Chapter XXXV: . . . But Keep Discord
* * * * * *
Lady Wright:
“The moment I touched sand on Comchan, I swore an Oath of Six that I’d make up for what we’d lost in Baysmouth. But only a damn fool would think it’d be easy. Every battle I fought would be makin’ up for ceded ground, and the first one was with my own men. A battle of words, the kind I never had much talent for.”
Lorelove:
“The Speech on the Ships.”
“That’s what they called it after. ‘Speech on the [expletive redacted]-covered hill in front of the ships’ might’ve been better. There was air to clear. Hot air, knowing me. I’m not much for speeches, but the people I led, the ones we’d start callin’ ‘the Loyal Friends,’ well they needed to hear something from the person who claimed to be leading ‘em.”
“If you could share any details . . .”
“You can find the full words in a book. I told ‘em what had gone wrong—namely, that it was me. I told ‘em what I planned to do next, and that they could follow if they wanted. Then, I told ‘em they could choose someone else, if they liked.”
“They did not.”
“There wasn’t anyone else. Not that I’d blame them if that didn’t stop them skipping me.”
“My lady, between your arrival on Comchan and the day of your address, there was a three day gap in which the remains of the army from Greatchan gathered. What happened in that span has not been widely reported on. I have heard it said that, ah, that you were not seen in those three days. That orders came from your cabin, and those that saw you in-person thought you were, ah . . .”
“I don’t want to talk about it. No, dammit, that was too harsh. Sorry. Just . . . just not right now. Later, maybe.”
“Apologies, my lady. But much of your new plan was made during that time?”
“That’s an exaggeration. Some of it definitely came together, but a lot of the rest was . . . nascent? Forthcoming, whatever. I wouldn’t have been able to put it all together before I met my honest friend and sized up what his army looked like. It didn’t take long to find out that us Loyal Friends had landed on an island under siege.
“The frying pan and the fire, as they say. It was only just after we’d made it across the Bay of Masks, beaten and broken as we were, that the Mods coiled ‘round Comchan like a Blurrite snek. I didn’t know it at that moment, but it was standard procedure for Mod interventions: quarantine first, then a red rinse after if they were feeling nervous. Giles was following the book, but with a little wrinkle courtesy of the Mootking Rohd. Y’see, that bloodthirsty [expletive redacted] figured that if black boots stepped on too much Channic land, they’d never step off again. So he insisted on keeping Mod’s-on-the-ground to a minimum: Mod ships pressin’ the quarantine by sea, but Channic troops fencing us in by land. Giles played nice, for the moment, not least because it meant more anonymites fighting and dying, and weakening for later. They’d be hammer and anvil, and us the dross in between.”
“And what did that mean for you?”
“The last time I had led a largely defensive fight, it hadn’t gone well. Now, Moderator ships ruled the seas, and masked-men hunted us on the moors. But I wasn’t the only one with an army in Comchan. Turns out, I had a hammer of my own.”
* * * * * *
“I believe I said ‘no strenuous activity,’ Sir Coin,” Skylark scolded as she tightened the bandage.
Coin sighed, and that was enough to make pain arch through his body. Skylark had been wrapping him up for the better part of an hour, and had not let him hear the end of it the entire time. “It was not one of my better ideas,” Coin had to admit, cringing from the pain. Even talking hurt a little.
“Well on that point, I agree!” said Skylark. She placed her fists on her hips, and looked at him with the very face of maternal annoyance. “I might be of the Kind, sir, but don’t think I’m in the business of mending people as some light hobby. My hope is that any healing I do goes to you living to see another day, not to encourage you in jumping off of buildings and getting yourself killed.”
“He is not dead yet, Skylark,” Lady Violet pointed out wryly. After Coin had told her the barest story of what had happened, the lady demanded to hear the rest. She insisted, though, that Skylark be present for his treatment as they did so.
“Barely!” Skylark scoffed. She snatched a vial off the table, uncorked it, then smelled the mixture inside. After half a second, she nodded, then started working the salve into Coin’s shoulder. Coin flinched at the tiny pin-pricks it made in his wound. “You are extremely lucky, sir. If you’d had half a lighter grip on that rope, you would have fallen down like a potato sack and broken your legs. If you’d been inches to the side when that club hit you, it might have broken plenty more. And if your head had been any bigger than it already clearly was,” she said scornfully as she rubbed in the poultice, “then they might have struck that skull of yours instead, and you’d be stone dead. Lucky indeed. As it stands, all you’ve managed to do is reopen your wound and make it a hundred times worse.”
“At the time, I didn’t—ah, damn!” Coin looked at Lady Violet abashed. “Sorry. At the time, I didn’t see any other option. They were running off with Dabrius.” He sighed—again, he felt a pain. “And they got away. I’m sorry for that, as well.”
Lady Violet closed her eyes and shook her head. It was still early in the morning, and she—along with everyone else—had been roused even earlier, as soon as Coin had been found. Lady Violet seemed deeply tired, rubbing her eyes. “Continuing to apologize is unnecessary, sir, especially since it was no fault of your own.”
“Agreed,” added Skylark as she retrieved yet more bandages. “I don’t imagine it was you that carried Dabrius off into the night in a sack, and left all of us here to pick up the pieces. If you were,” she said, stretching the bandages across Coin’s shoulder, “that would make things a lot simpler. As it is now, the only thing you are guilty of is being too bold by half, to put it politely.” Walking into front of Coin, she admired her handywork, stone-faced. Then, she lifted up Coin’s chin, and her features softened. “You must be more careful. There are some hurts I can’t fix. Attacking three men, while on your own and injured, is a fine way to get such hurts, and people are not often this lucky twice.”
They were interrupted by a familiar face entering the room. Gaunt and quiet, Abigail Cawtler appeared in the door, hands resting stiffly against the legs of her black-and-white Peacekeeper uniform. “The Lord Moderator will see you all,” she said simply. It was not phrased as a request.
Skylark crossed her arms. “He is in no shape to go galavanting around. The man is injured.”
Abigail tilted her head at that. “I do not know what ‘galavanting’ entails.” Without another word, she strode past Skylark and Lady Violet, and then knelt behind Coin. Uncomfortably, Coin realized that she was examining him. “Hmm,” he heard her murmur, “heavy bruise from bludgeon, atop the existing puncture. Well placed. Such color to the skin.” After a moment, she stood. “He’ll live,” Abigail intoned, and then motioned for them to follow.
Skylark looked ready to protest, but Lady Violet quelled it with a glance. “No sense in putting it off, I suppose,” the lady sighed. “Sir Coin? Can you walk?”
Coin nodded, and rose as best as he could. The wound hurt when he moved, and he cringed as he stood, but he also knew it was not nearly as bad as it might have been. It had been far worse in the hours prior—Skylark worked well, and worked quickly. Stiffly, he and the others followed behind Lady Violet, Skylark still trying to attend to him as they walked.
Outside the door, they were joined by another who had been waiting there. Half-collapsing against the wall, chatting bleary-eyed with the guards, was Proximo Hart. He quickly scampered over, once he saw the lady emerge. “My lady?”
She tried to smile reassuringly. “Sir Coin was downed, as they say, but is not out. Unfortunately, though, it does seem that we’ve lost someone else. No word of Dabrius?”
“We have men turning over every stone, my lady, but there has been no news. It’s only been a few hours, after all.” Hart ran his fingers through his air, practically bleeding nervousness. “My lady, you have not slept.”
“Nor have you, Mister Hart,” Lady Violet replied, visibly stifling a yawn. “Truthfully, I was not sleeping well even before, but with all these new happenings . . .”
Coin nodded, though she had not been talking to him. He was exhausted as well. The short time he had spent blacked out had apparently not been enough to refresh him. What little time he had spent unconscious was hardly pleasant either way, beset with dreams that he could only half-remember that were filled with cloaked figures and yellow eyes. He tried to keep himself awake, recalling that he’d had no shortage of late nights during his time in the Authority. Granted, most of those sleepless nights had not followed being beaten within an inch of his life.
Coin had lost track of whatever else that the lady and her assistant had spoken of, though he gathered that Hart was coming with them now. A few guards trailed behind as well, while the group continued on its way, each of them only growing more anxious as they neared their destination.
The dreaded moment arrived more swiftly than Coin might have hoped. When they arrived, the found the Lord Moderator’s chambers already occupied. The Martes were gathered, all three of them, and all three looking scornful and angry. Halforth’s fellow judges were also present. Sir Alwin appeared ill-at-ease, eyes darting to the Bronies immediately. Sir Borlund Barr’s face was very red, his thick neck filled with veins. The two other Peacekeepers, Cellia and Percy both, seemed almost as worried as the Bronies did, standing off to the side. Coin saw no sign of the Prefects, but he no longer took for granted that they might not be near.
In the center of the room, sitting at the head of the table, was Lord Halforth, his eyes steady and furious.
He scanned over the assembled Bronies silently. “You two,” he gestured to Coin and Lady Violet, “will sit. That foppish assistant of yours may stand. I do not know who you are,” he said to Skylark.
“I am this man’s doctor,” Skylark replied firmly.
“You are leaving, is what you are. Get out.”
Lady Violet cut in before Skylark could respond. “Skylark, please give us a moment.” The Kind sister grimaced at leaving her patient unattended, but obeyed nonetheless.
With the distraction gone, Halforth turned his eyes back to Coin and Lady Violet, now seated. “You will explain. Slowly, and in detail.”
Coin swallowed, and told everything he knew.
By the time he reached the end, Coin could feel the lack of sleep truly wearing on him. “. . . and after that I blacked out. I have no idea where they went.”
“A ridiculous lie,” said Pilara Martes, at her husband’s side.
“Agreed,” Lord Aureliano said, bobbing his head. “She is right, it would be foolishness to beli—”
“Martes, you will speak when spoken to,” Lord Halforth cut in scornfully
That was enough to make Arcadio’s temper flash. “And why?” he demanded. “You let their man out of my sight for a damned day, and suddenly he vanishes? While they were guarding him, no less!”
“Yes.” Sir Borlund Barr crashed a thick hand on the table, his moustache twitching. “If they’ve no right to speak, Halforth, then I do. Are you going to stomach these lies? This is a ruse, mark me that.”
“That is ludicrous,” Lady Violet said, calm but cold. “Are you forgetting that there was a Moderator guard on Dabrius as well?”
“Yes, because you and your pervert friends couldn’t prove him innocent. All the more reason to spring him loose now, once you’re desperate. You think we cannot see that, whore?”
Before she could retort, a hand slammed down on the table. “Quiet,” Lord Halforth said, almost shouting. “With God as my witness, I cannot tell why fate ever accursed me with such a pack of frauds and imbeciles, but I will at least have quiet. What are you all proposing then? That you are both liars?”
“We are not lying,” Lady Violet said, sounding steely.
“Nor are we,” shot back Lady Pilara. Next to her, Lord Aureliano bobbed his head in agreement.
“And so far as I am concerned,” Lord Halforth spat, “the word of anyone here is not worth the rope it would take to hang you, which I may just do.”
“My lord, that is not even close to fair,” Lady Violet insisted, nearly pleading. “I will remind whose lies it was, exactly, that made it necessary for Dabrius to be removed in the first place. Not ours.”
Sir Alwin cleared his throat. “She is not wrong, Lord Halforth,” he began. There was still some hesitance in his voice, but the young knight seemed far more comfortable now that he was truly speaking for himself. “Your honor, I cannot see how the events of that night would implicate them. The attack, I mean, it was on their men. And another of theirs, now stolen. For them to lie wou—”
“And you would know enough of lies, wouldn’t you Cameron?” Sir Borlund sneered. He pointed a finger at his counterpart. “Don’t think we’ve forgotten who it was that lied about the prisoners. I know I haven’t forgotten, not at all. It was not I who perjured himself, if you recall. Disgraceful.”
Sir Alwin was looking at Borlund with equal parts disbelief and horror, and seemed ready to fight back, when he was interrupted. “Silence,” Lord Halforth snapped. Both men settled back, though they stared daggers at each other. “You, horse-lover, I’ve heard a denial, have I not?” Halforth spun his head sharply to face the Peacekeepers. “Mister Cartwright? Say again what you recall of the prior evening?”
Percy was clutching his head, but sprang up to attention immediately. “Ah, nothing, my lord. One minute talking, and then, ah. Well, I think I felt someone grab ahold of me, but after the sleeping draught it’s all a bit, ah . . .”
Lord Halforth did not wait for him to finish. “You sit there and claim innocence,” he said, eyes boring into Lady Violet, “though you have motive enough, and the only man who can corroborate your story is one in your service.”
Lady Violet looked at him aghast. “Sir Coin was injured trying to stop this crime, he did not try to cause it!”
“His injury is genuine, your honor,” Abigail chimed in, face blank.
“That does not mean his story is,” he replied, sounding irritated. “Injuries can be garnered in many ways, Miss Cawtler, as you know.”
From the corner, Cellia Ravenry spoke up. “Your honor,” she ventured hesitantly, “that is . . . that explanation is not . . .” She looked at the Lord Moderator pleadingly. “Your honor, I was given responsibility over Sir Coin, I can vouch for his character. I cannot believe that he would lie, and—“
“I did not ask for your opinion,” Lord Halforth said, lighting up with fury. “Oh, you do not ‘believe’? When have I ever wished to know of ‘beliefs’ from you, Miss Ravenry? Or you, Miss Cawtler? Or any of you, for that matter?” The look in his eyes was enough to make Cellia cringe back. “If I must bear a single other disobedient word from any of you, I will have you sent back to Central in disgrace. What do you think this is? Am I quizzing you, Miss Ravenry, or is there work to be done? Well?”
Cellia stepped back, looking ashamed. “Your honor, I—“
Lord Halforth waved her away. “I do not need one of your answers, Miss Ravenry. Out, all three of you, and go do something of use. The horse-lover guard, the one that was ‘ambushed.’ Go and have him tell you of what happened.”
“Ah,” Percy said haltingly, “well, he’s kind of . . . mute. Your honor.”
The Lord Moderator stared at him in disbelief. “Then he will write it down. Light of life, go.”
The three Peacekeepers hurried out, but Coin could see Cellia’s face twisted up as she tried to dart away. Before Coin had any time for sympathies, Lady Violet spoke up again. “My lord,” she said slowly, “are you formally accusing our fandom of stealing Dabrius away?”
Coin could see Halforth clench his jaw. “There is no proof. No more than there is proof for these three idiots of Martes having stolen him, nor some secret society, nor anonymites, nor anyone else. I can see motive and guilt in each and every one of you, yet there is no proof.” The Lord Moderator’s mouth tightened so much that his teeth might have shattered. “Well, I shall find it.”
“You won’t find it on this end of the table,” Arcadio said, sneering at the Bronies.
Lord Halforth sprang up and rounded on Arcadio. “If you dare to speak again,” he shouted, “then by the Code of the World you will not leave this room alive! I was not called to this disgusting place to see guilty people escape, and if a single one of you thinks that it can be done, you are sadly mistaken. The Logos itself wills it. Now get out, all of you!”
All of them hastily stood, and left the Lord Moderator to seethe. The other judges remained, both unhappy in their own measure, but all others gathered themselves and hurried out. They had scarcely closed the door before Arcadio turned to face them.
“You actually think you can get away with this, don’t you?” he asked as he stepped toward them. His light brown eyes were so alit with anger that they almost seemed a shade lighter.
Aureliano hummed in agreement. “Yes, you think you can just obstruct justice, horse-lover? I won’t allow it, not in my city.”
There was only disbelief on Lady Violet’s face as she looked at them. “I don’t have time for this,” she said, shaking her head. “My honest friend?”
For a moment, Coin thought she meant him. But suddenly, the Warden of Honesty emerged from behind a corner, striding forward ominously. Aureliano and Pilara paled, while Arcadio’s lip merely curled.
“I don’t enjoy speaking with any of you, so I will be on my way in a moment,” Lady Violet continued. “But first, a very simple question.” She stepped towards the Martes, as though daring them to try and leave. “Did you any of you three play a role in Dabrius’ disappearance? Any at all?”
“How dare you?” Aureliano sniffed. “I am no criminal, horse-lover. I had nothing to do with any of this.”
“Nor I,” Pilara said with a smile. “More than can be said for you.”
Arcadio was still scowling at the Warden. “I didn’t do a damned thing. Why would I waste time trying to free a dead man? You’ll join him in the grave, after this.”
The Warden looked down at them plaintively. “Hrm. Telling the truth.”
“Shame,” Lady Violet said. She waved at the Warden to follow, and then took her leave with Coin and Proximo Hart. The Martes were left behind, their stares sharp as knives.
After a minute, Lady Violet spoke. “There is always something, isn’t there? One after another, time after time, there is always something new. It’s madness.”
“They would have to be mad, to think we had anything to do with this,” said Proximo, sounding distraught. “Dabrius gone in the dead of night, the sole suspect of this murder vanished. It’s a catastrophe.”
“In a way,” the lady admitted, “I almost cannot blame them for suspecting us.”
“This one can,” the Warden of Honesty grunted.
“Much as we hate to admit it, we are the party with the most motive, at least of those present. The Martes hardly have reason to steal away a man already trapped in their own Palace. At first, I thought perhaps they might have tried just to frame us, but Honesty has disproven that little theory.”
“There’s no way they might have been lying?” Proximo asked warily.
“None,” the Warden answered. “The Sight sees all. Answers were true.”
“It would’ve just been too neat and simple, wouldn’t it?” Lady Violet said, voice thick with frustration. “Well, no matter. It is time to start considering other theories, and I have three.” To illustrate, she held up three long, graceful fingers. “Three groups in this city that seem like possible culprits. Anyone wish to offer a guess as to option one?”
“The anonymites,” Coin answered immediately. This had not been the first time he’d considered who was behind the attack.
“Astute as always, sir,” Lady Violet nodded. “A small band of outsiders with a penchant for disruption. What do you think of that, seeing that you were the only one to have seen this kidnapping cadre?”
Coin thought back to the debate he’d had with himself some hours prior. “The numbers work,” he began. “Three anonymites, three attackers. I could not really tell if the figures matched, with the cloaks and all, but there was nothing that I knew didn’t match. The timing would have been tight, seeing that they were in the Lord Moderator’s chambers not long before, but it could have been done.”
“The only problem is motive,” Proximo interjected. “The anonymites—so far as we know—have no interest in whatever drama our fandom is in, nor in Dabrius personally. Why go to the trouble of abducting him? Particularly if under such risk, when there was apparently little time for them to rush and do it after meeting the Lord Moderator?”
“Discord,” suggested the Warden of Honesty. When he saw alarmed expressions, he clarified. “Sow chaos. Cause disruption. Offer distraction. Means to accomplish something else.”
Lady Violet thought on that. “Perhaps. Though that only serves to raise new questions. Well, anyone want to hazard what option two might be?”
It was Proximo that answered, though he seemed reluctant. “The Changelings.”
The Warden did not seem convinced. “If they are friends,” he grunted, “they would not kidnap friend. Or hurt one.”
“They might if they thought they were threatened,” Lady Violet pointed out. “We might not wish to admit it, but this investigation is reaching its close, and Dabrius Joh’s life hangs in the balance. If the Changelings thought he would give up their secrets, they might steal him away to prevent it. Or perhaps they would do so to prevent his death, seeing that he worked alongside them. Or,” she said, now reluctant as well, “perhaps they might do so to cast blame on us. Maybe they think it will be immeasurably harder to find the Society if we are caught up in false accusations.”
The Warden frowned. “They would not.”
“I agree,” said Coin. It was only a hunch, but he had more experience dealing with the Society than anyone, limited as that experience might be. At the least, he doubted they would try and frame the Bronies, but Coin frankly doubted their involvement at all. “The Changelings so far have worked to prevent being discovered at all costs, never moving in the open. Attacking Mods and stealing away the only suspect isn’t subtle.”
“True,” Lady Violet admitted. “But we must parse through every possibility, and the Society is one of them. People are liable to do anything, when desperate enough. Anything.” Before she continued, however, Lady Violet stopped and listened. Coin did the same, and could hear what she did: footsteps up ahead, and coming closer.
The source became apparent when a flash of white came around the corner ahead. White uniforms, and the white teeth of a broad smile.
“Hel-lo!” cried Lord Albright in a sing-song voice. She appeared as bright and cheerful as ever, but the two Knight Prefects behind her—Cotton and Marcus, if Coin recalled correctly—seemed to make up for it in silent dourness. “Sir Coin! How wonderful to see you again. And this must be Lady Violet, at last. Lord Repay-the-Sinner-with-Death Albright, though Aly works just as well. I’m certain that Sir Coin has already told you and Proximo all about me.”
Coin caught a brief, alarmed looked from Proximo when he heard the Prefect say his name, but Lady Violet did not skip a beat. “He had indeed, my lord,” she said with a bow, “though it is not a substitute for meeting you in person. An honor.”
“The honor is entirely at this end of the room, Lady Violet,” replied Lord Albright, doffing her hat and returning bow. Her two aides, on the other, did not move a muscle, simply staring forward. Staring at the Warden, specifically, and even more specifically at the weapons he carried at his belt. The Warden returned the look, as though he and the two Prefects were engaged in a silent contest. “Now then,” Lord Albright continued, looking slightly more serious, “it is a good thing that I caught you all here. There was an important matter I wanted to ask about, my lady.”
For a moment, the Prefect merely considered Lady Violet, face blank. Then, “How in the Web did you dye your hair like that? It’s spectacular, and I’m jealous as sin. I can’t see a dark root anywhere.”
“What, this frumpy thing?” Lady Violet said slyly, batting one of her purple curls with a finger. “Just a matter of practice and quality colors, my lord. Honestly, though, I’m the one who should be jealous. You needn’t dye a single hair, not seeing how well you wear blonde. I think you chose the right branch: white is a wonderful color on you.”
“Now you know why I went with the Prefects,” Lord Albright said with a wink. “Just don’t tell Dyren.”
The two laughed and continued to talk, all while Coin looked on, confused and slightly frightened. He noticed a momentary change in Cotton and Marcus’ expressions, like a second’s worth of exasperation as they watched the two ladies chat. One of them shot a look to the Warden, then to Lord Albright, then an inquisitive glance back to the Warden. Oddly, Coin could almost see the look as asking a question: ‘Is yours always like this?’ The Warden had a slightly pained look of his own, and gave a nod. ‘Yes,’ it seemed to say.
“. . . and of course, that was the last time I wore heels,” said Albright. Coin had only caught the last part of what he said, but apparently Lady Violet thought it was worth a very ladylike laugh. Proximo merely chuckled uneasily as he looked between the two women. “Anyways,” Albright continued, “I’m afraid I must depart for now. Some drama with Dyren that demands my attention.”
“Some drama?” Lady Violet said, with a hint of surprise. Coin could not tell if it was feigned or not. “Do you not know what happened last night, my lord?”
“Yes, something involving kidnappers and the prime suspect vanishing and such.” Lord Albright shrugged. “It’s all very tedious, really. Though I was sorry to learn of your injury, Sir Coin.” Despite naming Coin, Albright turned her eyes to the Warden of Honesty, and smiled up at him. “I imagine this one might be useful in sniffing out the culprits. Assuming that no one thinks that you lot did it.”
The Warden stiffened. “We did not,” he said, squinting down at Albright in suspicion.
“That, I do know. Are you not from the Chan, Warden of All Honesty?”
He did not seem surprised by the question, but spoke reluctantly. “Yes.”
“As I heard. I have heard many other things as well, my Lord of Honesty. There were men and women in the black-and-whites who fought in the Chan during your war, and many I know came back with tales of the golden terror they were met with. A figure of singular ferocity, as I understand it, even more than the Lightning Lady. Mootking Rohd and Giles doubted those stories, to their sorrow. I do not.” She smiled, but there was something other than friendliness in it. “You carry a hammer, Warden, and a sword as well. I imagine you use them?”
“Hrm,” the Warden nodded. Lady Violet looked between the two of them, pretending not to take grave interest.
The answer appeared to please Lord Albright. “As well you should. You care for these friends of yours. And kill for them, as we must.” Still the smile lingered, frozen in place. “Unfortunate. But necessary, many times. You might hate the things you are forced to do, Honesty. So do I.”
The Warden contemplated her. “Liar.”
Again, Albright only seemed pleased. “Not usually, but yes. I will have to speak with you again, my Lord of Honesty. After all this is sorted, of course.” She turned to the rest of them. “Until that time, good day. I wish you the best of fate and fortune, in your search.” As she walked away, Lord Albright seemed almost to glide across the floor.
Lady Violet watched carefully as the Prefects departed. “And there,” she said softly, “goes option three.”
Coin went wide-eyed. “You think that the Prefects might have taken them?”
“It is only the mildest of suspicions,” Lady Violet admitted, “with scant little support. Yet I am not one to ignore strange happenings, ones involving someone like Lord Albright least of all. If that is her real name.”
Proximo scratched his chin at the thought. “She does seem to know a great deal, for someone ostensibly here just to round up an apostate. But would the times work? Lord Albright left at the same time as Coin, from the same place, on that night.”
“Oh, it would not have been her personally. We’ve no knowledge of what agents the Prefects might have in the city, or how many. Though I find it hard to believe that she would know so much without at least some lurking about ahead of time. What are our thoughts?”
“She seems friendly enough,” Proximo pointed out. “Albeit a bit odd. What in the Web was all that talk with the Warden of Honesty?”
“This one did not understand,” grunted the Warden of Honesty. “Also does not understand what you say,” he said to Lady Violet. “Friendly talk when she is here, then suspicion after. Order this one to question, if suspicious.”
“Ones who presume to demand answers from Prefects,” Lady Violet said wryly, “usually come to regret it. If we’re going to risk offending a Prefect by asking pointed questions, I should like more time to plan it out—there are enough cataclysms going on right now without us making more. Though I am curious to know if she ever lied, when I spoke with her.”
“No,” said the Warden.
“Really? Not even when she complimented my hair?”
The Warden made a sound that might have been a groan. “No.”
Lady Violet looped one of her curls around a finger. “Well, she has good taste, at least. And blonde really is her color, on that point.”
“But why would Lord Albright—or any Mod—want to take Dabrius?” Coin asked. “If we’re to speak of motive, they have none.”
“None I can name,” replied Lady Violet. “And yet I would be a fool to think all of this is coincidence, her arriving now of all times. A full three Prefects, in a backwater like this, just to take a prisoner into custody? Not to mention what she said to you, sir, or to Honesty. She might seem odd, but there is a direction to what she is doing.” The look on her face was nothing but troubled. “The motives of Prefects have never been easy to pin down. They answer only to the Admins themselves, and there is a method to what they do that no petty people like ourselves can grasp lightly. Sometimes their actions seem to advance no interest at all, or go against what they wish, on the rare times they even let themselves be seen at all. Yet it is all for a greater purpose at which we can only guess. And when they act in earnest . . .
“I remember one of my neighbors claimed to have seen one once, when I was young. These neighbors were not well-liked, and often had unknown guests in their home. Some people whispered that they were pale men in strange leathers, ones who had sailed to the Devien Isles from afar. From the east, though there is nothing in the oceans east of the Isles save for Firaffin the Outcast. And the Deep. One day, that neighbor was far into his cups, and told everyone who would listen that a white hat had been following him. No one believed him, but a day later he was gone. Him and his whole household, all of them disappeared without a trace. Even the portraits carrying their likeness on the walls were gone, and any record of their names was scratched from the town records.”
“A Ban Upon Memory,” Coin said with a shiver.
“Indeed. Though I do remember, sir. One of my singular talents, as whomever stole Dabrius will soon learn.” Lady Violet looked forward, and began to walk again. “There are people with whom we must speak. One familiar with the court, first of all.”
“Oh no,” Proximo moaned. “Not him, not right now.”
“No time like the present, Mister Hart. Though I scarcely have need of a bigger headache, there are some pointed inquiries to be made. See that he is brought to my chambers, and tell him that I and Sir Coin will be waiting.”
Some hours later, when he finally arrived, Withins-Bei did not seem at all put-off by the events of the prior night. Unlike the bleary, glazed looks of most others (save for the Warden of Honesty), Withins-Bei seemed positively chipper. “Morning all!” he shouted too-loudly on entering the room with an annoyed-looking Proximo. “You all look awful. Tired, as well. Did you have a date with a Blurrite last night? I hear their paint-horses are the hardiest in all the Web, so I imagine they would—”
“Withins-Bei,” Lady Violet interrupted icily.
“Fine, fine, that’s all I wanted to do today anyways,” Withins-Bei said with a roll of his eyes. “Honestly, I might have thought that having your leal man stolen away might have put you in a better mood. One fewer salary to pay. Of course, someone might think that you were the ones to do it. That would be awkward, wouldn’t it?” He gave a buttery, infuriating smile. “Good thing that Lord Halforth is so understanding. One might have thought that a man who hanged his own son would be less than kind.”
“And what do you think, Withins-Bei?” Proximo Hart asked curtly, as though he already knew Withins-Bei would say it regardless. Locating and escorting the lordling around seemed to have done little for Proximo’s patience.
Withins-Bei snorted. “You lot, stealing away people in the night? That one,” he said pointing to the Warden of Honesty, “is about the size of the entire Palace. Subtlety weeps just looking at that ugly face of his. You might have more a mind for intrigue, my lady, but the whole theory seems a touch overwrought to me. Or perhaps just stupid, which is a quality I know well. And, more importantly, I find it boring. I much prefer my mysteries to have more colorful answers, don’t you? Right now, my theory is that a flock of magical beasts just whisked up to the rooftops and carted him away, probably to eat him.”
“This is unlikely,” said the Warden of Honesty, face blank.
“You are not one for jokes, too-tall, are you?”
“Did not summon for jokes.” The Warden turned that stare to Withins-Bei, and already Coin could see the lordling grow uncomfortable.
“No, that I did not,” Lady Violet said. “I take it that you know nothing about who stole Dabrius away?”
“None, I’m afraid. Your Dabrius was too ornery and too captive for my tastes.”
Nothing from the Warden of Honesty—Coin had to assume that meant it was true. Lady Violet continued. “In that case, we have certain inquiries to make in the Palace court. But before all that, I have another question for you, Withins-Bei.”
“Sorry to decline, but there are already several young ladies I’m attending on, I’m afraid.”
Proximo flushed red, but Lady Violet did not react. “No, my question a bit sharper.” Coin expected her to ask about ‘Pen,’ the name they had heard yesterday from the Changeling. Strangely, though, she chose something else. “What do you know of the Knights Prefect?”
At first, Coin was confused. But then he noticed the slightest change in Withins-Bei’s face. The smile remained, but his eyes did not smile with his mouth. “What, the white hats? Tedious folk, or so I’ve heard, much inclined towards hanging hanger-ons like me.”
“There are three in the city now.”
Withins-Bei froze. “Ah.”
“If I gathered correctly,” Lady Violet continued idly, tracing a spiral in the table with her finger, “you know nothing else about them of consequence?”
“Nothing to speak of, and I am inclined to speak often.”
“Liar.”
All eyes, save for Lady Violet’s, went to the Warden of Honesty. He had stirred, and was looking at Withins-Bei with what might have been surprise.
The lordling tried to laugh it off. “I’m certain I don’t know what you mean, I—”
“Liar.” The Warden said again, taking a step closer.
Proximo gaped at Withins-Bei in disbelief, and Coin shared the feeling. It couldn’t be . . .
Withins-Bei was looking beyond uncomfortable now. “Now, that isn’t very nice. I . . . well, I would not impute on the motives of one like me. How would you even . . .”
Lady Violet leaned back in her chair. “I tend to trust the word of my friends. My honest friend more than most. Will you be an honest friend as well, Withins-Bei?” She folded her hands in front of her, and for a moment her stare was almost as piercing as the Warden’s. “The Prefect I met was odd, but not least because she seemed to know much about me, and my friends.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Liar,” the Warden grunted again, angrier this time.
“This will be easier if you answer directly, and truthfully,” Lady Violet said, calm as still water. “What did you tell them?”
“Nothing, I said nothing to anyone, I—”
“Liar.”
“Stop saying that!” Withins-Bei blurted out. He was looking very quickly between the two Wardens now.
“My honest friend is none too fond of jokes,” Lady Violet said, rising in her seat, “or deflection. Enough of both. What did you tell them?”
Withins-Bei opened his mouth, then closed it, stunned beyond words. Then, he slumped back with a sullen look. “All. Everything I knew.”
Lady Violet examined him carefully. “I had suspected you might have been reporting to someone, but I had thought it was the Chamber. That would have been harmless enough. Prefects are far from harmless. How long?”
Withins-Bei grimaced in his seat. “I had someone approach me some time ago, asking for information about the court. I am fond of money, after all, and things one spends it on.”
“That is true,” the Warden murmured. Withins-Bei shot him a dirty look.
“Did you not realize that they were Prefects?” Lady Violet said, tilting her head.
“I did not ask. It hardly mattered to me, until they started showing up everywhere,” Withins-Bei said ruefully. “I didn’t see my first white hat until a full two weeks after you arrived. That was one pair of pants ruined.”
“Then the Prefects had been here since that long, at least,” Proximo mused. “But they were interested in this place before we arrived? Why?”
“I cannot say.” He caught a hard glance from the Warden, then backtracked. “By which I mean that I don’t know. When they came to me I . . . I had assumed political rivals, the Chamber. Not them.” He laughed a bitter laugh. “It’s enough to sober even me. Well, almost.”
“We live in a time for unexpected things, it seems.” Lady Violet curled a hair around her finger.
Withins-Bei shifted in his seat. “And what, if I may ask, will you do with me?” He looked at the Warden of Honesty with discomfort. Specifically, at the Warden’s sword belt.
“I’m going to do one other unexpected thing.” Lady Violet now stood, and reached across the table to touch Withins-Bei’s hand. “I forgive you.”
The jaws of everyone in the room dropped, and Withins-Bei’s most of all. He looked at her, as though suspecting trickery. “Why?”
Lady Violet gave a look of both sympathy and sternness. “One of my friends is Lillian Semmer. The Warden of Kindness. She once told me, ‘It costs no coin worth keeping to forgive a friend.’ Perhaps we were just another of your games, Withins-Bei, but I would be a liar myself if I said that I didn’t enjoy your company. I wish you the best, my friend.”
Withins-Bei merely looked at her, stunned. He snatched his hand away. “No, no friend.” His face had twisted up, and his pudgy hands clenched. “I have no friends, nor will I. I need to leave. Good day.” And with nothing else, he leapt from his seat and stalked out as quickly as he could.
It took only a moment for the inevitable question to come. “My lady,” broached Proximo, “was that wise? He betrayed us.”
“That he did. And yet,” the lady said as she retook her seat, “what else was there? We do not have the authority to punish free citizens here, Proximo. If I had wanted him brutalized, it would have brought us nothing but more charges. He’ll get no more information from us, but I saw only two options. I could berate and curse him and throw him out, and I would certainly feel good in doing it. Or,” she continued, looking between them, “I could offer honey instead of vinegar. Perhaps that will leave a door open, some distant day from now.”
The Warden of Honesty hardly seemed convinced. “He is faithless. Will not appreciate forgiveness.”
“That may be. But consider this carefully. ‘It costs no coin worth keeping to forgive a friend.’ So tell me: what did that cost me?”
Coin considered that. “Either he feels some debt to us now,” he said, “or he is no more distant from us than he would be otherwise.”
Lady Violet’s smile was equally sly and confident. “I am never one to exhaust an asset, not until I know its value is truly run. Withins-Bei may yet be of some use. And besides all that,” she said with a sigh, “what Lilly said was true. Forgiveness is often the right thing to do, for all that’s worth. We shall see if it was the right thing for today. At any rate, we learned some choice things from this meeting.”
Coin had already begun piecing that together. The Prefects have been here for some time, he thought. Watching from shadows, gathering information. They became truly active only recently, but we’re not the only ones they’re interested in. If the Prefects had been using Withins-Bei before Sir Harald was even murdered, let alone before the Bronies arrived, then they might not be interested in the fandom at all. Who did that leave, as their targets? The Martes, maybe. But now we have new questions.
Coin was roused from his theories by the voice of Proximo. “It is a shame, though,” he admitted. “I cannot claim to miss Withins-Bei, but he was a good source. We needed his help on this ‘Pen’ business.”
Lady Violet gave him another sly smile. “Did we? I believe I said there was no cost. You cannot recall another person on-hand, with equal knowledge of the Palace?”
Proximo blinked. “Oh. Oh! Yes, my lady, I’ll ask after her.” He went for the door.
The lady chuckled. “Tell her to come as soon as she can. I have some suspicions I want to air. Some hat suggestions as well.” After Proximo left, she stood up. “As for you, Sir Coin, I think it’s time for you to rest again.”
“I can do more, my lady,” Coin protested, ignoring how sore and tired he was.
“ ‘Can’ is not ‘should,’ sir,” Lady Violet said gently. “I would rather have you in one piece. So far as I’m concerned, your priority now should be rest and healing, and I don’t say that because I fear what havoc Skylark will wreak if I do not. Well, not entirely because of that, anyways.” When she saw that Coin was about to protest again, she related only a little. “If it will help your peace of mind, you might do one thing. A very small thing, on your way back to your chambers. Lord Halforth was having Crispin interviewed by his Peacekeepers. I had Mister Peck placed in a room that is on your path—could you pop in and make sure he’s well? No need to report back, unless things are truly catastrophic. Sleeping draught can adle the head, and Crispin’s head was odd enough to begin with.”
Coin bowed, and left the two Wardens to discuss matters between each other. He walked on his own, alone with his thoughts and fatigue. Coin did not feel it right to admit it, but he was tired. And hurt. His shoulder flared with pain now more than ever—he would be back to not sleeping on it properly, not least to say how much Skylark would need to dote on him with salves and salts. He wasn’t going to relish that.
Yawning, Coin tried to keep his mind alive by pondering again. Three theories, three options, or so the lady says. And not a one of them good. Anonymites, Changelings, Prefects. Masked men, hidden nobles, police-fanatics. Some lacking in means, some lacking in motives, and none of them seeming likely to Coin. Well, maybe the anonymites. But even seeing them as the culprits didn’t seem completely right to Coin, not without knowing what those three were truly planning. Yet at the same time, Coin could not think of any others that it might have been. The Warden of Honesty’s senses never lied, so the Martes were ruled out. None of the other Mods in the city, the ones not with Albright, had any reason at all to steal Dabrius. He continued towards the chambers where Crispin was held, and continued to think as he did.
Are there any others? The Web was filled with dangerous characters. The Oppressed of the Blurr, the Red Hats of Reddit and the Saying Sea, the fleshtrappers and Torric Raiders of the Deep. All brutal, secretive, vicious people. But not one of them with an interest in the Dreamweave, so far as Coin knew. Perhaps Heylen Ott might have a clue. Coin was not one to rely on sorcery, but the cybramancer might have some lore or knowledge that could shed light on things. He knew the Dreamweave, at least.
Even all his thinking, however, could not distract Coin from the pain. His wound stung like hell, even through a mild haze of painkillers and whatever it was that Skylark had basted his bludgeoned shoulder with. The sling around his arm annoyed him, but not as much as the realization that he would be confined to quarters until he healed. Again. More days or weeks of sitting around, Coin thought ruefully. Useless again. This time, he doubted he’d even have financials to keep him occupied. The very thought of it made him groan.
As Coin approached the chambers where Crispin was held, however, he heard soft sounds from hall ahead. “. . . ain’t my area o’ expertise, y’know!” a voice said, in a whisper just harsh enough to be heard. “You’re the one that’s supposed to know what to do. Oh, light of life, are you OK?”
“I’m fine,” another insisted.
“You are not,” said a third, muted and calm. “It is a sign of severe anxiety.”
“It ain’t right. Not right at all. He could talk like that to me, not to you.”
“It’s my fault. I wasn’t good enough, Percy. I’m fine, I’m fine.”
“Like hell!” one of them hissed. “What is wrong with ‘im? I should tell ‘im that—”
Coin cleared his throat, and then walked around the corner.
The three Peacekeepers turned their heads when Coin entered, having stopped their conversation abruptly. Percy and Abigail both stood, the former with his arms crossed and his face worried, the latter expressionless. Cellia, though, was sitting on the floor, leaning up against the wall, and looking completely out of sorts. She had brought her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them, but her whole body was trembling despite how tightly she gripped herself. She was breathing heavily and with ragged pauses, as though there was something pressing down hard on her lungs. Her notepad and pencil had been dropped on the ground a foot away, and lay there forgotten.
Coin looked over them awkwardly. “Ah, sorry. I was just sent to check on Crispin. Is he, ah . . .”
“Yeah, ah,” Percy stammered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, we’re done. I think ‘e’s fine. I mean, ‘e can’t talk, but I sorta think ‘e was . . .” He looked down nervously at the floor. “Yeah.”
Coin having giving them warning before he entered had given them an opportunity to stop talking before they saw him. That meant that they could all politely pretend that Coin hadn’t heard anything they had been saying. But seeing the state of the three, and Percy’s nervousness, made Coin worried. “Is everything alright?”
“I’m fine,” Cellia repeated hoarsely, even though Coin hadn’t asked about her specifically. She certainly didn’t look fine. Coin noticed that she was trying to avoid looking at him. When he tilted his head slightly, he could see why. Her eyes were very red.
“She is not fine,” Abigail interjected. “Panic attack. They happen occasionally.”
“Don’t tell him that,” Cellia said, still shaking a bit.
Abigail took no heed of the request. “Focus on your breathing exercises. Slowly, and with timed gaps.”
Coin looked at Cellia with concern. Panic attacks. He’d seen the sort before, during his time in the academy. He had never expected one from Cellia, though. They were brought on by stress, as Coin understood it. Halforth, he realized. The Lord Moderator’s behavior had had a larger impact than Coin might have first noticed. Someone has a lot to answer for.
Cellia shook her head. “Apologies, sir. I should stand.” She braced herself against the wall and began to rise, chest heaving as it was. Percy rushed over to lend her a hand, though she tried to wave him away. “This isn’t right. You shouldn’t see me like this. Improper.” She wiped at her eyes, and tried to look away.
For half a moment, Coin had an odd feeling in his shoulder. A stinging, quivering feeling, as though it shivered from the touch of absent ice. It passed immediately. “Cellia—”
Then, without warning, Coin’s world became blinding pain.
Coin thought he screamed, but there was no sound, no light, no space, just falling as the floor gave way beneath him, falling through void without end under sight of cold stars that burned and saw him and felt no pity while he tumbled down, down, down, and felt the slick tendrils looping around his arms and legs, and wherever he looked he saw only blackness and lines upon lines of impossible geometry that propped up just barely the very Walls Between the Worlds, the Walls were failing and he was falling and nothing remained except for a voice that split his mind and said only RETURN.
Coin gasped, his vision swimming in blurred images he could barely see. He was lying on his back, propped up, with the Peacekeepers all hanging over him, talking at once. Someone was shaking him, though he could barely hear for the ringing in his ears. “ . . . Sir Coin? Sir Coin! Light of life, check him quickly, is he having a stroke?”
“Uh,” Coin grunted, trying to raise his arm.
“Oh thank God,” said Percy, “he’s awake.”
“What . . .” Coin coughed. “Where?”
Cellia Ravenry was directly above him, hands clasped firmly to his arms. Relieved, she let out a breath. “You collapsed, sir. You just fell over without a word.”
“I blinked, and ‘e was on the ground,” said Percy, gaping. “Like ‘e didn’t even fall, just vanished and reappeared right there.”
“Are you alright?” Cellia demanded. “Abi, what can you see.”
“A moment.” His vision was still blurry, but Coin felt someone working at the clothes around his shoulder. Oddly, it did not hurt at all.
Cellia’s face was full of worry. “Just to collapse like that. Exhaustion? Is it something to do with his wound, Abi? I wouldn’t have thought, but I can’t think . . .” There was a long pause, and Coin felt the hands inspecting his shoulder cease. “Abi? The wound?”
“There is no wound.”
“What?”
“It is gone. Look.”
Cellia darted behind Coin, and gasped.
It was enough to force Coin into panic himself. “What? What?”
“Like it was never there,” Cellia said. She almost sounded frightened. “Coin, there’s nothing. Just skin.”
“The hell?” Percy murmured.
Abigail sounded calmer, though still strained. “Please try to move your shoulder.”
Taking aback, Coin did as he was bid. It did not hurt. Not even slightly—it felt as though he had never been wounded. As though, just as the others said, there was nothing there.
“Hmm,” he heard Abigail say. “Odd. This does not usually happen.”
“It’s impossible,” Percy blurted out. “Abi, yah must have seen it an hour or two ago. It couldn’t just up and vanish.”
Coin brushed off the hands on him, and tried to stand. His sight had returned to normal, though he was still a bit dizzy, like he’d been spun about like a top and only just crashed back to earth. What happened? When he had fallen, in that moment of pain, he had see something. Something impossible, as impossible as a wound vanishing in the blink of an eye. I don’t understand.
Coin nearly tumbled down, before Cellia caught his arm and hoisted him back on his feet. “Sir, where are your quarters? I haven’t a clue what’s going on here, but we should lie you down and summon your doctor immediately.”
“Barracks,” Coin managed to say. “Far downstairs.” That was where he stayed last, at least, before his injury.
Cellia frowned. “Too far. We’ll find you a place closer.” Helping to hold Coin up, even though he felt his strength return, she escorted him down the hall, the others following closely and whispering to one another.
They found just a place, and Coin found himself flopped onto a couch. Truthfully, he did not feel as though he needed the aid any longer—the pain and dizziness were long gone. His protests, however, meant little to people who had just see him keel over without warning. If he had an explanation, he would give it. Lacking one, he could only obey and wait. Six save me, what did happen?
After depositing Coin in his seat, Cellia turned to face the others. “Sir Coin’s superiors should be informed posthaste. And I imagine that Lord Halforth will wish to know what we found from the guard.”
“Want me t’stay with ‘im?” Percy offered. “Y’know the fandom folks better than I do.”
Cellia nodded. “Yes. I suppose that would be best. I will return in a moment.” She made moves to leave, and Abigail went as well.
Before she truly left the room, however, Cellia stopped. “Wait,” she said with a sigh. “Wait, no. There’s something I must discuss with Sir Coin. In private.”
Percy cast Coin an uncomfortable look. “You, ah . . . you sure you should be tellin’ ‘im?”
Cellia closed her eyes and stood firm. “He is my responsibility. I was given discretion. And I think he has a right to know.”
Coin looked between the two, lost. But Percy seemed to understand immediately: he nodded and took his leave, despite the discomfort evident on his face. Only Cellia remained behind.
“I apologize if this seems a bad time, Sir Coin,” Cellia began. “Truthfully, I have not been sure about this for some time. I am not one for doubts. Not usually. But the truth,” she continued hesitantly, “the truth is that I’ve become . . . worried. Lord Halforth has not been acting himself, of late.”
That I noticed. And he noticed as well the look of shame that crossed Cellia’s face. She still blames herself. It wasn’t right, and he told her as much. “It’s no fault of yours, Cellia.”
Cellia’s face twisted, and she continued without heed. “This . . . situation. It isn’t one I have dealt with often. It isn’t one I deal with well, either, as you’ve seen. I apologize.” Before Coin could interrupt with reassurances, however, Cellia pressed forward. “But myself aside, there is something you must know.”
She turned around, so as to ensure no one was there. When she looked back, grave concern was written all across her dark features. “Lord Halforth is planning a red rinse.”
Coin fell back into his seat, as though he’d been struck, and his throat was tight when he strained for words. “Six save us,” he managed.
“I only found out this morning. I had not heard a word about it before, but now Lord Albright and her men are in the city as well, and his patience is run out. There is no faith anymore in a legitimate investigation, none. Not after what has happened. After Sir Depravity, especially that, and the Martes as well. He refuses to leave this island without Arcadio fitting a noose, at the very least.”
His head was swimming. “But if Halforth shuts the investigation now—”
“Summary judgment,” Cellia said with a nod. “He is certain to throw out almost any testimony from the Martes, including those false confessions, and will act on his discretion starting with them. But only starting. Sir, I cannot claim to know what his honor thinks, not any longer, but a red rinse may well put more lives than just the Martes in danger. Your man Dabrius will be tried in absentia, and sentenced based on what evidence we already have. As will the rest of your fandom.”
Coin sucked in breath. We aren’t ready. Not even close. A red rinse. A mass ban. It meant more than just judicial proceedings, far more and far worse. It meant occupation, executions, and hanging courts. If there were courts at all. Coin had only seen a red rinse once. The Silk Road. There was not one man left alive after that. “How long?”
Cellia shook her head. “Not long. He had acknowledgment from Central to act with discretion when all this began, but that was hesitantly given, and before all of this became so . . . complicated. There will be debate. I expect they will grant it, his honor’s reputation is such. Even so, it will take time to move the proper men into place. Days, not more.”
Not enough time, a doubting voice said. Coin tried to ignore it. “I might be sick.”
“Hence the couch,” Cellia said sheepishly.
Coin looked at her. “Why tell me this? Cellia, the risk!”
She did not answer at first. Then, she straightened her back, and closed her eyes. “Because you are innocent. I wondered at first, but I truly believe it. I simply don’t think that your fandom is responsible, not after what I’ve seen. But I’m not the one you must convince.” Her stare was as grave as Coin had ever seen from her. “I wish I could do more than just tell you. But I can’t. Not with the duty I was given, the one I still have. You have to sway Lord Halforth, and soon.”
Can we? He wanted to ignore that doubting voice, but to convince Halforth now, after everything . . . “We can get proof,” Coin found himself saying. “We’re so close, Cellia, more than you can know. Justice for Dabrius. We can save him.”
Cellia did not waver. “Find what you can, sir, but do it quickly. Or else Dabrius might not be the one who needs saving.”
* * * * * *
During their travels south, Our Founder would look across the waves at the lands that passed. The Theel’s ship passed then across the rim of lands that were later the North Forum Isles, and through the Summersale Straits. John would remark upon a sight on the horizon.
“There is land in the distance, I think,” said he.
One of the Theel’s sailors answered him. “That is the Isle of Steam.”
“Why does it burn?”
Aurheim the Austere spoke next. “The mountains breathe fire, in that land, and the earth is tore by great rents that go down to the roots of the world. A strange place. A traveller from that land, a trader from their port of Gaben where the Berush meets the sea, once kicked my barrel in the marketplace, and I had him repay with stories. He said that it was a land of fortresses, and much war between the Pureborn of his land and idolaters that dwell in temples of water, fire, and forest. The Pillars of Loss are close to this shore, the Woolie Hole far from it. There is a swamp filled with green lights that dance and trick men into folly and death. The men worship the stars.”
“The stars?” This struck John as most curious, and he wondered if others had heard the celestial song.
“It is said that the stars bespeak strange shapes from the World Beyond the Web, names and lands measureless to man. The men in the Isle and elsewhere fit themselves into these shapes, and worship the names they learn. We will see more of their ilk before we are done. The ones Beyond the stars speak to them.”
Our Founder considered this carefully. “But what do they say?”
This Aurheim did not know, nor did any other on the ship.
— Excerpt from The Books of Black and White