developed from the Articles and Rites of Kin-Clave established at the First Settlers Congress.”

A message for the hidden Pope Petronus. Sanctorum Lux must be protected. The words played out behind his eyes.

Charles knew he was alive, then, and knew of something called Sanctorum Lux. And whatever this sanctuary of light was, Petronus knew they could not dismiss it.

He looked to the door. There were two men, each wearing cloth hoods that hid their faces. They wore the simple garb of fishermen, but he had no doubt they were soldiers. He also had no doubt that though he was being asked to cooperate, the plan was too carefully constructed to truly allow such a thing as choice to interfere. “You intend to exchange me for Charles. What guarantee do I have of a trial?”

And would it be any more just than the rabbit-and-sparrow show he’d put Sethbert through?

Esarov picked up an apple, bit into it and chewed thoughtfully before speaking. “It will be part of the truce we negotiate. I’ve a man close to Lysias. The general is still a reasonable fellow. We will also be certain that you are placed under house arrest and well treated, as is fitting of your former office.”

Some refuge I’ve found. He would be public. He would be removed from his work and under constant watch. And if Esarov was wrong at any point along this path, Petronus could find himself facing an axe or a hangman’s rope.

He bowed his head, studying the fabric of his robe as it reasserted itself and the magicks guttered out their last. On the night he’d been attacked, Petronus anticipated a reckoning there in the relative obscurity of his shack on the bay.

Now, he realized, that reckoning truly had found him.

He looked up, met eyes with the younger man, who blinked behind the glass lenses he wore. “I’ll do it,” Petronus answered.

And his voice was steady and strong as he said it.