 
New Enemies - Sean P. Wallace

Copyright 2015 by Sean P. Wallace.

Published at Smashwords, Amazon and GoodReads.
Memorable names and terms from Deep Echoes, a story set five years ago...

Geos – A pangea world which, more than a century ago, lost all memory of the past. Their civilisation had Elizabethan-era technology before, and it's taken them a century to piece it back together.

The people of Geos almost-exclusively worship the sun, Sol, and fear 'the dark brother,' Lun. Politically, they are divided into those accepted into a Station as children and those who are not. The only exception are the Shields, a soldier Station the Stationless can volunteer to, and one criminals are sent to as punishment. The Stationed have food, wages, and funding provided for them; the Stationless either become Servants or struggle alone.

Maya – A trainee Contegon, a holy warrior, whose crisis of faith led her to abandon the Station. Fleeing, she was found by a stranger called Nephilim who trained her to use Cyrus Force, a hidden human ability which allows one to birth Spirits who can form armour, hurl attacks, or increase the effectiveness of weapons. Maya used Cyrus Force to fight the Disciples when they marched on Aureu, Geos' capital, and nearly defeated them. Nearly. Only through the intervention of an odd being did she survive to clear her name and create the Station of Acolyte to teach others how to use Cyrus Force.

Chain – Maya's best friend at the Contegon Academy. Damaged by association with a Heretic, she was not sent to the Front to fight and so stayed in Aureu. There, she met and fell in love with Wasp, leader of the Merchant Station. However, the unstable Wasp attacked Chain during the Disciples' siege of Aureu, forcing her to leave him wounded and crumpled.

Responsible for the humans' ultimate victory in the 'Battle for Aureu', Chain should have been a hero. However, Chain's anger at her former best friend got the better of her and she broke a vow to the leader of Geos. Her shame was compounded when Maya publicly prophesied Chain's pregnancy, the only possible father being the man she now hates, Wasp.

Snow – A young man used by Maya seduced to steal his mother's Identity Papers and leave the heavily-guarded Aureu. Aiding a Heretic, albeit accidentally, would have destroyed his family's reputation as it destroyed Chain's, so, to avoid the scandal, he and his parents fled to the western Front where his grandfather, Shield-General Scar, could protect them.

This flight made him witness to the Disciples' destruction of the western Front. Given temporary authority by the final order of Scar, Snow led the refugee children from the city of Call back to Aureu, bringing word of the coming invasion and pathing the way for their ultimate survival.

To correct the damage she did to him, Maya used her political influence to make Snow her first trainee Acolyte, and put him on the track to replace his grandfather as Shield-General.

Disciples – Robotic nemeses who have fought the people of Geos since records restarted.

### Anger of Lun

"The deluded are Lun's favourite targets."

\-- A Popular Saying

Chapter 1

A great forest separated Geos' new Fronts from the Disciple city of Moenian, a primordial woodland spoiled only by causeways the Disciples had torn through them. The further one got from the Fronts, the more the land looked untouched, wild, aside from where the Disciples regularly marched through them to war. Even there, gnarled branches and impudent grasses reached out into the worn, dead earth.

In the midst of these lands, Anger of Lun rested, an unwitting testament to humanity's progression. Thick trees rose boldly around him. Verdant greenery – grass, moss, weeds, and clover – provided uneven carpeting. Running across the forest bed took courage and caution, as one always risked a poor step and breaking an ankle miles from anyone who knew or cared about you.

Anger of Lun avoided the ground wherever possible. With his abilities, that was most of the time.

He lay in a hut built in the most accommodating tree, which was little more than a platform with a camouflaged tent over it. Above him, a waxed sheet kept the rain away and collected it for later use. It was an awkward arrangement, but a well-hidden one, so he made do: his comfort paled in comparison with Lun's will.

Tall and thin, Anger of Lun wore black robes with a dark hood that cast his face in shadow. Two whips were tied around his waist, each with a pale yellow gem set in their grip. His black boots were cracked but worn-in, almost a second skin. He looked like he was resting, except for the hand cupped to his ear. Still, he listened carefully.

Then he heard a yelp of distress and panic, a strangled sound no animal makes during normal predation. The Disciples were hunting again, which meant Anger of Lun must hunt too.

He stood and prayed to Lun for the power to kill the Disciples. After thirty seconds, the gems set in his whips glowed. This light reached out, extending like spilled honey, until the whips were bathed in yellow light. Anger of Lun tested one, let it snap a few feet away, and nodded when vibrant energy extended beyond the whip and cracked like thunder.

Satisfied, he jumped from his platform and threw a whip out. The Lunlight again extended, but this time it wrapped around a tree, forming a rope that let him swing around its trunk. He flicked his wrist, the energy released, and he snapped the other whip onto the next tree.

It was a showy way to travel, but Lun appreciated such things. Why hide yourself or be ashamed of what you can do? Besides, it was safer than running across the treacherous ground.

Wildlife scattered before him as he swung, squirrels and birds darting away. This created a cacophony, but Disciples concentrate only on their prey when they hunt, and so would not notice the minor stampede. Anger of Lun fell into a rhythm of swinging, and listened for their prey's dismayed panic.

Soon, there was another yelp of pain from the north-east. Anger of Lun threw both whips out, stopping himself between two trees. With a flick, he snapped the whips back and landed on a flat patch of grass.

He soon found the Disciples' trail. Not that it was hard to follow three of the monsters running down a pack of wolves. The forest had become eerily quiet with the Disciples' passing: even the insects had realised they should remain still, silent. Anger of Lun's breathing seemed to echo between the trees. He knew that was ridiculous, but the strange notion stayed, perhaps because it was better than considering the fight to come.

Whimpers and yelps from the wolves echoed out, and then he heard the terrible, rhythmic whirring of the monsters who hounded them. Anger of Lun slowed and strayed from their trail to seek a vantage point. He moved deliberately now, each minor rustle chosen carefully, each step well-considered.

Soon, he saw his prey. Their golden claws were dipped with blood, and water steamed from their metallic skins. One had wire nets over their shoulders, in which three wolves struggled, panicked beyond all sense. The others advanced on an enormous wolf and her pup. The she-wolf growled at them, her hackles raised and her teeth bared. Her pup rubbed into her flank as though it could hide there.

Anger of Lun's purpose was to disrupt all Disciple activity. To that end, he had spent the last few years cutting supply lines, disrupting their assaults on the Fronts, and blocking their causeways. Sometimes, he packed up and worked with his fellows so the Disciple hierarchy never worked out where they operated from. But he hadn't had to do that as much recently with the local Disciples concentrating on hunting wildlife. His job now was to disrupt these hunts.

He continued quietly until he was close enough to strike. By that time, the Disciples had surrounded the Alpha, who was losing her mind with fury and panic. The Disciples didn't have a spare net, must have planned on carrying her back to Moenian. Without skin, the act wasn't dangerous to them.

When a Disciple bent to pick the wolf up, getting a claw to the face that it ignored, Anger of Lun attacked. Both whips scraped down the Disciple's outstretched arm, and the energy cut deeply into the metal, rendering the limb useless.

The Disciples all turned and raised their gun arms to fire. Anger of Lun threw himself aside, avoiding each shot. Behind the cover of a tree, he pressed a gem on his necklace and whispered another prayer. Bullets shredded the tree as he spoke, would pierce the trunk in seconds. He didn't have to pray for long: yellow energy covered him, deflecting the Disciples' bullets as they tore through his cover.

Lun did not provide his grace for long, particularly protective strength, so Anger of Lun ran out and lashed the Disciples' gun arms, disarming the two not carrying wolves. The other shot him between the eyes, a disconcerting shot to survive: he couldn't help but raise his arm to his face, which allowed the disarmed Disciples to close in.

He ducked under the first attempt to sever his head, and then rolled between the pack as they followed up with a gutting and a hamstring shot. In response, he raked Lun's fury down their backs, trying to sever their strange metal organs. One saw this coming and took only a glancing blow. The other took a deep gash, the wound enough to kill it. Smoke billowed from its husk.

The Disciple still capable of shooting held its captives, which writhed furiously, howling. The Alpha and the pup had escaped, sensing their opportunity. The Disciple didn't seem to care as its arm clicked and twisted in horrible ways, changing shape and form. Anger of Lun recognised the motion and threw a whip out. The explosive shot passed beneath his feet as he shot towards the tree.

Then it burst in all its fury. Anger of Lun was thrown against a tree, hard. He struggled to his feet and saw that the land where he had stood was now a bowl in the earth. Many trees were aflame. The other Disciple had been caught in the blast, but it had survived, its skin melting as it slowly picked itself up.

The explosion would give other Disciples in the area the exact location of the fight. Anger of Lun had to go soon, and then avoid his home for days, for fear that the Disciples might track him.

Two more shots came at him. He dived forward, rolling underneath both, and used their force to propel himself past the Disciple before it could strike again. He landed, skidding on the undergrowth, but wasted no time: before he'd stopped, he wrapped both whips around the Disciple's gun arm and used his momentum to rip it away.

The dismembered hand smoked as the whips pulled it away: an explosive shot was lodged in it. Anger of Lun flicked his wrists and threw the limb at the melted Disciple. It crashed against the monster, and then discharged, rendering it a pile of molten orange and foul smoke in a brilliant explosion.

The remaining Disciple dropped its quarry and charged Anger of Lun, striking him in the back. Lun's protection held, kept him alive, but it faded as he tumbled. Angle of Lun came to a stop, and used a tree trunk to flip onto his feet and avoid a clawed foot ripping through his spine. He tried to put some distance between him and his opponent, but the Disciple kept at him, gave him no time to recover.

At close range, a whip would normally be useless. But Anger of Lun did not wield normal whips. He dropped one and gripped the other with both hands. Lunlight shone across its length, responding to his will by firming the leather up. He then used the whip as a short staff, deflecting the Disciple's attacks. Lun's energy sparked each time it touched the Disciple, singeing its golden skin.

The Disciple lunged with both arms to catch him out. This was a common Disciple tactic, so Anger of Lun rolled under the assault. Rising beside the creature, it was simple to wrap the whip around the Disciple's head and pull, Lun's fury severing it neatly. Anger of Lun span, released the end of the whip, and slashed down the Disciple, ensuring its death.

In the post-battle silence, Anger of Lun breathed in, allowing his raging body to calm. Soon he would have to run, but he let himself recover first.

Over his breathing, he heard the wolves yelp and wail in their nets. Their suffering pulled at his heart: he couldn't leave them like that, not with more Disciples on the way. The animals snarled and gnashed, not recognising friend from foe in their frenzy, but he didn't mind. With three swift cuts, he gave them enough room to escape and backed away, let them work their own way out.

The first wolf took a minute to crawl out, eventually deciding to use its paws for purchase. When free, it growled at him, its mouth frothing. That seemed a good time to escape: Anger of Lun collected his discarded whip and swung away. The wolf gave chase for a few feet, but thought better of it.

Lun's will had been achieved: the Disciples would not get these beasts for whatever dark purpose they held. It felt good to do what he'd been sent north to do, to meet Lun's expectations.

Lun. Oh how he loved Lun. The person he had been, the sad little girl confused about her identity, had once had the pleasure of meeting Lun. A great black beast covered in spikes and darkness, terrifying and awesome, he had understood her: he had accepted who she felt she was, told her she could be anyone under his eyes. The path to that meeting had been long and hard, and the resulting mission far tougher, but it was worth it for the tolerance and love Lun had shown to the person Anger of Lun once was.

Anger of Lun swung away, to hide and wait. As he went, he thanked Lun for this and every opportunity he had been given.
Chapter 2

The sun rose on the third day of Anger of Lun avoiding his home. He had spent the first day fleeing, his whips firing him between the trees with little trace of his passage. To ensure his safety, he backtracked, creating false trails for interested Disciples to waste their time with. After hunting for food and making a weak shelter, he had slept as long as he dared, and then struck out east.

That second day was a journey and a patrol, covering ground he had not seen in months. Here, the forest was unbroken and unmolested, the miles of gorgeous treelands safe from the Disciple roads which were less frequent as one went north: it seemed the Disciples remained on direct roads from Moenian for as long as possible before falling into those strange square patterns further south.

He had briefly wondered what the Disciple city was like, what defences protected a city peopled with odd mechanical beings. Voice of Lun had ordered the faithful not to go that far, that only death awaited them at the Disciple's capital. Anger of Lun would never go against those orders, but he was still curious.

Anger of Lun had walked until he collapsed that second day. The last of his energy was spent foraging for mushrooms and fruit, a cold dinner that required no fire, risked no smoke. He ate joylessly, then slept in the crook of an old tree.

Sol found him stiff and chilled. He stood, stretched, but his muscles complained and his bones creaked. More stretches and some exercise got his blood pumping again, made him feel like he could continue.

But what to do today? Should he hide or return to his home and vigil? The Disciples probably weren't still searching for him, but that wasn't definite. Through a misty morning, he looked at the rising sun as though it had answers: Sol only made him squint and illuminated his dark robes.

This, he decided, was a matter of faith. Kneeling, he pressed his thumbs against the pale gems in his whips. Joy, religious and sweeping, rushed through him. He closed his eyes, bowed his head, and said, "Dark brother, equal and kind, cruel because it is what's best, what should I do?"

The yellow gems warmed. A familiar voice that sounded like necessary pain or a vital culling whispered, "Seek out your colleague."

Anger of Lun gasped, his chest rising. Tears formed in his eyes. He had trouble breathing, and his weak hands shook as he nodded fiercely in response to his god.

The gems cooled. The dark brother was gone.

For minutes, Anger of Lun prostrated himself before Lun, thanking the dark brother for his wisdom. He sang Lun's praises, his voice cracking with emotion he could not contain, his head low and his cupped hands pointing at the ground.

When he had eulogised enough, Anger of Lun shook himself, and went to do as commanded. He spun the whips to rouse their power, then pulled himself through the forest.

Many of the faithful had travelled into the Moenian forest, posing as Shields until they could slip away and be assumed as killed. That was the plan Lun's Voice had built, one executed flawlessly by a dozen Lun worshippers powerful enough to disrupt the Disciples.

Once every two months, the faithful gathered far from any Disciple road. There, they reviewed their progress and introduced any who had joined their ranks. Anger of Lun was the sixth person to arrive. He had camped at Lun's Lake, their meeting grounds, until the others found him. The first person he met was his eventual neighbour, Honour of Lun. It is she that Lun wanted him to visit.

Honour of Lun had spent weeks showing him what was expected of him, testing his ability to wield Lunlight and correcting faults in his form. Anger of Lun didn't need to learn combat or survival growing up as he had, but he did need guidance through his first fights with the golden, godlike Disciples. During this period, he had stayed in Honour of Lun's home, so he knew exactly where to find her.

After a few hours, he arrived at a colossal oak tree covered in thick, luxurious leaves. Ancient and grand, it had forged enough space in the dense forest to grow into a magnificent sight, and had never let its position go. If you didn't know the signs to look for, one could easily pass this tree and never know that Honour of Lun lived within.

Anger of Lun did not approach as a friend might: the Disciples could still be watching him. So he spent a good hour watching for any hunters, moving slowly, creating false trails. Only when satisfied that he was alone did he approach the oak's trunk, and use his whip to rapidly ascend.

He landed on a brief porch and Honour of Lun ran out from the ramshackle hut she called home, her own whips in her hand. "Oh my... Anger, you nearly scared the blood from my veins!"

"I am sorry, Honour of Lun," Anger of Lun replied.

"Sol, you did shock me. What are you doing out here?" she said, putting her hand on her hip. She was short, slight. The tight skin over her cheeks made her look hungry. Her stature and preened hair suggested weaknesses that didn't exist: she was fit, and an excellent fighter.

"I was advised to."

Honour of Lun's eyes went to the whip in Anger of Lun's hand, and then she nodded, her hair tumbling around her drawn features. "Would you allow me to offer you something to eat?"

"Yes," Anger of Lun said.

Honour of Lun tied her whips to her waist, then gestured for him to step inside. He secured his whips and followed her. The building, such as it was, was six feet high, and long enough to lie down in. Inside, he found Honour of Lun's sleeping robes scattered on the floor, and a cold cut of meat beside them: he had interrupted her breakfast. Still, it was good practice to react so rapidly.

"Do you know why it was that Lun told you to come all the way out here?" Honour of Lun asked as she settled beside her breakfast. She gestured for him to sit. "And please, eat."

"He didn't," Anger of Lun replied. He sat and started on his share of the breakfast, enjoying the greasiness of the flesh. It was probably partridge. "I was close when he spoke."

"Then I shall have to ask why it was that you were so close to my home!" Honour of Lun said joyfully, her southern accent momentarily thicker. "Why?"

Anger of Lun swallowed. "I fought and killed three Disciples. It wasn't safe to return to my home. East was the best direction to head in. I travelled for two days, and then prayed for guidance."

His fellow Cultist smiled. "I am so glad that the dark brother provided me some company for today, then. It is likely to be an interesting day as a result."

"Yes. He wouldn't send me to you just for a chat."

"He might. Perhaps you need the company. Or maybe I do!"

Anger of Lun grunted. He was fine only seeing the faithful every two months, but he could imagine others fearing the solitude and isolation, being only one moment of bad luck from death. Faith could sustain some people, but it wasn't always enough.

"We shall finish our meal, and then we can go out on a patrol," Honour of Lun said, patting him on the shoulder. "This is going to be like the times of old, is it not?"

"Except I'll be the one showing you up."

The woman laughed. "Hopefully that is so! I would like to see how you have grown."

They finished their meal and moved out, careful that no one saw them leave the well-hidden home. Once they were at what Honour of Lun considered to be a safe distance – it was her decision to make, she knew her lands best – they broke into rapid swings, Honour of Lun leading the way.

Despite her joke about needing company, Honour of Lun did not talk during the patrol. She was definite, focused utterly on the patrol. Perhaps she had not felt the need to patrol recently, and his presence had brought a new determination. Or perhaps she just wanted to finish early and catch up back at the home they had once shared. Either way, they progressed in silence.

And this proved to be a good thing when, about ninety minutes in, they heard a sneeze. Both Cultists stopped dead, hung from the trees by their whips, and saw in each other's expression confirmation that they had heard what they thought: someone was nearby.

Honour of Lun tilted her head back, a questioning look on her face. Anger of Lun nodded to agree that the sneeze had come from the south-west.

They dropped to the forest floor and moved toward the sneeze, their weapons readied. It was possible they'd found another of the faithful, but it was more likely an advanced scout from Geos.

Of course, it could be a human Disciple: Lun's Voice had predicted their coming. Anger of Lun felt eager to look upon a human who would willingly work for and with those monsters. If not for the prophecies, he would have thought it impossible for such a strange contradiction to exist.

The Lun Cultists picked up the person's trail shortly. Whoever it was didn't know enough about tracking to prevent it, left footprints and broken branches in their wake. Without speaking, they both slowed their pace slightly, not needing to rush when tracking such easy prey.

Their quarry was heading south, following the path of a Cultist road half a mile to the east. Deep footprints meant they were either heavily laden or incredibly large. Anger of Lun sniffed as he checked the trail and detected soap and fresh sweat.

It took ten minutes to catch their target, an average-sized man resting on a patch of dewy grass, a large rucksack at his feet. Brown hair, a fledgling beard, about thirty, he was disappointingly unremarkable. They made certain he was alone before lying in the grass above him like predators.

"Disciple or Solarist?" Anger of Lun whispered.

"Disciple. Look at the design and crafting of that carry-back."

Anger of Lun hadn't given the rucksack any thought, but a strange flexible metal, made to look like fabric at first glance, made up its body, and something soft, pliant, and artificial covered the straps and back. Only the Disciples could make such a thing.

Honour of Lun held her whips up. "Ready?"

Anger of Lun tightened his grip on his whips, then nodded. Together, they rose and charged. The Disciple didn't notice them until four rakes of yellow death sliced along him, severing his raised hands and gutting him. He fell into a sitting position and bled out, dying with his eyes wide and a shocked look peering from a facial wound.

The Lun Cultists looked at each other and nodded, their job well done. Anger of Lun even felt a smile rise to his lips: it really was like old times.

"Shall we see why he avoided the Disciple roads?" he asked.

"Yes, I think I shall be doing that, if that is good with you?"

Anger of Lun nodded. He wanted to open that rucksack, but this was Honour of Lun's land, and so such dangers were her responsibility and duty.

Honour of Lun knelt and brought Lunlight across her body in case some danger lurked within the item. As she slowly opened the rucksack, Anger of Lun sprinted to check the Disciple roads for any ambushes, and found them safe.

"Are we definitely safe to be here, Anger?"

He winced at the informal name, but said, "I believe so."

Honour of Lun looked confused as she peered inside. "Then come and take your look at this."

Anger of Lun frowned when he looked: inside were long tubes of metal, maybe four inches across. They were different colours, had markings in a language he did not recognise, and each ended in an ornamental cap and nozzle arrangement. The cap was brassy and circular, and crenulations along its shape suggested it could be turned. Below it was a set of circles of decreasing size.

"Know you what this is?" Honour of Lun asked.

"I don't."

"Should we take them or destroy them here?"

Anger of Lun looked over at the dead human Disciple, sitting in a pool of his blood. He was a great disappointment, had died without even a struggle. "This one avoided the Disciple roads to sneak those things through Sol's lines. They didn't want us or anyone else to notice this delivery. Whatever these things are, they're important. We should bring them to the next gathering of the faithful at Lun's Lake."

"I agree," she replied. "Can you carry some of them? Despite how they look, these metallic containers are not light in any way."

Anger of Lun nodded. He hefted two of the containers up and held them under his arms, finding them as heavy as Honour of Lun suggested.

"Oh, before we go, we should take care of what we have left behind, yes?"

"Yes."

Honour of Lun turned to the dead Disciple, her whips together. A burst of Lunlight fired out from their gems and engulfed the Disciple. His body was destroyed as Lun's brilliance engulfed him and the blood on the soil, leaving only the scent of burning flesh and charred earth.

Their job done, the Lun Cultists carried whatever the Disciples had tried to smuggle. Anger of Lun stared at the strange cargo on the way, tried to figure what might be within them, but could only settle on 'nothing good'.
Chapter 3

Anger of Lun and Honour of Lun next met a few weeks later to carry the Disciple contraband to Lun's Lake. The strange containers were kept at Honour of Lun's home in the intervening time, hidden in her sleeping area, and they still seemed as ominous to Anger of Lun as when they were confiscated.

"Did they react or move at all, in your time with them?" he asked.

"Not once. I don't think they are alive."

"They could just be wary," Anger of Lun replied, staring at the containers.

Honour of Lun shrugged. "That's not impossible, but I feel it's unlikely: if they were alive, why wouldn't they transport themselves?"

"Perhaps," Anger of Lun said, unconvinced.

They rigged the containers into sturdy networks of rope they could hang from their shoulders, each working on the other's arrangements, and neither was disappointed when they tested their harness.

"And so we go," Honour of Lun said. "I wonder if we'll have any new members."

"If Lun wills it, so shall it be."

"Well, of course, but.... Forget it. Let's go."

The two Lun Cultists shot through the forest. Anger of Lun was a little slower than Honour of Lun, having travelled far from his home already, but his comrade accounted for his fatigue and kept her speed down.

Lun's Lake rested in a clearing far to the east, so Anger of Lun was double-backing on himself to get there. Not that he minded: these Disciple artefacts had to be brought before the others. Many of the faithful had been in these lands longer than he, fighting the monstrous Disciples and protecting the secret ranks of the Lun Cult, so they may know what should be done with these cylinders.

They might even channel Lun's Voice to ask him...

Anger of Lun shuddered with religious pleasure. He had only conversed with Lun's Voice a few times, when preparing to go north and protect Geos. Of course, he'd read the man's essays and thoughts on all matters, but to be noticed by such a tremendous man was a great honour, and would be again if the group decided to speak to him.

Sol had sunk low by the time they arrived at the lake. It was a bright, open evening, but Lun was not strong enough to shine through the treeline so soon into the night: he would no doubt grace them with his magnificence during his servants' gathering.

The Lun Cultists' gathered each month when Lun was brightest. Anger of Lun didn't enjoy these meetings: he wasn't fond of forced conversation, of meaningless pleasantries, but the potential for borrowing a new sermon from a recent arrival, or hearing word from Lun's Voice, always made the trips worthwhile.

Many Lun Cultists were already at the lake when Anger of Lun approached it, milling around the small, silver lake and chatting as they waited for their meeting to start. Graceful insects with glowing thoraxes danced above the water behind them, night crickets chirped, and the air had a sweet smell, like lilac.

"Anger, Honour," said Thought of Lun, the senior Lun Cultist of the group. She had long, dark hair tied into a plait, and a leathery face. "It is good to see you. And it is interesting to see you carrying something for us to discuss."

Anger of Lun winced: every such meeting was full of contracted names. He did not approve – Lun's Voice had given them their new names for a reason – but he was the only one.

"Good. Our conversations on small matters were turning tedious," Shield of Lun said, his deep voice seeming to shake the nearby waters. "I'm glad there will be a shift."

"Are we not early to begin proceedings?" Anger of Lun asked, pulling back his hood to expose his face. He hated doing so, knowing his form was a betrayal of who he was, but decorum required it. "The dark brother is not near his zenith."

Thought of Lun nodded. "And we are still missing some of our brethren."

Anger of Lun registered who was in attendance. There were two new Cultists, both slender and slight, but Grief of Lun and Hand of Lun were missing. It was unlike either to be late, but Disciples moved at night too, and they both lived the furthest from Lun's Lake. Creeping concern engulfed Anger of Lun as he joined in the small talk that filled their wait as best he could. Which wasn't very well at all.

After an hour of boasting and shared tips on securing and maintaining their homes, as well as taciturn questions to the newcomers about Geos, Thought of Lun stood and clapped. "We shall begin. If our missing brethren do not appear next month, we shall have to assume they died at the Disciple's hands."

"May Lun allow them rest," the faithful said in unison.

"The agenda was to be simple until Anger and Honour brought these strange devices," she continued, "I feel we'll be here a while longer than planned, which may be no bad thing. I throw the floor open to the two of you. Tell us what you've found."

Honour of Lun stood and explained what they had found, recounting them finding the human Disciple and the strange containers they carried.

"Human Disciples exist," Shield of Lun said. "It is as Lun's Voice predicted."

"You sound surprised, big man," teased Fire of Lun, a young thing with designs on the larger warrior.

"I was merely confirming it, Fire," Shield of Lun hissed back.

"The predictions of Lun's Voice are always proven correct, eventually," Honour of Lun said. "But that isn't the point to discuss: what these strange things the Disciples were smuggling are. These artefacts were destined for Geos, no doubt. The question I would have is why."

"It almost doesn't matter, does it? What matters is that they are important to the Disciples," Anger of Lun replied. "The Disciples sneak them down using a human representative, a resource they may not have much of. There was a great risk taken, and a likely great cost in their loss."

"Where were they going, though?" Honour of Lun asked. "Where were they taking them?"

"To Disciples in the south?" Shield of Lun suggested.

Fire of Lun tutted. "That makes sense. But they risked so much in sending a human..."

"We are trained to listen for Disciples," Thought of Lun pointed out. "Not for humans."

"That is true," Anger of Lun said. "We might not have heard their passage had they not sneezed. It was Lun's will that we found this."

"There is another option. It could be that there are not Disciples in the south, but sympathisers deeply buried in the Solarist power structures," Resolve of Lun said.

Everyone looked at Resolve of Lun. She was a former Shield, amongst the first Lun Cultists Voice of Lun had recruited. Her opinions were held in high regard, mostly because she shared so few of them.

"How do you mean?" Thought of Lun asked.

The former Shields stood, stretching her scarred body. "Stations are secretive, like us. They protect their ways and means, and in so doing allow great autonomy to their members. It's possible the Disciples have buried into them since the Second Invasion, especially if they have human agents. If they need a smuggling route into Geos, many would have the freedom and power to trade such favours for access to the Disciples' darker miracles."

Another silence. The thought of a whole people being governed and controlled by secret Disciples brought a sickening, deep terror to all present.

"Again, as Lun's Voice predicted," Shield of Lun said. "He wrote that we could not trust the Solarists until they had purged themselves. Many assumed that meant their fear of Lun. We were wrong."

"If that's true, we must speak with Lun's Voice."

"Yes, we must."

"He will know what to do."

"Enough!" Thought of Lun said. "I will decide when we contact Lun's Voice, and I will not be hassled into such a decision."

The group fell silent. Thought of Lun looked around, judged each member of the faithful for their response. "You are right, though," she said. "We must report this, and understand where his wisdom will take us."

Anger of Lun nodded, excited. Whilst Lun directed the faithful over small matters, his responses to complex issues required some interpretation: the individual's perceptions clouded the message, leading to arguments. Only Lun's Voice could analyse the god's will in such matters, because only he regularly met with Lun.

The Cultists arranged themselves in a circle, and each held out a whip. Those new to the gathering did not join in. Ten whips dangled loosely, their gems facing one another. Then the Lun Cultists closed their eyes and concentrated, sent a prayer and a message to the head of their faith, their leader, the man who had recruited them to this life of sacrifice.

Anger of Lun felt the response after ten minutes of praying, a sort of tug on his faith. He allowed Lun to take strength from his gem, form a connection to their leader, and half of his power was absorbed by the ritual. A silvery flash lit up the world beyond his closed eyes, and a deep thrumming spurred into life.

"You have summoned me, my friends," Lun's Voice said.

Anger of Lun opened his eyes and saw Lun's Voice. The lower half of his face was covered by a fabric half-Lun, which allowed them to see only his sharp eyes. The form beneath his black robes was stooped, frail, but held in a controlled manner that showed his strength of will.

"We have, my friend," Thought of Lun said, using the honorific Lun's Voice insisted upon. "We have found evidence of human Disciples, and a potential smuggling method the Disciples are using to move materials down to Geos."

Voice of Lun sighed. "Proceed."

Thought of Lon retold Honour of Lun's tale, keeping the wording curt and respectful. When she finished, Lun's Voice looked around them, the fourteen in attendance. "Who among you found this evidence?

"I did, my friend," said Honour of Lun, nervous of what he might say.

"As did I, my friend," Anger of Lun said, having no such worries.

"I have long suspected the Disciples have infested the Solarist ranks. You have only added weight to my predictions." Their leader stopped, put his hand to his chin. "Though I admit, I wish I had been wrong."

"What are your commands, my friend?" Thought of Lun asked.

Lun's Voice looked round them again, ensured he had their attention. "Search and destroy. That is all. Spend your time seeking the hidden Disciple, the sneaking human supporter, and wipe them from this existence. Turn their artefacts into dust, and their bodies into ash. Search, my friends, and destroy."

"Lun's will be done," the Lun Cultists said.

"Farewell, my friends," Lun's Voice said before he severed their connection.

"Well, that was clear," Shield of Lun said. "We must reorganise."

Thought of Lun nodded. "A new phase of our war has begun. Lun's Front now exists to prevent Disciple artefacts getting to Geos, and to kill any Disciple sympathisers we find."

Anger of Lun smiled. A new purpose was upon them.

### Chain

'What if Lun isn't the enemy? What if we're resisting darkness that has always been a part of us?'  
\--The last words of Group, a Heretic executed at the Front by Contegon Reflex Force, 89AC

Chapter 4

Chain stopped leading her daughter along the mountain path and took a deep breath, enjoying air free of Aureu's pollution and life. She might never get used to this purity, to the feeling of her lungs being clean, and that would be a blessing.

"Mum, what makes a mountains?" Carmen asked, skipping along behind her, long blonde hair bouncing.

"Sol made the mountains, little one."

Her daughter frowned, unsatisfied with the answer. "How?"

Chain smiled. At first, she viewed Carmen's refusal to accept basic answers as troublesome, but that was her fault, not her daughter's: Carmen's inquisitive nature would make her brilliant. Chain had come to realise it was her job to encourage and teach her, something her own parents hadn't learned.

"Well, there are different ideas because nobody knows for sure: we weren't there as Sol made us later. Some think he just snapped his fingers," Chain snapped hers, "and made the world. Others think, when he created Geos, he set two great islands to crash together, making the mountains where they struck."

Carmen tried to snap her fingers and failed, just rubbing them together. She examined her fingers, her tiny brow furrowed. Then she shrugged and looked back up at Chain.

"I like walks," she said, changing the subject.

Chain knelt and scooped her up. "I like walking too. But do you know what I like more?"

"No! No!" she screamed playfully.

"I like tickles!" Chain shouted before tickling her daughter. "Ahhhhh! Tickle tickle tickle!"

Carmen shrieked and shrieked in delight, laughing in between.

Chain stopped and put Carmen down, let her catch her breath. It was a shame she could not spend much time with her little one, but that was the nature of being a Contegon: her holy duty was just as important as he motherly one. She was grateful, though, for these early evening walks with her daughter.

"A bunny!" Carmen squealed.

"Where?"

"There! It's there!"

Chain knelt and followed her daughter's direction. Sure enough, down the valley in wild, unclaimed land was a black rabbit. It twitched its ears and hopped, oblivious to its audience.

"What do rabbits eat, little one?"

"Grass!"

"And?"

"Veggiebulls!"

"Vegetables, yes. They are herbivores."

"Hervibores."

"Not quite. It's 'her'"

She waited for Carmen to repeat the syllable. "Her."

"Bee."

"Bee."

"Vores."

"Vores."

"Her-bee-vores. Herbivores," Chain said with a smile.

"Herbivores!"

Chain rubbed her head. "That's right. You learn so fast. Soon, you'll know more than me!"

"Nobody knows more than you, Mum!"

"I thought that once. I was wrong."

Carmen frowned and tilted her head, trying to work out what she meant.

Chain felt guilty for confusing her daughter, sinking back to her past, so she shook her head and grinned. "Never mind. What do you think the bunny's doing?"

"Running!"

Chain looked back. The rabbit was running, having spotted a fox that was stalking it. Rabbit and fox engaged in a pursuit, darting across the untamed grassland. Thankfully, the prey got to its warren before it could provide Carmen an unfortunate lesson in the cruelty of nature.

"Bye bye rabbit."

"Bye bye rabbit," Chain echoed before standing. "Come on, little one. Let's go see what Auntie Bracket is making for dinner."

"I know!"

"Do you?"

"She told me," Carmen said with a nod. "It's a surprise."

"Am I going to like the surprise?"

Carmen grinned widely. "I can't tell you. It's a surprise!"

Chain couldn't argue with such logic. "Alright, I'll just have to wait. Off we go."

Bracket... her friend had been a veritable Servant of Sol since they'd left Aureu. When she'd returned home in her... temporary absence following the Hereticum, she turned to her best friend from before the Academy. Tall, plain, and on hard times, Bracket had been scrabbling for a job when the Guardian recommended Chain take a Contegon post in the Gravit Mountains. Bracket offered to come with her and act as a Nanny. She raised Carmen whilst the Contegon protected the mining town of Buckle. Chain couldn't think of anyone she'd rather have looking after her child.

Sol certainly had a strange plan for Chain. She reflected on it often, though not as much as when she raged against the Guardian, the Acolyte Maya, and everyone who had wronged her. Chain now realised that, after playing a crucial role in the Battle for Aureu, she had been given a chance to build the unfurling Acolyte Station. Being pregnant would have been an inconvenience, but that connection with Sol was her reward. Her pride and anger had robbed her of that.

Sol never shut you out completely, though, even when you stupidly broke an oath to the Guardian, the spiritual and political leader of Geos. Chain still couldn't believe she did that... but that was in the past. Sol still had a future in mind here in the north: Buckle, Carmen, and her new life.

Carmen skipped down the mountain path, leading the way. They'd walked this path so many times her daughter knew the way by heart, hardly paid it attention. She hummed a hymn and tried to jump as high as she could. Chain just watched her, her heart full of pride.

After ten minutes, they rounded Sister, the smallest of the Family's four mountains, and entered the wider plains of Geos. The Family stood tall and proud over them: Father and Mother, snow dusting their shoulders; Brother to their right, only a hair shorter, and Sister lowest of all. The Family Mine was at the base of Brother, its equipment, rough wooden stores, and carts abandoned for the day. During the day it would be crawling with Miners, a subset of the Merchants.

Mining was a tough business, but at least they had a great home to return to. Buckle was a jewel, a wooden haven set amidst Geos' endless green. Holding maybe four hundred people, it was a vibrant community with a playhouse and town hall. A new town, its buildings were handmade and fresh. People took pride in that: a new house had to last generations, so they put time and effort into their craft, cutting their own wood, and helping each other as Buckle expanded.

They were out now on the area known as Lower Range, a few hundred feet higher than Aureu far to the south-west. Great patches of forest rested between the roads and Farms that sustained Buckle.

"How are roads made, Mum? The Mister wants to know."

The Mister, Carmen's imaginary friend, had shown up shortly after Carmen had learned to talk, a figure Carmen drew as a green man. He covered much of Carmen's inquisitiveness, perhaps due to Chain's initial dislike of her questions. "Hundreds of horses flatten it down by riding the same way with big, heavy loads."

"They flatten trees?"

"No, we cut them down first, but that was a long time ago."

Carmen nodded and skipped ahead, considering something else now. Chain returned to examining her town. She was responsible for keeping its people spiritually-primed to delve into Geos' bowels. Every Miner worked for a Merchant named Muster, with Par the great man's proxy, but it was their faith that kept them going. When you've seen your friends crushed, or had your child called up to the Shields, you need a stern and authoritative voice to tell you Sol planned it.

It didn't hurt if that voice comes from a hero from the Battle for Aureu...

Buckle, like many small towns, had had many of its young called to the Fronts. The town had stopped expanding as a result, and Miners were unable to take their Rest: some foremen were in their sixties, too frail to traipse in the dark, but they had to earn. Many had their children later too, leading to complications for Doctor Marsh to deal with.

Being a small town's Contegon wasn't as simple, and as thankless, a job as she'd once thought. Like many other things in life. The responsibility of being a mother and leading a whole town, speaking with normal people and putting aside her airs, had changed her. And she was grateful for it: Sol's greatest lesson was humility, learning that you could be great and wonderful in his eyes, but were still just a person.

"Are you alright, Mum?"

"I'm fine, thank you. Why do you ask?"

"Your eyes were sad."

Chain held out her hand, and Carmen took it, tiny fingers slipping into her hard-worn palm. "I've just been thinking a lot. You know, today marks the fifth year I've lived in Buckle."

Carmen's eyes widened as she considered a length of time longer than her whole life. "That is a long time."

"It is. So I was thinking about it."

"What were you thinking?"

Chain smiled. "That I hope the next five are as good to me."

Though she didn't understand the sentiment, Carmen smiled back. Chain preferred talking to her like she was older, give her the opportunity to consider adult things. After all, she only had five more years of school before she'd join a Station. Chain had already decided not to intervene, to let Sol decide her fate. After all, he had done a great job with her mother.

Together, hand-in-hand, they returned to Buckle. The surprise dinner was Chain's favourite, a roasted chicken with thick gravy and roasted vegetables: Bracket had remembered the anniversary too. They ate heartily and slept well, content as only a happy family could be.
Chapter 5

"Sol is graceful, Sol is kind. Sol, his will in you I'll find," Bracket sang as she fried the morning's breakfast. Her voice was deep, melodic, like a well-trained man's. "When I look and you I see, I can tell that he loves me."

"What's that one called, Mum?" Carmen asked.

"'Sol is Graceful, and I am Grateful,'" Chain replied.

"You know all the songs!"

Chain smiled. "Not all of them. Just most."

Delicious bacon scented their kitchen, making Chain's mouth water. Fruit was already before them: both mother and daughter had eaten an apple and drunk grape juice. Now, they awaited the meat to finish their meal.

Chain's kitchen was light and roomy, allowed Sol's light in through great windows. Bracket stood at a great iron skillet heated by a roaring fire. To her right were smooth surfaces, and a sink fed by rainwater. This was the house of every Contegon since Buckle was built, and their wills gave the yellow walls and antique furniture an extra glow.

"I hope you're hungry, Carmen, as I have too much bacon here," Bracket said, turning from the skillet. Her pale brow furrowed as she counted the rashers. "There's definitely too much here."

"No. I only want one."

"Only one rasher?"

"Only one."

"You should have more," Chain said. "It'll help you grow big and strong."

"How many are you having, Mum?"

"I don't know. How many are there?"

Bracket scratched her hair, the short, brown fuzz moving beneath her fingers. "Do you know, I just can't tell. Carmen, can you help me? How many rashers of bacon are there?"

Carmen laughed, jumped down from her chair, and ran over to Bracket. She held the cooling bacon far enough away that Carmen wouldn't burn herself.

"One... two... three... four... f-five..."

"And there's one more, right there, see?"

"Erm... yeah. Five and one. Six. There are six bacons."

Bracket kissed Carmen. "There are six. How didn't I see that before?"

Carmen giggled and ran back to her chair, held her knife and fork up.

"Well, I'm having two rashers," Chain said. "How many are you having, Bracket?"

"I've got a big day today so I'm having two."

"How many are left, Carmen?"

A frown graced her daughter's brow as she worked through the problem, checking her calculations with her fingers. "Two," she decided. "Two bacons are left."

"Do you want two?"

Carmen looked at Bracket, and then at Chain, snapping between the two of them as she looked for the right answer. "No," she said. "I only want one."

Chain grinned. How could she not love Carmen's determination, her willingness to say what was right? She would one day rock whichever Station she was chosen for, Chain was sure of it.

"I'll have three then," Bracket said. She could do with the extra weight.

Sadly, Chain had to finish her breakfast quickly: the town expected her morning patrol, a routine set by their second Contegon. It gave them continuity, and served to let them know when she was ill or unable to protect them. The tradition was quite clever: Chain wished she could have met Contegon Soil.

"I shall see you both tonight," Chain said, standing. "You enjoy school, Carmen."

"I will, Mum. Bye! The Mister says bye too!"

"Goodbye to The Mister," Chain said with a wave.

"Good day, Chain," Bracket said.

"And to you, Bracket."

Chain picked up her axes, strapped them to her sides. It was threatening rain, so she grabbed a leather shawl from its hook, threw it over her Contegon robes, then left for the day.

The Contegon's Castle – as her home was known – had been built at the dead centre of Buckle. Over the years, Chain had created a number of routes that navigated the whole town. The one she chose that day took two hours, but she learned much about the upcoming Joining, and heard gossip that encouraged her to drop in on some people unannounced. Time well-invested.

After following the town's border, Chain went to her next duty: visiting Par.

Mining towns operated at the behest of Merchants, who paid to build the town in order to make Geos prosperous. Muster's grandfather had created Buckle, and its financial management had passed down to the great walrus of a man. Muster's family had grown in power and influence so that Buckle had fallen down their priorities, become a steady earner to fund their children entering the Lords. As a result, Muster's company hired someone to ensure Buckle's gem stream never dried up... and that was Par.

Par lived to the north-west, closer to the Mine. When he'd arrived, rumour had it that Muster gave him enough money to build a house befitting one of his employees, but he'd pocketed most of it and built that ramshackle building. With the man's personality, she could believe it.

She knocked, though she didn't need to, and waited for the Merchant to answer.

"I'm coming, I'm coming, don't get your dick in a–" He stopped talking when he opened the door. In many ways, Par resembled his home: poorly-maintained, cheap-looking, with functional features beaten by the weather. "Oh, Contegon. Forgive me. I was expecting someone else."

"I should hope so," Chain remarked.

Par blinked, his differently-coloured eyes disappearing momentarily: one green, one blue. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Routine visit. May I come in?"

The Merchant frowned and looked down at his robes, the golden dye long faded. He could easily order a new set, but he hadn't. "I suppose so."

Chain frowned at his reluctance, but followed him inside. His meagre home had only four rooms: a bedroom, a bathroom, a kitchen, and an office. She'd only been in the latter, immediately on the left of the narrow entranceway.

Par shuffled behind his desk, a gift from Chain: his previous one had been falling apart, a splintered mess, and she'd wanted his affairs to take place on something worthy of his Station. Its smooth surface was covered with ledgers and papers, a vicious mess, and it had been scratched many times.

"And how are you?" he asked, steepling his fingers as he fired the words at her.

Chain sat in the flimsy guest's chair, spreading her robe and shawl. "I'm fine, thank you. Looking forward to the Joining in a few days."

"Oh. Of course. Who's being tied again?"

"Tassle and my namesake, Chain the Farmer?" Chain had to smile as she said it: the joke was always to say their full titles – Chain the Farmer and Chain the Contegon – when they spoke about each other. Everyone else just called them Chain and Contegon Justicar.

Par scratched his cheek. "Right, right. I... I won't be able to attend, unfortunately. Paperwork. Lots to catch up on, as you can see."

"Surely you can join us for a drink, celebrate the knot?"

"No," Par said. "Sorry. I've let things slip a little here: been ill, you see."

"Well, okay. Your loss, I suppose."

He allowed the silence to swell between them, allowed it to gain volume and texture. "Did you want something else? I really am behind on the paperwork."

Chain leant forward and picked up the nearest ledger that wasn't integral to the pile. "Speaking of paperwork, I'm here to review the expected output for this month's shipment."

Par blinked then stood. "Of course. The projections are..." He shuffled through the paper on his desk, careful not to disturb the pile and cause an avalanche. "Here they are. I'm sure you'll find them in order."

The relationship between Contegons and Merchants was delicate: the Council relied on Merchants to generate taxes and tithe their profits to pay for the upkeep of the Stations. In return, they get permission and support to run towns like Buckle, but Contegons and Clerics collect the money. It's a carefully-maintained balance that had been broken by the three Stations more than once.

The most common way to breach each others' trust was for a middling Merchant or Cleric to skim, take untaxed or untithed money for themselves. It was hard to look around this home, built to the lowest possible budget, see its owner in poor robes, and not think Par the type to skim.

Chain smiled as she looked over the wafted paper. According to the report, the Mine had produced nine hundred Circles of gems last week, give or take a few dozen Circles. Like the rise and fall of Sol, the Mine predictably gave Muster one thousand Circles of profit a month, and the Council another thousand.

Though she didn't like how Par treated his home, Chain couldn't fault how he ran the Mine.

"Mind if I keep this?" Chain asked.

"Of course not, it's just a copy from Grain."

Chain looked again and saw the Cleric's signature proving this was an official document of the Bureau.

"Alright then. I suppose I'll be on my way."

"Well," Par said, standing to acquiesce, "drop by any time. I don't get many visitors so I–"

A knock on the door contradicted him. Par jumped at hearing it, nervous as a puppy.

"You were saying?" Chain asked wryly.

"Sol likes to disprove an arrogant fool, Contegon Justicar," Par said as he crossed his office, moving with great purpose.

Chain followed him to his door. Stood behind it was a young man wearing dark, Stationless clothes and short, blond hair. "Par," Shovel said as he stepped past the Merchant. He lit up when he saw Chain. "Oh, and Contegon Justicar! I have not had so pleasant a surprise in weeks."

"Good morning, Shovel."

"Contegon Justicar was just leaving," Par said, holding his front door open. "I've hired Shovel to sort the paperwork for me. He works very cheap."

"That's... unorthodox," Chain said, not letting her smile fade.

"What, working cheap?" Shovel asked, grinning. He looked good when he smiled. "You take what work you can get, at the price people will pay. And Par isn't really willing to pay all that much."

Par's grip on his door tightened, as did his lips. "If you'll excuse me, Contegon, I think I'd like a word with my employee about respecting people of Station."

"Don't be too hard on him," Chain said. "Station isn't everything. Good day to you both, Par, Shovel."

"Good day, Contegon Justicar," Par said, gesturing out of his door.

"Good day, Contegon Justicar," Shovel repeated, waving.

Chain stepped out, not overstaying her apparently short welcome. The door closed behind her. She waited longer than was polite, listening, but could not hear Par speaking to the Stationless young man. Perhaps he was waiting for her to be long gone before shouting, not wanting to seem as cheap as Shovel had implied.

Chain shrugged and walked away. She had better things to do than listen to a jack-of-all-trades being berated by a lesser Merchant.
Chapter 6

Sol blessed Chain's namesake with beautiful weather for her Joining, blazing through a cloudless sky, pure blue reaching every horizon, which was some distance up in the Gravit Mountains. The slight but cooling breeze brought the scents of the nearby forest. It was the best day a couple could hope for on their Joining.

The ceremony was to be held north-east of Buckle, at the base of Sister. Benches and the Joining Arch had been brought out by friends and family, and tents had been set up for the couple to change in. Tassle was behind Chain the Farmer's family, and Chain the Farmer was behind Tassle's. The tents undulated in the wind, and the arch and benches creaked happily.

Contegon Justicar stood under the Joining Arch, the Joining rope in her hand. Beside her, a brazier filled with burning coals and a torch soaked in oil awaited. Carmen sat in the front row with Bracket, not because she was important to either family but to ensure she behaved. She wore a black dress, the colour of Joinings and Pyres, and a green bow in her hair.

It was a shame, Chain reflected, that this was her daughter's first Joining. Once, there would have been one every month in Buckle, but the war's escalation had robbed the town of that joy. Even as an outsider, Chain lamented this, as Joinings brought the community together.

Well, not the whole community. Some, like Par, still had to work. But everyone else had shown up, wearing their finery and chatting excitedly. It was only a few months since the Graduation Day celebrations – which Chain was just about comfortable leading – so there wasn't much gossiping or catching up. This added joviality and casualness to the air, made people concentrate on the happy couple rather than talking about who did what with whom.

"People," Chain called when she was sure everyone was present, "can I have silence?"

Buckle responded within seconds, with some wanting to get the last word or assure their conversations would continue after the ceremony: after all, a Joining was a place for deals and trading as much as celebration. But the town did fall into a hush.

"My mother once told me that Sol was love," she started. "That confused me for the longest time: how could anyone think so when he burns, fights, and collects us after death? But time, age, and mistakes have shown me the wisdom in those words. Something the younger of you should bear in mind." There was a dutiful titter, mostly from parents. "I have come to believe Sol is the purest expression of love: he burns, like passion; he fights to protect us; he collects us together, because he wants us to be with him; but, most of all, he works tirelessly to ensure evil does not befall us, and good does instead."

Chain held the Joining rope taut, as though testing it. "As Sol is love, he will always rejoice when two people forge a love so strong they wish to become one under his sight. We are here today to witness Tassle and the excellently-named Chain do just that."

The town applauded the two youngsters.

"Will the couple approach the Arch?" Chain called.

The applause rose as those gathered stood to face the tents. Chain the Farmer's tent twitched. She stepped out wearing a short black skirt and a strapped black top that showed off her bronze skin. A life of working in the field not only gave her that complexion but also made her short hair golden. She smiled at her friends and family, gave them a small wave.

The crowd went even more wild when local hero Tassle stepped from her tent. Three years ago, two children had gotten lost in Father's Forest. Half the town had gone to look for them, Chain included. Tassle had found them up a tree, hiding from a rabid wolf, and had fought off the beast. Sadly, her leg was badly mauled in the process and had to be amputated. Such bravery had simultaneously proven her perfect for the Contegons and incapable of joining them.

Wearing a long black dress, Tassle waved to the crowd and jumped up and down, riling them up, her dark hair bouncing. Her smile couldn't have been larger. Then she tipped a wink at Chain the Farmer, whose smile widened further.

"Can the couple approach the Arch?" Chain said, trying to keep her voice authoritative. "Today?"

"Sorry Contegon!" Tassle called back. She walked across and held an arm out to Chain the Farmer. Her false leg had been painted a delicate pink since Chain last saw it, matching her skin tone. At its end was a shining leather shoe, matching the one on her present foot.

Chain the Farmer slipped her arm in her lover's. They pressed against each other momentarily. As they stalked down the aisle, the gathered celebrators threw damp petals. They ended up with pinks and purples plastered to their clothes and skin. Chain the Farmer shrank back from the attention slightly. Tassle ate it up.

Then they stood before Chain. Separating, Tassle on her left and her namesake on the right, both bowed their heads.

"Farmer Chain," Chain said, using her proper title. "Tassle. You are here to be Joined under Sol's sight and Geos' law. Have you each met a Contegon and a Cleric so you understand the implications of this action?"

"We have," Tassle said.

"We have," Chain the Farmer said.

Chain already knew they had: Grain, the only Cleric in Buckle, had confirmed it. And, obviously, Chain had met them to explain that they would be together forever unless one enacted violence or unfaithfulness against the other. But it was part of the ceremony to ask.

"When two people are Joined, it is not just they who find themselves entwined, but their families. Does either family have reasonable grounds for halting this Joining?"

"No!" came the reply in unison.

"Excellent. Then Farmer Chain, may I have your wrist?"

The Farmer held out her hand. Chain stepped forward and tied a Joining knot around it, a horrendously-complex looking affair which took three months of practice to get right. "I tie this knot on you for this day. Only I may remove it. Do you understand?"

"I do."

Chain wove the other end of the long rope through the Joining Arch, a tall sweep of iron with a brass image of Sol at its head. Aloud, she sang "The Love of Sol," the couple's chosen hymn. Holes in the varnished surface accepted the Joining rope, forming a twirl. When she got to Sol, she curved the rope around his face, then continued down the other side of the arch.

When she was done singing, she asked, "Tassle, may I have your wrist?"

"Of course you can," she said, stepping forward and proffering her arm.

"I tie this knot on you for this day. Only I may remove it," Chain said as she wove another Joining knot. "Do you understand?"

"I do. And I'm grateful."

Chain the Farmer smiled at this. Her arm twitched, as though to reach out to her love, but stopped herself: the couple couldn't touch at the Arch until the Contegon allowed it.

"I have Joined you together through Sol, as you will be when you pass into him. Now, do you both consent for me to Join you with Sol's blessing?"

"Yes," Chain the Farmer said.

"Yes!" Tassle called before laughing in joy.

Chain turned and produced a small vial of flammable oil from her robes, which she stood on her tiptoes to pour over Sol's image. When it had soaked through, Chain shoved the oil-soaked torch into the burning coals, setting it alight. It went up quickly, a blazing glory that brought gasps and applause.

She raised the blazing torch over her head and shouted, "Sol is here. Sol is with us. And Sol approves of this Joining. Anything which pulls these people apart will be the work of Lun and Lun alone! Do you understand?"

"We do!" the crowd and the Joining couple shouted back.

"If you would just sign the writ, then," Chain said, producing the document from her robes with her spare hand. It was a horrible, abrupt piece of legal work to have to inject into the proceedings, but it was vital for the Joining to be legally-binding, and the Clerics had insisted it take such a prime place.

Their parents stepped forward. The mothers held quills, the fathers carried ink. The parents passed the implement to their child with a kiss, tears framing their eyes. Then, each holding one corner of the document, they presented it to Farmer Chain and Tassle.

Quickly, eagerly, the couple signed. The parents presented the writ back to Chain, allowed her to check their signatures. "All is well. As a Contegon, and a friend, I Join you, Farmer Chain and Tassle!"

Chain touched the torch against the image of Sol, setting the Joining rope alight. Tassle and Chain the Farmer pulled until the flaming twine snapped. Flaming rope was dragged through the loops and passes. When the smoking ends were in their hands, they faced each other and kissed.

The crowd stood, whooping and clapping. The newly-Joined parents wept, as parents were wont to do, and the rest of those present shook hands across the aisle. Bracket and Carmen jumped up and down on the spot, which broke through Chain's professional exterior and made her laugh.

Chain the Farmer and Tassle spent the next half an hour thanking attendees. Once Carmen had said thank you to both, she ran up to the Joining Arch. Chain lifted her, kept her on her shoulders as the Contegon watched the proceedings with a mix of joy and jealousy.

Chain noted that Grain wasn't in attendance. That was annoying, as now she would have to complete the paperwork. Shovel was present, however. He sat toward the back, chatting easily. When he noticed Chain watching him, he gave her a strange smile, one she wasn't sure she liked.

"Mum," Carmen whispered, thankfully distracting Chain.

"Yes?" Chain whispered back.

"Will Other Chain and Tassle be Mums?"

"If they choose to be," Chain said, not knowing how the Doctors arranged such for same sex couples, but knowing it was a service they offered.

"They're nice Mums. Almost as good as you."

Chain smiled. "What makes you think that?"

"The Mister says they love each other so, so much. He can tell."

She hugged her daughter, not knowing why her daughter credited such astute observations to her imaginary friend, but 'he' was right: few people loved one another as much as Chain the Farmer and Tassle did, and that would surely improve all aspects of their life together.
Chapter 7

Whilst Chain's duties could be as fun and rewarding as hosting a Joining, sometimes she had to remember what she protected, the risks that many under her care took every day. That meant plumbing the depths of the Family Mine.

It was another beautiful day as she walked to the Mine. Sol had blessed them with glorious weather recently, holding the rains at bay until late into the night, and the wildlife benefited: she'd never seen the grass this tall during summer, nor the bees, wasps, and butterflies so excited to dance between bright flowers. Chain doubted she could tire of the beauty of Sol's design, but today she drank it in, made an effort to remember it so the contrast clearly stood out when she sank into the Mine.

Even the Mine's rough stone administrative buildings and warehouses shone that day. One of the warehouses contained vast numbers of cradles – hand-operated machines that separated the mined silt into useless dirt and precious gems – and the other was a vault which protected the fruits of their labours. Miners with heavy buckets of silt across their back scuttled between entrances cut into the mountainside and the cradles' warehouse. Beside the constantly-moving contraptions which brought buckets to the surface – and the oxen which kept them moving – was the main entrance to the Mine.

The Family Mine was unusual: most gemstone Mines were above ground with the silt deposits that contain so many precious minerals. Pre-Cleansing books that described mining procedures had no explanation for why the Family held silt so far beneath them. The Artificer who designed this Mine had theorised that an earthshake had collapsed some tenuous open cave in their southern faces well before the Cleansing. Thus, the Mine's silt deposits were forced underground. If it were true, it had happened so long ago it could have been Sol's last act before his brother found him forming the world...

Chain shook herself mentally. It'd been a few months since she'd last gone down to judge the theory herself. She did not relish being so far beneath the soil, but it was only fair, only right, to remind herself of the Mine's dangers, so she marched up to the administrative building.

Tissue, a Miner who should be on her Rest, answered her knocking. She wore a thick woollen suit covered in dust and mud and a heavy brass helmet. Her nose, which had been broken many, many times, was black with dirt. She showed how many teeth she'd lost during her career when she smiled at Chain.

"Contegon Justicar," she said, lisping slightly. "It is so good to see you."

"Tissue," Chain said simply. "Forgive me for being terse, but can we get this over with?"

"Aye," Tissue replied. The Miner had guided her through the Family Mine since Chain came to Buckle, so she knew how little the Contegon enjoyed her visits. "Do you want the helmet today?"

Chain nodded, then caught the thrown protection. She found helmets claustrophobic, forewent them sometimes during these trips, but she was determined to not let her discomfort earn her an injury.

"Off and away we go then," Tissue said before marching to the Mine's main entrance.

The passage down had been well worn over the decades, a roughly hewn hole smoothed into almost a stairwell. It dove at a shallow angle at first, allowing Sol's natural light in to save on lanterns. When the light started to fade, the angle of descent increased. Ropes appeared in the cavern's walls, wrapped around brass hooks at ten feet intervals, to make the descent easier for the new or the unpractised.

"How's Carmen, sire?" Tissue asked. She walked without using the ropes, knowing the way intimately.

"She's fine," Chain said through gritted teeth. She matched the Miner's pace, but only released the rope when she had to.

Tissue nodded. She didn't judge Chain for her fears: plenty of Miners couldn't come down here too. They were assigned to the cradles and, frankly, mocked by their peers, but it meant those Miners who worked below ground appreciated how someone could fear and loathe the descent.

Concentration kept her mind and heart calm. The first few hundred feet were the easiest to get to, and so easiest to maintain. The wooden struts and beams were freshly varnished, all whole. But they promised care that would not be maintained. As they went, the passage's walls turned damp, and the wooden skeletons more bloated, a patchwork of repairs that had to be regularly reapplied. Chain knew it was irrational to expect the whole way to be well-maintained, but her eyes still itched to see the inferior work.

"Is everything well with the Mine?" Chain asked, trying to keep her mind off their journey.

"It is. It helps that we've hit quite a few Sol's Pockets in the last few months."

A Sol's Pocket was a patch of silt that held greater amounts of gems and gold than usual. Hitting a few was good news, meant the Mine would hit all its targets with ease.

"That is good. Sol has blessed us," Chain said almost without thinking.

Tissue nodded. "That he has. We have had no fatalities in months either. The Pockets have meant we won't need to explore until autumn, at least."

The passage soon ceased cutting through rock and instead dove through compressed stone. When the Mine was built, loose stone had been moved to continue the dive, pulled to the surface to make the warehouses. It must have been like a great game, seeing how few stones you could move to create a way large enough to use. When they were done, the Miners covered the passageway with thick layers of glue – and, more recently, defunct Fixing – to maintain the passage's integrity.

"Exploration still hasn't improved, then?"

"No, sire. It's only going to get harder, more dangerous: the silt is buried under more and more of this stuff." She gestured to the compressed stone around them. "If you dig under Lun's Pebbles, you are asking for trouble."

"'Miners are Sol's soldiers beneath the soil,'" Chain said. Miners spoke this phrase during their prayers. It had been coined by the second Merchant Councillor, and ratified by Lord Councillor Collar.

"That we are," Tissue said, proud to hear the words from her Contegon. "That we are."

The tunnel spilled out into the dark remains of a lake, its bed the silt that Miners sifted through. There was little left after so many years, so bare rock peeked out everywhere. Above them, cracked stalactites gripped the ceiling and reached down for their brethren that hadn't survived the earthshake. She couldn't see them in the low light afforded by their lanterns, perhaps never would, but she knew they were there.

Miners moved slowly across the lake's corpse, carrying buckets like their brethren on the surface. Lanterns hung around their necks, making them walking stars in the darkness. They dodged between the stalagmites, broken stalactites, and, further back, the piles of rock dislodged from fruitless Explorations, coming from the north, west and east, where more Miners filled the buckets, a perfect team working in great peril.

"How much bigger do you think it can become?" Chain asked. The lake had once been around a mile across, but had been widened to almost double that in some places.

"The Mine, or the silt operation, sire?"

"There's a difference?"

Tissue smiled. Four teeth. "There is. We could go for another ten years before silt shifting becomes unprofitable. Then we'll change the Mine." She stamped twice, bringing Chain's attention to the rock they stood on. "Start digging for iron and copper. There's plenty of it, but it'll mean large changes for us all."

"It's good to know the Mine has a future," Chain said. Her gaze wandered over to the mechanisms that took the silt up to the surface. "Will they need to be replaced?"

Tissue followed her gaze to the Lifts. Miles of treated ropes with hooks woven into their fabric passed through a powerful pulley and rose to the surface, all on the back of the oxen's power. This rope took buckets of silt to the surface and returned empty.

"They need to be replaced now," Tissue said. "But that is my opinion, not Par's."

Chain made a note to speak to Par about that when she next saw him.

"Anyway, sire, shall we go and see the troops?" Tissue asked.

"Of course, lead the way," Chain said.

She spent the next two hours walking besides the Miners, helping them to carry their buckets as she asked about their families. Chain the Farmer's marriage was on everyone's lips, especially as Chain herself had gotten tipsy and taught the couple the Aureu Slow Dance. She laughed off the comments and stopped their acquiescing by saying, "Down here, you do Sol's work, not me."

The Miners were tired but happy, knowing they did solid work every day. Chain admired them for sticking to their task, for being cheerful and merry down where a slip or Lun's will could collapse the stone above them, destroying their only passage to the surface. More than once, she wondered if her own faith would be as solid if she spent every day down here.

That was a strange thought, one she wasn't used to: even after the Hereticum, she rarely questioned the strength of her faith. She examined her emotions when the Miners broke for lunch and found that she was concerned by her visit to this Mine. There was something worrying about it, beyond the claustrophobia, but she couldn't place it.

"I should be going," she told Tissue, wanting to contemplate this concern in the free air.

"Of course, sire," the Miner replied.

The way to the surface didn't trouble her, nor did arriving back in the glorious sunlight lift her mood or the vague shroud around it. She walked back to Buckle without answers, and then gave up, putting her emotions aside to get on with her day.

Later, much later, she would hate herself for not picking up on what concerned her sooner.
Chapter 8

Contegons who serve on the Fronts know that Disciples could, at any time, burst out from Moenian Forest, their unholy weapons spewing fire and destruction. For them, death was a constant. Most rarely went more than a few weeks without seeing someone die: an old Shield joke said, 'A Front is the line which Pyres are held behind.'

Chain knew she was lucky in many ways. With a young daughter to look after, she did not want to fight at the Fronts. And living in a quiet town like Buckle, even with its Mine, death was rare. But the rarity of death made it harder to face, made it an unexpected foe.

That day, she went to face death.

Though it was not proper, everyone called the old woman Grandmother Grass. She was eighty-five, an astonishing age to achieve, especially for a Miner, which made it just about acceptable for her to have a title of sorts. She had earned it by being hardy... until recently.

For months, Grass had been bed-ridden, a terrible affliction eating her. Doctor Marsh said it was a disease of the elderly, a malady expected to end someone of Grass' advanced years, and he could only make her comfortable. Grass had taken it well, by all accounts, and continued to be as vital and loving as possible.

Yesterday, Grass had a fit, had to be held down by sons old enough to be on their Rest, as their Doctor was summoned. Marsh had sedated her, but claimed these would be her final days, much to Buckle's grief: it felt to many like the Doctor had predicted the Family's death, so ever-present was Grass in their lives.

Chain heard all this when the Doctor came to see her that morning. Generally, a Doctor made the local Contegons and Clerics aware when he predicted someone's death so they could prepare a Pyre... but that hadn't been why he came to see Chain.

"She has asked you to perform a ritual for her," Marsh said. "She says it's called Attendance, an old custom for Contegons to soothe the dying that was thrown aside following the First Invasion. If anyone could remember such a thing, it'd be Grandmother Grass."

Even if she'd been mistaken, Chain couldn't deny a venerable woman her attention. She had pawed through the Contegon tomes anyway, curious to find some references to Attendance. There was no information accompanying the entries she located, as though the reader was supposed to know what an Attendance was, so she would have rely on Grass' memory of what was required.

Grass lived alone: Buckle traditions dictated that you stayed in the house you built until you died, and only then could another move in. Grass' home was small and neat, big enough for a family if they loved one another. Stationless wives and husbands swept, tidied, and cooked when Chain arrived, ensuring Grass would not die mortified at her home's condition. No doubt more were upstairs, sorting the bedroom Grass once shared with her husband.

Chain stopped peaking in through the window and knocked. Rumble, a Stationless husband, answered the door, then immediately acquiesced. "Sire Contegon."

"Stand, Rumble," Chain replied. "I am here to see Grass."

"She's upstairs," City said. He was Tissue's husband, a gnarled, smiling man who always pitched in when a new home was being built. "And she's thrilled that you're here."

"What is an Attendance?" one of the wives asked. Her name escaped Chain.

"It's an honour that may never be bestowed again," Chain replied simply.

A narrow, rickety staircase rested at the back of the living room. Chain climbed it carefully, not wanting to ruin the mystery or power surrounding her Station by falling through a broken step. At the top was an open trapdoor. Sol's light echoed around the bedroom beyond it, allowed entry by windows artfully set into the roof. A bookshelf stood beneath the roof's peak, trinkets and children's drawings filling its shelves. Fresh flowers rested on vanity tables, bedside cabinets, and even the floor, almost covering the stench of Grass' illness. Chain had to duck to enter properly, the slanted roof limiting her head room.

"Contegon," someone rasped. "You came."

Chain turned to the bed and smiled. "Of course I did, Grandmother."

Grass smiled at her title. She had once been a thick woman, stout but handsome. Age and disease had made her a skeletal figure with thin skin, the very picture of death. Her eyes were red with burst blood vessels, her lips cracked and scabbed, her straw fingers bruised. Most of her nails had fallen off. But, still, she could enjoy a Contegon using her unofficial title.

"I think I'm okay, Bottle," she said to the Stationless woman who fed her a thin soup.

Bottle nodded quietly and set the soup aside. She knelt under the bed to grab a sloshing chamber pot before leaving the room.

"Close the door, would you, Contegon?"

Chain nodded and gently shut the trapdoor after Bottle. There was a murmur from below, but no one came to knock or question why she'd closed them off.

When she looked back up, Grass' smile had faded. She looked weaker, even more frail, without it. "I don't know what's harder: fighting the disease or keeping myself strong for the people who look after me."

Chain walked across to the woman's bed. "You don't need to be strong, not now."

"Don't I? I helped raise half of those who look after me, cradled them when they were this big." She held her shaking hands about a foot apart. "They thought I was immortal; I see it in their eyes. If I can die, well, so can everything else."

"Sol calls everyone back eventually," Chain said.

"So he does. So he does. But people don't like to remember that, do they?"

Chain shook her head. She waited for Grass to say more before saying, "I've got to tell you something."

"What's that?"

"I don't actually know what an Attendance is."

Grass chuckled, which brought on a fit of coughing. She leant forward, hands out to steady herself, and sprayed blood across her pale sheets. Chain looked around and found a blood-spotted handkerchief, which she pressed to Grass' mouth until the fit passed.

"Ow. I oughtn't have done that," Grass rasped. "It just kills me that you've come here to perform a role you don't know. I guess I'm old-fashioned. Did you know, my Grandmother was among the first children born after the Cleansing. Number seventeen, she was. My Grandfather always used to call her Seventeen. They'd stopped counting by the time she had my mother... or they'd stopped releasing the count."

"I had no idea they kept count of births," Chain said, fascinated.

Grass nodded. "Of course they did. The Clerics count everything, don't they? Everything." Her eyes fogged for a moment. "But what was my point?"

"That you're old-fashioned."

"Yes, I am. As old-fashioned as they come. I remember my Grandfather demanding an Attendance. He was only fifty, but he'd been crushed by a cave-in. They dug him out and brought him home, carefully, knowing he'd die there. Our Contegon at the time, Contegon... oh, I forget her name. Anyway, she wouldn't do an Attendance because the Lords had ruled it a waste of time, what with the war going on. Grandfather had none of it. He used the last of his strength to win the argument, then died two minutes into the ceremony. Since then, there's been few Attendances in Buckle, and they were more than fifty years ago, favours from ageing Contegons. It doesn't surprise me that you don't know about them. Gone the way of many things from before the First Invasion."

Chain gripped the old woman's hand. "Tell me what's involved."

"Attendance," she whispered, her strength fading already. "You Attend me with stories. I want to hear about you. Contegons are our everyday connection to Sol, his voice amongst the people. It was your duty to come to people like me and tell us stories about your ascension, your struggles, what brought you close to Sol. That way, we'd find it easier to rejoin Sol."

"Of course. Of course I'll Attend you."

"Good," she said. "Because I think you'll have a most interesting story. You opposed Acolyte Councillor Maya in her Hereticum, didn't you?"

Chain tensed. She had not spoken about the Hereticum before, despite many, many inquiries. But she had just promised Grass an Attendance.

"I did." Chain gathered her thoughts, which Grass seemed willing to indulge. "You need the context to understand why. The Acolyte Councillor was my best friend in the Academy: we were closer than I have been with anyone besides Carmen. And then, one day, she turned Heretic. She denied Sol, mocked him; fled. I was told that my failure to stop her was Sol's will, that my status as a stay-at-home was his design, but I doubted it. Until the Second Invasion."

"Where you were a hero," Grass said.

"Of sorts. I led the fight against the final few Disciples, but the Acolytes had already won the battle. When I saw that the only surviving Acolyte was the Acolyte Councillor, I snapped. Even at her Hereticum, I was still snapped. I lost my sense and defied Sol's will, attacking her. She retaliated by foretelling my pregnancy at the hand of a man I hate, breaking me further." She sighed. "It took me a while to recover from that. I couldn't reconcile what I thought I knew with the creation of the Acolyte Station and her ascension to the Solaric Council. But the Guardian and the Lords ratified everything, it was all Solaric law and creed."

"But you didn't agree."

"No. The Stations often disagree. Lords, Contegons, and, presumably, Acolytes were put on Geos to speak for Sol in different ways. I believe we filter him through our experiences and knowledge. The lower Stations have their own views, their own areas of expertise, which they must add too. But all of this leads to arguments, struggles. The Council exists to come to Sol's consensus. After all, why else would the Guardian be elected to provide a ruling if not through Sol's will?"

Grass gave Chain a small smile. "That's the decision you came to, Contegon?"

"I did," Chain whispered. She realised that was unfair on the dying woman, so she raised her voice. "I decided that what I felt and thought had to be wrong. It was the hardest thing I've ever done, letting go of what I thought I knew: every Contegon is told they know best, that they act in Sol's interests, and yet I misconstrued Sol's will simply because I felt betrayed by someone who had once been my best friend."

Grass closed her eyes. "Even Contegons can be pigheaded."

Chain laughed. "Yes. Yes we can. Everyone can. I guess that was what I learned from my own Heresy: that everyone, regardless of Station or status, can be misled by Lun."

Chain closed her eyes. Even now, she felt enmity toward the Acolyte Councillor. She had come to accept that she represented Sol, that her powers were a gift to help Geos face the Disciples, but that didn't mean she had to like it: Sol was brightness, but he was also fire. And no one enjoyed the fact that fire burns.

"I told the Guardian this after some times," she said after a while. "He had put off meeting me following the Hereticum so as to not sour the celebrations of the Battle for Aureu, or the Geos-wide joy at the creation of the Acolyte Station. No one wanted to face a hero of the Second Invasion being a Heretic. When I told him what I just told you, he gave me an odd look and said, 'We all find ourselves tempted by Lun.' Those words, more than anything else, have stayed with me and determined the kind of Contegon I wanted to be. The Guardian showed me compassion, understanding, in letting me keep my Station, and he shared with me that he too was tempted: what else could I do but show that same compassion to everyone else?"

Chain looked up. Grass was asleep, a smile on her face.

The Contegon wiped her eyes and pulled the blanket further over Grass. She considered what to do next, and decided to leave one of her hand axes beside the woman's bed as a promise that she would return.
Chapter 9

Bracket laughed at Grandmother Grass encouraging, almost guilt-forcing, Chain to talk about her experiences during and after the Second Invasion. Chain had told her after Carmen went to bed, the two friends sharing warm drinks and idle chatter, a ritual of sorts they followed at least once a week.

"I wondered what it would take to get you to talk about that," Bracket said, a hint of a smile on her face. "Now I know I'll just have to wait sixty years to find out."

Chain laughed. "I just... I don't like to talk about it. That was when I was furthest from Sol, a horrible feeling for a Contegon, and one I'd rather not plumb. Even with you."

Her friend shrugged and sat back in her chair. "Just tell me this: have you forgiven her?"

"Who?"

"The Acolyte Councillor, you screw. I wasn't going to say the First Servant, was I?"

Chain grimaced, but couldn't suppress another laugh. "No, no, you weren't."

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

Bracket's eyes went to Chain's hands: they were balled fists. "Have you forgiven Maya?"

Chain looked at her hands too. "The Hereticum cleared her of her Heresy charges," she said, stretching her fingers out in her white Contegon gloves.

"That's not an answer," Bracket said, standing to pour another warm milk mixed with whiskey. "Have you forgiven her for abandoning you, then announcing you were pregnant to everyone of any power in Aureu, and connecting it to your unstable state?"

"I... I don't know. Not yet."

Bracket slid the drink across to Chain. "I think that's the final step."

Chain looked into her milk, saw her silhouette picked out in candlelight. "To what?"

Bracket sipped her drink. "Redemption."

The idea of redemption stuck with Chain for the rest of the night, lingering like a disease. When she first failed to stop Maya leaving the Academy, Contegon Ward had granted her instant forgiveness, but now she understood Ward had merely been protecting her reputation. Redemption had to be earned through positive action, and Carmen was one of many routes to earn Sol's grace once more.

It was as she considered her leadership of Buckle the next day, whether she was doing enough good in her position, that Side surprised her, tapping her shoulder. Chain span, went to draw her hand axe, then realised not only that she was faced by a Miner, but that she'd left that axe with Grass.

Side stepped back, arms in the air. He was tall and well-built, a heavy lifter in the Family Mine. As today was a free day, he was clean, his pale skin and unshaven face clear of soot and sweat. "Forgive me, Contegon, I didn't mean to shock you."

Chain dropped her hand and shook her head. "No, it's no bother, Side," she said, smiling, "you merely caught me with my mind amidst the clouds."

"Then I'm sorry I brought you down. Sol must have a lot to say to the likes of you."

She looked away for a moment, gave a small laugh. It was embarrassing, but she felt her cheeks redden, or at least she imagined so. "I think Sol has enough to do without explaining what he wants and why."

Side looked up, gestured across the sky. "I don't know. I imagine he doesn't have much to do whilst he's up there, watching over us: a conversation with a great Contegon would pass the time and make his work of pushing Lun into the sky easier."

"Sol spends his time watching the dark brother, planning to undo what he has wrought."

"That doesn't mean he can't talk whilst he works," Side said with a grin. His voice was deep, gravelly and rough, like the Mine he worked in.

Chain shrugged, a smile still teasing her lips. "I suppose not."

Side watched her closely. Chain had faced the Guardian more than once, had taken part in that Hereticum, but his gaze made her more uncomfortable than anyone else's ever had. In a good way.

She shook her head, tried to clear her childish infatuation. Just before she could ask why he'd come to see her, he said, "Mind if I tag along on your patrol?"

"Now, why would you want to do that?"

"I like a walk, and I like good company," Side said. His wide grin faltered as he awaited a response.

"Sure, I wouldn't mind company," Chain said, nodding. "You'll have to leave if someone approaches me with a private matter, of course."

"Of course," he said, bowing slightly.

Chain turned away, allowed herself a private smile, then continued on her circuit. Side quickly caught up and walked by her side.

The day was more chilled than Buckle had become used to. A heavy spread of clouds blocked Sol, rolling over the Family, and a slight wind played around her thick Contegon robes. It was only as she walked, considering Geos, that she noticed how unbalanced she felt with only one axe: she hoped Grandmother Grass wouldn't mind her taking the axe back the next time she visited.

"How is Carmen?" Side asked.

"She's brilliant," Chain replied. "Really brilliant. Every day she's growing and learning, becoming a real person. I mean, she's only five, but she's so advanced: Kick says she will be Contegon or Lord material. She's just so... bright. I guess that's the word, bright. Her personality, intellect, temper... they're all bright."

A smile spread across Side's face as she talked. "What?" she asked.

"Your whole manner changes when you discuss Carmen. It's... great to see. That's all."

"I suppose it does," Chain said, feeling her cheeks redden once more. "I can't help but be happy when I talk about Carmen: she is the best thing that I've ever done."

"And that's saying a lot coming from you."

A frown creased her forehead. "How so?"

Side laughed. "You saved Aureu from a Disciple horde, didn't you?"

Chain blinked. "Oh yes, that."

"'That?'" he asked, astonished. His laugh was deep, like a friendly rumble. "I had heard that you don't think much of what you did during the Second Invasion, but hearing it first-hand is another thing. You are... you are an interesting person, Chain."

"Thank you, I suppose," she said. She didn't mention the thoughts of redemption that haunted her, that she no more felt a hero than the militiamen who survived the slaughter by crawling under their dead comrades.

"It was meant as a compliment, Contegon."

Chain tried to judge his true intentions and thoughts, but came up empty. Her understanding of men didn't extend to the fey elements of their hearts. Rather than risk the conversation remaining on this uncomfortable topic, Chain said, "And how are things down in the Family Mine?"

"Didn't you visit only the other week?"

"I did, but there are some things that people don't tell a Contegon below the ground, when their lives are at risk: things that they might tell a companion on a stroll."

"I thought this was a patrol?" Side asked, his eyes flashing with amusement.

"We have slowed a little. I think this had become a stroll rather than a patrol."

"Are there official classifications of what constitutes a patrol, then?"

Chain nodded. "It wouldn't surprise me if the Clerics had produced them."

He smiled at her joke. "Anyway, the Mine. It's going well. The Sol's Pockets we found last month have increased our output incredibly. Muster must be so glad, huh?"

Chain stopped, held a hand out to make Side halt too. "Wait, what?"

"What?" Side asked.

"Explain in detail what you mean by what you just said. This is important, Side."

He looked down at her gloved hand, which dug into the flesh of his arm, but didn't say anything about it. "This last month has been our best month," he said uncertainly, "and that's in comparison to a good few months of mining. We've been pulling huge amounts of gem-rich silt from the Sol's Pockets, which were just the most recent we've found. Our output must have been huge."

Chain looked away, to the Family Mine. She gripped the Miner still, like he was a physical link to her responsibility. "For how many months?"

"I don't know, maybe five or six," Side replied. His jovial nature had evaporated: he seemed concerned, like any Miner before a probing Contegon.

"For five or six months, you have been producing larger quantities of gems than ever before," she repeated, tasting the words and finding them bitter. "And you're sure of this?"

Side nodded slowly. "I shift the silt, so I know how much is going in. What's wrong?"

She shook her head and looked at the Miner. He looked scared now, as scared as Chain felt about this mismatch between his story and the reports. "I don't know. Perhaps nothing. I need to find out, however, and that means you must tell no one of this conversation."

"I don't know what I'd say anyway," Side rumbled, his eyes narrowing back to normal. "Has no one said the Mine was doing this well?"

"Miners don't usually talk to me as candidly as you," Chain said. "They talk to the robes, not the person, and leave things like totals up to their superiors."

Side blew air out through his mouth, and then looked up to the sky. "Shit."

"I am holding to your word that you won't tell anyone about this."

"You have my word."

Chain nodded and walked away, abandoning her patrol. She needed to speak to Grain. Sadly, the woman spent her days off camping - Grain once told Chain she spent so much time around paper that it felt good to be with what they once were, to remind herself that paper was a gift from Sol \- and, at the time, it had seemed like a wonderful idea, but right now it angered Chain.

If Side was right, and not just boasting or exaggerating, something was wrong: Par had reported a steady income for those months. Chain realised she still had the projections which said this month would be the same as the last, so she decided to consult that and her other paperwork when she got back home.

Under-reporting profits was a serious crime, one punishable by death. Chain shook her head to clear such thoughts: she needed to establish whether Muster was forcing Par to under-report or whether Par or someone lower in the chain was stealing. Grain's numbers would clarify matters, she was certain of that.

Hopefully, it would all be nothing, a mistake. Chain realised how unlikely that was, but she wanted to think the best of Par and the other Miners. An old part of her screamed that she was surrounded by the unfaithful, and it was hard to deny utterly that this instinct was wrong.
Chapter 10

Chain barely slept through the night, concerns flitting around her like spiteful demons. Tossing and turning in a feeble attempt to force rest, the night crawled past. She gave up at dawn and instead watched Sol rise over Buckle's roofs, waiting only because she had to.

Carmen stirred when Chain dressed: she shared a room with Chain as the designated Contegon home wasn't built for a family, and Bracket needed her own room. Even then, her daughter had begun to outgrow her bed, and there was no room for one that would suit her.

Maybe it was tiredness, or wanting to be distracted, but Chain stopped and watched her sleeping daughter. She looked so beautiful, so peaceful. Thankfully, she shared few physical characteristics with her father, sparing Chain being reminded of Wasp each time she looked at Carmen. Her brains, her brightness, was from him though: she herself had always been a little dull, inflexible, but Carmen was interested by everything and anything, hating nothing that she'd learned of so far, not even the Disciples.

Those feet hanging over the bed's edge proved that Bracket's time in this house was coming to an end: soon, Carmen would spend her days at school, so she would need less care, and would need a room of her own. Bracket had built a life in Buckle, so she wouldn't move back to Aureu, but she would have to find or build somewhere to live. Perhaps she'd move in with whoever she was seeing, the man she thought she kept secret. Regardless, things would soon change, and Chain found herself angry and hurt at this.

"I hope you're never as inflexible as me, Carmen," she whispered.

Carmen turned over in her sleep, smiled slightly. Any hint of a negative emotion was blown from Chain.

Bracket left her room at the same time Chain did. When she saw Chain, she jumped back. "Lun be damned! Chain, you nearly scared the blood out of me."

"Sorry," Chain said, though she couldn't help smirking.

Bracket blew air out through a smile. She was wearing clothes she had brought with her when she moved, fine materials that had been patched many times. "I haven't started breakfast... Wait, is everything okay?"

Chain shook her head. "It might be nothing. But I won't be here for breakfast."

Her friend licked her lips, took a deep breath. "All right. There might be leftovers from last night you can take with you?"

"That'd be good."

One hurriedly-made sandwich and a handful of grapes later, Chain was marching across Buckle. Sol cast long shadows as though to obscure her passage with the last of his strength. She looked west and saw Lun's tip peeking above the forests. A shudder convulsed her, nearly made her drop the last of her grapes.

There was something wrong in the Family Mine, Chain was certain of it. Side had no reason to lie, not when it was so easy to disprove. Besides, her brain offered at last, hadn't Tissue said something similar? Chain stopped, slapped herself on the forehead: that was why she'd been so concerned after that trip! Tissue had said the Mine was doing incredibly well, but Par's documents showed no increase. She hated herself for not forging the facts sooner.

Finishing her grapes, she jogged to Grain's house. Like each Station in Buckle – Doctor, Merchant, and Contegon – the Clerics had a home purpose-built for them. Each was in an opposite quarter of the small town, mimicking Aureu's layout, but Buckle's expansion had insulated them with newer homes. The Contegon and Cleric homes were at opposite ends of old Buckle, meaning it was the longest journey.

Amber light poured over her when she got to Grain's home, giving her a clean viewing of the immaculate Cleric outpost. Of course, Clerics spent every penny allocated for maintenance: the walls' brickwork was pristine, and the front door was painted the red and white of Cleric robes. Thick windows pierced the walls at regular intervals, their frames clean, freshly-painted.

Chain felt a little of what the Stationless must feel on seeing it: intimidation at the Clerics' organisation and efficiency. 'Be sure you are as well-considered as this home before you enter,' it seemed to say. The moment passed. She bashed on the front door.

Movement upstairs, a heavy-footed trudge she followed down. Chain squared her shoulders when the presence approached.

"Calm down, whoever you are," Cleric Grain said. She was about Chain's age, but a life indoors, battling nothing more strenuous than a complicated form, had made her look much younger. "It's still too early for knocking like that. Come back in an hour, I might be ready then."

"Cleric, it is Contegon Chain Justicar. I am here to see you now."

"Chain? What is so important it can't wait?"

She leant forward. "Something too important to discuss on the streets."

Grain opened the door a crack. Wary, young eyes peered through. "All right, all right, whatever you say, sire. It will take me a few minutes to get ready."

"Why?"

Grain coughed. "I'm not dressed, sire."

Chain tried not to look surprised. "Very well. Hurry."

The Cleric closed the door. A flurry of activity followed, strange clicks and dragged furniture. The Cleric wasn't just concerned about her nudity. Chain listened closely but couldn't tell what was happening. Grain then ran upstairs, presumably to get dressed.

Chain rested against the Cleric's home and watched Buckle stir. The Stationless were out already, taking clothes from drying lines or collecting dew and rainwater. When they saw Chain, they waved hesitantly. Chain returned each wave curtly.

Stomps rolled down the building. The front door opened a minute later. She took a deep breath when she thought Chain had left, but then looked to her right and saw the Contegon leaning against her wall.

"Come on in, Contegon," Grain said, waving her in with a hard face.

Without speaking, Chain followed Grain inside. The Cleric made a point of closing the door behind them, locking them away from the world.

Grain's home, after that hurried tidy-up, was a neat tribute to structure: two desks dominated this first room, one for accepting requests from petitioners, and another for fulfilling them; twelve neatly-arranged oak filing cabinets, three in each corner of the room, contained historical requests, fulfilments, and reports; and there were curtain rails around the ceiling to allow a petitioner privacy if they wanted. A staircase rested at the back of the room, along with doors to the Cleric's private office and kitchen.

"Which desk should I sit at?" Grain asked. Her blond hair hung at erratic angles, her calm smile missing.

"Neither. May we enter your private office?"

Grain's eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"I need to discuss a matter of reporting with you," Chain said, a little put out by Grain's question. "Particularly, how you measure the Family Mine's output."

"We can do that out here," Grain said, waving her hands with casual dismissal. "Lun, I don't know why you'd need to come out so early just to ask how I monitor Par."

Chain didn't reply, merely waited for Grain to fill the silence.

"I rely on Par's figures," she continued. "I'm a Cleric, not a Merchant, so I can't dig into what he does. He provides signed-off documents which give the Mine's output in Circles – an estimate based on Curtail's Standard Model – and I record them. Once a year, on a date the Merchant won't be prepared for, I check his paperwork, but that's it." She added, "The process is much like that I use with Marsh and yourself."

Chain sucked air through her teeth, unimpressed. "I hadn't realised the Merchants still had such autonomy in matters of taxation."

"What's going on, sire?" Grain asked.

"I can't say. Not yet. Can you show me Par's figures from the last six months?"

"Contegon," Grain said after a deep breath, "if there's some concern about irregularity in the reports then that should be taken up with Par, not me."

"Humour me," Chain said. Her tone made it clear this wasn't a request.

Grain opened her mouth to say something, but thought better of it. Reluctantly, she went to her private office. To get in, she opened the door as little as possible, and slipped her body through the narrow space.

Chain stepped toward the Cleric's office and listened carefully, wanting to know what the Cleric was hiding. Rustling paper and cabinet drawers slamming closed floated through the door. Grain whistled as she searched, "Sol is Bright and Fearless," one of the Lords' newer hymns.

Chain was about to knock, ask why it was taking so long, when Grain squeezed back through. She looked up, saw the Contegon's quizzical expression, then laughed. "I'm in the middle of a great reorganisation, sire," she said. "Cleric Councillor Pale initiated a new filing system for Mining Towns, so I've got papers and scrolls everywhere. It's such a mess I'm ashamed to show it to anyone."

"Did you find the reports amongst that... mess?"

"I did," Grain replied, handing Chain a wad of papers.

Chain gestured to Grain's desks. "Mind if I take a seat to read through these?"

Grain looked between Chain and the desk twice before shrugging. "It's a little unusual, but I suppose there's no reason why not. Do you mind, in turn, sire, if I make myself breakfast as you search through those papers for... well, whatever you're after?"

Chain nodded.

As Grain entered her kitchen – which she didn't guard like her private office – Chain went through Par's reports. Side had said the last five or six months had been better than ever, and that particularly this month would be excellent. She spread the reports out on the clear desk, in chronological order, and placed her copy of this month's predicted output at the end.

The Family Mine had produced around nine hundred Circles a week, or three and a half thousand a month, for about a year. Chain knew Merchants sometimes held back one month's excess so they had a reserve to cover unexpected losses, so the first month of Side's testimony could be ignored... but not the next five.

Each total was signed by the Merchants below Par. Chain checked these signatures, and found them the same as in previous months, so they hadn't been faked. But hadn't Par's team changed last year, when a wave of Miner's Flu crippled Hold and Cress? Could Par have faked the new Merchant's signatures since they came in, having never told them their duties involved checking his reports? Chain resolved to speak with Tissue and her counterpart, Art, about these reports.

"Is everything in order, sire?" Grain asked. She entered her petitioning room eating a combination of cream, baked cereals, and fruits with a dessert spoon.

"Whose responsibility is it to ensure a Merchant given a new duty is told about that duty?"

Grain crunched away at her breakfast, and then swallowed. "Generally, the Merchant in charge of them. If their duty feeds directly into the Clerics, the local Cleric would be required to explain it. Why?"

Chain didn't say why. As she stood, it was difficult to keep her voice level. "Thank you, Grain. I'd ask you not to share this conversation, and the information I asked for, with anyone."

Grain put her spoon down into her breakfast. "I'd like to do that, Contegon, but I'm duty-bound to let Par know you're investigating his Station."

Chain frowned. "Why in the name of Lun would you do that?"

"Because you don't have the authority to do anything other than raise your concerns to him or myself. Perhaps Muster, if you really must," Grain said with a shrug. "The Mine's output is a Merchant matter, not a Contegon one."

"I am responsible for running this town, Cleric." She wanted to mention her authority in taxation matters, but that would give away her concerns.

Grain walked across and put her bowl on the desk Chain sat at. "And I am responsible for the administration of Buckle, just as Par is responsible for providing a return on the investment which built it. As a Cleric, I'm must ensure you don't poke your nose into the activities of other Stations, wasting your time and theirs, without good cause." Her relaxed demeanour disappeared and anger replaced it. "Unless you have evidence of wrong-doing or tax avoidance, I don't see that you have good cause."

Chain stood face-to-face with the Cleric. "What are you hiding, Cleric?"

Grain stared back defiantly. "Nothing. But the Lord Councillor himself has recently sent an edict to remind us that no one should overreach their Station. I am merely enforcing that. I can provide you a copy of said edict, if you wish, Contegon?"

She looked the Cleric up and down, sizing her like an opponent. By invoking Lord Councillor Blind, the Cleric had won on a matter of procedure... which, she supposed, would always be the case. "I'll return when I have something more concrete then." It would do no good to antagonise the Cleirc, even if she were perhaps a part of a conspiracy to skim Circles, so she added, "Forgive me, I am just concerned that something... Heretical is happening in Buckle."

Grain brightened, like a match flaring to life. "Oh, don't worry about it Contegon. Your pursuit of Heretics is well-known."

Chain laughed the barb off. "I suppose it is. Good day, Cleric."

"Good day, Contegon," Grain replied, picking her bowl back up. She watched Chain leave, not once blinking or turning away.
Chapter 11

Grain's behaviour, and the constant, pressing feeling that Heresy was occurring in her town, ruined her day. A grey filter had been put before Sol. In such a mood, the last thing she wanted was Attend Grandmother Grass, but she had given her word. To avoid taking her fears out on the woman, she thought of Carmen as she climbed into Grass' room: imagined her daughter's smile, her laugh, her questions. It was, as usual, enough to bring a smile to her face.

"Good afternoon, sire," Grass said before she'd left the stairs.

"Good afternoon, Grandmother."

One of the Stationless husbands was scrubbing the floor. Grandmother Grass leaned over, and said, "That'll be enough for now, dear one. Thank you."

"No problem, Grandmother. I don't mind staying..."

"But I would," Grandmother Grass replied firmly. "Now, be off with you, please."

He coloured as he stood, and gave Chain an apologetic look. As before, Chain lowered the trapdoor to give them some privacy.

"And how are you, Contegon Justicar?" the Grandmother asked once they were alone.

"I am... well," Chain replied. "How are you?"

The old woman eyed her, then said, "I am okay, considering. I don't have long left, of that I'm sure. I sleep so much now, and am tired, and in pain whenever I'm awake." Her lips trembled. She put her mouth to her face, looked away.

"It is okay to be scared. A change, an end, is always terrifying."

"Oh, how would you know, you whelp?" Grass said, her voice unkind for the first time.

"At the Battle for Aureu," Chain said, after allowing Grass enough time to calm a little, "just before I saw that the lead Disciple was dying in the swollen waters of the Journey, I was convinced that I would die. I accepted it. How could I not, with something that... powerful facing me down, the blood of my militiamen still on its claws? I accepted that I was going to die."

Grass' face softened. "How did that feel?"

"The fear drowned beneath my duty to my cadre. I put protecting those under my care above everything. But that doesn't mean it wasn't there, a sticky and twisting emotion that tasted like blood."

"Was that the axe you used in the fight?" Grass asked, pointing to the hand-axe by her bed.

"It was."

"Then that thing has seen blood, and no small amount of fear," Grass whispered. "Pick it up for me, would you? I'd like to touch it."

Chain picked up her axe. Holding it felt good, natural, like returning home after a long journey. She didn't indulge the sensation for long, instead lay it across Grandmother Grass' lap.

The old woman rubbed her fingertips across the blade. Then she shivered. "I can almost feel it, the power and the fear you put into it at the Battle for Aureu."

"I might have need of such power," Chain said without thinking.

"Why?" Grass said. "Is there something wrong?"

"No, forget it. I shouldn't have said anything."

Grass shook her head. "Contegon, this is my Attendance. Not only that, but Buckle is my town: I won't be here for long, but I don't want to die thinking that everything could fall apart after I go."

Chain shook her head again. Perhaps she had let slip her worries because she needed to talk about them. In some ways, Grandmother Grass was the only person she could discuss this with, her only confidante in a matter this grave. "You understand that what I tell you must not leave this room? You could put my investigation at great risk otherwise."

"Of course, Contegon. Lun, I might die before I can tell anyone!" she replied, cackling a little. The sound was hollow, but Chain imagined she was getting her amusement and laughter wherever she could.

Satisfied, Chain unburdened herself on Grandmother Grass, explained what she'd found and her suspicions about the operations of the Merchants.

"If only I could go deeper into Par's dealings, I could either hang the bastard by his own paperwork or dismiss these fears as a waste of my time," Chain said. "But I cannot, not whilst everyone is so precious about separating the Stations."

Grandmother Grass looked up at the ceiling, considering this point like she was the Guardian. "Do they not teach you about the First Guardian's Tangle any more?"

"No," Chain said, "that term means nothing to me."

"I suppose they take it for granted that the Stations are separate after so long," Grass said, shifting to make herself comfortable. "Maybe they're even embarrassed about it, preferring to keep the newly Stationed and the Stationless under the impression that the Stations are perfect."

Chain leant in. "What is the First Guardian's Tangle?"

Grass smiled at her interest. "The First Servant was never going to be eternal, being a normal woman. The time came when, like me, her health failed her, and she couldn't carry on."

"So she created the ultimate Station: the Guardian," Chain said.

"Exactly. A leader, chosen by the people and the Stations. Her final act as leader of Geos was to hold elections, and install the first Guardian to take her place in the Solaric Council. In the books, it doubtlessly says the transition was smooth. Well, nothing could be further from the truth! The fact is..." She stopped talking and winced, grabbed her chest.

"Can I get you anything?" Chain asked.

"New lungs?" Grass whispered with a small laugh. "No, this is just my body shutting down. There's nothing you or anyone can do. Now, where was... Oooh, that's not pleasant. I'll try to concentrate on the truth. That's what I was talking about. It was a scandal at the time, the First Guardian's Tangle. I only have it through rumour, but I believe a lot of it.

"With the First Servant gone, there was an absence of power at the top. The first Guardian was a young man, so the First Servant's approval had carried him to victory. She trusted him to rule for decades. That long-term view turned out to be right, of course, but, whilst his rule settled, the Stations ran wild: they tried to claim power, or saw this encroachment and instigated Hereticums against one another.

"We were at the early stages of the war with the Disciples but another, covert war began for authority and power. The Guardian only realised what was happening when a chain of Hereticums crossed the Stations, accusations and counter-accusations six levels deep. The Shields stayed out of the politicking because they were at war, but everyone else was deeply embedded in the mire. The Guardian stepped in, cancelled every Hereticum, and created boundaries between the Stations. That, at least, there is evidence of: I bet you could easily find records of that Geos-wide edict declaring the responsibilities of each Station."

Grass rested back in her bed then, a slight smile on her face. "That's why everyone is so nervous about the Stations crossing: it's a waste of time and effort when we're at war."

Chain considered this 'Tangle.' The suggestion that the Stations had broken out in petty in-fighting and jockeying in the absence of a firm hand was Heretical. However, Chain could imagine people who saw an advantage would do everything they could to take it, particularly someone who already had power. Perhaps it wasn't as bad as Grass believed, the story having gained something in the telling, but the concept of the Tangle seemed more than possible.

"I suppose there's an element of trust," Chain said. "We trust the Stations to mine, farm, and build. But what happens when that trust is taken advantage of? Shouldn't there be changes then?"

Grass shrugged. "What would you do if Carmen broke your trust?"

"Carmen would never do something like that."

"Forgive me for saying so," Grain said dourly, "but your daughter will break your trust. That is the way of children: they press at the boundaries of their power, try to find its limits, and that includes their moral power. At some point, you will trust her to do something, and she'll do the opposite, tempted by sin."

Chain bristled. She wanted to argue, but Grandmother Grass had seen more generations of children than Chain ever would. Still, she didn't like to think of Carmen in that way.

"No parent I've ever said that to liked hearing it, Contegon," Grass said with a small smile, "but it's how children learn. If they can't break the trust of those who are the most likely to give them it back, how will they know how awful it is to lose someone's faith?"

"If... No, when Carmen breaks my trust, I will make her earn it back, make her prove that she has learned her lesson. I suppose I'll trust that she can earn my trust, if you see what I mean."

"What if you suspected her of breaking your trust, but didn't have enough evidence?"

Chain shifted where she stood. This was uncomfortable territory, but she supposed she might face it some day. "I would interrogate her and trip her up. If that failed, I'd hope that her conscience would weigh on her enough to tell me the truth."

"That, then, is what the Guardian expects of his Station, surely?" Grass asked.

"I don't think so. Merchants have often sought to skim: some think it a game, others are simply desperate to keep their lifestyle and license going. Merchants are licensed for their area of work, you see, and they must pay for the privilege. Added pressure comes with the familial inheritance of licenses: no child wants to disgrace the family by losing a prestigious license. This creates a world where skimming can seem less of a personal risk than admitting Sol's plan for the license is for you not to hold it. Let alone the temptation to skim in order to buy a new license."

"How do you know all that?" Grass asked in wonder.

Chain sneered for a second. "Carmen's father told me."

"I have always been curious about Carmen's father. Can you tell me about him?"

"What about trust and the Stations?" Chain asked.

Grandmother Grass shrugged, her cheeks drooping now. "I don't know what more we have to say. I was just trying to explain why you mightn't be allowed the access you need. But you are a Contegon touched by Sol: it is unlikely that your concerns will be for naught."

"Thank you," Chain replied.

"No, it is true. Now, I am tiring. Please tell me a little about Carmen's father?"

"You like to ask about awkward subjects, don't you?" Chain joked.

"If it's too painful–"

Chain shook her head. "No, it's fine. Carmen's father was, very briefly, the Merchant Councillor. His name was Wasp. We met at the luncheon to celebrate my Naming, and a quick romance followed. But he was... he was touched by Lun. Mentally. He snapped just before the Battle for Aureu. I had to injure him, leave him... though he left me with a child"

"You said he was a Councillor," Grass mumbled. "What happened?"

"He lost his mind for a while, I know that," Chain replied. "But I've not been in any rush to find more. For all I know, he died during his treatment."

"He must have been a great man, then, to capture your attention?"

Chain shook her head. "He wasn't. Not often enough, anyway."

"I am sorry, but I cannot stay awake," Grass said, her eyes closing. "Take your axe and let me sleep."

Grandmother Grass was snoring by the time she'd opened the trap door.
Chapter 12

"I assure you," Chain said, leaning back in her chair, "that this is a formality."

"It doesn't feel like it," Par said. He put his arms behind his head, a subtle display of dominance that in no way worked. "It feels like you're questioning me, Contegon."

They stared at each other across the desk she bought. After seeing Grandmother Grass, Chain felt she had to continue looking into the Family Mine's output. There was something empowering and inspiring about the Attendances: she felt like she was definitely doing Sol's work. Outside of raising Carmen, the last time she'd felt this certain had been during the Battle for Aureu. And she could not ignore that certainty.

Politics meant she had to be careful, and so she was asking about waste products from the mining process: tons of loose dirt was produced every month and there were strict laws about its disposal. Asking about them could prove the Mine's true output, whilst seeming tangential enough to be an innocent inquiry.

Par continued to stare, a seeming challenge. His deep wrinkles were pooled in darkness, the light from his single candle barely reaching them. Those dark eyes were almost hidden by folds of skin. Chain stared back. Was this the face of a thief? Could this even be the face of a Heretic? His disdain and unhappiness at his placement was well known, and his demeanour was never that of a man accepting of his lot in life.

Though Chain was similar: here she was, ignoring a Cleric's advice to intervene in another Station. But Chain sought to understand the bounds of, and work within, Sol's great design... whereas Par might be trying to break it. Or he might not: his new Merchants could be changing the reports, sneaking money out for themselves. Her assessment of his character and his surly nature could be the root of her suspicions.

Which was why she backed down from his stare. "I am merely checking those aspects of Buckle that I usually don't investigate. Grain can tell you that I was in with her on very routine matters too."

"I'm sure she will," Par said with a frown. "Very well. I don't know why you care about our soil disposal reports, but it is not my place to judge, is it, sire?"

Chain shrugged and sat forward slightly. "It is down to you whether you judge me or anyone else, Par, so long as you don't profess to do so on Sol's behalf."

The Merchant leant forward and rifled through his papers. He muttered as he looked under one pile, and then another, peeking like a pervert. The floor squealed as he forced his chair back to rummage through the desk's ample drawers, three on either side of him.

Chain had shipped his desk all the way from Aureu as a token of good faith and friendship to the other half of Buckle's administration: she its soul, and he its heart, keeping its lifeblood moving. His haphazard way of piling the paper he was supposed to keep in it and the great blobs of candle wax proved the intention had not been accepted, and made her feel slighted.

After another minute, Par put a crumpled ball of paper on the desk. He straightened, putting his hand on his back to stretch it out, and then unfurled the document.

"Here you are, Contegon," he said as he flattened the papers. "Last month's report."

The papers were a four page document covering the past year, the standards being met, and the methods for disposal of the dirt: it seemed that they shipped it to Artificers in Stitch, the largest town for miles around. She looked over the paper and noted that there had been a reduction in the number of shipments to Stitch over the past five months, attributed to wastage.

"And Grain has a copy of this?" Chain asked.

"Of course. The Bureau will do as well."

Chain nodded. If they had found exceptionally rich Sol's Pockets, the ratio of dirt to Circles would have dropped, as it had here. If you didn't trust wastage as an excuse for the reduced shipments, it seemed like evidence of skimming.

She wondered how a skimming operation was even perpetrated. Perhaps some sifters were in on it, pocketing the gems they found for their superiors. If she'd not had the truth directly from Side, she might never have suspected a conspiracy, but these reports were fuel to the fire.

"Is everything in order, Contegon?" Par asked.

"It is," Chain said, handing the document back. "Thank you for indulging me."

"I still don't see why that required you coming out all the way here..."

"It didn't," she replied, standing. "I run a number of different patrols, Par, and today's merely brought me close to you. Whilst I was here, I decided to clear my conscience by looking at a small matter."

Par sucked on his cracked top lip. "Well, I'm glad you feel better."

"I do," Chain said. "Good evening, Par."

"Good evening, sire," he replied, acquiescing.

Sol had almost set when she stepped outside. The sky was a lurid orange, the kind of colour that showed Sol had a sense of humour. It was late, but there would still be leftovers when she got back. Bracket would warm it, and then she would share some time with her family.

Thoughts of home were interrupted when someone stepped beside her, matching her pace. It was Shovel. The Stationless young man gave her a bright and proud smile. "Good evening, Contegon," he said.

"Good evening, Shovel. How are you?"

"Delighted that a Contegon would be paying attention to me, a Stationless sort."

Chain looked at him sidelong. "The Stationless are always worthy of a Contegon's attention: they may simply get less of it sometimes."

"When a person of Station is involved," Shovel said, nodding.

"Well, yes. But that is the way of Sol."

"It is. It is. I have heard that you're paying a lot of attention to people in Stations recently."

"Have you now?" Chain asked.

Shovel grinned, an odd gesture that didn't seem to match his face, like the smile was slapped on. "I have. It's interesting to me, the activities of the Stationed, as they are something I will never know. So I ask and am told things. Including what you have been doing recently."

Chain looked the young man up and down. He did odd jobs for a living, flitted around doing as much as he could without encroaching on any Station's jurisdiction. It was surprising that he wasn't Stationed: he was bright enough. Perhaps some fault in his work ethic was to blame, or the strange way he treated the Stationed. He'd certainly always treated Chain oddly, intrigue and awe combined with a frank friendliness and borderline disrespect.

"And what have you heard about me?" she asked.

"That you believe there is something foul and rotten in Buckle."

How could he have heard about her investigations? Had Grain been spilling her secrets? Or had someone listened to her Attendance of Grandmother Grass? She would speak to anyone present at the next session about the importance of secrecy, take the measure of their reactions.

"Whoever thinks that would be a matter for idle chatter is sorely mistaken."

"Myself included?" Shovel asked.

"Yes," Chain said. "I do not understand why, even if that were true, you would say it to me."

"I am making conversation, Contegon," he said, looking away to scan Buckle. "This is my adopted home, and I wish all the right things for it. That means nothing bad having to happen."

Chain looked around. It was maybe an hour after the Mine had shut down, and every home they passed was warm and lit, the people inside likely enjoying full stomachs and family time after long days. She envied them, and wondered what Shovel, who lived alone, thought when he viewed such familial scenes.

"Where are you originally from?" Chain asked, looking back at the Stationless man. "I have never been able to place your accent."

"Port," he said after a moment's hesitation. "My parents were originally from Call, hence my relatively strange qualities and mannerisms."

That would make sense, but she did not forget his pause, the thought he gave to the answer. "What brought you to a mountain settlement then? This couldn't be further from the life you knew."

"Perhaps that was it, that Buckle would be so different. Mostly, I feel like I was called here."

Chain nodded. "Sol sometimes makes decisions which we do not understand at first."

Shovel smirked. "That is often the way for people in power."

Again, that felt like a shot, a small needle. A familiar unhappiness and anger filled her, the feeling of someone not treating her with the respect she deserved. This was not a judgement of her as a Contegon, though: it felt like a judgement of her investigation of the Merchants.

"Your affection for Par does not give you reign to question me, Shovel."

"Is that what it feels like, Contegon?"

"It's what it was," Chain replied firmly.

"Then I apologise. Sire."

It didn't sound like an apology, but Chain accepted it nonetheless.

They walked in silence for a while. Chain cast glances at him as they went, but he almost didn't seem aware of her presence, like they were just two travellers walking to the same place.

"This is where we part," Chain said when they were near her home.

"Is it?"

She frowned as she said, "Yes. It is."

"Tell me honestly, sire, is Sol inspiring you to dig deep into the dirt?"

Chain pursed her lips but refused to respond.

Shovel's smile took on a strange quality, a sort of leer. "Have you ever scrabbled in dirt, Contegon? Do you know what it's like to search in a mire for something of value, to plunge yourself head-first into somewhere you do not want to be? Somewhere you ought not to be?"

"Of course," she snapped. "I led the line at the Battle for Aureu."

"Did you now?" Shovel asked, that smile solid as he spoke. "You sound as though I should have known that already. Not everyone will have heard about your heroics, Contegon: I imagine even fewer know of your Heresy at the Acolyte's Hereticum. What might they think if they did?"

"That Sol's justice was decided and delivered by the Guardian," Chain hissed. "Now, we shall part. Good night, Shovel."

With that, she turned and marched away, doing her best to maintain her composure.

"One more thing, Contegon," Shovel called after her.

Chain stopped to make it clear she was listening.

"Though you didn't ask," Shovel continued, that smile still on his voice, "the worst thing about grubbing in the mud is that you get filthy. Sometimes, you get so dirty that you can't wash it out, and no one will recognise you again as a result. If I were you, I would bear that in mind."

Without responding, Chain walked on. Shovel's odd words stayed with her all night, poisoning her time with Carmen like mud in water.
Chapter 13

Chain woke convinced that Shovel was part of the skimming scam: why warn her about 'grubbing in the mud' if not? He had foolishly sought to intimidate a Contegon who had faced Disciples and lived. His arrogance scared her more than his threat: it implied disregard for her Station, comfort in the crime, and confidence that it would be difficult to uncover the truth.

This unshakeable idea was a thought lying across her mind like a cat sleeping on her chest. Sol had left it for her to find on waking, a small approval of her actions. She must accelerate her investigations.

"Are you okay?" Chain asked Bracket when she got down to breakfast, concerned at the drained expression on her friend's face.

"You don't look happy, Auntie Bracket," Carmen said, concerned.

Bracket shook her head and smiled at Carmen. "I'm fine. I'm just not feeling too well."

"Oh no! She's ill!" Carmen said. She stood and pushed her chair away. "I am sorry, Auntie Bracket, but I don't want to catch your ill... your illness."

This time, Bracket's smile was genuine. "No, that's fine. It's a good idea."

"You know," Chain said, leaning down to her daughter's level, "it's not when someone feels ill that you're most likely to catch it, but days before."

"That's not true... is it?" Carmen said. When she looked at Chain, saw she wasn't joking, her small brow furrowed. "No, Mum, are you saying that's true?"

"It is. Disease passes between us before we know it's there. But don't worry, little one," Chain said, ruffling her hair. "Your body was made to fight illnesses before you're even aware you caught them."

"Your body's even stronger if you eat all your vegetables," Bracket piped in.

Carmen wrinkled her nose. "Sol asks us to do not-nice things."

"That he does," Chain said, eyeing Bracket with concern.

When breakfast was done, Chain went to the Family Mine through an indirect route, weaving it into her patrols. The walk took hours, but she wanted to approach the Mine from an odd angle, catch the operation unaware.

As she went, she turned over the puzzle Shovel represented. He was involved in so many elements of Buckle, always pitching in when a new house was built, lifting heavy loads for Farmers when the orchards hit season, plus whatever he did for Par. The Stationless man was certainly popular for his helpfulness, but that could be an act to ingratiate himself to the Stationed.

Chain shook her head. She was imagining Shovel as Lun himself, a young dark brother. Perhaps that was because he'd shown a pressing, overt interest in her, sexually, which reminded her of... Carmen's father. Whatever it was, she was making too much of his role in whatever was happening.

But she wasn't overreacting to Shovel's warning. Either he knew of the Heresy in the Mine but was afraid to say more, or he was part of it and didn't want Chain involved. There were no other rational options. Chain had half a mind to arrest him, make him explain himself, but she needed evidence. Proof. Part of her rankled that her faith and judgement weren't enough, but that voice had been tempered long ago.

First, she had to observe the Mine. The last visit might have been a performance for her sake, so she wanted to see it work when unguarded. She'd ask Bracket to observe the Mine tonight, in case the conspirators worked under Lunlight. It would be a lot to ask, but Chain had commitments to meet, and her missing them would be reported to those who skimmed.

It was a shame that the Miners hadn't noticed the skimming themselves, but it was not for those lower in a Station to question their superiors. The official documentation happened levels above them, such that Side had expected Muster to sing their praises.

Side. Chain would have to find him later, discuss whatever she observed. He was the only person other than Bracket and Grass that she could trust with all of this.

The hike slowly brought her to the eastern side of the Family Mine. Chain was positioning herself up Sister, seeking a vantage point, when she saw Miners placed around the Mine's perimeter. Most stood idly, but the nearest seemed animated, excited: they turned to the Mine and...

They pointed at her. Chain had been spotted.

"Lookouts?" she asked herself. Par had placed lookouts to watch for Chain. What was happening?

Chain would hear his logic, as he was soon storming out of his office. He wasn't alone: Grain kept pace with the Merchant, her red robes swishing.

"Par, Grain," Chain said when she could be heard. "Good to see you."

They were standing just at the Mine's outer border, half a dozen Miners with them. Par was breathing rapidly. His face was bright red. Burning eyes fixed on her as he hissed, "Would you care to explain what you are doing, Contegon?"

Chain looked at her uncomfortable audience. "If we must converse, your Miners will leave."

"Will they now?" Par growled.

"Yes. If you don't tell them to leave, I will."

Par looked across at Grain, who nodded subtly. "Fuck off, all of you. Get back to work."

The Miners looked disappointed they would miss the show of the three most powerful people in Buckle fighting. Chain watched them go, noting who Par trusted to watch for her: they were mostly administrative staff, though some were the lowest performers below ground.

"Why did you waste so much time coming out here?" Grain asked when they'd left.

"No, why did you waste Muster's resources to watch for me?" Chain fired back.

The Merchant's wrinkled fingers cracked as he made a fist. "What I do with my Merchants is not your business, Contegon," he said, spitting out the last word.

"That's not strictly true," Chain replied, looking from Par to Grain. "I must look after Buckle overall, and it's concerning to see so much manpower wasted."

"It was important," Grain said, her young face carefully blank, "to ensure that you would not succeed with overstepping your boundaries. Particularly after you ignored my warning and continued your investigation, asking about soil disposal which is clearly linked to the Mine's output. And now we find you hiding to observe the Mine? You can't deny we were right when we caught you covered in blood."

"Call me a fucking skimmer, will you, bitch?"

Grain held her hand up to halt Par. "That won't help anyone, Par."

"Call me a bitch again," Chain said, putting her hands to her axes. "Do it."

"Enough," Grain said. "You are looking for excuses and false evidence. The proper procedure was not followed here, Contegon, so I thought it only fair for Par to hear the accusations you were slinging."

"Some idiot Miner thinks we're doing well, and you suddenly leap to the idea that I'm a skimmer? Is that how your stupid mind works?" Par demanded. "It's no wonder you were almost thrown out for Heresy. You're an embarrassment to your Station."

Chain felt her blood thunder around her body. She was close to snapping, to hitting out, but Par was trying to goad her. If she attacked him, Muster would believe his subordinate over her. So she smiled at him.

"Something is wrong in the Mine, I know it," Chain said. "You should be investigating this with me."

"Again, sire, that is not correct procedure," Grain cut. "The Stations agreed how these investigations would work long ago: an impartial party should be involved, one neither the accuser nor the accused. A Contegon with your... history should be aware of this. If you have testimony or evidence that something illegal is happening in the Family Mine, then talk to me. I will lead an impartial investigation, aided by the two of you, that will get to the root of the problem."

"Whoever told you lies is probably just a bitter fool," Par said.

"How can I trust you," Chain asked slowly, "when you've already betrayed my confidence?" She didn't add that she had her own suspicions about the Cleric.

Grain stepped forward, put a hand on Chain's shoulder. "I did not betray your confidence: I enacted my duty to my Station, Buckle, and Sol. Your being caught shows I was right. Now, please, let me do my job and trust that Sol will aid me in seeing the right outcome through."

Chain licked her teeth. She couldn't argue with the Cleric's logic, and she seemed earnest enough in her assertion. Maybe she saw jumping at shadows in thinking Grain was involved in the skimming.

"I know you're used to running things alone," Grain continued. "That works on the Fronts, where you were trained to be, but this is a different situation altogether."

Though she didn't like it, Chain knew she had been backed into a corner: all it would take was one unkindly-worded letter to Aureu for her to be in serious trouble with her own Station. Though she hated it, Grain was right. Her reputation didn't allow her any leeway.

"Fine. I'll tell you who informed me of this, and my evidence so far." She looked across at Par. "But only you. I do not want Par to issue a reprisal."

"That is reasonable," Grain said with a nod. "Is it not, Par?"

Par looked down, grumbled something.

"Pardon?" Chain asked.

"I said, that is reasonable."

With that, the Merchant stalked away. He slammed each foot as he went, like a child.

"Two people told me," Chain said to Grain when she was sure Par was beyond their hearing range. "Tissue said last week that the Mine had hit Sol's Pockets over the last few months, but the reports say nothing of the sort. Miner Side confirmed that they've pulled record amounts of gems from these Pockets. On top of that, the recent silt disposal reports show that the ratio of Circles to silt has dropped during this period, linked to 'wastage'... something which hasn't been validated."

Grain sighed. "Damn. I was hoping you'd had rubbish information."

"You have little faith in me, Cleric," Chain replied.

"Sorry, this just would have been easier if I could dispel your concerns without an investigation."

Chain wasn't convinced or impressed by the answer, but said neither of these things.

Grain sighed again. "All right, leave the investigations with me. Go about your routines. I'll clear the water."

"I expect regular reports," Chain said. She looked around, considering her position and what, if anything, she'd achieved that morning. "Can I get a lift back into town with you?"

"I suppose I'm done out here now. Yes, I'll go back now, and you're free to join me."

Chain and the Cleric returned to Buckle together. As they were driven back, Chain tried to judge her. She prayed the Cleric would uncover the truth, that she hadn't misled Par's underlings to allow him to skim. It wasn't that she didn't trust Sol, but this seemed like the kind of situation that Lun would put a lot of his spite into ensuring just got worse and worse...
Chapter 14

Allowing an impartial Station to intervene before a rift opened between the most important people in Buckle was right. Logically, Chain knew she should let Grain dig through the records for inconsistencies. It would be sensible and politically-sound to carry on her normal patrols and day-to-day activities.

But as the days passed, as she went to visit parents concerned with the behaviour of their teenagers, or checked on the most poorly-built homes, the idea that someone skimmed from the Family Mine became a sore tooth: it throbbed, it ached, it would not be ignored. Her instincts repeatedly told her not to leave matters to Grain. With each hour spent on her duties, it became more and more impossible to ignore a compulsion that could only have come from Sol.

The next morning, she knew she couldn't leave the investigation alone. It was divine inspiration. Chain decided to at least speak to Side, ensure she'd not missed any details that might press Grain into faster action.

Part of her felt guilty at neglecting her more mundane responsibilities that morning, but looking into an act of skimming, of Heresy, was too important. There were crumbling homes near Side's house, so she would inspect them whilst there and then spend the day writing up outstanding reports: it wouldn't matter if she didn't patrol today. If anything, it might be better if Grain and Par thought she was keeping out of the way.

Chain set off early to meet Side, skipping breakfast and time with Carmen to do so. Buckle was quiet, giving her no obstacles or blockages, a passive witness to her furtive progress.

Side lived in the home his father built, inherited it years before Chain came to Buckle. The building showed Side's father was a skilled craftsman, almost a waste in the Merchant Station: the roof was straight, correctly-angled and the brickwork was tight and neat after decades.

The same couldn't be said for Aspect and Rose's homes: they were also inherited, but choosing whether to demolish or repair them must've been hard. Both had chosen to repair, and the rotting cement, swollen doors, and cracked window panes belied an incorrect decision. Any Artificer would weep to see them.

But then, Artificers didn't care about towns like Buckle. Muster did not think Buckle important enough to hire a full-time Artificer, and so the people were stuck building their own homes. The Artificers forgave this encroachment mostly because, if they didn't, they'd have to step in and do the work cheaply. This was already happening in the slums of Outer Aureu, and Chain couldn't imagine they would enjoy being sent out to places like Buckle to perform similar work.

Funny how the Stations accepted some encroachment...

Chain used a small pencil to note that Aspect needed a posse of willing people to prevent her wall from collapsing. Rose could probably cope for another month or so with his damp problem, but needed his windows boarding at the very least. If possible, they needed to rehouse the families and start again.

That duty disposed with, she went to Side's home. She found the Miner kneeling by the front wall. Clad in sleeping clothing, his broad chest was as on display as his frown of confusion.

"Good morning, Side. Is everything okay?" she asked.

"Oh, Contegon Justicar," Side said, standing suddenly. Realising what he wore, he blushed. "I was... I... I heard a scratching in the walls last night. I've checked inside and couldn't find rat holes or anything they could've gotten into the walls with, so I came out to look for somewhere else they could've used."

Chain pretended not to notice his discomfort. Instead, she asked, "Do you want some help?"

"I wouldn't mind, no. I've almost done with this wall."

"Okay. You continue east. I'll follow the opposite direction."

Chain started looking for possible entry points. All she could see was good workmanship and solid brickwork. It seemed impossible for any vermin to have slipped between the exterior and interior walls. They met at the north-facing wall and finished their inspection together.

"I see nothing," Chain said.

"Me either," Side said, scratching the back of his head. "That's the damnedest thing. I heard scratching all night, a faint noise like tiny claws. I thought it had to be rats, but there wasn't anything in the roof or my room. And now there's nothing out here. I'm stumped."

Chain checked the building again. It had only one floor, a small but well-formed home for a young family, so there were few places a rat could hide. "Did you try under the floorboards?"

Side opened his mouth to reply, then stopped and looked down. "No. That didn't even occur to me." He laughed, tying his robe back up for no reason. "I guess the damn rat really ruined my sleep."

"Let's go inside and have a look, shall we?"

Side's laugh died as he seemingly considered why Chain might be there for the first time. "Of course. I'd be glad of the help," he said, perhaps a little too loudly.

The Miner led her inside and closed the door behind her. "You're not here to be my mouser."

She shook her head. "I wanted to talk to you about the Mine again."

He sighed. "I really opened a mess up there, didn't I?"

"I don't know. If you did, then you should be praised: Sol's light must shine in the darkest places. There will be a full investigation by Cleric Grain. She will want to speak to you about what you told me."

The blood evacuated his face, leaving him white and afraid underneath the layers of soot. "It wasn't just me who noticed we were doing so well, sire."

"You weren't my only source of concern, Side."

He relaxed a little. "As long as this doesn't all hinge on me. I can't be the only one to have told the truth: no one will ever trust me again."

"It doesn't. I promise."

Side breathed out slowly, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. "After a panic like that, I need breakfast. Do you want something, Contegon?"

Chain checked his hands: most Miners used the communal bathing facilities Muster provided, which were only available only on free days, so Miners were often filthy. Side's hands were pristine. Even Miners had to clean their hands to prepare food.

"I ate before I came here," she lied, feeling that she shouldn't take food from a lower Station. "Feel free to make yourself something though."

"I will," Side said.

Chain followed him into the kitchen, a narrow slither of wooden surfaces and cupboards that Side could only just stand sideways in. He didn't seem to notice or care as he knelt to look through his cupboards.

"So what will Cleric Grain ask me about?" Side asked.

"The account you gave of how the Mine is performing, probably," Chain said as she leant on the kitchen door's frame, "and how you came to the conclusion that you did."

Side stood, a cured sausage in one hand and a knife in the other. "Nothing major then?"

"Not from your perspective."

"Good. I don't want to– Wait, do you hear that?"

Chain listened, strained to hear, and picked up a light scratching sound from below them: a faint tickle, like metal stroking stone. She nodded, pointed downward.

Side put the sausage down and knelt, his shoulders almost wedging between the cupboards. Tilting his head, a hand to his ear, he pointed to a spot halfway between them.

Chain continued to listen and nodded: it came from where he pointed.

"Damn it," he whispered, "it looks like I have a rat problem."

"I guess you'll have to get some poison," Chain whispered back.

Side sighed, then stood up. "That's a shame. I hate hurting the poor things."

"You could just live with the scratching."

"No, I bloody couldn't!" Side exclaimed. He laughed. "Oops, I guess I'm going to be a bit short today."

"Lack of sleep can do that to–"

A rapid series of clicks and scrapes travelled to one side of the kitchen, and then up the wall. It sounded like the rat was in the cupboard Side had picked his cured sausage from. She pointed to it, and Side nodded slowly. He knelt, held his knife ready to strike, and threw the cupboard door open. But he didn't stab at what he saw: instead, he screamed, scrambled away from the cupboard.

"What's wrong?" Chain asked.

A metallic blur leapt at him, landing on Side's shoulder. In the still, she saw it as a Disciple's vision of a spider, an eight-legged form about eight inches wide. Thin, metallic legs spread out from a central sphere covered in small, dark circles that looked like eyes. The tip of each leg was needle sharp.

Side tried to throw the monster from his shoulder, but it dodged away, crawled onto his neck. He shrieked, ducking as though to get away from the monster. The spidery horror responded by scratching the back of his head, drawing blood.

It achieved nothing more, as Chain slapped it away with the flat of her axe, striking with all her might. The monster took a slice of Side's skin with it. It landed on its back, and seemed to struggle to right itself. Vicious, horrible legs writhed and twitched uselessly.

"Get out of here," Chain roared at Side.

She sat on the surface, gave the Miner room to scrabble away. Side threw himself from the battle, but stopped at the kitchen door to watch. Chain would have told him to keep going, but the strange monster was using its blade-like legs to rock itself right-side up.

Before it could do so, Chain slammed her axes into its exposed belly. Its composition was weaker than a Disciple, so her axes dented its stomach and two of its legs. Mechanical processes inside began to tick and whir. Half its legs fell dormant. Chain struck again and again. When its functioning legs stopped working, she kept going. Only when her axe finally pierced its hide, and she saw its workings ceased, did she stop.

Her throat hoarse from grunting, Chain turned to Side. He was once more white beneath his soot, had almost shrunk into the corner of the kitchen, small and afraid. One hand was at the back of his neck, putting pressure on his wound.

"What in Lun's name was that?" he asked, his voice tiny and distant.

"That," Chain said, "was a Disciple. And it attacked you."

"Why? Why? Why would a Disciple attack me?"

Chain looked back at the mess that remained of the monster. "Why indeed. Go get a blanket or something: I need to collect those remains. Then we will take you to Marsh, see whether it did anything to you other than rip your flesh."

"Shit, do you think–"

Chain interrupted. "I don't know. That's for a Doctor to decide. Get a blanket, then Marsh can determine your health. Okay?"

Side went to follow her orders, leaving her with the Disciple's corpse. Chain watched as grease and a thin, green fluid leaked from its remains. All that she could think as she waited for Side to return was that she had blunted her axes... and she would surely need them sharp again soon.
Chapter 15

"Are you... oh, Sol, I can barely breathe," Side said after Chain wrapped up the Disciple's crushed remains. His hands shook wildly, and he was pale as a handkerchief.

Chain put the remains aside, and went to hold him steady. "You're going into shock. It's a common reaction after engaging with a Disciple. Just try and breathe slowly. Deep in," she said, bringing air into her lungs slowly, "and then deep out."

"Fuck, fuck," Side whispered.

"That's not breathing, is it?" Chain asked. "Do as I say. Deep in, deep out."

"Deep in," Side said, tears wiping his grime away as he followed her orders. "Deep out."

"Good. Concentrate on breathing. This is just your body's reaction to an unnatural fight."

Side closed his eyes. His whole body shook until the breathing exercise started to work. Chain stayed there, holding him upright, talking him through his recovery, until he could breathe without his lips quivering.

"That was embarrassing," Side said after.

"Nonsense. It's normal. Well-trained Shields react the same way after their first battles."

Side glanced to the Disciple's remains. "Hopefully it'll be my only battle."

"Yes, hopefully," Chain replied, not certain of her words. "You were going to ask something before the shock gripped you?"

The Miner frowned for a second, and then clicked his fingers. "Yes. You seem certain that... thing... was a Disciple. How do you know?"

"It's made of metal, and its insides look the same." Chain looked to the grim package resting on the kitchen floor. "When I fought at the Battle of Aureu, I saw plenty of these innards. I'll never forget them."

Side nodded. "Why did it come after me?"

"I don't know. You seem like an odd target for it. Unless... maybe it's not the only one," Chain said, the idea that the Disciples were targeting her main witnesses attacking her as suddenly as the 'spider' had. But she couldn't assume this was a targeted assault. "Lun, there could be more out there. We've got to get going. There could be other people in need of help."

Fluttering panic taking over, Chain grabbed the bundle of innards and ran into the street. She listened for screams, but found only the sounds of Buckle starting another day under Sol's grace. If there were more of those creatures, they were doing their work in silence.

Side joined her in the street, looking a state but seemingly willing to follow. "What are you waiting for?"

"I was listening for signs of a fight. We don't seem to be under attack."

"Not on this side of town," Side said.

"True," Chain said, her mouth dry. "We'll circle Buckle first, then I'll take you to Marsh."

Side touched the back of his neck and winced. His fingers came away covered in blood. "Let's be quick."

Chain jogged towards the outskirts of her town. She heard no screams or fights, no one screeching out of their homes. Searching Buckle in a rough 'z', modifying this pre-prepared route so the final line of the 'z' terminated at Marsh's home, she buzzed around like a panicked fly.

Buckle was fine, if a little perplexed at its Contegon running through the streets, a bleeding Miner in tow. Side, however, was worn down, panting heavily. Chain considered helping him, carrying the man to his aid, but he seemed too stubborn to accept help. Pride was a powerful thing, something she didn't want to discourage, so she let him stumble to the Doctor's home unaided.

Marsh's daughter answered the door, a precocious, square-jawed girl training to join her father's Station.

"Get your father, Riot," Chain said, pushing past the young girl. "Now! That is an order."

"Yes, sire!" Riot replied as she ran into the Doctor's theatre, red hair bouncing.

Side stumbled inside and fell into the chairs for waiting patients. He closed his eyes and his head lolled forward, giving Chain a good look at his neck: the wound still wasn't clotting properly, which should have been impossible if not for the evil thing she held in her hand.

"Side?" she asked, kneeling beside him. "Side?"

"Yes?" he slurred, trying to look up.

"If you die, I'll be furious with you."

He laughed and put a hand on her shoulder. She squeezed it, her panic for Buckle now shifting to the Miner. The pervading thought that this was her fault, that she'd made Side a target by digging into another Station's work, passed through her like a virus. She knew this was stupid, that she was right to investigate the skimming, but the guilt would not be dismissed so easily.

The door to the theatre that took up two thirds of the Doctors' home creaked open. Marsh stepped out, his thin hands covered in blood. His short, slight frame and straight, spiked hair made him look like a dignified broom.

"Contegon, I appreciate you think you have a good reason for demanding to see me," he said, holding his hands up so the blood would drip onto his red robes, "but I am with a patient."

"Side was attacked by a Disciple," Chain said, squeezing his hand again.

The Doctor gasped. "Are you... well, you must be certain, but I can't believe..." Marsh swallowed and composed himself. "I'll have to finish with my current patient first: I'm afraid she doesn't have long left. Riot will look Side over in the meantime." He turned to the door. "Riot! Come through and see to Side for me."

The young girl ran out, her hands damp from washing, and went to Side. Around her waist was a Field Doctor's kit, from which she extracted bandages and alcohol.

"Who is your other patient?" Chain asked, stepping away from Side. It was always a concern when one of her charges was ill or dying, and she needed to be appraised to run the subsequent Pyre. "How can they be more important than the victim of a Disciple attack?"

Marsh shook his head and went back into his theatre. "It'll be a sad day for Par," he shouted back. "It's another of his Miners: Tissue. She came in suffering from—"

That name fell on Chain from a tremendous height, dropped by Lun from the cloud-line onto her heart and soul. Nothing he said afterwards made sense. Tissue, the other witness to the skimming, was now dying? She shook herself, instigated her battlemind, and followed Marsh into his theatre.

Tissue lay on his operating table. An incision in her stomach was held open by clamps and forceps. The air smelled of alcohol, blood, and rot. This old Miner was barely breathing, her ragged attempts showing she would not do so for much longer. Marsh bowed and sunk his hands back in to her.

"What is the cause of her illness?" Chain managed to say.

"I don't know," Marsh spat. "It's the worst thing I've ever seen, the most vile and cruel condition. Her organs are shutting down. It's a rapid wasting disease, and it's tearing through her."

"Could it be... poison?" Chain asked, stepping forward.

Marsh shook his head. "What could do this to a person?"

"A Disciple poison."

Chain walked over, wanting to get a better view of Tissue's final moments. Peering inside, she saw that Marsh was manually pumping her heart to keep her going. She was already a corpse: Marsh was delaying the inevitable in the hope of a sudden change.

"Could this sudden disease not be the result of a Disciple poison?" she asked again.

"If I hadn't seen this for myself, I'd have thought it a slow illness that simply burst forth, like a pustule. I mean, I examined Tissue last week, a routine check." The Doctor squeezed as he considered Tissue's sunken face. "I suppose nothing is impossible with the Disciples. Are you sure that it was a Disciple?"

"Should you still be doing that?" Chain asked of his manipulation of Tissue's heart. "Isn't she too gone?"

Marsh hissed at her. "I'm not losing someone this suddenly, not when it's impossible."

"I have the Disciple that attacked Side with me. Its corpse," Chain said, shaking the bundle. "If I show you, will you accept Tissue's death is something you couldn't prevent, allow her to join Sol?"

He watched her for a few seconds, hands pumping Tissue's blood, and then nodded.

Chain knelt and spread the blanket on the floor. Within were the still remains of the Disciple spider. Its insides were leaking heavily now, though the clear viscera had not yet soaked through the wool.

"This thing was scrabbling in Side's kitchen," Chain said. "Side surprised it, and it launched itself at him, tried to claw into the back of his neck. I killed it with my axes."

Marsh sobbed once, a horrible and heartbreaking sound that pierced Chain's battlemind, and took his hands from Tissue's chest. She stopped breathing a moment later, passing into Sol. Chain prayed to Tissue, as part of Sol, for the strength to face this crisis.

"How is Side?" Chain shouted, allowing Marsh a moment to himself.

"I'm bandaging him up," Riot replied. "His blood has thinned, but I think he'll be fine."

"You're sure?" Marsh asked.

"I am, sire."

Marsh coughed, breaking from his brief torpor, and washed his hands. Every movement was careful, controlled. When clean, he squatted by the Disciple's remains. "I trust her analysis for the meantime. I'll check him further in a moment. For now, we need to cautiously consider these remains. It's possible that this leaking fluid is the poison administered to Tissue," he said.

"That's possible, yes," Chain said. "Do you have anything to hold the creature in?"

"I can give you a jar?"

"That'll do."

Marsh found an empty medicine jar. Together, wearing thick leather gloves, they transferred the Disciple's remains into it. She felt bad for leaving Side alone, but she trusted Riot if her father had faith in her.

When done, Chain sealed the jar. "What should I do about the blanket?"

"Leave it with me?" Marsh asked, picking the blanket up by its dry edges. "I'd like to examine it, see what I can figure out about this potential poison. It could be helpful. And it could prove what killed Tissue."

Chain nodded and her battlemind crumbled, a single sob escaping her.

"Were you close to Tissue?" Marsh asked.

"No. It's what her death means that concerns me," Chain said.

With the witnesses to the skimming attacked by Disciples within days of being named, Chain now worried about Heresy. Grain was the most likely suspect, but it wasn't impossible that Par or his underlings had lifted Tissue and Side's names from Grain's private papers. Either way, someone sent monsters after these suspects to administer poison that would have been mistaken for a disease, leaving Chain nowhere to go in her investigations. Anger tried to strangle her sense, but she couldn't leap to any conclusions.

Marsh snapped his fingers before Chain's face. "Contegon?"

Chain rattled her head. "I'm sorry, Marsh, I was far away."

"I can see. I asked what these deaths mean?"

"Another Disciple incursion," Chain said. "And one with human operatives," she didn't say.

The Doctor looked at her for a while before saying, "Shit."

"Exactly."

An idea struck Chain. "Tissue and Side were specifically targeted: after all, no one else in Buckle has been attacked yet. I patrolled the town before bringing Side here, so I'm confident in saying this."

"Seems like a fair assumption," Marsh said, crossing his arms. "I get the feeling that I'm not going to like the favour you're about to ask for."

"Can you hide Side and fill out paperwork as though he died?"

Marsh sucked air in and laughed, a sound dark and bitter as death. "I thought that was going to be it. Do you appreciate what you're asking?"

Chain gripped him by the shoulders. "I know I can't order you to do this, but consider your patient's safety: his life is still at risk. Don't submit the papers and you won't compromise your integrity: just keep him in your private quarters for sixty hours. Look after him, tell anyone who asks that he didn't survive."

"That's a specific length of time, Contegon. Where will you be through this?"

"Looking after my own family," Chain said. "And then bringing Sol's justice."

Her gut told her Buckle was too small a prize for the Disciples to aim a conspiracy at: something must be happening across Geos that she was glimpsing the very tip of. If so, an easy way to move Disciple contraband such as those vicious spiders was mixing them with deliveries to Aureu, like Buckle's gem loads... and that the best way to make room for them was skimming from the Mine.

The length of the favour she'd asked March was on purpose: this month's shipment was in two days' time.

"Won't this make my family a target?" Marsh asked.

"Not if you're a good liar."

He ran his hands through his spiked hair. The product he used was flexible enough to move with his fingers, flop back into place. "Fine. Sixty hours. I will keep him upstairs, and tell people he's dying rather than dead, but that he will not recover. Is that a good compromise?"

"That'll work, especially after people saw him jogging after me this morning," Chain said, nodding. "Make sure you say he had an accident. And thank you, Marsh. When I understand this more, I'll explain it to you. I hope it goes without saying that I want you to keep this all to yourself."

"It did. But you said it anyway."

"My apologies. I just needed to be clear."

Marsh acquiesced. "Which is fine. And you don't have to explain anything to me, Chain. You are a Contegon. You know what you're doing."

He was right, Chain did know what she was doing: chasing Heretics and Disciples. The mounting evidence and body-count proved this wasn't like with her misplaced hatred of Maya. This time, she was following real, true Heresy.

"You'll want to cover that," Marsh said, pointing at the jar. "Take one of my spare robes."

"Thank you," she said, before wrapping the Disciple's remains in the red material.

Side slept on the waiting room sofa. Bloody bandages rested beside him, and the spot he had sat on was soaked with alcohol. Riot had removed his top and wrapped tight bandages under his armpits and around his neck. She was just returning her equipment to her kit when Chain and her father stepped out.

"Tissue?" Riot asked.

Marsh shook his head slowly, and the child lowered her head in prayer.

"I will be back the evening of the day after tomorrow," she said, leaving before the Doctor could reply.

It was early enough that Chain returned home before Carmen left for school. Running into her home, the Contegon grabbed her daughter, held her tight. She didn't know, after the couple of hours she'd had, whether she could let her girl go.
Chapter 16

Chain stayed awake all night, her sleeping daughter unaware she and their room were monitored so closely. She listened carefully for tell-tale scratching, the herald of this new Disciple, but was faced only with the soft rise and fall of her daughter's breath.

She couldn't watch her on the night of the Merchant's shipment. And she would inspect that shipment, Station politics be damned: she would answer the Bureau, the Council, even the Guardian if called forward, and would do so knowing that she was backed by Sol.

That day passed quickly. Carmen questioned why she couldn't go to school, and wasn't satisfied with Chain's half-truths. Her troubled mind forgot the change in routine whenever a new game started, or Chain began to read a book to her, but it would eventually resurface. It was a pleasant way to spend her day, albeit somewhat painful with the lies she had to tell.

And then it was evening. Chain didn't know what time she should leave: theoretically, the heavily-laden wagon of gems, minerals, and reports would take a good while to get to Buckle, but Chain didn't know whether the Heretics would be brazen enough to lighten the load and weigh it down again with Disciple technology. She decided to leave shortly after Sol fell and set a trap. But, for the moment, she was content to stand by Carmen's room as she slept.

Who was she protecting Carmen from, though? Her gut told her it was Par, that he skimmed for the Disciples and not himself. He must have seen Grain's private documents, whether by bribing the Cleric or using his Disciple. Either way, he was the most likely candidate to sell his soul to the Disciples in return for... well, Lun only knows what he got.

Chain touched the Baptism resting on her hip, an acid-filled projectile sent to every Contegon shortly after their invention: all Par would earn for his treachery is experiencing its fury.

Bracket stepped out of her bedroom, a patched gown gripping her form loosely. She hadn't taken well to being locked up, to being constantly on edge: displeasure and discomfort weighed on her gaunt face and drooping eyelids. Nevertheless, she yawned and said, "I'm ready to take over."

"Thank you," Chain whispered.

"What do I do if... the worst happens?"

"You take Carmen and the jar and you run," Chain said quietly. "Head into the forest, avoid the roads, and run to my parents in Aureu. The only person you can trust on the way is Carmen."

"And when we're there?"

"Find Contegon Tone White and tell her all I told you."

Bracket nodded. Her friend hadn't believed a Disciple plot could cross the Front and the Gravit Mountains at first, but the jar Chain carefully kept from Carmen had convinced her. She knew enough to warn the Contegons, to ignite them scouring Buckle of its Heretics.

"I should go," Chain said.

Bracket nodded and took a rough cudgel from her room, one formed from the leg of a table she'd been making in her spare time. She rested the club beside Carmen's room and stood straight, looked less tired.

"Thank you again, Bracket."

"You don't need to–"

"Yes, I do," Chain said. "In case I never get to again, thank you."

"Oh, shut up, you're going to make me cry at this rate..."

Chain hugged her, long enough to feel better, but not so much it inflamed her fears. Then she broke away and left the house, silent as a bad reputation.

Lun's strange silver light made every building a jaunty, twisted mess and soaked the shadows in dark blood. Under this cruel light, she ran, footsteps echoing, seemingly amplified by the dead silence: with no evening economy, everyone rested. None saw her heading purposefully to the main road.

Buckle was built around its main road, which moved north to the Family Mine or south to civilization. The road bifurcated the town and was wide to allow large carriages to pass one another. It was widest as the centre of the town, where it passed through a large, open square.

When Chain reached the town square, saw its single fountain whose gush had been quieted for the night, she checked for signs of life, the square being a possible place to swap the gems the Mine thought it sent, but that theory proved false with no one or nothing around.

Nowhere else in Buckle was suitable for loading and unloading the Mine's wide carriages, so any swap must happen outside the town. If it happened at all: it was still possible the Heresy occurred at the Mine, that Par and his Merchants brazenly worked where it was easiest for them. If that were the case, she'd still prefer to meet her foes on the open fields beyond Buckle, rather than the cramped, civilian-rich streets.

In the grey hatred of Lun, Chain left Buckle.

After a mile, she saw two people standing with a few boxes further along the road. They held torches, amber glows of sanity in the silver madness that illuminated their cargo. The spot they'd chosen was just beyond a dip in the lands, so no one could see them from Buckle. It also meant that Chain might be visible to them, a dark figure picked out on the horizon. She flattened herself to the ground, panicked that she'd been caught, but neither reacted: perhaps they weren't looking? She didn't know and didn't care, so long as she'd not been seen.

There was no cover between them, no way to approach without being seen. She couldn't remain a flat form by the road with the shipment on its way. If they hadn't seen her yet, perhaps they weren't properly checking for saboteurs. If so, she might get close enough to disable them before they could warn the shipment somehow, through a firework or some Disciple heresy.

Rising, she proceeded at a slight crouch. As she went, Sol granted her a boon: thick clouds rolled over Lun, granting her a cover of darkness. She whispered a quick, thankful prayer, as she scurried.

The cloud allowed her to get within a hundred yards of the guards. One was a Merchant, his long golden coat done up to fight the night's chill. The other was behind the boxes so she couldn't see them. They didn't talk. The Merchant's eyes were closed as he rested his head against the boxes.

This relaxation let Chain get to within fifty feet away. Looking around blearily, he passed over Chain twice before he realised what he saw. "Oh shit, Contegon!" he shouted.

Her twin axes flashed into her hands as she charged him. The Merchant screeched and pulled a black object from his robes, a rough triangle with a hole to put his index finger through. He levelled the weapon and fired, but Chain was already changing direction, so he missed.

The other guard stepped out from behind the boxes. It was Cleric Grain. She was much calmer than the Merchant, more practised with the triangular weapon: her shot struck Chain's form, though Sol smiled on her again as the projectile fired through Chain's robes but missed her flesh.

The Heretics shot their Disciple weapons again. Grain struck true this time, clipping Chain's side. The wound felt superficial, so the Contegon ignored it, roaring as she closed into melee range.

The Merchant turned to flee, and thus sealed his doom: the worst thing to do was show your back to a charging Contegon. Chain leapt forward and brought both axes down onto the bastard's shoulders, the edges digging through his flesh, forcing him to his knees. He burbled something through his blood.

Chain grabbed the weapon he dropped and rolled away immediately, put the boxes between her and Grain. The Cleric had expected her to finish the Merchant, was aiming there, so her shot missed Chain and struck her partner in the leg. He howled wetly, bleeding profusely now.

There were four boxes between her and Grain, arranged in a square. Chain listened, tried to work out what the Cleric was doing, but heard nothing: Grain wasn't moving, wasn't trying to finish her. But then, Grain didn't need to kill her, did she? She only had to keep Chain pinned down until the shipment arrived.

She considered using her Baptism, dousing the Cleric in its acids, but decided to keep that for the incoming shipment. She needed to defeat Grain with her weapons and her guile.

Ideas and tactics thundered through her panic. On a whim, Chain threw the Disciple gun to her right and charged to the left, hoping the sound would distract the Cleric. The gun rustled through the grass. Grain shot it, her bullet pinging away loudly.

Chain growled as she span to build power. Grain's eyes widened as Chain sank an axe into her arm.

The Cleric shrieked. Her blood sprayed into the night. Chain pulled her axe from the girl's arm and smacked the pommel of her other axe into her traitorous nose. There was a satisfying crunch. Grain shrieked again and fell back, dropping the gun.

Chain kicked the weapon away, and stood over the Cleric. Adrenaline rushed through her. A kill was so tempting, more blood from this Heretic who killed Tissue, but Geos needed the Heretics alive to uncover what they knew. Instead, she sated herself by stamping on Grain's hand so hard her fingers broke, leaving her unable to use either arm for some time.

"Your Hereticum will be fun," Chain whispered. "Now, let's see what you were guarding."

Chain pulled at the lid of the closest box, but a sharp pain in her side stopped her. The bullet wound from earlier had turned her Contegon robes red, deeper than she'd thought at the time. As her adrenaline cleared, the pain sharpened, and she felt woozy.

Leaving the boxes alone, Chain strapped her wound up with bandaging she always kept to hand.

The Merchant whimpered shortly after she was done. Pathetically, he was crawling toward her, tears and blood flowing down his body. She took no joy in his pain, treating his wounds so he'd see his Hereticum. Chain wiped her axes on Cleric Grain's robes, then used the traitor's clothes to cut bandages for the two Heretics. She used what remained to make restraints and gags. Grain tried to bite when Chain forced the strip between her teeth, but a knee to her temple settled that defiance.

When she was done, she dragged the Heretics to the boxes and propped them up to look normal from a distance. Both should survive their wounds, so both would enjoy the hot justice of a Hereticum. Her own wound was bleeding afresh, but it had been reduced to a trickle, and the wooziness had passed for now.

She was about to check what they had been guarding when horseshoes pounded in the distance: the shipment was on its way. Chain picked her axes up and settled behind the boxes, using them as cover to surprise whoever was coming for her.

There, she breathed calmly and slowly. There, she waited.
Chapter 17

Chain heard the shipment carriage shortly after crouching behind the boxes. She gripped her axes tighter, ready to strike. Her wounded side throbbed. Almost flat to the ground, she couldn't see who led the shipment, but heard them talking hurriedly. Their voices started as murmurs. As they approached, she could make out what they were saying.

"This is bad. This is really fucking bad," someone said. They were young, terrified, local. "Look at them, they've both been fucking attacked. There's only one person who'd–"

"Shut up," another hissed. She recognised the voice, but couldn't place them. "I can see what happened to Grain and Twist. Let us wait until we get there to see how bad it is."

The carriage came to a stop, and two people jumped from it. The Heretics cautiously knelt beside their bound allies. Rustling like silk, Grain took a deep and much-needed breath.

"Twist is out," the local boy said. "There's no way he'll be talking for a while."

"We can get a Doctor on the way," the familiar speaker replied. "What happened, Grain?"

"It was the Contegon," Grain whispered. "It was Chain. She attacked us, took us down, and then she... she treated us, damn it. I'm so sorry, I—"

"Shush, Grain, it's okay," the familiar speaker said before kissing her. "You did all you could. This was a Contegon after all. What happened after she treated you? Did she look in the boxes?"

"She just took off. I couldn't see what direction she went in. I'm so sorry. We were supposed to–"

"I said it was okay, damn it," he replied with a tut. "Look, we have gotten enough out of this place. I'll pack you with the stuff and we'll move on. There'll be other places, other towns, other schemes. Just like we talked about?"

"Yeah. You and me. You and me."

"Get her in the back," he said to the younger Heretic. "Lay her down on a blanket or something."

"What about the boxes? Shouldn't we do them first?"

The familiar speaker tutted again. "Yeah, fine, move them."

The young Heretic walked toward Chain's hiding place. His feet crunched lightly on the flattened grass. His breathing was controlled now, but still betrayed his fright. Chain identified him as an administrative Merchant in the Family Mine, one of those Par had trusted to watch the Mine's perimeter, but she couldn't put a name to his face even when he stepped into view.

Then he would die unnamed.

Chain leapt and slammed an axe into his stomach. Strong armour cased the blow to bounce away, not gut him. He doubled forward, though, which exposed his neck. Chain span and brought her axe down below his hairline, strong enough to cut through his spine: he fell to the floor, limp. Blood gushed from the wound.

Someone applauded, booming claps in the silence. It was Shovel, the Stationless young man. Thick armour, like a Disciple's, covered him from crown to toe. A door built into his helmet revealed his smiling face, and the protection around his hands made his applause a strange drumming.

"Well done, Contegon. That was astonishing! Under didn't stand a chance, did he? I can see how you took down Grain and Twist so easily."

Chain raised her axes. "I'm not interested in a Heretic's praise."

"No, of course not. To make this easier, yes, I work for the Disciples. The Disciple Babbage brought me north from Call and showed me such wonders, buying my loyalty. I ran the smuggling of their materials for them, and I killed Side and Tissue."

Chain slowly approached, wanting to be close when she attacked. "Why tell me this?"

"Because you killed a Babbage during the Battle for Aureu," Shovel said, forming a fist. "You. A mere human. You had help, sure, but you did it. As such, I want you to fight without restraint – besides that wound in your side, of course – because you are the best the Contegons have to offer. And I want to kill the best."

"Pitiful," Chain said.

Shovel closed the door across his face, protecting him entirely. His grizzly eyes shone in the mix of Lun's cruel light and the torches attached to the carriage. "Let's get to it, shall we?"

He burst forward at an impossible speed and shoulder-barged Chain. The impact sent her tumbling, but her training let her land on her hands and knees. Once she halted, she rolled aside, narrowly avoiding Shovel planting a knee into her chest.

Having missed, his leg buried itself deep into the earth. This should have left him immobile, but he pulled himself away without effort. Chain jumped back to avoid a kick and fell into a rhythm of dodging: Shovel's gauntlets were blunt, but they would do serious damage if he landed a hit. She ducked, wove, span away from attacks which could break her.

The man moved too quickly, punched too powerfully, to be anything but a Disciple creation. It was amazing that he had mixed amongst Buckle without being detected. Had she not fought for her life, she would have stopped and panicked.

Shovel laughed and tried a haymaker, but it – she wouldn't think of Shovel as human – telegraphed the attack, allowing Chain to easily duck it. She used the brief opening to slam both axes into its face, hoping to damage the clasp that held that facial armour closed. But her blades just chipped when they struck, much weaker than the Disciple metallurgy.

This monster span to plant an elbow into her chest. Chain dodged the worst of the blow, but was still hit. Jarred, she stepped back, her teeth rattling. Shovel used the opportunity to grab her shoulders and throw her into the boxes.

Chain managed to arc her body and land on her feet. Bending her knees, she absorbed the impact, but it ripped her wound back open. She allowed herself a scream before she rolled away from a foot-first tackle from the monster. Shovel's momentum carried him past her and into the delivery, smashing a box open. Some strange, dark material with the consistency of pork jelly was inside, strong enough to reflect Shovel's power and fire him back.

That was her opportunity. As he pinged away like a rubber ball, Chain grabbed her Baptism – it was a miracle it had survived so far – and threw it at Shovel. The bladder landed on its back with a satisfying splash. The acids sizzled, but didn't eat through the armour as rapidly as she'd expected.

Shovel stood and laughed. "A Baptism? Nice try, but this armour has been coated with... ah, it doesn't matter. It won't work. If that was your main card, then you're going to lose. And die. How pathetic you are, the best the Contegons have to offer."

To a small extent, he was right: Chain had no more cards to play, no more plans. She looked around for something to help her, scanning the floor and the boxes, everything.

"I had hoped the Baptism would work better," Chain admitted to buy herself time.

"We adapt, Contegon. The Disciples adapt. You have no idea how quickly we can, have, and are changing to kill you all. And, well, you'll never see how it happens."

Her eyes moved across the boxes, Grain's watching form, Twist's unconscious one, everything and anything. She decided to hold Grain hostage, buy herself time as the thing seemed to have feelings for her. When Shovel's attack came in, she feinted to dive one way, but leapt toward Grain. As she rose, she placed her axe against the Cleric's throat.

"Oh, what's this?" Shovel asked. "A hostage?"

"Surrender and she lives, Shovel," Chain said, allowing her chipped axe to cut Grain.

"Shit, shit!" Grain howled. "Fuck, she's going to kill me. She's going to kill me!"

Shovel shrugged in that heavy armour. "Then she's going to kill you."

"What?" Grain shrieked.

"What?" Chain asked, her stomach dropping.

"The mission comes first," Shovel said calmly and easily. "The Disciples come first. I like you Grain, but I won't step aside for you."

Chain tutted, unhappy that her gambit had failed. She lowered her axe.

"I knew you'd stand down," Shovel said.

"Only because I'll need her as a witness after I've killed you."

Shovel clapped again, laughing heartily. "That's the spirit, Contegon. That's the vim and power I expect from one raised to fight for Sol. Though you're truly pathetic, I will do you the honour of no longer playing with you. I'll end you now."

Chain threw Grain at Shovel and stepped aside to put the boxes further between them. It walked around the delivery, and Chain continued to use the boxes to prevent it charging her.

"I am faster than you, Contegon," Shovel said. "Running around the boxes won't work."

She knew it was right, but each stolen second gave her chance to save herself. Keeping going, playing an almost-childish game, she looked around, prayed for Sol's luck to open up to her.

Shovel sighed and ran at full speed, getting to her in a second. Fast as it was, Chain's reactions were better: she rolled away from fists with the power of a stampede. The Heretic hadn't been completely right about its armour: the Baptism had eaten through the metal, leaving a deep splash across his back. One she could break with her axes.

The Disciple span to tackle her. She jumped away, avoided being grabbed, but not being struck: the attempted tackle winded her, nearly broke her hip. Chain landed a crumpled mess. When she tried to stand, her body denied her. All she could do was hurt.

"There. Finally," Shovel said as it walked over. "Finally, you're down. I've changed my fucking mind. You're going to suffer, Contegon."

It knelt, holding her down with its weight, and stretched her right arm out. The monster was too powerful to resist as it put the limb flat and stomped on her upper arm with all its strength.

Chain's bone crumbled under the blow like ancient paper. The pain was excruciating, worse than anything she had ever felt. It blinded her, consumed her, turned the world into a bright flare of madness. She bucked and thrashed, tried to escape the Disciple's grip. Instead, the vile thing stomped again, destroying what might have been her elbow. She couldn't tell. The pain was too great. Then it went further down, ground her forearm flat with its armoured boot.

Her Contegon training kicked in and she didn't faint. She might have given anything to just end this pain, but she had to fight for Buckle and Carmen, who would surely be a target for Shovel's rage. Chain concentrated, teeth gritted, and excluded her arm from the world as her hand was crushed.

"Hey, you're not giving up on me, now, are you?" Shovel asked with a laugh. "I'm only standing on your arm. You've got another one!"

Chain looked up, tears in her eyes, and hissed, "Lun take you."

"Still so full of fire! It's no wonder you killed Babbage." It shook his head. "I'll tell you, I–"

A war hammer slammed into its head then, knocking it back only because the monster hadn't expected the blow. Chain looked up and saw Side at the other end of the hammer, his pale face filled with panic. He was clammy, sweating, but had the strength to knock the Disciple over.

Shovel growled. "That was a mistake."

The Disciple launched itself at Side. The Miner didn't have her training or conditioning, or his health, so it picked him up and slammed him against its knee with a sickening crack. Side's spine snapped.

Shovel laughed and threw him away. Side fell to the ground like a rag doll. The Disciple monster gave Chain a quick look, checked she wouldn't attack it with its back turned. She feigned weakness, wept, and it readily believed she was done, not knowing that fury and anger that powered Chain. When it turned, she used her working hand to stand. For its piece, Shovel did to Side what it had done to Chain, starting with his right arm.

Holding her breath, being silent, she readied herself to charge. She would only have one chance to strike. With the strength of Sol, of a mother, of a friend who had seen an ally felled, she ran and slammed her axe into the weakened splash across its back.

The Disciple stopped attacking. Black blood splashed from the wound. Its hands fell to its side, its body sagged. Chain screamed, attacked again and again, hacking through the wounded armour and into its back. Shovel didn't move, didn't react. She saw why when her axe broke the skin: silver threads running through its muscles had been severed by her blows, and they sizzled where they had been disconnected, This Disciple technology must have allowed it to move the heavy armour. Without these connections, it was trapped in its protection.

Chain kept hacking until her rage was spent. The pain in her arm, dangling uselessly by her side, was all that stopped her. She dealt Shovel's back a tremendous kick, furious, and then walked around its form. It was still alive, trapped in its armour and bleeding out.

She threw her axe into the soil and opened the clasp that protected its face. Gently, she opened the door. Shovel spat bloody phlegm at her and missed.

"Fuck you. You will be dead in a year," it hissed.

"And you will be dead in a second."

Chain picked her axe back up and gripped it in her good hand, her only hand. Reaching back, tensed, she smashed it into the bastard thing's face, just below the eyes. Its nose was cut in two, and its dark blood sprayed out into the night. She sliced and cut and gouged until those white, cruel eyes turned glassy and lifeless. She hadn't realised she was screaming until she stopped. After a deep breath, she stumbled over to whatever remained of Side.

"Contegon?" he whispered. He had landed face-up, staring into the night sky. He turned his head slightly, a look of pathetic relief crossing his face.

"What are you doing here?" Chain asked, grateful and furious.

The Miner smiled. "I couldn't stay away. I knew... you'd follow the delivery. When I came to, I fled and I came... for you."

"Well, thank you. Thank you," Chain said, wincing in agony. She tried not to show it, for Side's sake. "Sol drove you here, of that I'm certain. Now, I need to get you back to Marsh."

"How? Your... your arm is ruined."

Chain looked up at the carriage. "I know how."
Chapter 18

Calming the carriage's hobbled horses, spooked as they were by the violence and death, was a frustrating process. Chain couldn't fault their terror, but had no time for such palaver. Still, she reassured them in a low voice, stroked them when they allowed. Every second hurt, physically, but soon the beasts were still, breathing at a normal rate, ready to carry them.

Side's breathing had slowed by this time. Kneeling, she found his pulse weak. Shovel's assault must've ruptured something, the sheer force tearing not only at his spine but the organs around it.

The Contegon already felt she had to hurry: now, she had to rush.

Kneeling, she struggled Side over her shoulders like a bag of grain. The pressure on her wounded side brought a bright agony, though it was not so bad as the attacks that shattered her arm. She fell to one knee, barely able to breathe. Side almost slipped from her grip, invalidating the effort of getting him into that position, but Chain kept his slack form balanced across her shoulders.

"Lun, you will not win," she hissed.

Then, with an effort Sol would applaud, she hoisted herself and the Miner into a standing position. She was straining something to bursting point, her muscles threatened to snap and give way, but she stood. Her breath came with difficulty, sweat beaded on her skin, mixing with tears of pain, but she stood.

Chain took her first step. It felt like a mile up the peak of the Father. Her legs wanted to buckle, their meat twitching and jiving. She bent forward to lower her centre of balance and willed her right foot to move, to take her a little closer to the carriage. It did. And again. Like a weeping glacier, she moved.

Every inch was a hard-fought battle against her failing body. The Lun-lit world dimmed, her heavy breath softened. Even the pain became tedious. All Chain knew was the march, the grim and cruel quest toward the carriage. Lun whispered dark nothings to her, telling her to drop the Miner, to take the easier road, but she hissed those thoughts away.

Her body wanted to crumple when she got to the carriage, falsely thinking their goal attained. Chain shook her head, whispered, "No," over and over, and prepared to move Side onto the driver's box: with the compartment full of Sol only knew what, her only option was nearly five feet from the ground.

With only one arm, this would hurt. She steeled herself, deep breaths and a prayer, and then leant her ruined arm against the carriage. Waves of furious agony crashed through her. Using her shoulder as a pivot, she tried to push Side's chest up and over the end of the box. At first, she didn't have the strength: her sole arm wouldn't extend above her head. With a roar, she put all her power, faith, and duty into the push and threw him toward the carriage. Side's head swayed for a second, and it looked like he would fall back onto her, but Sol was with her: the Miner's body tipped into the driver's box, landing with a thud.

"Thank you. Thank you," she whispered, pathetically grateful for this small kindness.

Her body rebelled during her prayer, sent her tumbling into dark, delicious sleep. Her chin struck her chest and woke her with a start. Shaking her head, Chain climbed carefully into the driver's box and righted Side's unconscious form, giving him more dignity and less chance of choking on his drool.

Chain slapped her face to chase away the fatigue, then spurred the horses. Travelling into Buckle was a blur of darkness, the world fading in and out of clarity: silver lit landscapes passed and the Family watched her with pride and fear. It was only when she got to the central square that she had to pay attention, divert the horses to Marsh's home. For the second time, she brought him an injured Side.

This time, it might not be such a simple job. The Miner was pale now, even by the standards of Lunlight, and his breathing was shallow as a puddle. She touched his hand to check his pulse and found it cold. Side would likely die tonight, but not without Chain doing all she could to help.

As she got closer to the Doctor's home, she took a deep breath and punched the carriage loudly. The impact shuddered through her, made her scream weakly, but it also echoed loudly through the streets. This was the only way to get people's attention so late at night. She bashed and bashed, hoping the combination of crashing and horses would rouse someone, anyone, to help her with Side.

Rumble, Stationless husband of a Farmer, appeared at the door of his home. His nervous, scared, expression doubled when he saw Chain, but she fancied him the greatest sight ever at that moment.

"Can I help you, Contegon Justicar?" he asked.

"You can," Chain croaked.

"Excuse me, I couldn't make that out?"

She couldn't afford to slow the horses, and couldn't raise her dying voice, so she nodded. The message got through, or her gesture caused concern, because he ran over in his sleeping robes. Jumping onto the driver's box, he looked in, saw the blood on Chain's robes and the nigh-on dead Miner beside her, and shouted, an inarticulate sound of surprise.

"I need help getting Side into Doctor Marsh's home," Chain said.

Rumble nodded. "I'll... Oh, Sol... I'll–"

"You'll run ahead to warn Marsh."

"I'll run ahead to warn Doctor Marsh!" he repeated before he leapt away.

Chain brought the carriage to a stop outside Marsh's home. The Doctor answered the door, saw what had terrified Rumble into waking him in the night, and shouted for Riot to come help.

"Rumble, Marsh" Chain said, her weak voice now audible in the still and silence, "take Side from the carriage. I... I cannot do so."

Rumble ran across to help Side down. Doctor Marsh ignored her command and came to Chain.

Chain asked, "Did I stutter, Marsh?"

"No, sire, but I must prioritise the care of a Contegon over other Stations."

"See to Side. I'm fine."

"With due respect–"

"If Riot was good enough for Side the other day, she's good enough for me tonight!" Chain snapped. "Now, go and help Side out of the carriage or I will..." Chain couldn't keep talking, her breath short. She swallowed, her mouth summer heat dry. "You get me."

The Doctor nodded after some consideration and went to help Rumble, who'd just got a good grip on Side. Together, they gently lifted the Miner onto a stretcher and carried him into the Doctor's home.

Riot appeared then. "Tend to Contegon Justicar," Marsh said as he passed her.

The young girl bounded round the carriage and into the driver's box, grim worry on a young face. Again carrying her Field Doctor's kit, she looked first at the wound along Chain's ribs. Chain felt a touch of pride when the child nodded at the first aid she'd done on herself and moved on to her arm.

"I've never seen wounds like this. What happened?" Riot asked.

"The Disciples."

"They... they are here?"

"Were," Chain said.

Riot tentatively touched Chain's fingers, and the Contegon hissed, suppressing a scream. "How would you rate that pain, on a scale of one to ten?"

"Nine. Only the injury itself was worse."

Riot nodded gravely. She rolled Chain's sleeve up slowly, sending more and more pain through the limb. The young Doctor-to-be winced at every point of impact. Eventually, the sleeve would not move further, but another crushing blow remained above it.

The young girl closed her eyes. "Contegon, you may lose the use of this arm."

"Well, I wasn't expecting to use it again."

Riot tried a false smile on. "This is the worst sort of... crushing wound I've seen. It's like you were run over by a dozen carriages. The bones are shattered. Small pieces of it may filter into your blood over time, which is a very bad thing. Dad would have to agree, but I think this might need to be amputated."

Chain looked away, laughed. "Shit. Shit! Sol, you do ask for such dear prices, don't you?"

Riot pulled away slightly. "Sire?"

"Not you, Riot. Not you. I trust Doctor Marsh to make the right decision..."

Her mind turned to the Heretic corpses and evidence in the carriage: she couldn't be sure the Disciple conspiracy was dead with Shovel, that others weren't waiting to claim these goods if she left them alone. She needed to form unbreakable evidence chains, something that could not be denied at a Hereticum.

By that point, a small crowd watched her, scared faces staring through windows or open doors. Their naked interest gave her an idea.

"Riot, can I ask you a favour?"

"Sire, you can ask anything of me."

Chain smiled. "I need you to shout this, loud as you can, over and over: 'Come out, Contegon Justicar needs everyone to help her.' Okay? Just as I said it."

"Okay?" the child replied.

"Go."

Riot stood and shouted at the top of her voice, bringing every witness to the carriage. Even Rumble ran out of Marsh's home, panicked at what might have happened.

"Everyone," Chain called, sitting forward. "Disciples have infiltrated our community. You've heard of Miner Tissue's death. Now, Miner Side fights for his life, and I am crippled. I need you to open this carriage and bring out the contents, line them up. Can you do that for me?"

"Of course we can, sire," Tassle said, the newly-Joined woman fierce and ready.

"Then do so. Quickly."

"Sire," Riot whispered as the people of Buckle went to the main body of the carriage and brought out the boxes within, "your arm, we should amputate it soon."

"Sol will not let me die until this is done," Chain said.

"If you are sure, sire..."

"I am."

It took the townsfolk a few minutes to unload wooden crates so like those resting in the fields. These were marked as containing gemstones, metals, or documents. The lifeblood of their community, of Geos itself, corrupted by the Disciples. Chain shivered, though she did not know whether it was from fear or shock.

Rumble had somehow procured a crowbar while the others lifted. He held it toward the boxes.

"Do it," Chain said.

The box gave little resistance. Rumble gasped, stepped back. Unlike the crate Shovel had broken open, dark, metallic tubes with circular brass head squatted inside like poisonous toads. Gems surrounded them like bedding, just enough to make the crate rattle when it was lifted.

"Keep going," Chain said.

Two boxes contained unprocessed precious metals and documents. One hosted more metallic cylinders. The other had a length of clear tubing, like flexible drainpipes, that were clearly not of Artificer production.

"I need you," Chain said, standing with great care, "to see this. Over the next two days, I cannot trust that another Heretic won't... prevent me reporting the Heresy our fine town has been hiding. I need you to see and hold this truth in your hearts, because the Disciples cannot hurt us all. Yes, I'm saddened to say they have infiltrated Buckle, and have been using it to send their Heresy across Geos."

People whispered, a chaos of quiet words. Chain kept going to not leave them on that note. "Do not fear. I killed the strongest conspirators: Grain and Twist, who wielded Disciple weapons, and Shovel, a Disciple creation. He ruined my arm." She gestured to the limp lump of flesh she would likely soon lose, and tried not to throw up at that thought. "And it was he who nearly killed Side."

"I'm afraid he succeeded," Marsh shouted from his house, puncturing the mood Chain aimed to elevate. He stepped out, soaked in blood, having lost yet another patient.

Chain took a deep breath, tried to remain calm, but a thunder rose from her throat. She roared it away. Everyone looked at her, hearing the pain of a Contegon, though her wounds cut it short.

"The Disciples died," Chain croaked. "They died at my hand. But not without a price. We must ensure these Disciples take nothing more. Par must be arrested, if he has not already fled. And I need others to follow the road out of town to claim the corpses of the Disciple conspirators. But, mostly, I need you to remain true to Sol, for he has won this day, in spite of the casualties. As he always, always, will"

"Praise Sol," said Bottle, one of Grandmother Grass' daughters. The cry was picked up by the others, a sombre defiance to hurt the Disciples and Lun. "Praise Sol! Praise Sol!"

Chain gingerly stepped down amidst the cries, and was waved over to Marsh's home. She felt like a true Contegon, a warrior of pure virtue. Sol was with her, trusted her not only to do what needed to be done, but pay the price that had to be paid. One arm was nothing in the scheme of things.

"Praise Sol," she whispered.
Chapter 19

Chain lifted her stump, testing the mobility of this... injury. It was the dozenth time she'd done so since the operation, and she would likely try it in every quiet moment until it felt like her: until the ghost of that shattered, wrecked lump of flesh Shovel had gifted her vanished.

Bracket had sewn her Contegon robes so her sleeve would not hang in a parody what she had given up for Sol's justice. Marsh had burned the flesh around the incision after the amputation, but she could still contract a blood-borne evil and require more flesh to be stripped. So perhaps she shouldn't get used to what remained of her arm, but she couldn't help testing it. Not when there were Heretics still at large.

There came a knock at her door. She was alone: Carmen was in school and Bracket ran some errands. Chain stood. Her missing hand throbbed.

Behind the door was Merchant Art, the senior remaining Merchant after what locals had called 'The Uprising.' A young man, he was ambitious in a mercantile way, eager to save money or make more to get himself noticed. She supposed he was getting what he wanted right now.

"Merchant, well met," Chain said, gesturing for him to step inside. He was not the first to visit and report in, with Chain the only person authorised to run Buckle right now, and would not be the last.

"How are you faring, sire?" Art asked.

"I lost a lot of blood, and am in great pain. Too much pain to cope with formalities." Chain sighed at herself. "What have you come here to report, Merchant?"

"Par has fled: his clothes and every scrap of food have disappeared, and a secret compartment in his home was left open. It didn't take a Contegon to put this together."

Chain nodded. She wanted to lead these investigations herself, dig through Par's personal files for hints of who else was involved in the Heresy, but Marsh had ordered her to let the Merchants deal with it. She'd only agreed when Marsh noted how much Muster stood to lose from this Heresy \- reputationally and financially - and how much of his favour the Merchant who turned this situation around would gain. Such motivation would inspire efficiency rivalling a Contegon's. The Doctor also outranked her in medical matters, insisting she was in no condition to run Buckle and the investigations, but that hadn't swayed her.

Anger burned in young Art's eyes. This drained Chain's fear that the search for Heretics would be shoddy or sloppy. "You'll get him, I'm sure," Chain said with a smile. "If not, you'll bring the evidence to light that'll make his life a misery."

"Not if he goes north, sire."

"If he manages to cross the Gravit Mountains and the Fronts, he's welcome to Moenian," Chain said, moving back toward her front door. "Pass his description on to Aureu when you report in: let's make sure everyone on the Fronts knows to look for him."

Art nodded. "I shall. Thank you, sire."

"No, thank you. Keep at it."

The Merchant left then. Chain went back to her seat and closed her eyes, tried to sort the swirling world around her into neat drawers and containers. A constant tugging interrupted her efforts, the envelope sitting on a table beside her. She was lucky Shovel hadn't robbed her of her writing hand, that she could pen such a missive. The envelope looked at her, her private seal – an unbroken chain – a bright red eye which challenged her to plunge herself even further into a world of madness.

She'd written it because another letter had been found amongst the strange tubing. It was meant for someone in Aureu, someone of power: it talked of influence over the people of Goes, on the expected price for some 'final delivery.' No one else knew the contents because it was written in a cypher. Chain took mere minutes to break this code because she and her friends had designed it when they were kids.

Someone else knocked at the door. Rather than get up, she shouted, "Enter."

Bracket and Carmen came in. Chain stiffened, prepared herself for an awkward conversation with her daughter: this would be the first time they saw each other since the fight.

"Mum!" Carmen shouted, running into the room with a smile on her face. Then she saw where Chain's arm wasn't and lost her balance, fell to her knees. Carmen was used to falling, always tried to jump further than she could manage, so she did not cry. Instead, she stared, unable to process what she saw.

"Carmen, something has happened," Chain said. She stood and knelt beside her daughter. "I had to have my arm taken off. Removed, by Doctor Marsh."

"What?" she asked, tears appearing in the corners of her eyes. "Why did Marshy take your arm?"

"Well, you know about the Disciples, don't you?"

"The monsters?"

Chain nodded. "The monsters. We all thought they were hiding far away, in Moenian. Sadly, we were wrong. Some of them were in Buckle. I killed them, but they hurt my arm so badly it had to be removed."

"How do you fight them, Mum?" Carmen asked. "How?"

"With strength, a weapon, and Sol."

Carmen stood and reached out to her stump. It hurt when she gripped it, testing how much remained, but Chain did not stop her. "Why did Sol let this happen?"

"It was the price I paid, Carmen," Chain said. "I don't expect you to fully understand, but... Sometimes, for good things to happen, or for bad things not to happen, you have to sacrifice. Sol didn't let me lose my arm: he let me save Buckle from these Disciples. He let me save you, Bracket, and all your friends. What is one stupid arm against all those people?"

Carmen, her eyes dewy, threw her arms around Chain. She went to grab her daughter with both arms, then remembered she could only do half that. That broke Chain's spirit: she joined her daughter in crying and her emotions seemed to drain from her, covering her poor daughter.

Bracket sat down nearby, wanting to be there for mother and daughter. When Chain eventually pulled herself together, she saw Bracket was holding the envelope. They would have to talk when Carmen was done asking about what had happened.

Her young daughter frowned, looked from Chain's face to her sewn-up sleeve. "Did it hurt?"

"Like you wouldn't believe," Chain said with a laugh. "But I'll tell you what, it didn't hurt half as much as I hurt those Disciples."

Carmen and The Mister's questions took the rest of the day. She had to break from their conversations when Merchant Art, Marsh, and Fair, the town's Resting former Cleric, came to see her. Chain was as quick as she could be, marshalling the search for evidence and more Disciple spiders. For one definitely remained in Buckle: the one that killed Tissue.

Between those meetings, she told Carmen everything: showed her scars; taught her a little Field Doctoring; explained how Disciples worked; and recounted how Side died to save her. Bracket weighed in, but there was a strange edge to her voice. Carmen wept often, did not understand what she heard, but she kept asking, wanting more than anything to understand. Chain did not speak down to her or hide the truth.

Eventually, Carmen was too tired to continue. Bracket carried her upstairs – another thing Chain may never do again – and tucked her in. Chain took a final meeting with Village whilst this happened. When she was done, Bracket was sitting on their sofa, the letter in her hands.

"What is this?" Bracket asked. Her voice was strained, harsh.

"It is a letter requesting a transfer back to Aureu."

Bracket wiped her hand across her face. "Why, Chain? Why the fuck would you do that?"

She bridled at being talked to like that, especially by Bracket, but it was so odd for her friend to treat her like this that she asked, "What's wrong?"

"Apart from the fact that you're moving us?"

"Yes," Chain said, sitting beside Bracket. "There's something else, isn't there?"

Bracket looked away. She took a deep breath, tried to start talking, but sorrowed instead. "I'm angry at you, Chain. Not for this, though I'm furious you haven't discussed this with me," she said, gesturing with the letter. "Really, I'm angry at you when I shouldn't be. I have no right to be, considering."

"What is it, Bracket? You can tell me."

"You know that I've been seeing someone recently?"

Chain nodded. "I'd worked it out, yes." Then two thoughts collided. "Bracket, don't tell me..."

Bracket swallowed. "He was a nice young Merchant. He was going places, someone rising in his Station: he'd only been made Par's subordinate recently, but he had plans. And he was kind, he was sweet, and he paid me attention. I couldn't help... help falling for him. For Twist."

Twist. The Merchant who had been working with Grain and Shovel, who had died of his wounds. Bracket's lover had been a Heretic...

Chain took a breath. "I don't know what to say."

"Me either, Chain," Bracket whispered, suppressing her weeping as best she could. "Me either. You killed the man I loved. You killed a fucking Heretic, someone working for the Disciples. I can't help being angry at you for it, for being right to do it. But, what's more, I can't help but be angry that Twist might only have gotten close to me because he wanted to get at... at you."

"I only know a little of what you're going through," Chain said. "But I understand someone you love turning out to not be who they thought you were. I'm sorry that this has hurt you so."

Bracket nodded, throwing her tears into the air. "I... I'm going to need some time to..."

"Of course, don't worry about it. Be as angry at me as you want."

"When the fuck were you going to talk to me about moving?" Bracket asked, her fury finding a legitimate channel. "When were you going to give me the choice of leaving a life I've built or a family I love?"

"When you got home today," Chain said. "It's why I left the envelope out."

Bracket looked down at the letter, looked at who is was addressed to. "You must be serious if you're sending this to Acolyte Councillor Maya."

"I have... evidence I need to follow up on. I thought about who to contact with something so... explosive, and Maya was the only viable candidate. The Clerics and Merchants have been compromised, so I feel like I can't trust anyone of Station. The only person in any position of power I can go to without causing a second Tangle is Maya. She was my best friend, and she betrayed me, but she is also the Councillor of the holiest Station. If I can trust anyone with my evidence, it will be her."

"More Disciples? More Heretics? Are you doomed, Chain?"

Chain gave her a brief smile. "I'd prefer to think I was 'chosen.'"

Bracket looked at the letter for a while longer. "Send it. But you have to tell Carmen she's leaving her friends, and you have to arrange the move. Except for the actual moving itself: I know you can't do that."

"Hey!" Chain said, shocked. But it was a good shock, an angry amusement. "That's not fair. You're mocking the crippled."

"I'm mocking my friend, a Contegon, who happens to not have an arm."

Chain gave Bracket one of her new half-hugs, crying once more. They held each other for some time, as friends should after surviving a tragedy.
Chapter 20

Grandmother Grass passed on that night. Chain never got to give her a final Attendance with everything following the Uprising, but she would, sure as Sol shone, give her a proper Pyre.

Chain stood in Buckle's community hall, all-purpose room with decorations for summer festivals and Cleansing Day. In her hand was the torch that would ignite those who had died as Solarists. Their corpses rested behind her on three stretchers. Merchants and Stationless folk waited outside, prepared to carry them to the Pyre.

Buckle traditionally waited until at least three people died before hosting a Pyre: the community had originally lived on limited means, so saving up their dead for when they could afford to buy wood from the Artificers was the only practical things to do. There was even an outbuilding at the edge of town for their storage, a cool stone building with a deep cellar. The manner of Side's and Tissue's deaths, though, meant the Farmers had granted the town special permission to chop trees down for a timely Pyre.

With no Lords within a hundred miles, Chain had to lead the Pyre. These duties were infrequent due to Buckle's traditions, so it had been months since her last one. And she'd never performed a duty so important to the remaining townspeople and Sol: Grandmother Grass was a beloved, ancient figure in a community shocked that it was riddled with Disciples like parasites. If the town were to survive the recriminations and inspections to come, it would need a proper send-off for its heroes.

To that end, and as Side and Tissue had essentially died in war, Chain decided that everyone deserved oil to help them go up; burn bright for their friends and families. It was an old ritual, used for such heroes when Lords decide people's spirits need to be lifted. Using it before would have felt awkward, underhanded even, but she only had the interests of Buckle in mind.

She started the Pyre by tending to Grandmother Grass, the lightest of the three. Getting her onto the ceremonial burning blanket was easy: tying her up was much harder. Refusing even the suggestion of help – she had to learn to tie knots one-handed – she struggled and swore a set of knots on to the old woman. Tissue was easier thanks to practice, but her ravaged form was horrible to see and, more so, smell.

Side was the most difficult, perhaps because his death had bought Chain's life. Fighting to get him onto the blanket was an eerily familiar experience. She struggled to swaddle him too: seeing through tears was a skill she'd not mastered.

When they were all tied up, it was time to start the ceremony. Chain took a deep breath that tasted like warm oil. With her back straight, she shouldered the common room's door open and stepped out into the Buckle's main square.

Hundreds of eyes greeted her: adults and children, Stationed and Stationless. Muster had ordered the Family Mine closed until trusted Merchants inspected its operations: losing countless thousands of Circles was a tremendous embarrassment, and he was not about to lose more by not having 'proper care' for the Mine. So every person in Buckle was out for the Pyre.

The volunteer body-bearers jogged into the common room. Chain looked around, then held the torch aloft and approached the Pyre. The great wooden structure had been constructed with great care and love, dozens of shorn and dried trunks forming a plinth the deceased would lay on. Underneath, oil-soaked wood would ensure the Pyre went on long into the night.

She circled the Pyre twice, allowing everyone present to see the torch. By the time she was done, the body-bearers had lain Tissue, Side, and Grandmother Grass on the plinth. They jogged away, forming a line north of the Pyre, and left Chain alone with everyone's attention.

"Good day, people of Buckle," Chain projected.

"Good day, sire," they responded, almost as one.

"We have a tremendous bounty for Sol today. Three brilliant, vibrant, wonderful, and devoted people have been taken from us. They will be burned as a tribute to Sol, who will know how great and wonderful they were by the strength of their flame and the joy of our tributes."

She looked along the crowd and picked out Bracket and Carmen. Her daughter was already in tears, hated every Pyre she'd attended. Chain wouldn't normally bring her, but this was an important one, as it could be her last time seeing the people of Buckle.

"We start with Grandmother Grass," she said. "I have so much to say for her, a Stationless woman who earned a title and made it her own. Grandmother Grass was older than anyone here, had lived so long that she heard stories of the First Invasion on her grandmother's knee. She was a fixture of this town, as tangibly there as the Family. When people think of Buckle, they think of Grandmother Grass.

"I had the joy of Attending to her during her final weeks, an archaic ritual she had to explain to me!" The crowd dutifully laughed. "She was bright. She was strong in her faith and in her heart. She was loved. There is no one here that she did not grace the hearts of, I am certain of that.

"To that end," Chain said, stepping back and lowering the torch, "I will throw the floor open. Grandmother's youngest son, Nature, will start by saying a few words."

Many people spoke warmly of Grandmother then, most of them Grass' family members. There were a good number of stories: Grass met five generations of her line during her life. Everyone who wanted to tell an anecdote or celebrate the woman got a turn. Chain listened intently, trying to take every tale to heart.

When Grass' family lost impetus, the Contegon stepped forward and raised the torch again. A hush fell over the crowd, who had been whispering amongst themselves or quietly consoling their friends and family: audible crying was a bad sign at a Pyre. She paused, gathering their attention before she continued.

"Miner Tissue wasn't Grandmother Grass' age, but she certainly could have been. She earned her living deep beneath the earth, digging, pulling, carrying, like many of you. She was born for her Station, like her father and his mother before him. When Buckle was first formed, her family was amongst the first here, and Tissue quietly and efficiently went about living up to Buckle's great name.

"Tissue often led me into the Family Mine. She was my guide, my window into a world I didn't understand. I had the pleasure of knowing her, of dining with her, of calling her a friend. She did not deserve the manner in which she died: this brave woman gave me the first warning of wrongdoing in the Family Mine. Sadly, her bravery led to treachery from Grain, who sent a Disciple after her. She died in combat. She died fighting for Sol, for the benefit of all of Geos. Tissue was a true Servant of Sol. I thank her personally as well, for Lun only knows what would have happened without her conscientiousness."

Yes, she embellished Tissue's involvement, but Pyres were performances. What would be the point of saying less when people needed to know heroes were burning? As Chain stepped back, let Tissue's friends and family talk about her, she felt justified in her decision.

Tissue's praise lasted half an hour. Most of the Merchants and Miners who worked with her sang her praises. Resting men and women told stories of the 'young buck' who took to digging like a duckling to water. The beautiful stories centred on her achievements, on the affection she fostered with her abrupt, no-nonsense style, and the occasional, surprisingly good joke.

"And so we come to the final hero on our Pyre: Miner Side of the Merchants. Side was another who helped to uncover the Heresy, another we owe our thanks to. He truly alerted me to the facts in the case, was brave enough to fight on against death. He was a brilliant and faithful man.

"This bravery earned him an attack from the Disciples: one was sent to kill him. He fought it off, survived the ghoulish attack. But the monster poisoned him, left him weak and addled. Side was bed-ridden, facing the darkness that was shot into his veins.

"Yet, in spite of this, and the dangers to his life, he came to save me when I needed help most. Marsh will tell you, he worked out that the key night would be that month's delivery, and knew where to find the fight. Despite his weakness, he raced like Sol's light to fight the Disciple monster. It is only thanks to him that I survived, and that the Disciples did not. I owe him my life, but, more, we all owe him a great debt. Thank you, Sol, for placing him in our lives and guiding his actions."

She stepped back and allowed the final round of stories. Marsh led them, reporting on the wounds Side earned in saving Chain. Then his friends and two of his cousins spoke. There were no more stories because he had few family members, was someone who usually kept himself quiet... and because he was thirty years younger than Tissue.

"Three people," Chain said when the stories had quieted. "Three people beloved by Sol. Three people who enriched and improved our lives. Three people Sol will gladly accept into his ranks. I thank Sol for them. Everyone here must thank Sol for putting them in our paths, for allowing us to know them. He knew what would come to pass, lamenting the pain they would feel and celebrating the love they would inspire. How about, my friends, my townspeople, we see how brightly Sol will let them burn?"

Cheering, vivacious and wonderful, echoed between the buildings that framed the communal square. It was a great burst, solid as a fist, which momentarily pressed Chain back.

She raised the torch high and walked toward the Pyre. A round of the town's favoured hymn – "A Song for Sol" – picked up at the southern edge of the crowd. It spread, becoming louder and louder, until Chain couldn't hear her thoughts over the voices blasting out that wonderful song.

They were at, 'This song for Sol I give to him, along with all I am,' when Chain touched the torch to the Pyre. Brilliant flames leapt hungrily onto the wood and made it their home. The chorus boomed as Chain skirted the Pyre, lighting every few feet. Another round was about to start when she threw the lit torch onto the centre of the Pyre. Then it truly ignited, bathing the square in golden light and warmth.

The crowd fell silent. All watched the fire find Tissue's and Grass's corpses and dance across them. It took more than an hour for the whole Pyre to catch, and another hour for only ashes to remain, but some people still cheered and shouted the departed's names. Others chose to mingle instead to discuss the departed and hold private prayers. Chain stood at the Pyre, in the uncomfortable heat, her eyes streaming. She watched the corpses burning, watched them complete their journey into Sol, and did nothing more.
Chapter 21

Chain stayed at the Pyre longer than anyone: the people of Buckle, mostly the victims' families, had questions about the Uprising and she could not deny them answers whilst Heretical corpses rotted in Doctor Marsh's home. She had to fight fatigue and pain, telling herself people needed closure and to see that their Contegon had survived a fight with the Disciples. That thought got her through the day.

She had been speaking for about an hour when City, Tissue's husband, came to her and said, "I reckon most people here think you're going to leave after this."

"What makes you think that?" Chain asked, hoping she had no guilt in her voice.

"Besides the look on your face?" he said, not unkindly. "Well, people think you'll be called to Aureu to talk about what you faced here. Can't imagine the Council won't summon you, sire. And, if somewhere as wonderful as Buckle has been compromised, then other worse places surely have been?"

No one wanted to believe that their town, their community, was inherently evil or gullible. A few people had sniffed the conversation and were looking at them with interest.

Chain coughed. "You're right: I expect to be called to Aureu, and I expect other towns will face, or are facing, the same problems we have."

People didn't relax, but a tension did disperse then. Sadness replaced it as her wards realised this might be the last time they saw Chain. So much was changing, so much that had been fundamental to their daily lives, that mourning those who had departed shifted to mourning the loss of their Contegon. Those who'd already talked about the victims came back, offered their regards and thanks for all she'd done.

The Pyre became one for Chain's life in Buckle as well as the departed.

Art drove her home, having offered to drive her around until she was healed. The exertion of standing, projecting her voice, even of talking, had been great: her arm ached where it wasn't, itching and pulsing, and her side had screaming at her. It was all she could do just to climb onto his lavish seating.

"I'll go slowly," Art said.

"You don't need to make such an effort for me," Chain breathed.

The Merchant shook his head. "If you could see yourself, you wouldn't argue with me."

Chain didn't say anything more, just let the Merchant drive through Buckle. She took the town in under Lun's horrid light: the recent buildings; the old roads; the places she had inspected; and the families she had visited. Looking up at the Family, she saw Father and Mother reaching up to the dark brother, though she couldn't determine whether it was in anger or in pleading.

Art soon got to her home. Not that it would be her home for much longer. Jumping down from the driving box, he jogged over to open the carriage door. "Do you need help to get inside?" he asked.

Through a dry mouth, Chain whispered, "No, I will be fine, thank you."

"Are you sure?"

"There is a fine line, Merchant Art, between caring for a Contegon and not trusting her," Chain said. "It's bad enough that I'm crippled: please don't treat me like my mind was damaged too!"

Art drew a breath in. "This has been harder on you than anyone knows, hasn't it?"

She only nodded.

With his help, Chain stepped towards the door, her feet heavy. Art watched her closely. Not wanting to lose her temper again, she stopped, her hand on her hip. The Merchant got the message. He waved as he rode off, his horse's footsteps echoing between the streets.

Chain stumbled inside. With some effort, she locked her front door. Her body demanded reparations for the horrors inflicted on it, not satisfied with draining her and filing her nerves to shredding needles. Now she was in the safety and privacy of her home, she shuffled to the couch to fall asleep. Perhaps she'd move to her bed if she woke during the night, but only perhaps.

She made it only halfway to the couch before a scream came from upstairs, a little girl's scream.

"Carmen!" Chain shouted. She burst into a run, her fatigue forgotten.

"I can't! I can't! I can't! Mum!" Carmen shrieked.

Her child, her baby, was terrified. Either way, Chain's raced up the stairs. "It's okay, Carmen. I'm coming."

There was a tremendous crash accompanied by another piercing scream. Chain's heart hammered, magnifying her wounds' complaints. Her blood was so loud in her ears that she barely heard her own screams. "Carmen! Carmen!"

The crash came from the study, the only room in the first floor that wasn't a bedroom. Chain crested the stairs, sweating, barely able to breathe, and stumbled on after her daughter, still shouting Carmen's name.

Carmen must have heard her because she came sprinting out. Her face was a mask of tears. She ran okay, but her night clothes were covered in blood. Carmen ran into her arm, jumping at her, overwhelmed by sadness or pain.

"Oh Sol, Carmen, are you okay? Are you okay?!"

Carmen nodded, sniffling and weeping into Chain's shoulder.

"What happened? What happened, honey?" A thought struck Chain. "Where's Bracket?"

Carmen sobbed louder.

"Carmen? Please, talk to me. Where is Bracket?" She couldn't make out Carmen's first response. "Please speak clearly. Tell me slowly."

"The study. Mum, she's... she's dead, Mum! Bracket's dead!"

Chain held her daughter away, knelt down to her level. Her battlemind kicked in as possible scenarios played through her mind. "Carmen, you need to be very clear. What exactly happened?"

"I wasn't sleepy. I asked Bracket..." She sniffed, great wads of snot migrating around her sinuses. "I asked for a story. Bracket read me one. But, as she was reading, a big spider came..."

Chain didn't wait for anything more: drawing her axe, she hobbled to the study. Inside, there was a faint clicking and whirring. It didn't sound like the other Disciple had: the clicking was more frequent, and was accompanied by a faint sizzling.

She opened the door with her axe and found Bracket in the large reading chair, blood seeping from what remained of her neck. One of the bookshelves was on the floor, its books scattered around it, many of them broken by the fall. And on the floor, crawling toward her slowly, was a seriously wounded Disciple, the tips of its distended limbs covered in Bracket's blood.

Chain roared and brought her axe down on the dying Disciple. Its wound had seriously weakened it, so her axe cut it in two. It hissed, whirred, but died. She helped it on its way back to Lun by stamping on the bastard thing, roaring and swearing as she did, losing herself to her rage. Stamping and stamping, until some of its smaller parts were lodged in her boots.

Some sense returned when she felt something trickling down her side. She checked her robes and found that crushing the Disciple had broken open her wound. She dropped her axe, held her hand to her side, and fought her tears.

"Mum! Mum! Are you okay?" Carmen shouted, still terrified.

"I'm fine. The Disciple is dead. The Disciple is dead."

Small footsteps sounded behind her, and then Carmen hugged her leg.

Chain dropped her axe and turned to her daughter. As she pulled up her robes, checked for wounds, she asked, "Carmen, this is important: did the Disciple scratch you? Did it touch you?"

Carmen shook her head. "It didn't," she said, still crying.

"Are you sure? This is so, so important. Are you sure?"

Her daughter nodded. "Bracket held it as I ran. Then the Mister told me to push the bookcase on it. To hurt it to save myself. I didn't want to hurt anything, Mum. But I did." She looked sheepish then. "I'm not in trouble for that, am I?"

Chain smiled a little, in spite of the death of her wonderful friend, and kissed her daughter on the head. "You're not in trouble, no, not at all. You did wonderfully well."

"Why did this happen, Mum? Why?"

That smile died. The smell of blood became so strong that it seemed to surround her, like a mist.

"Mum? Mum?"

She wished she had the right words, a response, for her daughter, but she didn't. She couldn't say anything, only stand there, surrounded by blood.

Carmen seemed to understand somehow and gripped Chain fiercely. She wanted to assure her daughter that this had happened for a good reason, that Sol had a plan, but she could not say. Not when Bracket's corpse was cooling in her study, when blood still leaked from her dead form.

Chain just couldn't believe the final Disciple spider had exacted revenge in the worst way possible. She couldn't parse it through her faith. No, she realised, the revenge could have been worse as Carmen was still alive. It was amazing: somehow, she'd had the presence of mind to slam that bookcase down onto the Disciple. Under her anger, under her despair, under a slight hatred for her god, Chain found some pride and wonder for her daughter's survival.

She found Sol's hand in this tragedy.

"I love you, Carmen," Chain said, perhaps more fiercely than she meant.

"I... love you too, Mum."

Chain separated her daughter from her leg and limped over to Bracket. She reached up with her pale, shivering hand and closed her friend's eyes. There would be no trip to Aureu with her, no working together to uncover the Heretics who somehow knew their secret cypher.

"I love you, Bracket. I am so sorry this happened to you."

Chain gripped her hand into a fist. Someone did this to Bracket, and they had nearly killed Carmen too. They had nearly killed Carmen. Her hand shook, and the world seemed to shake along with it. Any and all Heretics would feel her wrath; they would burn; they would be destroyed. Sol willed this but, more so, Chain willed it with everything that she was. The investigation into Buckle would have to remain in another's hands but, by Sol, those in Aureu would suffer.

"Goodbye, Bracket," Carmen whispered.

"Yes," Chain said as she slowly released her hand. "Goodbye, Bracket. You will not have died for nothing. Sol will avenge you. I will avenge you."

### Slant

"The First Servant was Sol's only mistake."

\--Lord Fray in the foreword for his 'Revision of the Sol Lexic.'

Chapter 22

The slums of Outer Aureu were not as busy as they once were. The Battle for Aureu had made jobs and houses available inside the city proper, and the advancing Fronts gave thousands the opportunity to leave the slums in one of the wartime Stations. Still, some people remained there after falling through the cracks. They lived closer to Aureu than before, their houses were better fortified, and their streets had basic drainage, but they still lived outside, beyond. Contegons appeared every now and then, a reminder rather than an effective force, as those selected to be stay-at-homes during a war weren't the most effective.

The Gangs adapted quicker than the Stations: some now wore veneers of respectability, were applying to join the Merchants, whilst others kept their activities hidden. Because of this, the Gangs now ruled the Stationless of Aureu without the city realising.

Maintaining that secret ruling was why the two Gangers hid as a Contegon patrolled. And the injustice of it was why Slant remained in the shadows, watching them.

"I'm telling you, we could take them," one said. He was short and squat, built for brawling. Over his body was a rough jerkin with metal plating. "Snap her pretty little neck. Contegons aren't shit."

"Shut up," came the eloquent response.

They waited. Slant waited too, having all night to get this right.

When the smarter of the two was convinced the Contegon was gone, he stood. Taller than his partner, he stretched. His bones audibly cracked, and the weapons beneath his thick coat clinked. He would be the more dangerous of the two, the one Slant would take out first.

"Still think we could take them," 'Short' said.

"We couldn't take the heat that'd come with it," Tall replied.

"Heat? We'd be heroes, never have to buy a bindle again."

Tall sighed. "We'd be labelled as Disciple sympathisers, Heretics, and they would burn us. You keep forgetting about the damn Acolytes, don't you?"

"No. I just don't believe in them. My brother says they're a big scam."

"They'll sure as Lun believe in you if you kill a Disciple." He sighed. "Come on, let's go."

The Gangers sneaked out from the side street and onto the main road. Slant followed, keeping a good distance. His grey clothing helped him blend in with his surroundings, hide where necessary, especially in this renewed part of Outer Aureu well. It was a cold night. Most streets were dark beyond reckoning, which was to his advantage. Slant relied on Short's heavy footsteps and occasional suggestion of targets to follow them when he lost track. Twice, he nearly lost them altogether only for Tall to sigh loudly or denounce his partner's poor taste.

"There," Short said at last. He pointed across a narrow back-street at a Merchant's shop. "They'll have a few Circles, I'm sure of it."

"Finally, a decent target."

Tall looked both ways before approaching the building. He rubbed his thick hands the mottled brickwork, then tapped it twice: having brickwork in Outer Aureu was impressive, but many Artificers made shanty buildings look like sturdy homes. Real brickwork belied the value of the score. Satisfied, Tall turned to his partner.

"Yeah, you're right. We'll do this one."

"Yes!" Short said, raising his fist. "How?"

"There's two doors, front and side." Tall pointed to each door, making his directions painfully clear. "I'll knock at the front. You break into the side. When they hear you, turn away from me, I'll take them out. We'll meet at the centre and turn the place over."

"Great. I've got the lockbreakers: they'll only know I'm there when I stab them."

From a distance, Slant suppressed a gasp. Lockbreakers! If he could get his hands on them, he wouldn't have to hunt again for days...

"Good. Hoot when you're done. Get moving."

Slant ran almost silently across to the backstreet once they'd separated. Stopping, he checked the alley Tall went down: lantern light framed the Ganger, turned his wait to commit murder into an intimate portrait. Slant was about to take him out when the criminal looked over his shoulder: Slant pressed himself against the building and just avoided being spotted.

Tall was aware of his surroundings, professional. Slant wouldn't get the jump up on him like this. He went instead to where Short worried at the side door, his tongue extended in concentration. His full attention was needed to use the delicate lockbreakers, and that would be his undoing.

Slant took a deep breath, calmed the adrenaline racing through his body, and pulled a baton, a faithful companion through every hunt since his third, from a holster on his hip,. The black lacquer and leather grip were almost worn away, but the treated wood stood firm, good enough to last for months.

Good enough to stop these two.

Ready, Slant snuck forward. He complimented his grey clothing with a blank fabric mask so his pale skin wouldn't stand out in the low light he worked in. Even if Short turned to him, he may not pick him out.

Hitting Short over the head was tempting, but the thunk might attract Tall's attention. Instead, he slid the baton around Short's neck and used it to slam him against the floor in one practised movement. Short wheezed in surprise as the air tried to fly from him, but was blocked with his windpipe mostly closed. The lockbreakers remained in the door, jutting like arrows from a creature's hide.

Slant planted his knees in the Ganger's back and strengthened the chokehold. The criminal tried to stand, but Slant leapt to slam his knees into the man's back, taking any air he had left. It was a well-crafted clinch, one he'd learned from observing Contegons. Short soon left his conscious state, drifted away.

Without pause, Slant took a length of rope from his waist and hog-tied the Ganger. This done, he searched the Ganger, finding three more tools from a lockbreaker set, a dagger, and twenty Circles. Slant pocketed the money and lockbreakers: the dagger he threw away.

Knocking someone out rarely lasts longer than a few seconds. Short was no exception, as he soon started groaning. Slant gave him a kick, made him groggier, and dragged him into another alley. Then he hid and waited for Short to do his work for him.

Short moaned and groaned for a minute before rolling over into a more comfortable position. "What the... Oh, fuck, no. Toggle! Toggle! Toggle, get your ass over here now!" Short called his partner for a minute before saying, "Oh, there you are. Hey, get over here, help me!"

"Will you shut up?" Toggle hissed.

"What else was I supposed to do to get your attention, huh?"

Toggle took a step forward. "Who did this to you?"

"I didn't see the guy. He just took me down like I was nothing. Come on, let me out."

There was silence. Then Toggle said, "No, I'm not stupid. I've heard the rumours about the Grey Shield." He turned to the alley at large and shouted, "I know you're still here."

"Of course I am, I'm fucking tied up like–"

"Not you, idiot. Him. The one who attacked you, the Grey Shield. He's still nearby."

"Wh-what makes you say that?"

Toggle stepped again, his footsteps graceful and almost silent. "Because it's what I'd do. You take one down, and use him as bait."

Slant grimaced, wishing he could've taken Toggle out first. He considered leaving the scene now: he had got what he came for, something valuable from someone rotten, but he couldn't. As much as he did this for money, he also wanted to stop people dying as his father had. If he left now, Toggle and Short would find someone they could rob without the lockbreaker set. He couldn't leave them capable of visiting that pain on someone else.

"Sorry, I'm leaving you to this," Toggle said. He was not great at subterfuge. "Good luck."

He was a good enough liar to convince his partner, who screamed, "No, Toggle, no! Stop! Don't go! Stop, you bastard!"

With that, Toggle heavily plodded away. His footsteps quieted, as though he'd taken a side street and was leaving. Short's screams followed him, making it tougher to pick out where Toggle went, but Slant knew he hadn't gone far.

Using a rough drain pipe and a window, his baton in his mouth, Slant climbed onto the building he hid by. 'The Grey Shield.' The Gangers' superstition was bad for him, gave his deeds a name, which might lead to Contegon investigations. He cursed them all as he crawled along the roof, trying not to raise the inhabitants' alarm. They didn't want to pay attention to what happened beyond their walls, but would raise hell if he damaged their roof.

Short settled into a whimper as Slant scanned the streets for Toggle: he found him walking along the main street, doubling-back on himself. The brute was sneaking back towards his partner. This part of Outer Aureu was a honeycomb of alleyways and dead-ends, so Toggle had to check each side-street, each nook, for his attacker. Unwilling to leave his partner behind or risk untying Slant's ungodly knot, the man crept along, a long knife in his hand, ready to attack.

Slant quietly got to his feet and waited for Toggle to walk below him. It was an excruciating wait, minutes as the cautious criminal crept back. With a deep breath, Slant jumped onto the Ganger, landing on the man's shoulders. The impact knocked Toggle to the ground and earned him a high-pitched scream.

Not that Slant came out of the impact well. Bruised, hurting, it took him a moment to get back to his feet, which allowed Toggle to recover his composure too. Slant charged, brought his baton down on the Ganger's shoulder, trying to make him drop the knife. The brute roared in pain, but didn't let go. Instead, he tried to tackle Slant, something Slant couldn't afford with Toggle's strength and size advantages. Slant dodged, just, and slammed the baton against the back of Toggle's neck.

Toggle stumbled forward. His breathing quickened, and he snarled. Pain and anger taking over, he rushed Slant, not as intelligent an opponent now that punches were being thrown: the vigilante side-stepped the attack and let the fool run headlong into a building. Toggle twisted and tried to bounce off the wall, which left him open for another smash across his neck. Slant delivered one with perfect timing.

The blow stopped Toggle short. Another strike on the shoulder made him drop his weapon. Slant then delivered a half-dozen smashes that broke bones, entering a rhythm of hatred and violence. When he stepped back, Toggle collapsed in a bloody heap. Moaning, gurgling, the Ganger was no longer a threat.

Slant would search him too, but first he had to ensure Toggle would never threaten anyone else. He would have done this to Short had he not needed the man for bait. His Contegon saviour had taught him how to ensure public safety: he reached for the Ganger's knife and, face carefully blank, swiped its blade along the backs of Toggle's legs and stabbed through his hands.

Short started screaming again when he saw the Grey Shield approaching, stained by his partner's blood. No one came to help. No one even seemed to notice the screams and mayhem: if they even paid attention, they were just glad it happened beyond their walls.

Sometimes, Slant wished someone would stop him, that a citizen would intervene to say what he was doing was wrong: if that happened, people would be ready to stop criminals from preying on the weak, and he wouldn't be needed. But it hadn't happened once, and didn't that night either. He walked away richer, with blood on his hands, but he walked away unchallenged, unimpeded, and saddened.
Chapter 23

Some mornings, Slant woke sore and beaten, bruises reaching into his core to punish his slowness or arrogance. That morning was more pleasant: he had taken down the Gangers flawlessly, and his fence had taken the lockbreakers for a month's rent. It annoyed him to think he might end up taking the lockbreakers from another criminal, but what else could he do?

Slant headed to the kitchen for something he could throw together into a breakfast: maybe he'd buy some proper food, ensure full stomachs all round. Sol knows his mother would love roast beef and parsnips again, like they used to have when...

He killed that thought: it wouldn't get breakfast made. Reaching right back into the cupboards, he found a piece of salted ham fresh enough to divide between them, and some dried peach segments. If he fried the ham with some of the herbs his mother loved to tend, it would do.

When he was done cooking, he shouted, "Breakfast's ready. Come and feast!"

"I'm coming, I'm coming," his sister shouted from her bedroom down the hall. She sloped into the kitchen with her trainee Cleric robes just about on. Average height, thin from their poor diet, Tower still had enough energy to roll her eyes at him.

Slant brought the ham over to their small dinner table, and served the meals up. Tower ate without speaking, reaching for the peach slices rather than the meat.

"How's training?" Slant asked his sister.

"All right."

He waited. Tower nibbled on her peach slice.

"That's all you have to say?"

She shrugged. "It's training. I read old, obscure laws and learn them by rote. I can tell you the rules for a Merchant building a new Fishing town if you want?"

"But you're getting along okay, getting the results you need?"

"They wouldn't keep taking me if I wasn't, would they?" she asked angrily.

Slant gave up then. "I suppose not. Where'd mother get to? Mother?" he shouted.

There was no response.

"Mother?"

"Just go and see her," Tower said. "You know she won't answer."

He shot her an annoyed look, but knew she was right. Standing, he walked down the narrow hall, past their small bathing room and to their mother's room.

"Mother, breakfast is ready," Slant said, louder in case she hadn't heard.

Once more, there was no response.

He knocked. "Mother?"

A groan came this time, though he didn't know whether he was being warded off or invited in. Given her history, Slant opened the door, stepped inside.

Her bedroom was dark despite Sol's brilliance, thick curtains covering the windows because she only felt safe in abject darkness. To her, darkness meant Sol was protecting her and Lun wasn't prowling the earth dropping horrors. She had many issues related to this theory. The Mentalist he'd bought one session from last year had said the only cure was extensive therapy. Doctors didn't recognise mental illnesses as within their purview, so Mentalists were Merchants by another name.

His mother lay on the bed with her head under the sheets. The room stank of urine: she'd had another accident. Slant closed the door to save Tower seeing this.

"It's time for breakfast," he said jovially. "Let's get you up and washed, how about that?"

"No! No, I can't. He's out there!"

"Lun isn't out here, Mother."

"Don't lie! You're a liar! I know he is," she hissed from under the sheets. "Sol is trapped in the sky, and his Acolytes are busy with the big problems. Lun can't go near them, so he leaves little problems, pans that burn and mice that judge."

Slant took a step into the room. His voice was soft as he says, "Mother, I've cooked breakfast without being burned. Why don't you come out and have some, sit with Tower and I?"

"Tower..." she said, tasting the word. "I... No, I can't, I can't, I can't! And I won't!"

Slant turned and waited for her to stop thrashing, preferring not to see her thin, naked form when the sheets billowed. She wore herself out after a few seconds and sat panting, her greasy hair splaying out from beneath the sheets, whispering, "I can't," over and over.

"Alright. I'll bring it in here. We'll eat breakfast in here, shall we?"

"Put salt around it," his mother insisted. "Salt is pure. Salt keeps out the bad things."

"I remember. I'll put salt around it."

Slant left, closing the door gently. Tower was leaving her room, her ancient and much-repaired satchel across her back and those books that wouldn't fit inside wrapped in fabric so they wouldn't fall from her grip. The only new things in the house were her red-fringed robes, and they would only be needed for the next two years, one way or another.

"She isn't coming out, is she?" Tower asked wearily.

He stepped away and took his sister, by the sleeve, into the kitchen. "No, no, she isn't. I think it's going to be another bad day."

"Of course it is: Sol came up today."

"That is not on, Tower. You know she's ill and–"

"Yes, I fucking know she's ill, Slant," Tower hissed, pulling herself from his grip. "But do you? Really? You're about to, what, put a circle of salt around the plate so she can eat whilst she sits in her own filth? How is that going to help her? Playing along with her fantasies hasn't made her any better."

"If I don't play along, she just won't eat," Slant replied. "Should I starve her, Tower?"

She doesn't answer, looked down guiltily.

"Sol, I... I can't take this," he said, walking across the kitchen. "You're the lucky one, you know? You get to deal with her at night, when she knows Lun isn't out to get her. I'm the one who scrubs her and hold her down when she tries to go for the knives."

"Don't judge me. Don't you dare," Tower said. "I'm not the one who comes home beaten half to death after doing Lun only knows what all night. Yeah, that's right, I can tell when you've put make-up on, or when you're 'too ill' to cook. You can't judge me when you spend every night crushing people."

"My evening work earns enough money to keep us here!" Slant shouted.

"And isn't it worthwhile?" Tower hollered back.

Slant roared and slammed his fist onto the kitchen surface. The loose cupboard doors shook. The frying pan slipped to the floor, crashed loudly. From her bedroom, his mother screamed, terrified that Lun had come to get her.

Tower shook her head and left, loudly slamming the door behind her, which earned another scream from their mother.

Cursing his temper, Slant returned to his mother's bedroom. But the door wouldn't open. He tried it again, but she had blocked it somehow.

"Mother? Mother, open the door!"

"Lun is out there, and he plans to take me, plans to make me evil and cruel, plans to make me into a Dark Acolyte to burn the heavens clear!" she shrieked back, the words smashing together.

Slant lowered his voice and said, "Earn?"

The shrieking stopped. His mother listened cautiously.

"Earn, are you in there?" he asked, his throat already feeling weird for mimicking a deep voice. "It's me."

Slant heard scraping wood. The door opened a crack. His mother, thin as an excuse, looked out with hope in her eyes. "Shell? Shell, is that you?"

"Earn, it's me. I'm here," Slant lied, pretending to be his father. He hated having to do this, but it was all that calmed her when she was in such a state. Tower hadn't caught him doing it yet, and she really would freak out, hate him, if she did.

His mother opened the door and threw herself at him, wrapping her arms and legs around his body like a child. She wept and said, "Oh Shell, I missed you! Where did you go? Where did you go?"

Slant didn't tell her the truth. He couldn't, not when she'd left her room from having it barricaded against him: he couldn't remind her that a Gang Lord had broken into their house and killed his father, that she watched her husband choke on the knife in his throat. Seeing Shell die, the Mentalist had said, was the catalyst for her current state. Reminding her of that would only make things worse.

Instead, he hugged her back, whispered that everything was okay. And right there, at that moment, it was. She would fall asleep soon after she ate, after Slant cleaned her and her bedding, and then would forget about Shell's 'visit.' It would be like a dream, a pleasant joy the real world simply couldn't match.

"I'm here, I'm here," he whispered, patting her back. "Come on, let's have breakfast."

She stepped back and smiled. "Yes, let's. Slant said he made some before... well, he must have gone out. Did he go out?"

"He went out to go to work," Slant said. He got away with this ruse because he had the same rough build, tall brow, and dark hair as his father. That was a mixed blessing, as he was reminded every day how much he missed his father. "He left us some breakfast."

"He's a good boy," she whispered before leading Slant into the kitchen. Neither Slant nor Shell replied.
Chapter 24

The next week yielded little for Slant: distracted by Tower's disapproval and his mother's condition, he allowed a Ganger to slash his arm. It wasn't a major injury, but being at ninety percent wasn't good enough when you risked your life, so he'd taken a few days off. Today, though, he was ready to earn money.

Jar, his fence, had hinted that barges were smuggling weapons to Gangs in Port along with their regular cargo. It would have to be a major operation, buying and moving weapons during a war, but he was confident he could intervene, sell the better weapons, and return the rest to the Artificers in Blade's Birth.

Slant left his apartment around midnight. Their old building looked derelict under Lun's vicious light, and the streets of Sol's Haven glistened in comparison. Still, it was better than where they'd once lived...

He shook his head. Time to get his battlemind on.

Aureu watched him pass through her like a cat watching an insect crawl along the floor. Patrolling Contegons gave him less than a passing nod. Merchants and Farmers, making quick deliveries with no one using the roads, raced by him without noting his existence. There were revellers, but not many as this was a working night. Besides, drunkards and Zoners steered clear of Sol's Haven and Sol's Greeting.

Out into Ocean's Edge – a stupid name... his father once told him it was because people had once thought they were further south then they really were – it became a different story: Labourers and Mariners crawled over the docks and barges, Merchants and Clerics barked at each other, and Contegons paid close attention to everyone, ensuring the safety of vital equipment too heavy to be taken by carriage.

If there were a smuggling ring, they would work in the north, where the cheapest docks were. Slant nodded to a Contegon who inspected him with interest, then walked against the Journey's flow.

Ocean's Edge wasn't just docks: there were warehouses and even homes for the Merchants and Mariners. Side-streets and carriageways sprouted between them and, as he went, these side-streets allowed passage to Buyer's Haven, the Merchant's Quarter, and then Farmer's Park.

The homes became more frequent as he went north. They also became smaller, slimmer. He'd never been to this part of Aureu, and was surprised to find nothing had been repaired in years: streets, homes, or docks. There were no patrolling Contegons here either, as no one used the ailing moorings at night.

He doubted many people came this far up Ocean's Edge. Perhaps the Merchants who operated here had died in the Battle for Aureu, or were pressed into the Shields. Or maybe their betters had been sent to war, and they had taken the opportunity to move south.

Slant might have discovered a new hunting ground.

A scream echoed out: a woman's, terror and horror, it came from the north-east. Slant jogged over, keeping his footsteps quiet, to find whoever was in trouble. The second scream, though muffled, helped him locate her. He ran quicker, louder, and trusted to the attackers' need to silence their victim distracting them. He slipped his baton from his robes, knuckles white under his tight grip.

He heard the Gangers before he saw them. "Shut her up," one said.

"Why? It's not like anyone will come to help her? Is it? Huh? No? You're all alone?" another said. He laughed, a strange squeak that chilled Slant. Then more people joined in, at least six different laughs mixing with the squeak.

This was a Gang outing. Perhaps an initiation. And that meant murder.

The Gang continued to taunt their captive, asking her cruel questions, eliciting more screams. Slant snuck alongside the gathering, then used a mirror to look around the building he hid behind. Seven men in black tops with rough skeletons daubed on them with white paint stood over a woman. Their victim's top had been torn. Her wrists were broken. She wept, tried to crawl away, but the Gangers moved with her, surrounding her always. Six were tall, well-built, in their mid-twenties. One was much younger, a thin blonde man who seemed more into this than his prospective new family.

"Shut her up," the oldest Ganger repeated. Flaming scars cut along his face and down his neck. If he didn't shave his head, the scars would sever his hairline too. "We don't want any heat."

"Contegons don't come here. They're too busy protecting the higher-ups."

"Or dying in the north," a short, squat man said. He gave the squeaking laugh. "Don't forget they're also wasting their time dying for us. For you, huh, little lady?"

The oldest looked to the young initiate and pointed. "Finish it."

Their victim screamed, a low and pathetic sound, when the young man nodded.

Slant knew it was stupid to charge out. He knew he should wait to take them off-guard. But their victim was Tower's age, and he couldn't watch any more. He sprinted round their flank, and launched himself into the scarred leader, thinking it best to take them out first. Before any one noticed him jumping from the shadows, he had slammed his baton against the bastard's head.

Slant threw the unconscious form at a Ganger to his right, sending both sprawling to the ground.

"What the fuck?" the squeaker asked.

"You're gonna die, you fool," another Ganger said.

"We'll see about that," Slant replied. He stepped back into the side-street, narrowed the battlefield, and held his baton ready.

With roars of indignation, the Gangers charged him. Slant knocked the first aside, sent them crashing into the brickwork. He slammed the baton onto the next Ganger's shoulder, a satisfying snap his reward. The Ganger screamed, fell to his knees, and Slant kicked him in the teeth.

"Hold up," the squeaker said. "We've got a talented one here. Let's be more sensible."

"You're going to run?" Slant asked.

"No," he replied. Daggers appeared in his hands. "We're going to bleed you."

The others produced weapons, well-crafted daggers or strange blades that fit between their fingers like knuckle dusters. All except the youngest, who looked terrified, and the one who spat blood and teeth.

"I see," Slant said. His leather armour wouldn't stop those. He'd have to be smart, careful.

He started by kicking the one he'd slammed into the wall, a burly man with a face made for sneering. His blow glanced off his leg, a little low, and deadened the muscle. The Ganger slashed back at him, and got only the material of his robe.

The other Gangers approached. A gangly man lunged at him to create an opening. Slant stepped aside, and broke his arm with a clean swipe. His blade dropped. Before it hit the ground, Slant slammed an elbow into his nose, broke that. The Ganger crumpled, groaning, and the others backed off. In the silence that follows, the woman they had attacked moaned in agony.

"What a horrible criminal here, fellows" the squeaker said as Slant stepped back from his victim.

"I think we've got a public service to perform here, haven't we?"

"We do. A nice public gutting would do, I think." Again, he squeaked his mirth.

"Big talk from someone who's already lost three of their Gang," Slant said.

"Oh, congratulations, you've taken out an old man and two idiots. You must feel like an Acolyte." The squeaker grinned horribly. "Well, I hear Acolytes die as well as everyone else."

The whole crew charged as one. Fighting multiple foes was about awareness, knowing what was happening behind you, to your sides, at all times. The narrow battlefield helped: the bastards would struggle to get round his sides without blocking one another. Blades swept at his face and torso, from his left and right. He jumped, ducked and dodged, waiting to get under their guards. Slashes nicked his arms and robes: he allowed these small blows, a dozen cuts better than one deep stab.

The Gangers would beat if they were patient, sensible. But they didn't become Gangers by the virtue of patience: the vicious-looking thug beside the squeaker lost his rag, broke rank to charge. Not only did this barrel his friends away, but it narrowed Slant's focus: he span away from the fist-blades and delivered blows to each hand, then the man's head. The headstrong idiot dropped his weapons, and was then thrown into his friends.

The squeaker dodged the body and dropped his focus just enough for Slant to risk jumping at him. Slant took a cut to the cheek as he tackled the bastard, winding him. Slant rolled away and scrambled to his feet, blood dripping down his cheek. The squeaker fell awkwardly: he grabbed one of his friends to stabilise himself, which distracted the man, his puffy eyes widening at the squeaker's selfishness.

Slant surged forward and slammed the baton against the puffy-eyed bastard's head. He fell into the wall, smacking his head again, and slumped.

The only standing Ganger stabbed at him, nicked his shoulder. Slant hissed, then brought the baton against the bastard's stomach. He spluttered, stumbled back. Slant roared and smashed him against the wall. Kicking his weapon away, he broke the man's favoured arm, then turned to the squeaker.

"What the fuck are you?" the squeaker asked. "Are you an Acolyte?"

Slant broke the bastard's nose, then his leg. The squeaker's screams were deeper than his laugh, satisfyingly so.

They were all down. He'd survived. Weakness waved over him then. The Gangers moaned and groaned, each disabled and destroyed. Slant took a deep breath, and wiped those wounds that bled freely. His robes were ruined: his armour hadn't fared much better. With any luck, these bastards would have enough money to cover the repair costs.

"Damn you," someone said. "What are you doing?"

He looked up. It was the youngest Ganger, the initiate, who he'd thought had run away during the melee. The young man wore a calm weariness. He even held himself differently, standing like a Shield-General.

"I'm not in any mood to deal with you," Slant replied. "Don't join a Gang again, else what happened to them will happen to you."

The Ganger shook his head and looked to his left. "What should I do with him?"

A figure stepped into the alley then. He wore a grey robe like Slant's, but its seams were tighter and its fabric smoother, more refined. He clinked when he walked, armour beneath his robes singing. White blond, an old wound rendered his right eye milky and useless. Strongly-built and purposeful, he looked for all the world like a Gang Lord.

"This must be the 'Grey Shield'. You just cost us months of work," he said, his voice rich. "But look at what you did to these Gangers. I think you should come with us. We clearly have much to discuss."

Slant stood, gripped his baton. "And why would I come with you?"

The man stepped forward, smiling slightly. "I can offer you a purpose, a job: beating random Gangers is getting you nowhere. But, mostly, because my men will give you extra orifices if you don't."

Slant looked up. Above him, two slight-looking figures stood on the roof, their bows taut. They couldn't have been waiting for him: if Slant had ruined months of work, this must have all been set up, planned.

Slant's heart rose: these were vigilantes, like him.

"What about the girl?" Slant asked, lowering his baton.

"Oh, she'll be taken to a Doctor. Cycle, see to that."

"Yes, sire," the young 'Ganger' said.

"That's stupid," Slant couldn't help but say. He stepped in front of the whimpering woman. "She won't go with him: he was in the Gang that attacked her. You'll just make her terrified."

Cycle stopped, looked scared. The bows above him creaked as the bowmen aimed.

This leader took a breath, then laughed. "Of course, you are right. I should have considered that." He looked up. "Weather, you take her instead. Ensure you go to String, he owes us a few favours."

"Yes, sire," one arrowman said. They melted back over the roof, though Slant could hear them strapping their bows to their back to clamber down the roof.

"Thank you," the leader said. "Now, come with us. I am eager to talk to you."

This could be a trap, a Gang looking to put an end to his vigilantism. His instincts screamed at him to resist, to run. But he didn't, because they called their leader 'sire.' That was an affectation from the Stations, from someone used to enacting Sol's will. Gang Lords don't operate like that, always preferring some grander title, or just their name.

"Alright," Slant said. "But I'm keeping my mask on."

Wasp shrugged. "Fine. I'm sure that, when you hear me out, you'll remove it of your own will."

"Can you at least introduce yourself?" Slant asked as she stood beside the man.

"Of course, of course. My name is Wasp."
Chapter 25

Slant was led to a rotting warehouse. Every so often, arrowmen watched their passage from rooftops, bows ready. They were professionals, didn't hold the string taut and waste energy on a threat. He would not have gotten far if he decided to run or attack Wasp. The men with Wasp looked on edge, somehow more fearful of an external threat more than Slant, who had just taken down a Gang alone. His pride felt wounded, but he was curious as to what worried them.

Once in sight of the warehouse, Wasp separated from the group wordlessly. Slant could only watch, confused, as Wasp's men bundled him into the warehouse. Arms and shoulders held tightly, he was dragged through the streets, into the warehouse, and then pushed inside a small room.

"Get some sleep," someone said. "Wasp will see you in the morning."

"This wasn't part of our deal," Slant hissed, turning to pull at the door.

"Only 'cos you didn't ask. Take that as a lesson for the morning," the un-budging door replied.

As he still wore his mask, he risked saying, "I have a family! I need to look after them!"

A lock closing, followed by fading footsteps, was his reply.

Slant let go and looked around his cell. The heavy door opened inwards, so he'd have to break the frame to knock it down. A small window high up the wall was barred with crude ironwork: given months, he could chip it away. There was a surprisingly comfortable bed, a cheap table, a bed pan, and a jug of water. Seeing the jug made him aware of his thirst. He slowly drank, then secured the room: if he had to sleep here, he'd damn well be safe doing it.

When morning came, the guard sent to fetch him tried to open the cell door. The initial jolt shook Slant awake, and the subsequent rattling edified him greatly.

Puzzled, angry eyes on a reddening face looked through the porthole. "Oy, why can't I get in?" he asked.

Slant stood from the mattress on the floor. Bedding shed from his shoulders, falling carelessly to reveal the clothing he'd slept in. The cheap table was pressed against the door, and the bed wedged against the floor to hold it in place.

"You can't enter because I don't want you to," Slant said.

"What's your game, you little shit?" the guard asked. It wasn't his adviser from last night.

"Just keeping myself safe. What's your business with me?"

"Wasp sent for you. Let me in, and I'll take you up." The guard tried the door again. Slant pressed his foot against the bed, made sure it wouldn't give way.

"And what does he want?"

"I don't sodding know. You're best off asking him yourself."

Slant tutted. This little show had been amusing, had made him feel safe and distracted him from thoughts of his presumably-worried family, but he would only leave here through Wasp's clemency. Which was likely the message Wasp wanted to give when he incarcerated Slant.

"Alright," Slant said, bending to pick up the bed.

The guard waited until the sounds of scraping furniture ceased, and then barreled in. He looked around, six feet of meat and brutality, then grabbed Slant's shoulders and shoved Slant out into the corridor.

Slant was led into the main room of the decrepit warehouse. Sol's light shone through holes in the roof, illuminating tents whose poles and pitches were hammered deep into rotting wooden flooring. Some were former-Shield tents, others handmade approximations. Men sparred in open spaces between them, and others watched them, making bets or cheering friends on. Piles of moulding wool and a rotting loom in one corner marked this as a former fabric warehouse.

His guard wove between the tents. Many of those who weren't sparring watched him pass. Last night was his first time sleeping in his mask, and the material had begun to itch. Slant scratched his cheek, wanting to remove his protection, but ignored their stares.

Beyond the tents was a building within a building, a wooden construction with a peaked slate roof. The guard pushed Slant in front of it, and knocked on its ebony door with what looked like pearl inlays of Sol, holding Slant by his collar. A symbol Slant didn't recognise was carved into the door's centre: a closed book with an arrow leading from its pages to the spine.

The door opened. "Ah, it's our vigilante," Cycle said. He now wore a dark, formal suit suitable for a Joining or a Pyre, and had bathed since last night. "Come, come in."

To emphasise that he had no choice, the guard pushed him inside.

Cycle closed the door as Slant stumbled, leaving him trapped. The walls were unvarnished. An old workbench had been cut down to make a rough table, on which three mugs of something delicious-smelling steamed. Low sewing stools surrounded the table. Wasp sat, the mug before him emptier than the others.

"Good morning," he said. "Sit, please. It's broth for breakfast."

Cycle stood to Wasp's left. The unclaimed mug was to his right.

Slant looked around before sitting. Cheap, unprocessed glass was set into the walls, allowing in light but not letting him see the warehouse. Another door, this one without a symbol, leered over Wasp's shoulder. A brazier rested to one side, not needed on a day as warm as today.

"I like this: aware of his surroundings," Wasp said. "He wants to feel safe."

"Not aware enough," Cycle said, "or else he wouldn't be here."

Wasp shook his head, laughed. "Cycle, I think we can forgive him not noticing our arrowmen approaching whilst he fought. I doubt you would have detected it."

Cycle looked down, admonished.

"Sit," Wasp said to both of them. This time, it wasn't an offer.

Slant walked over and sat, spreading his grey robes out for comfort.

Amusement flashed across Wasp's eyes. "Try the broth. It is really quite good."

Slant looked down at it, then at Wasp. "Mind if I skip the breakfast?"

"I insist."

"Then I'll have yours," he said to Cycle, standing to swap mugs. The young man frowned, looked at Wasp, who gave him a small shake of the head.

"You don't trust me," Wasp stated.

"What reason do I have to trust someone who took me captive overnight?"

Wasp laughed again, a strange but healthy sound. "You don't trust me, when I could easily have killed you last night on the street, just like that." He clicked his fingers to demonstrate, the sound echoing forlornly in the small room. "Does your being here not tell you that I have no dishonest intentions toward you?"

"No," Slant said, lifting his mask just a little to taste the broth. It was meaty and warm.

"Why not?" Cycle asked, lifting his head.

Slant shrugged. "A Gang Lord who took me hostage might want to kindle my hope before crushing it, enjoying the rise and fall of my heart. It would be cruel, and it would really hurt me."

Wasp's face fell, losing any amusement or friendliness. "You think me a Gang Lord?"

Slant tensed. "You're a Stationless man holed up in a warehouse with ex-Shields, Gangers, and a good number of weapons," he said slowly. "Isn't that the logical conclusion?"

"It may be," Wasp hissed, "but you should never call me that again."

"What are you, then? Why am I here?" Slant asked, standing. "I thought you were vigilantes like me, but that can't be the case if you sent someone into a Gang initiation. Why did you do that?"

"Does the Grey Shield fight the Gangs every night?" Wasp asked, after a pause.

"Not every night. I'm not that capable."

"I do. Every night, I fight," Wasp said. "Maybe not with my own fists, but with my influence and power. My freedom is on the line every day: if anyone of Station knew I did this, they'd execute me. You asked what I am?" Wasp stood, sipped at his broth. "I'm you, only more organised, more capable, and more powerful. And I've been doing this for some time.

"Three years ago, the Gang situation came to a head. The Contegons had abandoned Aureu to pursue the Disciples, hell-bent on revenge and supported by a bloodthirsty Council, and the Gangs saw their opportunity. I acted and was punished because I was Stationless and had no authority." Wasp sneered into his broth. "I resolved then to make am organisation that would let me act, let me protect people. That led to us, and my unsuccesful annual applications to establish a Station: we are the Custodians, and we keep the peace in Aureu whilst the Contegons are not looking."

Slant sat, astonished. "I've never heard of you," he said.

"I would have been dead if you had," Wasp replied with a smile. "We are not as... direct as you, with no Station or mask to protect us. We tend the Gangs and disorganised criminals, ensure that most of their crimes fail. If one steps too far out of line, we ensure their destruction in such a way that people never know it happened. Think of us as Sol's will: secret, small packages of hope and justice."

"Secret justice? I don't understand," Slant said.

"Non-lethal poisonings, falsified accidents, beatings given whilst wearing other Gangs' colours," Cycle said, his voice flat. "These are our weapons. No one knows who delivered the justice, but that doesn't matter if Sol's justice is being delivered."

"You might say our tools are our mask," Wasp said, gesturing to Slant's grey mask.

Slant didn't know what to make of Wasp: he claimed to share Slant's crusade, his disdain of crime in Aureu being ignored if it didn't impede the war effort. That he wanted it to be true, wanted other people to wage this war, gave him more pause. That some Gangs were embedded in the Stations concerned him further.

"Forgive me," Slant said, slowly shaking his head, "but that's the speech I'd expect someone to give if they wanted to turn me and my skills to a Gang's cause. Can you prove what you claim?"

"Your 'skills?'" Cycle said with a cold laugh. "You think a lot of yourself, don't you?"

Slant gave him an unpleasant smile. "Take down a half-dozen Gangers at once, then laugh."

"Oh, you can shut—"

Wasp held up a hand to interrupt his indignation. "I can't say I'm not angry, but I'm also not disappointed: you impress me with your belief in how low the criminal mind can sink. I can see why you would think a Gang might turn you on their enemies, make you their pet fighter. You are a fine warrior, and that's without proper training: I can tell that from your sloppy technique," He drank the rest of his broth. "The only proof I have is this: you're free to go. I have revealed myself and my secrets to you, but I am no criminal and will not hold you illegally. If you wish to walk out of this office and return to your solitary fight, do so."

Slant considered his broth. And then stood. He couldn't take the risk. "Thank you for your hospitality, Wasp. If what you've said is true, I will keep your secrets."

Just before he opened the door out into the warehouse, Wasp said, "But."

"But?" Slant asked, releasing the handle.

"But if you go, you will continue to only fight the symptoms. We spent months putting Cycle into that Gang because we suspect it's involved in Seed trafficking. You know Seed, I presume?"

Slant stepped away from the door. Of course he knew Seed, a drug made from Sol knows what. It was highly addictive and destructive. Those Zoners not drowning in alcohol choked on Seed, and they begged, stole, and murdered to get more.

"Many of those I fight are either on or holding Seed," he said.

"That sounds about right," Cycle said. "It's a fucking poison."

"You'll have to forgive Cycle: his sister was a Zoner. A Ganger sold her too much one day and she... took it. I recruited him to help destroy the ring making and distributing Seed. Our hope was that, if we could get someone on the inside of that Gang, we could find where the Seed comes from, one day attacking the root supplier," Wasp said. "Which is why he was so disappointed when you undid all our work."

"I'm sorry," Slant said.

"Don't be sorry. Just fucking make it up to us," Cycle said.

"You fight everyone you catch, preventing the initial crime," Wasp said, rising to walk across to Slant. "That's admirable, in its way. But what if you followed the criminals, found where they lived, where their Gang operated from? Then you could cripple the Gang, prevent crimes as they fight amongst themselves for control. And you could watch, wait for the right time, and strike again so the strongest candidate is killed and the second-strongest is branded a traitor. How much crime would you prevent then?"

"What about the woman you helped to beat?" Slant asked. "What about the crime done to her?"

Wasp stood before Slant. They were similar heights, though Slant was bulkier. His good eye scanned Slant, his scar a bright swipe of anger. The face beneath the scar was worn by worry, stress, and perhaps battle, so he looked much older than Slant.

"What happened to her was going to happen anyway: do you think the Gangs wouldn't have someone other than Cycle to initiate? Don't be so naive. But we tried to make something good come from that horror. And we will ensure she is treated well, I guarantee that."

Slant tutted. "I don't like that."

"It is a horrible necessity. But don't think of her, think of your family: if you continue your fight, you may do some good but you will die, leaving those who care about you wondering what happened." Wasp said. "Work with me and I guarantee you'll always be supported. Should the worst happen, your family will know you lived and died with honour. They will be taken care of. These things, I promise you. And the word of a former Merchant is as good as gold."

Tower calling him crooked stuck with him still, a burr beneath the skin. This was an opportunity to prove her, and his own nagging doubts, wrong. Perhaps that desire, that longing for legitimacy and respect was clouding his judgement, and he didn't like their treatment of Cycle's victim... but he was sure Wasp was earnest in his desire for justice. Slant wondered if he'd earned that scar during his own fight, or if it'd been the catalyst for creating the Custodians. He'd have to ask one day.

Slant removed his mask. "My name is Slant," he said. "I am pleased to meet you, Wasp."

Wasp grinned, threw an arm around Slant's shoulder. "Excellent. I think we, you and I, are going to make a real difference."
Chapter 26

As he ran home, Slant wondered whether he'd made a mistake: he knew nothing about Wasp, besides that he cared about justice. In spite of his doubts, he had been swept up in the idea of the Custodians, in the hope he did not fight alone. But now, with a little space, dread lined his stomach. Wasp could be anyone, could still have been a Gang Lord, though his repeated repudiation of that claim seemed borne of disgust.

His Mother was in one of her good moods when he returned home. With no one to make her breakfast, she'd thrown together an omelette, which she quietly ate when he entered, his mask up his sleeve. Seeing her bright, doing something for herself, robbed Slant of his dread.

"Morning, Slant," she said with a smile. Greasy hair gripped her face. "How was your shift?"

"It was fine, Mother," he said, walking over to kiss her on the forehead. The clarity in her eyes was welcome. "Busy. But then, it always is."

She opened her mouth to speak, then stopped, frowned. "What... What is it you do again?"

"I'm a night labourer for a Merchant," he lied. "Someone paid off the books."

"That's just not right. But I suppose it keeps us in food." She looked around the kitchen. "Not that there's much in here. I suppose I'll have to go and get some..."

"I don't mind," Slant said immediately. "I was going to go out anyway."

"Then why'd you come back?"

"To check on you," he said, stepping away. "And to get the money to pay for our food."

"Oh. Okay." She finished the last of her omelette. "I suppose I'll have a bath then."

Slant stopped at the edge of the kitchen. He couldn't trust her with the fire to warm her bath. "Have a cold one? The firewood is a little damp. We can't smoke the place out."

"No, imagine how furious your father would be when he got home!"

Slant winced, but entered his bedroom anyway. If it meant he could leave, get some food, and perform some other errands, he wouldn't shatter her delusion.

He changed, hiding his robes in a false panel beneath his bed, then pulled a handful of Circles and his real Identity Papers from beneath the floorboards.

"A nice cold bath," his Mother said when he reappeared. "I think that'd do the job."

"I think so too. Remember, the pail is in the third cupboard," he said, pointing, "and the water from the tank comes out faster than you'd think." That reminded him to order more water, eat into his reserves.

"Will do. See you in a bit, Slant."

He sprinted to Done, the Farmer who supplied food to refugees and the poor. The great obese woman took his order, jotting it all down with a pencil thinner than her fingers, and promised it would be there that evening. Dropping money bought with his strength into her greasy hands was usually difficult, but he didn't hesitate today. Especially as his other errand took him to Sol's Haven.

He needed to go to the Bureau.

Slant had only entered the beautiful Cathedral, with her graceful white rises and stained glass, when invited: the Clerics liked to give their trainees' families tours, show them they weren't wasting their children's futures by allowing them to join the unglamorous Station. This would be the first time he went uninvited.

The Cathedral, though enormous, only had three public entrances: the main entrance, enormous doors it threw open during celebrations or Pyres; the Lord's entrance, wreathed in gemstones; and the Bureau's simple double doors, wide enough to allow a constant exchange of petitioners. During times of crisis or at the holidays, that line could stretch for half a mile. Today, it was barely fifteen people deep.

Slant walked past the waiting people. After an s-shaped corridor and some stairs down, he came out into the Bureau's main hall, a half-mile wide square below the ground. Great chandeliers with meticulously-tended candles shone onto dozens of red-robed Clerics, many of whom loomed over the petitioners from tall desks and chairs. Piles of paper rested either side of these great desks, and other Clerics ran between them to remove bundles or add another. Occasionally, the bundles filtered out of the main hall: Tower said they either go to more senior Clerics, or to great pre-Cleansing archives further beneath the Cathedral.

A Cleric approached him, a thin man with glee in his eyes. "You have not queued with the other petitioners. This is not allowable. You must return to the back of the queue."

Beside Slant, two wrinkled women on their Rest tutted.

"I'm not here to petition," Slant said, looking around, but determining that he'd have to deal with this man rather than anyone sensible. "My sister studies here. I need to get a message to her."

"Do you have your Identity–"

Slant cut him off by unrolling his Identity Papers, handing them over. "Her name's Tower."

The hawkish Cleric examined his Identity Papers twice, and then a third time. "Very well. There is a form for that. Allow me to fetch it and a quill. Then you can complete it."

"But what if it were an emergency?"

The Cleric handed his Identity Papers back. "Slant, if I didn't think it were an emergency, I would send you to the back of the queue."

Not wanting to push his luck, Slant gave him a weak smile. The Cleric turned his hooked nose up, then went out into the vast field of paper to find the form.

Slant watched the petitioners as he waited, tapping his hands against his hip. Most were Stationless, but he spotted young Merchants, Doctors, and Farmers amongst them, their coloured robes standing out easily in the swathe of simpler clothes. A Contegon and a Lord breezed past the line, moving into the roiling tides of paper without being challenged.

"How come they don't have to queue?" he asked the Cleric who marshalled the queue, his voice low.

"Those who do the greater works of Sol must not waste their time," the Cleric replied, a squat woman with a healthy complexion for someone who spent their life underground. "They have vital things to do."

"How do you know?"

The Cleric frowned, considered it for a moment. "I just know."

"Because someone told you?"

She shrugged, knowing it wasn't much of an excuse. "That's Bureaucracy."

He shook his head. 'That's Bureaucracy' was a common refrain whenever he and Tower talked about the Bureau: the Clerics were how they were, and no one could do much to stop that. Cleric Councillor Pale was considered a revolutionary for introducing forms that allowed people to document their petitions so they didn't have to be delivered in person. Even that had faced incredible resistance. It all seemed like such a waste, but Slant could never say that to his sister, not when their livelihoods would depend on that wasteful system...

The hawkish Cleric reappeared two minutes later with a form, quill, and ink pot. "Here. If you wish to keep your message secret, tell me now," he said, thin cheeks dancing with his words.

"I do. Want to keep it secret."

"Of course you do," the Cleric sighed. He reached into his robes and pulled a small slip of paper out. "Fill in the form, then write your note on this paper. It will only be read by your sister."

"Thank you," Slant said.

Desperate to get moving, he dropped down and filled the form against the Cathedral's smooth white floor. He checked it twice, and then wrote his note to Tower.

The thin Cleric checked and double-checked the form, then gave Slant a small nod and walked away, ready to process the petition and hand the message on to whoever would ensure Tower read it.

Slant gave the busy, hive-like main hall one last look before tutting and jogging home.

Their apartment was quiet when he entered. There was no sloshing of water and no greeting. Scared, he closed the door behind him, and called, "Mother?"

No response.

The door to their small bathing room was slightly open. He pushed it and found the room empty and dry. Closing it again, he went to his Mother's room, knocked quietly.

"Mother?" he said, trying to keep his voice level.

Still no response.

Gently, he pushed the door open. He was relieved to see her asleep. She had likely been awake all night, absorbing as much of the night as she could. He allowed himself a deep sigh, tried to calm his furious heart and the images that'd rattled around his head, and left her to her rest.

His Mother slept right through the day, giving him time to clean the house and do some maintenance jobs he'd been putting off. She was still resting when Tower came home, a scroll in her hands and a look of fury on her face.

"How dare you?" she hissed. She nearly slammed the door, but caught herself, knowing it would be unwise to set their Mother off. Especially when she wanted to have a go at her brother first.

Slant was sat at the kitchen table massaging his bruised muscles. He stopped, held up his hands and said, "I needed some information and—"

"I thought she had died, Slant!" Tower said, walking into the kitchen and dropping his note on the table. "A senior Cleric walks into our classroom and calls me outside, saying my brother sent an urgent message? What else would I think? And then I open it and you're after some information on a former Councillor! How dare you? How dare you?"

Slant rose. "I hadn't thought it would seem like that. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you."

Tower turned, shook her head. He walked over to her, and took her in his arms. She resisted at first, but then returned the hug. "I just couldn't stop thinking about all the things... what I'd..."

"It's okay," he said. "I know you didn't mean it really."

"I did though. I did."

They stayed in silence, holding each other. It was the most sororal she'd been in some time... and, he supposed, the most fraternal he'd been.

"But you got the information?" he asked.

She nodded into his shoulder. "Why do you need it?"

"He offered me a job. I want to be sure of the kind of man he is."

"A proper job?"

"More proper than my current one," Slant said.

Tower pulled away and rubbed her red-rimmed eyes. "Well, I found out a good amount."

Slant sat down again. "You said he used to be a Councillor?"

She nodded. "He was the son of Ant, the Merchant Councillor a few years ago. Merchants operate under Nepotism, so he inherited the position. But he had a mental break during the Second Invasion, and was relieved of the position."

"A mental break?" he asked, tapping his sideburns thoughtfully.

"It didn't say what. I guess he saw something during the Battle for Aureu? I don't know. He took fifteen months to recover, which killed his standing and the Wasp Mercantile Concern. There's little else on him apart from tax and sales records until two years ago, when his company was set on fire. He lost almost everything, including the sight in his right eye."

"Left," Slant said without thinking.

Tower frowned. "You've met him then?"

"Last night."

"Well, that's interesting, as there's been nothing of him since the Hereticum."

"He was held to a Hereticum?" Slant asked, his eyes wide, his heart dropping.

Tower sat down. "Don't worry, he was acquitted: charges were levelled because he hired ex-Shields and Stationless folk to tear apart a section of Outer Aureu. They killed thirty Gangers before the Contegons stepped in. Those he hired were conscripted, and he was charged as a Heretic for taking justice into his own hands. The Guardian judged him innocent when he proved the Gang had set his company ablaze. His history of mental illness counted in his favour, as the incident was recorded as a second mental break."

Slant blinked. Wasp had said he'd been nearly executed for doing something like the Custodians before. To think, he murdered a Gang because his business was destroyed. That scared Slant at first, but the Gang must have tried to extort him and he had earned partial blindness and the loss of his business for refusing. Wasp had likely wanted the right thing to happen, but it might not have happened without his intervention.

"What happened then?"

"His business wound down, and he was booted from the Merchants. Then nothing." Tower sat back in her chair. "He hasn't been mentioned in any documentation since."

His first thought was to wonder how he could fund the Custodians. His second, he vocalised. "Wasp told me that he'd petitioned to create a new Station. Would there not be records of that?"

"Sol, there's a question my examiners would put to me..." she says, rolling her eyes.

"Sorry."

"No, no, I can get this..." Tower closed her eyes and moved her lips as though reciting something. "No... Yes! The records would remain with the Councillor he petitioned, and would only come to the Bureau if the Councillor put it to a Council vote."

Slant briefly wondered whom Wasp had petitioned. "Thank you for doing that, Tower. I appreciate it."

"You don't need to thank me. I said I was doing an exercise on gathering someone's history, and picking Wasp seemed random enough to get away with it. It was good practice." She shifted in her chair, looked down at the floor. "Is that what you've been doing at night then, working with someone who delivers his own justice?"

"It might be best if you don't know," Slant replied.

"Just... just promise I won't have to ever see... see you at a Hereticum."

Slant took her hands and kissed them. "I promise," he lied, never ceasing to be surprised at how easy it was to lie to his family when they wouldn't like the truth.
Chapter 27

Slant was making a breakfast of cured fruits and meats when someone knocked on their door. Tower looked up from the table, her training robes gripped tightly. His Mother yelped, twitched. Still, years later, they feared unexpected visitors. Normally, Slant would have been on edge too, but he expected to hear from Wasp today. He gestured for them to remain calm as he went to the front door. To set them at ease, he took the skillet, gripped it tightly.

"Who's there?" he asked the door.

"My name is Junior Doctor Stamen," someone said. "I am here to look for the man Slant?"

Tower frowned, asking if he knew anything about this. Slant shook his head.

"Am I addressing the man Slant, albeit through a door?"

Slant relaxed a little: it was ridiculous to hold a conversation through a door. He put his foot inches from the door before cracking it open. On the other side was a short woman in red robes, the colour subtly different to a Doctor's. She was tanned but plain, her features a scattered collection on her wide face.

"And you would be Slant?" she asked, putting her hand on her hip.

"I am," Slant replied, checking the corridor for others waiting to spring an attack.

Stamen pushed a document through the narrow opening. "I have been sent to free you from your daily duties taking care of your mother. A joint friend hired me?"

"One moment," he said before closing the door.

Tower appeared next to him, as much curious as concerned. "What is it?"

"It's... I guess it's proof that she's really a Mentalist hired for us," Slant said.

"Why would someone hire a Mentalist...?" Tower started, then realisation dawned on her. "Wait, is this from...?" She looked back, saw their Mother staring at them, then lowered her voice. "Is this from Wasp? Has he sent a Mentalist so you can work during the day?"

"I don't know what else it could be. Let's find out. Grab a knife?"

Tower brought him a knife. Slant cut the seal. The document it protected was a receipt, proof that Wasp had paid for Junior Mentalist Stamen to look after their Mother.

"Sol, she's the real thing," Tower said.

Slant nodded slowly. Stamen wasn't a carer sent to free his time up: she was here to cure their Mother. In his brief conversation with Wasp after showing his face, he had mentioned her illness only in passing, yet Wasp had found out more and sent help. Slant covered his mouth, and took in a torrid breath.

Tower looked at him, her eyes misting, and they hugged. If Wasp were trying to buy Slant's loyalty, he'd found the right price.

"I am not all that comfortable being out here in the corridor," Mentalist Stamen said.

Tower laughed, broke off their hug, and wiped her eyes.

"Oh, of course, sorry. Come in," Slant said. He then opened the door.

Mentalist Stamen entered, looked around their meagre household, then said, "This is a lovely home that you have here. I trust that you have been keeping it so, Slant?"

"I have, thank you, sire Doctor," Slant said, acquiescing.

"And you would be Tower, the sister and Cleric in training?"

"I am, sire," Tower said. She did not acquiesce as she was of a higher Station.

Stamen looked Tower up and down before giving her another smile. She then turned to the kitchen. "That, then, would make this young thing Earn, would it not? Hello, Earn, how are you?"

His Mother's eyes lit up: she loved seeing people of Station, people chosen by Sol. She acquiesced slightly, then said, "I am Earn, sire. Are you here to keep Lun away?"

"Yes," Mentalist Stamen replied. "In a manner of speaking."

His Mother smiled, then returned to staring at the table.

Stamen nodded. "Very well, I shall take it from here. Tower, I shall see you this evening. Slant, I don't think we shall see you for some time: you are expected at the place you were hired."

"Are you going away, Slant?" their Mother asked, her voice quiet.

Slant walked over and squatted beside her. This wouldn't be his first 'trip': during his early career, he'd been laid up in a Doctor's ward for three weeks with a serious knife wound. Tower hadn't bought his line about getting temporary work for a Merchant, but his Mother had.

"Yes, I will be. I've got another job, and I'll be working at that for a good while."

"You're a good boy," she said, looking him in the eye. "Be careful."

"I will," Slant promised.

"Come on, out you two go. Go and do Sol's work," Mentalist Stamen said, looking at Slant in particular when she said that. "Me and Earn are going to get to know each other."

Tower grabbed a handful of fruit and shook Stamen's hand before she left. As Slant closed the door behind her, she gave him a soft look that nearly brought tears to his eyes.

"You too, Slant. Earn is in my custody now," Doctor Stamen insisted.

He beckoned the Mentalist over, then whispered, "Am I supposed to take weapons?"

The woman was maybe ten years his senior, and she gave him a look that made their Station and maturity difference obvious. "I don't know, and I was never likely to know. It would be a good idea, Slant, to consider your position before you ask such questions."

Slant tilted his head, eyed her nervously. He'd assumed she was part of the Custodians, but he'd been stupid to do so. The warning was fair, though: whilst he worked to earn his Mother's health, he would be breaking the law, a Heretic. Sharing that status could only be stupid. He wasn't thinking clearly, overwhelmed by the prospect of a healthy mother.

"Go on," Mentalist Stamen said. "Leave this to me. You have your own... battles."

Not knowing what to expect, Slant went to his bedroom and put on his armour, grey robes and mask, and secreted his baton under his robes.

Stamen and his mother were in quiet conversation when he left, their voices low. He imagined the Mentalist was matching his Mother's volume, talking to her in confidence. Rather than interrupt them for validation, or another opportunity to say something stupid, he left.

It took a while to get to Wasp's warehouse as those with legitimate jobs clogged Aureu's narrow streets and broad roads. The city's quarters existed to prevent important people wasting their time travelling to their workplaces, but refugees and the poor took the same long journey across Aureu each day. He wove between his fellows to Ocean's Edge, which was even busier, even to the wretched north. Getting through the crowds and throngs took some time, but he was soon approaching the warehouse.

Several times, Stationless people paid him close attention, followed him a way before letting someone else mark his passage. Wasp, it seemed, was a careful man.

Someone accosted him before he got to the front door. He wore rough, dirty clothing, and his toes peaked through his old boots. "What do you want?"

"My name is Slant," he replied. "Wasp sent for me."

He looked Slant up and down, forty-something with skin as tough as leather. Claw marks covered his cheeks, his nose had been broken many times, and the little finger on his left hand was missing. "Prove who you are. Tell me your sister's name."

"Tower," Slant said instantly.

The Custodian grunted. "Alright, it's you. Come on then."

When he started walking away from the warehouse, Slant asked, "Aren't we going inside?"

"No," the Custodian replied, not stopping. "Now follow me, or waste more time."

Slant shrugged to himself before jogging after the man. "Where are we going then?"

"We ask a lot of questions, don't we?"

"Won't that be a good quality in a Custodian?"

The man grunted again, but kept marching, leading him away from Ocean's Edge.

"Can you at least tell me your name?" Slant asked after a long silence.

"Fine," the Custodian replied, exasperated. "My name's Heart. But we're going to be working together, not Joined like young lovers, so I'm not telling you anything else."

His tone promised no further information, so Slant followed in silence. They soon entered Buyer's Haven, the Merchant's quarter. The dilapidation continued from the north of Ocean's Edge, with houses and flats ignored by the Artificers for years and streets littered with refuse. If anything, it was worse because more people lived here: puffs of smoke spilled from the abandoned-looking homes' chimneys, and chatter could be heard within. He took it all in, the boarded-over windows and collapsed roofs making him grateful for his meagre home.

Heart led him down a side road, a dead-end. There was a door set into the building beside them, which Heart unlocked with two different keys. Inside was a tiny room, clean, well-maintained, like a pristine box.

"Okay," Heart said, turning his gnarled face to sneer at Slant once he'd locked them in. "I'm told that you were a solo vigilante before Wasp brought you in. That either makes you talented, dumb, or lucky. Until I see otherwise, I'm going to assume you're dumb. Alright?"

"Well, not really," Slant replied.

"Tough. Have you heard of Seed?"

"Of course I–"

"Okay, I don't need to hear everything you know, because you won't know everything," Heart growled. "Now, most people assume that Seed's grown in Zones. You know what a Zone is?"

Slant growled. "It's a house a bunch of–"

"You know then. Good. Now–"

"Stop interrupting me," Slant demanded.

"You mean, like you did just then?"

"Well, yes, but I was justified in doing so because you did it first. Twice."

The Custodian grinned. "It's good that you've got spirit, but if you interrupt me and waste time again, I will break your nose. Is that okay, Slant?"

Of course he wanted to say no, but Heart was right: further antagonism would only waste time. His feelings didn't matter in their work. So he bit back his response and shook his head.

"Good. Most people assume Seed is grown in Zones, as though the drug-addled Zoners have any fucking organisation or patience. That's why most people are idiots. Somewhere beyond Aureu's walls, fucking evil bastards grow seedling plants by the acre. Somehow, they bring it to Aureu to sell it to Zoners. We're going to search for this network and any organisation supporting it. We'll scour this area, talk to people, learn. Okay?"

Seed seemed to be everywhere, like hair Lun shed, so much so that Slant had been one of Heart's idiots. Hearing the Custodians' theory made Slant understand this room: taking out the Stationless was one thing, but aiming at people in power required somewhere secret to discuss such things. It was vile, disgusting, to think people of Station would make money from this misery and pain.

"Do we know who supports them?"

Heart nodded. "We don't know, but you can't do much in Aureu without a Station backing you."

"But the Custodians don't have a Station behind them?" Slant pointed out.

Heart grinned. "Who said we're not supported?"

That raised a number of further questions, but Slant ignored them. He said, "Okay, let's do this."

"Good," Heart said, giving him a vicious grin. "Maybe there's sense in you after all. The first job is finding the right Zone to target. Well, after we get you some more sensible clothes."

"What do you mean?"

Heart knelt to lift up a floorboard. "You're going to stick out like a cock at the Academy dressed like that. It might've worked when you were hiding in the night, but hiding in Sol's light means looking like these poor buggers. Dress poor, and people will think you're just another Stationless idiot. That's how we work."

He pulled a rucksack from a hiding space beneath the floor, and threw it to Slant. Inside were ragged clothes, poor boots, and a slender knife he could hide in them. This was his new costume. Heart sharpened the knife as Slant turned from a protected vigilante into a Custodian, a rough and dirty young man with nothing between his face and the world. He felt naked. But, he supposed, so did anyone who lived here. Really, he was lucky that he could fight, and that he could use that gift to keep Tower and his mother away from places like this. Living as someone worse off wouldn't be bad, especially if it meant doing some good.

"Done," Slant said, hiding his stuff back under the floorboards.

"Right, let's get on and spear the fuckers poisoning our city, shall we?"

He followed Heart out to dish out a different kind of justice than what he was used to. He only hoped he would be good enough: his mother needed him to be. The thought focussed him, made him care less about his attire. Becoming a Custodian had been about pride and justice: now, it was about protecting his family. And nothing was more important than that.
Chapter 28

Working with Heart ran contrary to Slant's instincts. Shrinking back just out of sight didn't work when you wanted to catch someone's eye, needed to be seen. It was uncomfortable and disconcerting, standing proudly in the light after so long hiding in the dark.

He was just as conflicted about staying his hand when he saw crimes. Muggings, thefts, and assaults were ignored to protect their cover. Each time, Slant's grubby hands were gripped into shaking fists, and he bit his lip hard. Slant told himself Heart knew what he was doing, over and over.

With their age difference, they were posing as a father and son who'd lost their house in Sol's Haven. It was a worryingly easy story for people to accept, and each nod of sympathy made Slant grateful that he'd found an income: many they met had befallen the fate they pretended to. Whilst the Stations had expanded some, they weren't large enough for many.

Heart's plan started with them begging for work, asking if anyone needed day labour, telling anyone who passed that they were cheap and willing. It was demeaning and degrading, but they weren't the only ones doing so. Sometimes, go-betweens for Merchants would walk down the main street and pick people up for work, though they eschewed Slant and Heart as unreliable newcomers.

After a week of failure, father and son visited a grubby tavern to buy forlorn drinks. Heart had talked to a barmaid, poured molten lies into the mould: said his wife was a stay-at-home Contegon killed in the Second Invasion, and Slant's employer had been drafted. That added polish to their lie, and gained the sympathy of everyone present. They were established, then, a part of the community.

On the way to the pub, they'd not acted on five crimes. Their journey back yielded a further six to ignore. Slant's lip bled by the time they got home.

They slept each night in the slender Custodian hideout. Hooks in the ceilings allowed them to hang strange string bed that cupped the body. Heart always collapsed into his like it was the most natural sleeping arrangement possible. It took Slant much longer to learn not to turn over, and to arrange the blanket so his skin didn't rub viciously, but he got to sleep eventually each night.

Then, one day, Heart woke him with a rough shake. "Up. Now," Heart said.

Almost no light snuck into the slender, coddled room. Slant couldn't tell if he'd been out for two hours or seven. He'd woken before the older man every day so far, which spared him the blushes of getting out of his bed. As before, the moment he moved, the string bed turned traitor and threw him to the ground. Only his good reactions prevented him from smacking into the floor.

"Damn," Heart said with a grin, "seeing babes falling from their hammocks is the only fun I get when working with them."

"Sorry to disappoint," Slant said as he stood.

"You should be," he said, his grin fading. "Right, grab some salted pork and we'll get started." With his rough finger, he pointed at a small tin on the floor, where his breakfast awaited.

Slant knelt and plucked strips of bone dry meat from the tin. He bit into the salty, chewy flesh, savoured it.

"What are we doing today?" Slant asked when done.

"We've done enough begging. Today, you will map the area west of here, at the edges of Ocean's Edge and Farmer's Park," Heart growled. "I'll take the other half. Mark any discarded Seed gear, any potential Zones, and tell anyone who recognises you that you're looking for work."

"We're scouting for the next phase, then?"

"Well done on noticing the obvious. I can see why you were chosen."

Slant soured for a couple of seconds. Then he saw the funny side and laughed, said, "Yeah, that wasn't the brightest thing I've ever said, was it?"

"I hope not," Heart replied. "Now, start searching."

Slant and Heart had to leave carefully: it was vital no one saw them in this secret place. The Custodian who'd planned this hovel had placed mirror fragments against the opposite building so they can see along the alley. Heart opened the whisper-quiet door and used those shards to confirm the way was safe.

Mapping an area carefully, quietly checking the rears of buildings, searching for clues, was more in Slant's comfort area than than story-building. He moved north first to check those buildings closest to Aureu's walls. The relative regularity of Contegon patrols there, so close to the city's limits, meant those buildings were worth more, were bought and maintained rather than abandoned. That made his search a waste of time, but he needed to be thorough.

To the west, he found more likely candidates for Zones. He snuck up to them to listen to their inhabitants, checked the streets around them and the rubbish the Raggedy Men who scoured the streets for anything to sell didn't care for. When this turned up nothing, he continued west, then swung round and back east, to search the southern houses.

He snaked through poor, ignored, and abandoned streets for hours before he found a rough spoon warped by repeated burnings. He turned it over, saw blackened metal where his reflection should be: this had been used to prepare Seed. The spoon was discarded in the middle of the street, could have come from a dozen houses nearby. He checked each with care, but the search was fruitless.

Slant wasn't disappointed for long. Twenty minutes later, he came across a pile of stained drinking glasses. He sniffed one and found the metallic tang of Seed was still there.

Once, Slant had watched a Zoner prepare Seed during a deal between two Gangs: the buyer had wanted test the product, unsure whether he could trust her new supplier. The quickest, easiest way to prepare the foul gum was to melt it over a spoon then dissolve it in water. The Zoner had done this with astonishing care, her shaking hands becoming perfectly still as she prepared the drink, then sipped it. She'd collapsed, convulsing. Then a fight broke out. That was when Slant intervened.

He looked up, checking he was not being watched, then searched the building the glasses rested beside. There were no further signs, no burnt spoons, no piles of firewood or the white paper Seed tended to come in. The collapsed floors and staircases meant no one lived inside.

Disappointment and frustration began to set in. Those glasses were the clearest sign of a Zone yet, but they too told him nothing. He rested against the wall, and took a deep breath. He needed patience, needed to check everywhere before losing hope.

But what did the pile of glasses mean then? Some were cracked and shattered, particularly those at the bottom. Carefully, he picked through the pile to examine the shards. He had assumed that the thin, cheap glasses had broken during the cooking process, but he realised the glasses had been thrown into this pile.

Then a theory clicked into place: Zoners were careful and suspicious, so they would do anything to not advertise their Zone's location. But Zones produce a lot of waste: ashes, broken glasses, warped spoons, and so on. What better way of getting rid of their waste than dropping it off elsewhere, creating false, suspicious Zones for people like Slant to find?

The lie of the glasses suggested they had been thrown by someone approaching from the south. He followed it and eventually found a small pile of matches down a side street. They were rough, cheap, and splintered, the kind a Zoner would live on. This pile was not near any windows, so these matches hadn't been discarded carelessly. The houses around it were boarded or rotten, empty. Whoever discarded the matches didn't care about the logic of doing so, further validating the idea that Zoners discarded them.

Next, he found burned spoons. This took more searching, checking carefully down the narrow squeezes between buildings, and looking over piles of discarded, broken furniture. He eventually found it under a broken chair. He was getting close if the Zoners were now taking such care with their waste.

Pure luck led him to this well-organised Zone. He was searching for more waste when footsteps approached. He pressed himself into a doorway to his left, trying to remain hidden as the people passed.

Slant had to stop himself gasping when they began to talk about the spoons. "I'm telling... No, I'm saying... No, I'm telling you, you've got to move the spoons. Got to move the spoons tomorrow. They're obvious. They're dangerous, dangerous as a Disciple, a Disciple, I'm telling you," a woman stammered.

"Why don't you go and throw them yourself?" the other woman replied. "Go back and do it right now rather than harping on at me."

"It's not, no, it isn't my job," the first woman replied, passing by Slant. "If I do your job, Sol might confuse us. I don't want... No, I don't need your bad luck and evil to... I need him to burn away my sins, not yours. I'd hate that. That would be bad."

"We both have the same sins, you silly bitch."

"No, no, we don't. We don't. Different sins. Different sins."

"How do you reckon that one?"

Slant glanced round the doorway. Two women wearing very little walked by, one small enough to be a child, the other more than six feet tall with a shaven head. The tall one's hands shook and jived as she walked. Her compatriot shot her regular looks of disgust.

They continued to bicker as Slant followed them, taking great care to remain hidden. From what he could gleam, they sold their bodies. The shorter one presumably attracted a specific sort of client, which formed the basis of the taller woman's argument that they had different levels of sin. He didn't care too much for their conversation, but used it to follow them.

After a few minutes, they got to an enormous house with repaired brickwork and fortified doors. The women knocked three times, the last two in rapid succession. Someone opened the door only a crack.

"It's us, you dope," the gruff prostitute said. "Let us in."

"No, no, we've got to give... have to let them have the password, haven't we?"

"Yeah, because there's always going to be a painted short-arse and a twitching idiot at their door," she growled. "It must happen all the time, every day... Just fucking let us in, Brute!"

The door was opened, and they entered. Slant waited to see if they would come back out: this could, after all, be a visit to a client. He remained still, quiet, hidden. After an hour, he went to look inside.

This potential Zone was very well-maintained: the windows were whole, and the boards over the back door were strong. Efforts had even been made to repair the roof, though the Artificers involved had done the work as cheaply as possible. People lived here, people who needed proper shelter throughout the house. And the most likely community that included sex workers and tight scrutiny on visitors was a Zone.

One of the windows at the back was open, probably the kitchen window, and a steady stream of steam left it. Slant snuck as close as he dared and sniffed the air cautiously: it was subtle, but he could definitely smell Seed. This was it; this was the organised Zone.

Pleased, he melted away and continued his search. He found two more Zones with less consideration and dignity, and marked both as candidates, but neither seemed as likely a point to start their investigations as the organised one.
Chapter 29

Days of careful study, nights of holding still and watching from the shadows, fitful sleep between shifts... all this effort and pain paid off when a careless Zoner left the organised Zone.

Through watching the Zone, Slant got to know its Zoners: the sex workers with their strange double-act, opposites in many ways but bonded by their profession; a dark-skinned boy, thin as the fine blade he carried; an older woman who left empty-handed, but returned with bulging, rough sacks; someone so ravaged they were little more than a skeleton who returned with handfuls of spoons; a well-dressed, distinguished lady who visited as Sol set for only ten minutes; and a Merchant who took great piles of clothes from the Zone, loading it quickly and furtively.

The wealthy woman was their first suspected link to the wider network, with her wealth and the length of her visits. Slant had followed her one evening, but it was a waste of time: she was buying Seed for her son, a Zoner who lived in a rundown shack close enough to Farmer's Park to be respectable. Slant knew this because her son's cracked windows had let her frantic pleas and bitter tears spill into the night.

So they kept watching, Heart taking the night shift and Slant the day. Slant was approaching the end of his turn more than a week later when the careless Zoner walked out into the street.

Slant had learned that a Zone was a communal area, a free space where meagre resources were pooled to sustain all their habits and provide shelter and food. Some maintained the building, some, like the thin boy and the seamstress, earned their keep, and others cooked and cleaned, perhaps incapable of doing more.

He'd never seen this Zoner who held a bundle of fabric to her chest. Maybe thirty, she was thin with grey hair, weak and brittle as old paper, and pocks across her flesh. She looked around constantly, sniffing the air every few seconds. Her clothes were comically oversized, impossible to walk in had someone not slit the trouser legs. As it was, the fabric trailed behind her.

Slant lay on a building facing the Zone's front door, its only viable exit. The building below him was empty with no internal woodwork, so he and Heart had to scale it to get onto the roof, careful of the rotten brickwork. Those withered floors and walls made it a perfect place to hide, as no one could sneak up on them, and nearby buildings provided an easy escape route.

He pulled himself closer to the roof's edge and shielded his eyes. The Zoner was deciding whether it was safe to proceed, relying on twitchy instincts or a foul stench to save her. Then she nodded, stepped forward, and tripped over her roomy clothes. Her arms flew out, which projected her bundle forward.

"Shit!" she screamed before she hit the floor.

Slant watched the fabric land on the dusty street, spilling four tightly-bound cords of Circles spilled with a rich tinkling. The ringed coins were piled onto a circular length of wood with leather straps wrapped around them to ensure none fell off, an arrangement the Merchants used for large transactions that was often cheaply imitated by criminals.

The careless Zoner scrabbled forward to count the cords, ensure none had broken or fled. Slant leant further, his face now over the edge of the roof, and saw more than two hundred Circles in the bundle. This was either a desperate theft or the payment for this month's Seed. If Zones were set up to pool resources, buying monthly would make sense. He imagined each Zoner managed the others' doses, jealously protecting their joint stash, because that much Seed was asking for trouble.

If this Zoner was about to get this month's Seed, she must be meeting their dealer. This was their chance to find the next step in the supply chain! Slant would need to abandon his post, but it should be worth it.

The careless Zoner swearing softly to herself, as she collected the money and looked for witnesses to the Zone's riches. She spoke to herself more, and her face twitched. Slant was surprised that the Zone would trust that much money to her, but perhaps she was a fast runner, a better quality in a delivery-person than sense. Besides, sending someone stronger might attract unwanted attention.

The careless Zoner nodded, bit her fingernails, and then walked north.

Slant stood, his knees coiled, his hands gripping the roof. When the careless Zoner looked away, he jumped to the building to the north, rolling as he landed to make little noise. From rooftop to rooftop, he followed. Sometimes, the Zoner took strange turnings: once, she walked around the building he stood on twice. Maybe she hoped to confuse a potential follower, make it difficult to track her to the Zone. Or perhaps Seed had addled her mind.

Then she stopped at the base of a building, hidden beneath a flat roof. After some fumbling, she laughed with joy. Needing to see more, Slant dropped inside the building through its rotten roof, then snuck to the entrance she had stopped by.

The Zoner was holding a pristine box sealed with thick tape. She smiled to herself as she walked away, the box clutched like a prize. He waited for her to move out of sight, trusting his ability to track her again, and tried the door. It was open.

Stepping out, he searched and found she hadn't left the Circles behind: this hadn't been a dead drop.

Slant followed the careless Zoner, finding her on the pavement of a somewhat-busy road by the outskirts of Buyer's Haven, where it met Farmer's Park. The box was no longer in her hand. She was waving at someone, a slight smile on her face. Slant stepped out into the street to see a Messenger running away, their grey robes flapping, the box clutched in their small hands.

"Damn it," he whispered at seeing his evidence fleeing.

The Messengers were an off-shoot of the Merchants, a sister Station who enjoy the same protection as the Merchants. He couldn't chase them, bring undue attention to himself. At least, he couldn't without Wasp's approval. His lead was gone, lost in the anonymity of grey robes and Station.

Before the careless Zoner spotted him, he slipped back to the Zone. Without the circuitous route, it took a few minutes.

The next two hours passed without incident. The careless Zoner returned, a happy smile on her thin face, and the Zone bubbled along as normal. At about midday, Slant heard someone ascend his building. He rolled over, tensed, but it was only Heart, his gnarled face red from the effort of climbing.

"We've had a development," Slant said when the Custodian had pulled himself onto the roof.

Heart took deep breaths and made circle motions with his hand, telling him to proceed.

"Did he have a bag?" Heart asked, his breath having returned by the time Slant finished.

"Who, the Messenger?"

"No, Sol. Of course the bleeding Messenger."

Slant cast his mind back. "No, they didn't."

"A private Messenger, then."

"There's a difference?"

Heart nodded. "Private Messengers are hired by individuals, often through a letter with Circles included. They're almost untraceable. If he'd been a public one, we could've traced them to their Merchant."

"Still, we know how they pay for their goods now."

Heart snorted. "It's a start, I'll give you that, but that's all it is."

"Couldn't we just follow next month's payment?"

"It's one thing to annoy and aggravate Gangs and the Stationless without evidence, but to go after the Messengers..." Heart's wrinkled brow creased as he considered something. "I will contact Wasp tomorrow, see what he thinks. For now, we keep watch."

Slant sighed. He'd felt like they'd made a discovery then, like they were a step closer to Seed's supply lines. Instead, they'd just found something interesting.

"Go on, you catch some sleep," Heart said, his voice kinder than it'd ever been.

"Thanks," Slant said. He stood up, sighed. "I just... I want to feel like I'm doing more good here than I would as a vigilante."

"Well, we know the Messengers are being used. That's something."

Slant shrugged, then something else clicked. "Someone left that box for her as well. There's no way that a sturdy, undamaged box would survive out here for long. It rained last night, but the box was unharmed, so it could only have been there a few hours. It must have to have been left for her..." Then he slapped himself on the forehead. "Which was why she took such a weird and long route: she was looking for that box."

"Yeah, yeah, all right," Heart said through a small grin, "don't use up all of those good ideas for the month. Get some food, get some sleep. In short, fuck off."

"I'm going, I'm going," Slant said with a laugh.
Chapter 30

Slant took a tortured route back to their hideout, much like the careless Zoner. Whilst he was unlikely to be followed, it never hurt to be careful.

His mind wandered still: underhanded was the word for what they were doing: sneaking, shifting, slinking, like a disease. His vigilante instincts railed against this, but they continued to be sated by the idea of tackling the root of Seed's prevalence.

Seed. He couldn't imagine why someone would start taking Seed: its effects and drawbacks were well-known, so why take that first step, let your weak body become addicted so? One taste was all it took for most people to become strapped to the substance, yet people still risked sinking into the drug's numbing embrace.

Slant had seen his father die, and his mother fall into insanity, yet he would never touch the stuff. If anyone had reason enough to want to avoid reality, he reasoned, it was him.

Mother... he wondered how she and Tower were doing as he picked his way through the narrow side-streets and fractured back alleys. She was in professional hands, which would allow Tower to concentrate on her Cleric training. It might be good that he was away: his absence could be more vital and beneficial than his presence ever was...

After many purposeful wrong turns, Slant was near their hideout. It was late in the afternoon. Sol was already descending. Slant yawned, stretched, tired as a Lord on Cleansing Day, so he strolled the last half mile. After a twelve hour watch, even his string hammock was enticing.

He didn't immediately notice the group who slinked out from a side street. Perhaps they were talented, skilled at accosting people, because he only became aware of them when the six Gangers in robes made from disparate scraps surrounded him, giving him occasional glances to check what he was doing.

Slant slowly took his new escort's measure. Four were men, broad fighters with barely-concealed weapons. Two were women, one the tallest and broadest of the lot, the other a slender nightmare who looked like she would enjoy every moment of a fight. Their garish clothes made them look like Disciples dressed as child entertainers.

"Can I help you?" Slant asked the enormous woman. She was at least six and a half feet tall.

"Who, us?" one Ganger said. He was about Slant's age, had two spurts of hair growing from his chin which he oiled into pincers. "We're just going for a stroll."

"Just a stroll," the slender woman said.

Putting his hands into the pockets of his dirty, worn clothes, Slant gripped blackjacks Heart had given him. "It's nice to have company on a stroll, though you have me at a disadvantage."

"Do we now?" Pincers said.

"You know each other but I have no idea who or what you all are. I'd say that was a disadvantage."

"How rude of us," another Ganger said.

The Custodian hideout was approaching fast. Slant scanned the opposite side of the street in case his gaze gave away where he was going.

Was this encounter bad luck, or a calculated move from the Gang? In the tavern, someone had mentioned this was Colours territory, which made more sense now. Had someone seen through their disguise, or were the Gangers merely seeking payment from newcomers to their territory? Slant didn't think he and Heart had given themselves away, but the Gang's presence made him fear they had.

They continued in silence beyond the Custodian hideout. Slant wanted to relax, but might give away that they were no longer heading toward his home. He decided instead to allow nervousness to leak into his voice as he asked, "So, what can I do for you all?"

"Now, isn't that kind?" the slender woman asked. "He wants to know what he can do for us."

"Very kind."

"Practically an Acolyte, this one."

They all laughed.

Slant tensed. "Look," he said, "I don't have any money."

"No money, he says!" Pincers hissed. "He thinks we're common thieves."

"Common, common thieves," the large woman said.

Pincers shook his head. "We're not thieves, boy. We're killers. And your father didn't come to see the Colours for permission to move into this area."

"And that means your death."

"So sorry!" the slender woman cried.

As the Gangers giggled again, expecting their victim to quail or wet themselves, Slant drew his weapons. In one movement, he brought his blackjacks against Pincers' head, breaking their nose with the second blow. Blood burst from his wounds. A kick brought Pincers to his knees, his smile dying on his face.

Knowing the first attack would go for his core, Slant wheeled around and ducked, moving under a Ganger who tried to grab him. He flowed around the attack and slammed the blackjacks on their spine, making his back arc like a swan as he fell.

The next Ganger had a knife. Slant deflected his stab by slapping the man's wrist. In the opening this created, he slammed the man's ribs. The Ganger cried and dropped the knife. Guessing that someone would attack his back, Slant let the blackjacks hang loose, grabbed the man's forearm and collar, and threw him over his shoulder. This barrelled the Ganger into the enormous woman, who went sprawling.

The Ganger's collar came off during the throw, remained in his hands. He pocketed the rag and faced his attackers, his blackjacks ready again.

"He's trained like a Shield or something," Pincers spluttered from the floor.

"Shield or not, he's getting it now," the slender woman said. She had two serrated knives in her hands, and a grin on her face.

She was right to be confident, at least whilst he fought in a wide street. He'd gathered a crowd, interested people stopping what they were doing to watch one man take on the local Gang. Their stares made him feel naked and foolish: so much for keeping a low profile.

Turning, he ran, blackjacks flapping around his wrists. The Gangers whooped and hollered as they gave chase. Well, Pincers didn't, but the others were right behind him. Slant took off down a side-street, needing distance to get rid of them. Head down, fast breaths, he took turnings sharply by jumping and running along the buildings for a moment, a manoeuvre he'd spent days practising. The sudden changes in direction gave him a few feet of advantage each time, soon putting him more than fifteen feet away from the Gangers.

Slant's blood pounded as loud as a Disciple's explosion. His breath burned. His legs complained loudly, twitching and twinging, but they were overruled as they would certainly be in greater pain if he were caught.

Not every Ganger was fit enough to keep up: two male Gangers and the large, lumbering woman fell away, too broad and heavy to match his speed. Slant didn't relax, worrying that they could be moving round to catch him out.

Fifteen feet felt like a comfortable enough distance to climb to a roof, change the dynamic of the chase. A house ahead had a canopy above its main door, and the crumbling remains of a balcony within jumping distance of it. Slant could use them to quickly ascend to the roof. He found a burst of energy, dug deep, and used it to speed up in anticipation of the climb.

Once at the building, he jumped and pressed his feet against the wall. Then, with all his strength, he leaped for the canopy. He soared, then slammed into the overhanging slab of stone. The breath left his chest. But he had the presence of mind to hold himself up as he wheezed, not fall to his eventual death.

"Get him!" the slender woman hissed, barely able to breathe.

Moaning, Slant scrabbled and swung to get up onto the flat roof. The Gangers were so close, and he was an easy target whilst he dangled. He had to move. With one supreme and painful wrench, he pulled himself up onto the canopy and collapsed.

Below him, the slender woman landed heavily, having thrown herself at the dangling and vulnerable target. She skidded along the floor and rolled over, giggling.

"You're not getting away," the other Ganger said. He jumped to grip the canopy, which creaked under the weight of two people.

Slant forced in a breath and kicked out at the Ganger's hand. The bastard shrieked and fell back to the floor, where he gripped his broken fingers.

"What're you going to do, boy?" the slender woman asked as she rose. "You can't stay up there forever!"

In answer, Slant got to his feet, and took a deep breath. His wailing muscles and ribs would have to keep quiet for a while longer. He made for the balcony beside him: it was less of a jump than the canopy, so he gripped the ironwork easily, hung there, triumphant and tired. Pulling himself up proved much harder.

"You've not got enough strength, boy!" the slender woman roared.

For a second, he thought she was right: his arms refused to answer, seemingly locked in the dangle. But, breath as ragged as an eighty year-old's, his face warm and his body dripping with sweat, he managed to hook a foot under the balcony's ironwork, then used his legs muscles to get onto the balcony.

He fell flat against the balcony floor and tried to breathe. This was much harder than it seemed. All he heard was his breath, his blood, his pain. It wasn't enough to just be here though, he had to keep climbing, but his body refused to answer his summons.

Over his pain, he heard a click and a scream. The slender woman giggled, a sound that quickly faded. Slant got to his hands and knees. Over the edge of the balcony, he saw someone in ragged clothes bleeding on the street. Someone pounded up the stairs inside, a muffled glee on their voice: the slender woman had killed her way into the house: she was coming for him.

Slant hefted himself onto the iron rail around the balcony and stood. The roof wasn't far above him, but it meant another painful climb. He begged Sol for the strength to make the next jump, and took the leap, hoped his god was in a kind mood.

He landed with his knees up, gripping the rusted iron guttering firmly. Slant put his feet on the balcony's doors narrow frame and used it to stand. This put his hips above the roof, so he pulled himself onto the tiles, crouching like a cat. His balance was precarious, as was his position, but he was on the roof proper.

A grin of victory and joy rose to his face. He'd made it! Sweating profusely, his skin the grey thickness of a thunderstorm, he bent over and took a breath.

Then, behind him, someone gripped the iron guttering with thin, bleeding fingers. Slant kicked out with a yell. His boot deflected off this grip and broke the slender woman's nose as she pulled herself over the roof. She squealed and fell back, landing noiselessly.

Not waiting to see how badly injured she was, Slant turned and leaped to the next building. His jump wasn't graceful, but it got him over the narrow street. He kept going, kept running and leaping, until he felt safe enough to stop, twenty minutes and thirty buildings away.

Finally feeling safe, Slant collapsed to recover. His eyes wanted to close, wanted to send him to sleep, but he refused to allow that, pinching himself to maintain wakefulness. Slowly, his body returned to something like working order, though his muscles were stiff and sore, and he was desperately thirsty.

When he felt normal, Slant descended to street level. Paranoid and fearful, he sneaked back to the Custodian's hideout. No one watched him with interest or even acknowledged him when he got onto his road, and there was no tail when he sneaked into that tiny room.

After a meal and two pints of watered-down wine, which hydrated him and would act as an alarm clock, Slant collapsed into his hammock and fell into a dark, dreamless, and deserved sleep.
Chapter 31

When his bladder woke him, Slant reluctantly followed its insistent call: fleeing the Gangers had taxed him, and sleep hadn't helped. He would have given much to roll over in that strange string bed and drift away. But, whilst his bladder was damned insistent, his sense of duty was louder and more difficult to ignore. Heart was out there, tiring from his long turn watching the Zone, and Slant couldn't abandon him.

Slant creaked one eye open. The tiny Custodian room was daubed in an orange glow: Sol was rising once more. Groaning and twitching, Slant rolled out of the string hammock. He first relieved himself in the chamber pot in the corner of the room: it was almost full from Heart's use, a stinking swill that made him wretch, but there was room enough to add to the horror.

Once relieved, he rinsed his hands in the watered-down wine. Stretching loosened his overworked muscles some. He hoped nothing exciting would happen today: a day of inactivity would allow his ailing form to recover. When he thought that, he chastised that lazy thinking.

Feeling a little more capable, Slant checked that the alley wasn't being watched. The way was safe again. He left carefully, ensured the door was locked, then walked out into Aureu.

Fortunately, the Gangers weren't still looking for him. With day approaching, perhaps they were preparing to earn their keep through whichever evil they inflicted. Still, he remained vigilant as he headed to the Zone: checked behind him, took random turns, listened for footsteps or creaking roof tiles.

When near the Zone, he heard the two prostitutes again. This lane had no side streets: he would have to walk past them. Hands in pockets, head down, Slant kept going as though he didn't know them.

"Look, he just wants someone else there when we do... what we do," the short, gruff one said. "He doesn't want us to do anything with one another. He wants someone else to see and judge him."

"Don't like it. Don't like it. I don't want to judge anyone. Only Sol does that."

The gruff one scowled, her small face creasing in annoyance. "It'll be good money to just stand there and look like you're not enjoying yourself. You can do that, can't you?"

Then they saw Slant. "Sir, would you like some company?" the tall waif asked him.

"No, thank you," Slant replied as he arrowed between them.

"Are you sure? We offer a good price," the gruff one insisted, blocking his path. "You look like you need a good time."

Slant looked around, worried this could be Ganger trap. "Look, I'm not interested, okay?"

"What, because I'm a dwarf?"

"Maybe he only likes other men?" the tall one offered.

Slant seized upon the opportunity. "Yes, I do"

"Are you, now? You like to choke on pole, huh?" the gruff one said, looking him up and down. "Well, that's a shame. Run on then, stop wasting our time."

She stepped aside and Slant moved on. The gruff one must have watched him go because she said, "Damn, that's a shame. I like a tough man."

"Tough men have usually done bad things," the tall one said.

"Exactly. That makes them experienced." Then she turned, became quieter. "Anyway, come on, just come to this gig tonight will you? I'll give you more stuff than the Circles would buy?"

"How much more?" the tall one asked after some consideration.

Their conversation disappeared as Slant jogged away, pleased that he'd avoided suspicion. He didn't let joy slacken his concern, continued to check his way and listen for stalkers. Soon, he was at the Zone. Relaxing, he took his hands from his pockets, and something fell from his clothes: a scrap of material. Slant frowned at it, two brightly coloured materials sewed together by a skilled hand. A Merchant's label, a drawing of a quill and inkwell surrounded by Circles, was attached to it.

Slant remembered, as he stood, that he'd pulled this from a Colours Ganger during the fight. They had all worn these clothes, hadn't they? Perhaps they all shopped at this Merchant's store? He scanned the street for threats, then pocketed the scrap and carried on to Heart's hiding place.

"It's about time you got here," Heart said when Slant climbed onto their chosen hideout. He must have seen the fatigue across Slant's face because he said, "Lun weeps, what happened?"

"I was attacked by some Gangers."

"What?" Heart hissed.

Slant explained what had happened. His fellow Custodian's scarred face fell as the story unfolded.

"Damn it, that's fucking bad luck," Heart hissed. Then he tutted. "We might need to leave now the Gang knows your face: can't put you at risk. Fuck."

"I'm not scared of them," Slant said. "I'm not fucking scared of them. If they hadn't got the drop on me, surrounded me in a public place, I could have taken them on."

Heart shook his head. "This isn't just about you. If they know your face, they might learn mine, and that'll be both of us abandoning this placement. We've got to consider the main assignment above everything else, Slant. I'm sorry."

That he spoke with respect and empathy showed how important Heart found this. "What do I do now? Just go back to home base and ask for another mission?"

"Well, this area has a definite Gang problem," Heart said. "Did you get any names, or anything which might lead you to the Gangers?"

"No, no names," Slant said. "I only know where they buy their clothes." Heart raised a gnarled eyebrow at Slant. He reached into his pocket and produced the Merchant's label. "They were all wearing the same clothes. I could find the Merchant who sold it to them, start there."

The old Custodian snatched the label from Slant. "You're certain that you took this from the Gangers?"

"I've not been accosting random strangers and stealing their collars."

Heart treated him to a guttural laugh. Then he crumpled the label up and howled in laughter.

"Hey, Heart, keep it in a box, will you? You're going to alert the Zone."

"I'm sorry," Heart said, a strange smile sitting uncomfortably on his face, "I couldn't control myself. Because, Slant, you beauty, you've just confirmed our main suspect."

Slant said nothing, merely looked confused, waited for Heart to explain himself.

"Remember that Merchant who drops off scraps of fabric and picks up bundles? That changed today. It's the end of the month, so someone came with the old fella this time, someone too podgy to be as Stationless as they dressed. She had a rucksack which was empty when they left."

"That was the Seed drop-off?" Slant asked.

Heart nodded. "I followed the bastard out to her cart. Guess which Merchant's symbol was on it?" He didn't wait for Slant to reply, merely dangled the Merchant's label before him.

"So, there's a connection?"

"It seems more than coincidental, doesn't it? Wasp prefers we find evidence before we investigate someone Stationed. Well, I'd say this counts." He paused. "You're certain every Ganger wore the same clothes as the guy you ripped this from?"

"I'm certain," Slant said. "Different colours, but the same style. Would a Gang dress any other way?"

Heart nodded. Gangers dressed similarly to stand out from the Stationless. Slant supposed it was an idea taken from the Stations, dressing up to show that you belonged. It wouldn't usually be risky if the Gangers hung around in smaller groups, which made the attack on him all the more concerning.

"I think they know something is wrong," Slant said. "The Gang, I mean. They might realise what we're up to without knowing how close we are to the Zone. Why else would a bunch of them attack me like that? I'm not that ugly."

"No, you're not," Heart said with a nod. "I'd reckon they might fear we're working against them in some way. They probably think we're from another Gang, looking into their territory for any weaknesses."

"What do we do, then?" Slant asked. "Presuming I'm not returning to Wasp."

Heart shook his head. "No, you're not. We're done here. For now. After all, we've got a Merchant using Zoners for labour, another dropping suspicious items to the Zone, another selling goods to Gangs, and a Messenger spotted taking dodgy money. It doesn't look good for their boss, the one who connects them all with this symbol." He looks at the scrap again. "There's only one place to go now."

"Buyer's Haven," Slant said.

"Aye. One of the warehouses or shops will have this symbol on," he said. "We've got to go there, find them, and do some digging."

Slant grinned. "It feels like we're close to this Seed network."

"We're closer, not close. It could be that this Merchant and his underlings are just one part of the network." Heart saw Slant's face drop, so he added, "Still, we might take off one of its fingers, and hand a cruel bastard over to the Contegons. Not that that's a guarantee of anything happening to the fucker, not with inter-Station politics." Heart sighed. "Anyway, let's go pack up."

As Heart climbed from their vantage point, Slant watched the Zone. When they took down this Merchant, it would be interesting to see which new vein of the Seed network these Zoners tapped into. Perhaps they would scatter, find other Zones to get what they need. In a way, it felt sad to break up this 'home' of sorts.

"Are you coming?" Heart hissed.

"I am," Slant said before climbing down, his elation at having found a clue, a lead, entirely punctured by the sadness of reality.
Chapter 32

Slant and Heart scoured eastern Buyer's Haven shortly after packing up their box room. They had to make the room look as though no one had ever used it first, which took some time, but they were soon en route. The streets improved dramatically as they went, and they even had to hide from patrolling Contegons, knowing that their dress would attract unwanted attention.

Once they'd run the gauntlet of entering the district, the Custodians each took a section of the quarter: Heart took the shopping district, and Slant took the warehouse district.

"Our nearest safe house is at the quarter's centre," Heart said before they parted. "It's to the right of a shop called The Custodian, which should be easy enough to remember."

"Really, it's that obvious?" Slant asked.

"Only to a Custodian," Heart pointed out.

Slant went north, the point furthest from the other quarters with the cheapest and least-opportune land, to the warehouses. Buyer's Haven was still neat there, clean and liveable: the houses were well-maintained, the streets were regularly cleared of detritus, and the air seemed almost perfumed. It reminded him of the transition from the slums of Outer Aureu to the city proper.

This similarity angered Slant, made him painfully aware of the paucity of his clothing, especially compared to the Merchant's gold coats and their spouses' finery. He reaped odd looks, though no one challenged him as Merchants use the Stationless as cheap labour.

That was a problem, wasn't it? The Merchants were charged with providing a stable economy to generate taxes for the other Stations, but they got to keep the profits from their ventures. That encouraged greed. That greater profits mean more taxes for the Bureau only gave the Merchants fuel to cut corners and use the poor and vulnerable. Everyone closed their eyes to this, which gave the Merchants full license to do as they wanted: after all, if they were doing something evil, wouldn't the other Stations stop them?

A chilling question struck Slant: if this 'quill and ink' Merchant is running a Seed network, would anyone care? If he paid a great deal of taxes, would his fellow Merchants really report him to the Contegones? Slant hoped so, but he couldn't shake the idea that a Merchant would be allowed to poison the poor like that.

Slant dwelt on this idea until he got to the warehouses proper. A series of huge, uniform buildings greeted him, lined up neatly in groups of six. There were easily a hundred of them, some shared between lesser Merchants but most individually owned. Each had Merchants' sigils or names painted on them, writ large in white paint: some were extravagant, others understated, but many were cheap.

These stores serviced Aureu, so, if their Merchant had a warehouse, it would be here, hiding in a shoal.

It was well into the night by then. Lun sprayed cruel light onto the pre-Cleansing buildings, making them look like butchers serving forbidden meat. Deep shadows skittered along each surface, following the Merchants who ran in and out of the warehouses, carting goods or organising, filing and measuring. Clerics were scattered among them, hired by wealthy Merchants to manage their empires, and even the white patches of their crimson robes became gray under Lun's influence.

Slant remained out of sight, behind barrels or large bins when larger groups approached: there were fewer Stationless around than he'd expected. Perhaps openly using Stationless labour was frowned-upon, and those he'd watched being hired were ferried around in secret. At least, then, there was a line to cross.

Hours passed with him hiding, moving nonchalantly, or being disappointed when a warehouse was not the right one. Sol rose as he got to the last block of warehouses, dispelling Lun's awful light and dyeing the district a vibrant orange. Slant was hungry, thirsty, but determined to finish his apparently-fruitless search, especially when only six warehouses remained. At least they would know where not to find the Merchant...

The first two warehouses belonged to a Merchant who dealt in gems and ore. The third was shared. Bright white writing boasted that a fruit retailer named Joint and a clothier named Write operated from it. There was a small symbol besides the names, one Slant couldn't pick out across the street, so he got closer.

The Merchants had become scarce as Lun crossed the sky, perhaps preparing for a change in shifts, so he was alone. Heart racing, Slant jogged across and stood beneath the warehouse entrance. There, he saw a familiar drawing: a quill dipped into an inkwell.

Finally, this was what they'd been looking for, who they'd been looking for. It was tempting to peer inside, try to carry on alone, but he was risking enough as an unkempt Stationless man in the warehouse district. Instead, he snuck to Aureu's walls and circled the quarter so he wouldn't be noticed as he went to Heart.

As Heart said, there was a shop called the Custodian near the centre of the shopping district, one that sold custom weapons and armour. Slant eyed it for a moment, before moving between the shop and a haberdashery beside it.

Standing by a side door was Heart. It didn't look like he'd been waiting long.

"Good morning," Slant said.

"Morning," Heart mumbled. He looked drained: Slant supposed he had been awake for more than a day, having come here straight from his shift at the Zone. "Let's get some rest."

Heart turned the door handle the wrong way. It moved up and around in his dirty hands, clicking three times during a full rotation. Then the door clicked open.

"Keep an eye out," Heart said. He hadn't needed to: Slant was already checking for witnesses. Heart then reached up to undo some mechanism above the door, pressing a series of bricks. "Come on."

No one had seen them unlock the door, and no one watched them enter. Inside, it was another narrow cupboard with string bedding and food hidden beneath the floorboards. Slant wondered how many such places were hidden across Aureu, how many secret locations that just the Custodians had, let alone ones the Stations owned? How had Wasp even arranged these places?

Before he could ask Heart, the senior Custodian rolled into his bed and began to snore. Slant sat down to watered-down wine and salted meat before joining the man in resting.

A dreamless sleep was interrupted when Heart shook Slant awake. "We've work to do."

It took Slant a minute to wake, shaking his head and rubbing his eyes. After he disembarked from his bed and stretched, he noticed that Heart had changed into Cleric's robes. Another set was folded at his feet.

"Where in the name of Lun did you get those from?" Slant said. "I mean, Lun, you've broken half a dozen laws just by putting that thing on."

"The Custodians are well-connected, despite not being a Station. Yet," Heart said. He picked up a small mirror from the food and wine compartment in the floor and looked himself over, ensured that the robes fit, that he looked the part.

Slant couldn't believe the nonchalance in his answer. Those were Station robes, clothes only to be worn by those who earned them. Even considering putting them on without permission was Heresy. What would Tower think if she knew Slant was wearing the robes she would spend years and years to earn?

"Seriously, where did you get these?" Slant asked.

Heart turned and sighed. "You're wasting our time."

"And you're being a Heretic!" Slant shouted. "I can't believe you're not even troubled by this. What you have done, what you are asking me to do, is Heresy."

"You'd better keep your voice down," Heart said, stepping to be face-to-face with Slant. "And you'd also better keep your damn opinions to yourself. Particularly when you're wrong."

"I'm wrong, am I?" Slant hissed. "I'm wrong that we would be put before a Hereticum just for owning these, let alone putting them on, let alone pretending to be Clerics?"

Heart looked him up and down, unsurprised by his reaction. "You're wrong that it's Heretical. There's nothing in the Sol Lexic that forbids wearing the robes of another Station. All we're doing is breaking laws, something which we've already done during this investigation."

"We'd still go to a Hereticum! It's one thing committing fraud against the Stationless, but the Stationed..."

Slant stopped himself, heard what he was saying. Committing fraud was a crime no matter who the victim was. He should be used to breaking the law, as someone who robbed the crooked for money. This line he didn't want to cross was imaginary, enforced by social mores. He looked at Heart, so comfortable in those Cleric robes, and realised that the problem wasn't with Heart. He had already broken all social rules by breaking bones. It was just the severity, enforced by the Stations, which should concern him.

"We'll just try not to get caught, okay, Slant?" Heart said kindly.

"Alright," Snow said slowly.

"Wash before you dress. Clerics wouldn't stink like us."

Slant scrubbed himself with a wet flannel and soapy water, both provided by this larger cache of materials. His flesh crawled as he slipped the Cleric robes on, like he was putting on a suit of human skin. But when he was dressed, his robes tied the way that Heart had done his, Sol did not strike him down. Nothing had changed, except for his attire.

"What's the plan, then?" Slant asked, his voice still weak.

"I've found the Merchant's shop. His name's Write. We're going to have a look around. Having Clerics snoop around will make the bastard sweat, perhaps inspire a mistake. And, frankly, I hope you found his warehouse."

Slant nodded. "It's in the north-west of the warehouse district, shared with a fruit retailer."

"Good," Heart said with a smile. "Actually, let's go there first. A surprise inspection might turn up more."

As much as Slant had felt exposed without his grey robes, he felt far more naked in Stationed robes. Everyone who looked at him was judging him, taking notes for the Hereticum to come. The Clerics who passed seemed to know who he was, were rushing to tell the nearest Contegon. But there was no reprisal, no complaint or arrest as he led Heart to the Merchant's warehouse.

"Relax, damn you," Heart whispered. "You're making it obvious by being so scared. Act like a Cleric."

"I'm not a Cleric," Slant whispered as low as he could, "so I don't know how to act."

"Be haughty, anal, and numbers-obsessed."

Slant didn't find that helpful, but they were nearly at Write's warehouse, so he had to get himself under control. He closed his eyes, focussed on being officious and pedantic, stereotypes which would drive Tower mad. Deep breaths helped him to find a centre of calm from which to act.

When he opened his eyes, they were close enough to the warehouse to see the writing on its entrance. "Let me talk," Heart said.

"I will."

Heart strode up and knocked on the warehouse's large, open doors. Merchants around the entrance stopped working to watch. Slant ignored their stares to look into the warehouse: it was divided into two, a clothing and a fruit section, by a chalk line. In the clothing section were bags filled with cloth, arrayed perhaps by colour or quality. Write's 'half' was barely a third, his clothing empire overwhelmed by fruit.

"Good morning, this is a spot inspection called by the office of the Merchant Councillor," Heart said loudly. "Who is in charge of this warehouse?"

The Merchants all looked to a tall and well-built woman around Slant's age. Her eyes were narrowed gems set in her hardened face. "You have paperwork for this inspection, I assume?" she asked.

"And you are?"

"I am Joint," she replied.

"Ah, Joint, very good," Heart said. He reached into his robes, and pulled out a flattened scroll sealed in yellow wax. "Here is the paperwork, if you wish to inspect it?"

Slant tried not to goggle at the document: how had Heart gotten an official-looking letter like that? And how had it been sealed with a Merchant's seal? The document had to be a bluff, a sealed paper to cover their story, much like their robes.

Joint walked over and looked at the seal. She examined it closely before turning to her Merchants. "It's legitimate. Everyone, out whilst the Clerics work. That includes Write's lot, okay?"

The Merchants didn't seem to mind putting their work aside: Slant guessed this would be a welcome rest. Men and women in muddied robes filed out of the warehouse and Joint joined them, standing like a crowd watching a street entertainer. Some lit cigarettes. Most sat down, breaking out booze to share.

"We will be as quick as we can," Heart said. "Do you mind closing the doors behind us? We don't want anyone to see who we are inspecting, if you understand me."

Joint looked Heart up and down. "Alright," she said. "You heard the Cleric. Close the doors."

The men and women who had settled down grumbled, but all did as they were told. The heavy doors were heaved together and shut, leaving the two not-Clerics alone in the warehouse to carry out their fraudulent inspection.

"Be quick," Heart said in a low voice. "Look through the clothing bags."

Slant jogged to the sacks of clothing and reached inside, rifling through for any sign of Seed: bags of the drug, perhaps the red Seedling flower, even a Seed bowl or spoon. He moved as quickly as he dared, squeezing the sacks and digging through those that felt odd. Bag after bag held only abandoned scraps of clothes. Some were damaged or blood-stained. Heart looked as frustrated as Slant felt: they were playing their hand to find nothing.

When they were halfway along Write's section of the warehouse, Slant asked, "What if they don't keep the Seed in the clothing bags?"

"What do you mean?" Heart asked as he went through a bag of used underclothing.

"Well, you saw a delivery given in a rucksack, right?" Slant asked. "What if they keep the Seed in those rucksacks, rather than these bags of clothing?"

Heart shook his head. "That doesn't make sense. How else would someone move large quantities of Seed, huh? They wouldn't bring a load of rucksacks in: it would look weird. No, if there's Seed here, it has to be brought in bulk, in a way no one would suspect."

Slant stopped, looked around the warehouse. On Write's side were only cloth bags and a small office, neither of which could hold much Seed. On Joint's side, though, was row after row of shelving, each holding clay jars sealed with wax. Staring at them, an idea sprung to mind.

"What if the Seed comes in those?" Slant asked.

"What?" Heart asked irritably, throwing the clothes in his hand to the ground. "What are you going on about instead of doing the dirty work?"

"Those fruit jars, the Farmer's ones," Slant said, pointing. "They are sealed, you can't see what's inside them, and they are delivered in bulk."

Heart looked up, seemed to see the Farmer half of the warehouse for the first time. "What, you think the other Merchant might be in on it?"

"Well, Seed has to be grown somehow, doesn't it?" Slant said. "Only a Farmer would have the knowledge, experience, and land to do so. I imagine Wasp has been inspecting the Farmers for years, trying to find something, but the Custodians can't look inside those jars because it would give them away. I mean, it would be easy to slip jars of Seed amongst their deliveries..." He paused, his mind racing. "Well, if they marked them out somehow. Write's Merchants could even swap the jars out without Joint knowing."

"I was hoping you'd be talking nonsense to get out of looking through these foul clothes," Heart said with a tut. "But you're talking sense. Go on. Be quick. Check for odd jars."

Slant ran to Joint's section of the warehouse and worked along the shelves, looking for unusual markings or colouration. The jars were identical, produced by Artificers to exact specifications. On row after row, no shelf held any unusual jars, anything that would be marked out.

Heart was nearly done with the bags. The Merchants' patience would be wearing thin. If they were going to find anything, it would have to be soon.

Slant stopped. If there were jars with unusual markings, there would be an official explanation for their existence. As such, they would be kept together rather than spread out. It was a guess, but it was all he could think of, so he went with it.

Now he paused to search each row only briefly. The jars varied only in the contents written on the waxed lids, whether it were raisins or dried apricots. It occurred to him that a particular product might mean Seed, but that would be impossible to prove without violating each jar. And there were so many shelves and their time was short... but he didn't rush, made sure he was confident to move to a new row.

Someone knocked on the warehouse door, and said something Slant was too far away to hear. Heart looked up, having done with the last bag, and shouted, "You will give us two more minutes, Merchant, or I will have your hide."

The angry Merchant said something else, and Heart replied, "Okay, one. One minute."

One minute. He had only one minute. Slant tried not to think this might have been a stupid theory, that he was wasting valuable time by looking at Farmer's jars. Perhaps Write was a middleman, or perhaps the Merchant only bought Seed to guarantee the Zone's labour. But he found nothing. The jars were all the same, and he was almost at the last set of shelving.

The knock on the door boomed louder this time.

"Have some damn patience, Merchant," Heart called. "We'll be out in a second."

Nothing. Nothing. He'd found nothing. Then he was at the last set of shelves, hidden in the far corner of the warehouse. Slant looked along the shelf expecting to find nothing once more, to have wasted this golden opportunity. But he didn't. At the back, on the bottom row, were jars marked with twin crosses. No wording, no lable, only the deep scratches. He stepped forward and examined the nearby rows, checked whether this was a rare marking, and there was nothing like them around.

Holding his breath, Slant picked up a cross-marked jar. It was much heavier than he'd expected. There were maybe twelve of them secreted away at the darkest part of the warehouse. He checked the seal, and found it unbroken: no one had opened it since the Farmer had sealed it.

"I've found something," he called to Heart.

"What?" Heart shouted back.

"I've found something! These jars are marked differently to the others."

"Check inside!" Heart shouted as he raced to the warehouse doors. "I'll hold off the Merchants."

Slant nodded, and looked around for something to open the jar with. At the end of the row was a slender knife hanging from a length of thin string, perhaps for opening jars to check their contents. He used it to cut the seal and prise the lid open. It would never be resealed properly, but, if the contents were normal, he could just drop the jar and feign clumsiness.

The lid came off with a sigh, and Slant looked inside. What he saw nearly made him drop the jar anyway.
Chapter 33

The opened jar rested on the table between Slant, Heart, and Wasp in his office. Two days had passed since Slant and Heart left that warehouse, and neither could yet believe what they had found. Even relaying it to Wasp hadn't made it more real.

Wasp leant back, looked up at the ceiling, as he absorbed the story and the evidence. Then he laughed. "This is brilliant! Brilliant! Well done to both of you. Seriously, incredibly, well done Slant and Heart. It was awkward to sneak that thing out, but it was so worth it. Brilliant!"

"What are you going to do about this?" Heart asked, pointing to the jar. Wasp had apparently sent more Custodians, dressed as Farmers, to replace this jar. That Wasp had such influence was incredible, but Slant supposed the nature of this... find meant that people would be willing to take such risks.

Sol knows he and Heart nearly fought the Merchants to take it from the warehouse themselves...

"We need to take this to the Contegons, or the Acolytes. Anyone," Slant said. "People need to know about such... Heresy."

"Do they?" Wasp asked.

Slant and Heart looked at each other, a little confused.

Wasp stood. "If we take this jar to the Stations, they will not believe us. I guarantee it. In fact, I would bet they'd indict the Custodians as Heretics for producing evidence like this against the Farmers, and for the manner in which we got it. We would all burn for suggesting this without complete proof."

"No, surely they wouldn't," Slant said, unable to believe that. "There must be people you can talk to, people who would believe that you wouldn't do something like that. Lun, you got this jar out!"

Wasp sucked on his lips, then shook his head. "People are willing to give small favours in secret, but asking them to publicly speak up for us about... that... would be a different matter altogether."

"Fuck," Heart said. "We found something even worse than the Seed network, but we can't reveal it." He punched the table, which made the jar shake. "Fuck!"

"Wait, but you said this is brilliant," Slant said to Wasp. "So this wasn't useless, was it?"

"This one has a good ear," Wasp said to Heart. "You're right. We will pursue the investigation, get enough evidence to prove the validity of this find. We are still just unproven criminals to them, but people will soon be willing to believe the Stationed can be involved in... horrors like this. Then, we will have the legitimacy to present it without suspicion."

Slant didn't believe that was Wasp's only reason: the man's tone was too controlled, and his fist was shaking as he spoke. There was something more to his reticence.

"Still, this is worth celebrating. I will arrange a little gathering. The drinks will be on my Circle. You both deserve it after the dangers you have put yourselves through, and I think the others will enjoy it too."

"Thank you, sire," Slant said, "though I'd prefer to visit my family. It has been weeks."

"Yes, yes, of course. Tomorrow. Tonight, we celebrate!"

Wasp dismissed them then, his gaze falling onto the jar and its evil contents.

Heart held out his hand to Slant when they were outside Wasp's office. "It was good to work with you," he said. "You weren't as bad as most rookies."

Slant smiled and shook his hand. Then his smile fell. "You don't think we'll work together on Write's connection to the Seed network?"

"Maybe I will," Heart grunted, lowering his hand, "but I think you'll be moved onto this... Heresy. Wasp seems to have taken a shine to you."

"Then it has been a pleasure working with you." Slant laughed then. "Well, at least as much of a pleasure as grubbing around and spending weeks watching a Zone can be."

Heart nodded to him and walked away. Slant was left alone, Custodians practising around him. With nothing else to do, he joined the combat practice to keep his skills sharp.

After training, a meal shared at a large table, and a nap, Wasp gathered the Custodians at the warehouse together. There were maybe twenty people outside Wasp's office. Heart, he saw, was not amongst them.

"Good evening to you all," Wasp said. "Tonight, something great has happened. Tonight, we are going to celebrate. Tonight, we are, on my Circle, going to the Nine Nines!"

Hissed excitement and joy passed through the clutch of men. The Nine Nines was a raucous bar, a mix of alcohol and prostitution about which many things were whispered. Slant supposed that was a good place to unwind, if you were into that kind of thing.

"I don't think I need to lead you to the Nine Nines, do I? Especially not you, External!"

The Custodians laughed, deep and throaty. Looking at them, he realised he was the youngest by a decade: the Custodians were mostly former Shields - deserters, cowards, and the resting \- or former Gangers. They were gnarled, brutal men who easily fit with criminals. Perhaps because they were criminals.

One said, "No, sire, you do not."

"External's practically got his own seat there."

"Yeah, right underneath the dancers' table!"

Another round of laughter echoed between the quiet streets.

"We shall head to the Nine Nines. Together. Yes, tonight, I think, we will walk together."

The Custodians, led by Wasp despite him saying he didn't need take them, then fell into private conversations about previous assignments, women they'd conquered, or drinking sessions which ended with trips to a Doctor. Boastful stuff that couldn't have interested Slant less.

A brief conversation between Wasp and the oldest Custodian present, a withered wretch who didn't look like he would survive a fight, caught Slant's attention on the way. The bald, button-nosed man sidled up to Wasp and said, "Have the Fathers been informed of whatever inspired this?"

Wasp looked down at him, showing the old Custodian his scarred side. "Not yet."

"Do you wish for me to do so? I know they'd like to hear."

"The Fathers will hear from me when I'm ready to talk," Wasp snapped. "Don't try to remind me of obligations I would not forget."

The old Custodian held his hands up, and stepped back, struck by the force of Wasp's response. Chastised, he mingled amongst the crowd, and kept his head down for the rest of the journey.

Slant had heard of the Nine Nines mostly from Gangers looking for a flashy way to blow their money. He'd thought it odd that such a bawdy tavern was on the outskirts of Blade's Birth, the Artificers' territory... until he learned that two sisters, one a Merchant and the other an Artificer who specialised in sexual protection, owned the place. Then it clicked: where better to sell those products than a brothel? They were lucky to have an established reputation to protect them, purveyors of protection when the Maters exist....

The bar was huge, a combined shop and small factory. Its bulk might have been imposing if not for the loud music and laughter it emptied into the streets. A sign swung over the front door, nine number nines in a three-by-three square. Two towers of flesh wearing Merchant clothing stood at the door, guarding the establishment from undesireables.

Wasp walked up to the men and flashed a grin. "The 'Custodian party.'"

The taller of the two Merchants frowned, his overhanging brow creasing like a mountain crumbles under an earthquake, and then nodded. "Wasp, yes. Welcome."

The other Merchant opened the door. The music and laughter doubled in volume. Brilliant light poured out, like the entrance led into Sol himself. Wasp grinned and gestured for everyone to enter. He waited until the last man before following them in.

By the time Slant entered, the Custodians had already filtered around the broad tavern: some were at the bar, making demands of Servants who poured great jugs of ale and ciders; others were at gaming tables where Skulls and Nineteen were being played for large piles of Circles; and a final set were near the cooing, barely-dressed men and women that walked amongst them or danced on tables.

"It's quite a place, isn't it?" Wasp asked.

"It's... something, sire."

Wasp clapped him on the shoulder, and went to some stairs that led into what was presumably the brothel. He ascended a few steps and then clapped his hands, the sound piercing the revelry and drinking. The Custodians, Servants, whores, and regular patrons all turned.

He grinned at their attention. "Everyone, tonight's celebration is on me. I will cover your drinks, your 'entertainment,' and twenty circles at the gambling table each. Have a good time, unwind, and celebrate everything you have done. Everything you all have done!"

Another cheer. The whores and dancers whooped with joy. Mugs were bashed on tables, and feet stamped, echoing through even this large bar. Slant noticed Heart at the bar then, his scarred face resting on a thin male whore's hairless chest.

"I'd like to thank Heart and Slant. Now, I can see Slant because I just left him, but where's Heart?"

"Where do you think?" one Custodian called back.

The group all laughed as Heart pushed the whore away and stood. "I'm here, sire," he said.

"Of course you are," Wasp replied. An odd look passed across his face. "Your piece of flesh better treat you right, or I'll be unhappy."

"I sure will, sire!" the whore, who wore the make up of a woman, shouted back.

"Anyway, tonight is a celebration! We celebrate because of Heart and Slant. I hope our entertainment remember that in particular." He paused, looked to the whores who all whooped again. Some left their Custodians behind and walked across to Slant. "Have fun, wreck yourselves. But not too badly: we have more work to do in the morning!"

The Custodians stood, roared, their drinks in the air. Slant grinned at his fellows, whilst trying to ignore the attention the whores were giving him.

"Well, what are you waiting for? Drink!"

The Custodians applauded, chanted Wasp's name. He grinned, a cat with an endless supply of cream, and stepped down. The nearest men shook his hand or acquiesced. The rest returned to their entertainment.

"So, you're the big man?" one whore asked, a tall, tanned man with muscle-definition that would make a Contegon weep. He put a hand on Slant's shoulder and smiled.

"It seems like it," a stick-thin female whore said as she stepped beside him, put a hand on his chest. "I'm willing to bet he's a big man elsewhere as well."

Two more stepped in, a buxom woman and a wafer-thin man. They smiled, genuine smiles that reached their eyes, and all waited for him to make a decision.

"Look, your attention is flattering and all, but..."

"But nothing!" Heart said, walking over with his company under his arm. The painted man giggled, enjoying being carried so. "You earned it. Go upstairs and fuck one of these pretty things like there's no tomorrow."

"That sounds good," the well-built whore said with a wink.

"Heart, this is nice and all, but I don't know that I can–"

"Why the hell not?"

Slant blushed, looked away from the gnarled man.

"Oh. Oh, Sol! Really?" Heart said with a laugh.

"A first timer!" the buxom woman said, stepping forward. "I love those."

"No, really, I don't –"

"Come on," she said, grabbing his hand. "Let's go find a room. No pressure."

She started to drag him away, but Slant pulled back. His chest, as well as another part of him, felt like they were going to explode. He shook his head slowly and pointed toward the thinner man, who was much more to his tastes.

"Perfect," the young, thin man said. His dark, plump lips broke into a smile, showing excellent white teeth and a hunger that excited Slant. "My name's Cap. I'll show you the ropes, hero boy."

The buxom whore pouted. "Damn. Can I at least watch?"

"Would you mind?" Cap asked Slant.

"I... I guess not."

"Good! My name is Seed. I'm just as addictive as the drug," she said with a wink. Then she grabbed Cap and Slant's hands, dragged them up the stairs.

"Wait, Seed, where are you going?" someone shouted. Slant didn't see whom because he was lost in a swirl of hormones, and the slim, perfect lines of Cap's body.

"Don't you worry, I'll be back in a bit, lover. I just want to watch the fun."

"No, I want you down here now," the voice shouted back.

"Well, no one gets what they want all the time," Seed sang as she ran up the stairs.

Slant was led upstairs to one of the larger bedrooms. Cap gently pushed him over to the bed and lay him down, those umber lips moist, his lithe body hanging over Slant.

"Just relax, hero boy. Let me get us started."

Seed sat at the corner of the bedroom and leant forward, her eyes filled with the same hunger both Cap and Slant felt. For the first time in years, Slant considered a woman in a sexual manner, and found her almost as arousing as Cap.

Cap helped Slant out of his top, kissing along his scarred body. "You're a bit of a fighter, aren't you?"

"I... Yes, I used to be a vigilante."

"A vigilante? How brave," Cap replied, looking deep into his eyes. "I love a brave man."

He kissed down Slant's body, and was about to get to a part of him that truly wanted attention when the bedroom door burst open. Three Custodians entered, led by a bearded man with fury in his eyes.

"You get out of here now!" Seed shouted, standing. "What do you think you're doing?"

"I said I wanted you now," the bearded man said. "And I'm going to have you." He grabbed Seed, hard. The woman screamed.

"Hey, you stop that!" Cap shouted. He stood, as though to fight, but one of the Custodians leapt forward and gut-punched him, knocking him to the ground.

Slant's desire had changed into a thirst before they'd hurt anyone. Now, he threw himself at the nearest Custodian, shooting a fist into his stomach. When the man – an obese mess who must have gotten by in fights by using his bulk – doubled over, Slant dropped his elbow hard on the back of the man's neck.

The other Custodian stepped across him. A sharp pain filled Slant's world. He looked down: a knife was buried in his side. Blood poured from the wound. He fell to his knees and tried to stem his bleeding as the room became lighter, the sounds of the fight became distant. Until he saw only light.
Chapter 34

Slant spent centuries, aeons, in and out of consciousness. rising above the deep waters of his pain for a few minutes only to be pulled under moments later. He was sometimes dimly aware of a presence beside him, something watching him, a curious predator, but more often he felt tremendous pain and faded.

When he woke fully, he was in an unfamiliar bedroom: it was sparse, but what little furniture was on display was expensive and old. The atmosphere was light and airy with its thick, velvet curtains thrown open. It was as good a place as any to wake up. The air smelled of strong soap and his own sweat.

His stomach hurt too much to make the mistake of sitting up quickly. He instead lifted the covers. Strong, tight bandaging surrounded his midriff. There was no blood. The sheets and bandages seemed fresh: he supposed they had been replaced regularly. And carefully.

Slant prodded the wound and a dull pain that focussed on his teeth echoed out. He was surprised it hadn't woken him before. Perhaps whichever Doctor looked after him had kept him drugged, distanced him from the worst of his recovery.

With great care and deference for his wound, he pulled himself into a sitting position. Trying his legs, he felt such atrophy that he knew he couldn't walk. How long had he been in this bed? With no answers around him, he sat and awaited a visitor, tried to ignore the growing pain in his stomach and flour-dry mouth.

After maybe an hour, a young girl with a pile of fresh sheets under her arms entered. She was whistling, a song she punctuated with a shriek when she saw Slant sitting up.

"Sol, you scared the... No, sorry, 'tis not your fault, sire. I'll go fetch Doctor Mandate."

"Wait!" Slant croaked.

The Servant jogged off, never to hear his request for water. His throat felt like it had been roasted for days. He sought for a source of water he'd perhaps previously missed, but there was none. He'd have to wait for the Doctor.

Another half an hour passed before someone knocked on the door.

"Enter," Slant creaked.

An elderly man in red Doctor's robes entered. With him were Junior Doctors, both young women, who carried food, bandages, and, mercifully, water. They stepped inside, the elder Doctor moving with the elegance of a Councillor, his Juniors hanging their heads like Servants.

"Good morning. My name is Mandate. I'll presume you are thirsty, Slant," the old Doctor said, his wrinkled jowls jiggling with each word. "Let us feed and quench you, shall we?"

The Junior Doctors brought the food and water forward and placed it on a bedside table. One Junior Doctor, a redhead with freckles and a hair lip, filled a small cup and raised it to his lips.

"I can feed myself."

"After so long–" the Junior Doctor started.

"You do not speak!" Mandate shouted. His hands twitched. Then he coughed, smoothed his robes out. "My apologies to you, Slant. You have been without food and drink for weeks, only drinking nutritious liquids of my own design. It is usually a good idea to slowly ease yourself back into partaking of usual food, because your body can reject them in such a situation."

Slant nodded dumbly, and let the Junior Doctor tip water into his mouth. He swilled the first sip around, replenishing his mouth's lost moisture. His gums and tongue felt cracked, which would only make his fruit breakfast more painful. After carefully swallowing, feeling the now-warm water slide down him, he took more from the poor Junior Doctor.

With the cup empty, Mandate snapped his fingers. The redhead stepped back and her counterpart, a blonde with burns peeking up through her robes, fed Slant lemon, apple, unsalted meat, and cheese. As he'd suspected, the citrus made his mouth burn, but he wolfed it down regardless. His stomach was calling for more when Mandate snapped his fingers, and both Junior Doctors left the room.

"This jug will be left at your bedside," Doctor Mandate said, pointing to the jug. "You will drink from it only slowly and carefully, like each mug could be poisonous. Am I clear?"

"You are," Slant replied.

The Doctor knelt and brought a bedpan up from under the bed. He placed it purposefully beside the water. "The Servants will clear your waste daily. They will also check on you every hour. If you feel dizzy, faint, or anything other than the pain you currently endure, you tell them."

"How do you know what I'm feeling now?"

"Not only did I perform flawless surgery on your guts, Slant," the Doctor said with a sneer, "but I have been in here every day to check your progress. You were very lucky with how the knife cut you: nothing major was hit. I imagine that, within months, you'll be back up to... whatever got you into this mess."

Slant let the insult slide. "So, where actually am I? Who has paid for all of this? Have my family been told what happened?"

"I will be the one to answer those questions," Wasp said as he entered the room. He wore the grey robes of a Custodian and had a strange, bulbous sack in his hands.

"Ah, good. I'll leave him to you."

"Thank you, Mandate."

The old Doctor pointed to the water, and said, "Slant, you be careful with the water. The last thing we need is for you to throw up when you're still recovering. Hear me?"

"I hear you. Thank you, sire."

Mandate nodded to Slant, then to Wasp, and excused himself.

Wasp closed the door behind him. After looking around the room, he carried a chair over to Slant's bed. The sack dragged on the floor, its contents rolling and bashing into one another.

Wasp sat. The scarred man looked Slant up and down. "I'm told your recovery will be full."

"So am I," Slant replied.

"That's good." Wasp leant forward. When he did, a sickly scent wafted from the sack and across the bed, a nauseous stench. "We'll need people like you for the next phase of the Custodians. You are a strong, powerful young man, one with a ruthless strength, and a will to do the right thing." He paused. "I am... disappointed about what happened to you."

"Where am I, Wasp?" Slant asked.

"This is Mandate's private care facility," Wasp said, gesturing around the plush room. "Your recovery is covered, don't you worry."

Slant shook his head. "How can you afford to spend so much money like this on me, sire?"

Wasp sat back in his chair, cupped his hands. "We have access to funding, Slant. You don't need to worry about that. People know that we are doing good, and they are willing to support that."

The stench from the sack seemed to be getting worse. Slant breathed through his mouth as best he could. "Why are you here, then, if people are paying for our important work?"

"I wanted to apologise to you for what happened. Your stabbing. I feel responsible."

Slant shifted in his bed. "Why would you be responsible?"

Wasp licked his lips, sat back. "I arranged the party at which you were attacked. I oversaw the hiring of the men who came at you, killed those poor whores–"

"Fuck, they... they killed Seed and Cap?" Slant saw the two of them, saw those beautiful people who sold themselves, and balled his hand into a fist. His stomach seemed to hurt a little more at that.

"Were those their names?" Wasp asked.

"Yes, those were their fucking names, Wasp!" Slant hissed. "How could you not even learn their names, if you felt guilty for what happened to them?"

Wasp looked away for a moment, his calm mask cracking into rare guilt.

"It's because you only feel guilty for what happened to me," Slant whispered. "Fucking Lun, Wasp, you're saying you didn't care about Cap and Seed because they were whores? What sort of opinion is that for someone who deals in justice to have? Don't they deserve justice too?"

"There is a flaw in my character, Slant... No, there are many flaws in my character," Wasp said, looking straight at Slant. A sorrow was in his eyes, though it was quickly replaced with hard contrition. "I am a mere man, created by Sol, tempted by Lun. One flaw is a lack of respect for people who sell themselves. And I find it... difficult... to respect a man who would fuck another man."

"Like me?" Slant asked.

Wasp nodded. "Had I known before that you were... so inclined... I might not have taken to you as I have. But you proved yourself, you found Heresy, so it doesn't matter how you conduct yourself in private. Just like Heart, whom I also had no idea about. However, it's very possible that I gave my people the impression that... your sort... were lesser."

"That or you fucking picked people you thought felt the same way. And there aren't any women in the Custodians, are there?" Slant hissed.

Wasp took a deep breath. His neck muscles tensed as he slowly said, "What I'm trying very hard to say is this: I have been wrong. And I am sorry."

Slant tried to hold himself calm, still. His sexuality had nothing to do with his desire for justice, with wanting to look after his family. Sex had never really been a part of his life. When would he ever have had the time to meet people? A small, rational part of him whispered how unfortunate it was that, the one time he let his guard down to enjoy sex, such violence had erupted...

"I will be changing my ways," Wasp continued. "My discomfort with... your kind... will cease to play a part in my leadership. After all, what if this had happened to Heart, or it had happened before you were able to make your key contribution? No, what matters is that you are a strong, capable man. Nothing more. So, Slant, please forgive me."

Slant looked him up and down. For what it was worth, he did seem to be genuine in his desire to apologise. Which made the bag in his hands all the more worrying.

First thing was first, though: "Have my family been informed of my situation?"

"They have. I last visited them yesterday," Wasp said. "Your sister, the Cleric, understood the need for secrecy, and has visited you often. I arrange a full escort both ways. She brought your mother last time."

"Mother left the house?" Slant asked, amazed.

Wasp nodded. "The Mentalist seems to be doing a good job. I even spoke with her, would not have been able to tell she was ill. If leaving the house was a problem before, it seems less of one now."

The thought of his Mother leaving the house, coming to visit him and not having an episode, swept away his anger and distrust. The man might not be perfect, but he had helped Slant's family. He would always know Wasp thought him lesser, but he couldn't begrudge the man who was saving his Mother's sanity.

"What else can you offer me, for my forgiveness?" Slant asked.

"A place by my side. I will make you a First Custodian, let you shape how we proceed, catch me when I... slip." Wasp gestured at Slant with the sack he held. "More, I have these gifts."

"What... what are they?"

Wasp placed the sack on Slant's bed. That horrible scent wafted over him, made him gag. He didn't want to know what these gifts were. But Wasp's face was so urgent, so honest, that he had to look. Slowly, Slant opened the sack. He immediately recoiled from the three bloody, severed heads of those who had attacked him and killed Cap and Seed.

"This is what I offer you, Slant. It is a promise: I swear that, no matter who breaks the law, they will be punished. And no matter who is wronged, there will be punishment. One day, no one in Geos will hurt an innocent without facing Sol's punishment. This I promise with these gifts."

Slant took deep breaths, tried not to break his stitches by throwing up. It took supreme effort, and a hand clamped to his mouth to stop his stomach rising through his throat. He spluttered, tears rolling down his eyes, and swallowed air.

This... 'gift' proved that Slant had no choice but to accept Wasp's apology, to try and stay in the Custodians. If he were to leave, what might happen to him, to his family? If... that could happen to his fellow Custodians, guilty as they were, what might he do to someone who he took into his confidence?

He looked at Wasp and saw disappointment. What did he expect from Slant: joy, visceral satisfaction? Slant didn't want this to happen to those who attacked him: he wanted a normal execution, a quick, sharp sword. Whatever execution method Wasp had used for those Custodians hadn't been quick.

"Forgive me," Slant managed, "my stomach is still weak after the attack."

"Oh. Of course! That makes sense. I should have thought." Wasp smiled and lifted the sack from the bed. "Tomorrow, we can start planning our future. Until then, thank you Slant."

"For what?" Slant asked.

"For forgiving me, of course."

Slant nodded. "Of course. You are forgiven, sire," he lied.

Wasp flashed him a sharp grin and marched out, his ghoulish sack resting on his shoulders.

Slant watched the door long after he'd gone. The image of what had been done to his fellow Custodians stayed with him, that sack of rotting meat. He told himself that execution was at the discretion of the Contegon who administered it, and some had been found to use 'unusual' methods, but nothing could calm his rising panic at being trapped in an organisation run by a butcher.

It would be less horrifying than having his mother infirm and incapable. He told himself that over and over. Even after a thousand times, he was not convinced.

### Snow

"But I ask you, what if Lun were able to plant some seeds so deep that Sol could not see or reach them? What, then, would be the fate of us and our people?"

\--Lord Blind in his 'Treatise on the War Against the Dark Brother'

Chapter 35

The Gravit Mountains were no longer Disciple territory but Geos', hard-fought ground taken through countless battles and near-endless sacrifice. Gone were the Turrets that kept the Shields at bay. The traps of old were far behind, with more created and abandoned during the march north. The two Fronts now extended from coast to coast, crossing the lower reaches of the Gravit Mountains where the grass thickened until it met the Moenian Forest.

But war is a slow beast, particularly when one side has only a slender advantage, and the Second Invasion reminded the people of Geos how quickly their work could be undone. Towers, great wooden structures that could be quickly disassembled when the ground ahead was no longer contested, were erected across the continent. They acted as bastions and lookouts, ensuring no Disciple could approach without being seen, and that scouts and Shields could be monitored safely.

Contegon Mark Protect, a former Academy teacher who would have been Rested but for the war, raced back to her tower and roared, "Light it up!"

The Shield manning the tower ignited the tower's firework. Bright tubes shot into the air and burst in a brilliant sapphire display, telling other towers they needed assistance.

Contegon Protect turned back to the thick forest wall. Her cadre were dead after the Disciples had ambushed them and cut them down in the crossfire. Of the eleven she'd had with her, only one escaped, and Frame was slowly crawling up the incline, screaming for help, her legs useless after a bullet to the spine. The Contegon's honour screamed at her to help, but the Disciples wanted her at risk like that. The only way to beat their callousness was with her own.

"Forgive me, Sol, and accept Frame into you if she does not survive," she whispered.

A hail of bullets punctuated her prayer. She threw herself behind some sandbags, a genius idea from the Artificers. Protect was grateful for their ingenuity as she huddled down, holding her arms and legs in to her chest. The Shield above her, she knew, did the same. Because, in theory, they only had to wait for back-up after firing the firework.

Protect listened for thudding footsteps or whirring joints as she cowered. Usually, birds chirped from Moenian Forest in the day, but the gunfire had frightened them away. That should help her pick out the Disciples, but the silence pressed in on her, gripped her by the shoulders, shook her. Her breath felt like shouting, and her heart battered itself senseless against her ribs.

She shouldn't be out here. Younger Contegons were desperate to take her place: Lun, she'd trained many of them, and had enjoyed doing so as a stay-at-home. But comfort and simplicity weren't in Sol's plans for her, not with Geos' need for experienced fighters.

Protect acquiesced as best she could whilst huddling. "Sol, please keep us safe to achieve your plan."

If someone was listening, it wasn't Sol. When she lowered her hands, the familiar stamp and whirr of Disciple movement pierced the calm. The horrors had broken cover, knowing this tower was ripe for assault. They would not create a permanent hole in the Front – the towers zig-zagged across the land, two deep, to ensure that would not happen – but it would drain Geos' resources, deprive her of more soldiers.

Attrition, that was the word senior Shields used: this was a war of attrition now. And Geos' faith in Sol would have to endure if they were to win.

Protect jumped as the Disciples peppered the sandbag walls. Loosed sand flowed down onto Protect from the tower. The Contegon covered her head, screwed her eyes shut, and tried to remain calm.

Then the Disciples played their war music, a strange new tactic of blaring guttural and atonal noises with a constant beat, like barely-controlled chaos. It was supposed to unnerve, to be associated with failure, and it succeeded: Protect couldn't help but think of the death she had witnessed whilst that song played, the Shields ripped apart by vicious claws and raking bullets.

"Contegon Protect?" the Shield on the tower called down over this din.

"Call me Mark."

"Mark! My name is Hex. I want to seek absolution."

"Now?"

Another hail of bullets came at them. With incredible precision, the Disciples all shot at the same points of their cover, tearing through the sandbags.

"Can you think of a better time?" the Shield asked over the soft hiss of falling sand.

Protect supposed she couldn't blame him. "What sins have you committed?"

"Most of them."

"Care to be specific?"

"I... I stole from other Shields. When they were dead. I sell their jewellery to our Merchants."

The Contegon sneered. Looting was punishable by three years imprisonment... suspended, of course, until after the Disciples were destroyed. Most people caught looting would be dead long before then, so there was no downside to it. Aside from the ire of Sol, which only entered a mind like Hex's when they were about to meet him.

"Also," he continued, "I was a coward and left fellow Shields to die during the Turret Scourge: I was at the rear of a march when some Disciples attacked. I ran, never looking back, and then lied about it to avoid punishment. I'm sorry. I'm sor–"

A round of bullets cut him off. Contegon Protect waited for him to continue, but it seemed a lucky shot had ended his confessions.

"Shield Hex, you're forgiven," she whispered, not seeing a point in withholding absolution.

The Disciples' whirring approached. Protect reached into her robes and pulled out her Baptism. With Sol's will, she would take one of the bastards down. That would be enough, her duty done. Grinding and clicking, ringing out that disgusting music, the Disciples advanced. They hammered her cover with bullets, taking more and more of it away.

Then there was a streak in the sky, the green glow of an Acolyte. Protect didn't allow herself to be distracted, stayed ready in case the Disciples appeared before this possible saviour. But reinforcements might be on their way. Maybe Sol was looking out for her...

One Disciple burst forward and earned the Baptism for its eagerness: aiming for the head was natural, but it was better to aim for the stomach where the Disciple's dark magic took root. Protect launched the Baptism with perfect accuracy and was rewarded with the righteous sizzling of its death, but a bullet caught her shoulder before she dropped back into cover. She span and landed heavily on the wound, the pain warning that her collar bone was broken.

Bleeding out, engulfed by pain, she looked up at the blurring sky. It was a glorious day, bright and clear. How cruel, she thought, to die on the cusp of being rescued.

A green burst of energy ruined her view, small at first, but getting bigger. Protect raised an arm to it, feeling light-headed and cold, and something within the mass of light grabbed her hand.

"I've got you, Contegon," the Acolyte said. There was pain in his voice, a brutal knowing.

The green light, Sol's will and anger, cleared to let Protect see her saviour. She laughed when she saw a tall young man with narrow shoulders and a shorn head: Sol was definitely looking over her to have her rescued by the next Shield-General of the western Front.

Another crowd of bullets came at them, but they bouncing harmlessly away from the power surrounding Snow. He looked away from Protect and grinned. What had been terrifying, threatening, to a Contegon was an amusing challenge to him. Protect shuddered. Sol's wrath was only something to be imagined before: now, most Contegons and Shields had witnessed it first-hand.

The Shield-General-in-training ran forward, his famous medallion spinning. Protect propped herself up to watch him smash the first Disciple to crest the hill. A jet of green fire raked down the monster's form, melting its frame and workings, and it fell, never to rise again.

Now out of Protect's view, she could only hear the Acolyte's victory, booming impacts and screaming metal. The world span as shock took her, but she counted the impacts to ensured that no Disciples had managed to escape Sol's wrath.

Of course, none did.

The young Acolyte returned after a while with a Field Doctor's kit, presumably taken from the tower. Without speaking, he knelt to cut her Contegon robes and gently prod the bullet wound, testing how bad it was. His testing ignited agony in her.

"I'm sorry, but I'm not skilled enough to treat you," he said, covering her back up. "The bullet is barely stemming your blood. If I tried to remove it, I'd just make things worse."

"Then I'm... I'm going to die?"

He shook his head, smiling, then put pressure on her shoulder. Protect screamed, thinking he meant to send her to the one he worked for. But no, as the pain subsided, she realised he was trying to stop the bleeding.

"You won't die, Contegon. I just meant we'll have to wait for the Field Doctors to catch up, you and I. We can share the watch, ensure no more of that filth get past us."

Protect smiled. "Tell me, sire–"

"You don't need to call me that, not now."

"Snow, then."

"That's better."

"Tell me, why come out here yourself?"

He gave her a fleeting smile, and said, "Because it might be the last time I can."
Chapter 36

The cadre of reserve Shields arrived at Protect's tower just after Sol had set. Snow didn't leave the Contegon's side, held her hand and pressured the wound, keeping up as much small talk as one can muster with someone who bled profusely, until they arrived.

Snow had seen death so often it was a part of him, a cosy shadow at the base of every thought, a shawl he could not lift. At his command, Shields fought and fell. He had been in a hundred battles, seen every evil the Disciples could visit. Snow was used to death. But being used to something was not accepting it. Contegon Protect deserved more than to bleed out far from anyone who loved her. Ignoring his bladder and other bodily complaints, he fought against her wound and watched the horizon.

Snow wondered whether Sol's Gift could heal as well as destroy, whether Sol wanted his Acolytes to undo destruction as Sol did during his evening rests. As the Contegon had slowly faded, he cursed this limitation to even an Acolyte's powers.

His Servant – he preferred that to Spirit – appeared then. Signet's physical form was akin to the necklace it inhabited, a golden sphere surrounded by rays of Sol's light. The Servant had no eyes but it watched Snow, seemingly offering sympathy for his plight. And though it had yet to speak, its presence made him hopeful that Contegon Protect would survive until help arrived.

By the time the Shields were in sight, Contegon Protect was pale as her robes and her bleeding had stemmed. "Hurry," he called, using his power to project his voice, "her wick has almost burned."

The Shields' blue robes were dark under the overcast night. The Field Doctor's were half-red that showed her status in both Stations. She raced ahead, almost skidded as she fell beside Protect.

"What happened?"

Snow shushed the Contegon when she tried to answer. "Contegon Protect took a bullet to the shoulder, one too deep for me to get safely. I've applied pressure to the wound but it has been some time now. She has lost a great deal of blood."

The Doctor, thirty-something with a shaven head and blonde eyebrows, nodded and gently pulled Snow's hand from the wound. Dark blood weakly spilled forth. The Doctor leant forward but frowned, unable to see in the failing light.

As she reached for a torch, Snow brought Sol's Gift into his palm to provide light.

"Thank you," the Doctor said. She reached into a Field Doctor's kit far heavier than the tower's and brought out forceps and a knife. "If you're going to provide my light, keep it stable."

"I will."

The Shields caught up as the Doctor started surgery. Four secured the perimeter, searching the forest with telescopes. Others climbed the tower and used fireworks to signal its defence had been re-established. A young Contegon with a starved look and a short crop of red hair stood behind Snow, too overawed by his display of power to command her cadre, showing she was only fit to look after a back-up cadre.

"Let me provide the light," she said partway through the surgery. There was a bright flare as she lit a torch. "You should be returning, Acolyte."

"I don't need a child to remind me of my duties," he snapped.

"No," the Field Doctor said, not looking up from her delicate work, "but you need someone to remind you of your manners."

Snow tutted at himself. "You're right. Forgive me, Contegon, my long wait is no excuse to lash out. I just want to ensure Protect is safe before I return."

The Contegon acquiesced. "I didn't mean to tell you what to do, sire"

Snow blinked. He was an Acolyte, would soon ascend to one of the most holy and important roles in Geos, but couldn't stomach people assuming they were in the wrong. He knew he'd been unfair, and so must the Contegon, but she accepted the blame anyway. It was a reminder, one he needed, that power was dangerous to the wielder as well as the victims.

"What will happen to her?" Snow asked the Field Doctor when she had finished surgery. The Shields and Contegon watched Protect's sleeping form as the Doctor was sat away from them, smoking.

"The back-up cadre will look after her until she's recovered. If she's as able as she was before the attack, she will take over from the young Contegon," the Field Doctor said. She drew heavily on her cigar. "If she isn't, or she doesn't recover, Contegon Support earns a promotion. Praise Sol."

"I didn't mean that."

"I know you didn't," she said kindly. "She will live, don't worry. Anyway, shouldn't you get back?"

"I should."

They remained silent. The Doctor reached into her robes and offered him a swig of something alcoholic. "No, thank you. I haven't eaten in some time. And I should get back, like you said."

"Fair enough. Sol be with you."

"His blessings upon you," Snow said automatically.

He stepped away, gathered Signet's strength, and launched into the air, like a bird, great green wings carrying him up. The ground disappeared, the nearby mountains shrank, and he soared back to his home. Signet flew beside him, serenely matching his pace as he returned to New Call.

New Call wasn't so much a town as the western Front's brain. Consisting of uncomfortable but portable tents and semi-permanent structures that could be abandoned or collapsed at short notice, it led the Front from forty miles behind the front line. Blazing like hope in the night, unmistakable and undeniable, torches lit the roads for the thousand or so people who called it home. Most of the inhabitants were support and reserve forces, or the Blacksmiths and Chemists and so on they relied on.

Snow circled New Call twice before dropping into a landing place specifically kept clear for him. He touched down delicately and disconnected Signet's power, his wings dissipating like smoke.

Catch was waiting for him in the shadow of the tent Snow called home. "You have been gone for hours," he shouted, his voice cracking and rattling and dangerous, like a poorly-maintained machine. "That was not a routine patrol, Snow."

"A tower requested aid. I went to help, as a good Shield should."

Catch sneered, creasing the claw-shaped scars a Disciple had torn into his face. He shaved his head, but not his beard: those long, dark whiskers flexed as he said, "A good Shield-General shouldn't waste his time with such frivolities."

Snow smiled. He'd learned that friendliness was the only way to meet his mentor's disapproval. "It's a good thing, then, that I am not a Shield-General yet: my intervention saved a Contegon's life."

"But how many Contegons and Shields did your missing five meetings kill?"

Snow rolled his eyes. "They are meetings, Catch: not battles."

Catch ran forward and stood nose-to-nose with Snow. Snarling, he gripped Snow's collar, nearly lifting his junior. "You missed the Artificers discussing their iron shortages after a downed ship, meaning we may be short on weapons and armour soon. Something like that should be taken account of, don't you think?"

"Well, I—"

He shook Snow to shut him up. "You also missed the Doctors begging for space for a herb garden, which would require a reorganisation of New Call. That would hamper the war efforts if it's done, but could cripple us if it isn't. You missed Contegon Piety demanding more space for her ministrations, and me having to calm her because she wouldn't accept she was wrong, being a damn Contegon and all. I made those calls today, but what clues or important details did you miss whilst looking after one Contegon? What reports should you have picked up on as you turned your intellect to trifling matters?

"You can't measure the damage your absence caused," Catch said, releasing his grip on Snow's collar. "Every meeting is part of the battle for a Shield-General. How many times do I have to say this? You should be above everything so you can see it all, like Scar's model of Geos."

Snow closed his eyes: a hundred men and women doomed to be captured at his command flitted into his mind. "I can't do that. I won't."

Catch tutted and took a step back, clear away from Snow's personal space. "Then you will kill more people than you save. Sol damn you, boy."

Snow considered flaring his Gift, reminding Catch that he was an Acolyte blessed by Sol, but that would be an abuse of his power that would fail anyway. Besides, Snow suspected Catch was trying to get a rise out of Snow, testing him with his new role only two weeks away.

"I am still an Acolyte," Snow said, "and so my actions are blessed by Sol. I know that doesn't make me right, not all the time, but I was right to react to a blue firework, Catch. In fact, if I remember right, it's my duty to respond to one as a Shield."

The elder Shield tutted. From him, that was practically a compliment.

Thinking their exchange done, Snow walked toward his tent. But Catch grabbed his shoulder, stopped him. "Did you at least rescue whoever you went to help?"

"For now. It was tower fifty-one. The Disciples seemed to catch them unaware, ambush them. Only their Contegon survived." Snow looked his mentor in the eye. "Despite all the training we give our Shields, the Disciples still caught them off-guard. It's as we predicted: the Disciples are learning."

"Aye," the old Shield replied, his brown eyes golden in the torchlight. "But, hopefully, so are we." He sneered at Snow. "Some of us, at least."
Chapter 37

Snow was woken when a rooster heralded Sol's arrival. Their love of Sol made roosters good luck on the Front, and Snow liked to maintain that tradition.

Snow stretched out on his narrow cot. A Shield-General's tent was meant to be luxurious, but Snow considered that a waste when room was limited. Besides, taking only a modest tent with little furniture had allowed him space to land in.

He was still stretching when he entered his tent's main room and found a steaming bath waiting. Catch had won some battles over how Snow should behave, and not wasting time with menial tasks like pouring his own bath was one of them. Apprentice Shields now took care this, invisible agents of labour. He didn't like this arrangement, but still used the gloriously warm water.

Breakfast arrived shortly he dried, a simple meal of meat and fruit carried by young Farmers. Their Station had adapted to the cooler climate by growing rhubarb and harvesting the wild cherry trees that grew on the Gravit Mountains. If Snow didn't have time to wash himself, he certainly couldn't savour the meal, but he tasted some of it as he gulped it down and imagined it might have been delicious.

On time, Catch entered the tent. Two young Servants entered with him, his combined Shield and Acolyte robes in their hands.

"Busy day today," his mentor said. "We start with greeting the new Contegons, then some meetings with the Major Shields and the Farmers. Then there's a whole nest of things you and I need to sign to satisfy the Clerics, so that'll be fun."

Snow's heart sank, but he chastised himself for that reaction: such bureaucracy was as much a part of being Shield-General as organising, confirming, and taking guidance from his confidants. Not every day would be life and death battles, or long arguments over tactics.

"Do you know when another Acolyte will replace me?" he asked, standing. The Servants stepped forward and began to dress him, sliding fabric over his skin. "Good Morning Roll, Wing," he said to them.

"Good morning, sire," they parroted, terrified.

"I don't know about another Acolyte," Catch said. "With the eastern Front trailing behind, I expect they'll get each batch until it evens out. Certainty and Grit cover the centre well enough that any secondment seems pointless."

Snow suppressed a laugh as Roll's hand tickled him by setting his leather armour around his stomach. "That makes sense, but it's a shame. We are still stretched, and we're about to lose another."

"You'll still count as an Acolyte," Catch said wearily. "Just... not one on active duty. I would expect you to go out and fight if the Front collapsed, for Sol's sake."

He reached up. The Servants hopped onto stools and slipped the robes over his arms. "So I'm a reserve Acolyte on my own Front."

"Better than being an overworked one on Eagle's."

That was true. Advancement of the Fronts was a point of pride between Snow and Eagle, a small competition. He'd ribbed his friend in their written communications about his lack of progress for a year now, but uneven deployments would soon guarantee the man caught up. Of course, that was best for Geos, but Snow would not let his friend forget that such measures were required.

Roll and Wing tied his robes around him and stepped back, done. Snow checked his appearance in a shoulder-high mirror: he wore Shield blue and Acolyte gold with a blue cape signifying his rank. At his behest, the Artificers had given the cape straps that could be quickly released, and had added room for the armour that bulked his slender form out.

"A fine job as usual, boys," he said.

"Thank you, sire," they both said.

"Dismissed," Catch growled. The Servants acquiesced and ran from the tent.

"When did the Contegons get in?" Snow asked.

"An hour ago. They've had long enough to drop their travel packs and wash."

He checked himself in the mirror again. "Let's go then."

Two horses waited for them outside the tent, held by more Apprentice Shields. Snow had insisted on getting himself around New Call, much to Catch's chagrin, who had wanted Shields to carry him like horses. Instead, Snow demanded to learn how to ride, and now used whatever beasts were not required for goods and materials when he needed to travel within New Call.

Snow climbed the horse nearest to him and read its emotions to determine its state. The horse was calm and happy: animal's emotions were big and bold, easy to read. Snow couldn't distinguish between human emotions yet, his biggest blind spot with Sol's Gift, but animals he got every time.

"Come on, my friend," he whispered to the horse. "Let's go see some Contegons."

New Call buzzed around them, always thrilled at new arrivals. It would be a month before the next lot of Shields arrived, mostly young failures from other Stations, so there was almost a festival atmosphere: the Artificers threw their tents open to hammer weapons and armour or carefully brewed new Baptisms; and the Farmers displayed their wares, hoping to catch Snow's eye and gain some prestige. There were no Merchants: inviting them was down to the Shield-General, but Catch had insisted Front were no places for people looking to make money. Though his Dad had been a Merchant, Snow had agreed with that logic.

Some people stopped and gawked at a senior Shield and an Acolyte trotting through the streets. Others waved, hoping for attention, and Snow couldn't help but wave back. New Call appreciated his efforts, validating every meeting he missed and each poor night's sleep. He couldn't help but feel gratified by this, though he knew in his core that Catch was right about his main responsibilities.

Had Scar been treated like this by Call? The man should have received such adulation, though perhaps he discouraged these displays. Snow could not do so, having been strictly ordered to encourage people to show their faith in him: that was the price of the Gift, inspiring people to follow your lead.

Snow and Catch soon got to the Contegon's sector, a well-organised square of fabric contraptions for those held in reserve, or those who organised and mediated. Faded images of Sol were painted on every surface. Contegons raced about their holy duty, as thrilled as the rest of New Call about the new arrivals.

"They're actually relieved," Catch said, reading Snow's expression. "They know they'll be more likely to get a tower now new blood is here."

"What's the split this time?"

"Two Advanced Squad, twenty two normal."

"Twenty two? That's... a large crop." Each Front got half of the graduating Contegons, so a record number had Graduated this year.

"Isn't it just?" Catch said, his voice low so as to not insult any Contegons who might hear.

They rode to the central tent, where Contegon Piety welcomed her new charges. The Advanced Squad members might get towers right away, as befitted their status, though it would depend on Contegon politics: it sometimes seemed the Fronts had more Contegons than they needed, and some Advanced Squad members may wait for some time before facing a Disciple. Though, with so many available, Snow could perhaps start thinking about advancement, perhaps even form Contegon cadres. He made a mental note to discuss that with Catch when they next fought their paperwork.

Piety's tent was as large as a Shield General's ought to be, a spacious structure that comfortably housed tens of Contegons. Prayers to Sol and hymns had been painted on its fabric walls by Contegons with little to do between battles, making it feel oddly like a Lord's tent.

Outside, a young Contegon Snow vaguely recognised from last year's arrivals waited. She smiled when she saw them, and said, "Shield-General, Acolyte, I'm here to collect your rides."

"Thank you," Catch said, not having to add 'sire' when he was still Shield-General. He'd find relearning how to address Contegons the most difficult part of the transition.

"Yes, thank you," Snow echoed.

The Contegon beamed as she took the reigns. Snow leapt down, Catch carefully climbed from his horse. With a click of her tongue, the Contegon led the animals away.

"You're taking this introduction, remember," Catch said.

"I remember."

"Give them some history, then say something about Sol. That's all Contegons want to hear."

Snow waited for his laughter to pass before entering the tent.

Twenty-five sets of eyes turned to him when he pulled the fabric door back. One belonged to Contegon Piety, a middle-aged Contegon who'd lost a foot twenty years ago and found her calling in New Call. Sol had a plan for everyone, and this greying, shrewd warrior had proven invaluable, particularly following the tragedy of the Loss. Before her were the new Contegons, arrayed on low benches. They craned to see an Acolyte, eyes burning with fascination and fear. Near the front, two Contegons sat alone: they would be the Advanced Squad. One of them looked maddeningly familiar...

"Good morning, Shield-General, Acolyte," Piety said, pulling him from his thoughts.

"Good morning," the Contegons echoed, bowing and holding their hands above their heads.

"And a good morning to you all," Snow said, entering the tent. He walked around the benches and remained silent until he stood by Piety. "May I take over?"

"Of course, sire." Piety sat and gestured for him to start.

"I'm not so arrogant as to think you'll know exactly who I am, so let me introduce myself properly: I am Acolyte Shield Snow. I will, in the next fortnight, be Shield-General Acolyte Snow. People tell me I'm lucky I hadn't chosen a Station before the Second Invasion, or I'd be a real mouthful."

The Contegons tittered. The very familiar Contegon laughed loudest, her eyes shining.

Snow frowned, tried unsuccessfully to place her again, but didn't let this derail him. "You'll know a lot about warfare from the Academy, and you should be aware of where we are with this war, so I thought I'd talk to you about the Advancement, which you might not know much of. Does that sound okay?"

They all said yes or nod, hanging off his words as a representative of Sol, one given the Gift.

"After the Second Invasion," Snow continued, "the Council resolved to launch a counter-attack. They wanted to march on Moenian, thinking it vulnerable after the Disciples suffered a heavy defeat. Acolyte Councillor Maya argued caution, though other Councillors wanted vengeance. I agreed with my fellow Acolyte, thinking the Disciples capable of anything. This clash meant we had to reach a compromise, so we moved slowly, but purposefully, north.

"First, we recovered the western Front and old Call, then advanced the line. But we were presented with a problem: the Gravit Mountains, a great unguarded space potentially impassible for the Disciples. Again, the choice was between thunder and calm. I was still learning then, so I chose caution and calm. Catch, your current Shield-General, thunderous in every way, told me this was a mistake. On my order, we slowed to secure the Gravit Mountains. It took us much longer, but I was proven right when a hidden cadre of Disciples were flushed out by our efforts. Thanks to our caution, they did not strike at Aureu unguarded.

"Now, you might think this is a lesson about caution and risk aversion. But it's not, for caution was my undoing during the Turret Scourge." Snow walked across the open space, carrying the Congetons' attention. "It was suggested that we go all out to destroy the Turrets, heedless of losses to the freezing cold, to clear them once and for all. I advised caution, not wanting to lose men to winter, which, as you may remember, stopped the first attempt to clear the evil things. My fellows agreed overall so we took our time, were careful. And we failed utterly.

"The Turrets, as we now know, bred: somehow, they spread some strange seed to replace any of their number we destroyed. I was so caught up in the idea of protecting lives and not taking risks that we left some Turrets alive when winter rolled in." He stopped, looked around at a field of interested faces. "When we returned after winter, every Turret had been replaced. Every single one. My caution wasted another year and many lives. Too many lives."

Snow stopped and imagined the families of those he was responsible for. For a short while, he was lost with the dead. Then he shook his head and said, "So what am I telling you? Well, first of all, I may be an Acolyte, but I'm still just a man and I make mistakes. Sometimes big ones. If you get into a position where you can advise me, and some of you may, remember that. Secondly, life is always somewhere between thunder and breeze, caution and aggression, and you should always strive to maintain that balance, even against your own nature: after all, Sol both burns and loves."

He scanned the audience: they were rapt, awaiting his final words. Shield-Generals welcomed new Contegons to instill respect for their role. With any luck, they'd remember his words, and think them wise.

"Finally, never, ever underestimate the Disciples. The Council did, and they sprang the Second Invasion on us. Catch did, but we avoided a tragedy. I did, and we walked into one. Maybe this is just the fear of someone who was at Call when the Disciples invaded, but I truly believe we have only seen what the Disciples have chosen to show us. Lun is just aching to spring more horrors on us, and we should always be ready for that. For it is through us, and especially you, that Sol's will be enacted. Thank you."

"Praise Sol!" the familiar Contegon shouted, standing. Her fellows joined her, fists high.

"Praise Sol," Snow replied.

In the corner of his eye, Catch applauded. He almost looked like he meant it.
Chapter 38

A long day of meetings, decisions, and inspections passed. Snow did get to flex his wings by inspecting the new tower designs on the west coast. The coasts were the least likely Invasion sites, being furthest from where Moenian was believed to be, and so they were testing grounds for new technologies. The latest Towers were more collapsible, and stood up to the ocean's harsh winds well. They were cheaper too, requiring less wood, though that development was a bonus compared to the gorgeous sea vistas, the joy of flight, and Catch's discomfort as Snow carried him.

Servants brought him a meal after his last meeting. Snow insisted on eating whatever the other Shields ate, so he had his fourth stew in as many days. It was hearty, simple, and warm. He ate in silence, reviewing reports.

Catch had once said, "Contegons don't run Geos, and nor does Sol: paper does. Reports, tallies, and ledgers. A Shield-General must master paper or it'll bloody well master him." His ire and hatred always stuck with Catch, so he smiled as he went from a report on his effective manpower per square mile to the fascinating topic of human waste disposal.

When his plate was empty, the cutlery was whisked away. Only then was he truly alone in his tent. With a spare moment, he sat back in his chair, closed his eyes, and let his mind drift.

His upcoming ascension to Shield-General leapt to fill the gap. Scar and his mother, Wire, had wanted this for him so much that he'd accepted Maya's offer on their behalf. At the time, he was desperate to be in the war again, to make a difference after seeing Aureu destroyed. Then he'd been swept away by the majesty and joy of becoming an Acolyte. That unrivalled honour was still there, a small kernel that made itself known when he summoned Sigil's strength, but he'd never considered his future, or what he really wanted from it.

He frowned. This wasn't like him. He was deflecting. The war, the Scourge, advancing up Geos... all that he'd achieved so far had been done in the comfort of Catch's shadow. Now that shadow was withdrawing, he panicked about standing against the Disciples as Shield-General of the western Front. Perhaps that was why he'd blown off so many meetings.

Snow had faced many horrors, seen people at their worst and their best, but being Shield-General scared him more than all else. He imagined himself making the mistakes of the Scourge over and over, blunting Geos' hard-fought advantages until they were nubs and he was Rested in disgrace.

Shaking himself from this morose state, he found Sigil hovering overhead. Its looming both concerned and comforted, a weight that could crush him and a reminder that Sol had allowed him this position. His mood calmed as he watched the Servant.

"What do you think?" he asked. "Are you ready to work with a Shield-General?"

Sigil tilted forward, bowed almost.

"I knew you would be. This is Sol's will. I just... I know I will make mistakes."

Sigil did not respond, did not move.

"I know, I know, everyone does. Maya certainly does. I just don't want to. Not that anyone wants to, of course. But I'm as young as the First Servant and I–"

Someone rang the bell outside his tent tinkled. Sigil disappeared, knowing to remain hidden except in the company of other Acolytes, and Snow sat up in his seat.

"Enter," Snow said, taking a deep breath to switch back to his Shield-General state.

The familiar Contegon from the other day opened his tent's flap and stepped inside. "Excuse me, Shield-General, I– Oh, were you not meeting someone?"

"Only Sol," he replied. "You don't have an appointment, Contegon...?"

"Contegon Insight." Snow must not have been able to control his surprise at her unusual name, as the Contegon continued, "I was so Named because I achieved a perfect score on my Academic tests. My insight served me well, and should serve you just as much."

"Well, here's hoping," Snow replied. "Contegon Insight, you don't have an appointment. As you are freshly arrived in New Call, I hope you have a good reason for disturbing my valuable time?"

The Contegon's expression became a mix of disappointment and relief. "You don't recognise me, do you?"

"You were at the introduction this morning," Snow said, tiring of her attitude already.

She put her hands on her hips and wore an unusual smile. "I suppose I have changed, but I'd really thought you'd recognise me one-on-one."

Snow sighed, stood and walked round his dining table to his tent's entrance. "I'm sorry to disappoint, Contegon Insight, but I meet thousands of people every year." He held his tent's flap open. "I get precious little time to myself, and do not want to spend it on a guessing game. So if you'll excuse me–"

"My full name is Contegon Element Insight," she said.

"Element... Element..."

He let the tent flap fall to the floor. The Contegon laughed at his shocked expression, and she looked younger, more like the little girl with the inquisitive eyes, moulding blanket, and the ability to look right through him. Time had treated her well, made a true Contegon of her.

"Sol, Element, it's you?" he whispered.

"You've given me a pretty awful welcome so far: can I not even get a hug?"

Snow laughed and grabbed her, held her tight. "I can't believe it. It's been years since I last saw you!"

"It has," Element said, squeezing back. "Just before you went to war."

He released her and stepped away, looked her up and down. It was incredible how much of a warrior she looked, how different she was to the young girl who'd wept when he said goodbye. And yet the signs were there, the same features just a little different, the same smile. Lun, she'd even taken advantage of him, surprised him, as she loved to do.

"Sol, I can't believe it," he said. "I can't believe you're here."

"Well, from what I understand, I have you to thank for that."

Of course, he'd asked Maya to consider Element for a Contegon position, but then he'd been swamped with... well, everything he was becoming, and hadn't considered it since. Clearly, she had flourished, especially if she'd graduated from the Advanced Squad.

"No," he said, shaking his head, "it's Sol, and your own abilities, you have to thank."

"Well, naturally, but... you know."

"How are you?" Snow asked. "What weapon did you choose? I have so many questions."

"So you don't mind me taking some of your time now?" Element asked playfully as she sat.

Snow sighed. "Yeah, I know. I don't like treating people like that, but it's the only way to stop them taking from me, from pushing their own agendas. And, frankly, I just get so tired of speaking to people that I jealously guard my time a— What?"

Element pushed him. "That was too easy! You have become so tight you can't even spot a simple joke!"

"I guess take myself seriously now," he said, laughing at himself. "I have to, if everyone else is going to make the same mistake. But I've always got time for family. Even the impertinent ones."

"Hey!" Element replied, faking shock. "Watch how you talk to a Contegon."

"I don't have to: I'm an Acolyte. You should watch how you talk to me!"

She stuck her tongue out at him, and then sighed happily. "An Acolyte... I get goosebumps just thinking of your Station. It makes me remember that green plant creature wrapping itself around the Cathedral's towers. What's it like, being so... connected to Sol?"

"Surely you know too?"

"A Contegon's connection is not so... obvious. Not even an Advanced Squad member's."

Snow smiled. "Sol, I'm so proud of you. It's no trifle to come up through the Advanced Squad."

Element blushed slightly, waved a hand at him. "Thank you, but it's not the achievement it once was. The standards had to be lowered to bolster our ranks. You can see that with this most recent shipment." She paused. "Not that I need to tell you about that."

"Regardless, you met the Advanced Squad's standards and perfected every academic test. That would have gotten you Graduated in the Advanced Squad before the Second Invasion, and you know it."

She leant her head to one side, begrudgingly accepting his point.

Snow sensed the conversation needed to shift. "How is everyone else? The other refugees?"

"Trawl became a Shield and works for your counterpart, Eagle."

"Is that so? I'll have to put a good word in to Eagle for him." Element's smile faltered. "What?"

"It's not my place to say, but, if he wanted a good word from you, he would have asked. I think he wants to achieve what he can without your help."

Snow nodded. "I can understand that. Sorry, it's just automatic to try and help."

Element started to fiddle with her white robes. "In truth, I was worried you had done that for me, used your influence to get me through the Advanced Squad. That is, until I saw you didn't even recognise me! It was almost like you'd forgotten, rather than boosted, me..."

Years of meetings with subtle and political people had trained Snow, but he didn't need any experience to detect that criticism. "I'm sorry. You, my family, have been so far from my thoughts as I went through my training and my advancement. I... I have no real excuse for it."

Still fiddling, she said, "Did you not get our letters?"

"I did. I read them during the winters and I wanted to reply..." He shook his head, looked down at his feet. "No, it's a feeble excuse. I tied myself in knots to earn my Station, then this upcoming title. You were a lower priority to me. I... I need to write you all, apologise. But first, Element, I must say that I'm really sorry for not giving you the consideration you deserved."

"Thank you, Snow," Element said after a pause, her breath hitched. "That's half of why I came here to see you, to call you to task. I won't say it was easy, knowing you had more important things to do–"

"No," he said, taking her hand, "I didn't. I only hope Sol forgives my mistake."

Her expression softened into a smile.

"I'll make a note now, book in some time to write letters to everyone and—"

Element shook her head. "You don't need to, not at the expense of the Front. In truth, I think most of your family understand: we watched you rise and rise to the forefront of Sol's war. You can be forgiven for not looking back when so much is ahead of you."

"Thank you. Sol, this is like the boat all over again: you correcting me for my mistakes, keeping me in check. There's a lot less mould, though, of course."

"I prefer not to think about those days," Element said stiffly. "To remember all that... death."

Snow nodded. "I understand. But I... No, forget it. Anyway, you said my callow ignorance was half of the reason you came. What was the other half?"

"Did I? Oh, I, well, I guess I meant it was to see you. To talk to you. Catch up, you know?"

It was a poor lie, but Snow let it go. "Well, we've got some time now. I can't stay up too late, though: early start, as always."

"I have an early start too: I'm heading into the shadow of the Cruel Peaks."

"That's a good placement. You probably won't get a Tower right away there, but you might see some... fighting," he said, realising what he was saying. Element would be at a key part of the Front, protecting a Mining operation that provided raw materials for the Baptisms. She would certainly face Disciples in the next few months.

"I know! It's great, isn't it?"

Snow supposed it was, though he couldn't help but be concerned. As unprofessional and unwelcome from Element as it was, he'd ask Contegon Piety about the support Element would get. "Yes, it is."

"Sol, sound enthusiastic about it at the least."

Snow shook his head. "Forgive me but I've seen too many Contegons die to have any illusions about where you're going and what you will face. Lun, I've even ordered the deaths of many people like you."

"Well, you needn't worry about me," Element said. "I'm amazing."

Snow laughed, and the mood broke. "Want some wine?"

Element grinned, delighted. "I'd love some. We can drink, catch up, then turn in early and do Sol's work in the morning."

"I'm not Shield-General yet, so I can't give an official view," Snow said, standing to retrieve a bottle of wine gifted to him by an ambitious Major Shield, "but that, Element, sounds like an excellent plan."
Chapter 39

Contegon Fresh Praise was Element's fellow Advanced Squad member. Born in the eastern village of Cuff, she'd wanted to protect the eastern Front close to her friends and family. But Sol had other plans, so she was now far from home, leading a cadre of Shields.

The Front was more than its towers: it was a zone Geos had reclaimed, a line that Disciples must not cross. Contegon Praise had expected a cadre immediately, but there was little demand for new Contegons on the western Front. She was lucky to have this cadre after their previous leader had come down with an illness. Fresh had been in the right place to take advantage, and would not allow this opportunity to pass.

The morning's chill was bracing as she stepped before her Shields. A dozen soldiers, scarred and capable, wore weapons and dirty blue robes stained with blood and years of fighting.

"Acquiesce," Fresh said. "I am a Contegon, and you are my cadre."

Slowly, ten went to their knees, listening to the white robe more than her. The oldest two did not.

Fresh stepped to the bigger of the two, a brute who looked like he chewed bricks. Fresh was tall herself, but she had to crane to hold his gaze. The huge Shield leant forward, unwavering under her scrutiny. She smiled and punched him in the stomach. He released all his air with an 'oof' and bent over.

"There," she said with a nod. The other insolent Shield was kneeling, hands in the air.

"Treat me like Contegon Fury, and we won't go wrong," Fresh said. "We've got a twenty eight mile route ahead and disciplining you every five minutes will only waste time. Do you understand?"

"Yes sire," they all replied, even the two fools.

"Good. We're following route four. Move out."

Much of their day would be spent in the forest. Fresh had grown up amidst farmland and sea, great open plains each, and even at the Academy she was only minutes away from a horizon. All those trees waiting to enclose her made her feel small and encroached. She couldn't help slowing her pace.

"Keep up," the winded Shield said, 'accidentally' bashing her as he passed.

Fresh growled and charged ahead. She wouldn't lose her cadre's respect over some overgrown wheat. Any Contegon faced trials and battles to earn their cadre's trust. Mostly men, Shields often resent taking orders from women, especially ones young enough to be their children. Contegons were taught to face this battle like any other: to win. But Contegons needed these warriors' confidence without resorting to Sol, because they would face much, much tougher challenges than a few spiteful men.

More than once, Fresh thought it unfair, wrong. It was a primitive and counter-productive attitude. The Shields tacitly encouraged this animosity: after all, they'd only allowed women into their ranks in the last twenty years, and their leadership was filled with the men who fought that move.

Railing against this injustice would change nothing with these brutes: the Contegons could only prove to each Shield individually that they were worthwhile. Fresh would start with these dozen.

Soon, they were under the forest's skin, like cautious parasites. The air was filled with sweet pollen. Strange insects chirruped and chimed as the Shields crashed through untamed undergrowth and over fallen trunks. Fresh hovered around third place in the march, letting the faster Shields lead her on the unfamiliar route, and tried not to show her discomfort at the shadows around her.

Fresh didn't feel swaddled for long: she adapted, able to absorb almost any situation. The mushrooms growing on tree's corpses and hides, the insects hovering over stagnant water, the complex bird's nests built on sturdy branches: all of these interested her, kept her curious as she scanned her surroundings. They were on a patrol, after all, here to halt Disciple activity.

She put her hand on her Baptism, eager to see a Disciple melt into the earth. The Shields had hefty hammers to knock the monsters over, hooked staves to pull them down, or shields thick enough to absorb bullets, but they weren't Baptisms or water in the bladders from her catapult.

Her cadre didn't notice her eagerness. That, or they didn't care to notice it. They ploughed on, their pace just above walking on this uneven ground. As near as Fresh could tell, this route followed a Disciple thoroughfare: close enough to see the well-trodden path, far enough they wouldn't be seen if it was in use. Fresh had borrowed Contegon Fury's muddied robes so she would not stand out, blistering white figure amidst the bark and greenery.

After another hour, she halted the Shields at a secluded dip. "Take ten minutes."

The Shields secured the area, setting themselves to watch all potential approaches, and broke out water bladders. One Shield, a woman ten years her senior, pointed her bladder at Fresh. "Care for a drink?"

"Sure," Fresh replied, grateful.

She took the bladder. A waft of something strong enough to strip paint hit her. This was another test. Fresh drank, taking enough to show the Shields she could taste what it was, and swallowed without pause.

"Give me the real stuff, or water," Fresh said. "Where I come from, the beer is stronger than that."

The Shields watched her, knowing she knew she'd been hazed. Fresh kept her eye on the Shield with the sense of humour, whose brown eyes darted across Contegon Fury's robes.

"That was a poor show, Year," another Shield said.

"You didn't even surprise her."

"Sorry guys," Year said, breaking into a smile. "I think we might have a proper one here."

"Yeah, I could've told you that," the lummox she'd winded said, rubbing his stomach.

The Shields laughed, and a border was crossed. Fresh laughed too, sensing it was time to soften. The Shields chatted easily then. And, as simple as that, Fresh was one of them.

Another hour passed along the banks of the Disciple roads. She learned the Shields' names as they marched and heard just enough about them to endear them to her, and vice-versa. By a small wonder, the lummox she'd struck was also from Cuff. Most of the rest were from Shield families, had joined and survived the Station long before the Second Invasion.

Even during such camaraderie, Fresh was disturbed by the unnaturally straight paths the Disciples had worn, order and simplicity brutally forced onto nature. "They made a board out of the forests," Year said when they followed a new edge, "like they were playing an enormous game of Squares."

"Disciples don't play games," Rival growled. After living through three decades and a dozen Contegons, he was the most qualified to make that statement.

Fresh counted out another hour and a half before she allowed the Shields to rest and eat patrol rations, salted meat and dried fruits.

"Is it true what they say about the Advanced Squad, sire?" Year asked as they ate.

"And what do they say about the Advanced Squad?" Fresh asked.

"That you have to beat one of your teachers in your first year," she replied.

Fresh laughed. "No! You're a child when you start. You're lucky if you can beat homesickness."

"Makes sense," Bastion said, a gruff son of a Miner.

Year looked disappointed. "What makes you Advanced then?"

"A test result, an aptitude, sometimes extraordinary piety." Fresh shrugged. "Most students are recommended for the Advanced Squad in their first year. Really, the Advanced Squad training whittles down their numbers over the years, rather than elevating our–"

Fresh stopped when a bush nearby rustled. The Shields stiffened, joviality and comfort forgotten, and quietly reached for their weapons. Her breath calm, she gestured for the nearest Shields, Stand and Bow, to follow her. Thick shields raised to prevent surprise attacks, they went to track the source of the noise.

With its broad red-tipped leaves and green spine, the bush looked like it had tasted blood and was eager for more. Sol's light tried to filter through the roof of leaves but the trees greedily claimed it for themselves, refused the cadre more than scraps to see by.

"It was probably just a fox," she told herself, not believing a word. It was unlike a Disciple to hide, not take at least one shot, but the monsters were always trying new tactics, so it wasn't impossible.

After a deep breath, she rounded the bush. There was no waiting golden figure, no explosion. However, wide footprints with pad impressions like a large cat's were there, clear webbing between the toes. A long tail trailed behind the creature, displacing the dirt except where it lifted or twitched.

Fresh motioned for the Shields to come forward and pointed to the tracks. As they examined the strange markings, she scanned the area for any sign of the creature that had left them.

"It must be a local creature," Bow said.

"Some strange creature then, huh?" Stand asked. "I mean, webbing?"

"What's your explanation then?" Bow asked.

Stand shrugged her broad shoulders.

"You've not seen anything like this before?" Fresh whispered.

"No. But then, we've not been this far up Geos for that long," Bow said. "This could be something that migrates south as the weather warms."

Her eyes darted to the tracks again. Something about them unsettled her. Then she frowned, counted. "Whatever it is has six feet."

"So it does," Stand said after some time. "A really strange creature."

"Come on," Fresh said, a chill playing through her. "We'll report this when we get back."

"It's probably just a weird animal," Year said after the rest of the Shields had examined the tracks. "Who knows what Moenian's waste could have done to the wildlife? It might have started life as a house cat."

"Or a yammering Shield," Rival said.

"I wouldn't worry none, Contegon," Year said. "The further north we go, the more weird things we're going to see. And we can't report every unusual animal we find, else the Clerics would go mad." She added, "Madder, anyway. Just ignore it, yeah?"

Her cadre were ready to go, the tracks little more a curiosity to break up the tedium of patrolling. Fresh came round to Year's way of thinking as she walked, put the tracks behind her to concentrate on her patrol. She was new to the Front, scared by the forest, so her worry might be unjustified. By the time the patrol ended, she'd convinced herself that her worries were unfounded.
Chapter 40

Snow had reviewed every document and gently probed everyone to understand their points of view and secret aims. The agenda was written, most of it agreed in advance, and Snow had studied it like the Sol Lexic. Everything he had learned, surmised, or guessed was written in a personal notebook, with pages bent so he could quickly search through.

He was ready for his first Leadership Meeting sitting in the Shield-General's chair. He'd done everything he could. But why did he feel so nervous?

Well, this was premature: his ascension eleven days away, but these meetings happened monthly and Catch had decided it'd be best if people got used to Snow's leadership. Snow suspected his mentor really wanted to see how he would fare in the hottest seat outside of Aureu. That he'd arranged a trip to the Artificer's Proving Grounds to coincide with the meeting only added weight to that theory.

Snow went over his notes once more, then wasted some time pacing restlessly. He stopped only when he nearly walked into his mirror. The reflection showed fresh robes, uncreased and unsullied: he looked like a true Shield-General, a crisp and disciplined person, armoured and armed. Looked, but not felt.

He wondered how Scar had felt at his first meeting as a Shield-General. His Granddad had been much older though, had already proved himself to his fellows. Whilst Snow had killed more Disciples, Scar had fought with grit and determination only, which earned a different kind of respect. Snow wondered if he'd feel more like a Shield-General after a fight like that, after a victory when his life was truly at risk.

The tent flap was pushed open. In the mirror, he saw Wing, the Servants. "Five minutes, sire," he said.

"Thank you, Wing. Allow our guests in."

The young man acquiesced and ran from the tent.

Snow looked back at his reflection. "You're ready for this," he lied.

Hollow words fading, he sat at the head of his long table. Two seats had been added since the set was built, elegant and felted where the others were staid and simple. Settings rested before each seat, silver triangles with etched names. Their original purpose had been to introduce newcomers: now, they showed people where to sit.

"Stupid as it is, seating is important," Catch had insisted. "At the Council, the greatest Stations sit close to the Guardian: the Lords and, now, the Acolytes. Seating shows the hierarchy of the Stations, which means every other fucker sees great meaning in seating arrangements."

His table was rectangular, so the heads were the most important. Snow took one end, Contegon Piety the other. Kick, Brace, and Tide – his Major Shields – took the seats beside him. A fellow Acolyte took the next seat: today, it would be Certainty. After that, the seating plan followed the order of the Stations in wartime: Doctor, Artificer, Mariner, Farmer, and Cleric.

Snow lay out his notes as his Major Shields entered. Kick and Tide had operated under a strange alliance for a decade, each making sure the other was praised for their efforts. It was a tactic that'd seen them advance quickly, but it soured them in Snow's eyes. They walked side-by-side, narrow, tall men who preferred the bow over close-fighting. Kick was dark-haired and well-shaven, Tide was red-headed with a close, neat beard. They approached the table together to ensure they got the seats beside Snow.

Brace entered a moment later, so used to Kick and Tide's behaviour she didn't expect a prime seat. She was built like a bull, taller than either, and she shaved her head to show off twin tattoos of Sol above her ears. She was a Brawler even as a Major Shield, but she knew to avoid pointless fights.

The Major Shields were surprised, then, by Snow's seating arrangement: he had ensured Brace would be to his left, his 'west.' As Sol drove Lun away by diving to the west, being on the left was a privileged position. From what Catch had told him, Kick and Tide took it in turns to claim that place.

"Today," Snow said as the Major Shields examined their placement, "Brace will be to my west. Next month, it shall be Tide. Then Kick."

Kick took his unfavoured spot with a flicker of resentment. He did not like a woman being a Major Shield. His allotted seat was Snow's subtle way of showing his disapproval. The man might get the message, though Snow doubted it would do much good.

Acolyte Certainty entered then. A toned, vicious-looking fighter, she had been born with half legs, but one could not tell. She had been a Cleric when Maya interviewed her, stuck in a bed with a nigh-on endless supply of paper. Her unhappiness and despair had called to Maya, made her want to change the woman's life. And Sol had definitely changed her: for a start, her Servant used the Gift to help her walk, forming replacement legs stronger than any flesh ones.

"Certainty," Snow said, rising. "It's good to see you."

"Snow!" she replied with a grin that lit her up. "How are you, sire?"

"What have I told you about that? Call me Snow, damn you!" he joked.

Certainty shook her head. "I'm always going to address my Shield-General as sire, so you'd better get used to it, okay?"

"You respect him enough to call him sire, but not enough to listen to an order?" Kick asked.

"Hello Kick, Tide," Certainty said, ignoring the barb. Her eyebrows rose when she realised where Brace was sat. "And, of course, Brace. How are we all?"

"Fine," Kick and Tide said almost in unison.

Brace rolled her eyes before nodding that she too was okay.

"Good. Glad to hear it," Certainty said as she took her seat.

The remaining guests entered in a group. These Stationed men and women finished their small conversations and welcomed those already present. Many visibly noted Brace's seating position.

"Good afternoon, everyone," Snow said.

Contegon Piety surprised him by acquiescing in response. "Please, Contegon Piety, do not acquiesce," Snow said. "My Station at these meetings is that of a Shield-General."

"Forgive me, sire, but your Station as one granted Sol's Gift is never removed in my eyes."

Others started acquiescing then. He watched his Major Shields share concerned looks, try to determine whether they should bow too. There would be no use to a meeting where everyone treated him like this: he needed these people to challenge him, not to accept what he said as some plan handed down from Sol. He had to be a mere Shield-General in these meetings for them to work.

My, wasn't that a weird sentiment? Scar would have laughed hard at such a comment.

Scar... Snow reached into his robes and pulled out Scar's signet. The attending leaders acquiesced again, shying from an item infused with Sol's Gift. Snow examined it for a moment, the image of Sol made to show Scar's power, then threw the necklace onto his table.

"I am not an Acolyte at this meeting," he said. "My Gift is for battle, not for war. I beg you not to view my opinions and options as directly from Sol: view them as coming from your Shield-General, something to be challenged rigorously. Am I understood?"

"Understood, sire," Contegon Piety said. Then she gave him a flickering ghost of a smile.

When everyone was settled, Certainty asked, "Then what am I?"

"You are still the Acolyte representative," Snow said. "But you are subordinate to me."

"And your comments will be considered on that basis," Kick added.

Certainty smirked, not a pleasant expression. "Will they?"

Brace leant forward, her tattoos obvious to all. "Yes. They will."

The Acolyte's smile became more pleasant. "Very good."

In all, the meeting went well. By the end, though, Snow understood how ridiculous his comment that meetings weren't battles was: everyone attending had their own aims, agendas, and prejudices, as well as rivalries nursed over years. The Doctors resented how the Clerics recorded their losses. The Farmers felt unappreciated. And everyone mistrusted Certainty with her Station still unproven to people who'd been on the Front their entire lives. Snow had to use his wiles and intelligence to reach any accord.

In spite of this, everyone agreed their priorities for the next month, and that the supply lines were solid enough to support a push into the Moenian forest once the Eastern Front had caught up. The way from there would be difficult, but they decided that large tracts of the primordial trees would be felled, leaving enough for the forest to recover eventually, but not so much that Disciples could use it as cover. Only the Artificers relished this prospect, for they would have quite a surplus of wood.

Two hours and many harsh words had passed when he called the meeting to a close. Servants brought through water and food then so the attendees could share a small meal and informal conversations. Bread, fruit, and water were passed around, and chatter began between his direct reports.

After a few minor conversations, small talk or questions about his Gift, Snow saw that Contegon Piety was alone. He excused himself and went to talk to her.

"Acolyte Shield-General Snow," the Contegon said, her eyes falling to Scar's signet.

"Contegon, the next time you want to make a point like that," he said, his voice low, "can you do me the courtesy of talking to me in private first?"

"I don't know what you mean, sire."

Snow took a breath. The Contegon had acquiesced to make him remove Scar's signet, establish herself as the voice of Sol in these meetings. She was probably right to do so – after all, Snow had not wanted to be viewed as a flawless tactician – but her underhanded methods riled him.

He held the signet, looked at it pointedly. "I think you do, Contegon Piety."

Her eyes fell to the signet. They both stared at it.

The Contegon cracked first by smiling. "I suppose I'm used to Catch's way of working. I should not have assumed that you would be like your mentor. Please accept my apologies."

"I don't want them," Snow said. "I'd rather have your assurances."

She gave him another flitting smile, this time somewhat genuine. "All right. I assure you that I will make that sort of point to you in private next time."

"Thank you," he said, dropping his signet against his chest.

The Contegon straightened, rolled her shoulders. "This all went better than you feared, no?"

"It did," Snow said, feeling some of the tension drop between them. "But I think everyone was on their best behaviour to impress me. Tougher challenges await."

"Of course they do," Contegon Piety replied with a nod. "Why else would Lun continue, if he didn't think he could make things harder, more difficult, for us?"

Snow eyed the Contegon. He didn't say that Lun had nothing to do with his fears.
Chapter 41

Smaller support villages were built at ten-mile intervals from New Call, buildings of tanned leather and waxed cloth. These villages were named for their distance from the Western Artificers' testing ground. At Tenth, by the Cruel Peaks, Element lay in the Contegons' tent and stared at its ceiling.

Her time at the Front hadn't been what she'd hoped for. Not since she left Snow's company. Until then, she'd been delighted: joining the Contegons was a dream, a wish Sol had granted, but seeing Snow was why she'd prayed for a placement on the western Front. Seeing him had made her feel... whole. Proper. That feeling still remained, only pierced when she was informed that Disciple activity in her assigned zone had died off: for reasons unknown, the monsters only initiated skirmishes now. With the two Fronts askew, there would be no push forward, and so she was left in tedium.

A quirk of chance, or Sol's will, robbed Element of an opportunity for duty: the day she arrived, Contegon Fury came down with the flu. Fresh and Element had been practising north of Tenth that morning, but Element had returned for fresh robes when the Doctors came to look for Fury's replacement.

Annoyingly, if she did well, Fresh would receive the next available Tower or cadre. Meanwhile, Element was stuck with the lesser Contegons, training and tending the minor problems of other Stations. It was driving her mad.

The Contegon shook her head. She needed to do something useful, something practical. There must be work for her on the Front, even if it were menial and difficult, another Station's work.

First, she pulled a folded slice of paper from her travel gear. Contegons were allowed one travel pack for their journey to the Fronts, which was mostly taken up by spare robes, weapons, and armour. There was little room for personal items, especially as many brought a Sol Lexic, and Element was no exception. Hers, though, has a pencil drawing slipped between the pages.

With the advent of the Acolyte Station, there was demand to see and know these beings blessed like none since the First Servant. As a result, their Identity Papers were often taken from the Bureau and their official drawings copied. Some people collected the drawings like jewels or precious art, but Element had only one: Snow's. She unfolded her copy and held it close, like she was hugging him. She imagined his arms around her, gripping her tight, and she sighed happily.

"What's that you have there?" someone asked.

Element turned. Fresh stood at the entrance to the Contegon tent. Rows of cots separated them, but it didn't prevent Element turning bright red.

"Nothing," she said, pushing the drawing under her robes. She tried not to wince at crumpling the paper.

"It didn't look like nothing. Doesn't sound like it either," Fresh said, stepping inside.

"Well, it is."

Thankfully, Fresh just went to her cot. As the newest Contegons, she and Element had the worst cots, the ones at the furthest end of the shared tent. The imperfect walls allowed the north's cold breeze to slice through them, requiring fortitude and heavy blankets, which both had plenty of.

As discreetly as she could, Element folded the paper inside her robes. "Why are you back so early?" she asked to cover the rustling of her drawing. "Shouldn't you be out with your new cadre?"

"They were never my cadre," Fresh said, sitting. "Their rightful owner is with them today."

Element put her hand outside her robe and smoothed the paper against her body: this time, she tried to make the movement look as though she were brushing hair from her robes. "How could Fury have already recovered from that illness?"

"I don't understand it," Fresh replied, stretching her arms out. "She is blessed with an amazing constitution. I'm thrilled that Sol's true choice to lead that cadre is back in her place," Fresh replied, standing. "Just as I am to have had the opportunity to lead them for even a short time."

Element moved across her cot to be nearer. "How... how was it?"

"As terrifying and fulfilling as we imagined, Element."

Element nodded. Fresh had kept to herself at the Academy: they had learned together, occasionally sparred, but nothing more. Element's friends Hinge and Costume had been sent to the eastern Front, but that hadn't stopped her and Fresh fostering a friendship on the journey to the Fronts, sharing the stories, gossip, and dreams which never passed between them during their training.

"Shall we train, then?" Element asked, standing.

"What else is there to do?" Fresh asked with a shrug.

"I don't know. I was thinking of seeing if the Farmers or Shields needed help, anything to be useful whilst I had no one to train with."

Fresh smiled. "Fancy yourself a Shield, do you?"

"I fancy myself bored," Element replied.

Element collected her practice sword and shield, and they walked out into Tenth. Only a dozen tents made up the supporting village, though many were as large as the Contegons'. The only permanent building was the Farmers' warehouse, the food needing protection from the ravaging weather.

"I hate being amongst all these new buildings," Fresh whispered.

Element shrugged. "Really? I don't care."

"No," Fresh said, giving her a sidelong look, "I suppose you wouldn't after spending so long on a rotting ship. This must look like a paradise in comparison."

Element tensed, licked her lips, and then tried to laugh it off. "I keep forgetting I'm a Contegon now, that I don't need to hide my past to avoid special treatment."

"Well, if you really know an Acolyte, you definitely avoided special treatment by being put here."

"Ouch, low blow," Element said. She tried another laugh, but it sounded false as a Disciple.

Fresh looked her up and down. "Sorry. C'mon, kick the Lun out of me for that."

"I was going to anyway," Element said. "But thanks."

It didn't take them long to emerge into the wilderness with its great clumps of short grasses and shrubs. Element admired the dramatic change, from flattened grass to sparse trees and then strong, thick woodland, the trees so close together they hid whatever lived within. The forest continued back until the horizon, with only the strange square edges of the Disciple Roads breaking it up.

"I've heard that some Acolytes have seen Moenian," Element said. "That they have flown so high above our Front that they could seen its jagged edge."

"Did Snow tell you that?"

She shook her head. It had been Tenth's Farmer, a woman named Worship.

They kept walking until they were far enough from Tenth that no one would see their mistakes. "What was it like, in the Moenian Forest?" Element asked. "That's what you did, isn't it, patrol the forest?"

Fresh didn't answer for a few seconds. It looked as though she were debating whether to say something. As Element watched, she felt a cold grain of fear in her soul: could it be that terrifying in there?

She felt silly when Fresh eventually said, "I hate forests. They are strangling. This place is woeful, though. None have tended to it or chopped it down. No human anyway," she added.

"Then what prevented you from talking about it?"

"I had an... odd experience during my first patrol," Fresh replied after another pause. "There were these... tracks, these prints. Like a large cat, but its feet were webbed like a duck's. And their depth was strange: it must've weighed as much as both of us, fully armed."

Element stopped, fancying they were in a good spot to practice. She stretched her muscles out, still gripping both sword and shield. "So the wildlife here is a little strange. Why is that concerning?"

"I've never heard of a large cat like that living in a forest." The Contegon looked south-east. "We used to hunt mountain cats in Cuff when they encroached on our village. Large cats hunt on wide plains, Element, where their speed gets them fed. What advantage does speed provide when there's a tree in your way?"

That tickle of fear returned, but a shameful excitement came with it. "The cadre hadn't seen anything like it before?"

Fresh raised her sword. "They said that it was nothing to worry about, but Element, it had six feet."

Fresh took advantage of Element's shock to strike a sudden blow. Element raised her shield to block, just managing to deflect the sneak attack and follow up.

Element jumped back, put distance between them. "And your cadre really didn't care about your six-footed cat?" she asked, slowly circling.

"They are Shields, Element," Fresh said, circling her opponent "They didn't care. Why would they? I suppose that disinterest, their lack of imagination, infected me."

"That or your intoxication at having a cadre," Element said.

Fresh attacked then, angered by the jab. Element pushed her blow aside and rolled under her guard. Spinning, she pressed her blade's dull edge against Fresh's stomach and pulled it across: she would have been gutted in a real fight.

"Damn it," Fresh hissed. "I'm all out of alignment now."

"So the Shields didn't care about this discovery, but you do?" Element asked, standing back in case this was another feint.

"I suppose I care about what it might mean. Much more than they do."

Element cricked her neck, emitted a loud crack. "Why didn't you report it to a Cleric, then?"

"Perhaps you were right about my intoxication."

Element grinned. "Well, we'll go back and share what you learned. You can say that you discussed it with me, and I agreed that it was worth sharing. How does that sound?"

"Good," Fresh said, smiling.

Element launched herself forward and knocked the other Contegon down. Her blunt blade went to Fresh's neck. Through a grin, she said, "But first, I'm going to kick the Lun out of you."
Chapter 42

After Contegons Fresh and Element relayed what Fresh found in the forests, Contegon Protect doubled the number of Contegons at local towers: a precautionary move, perhaps to mollify those two and the dozen others restless warriors. Not that Element cared for the reasoning: she was just happy to be active.

Fresh and Element were given the towers nearest Tenth. Miles apart, Element could just about see Fresh across the sloped grassland. She hoped Fresh's Contegon was as fearsome and boisterous as Plug Divine, with her enormous muscles threatening to burst from her robes and a huge, broad axe on her shoulder. The woman had welcomed Element like a sister, laughing and cheerful.

Carrying something so heavy as that axe should have been a burden, but Divine barely seemed to notice it. "This old thing?" she'd said when Element asked, jerking an oak-coloured thumb at the axe. Her grin, never far away, flashed as she spoke. "This is my faith: it's always there, but I only notice it when I need it."

Divine ran her Shields through practice exercises as Element kept watch, taking advantage of another Contegon covering her vigil. The Contegon's 'faith' lay to one side so she could dodge her cadre's attempts to injure her. When Element looked down, Divine was doing a better job of being a Disciple than the monsters ever could.

Disciples. Element shuddered. Would she get to see one? She hoped not, she hoped that every Disciple had destroyed itself in some great civil war... but parts of her wanted to see their golden armour, hear that terrifying movement. Those monsters killed her family, destroyed her home: though it led to her current Station, what the beasts did made her soul burn. She wanted to repay their evil.

Below her, the Shields continued struggling to match Divine. The match was unfair, but it represented the mismatch between a normal person and a Disciple: almost all would fail in that fight. Even a Contegon shorn of their Baptism would lose. Only the Acolytes stood a real chance.

Like Snow. Element sighed, happier for thinking about him. He had grown so much. It was wonderful to see, but it put such distance between them... Not that she harboured much hope: Snow must see her as the girl with the sodden blanket, a thin and starving weakling. The difference between then and now, the power she'd gained, would mean nothing in his heart. Her placement proved that: if he'd thought her alluring, he would have kept her in New Call. Damn the politics, or her career, he would've kept her close.

Really, he'd done the right thing. Even if there had been some spark between them, having it ignite would complicate the life of someone responsible for protecting the entire of Geos. And encouraging it at the expense of his Front would be an act of Lun. As far as she could see, the tiny towers dwindling away into the horizon, were under his command. He wouldn't want to damage that, or waste time doing all the things that people do when they're in love...

Not that Element had much experience in that realm. There had been flings, mostly notable for their transience, but nothing more. It was sad, for her and the young men who'd taken an interest, that her heart had never been available: Snow had taken it years ago and didn't even know that he had it.

Element shook away her mooning and melancholy. That was not Contegon behaviour. She tutted at herself and returned to scanning the eastern horizon slowly, watching the forest for any movement.

After half an hour, Contegon Divine called up, "Are you seeing anything, Elemental?"

"Nothing," she replied, smiling at her nickname. "It's quiet as a Doctor's banquet."

Divine laughed, a deep and throaty sound. "Is that a Call saying?"

"I suppose so. It was just something my Dad used to say."

"I can see what he meant." Divine clambered up the tower. Her umber skin glistened with sweat. "Doctors aren't keen on sharing, not when they think something might make their reputation."

Element shrugged. "I don't know. It's just a phrase."

"Keep using it. Maybe you'll make it stick with my cadre," Divine replied, slapping her shoulder. "It'd be funny to see Boy's face when one says it to–"

Divine was interrupted by the pop of a firework. They both span: Fresh's tower had fired off a red firework. Metal on metal, people screaming, reached her when Element cupped a hand to her ear.

"What do we do?" Element asked.

"A red firework means we support them." Divine leant over the tower and called to her cadre, "You saw that. Gather your things and prepare for a sprint. Contegon Wing needs our help."

They climbed down from the tower, leaving the youngest Shield – a tiny girl, bald with pale skin – to guard the tower. The Brawler Shields were prepared in seconds: every day, they practised this mobilisation, racing to dress in full armour and have their weapons primed. This work was paying off now.

Element felt guilty: she had hoped to see Disciples, and Lun had granted her desire.

"Alright," Divine said as she climbed down. "Watch yourselves and each other. Mind Contegon Insight if she has any orders, sees anything I don't, am I understood?"

"Yes, sire," the Shields called back: men and women, tall and short, united by fear and Sol.

Divine nodded. "We run for the tower. Move."

The Shields were so well-drilled that Element struggled to keep up with their pace. That proved to be a blessing, as catching up distracted her from worrying about Fresh. It took fifteen minutes to get to the tower. Element sweated profusely, her throat burned from panic for her friend.

"What are they?" one Shield asked. "They look like dogs."

The remains of Contegon Wing's cadre were spread around the tower: a horror show of dismemberment, blood dripping from every surface. Three forms moved amidst the gore, sleek, scaled, prowling like cats. Two superfluous legs hung from their sides as the things knelt to chew another person.

"Get down," Divine whispered. "They've not seen us, whatever they are, and they are upwind."

The cadre flattened themselves against the grass. Element joined them, scanning the remains for white robes. There were no signs of her friend so far.

"Lun, fucking Lun," a broad, tall Shield with a hairlip hissed. "What are they?!"

Element tightened her grip on her sword. "Those are Disciple creations."

"What makes you so sure?" Divine asked.

"Do you think wild creatures could kill a cadre and two Contegons?"

Divine pointed to the tower. "They didn't. Can't you see?"

Element followed her fellow's direction to a pile of white robes atop the tower. Of course! Someone had set the firework off, so a wounded Contegon must have made it up there and collapsed shortly after.

"We must get to them," Element said.

"Agreed. And I also agree that these lions must be Disciple creations: Contegon Protect was right to send you out here." Divine turned to her cadre, her expression pained. "We've no training on this, so rely on your instincts. Cover each other. Don't take unnecessary risks. Expect surprise and vicious tactics."

"Yes, sire," the Shields whispered in unison.

"Element and I will lead the charge. Follow us and survive."

With that, Divine pulled her Baptism from her robes, then nodded for the attack to begin. Element couldn't draw her Baptism whilst holding her weapons, but she charged with the cadre and her colleague.

The lions – Fresh's term stuck in her mind – saw the advancing warriors and tensed. They were silver monsters with sharp white teeth and pale green eyes. The lion at their head was the largest, its two extra legs thick and functional. It growled at the others, set them charging with feline grace and raw power.

With a grunt, Divine hefted her Baptism and struck one between the eyes. It burst with a horrible hiss. The beast howled as its scales and green eyes started to liquefy. The other lion came at Divine to avenge its mewling, fallen comrade, leapt at where she had been a moment before.

"I'm going for the leader," Divine roared, racing past her attacker.

"I'll take this beast," Element replied, stopping.

She faced the lion, which skidded as it landed. Its eyes flashed. It screeched at her. Element had grown in cities, but she recognised a challenge when she saw it. "Come, you monster," she shouted, smacking the butt of her sword against her shield. "Let's see what Lun has to show for his work."

The lion's powerful paws pounded the bloody earth. Element secured her footing. They clashed with ferocious force. Element thought her arm would break under the blow, but it held as she repelled the beast.

She swung her sword at the lion but it lowered its head, preventing a lethal blow. Element learned what the extra legs were for when the creature reared up, its back curving grossly, and used them for support as its forepaws raked at her. Serrated claws narrowly caught her robes, tearing strips from them.

Element ducked one blow, parried another, and rolled under its reach. She tried to chop into the beast's flank, but her sword just scraped against the thick scales. The beast dropped back down and rounded her, tried to strike at her back, but Element was constantly moving and it missed.

This beast had a fantastic cunning, though: it raised its back legs to trip her as she tried to round it again. Element stumbled and fell, landing awkwardly on her front. She immediately rolled to one side, slightly winded, avoiding a pounce from the clever beast.

She tried to stand and the beast bowled her over and stood over her. Its claws pierced her robes, pinning her to the ground. Believing it had her at a disadvantage, the beast reared up and roared triumphantly.

"Foolish thing," Element hissed.

She reached for the Baptism on her belt and threw it into the creature's face, striking the thing's open maw. Acid sprayed across its mouth and tongue, melting everything it met. Which, owing to her positioning, included her, consuming her robes just as easily as flesh.

The beast backed away as though to avoid the inevitable death. Element used the space to scramble up and pull her robes and armour off. She wasn't quick enough: drips of her Baptism ate away at her stomach. She screamed, panicked that she would be eaten through as well. Fortunately, only minor drips had made it through her clothing, and she would only be scarred.

Gritting her teeth, she turned to Divine, whose 'faith' was buried deep in the large cat's head. Blood dripped from deep claw marks across her arms and stomach and five of her cadre were in pieces. There was no smile on her face, no triumph.

Element checked that the lion she fought was definitely dead before gingerly picking up her sword and stumbling over to the tower.

"Are you okay?" Divine asked, holding her gut tightly.

"I survived."

"You weren't the only one," Divine replied, pointing to the tower.

Element looked up and saw Fresh looking down. Her face was pale, slack, but she was definitely awake and alive.

"Praise Sol," Element whispered.
Chapter 43

"Don't try to stop me," Snow said when Catch entered his tent. "I'm going to Tenth."

Catch remained at the tent's flap, looking in. "Snow, all we know is that a firework was set off."

"A red firework, Catch. A red one."

He nodded. "Exactly. So send Certainty. She is yours to command, primed and ready."

"I bet she is," Snow said, tightening his jerkin. The fit felt awkward, but he wasn't going to waste time by tracking down someone to fix it. "I'm not dense. I know you went to her, told her to prepare for when you talked me down. But you've wasted Certainty's time: I'm going."

The old Shield slapped the back of Snow's head, almost knocked Snow over.

"Ow," Snow hissed as he stood straight. "What the fuck is wrong with you, Catch?"

"No, what the fuck is wrong with you?" Catch roared, bright red with rage. "You will be a Shield-General, you can't abandon your duties and get involved in every battle. This is one tower. Maybe we've lost a cadre, perhaps two, but there would be more fireworks if this were worthy of your time."

The old Shield had a point, one Snow couldn't argue with common sense. "You are right. I take your point and I promise, I swear by Sol, that this will be an exception rather than the rule."

"Why? What makes this one different?" Catch asked, a little disarmed by Snow's honestly. "Forgive me, but I can't see why I should trust you."

"A childhood friend is at Tenth. A Contegon named Element."

"Contegon Insight, the one who visited you?"

Snow should long ago have ceased to be surprised by Catch's ability to know everything that happened in New Call. But he hadn't learned yet. "Yes, that would be the one," he replied.

"And she means that much to you? More than everyone in your Front?"

"That's unfair, Catch: I'm not abandoning everyone for Element. I'll be an hour at most."

Catch eyed Snow slowly, looked him up and down, and then tutted. "It's a red firework, Snow: do you really think it'll just be an hour if the worst has happened?"

A green firework denoted a successful battle, yellow a wounded Contegon, blue warned that the tower would be overrun. But a red firework meant something worse. "I can kill whatever it is."

"And if it's new behaviour, a new Disciple?" Catch asked. "You'll be gone for a day, maybe more, and I'll be covering for you when New Call should be getting used to your presence! This is negligent, Snow." He paused. "What makes this person important? What makes her matter more than your duties to this Front?"

"She was one of the refugees from Call," Snow said, his voice low. "I fought with everything I had to keep her and the others alive. We saw so many die, so very many, and we huddled together in a decaying ship to bring a message of fear. I don't know what I'd do if..."

Catch took a deep breath and looked away. "Alright. Go. But you must reassign her to New Call, so you don't have to do this again." A hint of a smile wafted over him. "If she compromises your sensibilities and judgement like this, you should never have let her leave."

Snow wiped his eyes and nodded. "You're right. It's too risky to do anything else."

"She might hate you for it. The Contegons won't appreciate it either," Catch said as he turned to leave. "However, that is the price for your attachment to her. Not that I blame you: I shared a cadre with my cousin. He earned me half of my scars."

"Thank you, Catch."

"Don't thank me," he said as he left. "Just get back here as quickly as possible."

Snow threw his Acolyte robes on and tied them taut. He looked like an Acolyte, ready for battle. Sigil materialised behind him then. Snow nodded at the Servant. "I know. Let's go."

He ran to his landing area and launched himself with a burst of energy. His robes and cape flapped behind him as wings grew from his shoulders. New Call sent their emotions after him, awe, fear and doubt: he used this power to propel himself, zooming across the bright day.

After perhaps fifteen minutes, he was running into Tenth's Doctor's tent. "Excuse me, what the Lun do you–" a Doctor said before she realised who had burst into her tent. "Sire, I... Sol, what are you doing here, sire?"

The Doctor's tent was filled with wounded Shields, bleeding and moaning, the dozen or so beds filled. Three cots held Contegons. One was Element, bandaged up, but looking healthy otherwise. Shock burst onto her face when she saw Snow. And, he noted with a strange flutter, a small measure of joy.

"A red firework was sent," Snow said calmly. He hadn't realised how tight his chest had been until now. "I am not yet a Shield-General, Doctor, so I'm here to investigate matters as an Acolyte."

"Contegon Wing was right to issue the red firework," another Contegon said. Her dark skin was pale from blood loss, but fire and fury shaded her eyes. "I can't believe the things we were attacked by, sire. Now that it's over, I can't believe it."

"Things? What do you mean, things?" Snow asked.

"They weren't normal Disciples."

Snow felt his face harden. "A new kind of Disciple?"

"No," Element said, getting to her feet, "not Disciples in the proper sense. Here, I'll show you: the surviving Shields carried one out here."

She winced past him, left the tent. Snow followed her a little way north: quite sensibly, they'd kept the corpse well out of town, to not frighten the supporting Stations and to protect against any secondary chemical properties of the corpse.

"Should you be walking?" Snow asked.

"Should you be here?" Element fired back, sounding annoyed by the question.

Snow winced. He stopped, put a hand on her shoulder. "Are you okay? Please?"

The Contegon smiled slightly at the hand on her shoulder. The gesture made Snow feel awkward. "I was lucky: my wounds are from my Baptism. Contegon Wing died. Contegon Fresh is critically wounded and might not make it after the things bit her, and Contegon Divine will be unable to fight for at least two weeks. On top of that, we lost a cadre and five more Shields, as well as all the wounded. The Towers are reorganising, with Contegons lower down the pecking order now covering them."

"At least you're okay," Snow said. It felt odd to get a Contegon's report from Element, a sort of proud surprise. "But bit? They bit Contegon Fresh? What are we dealing with?"

"See that green blanket?" Element asked, pointing north. "Look under it. I'd come with you but, frankly, acid melted parts of me, and I don't want to exert myself any more than required."

Snow smiled. "Of course."

He went to the light green blanket hidden amidst grass. He had flown over this corpse without noticing, which was the point: these green blankets covered casualties, protecting people from such horrors. Presumably, he had flown over the dead Shields and Contegon too, which was a sobering thought.

Snow took two deep breaths and lifted the blanket. Underneath was an eight feet long, twisted feline. It was so horrific his battlemind sparked up. No, his Shield-General mind, a state of cool calculation. He noted the scales, extra legs, and bright eyes bifurcated by the battle. If Element had used her Baptism, this creature was likely the only one killed by normal means: it was heartening to know such horrors could be ended with conventional weapons. Perhaps the strangest thing about the creature was how rapidly it decomposed: already its form was liquefying, and thick carpets of flies covered its flesh. The grass beneath the blanket was turning silver. Whatever he was looking at was unstable, a temporary measure. Unnatural.

Looking through Sol's Gift, he saw the weak emotional energy invested into the corpse by whoever carried it from the Front. Just what you'd expect from a corpse: this 'lion' had been alive, not a construct.

Snow let the blanket drop and turned, his hand on his chin. Of everything they had expected from the Disciples, living weapons had been the last. The Fronts were set up to combat artificial soldiers, so a sharp shift was a great tactic: only three of these creatures had wreaked havoc, killed almost twenty people.

If there had been more beasts, more red fireworks, he would have guessed the lions were being let loose before a marching army. This small a number must be a test of their combat abilities. With so many dead, the Disciples would surely deem this a successful trial.

"They're quite something, aren't they?" Element asked. "Those scales were too thick for my sword to cut."

"They are horrible," Snow said. A shudder forced its way through his spine. "Was there any sign of their arrival, any hint or howl or... anything?"

Element considered the question. "The survivors didn't say there was. Not for the attack, anyway: Contegon Fresh found some tracks a couple of days ago, but Contegon Wing said that, as it was the first time anyone had seen anything like it, we wouldn't report it higher. Not until we had proof." Element tutted, looked away. "It made sense at the time."

"These things always do," Snow said. He also withheld information from his superiors to project calmness and control, removing facts that contradicted that image. It's what one had to do to gain respect, and to give weight to problems you did report. "I want to search for these creatures' lair. Is anyone who can track them available?"

Element shook her head. "I can check, but Shields aren't trained to track animals. We have some spare Contegons, but Contegon command will want to double up on every tower across the Front after today. Our manpower surplus just became a deficit."

Snow tutted, looked away. Every hour they waited, the trail would become more blurred, a wide and scattered mess. He wanted so much to run after it, follow the creatures back to where they had been spawned for short, violent lives.

"What about you?" he asked. "How bad are your wounds, truly? I mean, you obviously can't command a Tower, but maybe you could track these things for me?"

"I fought for my life, and was splashed with acid," Element replied flatly. "I am in no condition to track."

"I get that. I do. How about tomorrow? After some rest?"

Element examined him, surprised and a little disappointed. Before she could reply, he felt he had to explain his logic. "I need to know more about these lions as soon possible so I can disseminate the information through the Front, potentially save other lives. I wouldn't ask if it weren't vital, Contegon Insight."

Referring to her by her Station earned him a smile. "You're already thinking and acting like a Shield-General, aren't you, Snow?"

"I wasn't when I came here," he said. "Element, I will need your help in producing a report for New Call. We need warnings to filter through the Fronts. And in the morning, if you are well enough, we will find what we can of these monsters."

Element nodded. "I can't promise anything, Snow, but I'm willing to try."

"That is all I can ask," Snow said, grateful. It wasn't a brilliant compromise, but it would suffice. "Is anyone in Tenth an Artist?"

"Cleric Silver is a Cleric Artist," Element said after a few seconds of thinking.

"Take me to them," Snow said. "I'll want a sketch of this lion. And, as you take me, tell me about your fight in as much detail as you can."

"It'd... it'd be easier for me to walk if you gave me a hand, Snow."

Snow slipped her arm across his neck and used it to support her. "Is that okay?"

She looked into his eyes, making him feel warm and soft. "Yes, that's fine. Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet: I might drag you out into the Moenian Forest tomorrow."

Element laughed. Together, they returned to Tenth, to prepare a report that would spark controversy and panic across Geos.
Chapter 44

As Element recovered, Snow returned to New Call to discuss these Disciple 'lions': first, he gathered his leadership team to inform them of what had happened.

"I wouldn't be able to believe this if it came from anyone else, sire," Certainty said as she examined Cleric Silver's sketch of the rotten lion. She passed the drawing on and shook her head. "An organic Disciple? The implications are grave."

"You're talking about Call, aren't you?" Tide asked. His questions had begun to irk Snow.

"Yes," Certainty said. "If the Disciples can do this to wolves or cats or whatever, I shudder to think what they might do to the missing people of Call."

Snow's head dropped. With the hectic energy of sending messages along the Fronts and to Aureu, he hadn't considered the broadest implications. But now he drowned in the image of all those who had sacrificed themselves at his suggestion during the tragedy of Call's collapse.

"The important thing," Contegon Piety said, "is that we already know how dangerous, and how weak, the beasts are. If a well-prepared cadre can take down three, they are not the same threat as Disciples. Individually, anyway. All towers on our Front now host two Contegons. If we know how to fight them, regardless of how they are deployed, we can beat them."

"And the risk," Kick said, his voice as small as Snow felt, "is that the Disciples can produce these lions in large numbers. This feels like a field test, like when we tried out the Baptism for the first time. What if every Disciple from now on comes with a pack of these beasts?"

"I have made a recommendation to my counterpart," Snow said as he looked up, "that we abandon every other tower and have four times the concentration of cadres and Contegons."

"We'll lose coverage that way," Tide said unhelpfully.

"But we will perhaps save lives," Contegon Piety countered. "I approve of this plan."

"Does everyone else?" Snow asked.

He looked around the table and saw a series of nods, even from the Stations whose views didn't count. He ordered Wing to have his order sent to every village.

The meeting continued with lesser matters of how to support towers now flooded with manpower, and how to maintain those now vacated. Each Station would disseminate information about the Disciples' Lions (which seemed to be their official designation now) so preparations could be made for this new warfare: treatments, supplies, records etc. They wrapped up twenty minutes later and forewent the usual meal together. Snow was then left alone with the image of a hundred innocents being experimented on.

After that, he met with his Major Shields and Catch. Under his gentle insistence, they agreed to release an Acolyte and a Contegon to follow the beast's trail for warning signs other scouting parties could look for.

"And, with Certainty busy looking after the vacant towers, I suppose it'll have to be me who goes," Snow said, his tone brooking no questioning.

Not even Catch argued: there were more important things to consider than the proper decorum of someone who wasn't yet Shield-General. Besides, until the Council responded, the Front could only prepare themselves for further attacks: his Major Shields could do that without him.

There were other meetings, panicked sessions with Clerics and Farmers seeking assurances of their safety, hurried meetings to agree protocols for dealing with dead Lions, and one interesting session with Axle, the senior Doctor of the Front, who got Snow to quarantine anybody exhibiting signs of disease after fighting the Lions.

"Creatures aren't the only way to attack," the great, bloated Doctor said solemnly. Snow couldn't disagree.

He worked late into the night, establishing responsibilities and duties during this time of panic and flux, and felt more like a Shield-General than ever before. When he settled down to snatch a few hours of rest, he was content, and slept well.

The next day, he rose early. Catch entered his tent as he washed, and they sorted out the final details of the tasks Snow had handed out, mainly so Catch knew who to rip apart if something wasn't done on time. Too busy to forgo modesty, Snow worked as he washed and Roll and Wing dressed him.

"Given what's happened," Catch said as he walked Snow to his flight area, "I think you're doing the right thing. You are this Front's most powerful Acolyte. If you're going to track down the Disciples at the source of this... madness, you'll need all the strength you can get."

"Thank you, Catch. I don't need your approval, but it is appreciated."

Catch smiled. "You smug bastard, you're already sounding like a Shield-General. The next five days can't pass quick enough."

"Five days?" Snow asked. That struck him like a hammer: he would officially be Shield-General in five days. "Oh, Sol, of course. The big day has just sneaked up on me."

"You'll be fine," Catch said. "Now get on and find whatever you can."

"Mind the Front for me while I'm gone," Snow said as he grew wings for the flight.

"I always do, don't I?"

Snow wanted to preserve his strength after foregoing breakfast, so he didn't soar towards Tenth, but glided, letting the wind carry him. He landed in the support village with morning well under way.

Element was waiting for him, fully dressed for battle. A Baptism rested on her hip. She stood stiff and proud, no sign of pain or discomfort on her face. Snow jogged over to her.

"Good morning," she said, her voice clipped.

"Good morning, Element. I assume you're feeling up to tracking?"

She didn't respond for a moment, seeming to weigh up her answer. "I will go with you, yes. As for how I feel... that's a different matter."

"If I can talk to you as a friend, instead of an Acolyte to a Contegon," Snow said, "are you sure that you should? We might face combat, more Lions, and I'd hate for you to get hurt."

"Answering as a friend," Element said slowly, "you should trust me to assess my readiness. And, answering as a Contegon, I can only kill one Lion, maximum, alone." She pointed to her Baptism. "My fighting style is not suited to hurting those monsters, and carrying more Baptisms would be dangerous. If we get into a fight, I will rely entirely on you."

Snow nodded, chastised and warned. He supposed Contegons and Brawlers with weapons not precise enough to strike a Lion in the eye, or that couldn't generate sufficient power to smash their thick skulls, were at a disadvantage until they could retrain. Piety should team the Contegons who could fight the Lions with those who couldn't, ensure a decent spread, with weapons like swords still best for fighting Disciples.

"Shall we go?" Element asked. "The trail gets colder every minute."

Snow's stomach growled in response. "I'll have to grab some food first. We'll eat on the way."

"Are we walking, then?"

"It's more subtle than flying, wouldn't you say?"

Element tutted. "I was looking forward to flying."

"If we succeed," Snow said, "I'll fly you home afterwards."

"Sounds like a deal."

A panicked Farmer put together a selection of fruit for them, fearing a rebuke if he provided a sub-par breakfast to a Contegon and the Shield-General. Snow worked through the berries and apples on their way to the forest, finishing as they passed under the forest's thick skin like needles.

"The Lions came in from over there," she said, pointing to the west. "Do you see where they broke the branches, and where they knocked aside the fallen tree?"

He followed her gaze. "And you know that these weren't made by Shields?"

"Shields don't run so fast that they make tree trunks roll twice when they vault them."

"Sorry, I'm not questioning you: I'm just interested in learning."

"Okay," she said, "but we must be quiet. Giving away our position is never a brilliant idea."

Element followed the path they cut through the forest, Snow at her heel. He considered his friend as a Contegon, a powerful representative of Sol. Seeing her track, weapons on her arms, forced the idea home that she was a brilliant Contegon, just as he'd always hoped.

They followed the Lions' path until it met a Disciple Road. Snow had seen these on fly-overs, but had never stood on one, seen the earth where nothing would grow up close. They were so straight, such perfect rectangles, that it hurt to see them.

Element looked almost dazed too as she tried to pick up the Lions' days old trail. It was possible the Lions had used the Disciple Roads all the way from wherever they were created, which he imagined made them impossible to track. That was likely the true purpose of the Disciple Roads: providing a flat surface which would not hold footprints, hiding their secrets to ensure their defences could not be traced.

Element gasped, a tiny note of triumph, and jogged to a tree with deep claw wounds. Its sap still wept from the damage done to it. Element ran her fingers across it, tested its viscosity by separating her fingers.

"Something clawed at this tree days ago," she said. "Multiple somethings. They used this tree to... I don't know, sharpen their claws."

"Did they use the Road then?"

"No, they walked through this patch of forest." She wiped her hand on her robes. "Do you see their prints ahead? They went in single file, as far as I can tell. We are lucky it has not rained since they attacked us, else we'd have lost their tracks."

"Praise Sol," Snow said.

They followed this new trail until it met another Disciple Road. The Lions had travelled along this plain, featureless expanse, so Snow and Element searched the western side of the Road for another point of ingress. None came by the time they reached a junction, which only presented another fork.

"Given where Moenian is, I'd say they came from somewhere more north than west," Element guessed, "so we should try and pick up their trail there."

"You're in charge," Snow said. "I'll follow where you recommend."

After two more junctions, Element began to wriggle her fingers nervously. Biting her lip, she scanned the woodland. No clues were forthcoming. Either the Lions had stuck to the roads, or they had not used them.

The third junction provided a clue and validation: a patch of the Road had been disturbed by clawed paws, and a handful of melted scales were scattered across the ground. Element knelt beside the strange sight, rubbing her gloved hand slowly along the floor.

"What happened here?" Snow asked.

"These Lions must still be feral," Element supposed. "This looks like a challenge, a struggle for dominance. One Lion was much bigger than the others, so perhaps it fought to maintain control of the pack? It might not be the same ones which attacked us..." She stood and looked around. "There, do you see their trail?"

Element pointed to breakages in a tall grass known as Brittlegrass. The patch of forest had fewer trees than the others, allowing this strange, weak flora to flourish. That is, until growth had been ended, its stalks snapped, by something large barreling through.

"I see it," Snow said.

They had been going for about two and a half hours by this point, but the excitement of finding some Lions' path kept them energised. The Brittlegrass snapped quietly as they walked after the trail, a constant crunching which gave away their position, but they had no choice.

The path dipped into a basin, at the bottom of which was a patch of raw earth with a glinting square at its centre, a dazzling light amidst the dull brown. Snow and Element shared a look: this was what they had come out for. Sigil appeared over Snow's shoulder, interested in his quiet way.

The three of them crackled down to the glinting shape. The twelve-foot square of dull metal only shone because it was a glorious day. A thick rim framed its edge, and there was a cut down the centre. Kneeling, Snow saw the metal continued past the rim. It was warm to the touch, and it vibrated slightly.

"You know," Element said, "that looks an awful lot like a door."

"Do you think we've found where the Lions came from?"

"More than that," Snow said, standing, "I think we've found another Disciple secret: they have homes beneath Geos."

Element took a deep breath, looked away. "Great. Fucking.... just fucking great. So the Disciples could just be burying under us, bypassing our Fronts?"

"It's possible," Snow conceded, feeling a little ill. "Let's find out."

"What do you mean?"

"You didn't think we'd come all this way and not go inside, did you?"

Element opened her mouth to respond, and then shook her head. "No, I suppose not. You're leading the way, I assume?"

Snow reached out and forced a thin wedge of Sigil's energy between the slices of metal, pulled the doors apart. They didn't want to move, were locked in some way, but couldn't withstand the force Snow brought to bear. There was a horrible grinding, screaming, then the doors fired open. Six feet beneath them was a balcony surrounded by handrails with a podium with black circles on its flat surface growing from it.

"What is that?" Element asked.

"Let's find out."

Snow jumped down. As Element descended, he examined the plinth: the black circles were marked with crude arrows: one pointing up, another pointing down. It wasn't a difficult puzzle.

"This is a moving platform," Snow said. "This button will probably make us descend."

"It'll also alert anything below that we're coming," Element pointed out.

"We'd best be ready for a fight, then."

Snow pressed the downward arrow. Something inside the plinth clicked. The balcony rumbled before lowering them. The doors closed as they slowly fell, plunging them into darkness and locking them into this course of action.
Chapter 45

The pure darkness gave them no way of measuring time, but Snow believed the journey took more than twenty minutes for them to complete their descent. As light spilled over the platform from below, he saw Element wary, ready, her weapon in hand, grimacing as her hands shook. He supposed he could have used his Gift to light the passage, but he would need that energy later.

Soon, the stone walls cut away to reveal bubbling glass tubes through which bright chemicals flowed and artificial hands which kneaded twitching masses of flesh. The air was acrid, aggressively clean in a way that coated the tongue. Tubes built into the ceilings shed lifeless light onto what Snow guessed was a workshop. Tables against the walls were covered in scrawled documents. In one corner, two caged wolves rested, alive or otherwise, and a tunnel stretched away beyond sight.

"Sol be with us," Element whispered. "Look at all this. How could this be so close to us?"

"Maybe it was here before we came to the Moenian Forest."

Element shuddered. "We could have passed over this a thousand times in our patrols and not known about it. Think how many more there could be."

"I'm trying not to."

"That's not what I want to hear from my Shield-General!" Element said with a laugh.

Snow laughed too, a manic reaction, not a comedic one. "I'm not your Shield-General yet, Element."

The platform finally came to a stop. They stood still, eyes watering from the chemicals in the air, and awaited a reaction to their intrusion. None came. There were no signs of Disciples either, meaning that they were alone. At least for the time being.

"I think we're a hundred feet down: I kept my hand to the stone to measure our progress," Element said. She stepped away from the platform and looked around, coming to terms with this workshop. "They could do anything down here. Anything."

"Have you seen the tunnel?" Snow asked.

"I have."

"Thankfully, it doesn't go south. But..."

Snow tailed off, not needing say that a tunnel south meant the Disciples have tunnelled under Geos' Fronts. Lun, even if they didn't find such evidence, another network could have bypassed their defences. Disciples strolling past the Fronts unnoticed, attacking from behind or going straight to Aureu made Snow dizzy.

"What do we do?" Element asked. "What do we do about this... workshop?"

"Destroy it."

"How?"

Wanting to exorcise his fear, wanting to destroy something intricate, Snow drew Scar's signet ring. He swung the necklace it hung from, then charged at the artificial hands that massaged disembodied flesh. The ring struck their housing and Sol's might shone, slicing the machine in two. He cut through it again to be sure before moving onto other sets, ruining four in total.

Element stepped back on the platform, out of his way. A mixture of wonder, rapture, and fear played across her face as she watched him work.

Snow turned to the glass veins. It was too dangerous to crack them open – he could splash himself with something that poisoned or ate his flesh – so he would use pure energy. Sigil, somehow looking fierce and full of rage, bonded with Snow and granted him its energy. Together, man and Servant encircled each wretched system or mechanism and crushed them. Unlike other Disciples creations, they resisted little, requiring no effort to destroy, and soon he had seven spheres of broken glass and unholy chemicals under his power. These, he grouped into one and threw into the furthest corner.

There was no sizzle, no reaction: just a splash and the tinkle of glass shattering further.

"That is everything, yes?" Snow asked, worried he might have missed something.

"It is," Element said breathlessly. "You did that so... easily."

Snow nodded. "Any Acolyte would."

"Sol is wonderful," she said, then wiped her eyes. "I assume we'll search the tunnel?"

"Something made and sent those Lions. We must find it."

"And kill it," Element said.

They walked past the wolf's pen. Element looked in as she passed. "They're dead," she said. "Bled out."

Snow took a moment to examine the creatures. Their throats had been slit, a rather... simple method of murder for Disciples. He couldn't work out why they would bring these creatures down here, go to all that effort, only to slaughter them like lambs.

"We couldn't take them with us anyway," Snow said.

"I would have liked to release them if they were alive. Instead, they have been... butchered." She frowned, looked down the corridor ahead of them. "Maybe their organs are used in the construction of the Lions, like... like bricks of meat, a foundation made of real creature."

"Perhaps," Snow said, suddenly eager to be away from the corpses. "I don't know. Let's go."

Those odd tubes of light continued down the corridor, shedding sterile light onto walls far rougher than those in the workshop. Snow rolled his fingers along their surface, these tunnels no one had seen fit to shore up. They didn't sprint for fear of traps, but their passage still generated loud, echoing footsteps that bounced between the rough walls.

Snow kept envisaging the ceiling collapsing, and them being burrowed in a mound of soil. Perhaps that was why they had no shores. He had plenty of time to imagine such scenarios: the tunnel continued for miles.

They jogged until they reached a dome, where two tunnels went north east and south west. Element raised a hand to stop him, then put a finger to her lips. Snow stopped, held his tongue. It was only in the still that he noticed the absence of the clean stench, replaced by the warm smell of earth.

Element crept toward the south west tunnel and flattened against the domed wall. Her hand cupped her ear; she closed her eyes. After a few seconds, she gestured Snow to run to the other side of the corridor. Quietly, he did so. Snow couldn't hear what made the Contegon so wary. He cupped his ears too, but detected nothing. She frowned at his shrug and then mimed speech.

Snow raised an eyebrow. Element must have much sharper hearing than him. He waved a hand, tried to get her to explain what she heard, but she shook her head and held her hands apart in response. After a moment, he realised she was saying it was too far away.

He pointed down the tunnel. Element nodded: they would sneak down.

Snow started down the corridor, taking the lead now. This tunnel curved away to the north. They followed it in silence, Snow hearing only the whispers of their robes and muffled padding of their boots.

But then Snow heard the talking. It impressed him that Element had heard it from so far away. The words were indistinguishable, a low murmur. He wondered if Element could hear individual words, if she were privy to what they said, her emotions calm in the face of alien speech.

No one had ever heard the Disciples communicate. It was assumed that they spoke in ways humans couldn't understand, from mind to mind or through sounds humans could not hear... but what if they kept that speech for battle and had a formal language for discussing plans? Snow looked forward to hearing more... and then snuffing their lives out.

The tunnel curved further away, going what Snow assumed was north west. He halted, gestured for Element to do the same, then peered around the corner: ahead was another workshop, this one filled with a dozen artificial hands toying with flesh. There was no cover between them and the workshop entrance, but there were also no Disciples so they could probably get closer.

When he stuck his head out slightly, he got a clear snatch of speech. He was horrified to hear them speaking Modern, Aureu's language.

"... somewhat successful trial, I'd say," the voice said. It sounded like they had a tongue of flesh. "It's certainly successful enough to roll out full production. I can then make anti-Cyrus Force armour for them, really turn this all around."

"I remain unconvinced," came the reply. This voice was scratchy, emotionless, and atonal. "But I will send some materials to allow you to launch a larger assault. Should that be successful–"

"Oh, come, that's not good enou–"

The inhuman voice cut over the human one, so loud Snow might've heard it on the descending platform. "Should that assault be successful, we will grant you everything you need!" Then it quieted. "Until then, we cannot spare that long on the Matter Generator. Am I understood?"

There was a pause, then the crash of something smashing. "Fine. I'm unhappy, but I accept."

"Whilst I appreciate it, I wasn't looking for your acceptance. Babbage out."

"Fucking shit-stain," the human voice hissed. "And now I need a new desk. Damn it."

Snow looked back at Element, who had gone white. They were the first humans to hear Disciple speech. From the way the human-sounding one spoke, it seemed that 'Babbage' had gone, but there were no footsteps or signs of a Disciple's passage. Plus, it hadn't allowed enough time for 'Babbage' to leave so its comment wouldn't be heard. They must be able to communicate across distances. If so, Babbage was probably speaking from Moenian.

He held up a finger to say there was probably one Disciple in the room. Element slowly nodded in agreement. She then pointed down the corridor. Snow straightened and nodded, preparing to assault the workshop. Element stood straight.

With a thumbs up, Snow stood to charge down the corridor.

The human voice spoke immediately, saying, "Who is that? Wind, is that you?"

Someone then stepped into view. Their form, their shape, had once been human. All that remained was a torso and head: its arms, legs, and much of its back were Disciple technology, great clawed limbs with gold plating. A thin glass-like material covered its flesh, though Snow did not think it weak as glass. The eyes beneath were deeply sunken, and the skin was pulled taut over his ribs and skull.

The Disciple smiled at them. "Oh, thank you so much," it said. "I needed to kill something."
Chapter 46

"How'd you little pigs get into my den?" the Heretic asked. It approached, clicking and clacking its claws.

Element readied her sword and shield, her body perfectly still while their enemy remained cordial. Snow used the signet ring to fuse with Sigil and use the Servant's energy to form armour: they'd done this so often it was a natural reaction, reflexive.

"Don't want to talk, do we, pigs?" the Heretic asked.

Neither responded, except to tighten their grips on their weapons. Snow examined the Heretic's form, noting in particular the lack of guns. The suit, like a usual Disciple's, had few open systems. There were still wire bundles and gears that could be destroyed by traditional weapons, though.

"Fine. I guess I'll get it out of you after I've sliced you to shreds."

The Heretic ran forward. It was not graceful or fast with the metal weighing it down, but it had all the inevitability of an avalanche. Snow met it with Sigil's might, slipping under its outstretched claw and slamming the signet into the Heretic's glassy core. Sol's Gift flared and sent the Heretic skidding across the floor, its feet ripping the earth up as it went.

But there was not even a chip in its glassy exterior. Snow guessed he'd only struck a glancing blow. He rushed the Heretic, and brought Sol's full power down on them again. But the Disciple lazily leant to one side, avoid being cracked and destroyed, then ripped into Snow's stomach. Sigil's strength absorbed the attempt, but it took more energy than it ought to, made Snow's head spin with giddy fatigue.

Sigil screamed, bucking and twitching at the bastard's touch. Its protection nearly failed.

"It's one of you!" the Heretic shouted, delighted, before it punched Snow. "An Acolyte!"

Snow was knocked from his feet, Sigil unable to protect him. Element caught him, kept him upright.

"Thanks," he said.

"Concentrate, Snow!"

"An Acolyte!" the Disciple repeated. "This is perfect. It's almost like there is a god of some sort, providing such a perfect opportunity as this!"

"What's wrong?" Element hissed. "He's just in Disciple armour, isn't he? Kill him."

"No," Snow said. "No, it isn't normal. That armour has... something in it, something which resists Sol's Gift." Panic rose in Snow as he understood what he was saying. "I could feel my power drain at its touch. It's dangerous, an Acolyte Killer"

"I like that," the Heretic said. "The Acolyte Killer. That might be my new nickname."

This Acolyte Killer ran at them, aiming to prove its new name, but Snow and Element dived away from the obvious attack. As the Heretic passed, both got in counter-attacks: Snow with Sol's Gift and Element with her sword. Element's weapon did the most damage, cut one of the suit's wire bundles.

Snow and Element stood side-by-side as the Acolyte Killer slowed, turned. It tested its right arm, where Element had struck it, and found it to its satisfaction.

"Let's make things more interesting, shall we?" It closed its eyes for a second, and then nodded. "There. This'll be better."

They waited for the Acolyte Killer to charge again, to keep fighting, but it remained still. Like it was waiting for something. Snow wanted to charge it, to continue the fight, but it would be folly to do so when he didn't understand what he fought.

"What do we do?" Element hissed. "What if it just called for more Disciples?"

"Then I'll take them, you'll take it."

"What if they also have this... anti-Acolyte ability?"

The Acolyte Killer coughed. "I can hear you, you know."

Snow tutted. "If they could easily make Disciples that resisted Acolytes, they would have used them by now. Lun, they'd have ended the war years ago."

"Makes sense. If it's more Disciples, I'll ignore them."

Snow read the Acolyte Killer's emotional energy. It was muted, as though covered with a fine dust that obscured the Gift. As he focused, he realised there was no emotion in that protective film: it was empty, clinical, yet somehow akin to Sol's Gift. This looked inhuman, like the Disciples had found a way to replicate the Gift. Which might have been how–

"Snow!" Element shouted. "Lions!"

Three Lions roared toward them: he'd been concentrating so hard he didn't hear them approach. He was pushed aside, Element jumped away, and they both avoided rending claws by a narrow margin.

"Good girls," the Acolyte Killer said as the Lions formed a guard around it. It delicately stroked the largest of the three. "Good. Now, kill the Contegon."

The Lions fell upon Element. She turned the first away with her shield, and was about to be rent by the second and third when Snow threw them against the corridor wall with Sol's power. They whined when they struck and slowly got up, the smallest having broken its middle paw.

The Acolyte Killer surprised Snow with a kick in the stomach, throwing Snow into the air. After just about landing on his feet, the Heretic kept at him, swiping and clawing, wearing away Sigil's defences. Between its attacks and Snow's ineffective counters, Sigil screamed and wailed as its power reserves dwindled. He didn't know how long he could dodge the furious, golden claws: this Acolyte Killer had been designed to nullify his only advantage. He would have to rely on Element and her Baptism.

That option was quickly taken. Element was driven back by the Lions, their power and superior numbers overwhelming her. She hissed and reached for the Baptism. Snow had to dodge away from two swipes, and in that time Element threw her Baptism into a Lion's face. The blow was true, and the acids inside began to dissolve its flesh.

"No! No!" the Acolyte Killer shrieked, turning from Snow. "What have you done?"

Snow used the Acolyte Killer's distraction to bring Scar's signet down on a Lion's skull. It exploded into a gory mess, spraying viscera across the corridor.

"You bastards! You bastards!"

The Acolyte Killer threw itself at Snow and caught him across the back. Sigil's armour was torn away. The claws ripped through his Acolyte robes, scything shallow trenches in his back. Snow hissed and jumped away. His back throbbed, and warm, wet blood dripped down his back.

Element used the monster's moment of gloating triumph to slam her shield against the glass protecting its face. The blow chipped it, a small divot in the perfect surface.

"Kill her!" it howled at the remaining Lion.

The beast, the smallest of the three, considered Snow and Element, and then ran, sensing in its cowardly way that the tide had turned.

"Hey, get back here! You kill this–"

He was cut off when Element unleashed a torrent of shield blows, digging further into the chip in its armour. The Acolyte Killer realised that it couldn't ignore her attacks and swiped at her, but Element's training granted her the grace and skill to easily avoid the shot.

Snow allowed himself a moment to wonder at how brilliant a warrior the little girl with the blanket had become. Then he joined the fray: when the Acolyte Killer sliced at her, Snow attacked it from behind, slammed Scar's signet into its back to wear down its unnatural defences. When it turned to swat at Snow, Element shoved her sword into its inner workings, crunching the blade but damaging its inner workings.

"No, this isn't right!" the Acolyte Killer said. "I made myself to kill Acolytes."

"Then you ignored the power of the Contegon!" Element screamed, bringing her shield down with all her fury and strength. The impact caused three deep chips in its glass to connect, forming a deep crack.

Snow struck the Acolyte Killer and felt less resistance than before: Element must have damaged something which supported the emotionless Gift energy. There was still some defence, so it wasn't the fatal blow that would crush a regular Disciple, but it deepened the crack on its face.

"No!"

"Die!" Element roared.

She rolled away from a pathetic attempt to tear her stomach open and went for that crack. This time, the glass shattered, a gaping hole extending from its head to its shoulders. Before the shards landed on the ground, Element slammed her notched sword through the gap, striking it just between the eyes.

The Acolyte Killer gargled as Element removed her sword. Its eyes rolled up into its head and it fell to the floor, red blood spurting from the wound. Its Disciple parts sizzled and hissed as blood got into them, tore at their lightning strength, and then it fell silent.

Snow watched it for a moment, thought through what this creation meant for the war: an Acolyte could no longer deal with a Disciple incursion alone. All it would take is two Acolyte Killers for their tactics and techniques to be worthless. If the Acolyte Killers travelled with Lions and Disciples, those beasts purpose-built to fight Contegons and Shields, there would be a strong enough mix to prevent those warriors helping the Acolyte. There would need to be some rethinking across the Fronts.

Element stood over the dead Disciple, this Acolyte Killer, her sword held across her body. It would have earned that nickname if Snow had come here alone: if his friend, a powerful Contegon, hadn't been with him. He owed his life to her.

"Element, that was astonishing," Snow said.

"No, not really," she breathed.

"Yes, yes it was! You saved my life, you fought a Disciple and a Disciple Lion. Element, you're..." Snow took in a deep breath, smiled. "You're amazing."

Element coughed and turned. She held her sword to her stomach to stem the bleeding from a deep gash that the Acolyte Killer had struck during that last assault. Bright red tainted her white robes, seeping down her body and dripping on the floor.

"I wasn't good enough," she said before collapsing.
Chapter 47

Snow tried to catch Element before she hit the ground, but the Contegon slapped wetly against the floor, blood gently leaking from her. He placed pressure on her wound as he checked for other damage: there was none, only the deep gash across her stomach. Element stared, her mouth tight from pain. She coughed, was about to speak, but a surge of pain rolled over her. She gritted her teeth and hissed instead.

No one knew they were buried deep beneath the ground, miles from the Front. There would be no relief cadre, no Field Doctor with expertise to help him: there was just him.

"Element, I don't know what to do..."

"Go," she whispered. "Go."

"No, I'm not leaving you, and I'm not letting you die. There has to be something I can do."

"Snow..."

"No. No! I am an Acolyte of Sol, I am the Shield-General of the western Front. What in the name of Sol is the point of all that power if I can't... can't save you?"

Another bout of pain surged through Element, cutting off her reply. She fell into the agony, lost in it. He was alone. Element's life was in his hands, literally with the pressure he kept on her wound.

Snow took a deep breath, tried to think through the situation. He still had his Field Doctor's kit, so he started by delivering the best first aid he could. He still needed to transport Element out of these tunnels and to the Front, but he couldn't move her whilst she had internal bleeding.

The Contegon hissed as he worked, tried to buck away from the pain. Snow shushed her, said, "It's okay, Element. I'm trying to save you."

"It doesn't feel like it," she whimpered.

"Any Doctor would sew and clean your wound, Contegon. Don't make me order you to stay still."

"Sorry, sire."

An image appeared in his mind of a green, wheeled platform holding Element up. He almost jumped at this clear thought that wasn't his. Snow looked around, saw only Sigil. Were the Disciples talking to him? Or was it... could it have been Sol's voice, speaking to him through his Gift?

Whoever it was, he didn't understand their point. He carried only his robes, armour, Field Doctor's kit, and Scar's signet. How could he use those to transport her...

"Wait, transport," he said. He reached for Scar's signet and visualised what he wanted to do.

That thought, whatever it was, had been right: Snow had an infinite supply of tools at his command with the Gift. Until then, he'd thought only of the Gift's combat potential: it'd never occurred to him what else could be done, not when there were already so many battles he couldn't join. But he often used the Gift for something other than fighting, didn't he? He, and every Acolyte Maya trained, grew wings from their backs and flew. That involved creating a stable structure of Sol's energy. And Certainty's walking was proof that the Gift worked in such ways. The question was whether Snow could make the Gift work so too.

Well, he'd find out. He fused with Sigil to create the aparatus, as they had when they first made his wings. Producing a new energy form required careful connection and shaping, like sculpting wet clay with long poles. They quickly agreed on a flat, mobile bed with wheels, something Snow could push. The rough floor would make the journey awkward, the stiff legs allowing no mercy for whom it carried, but the journey would be impossible without this set up.

Once they'd agreed on the design, they carefully formed this small wagon. This took some time to get right: they couldn't make the legs different lengths, or have the bed slanted. Sigil suggested partway through, in its wordless way, that the bed should dip at the centre. Snow agreed, seeing that would make Element less likely to fall out.

Under their ministrations, the bed appeared beneath Element, lifting the Contegon as they build its supports. Columns appeared at the corners, and then wheels at their base. She was raised four feet from the tunnel's floor, high enough that Snow could easily push her for miles.

"Can we maintain that for long?" Snow asked Sigil.

Sigil nodded slowly: the caution meant it wouldn't be easy, or too long, but it should be enough.

Element was pale, cold, and quiet. Creating this bed must have taken longer than he'd thought. He felt tired, which combined with his adrenaline comedown to leave him woozy. He shook his head, growled, and made himself push Element along. He went at a sprint, but the slightly-uneven floor made the bed buck, threaten to throw its patient off. Begrudgingly, he slowed to a jog.

How could he not have considered the wonders of the Gift before? Certainty used Structure to walk, yet he hadn't thought to do the same thing. Perhaps he'd thought that ability only for the disabled Acolyte, assumed that he didn't need such a power because he was able-bodied. The thought angered him because it was probably true, and he felt ashamed of himself.

They reached the spherical junction quickly. Snow kept her level, kept the heavy bed moving. He soon felt the strain of keeping the Gift construct going, especially when already drained from battle. Making wings took little effort, but he had practised the wings for years. Sigil didn't mind giving up its energy for now, but there would soon come a point where it would have nothing left to give.

Panic tried to set in when he acknowledged how short his time was, the desperation crowding in alongside the fatigue to urge Snow to run faster. It took all his will to breathe rhythmically, aid Sigil, and keep a sensible pace. His entire being became about the next breath, the next step, maintaining the cadence of their transferring energy.

Soon, they were back at the first workshop. The floor was more even there, perhaps because it had been trodden more often, so he allowed himself to run to the platform. Pushing Element up onto it, he hit the up button, and they started to rise.

"Should I maintain the bed as we rise?" he asked Sigil as the Disciple mechanics groaned into life.

The Spirit didn't respond. Snow looked away from Element to find it flickering furiously in and out of existence. The bed beneath Element almost disappeared, dropped her a few centimetres before it appeared again, shorter than before, its energy much duller.

"Sigil, no, we can't run out of strength now. No. That wouldn't be fair."

Snow felt the Servant's will coming to bear as Sigil tried to strengthen itself, but it could not: slowly, it unformed the bed and lowered Element to the ground just before the structure collapsed.

Snow knelt to check Element's wound. It still bled weakly, and a horrible smell came from it, suggesting that the claws had nicked her intestines. She did not have much time left. "No, Sigil, no. No! We're only... only halfway there. Please, please, we can't let her..."

Sigil shook itself. It had no more to give.

He punched the platform, the blow jolting his whole arm. "That isn't right. This isn't right! There must be something else we can do? We can't just let her die. No, not after Call, not after I fought, and so many people died, to get her to Aureu. There must be something we can do. There must be something."

An image of Scar's signet ring crumbling appeared, followed by another of Element's wound disappearing.

Snow eyed Sigil in confusion. "That was you, Sigil?"

The Servant nodded.

"Are you saying... are you saying you could use up your own energy and heal Element?"

Another nod.

"What would that do to you?"

Another image of Scar's signet crumbling appeared.

Snow shook his head. "No. No. I can't have to choose between my Servant and my friend. That's fucking cruel. That's wrong." He punched the floor again. "What the fuck is wrong with Sol?!"

Sigil remained impassive, a faceless image of what he cursed, of his faith, strength, and determination to protect people. Could he let it sacrifice itself to save Element? He remembered his lessons with Maya and her Spirits on the formation of a Servant, the difference between the energy at its command and the energy in its form: he remembered Maya had said Servants could use their essence in extreme circumstances. Snow hadn't appreciated the sacrifice involved, or how much Servants cared for their humans, until now.

"I can't let you do this," Snow said, his eyes tearing up. "I need you, Sigil. The Front needs you."

An image of a Pyre appeared. Element was atop it, burning. Then Snow was standing over a map of Geos, talking through tactics with his Prime Shields. Sigil was saying he had made sacrifices like this before.

And Sigil was right: he had sacrificed people before. It was unfair to look at this as anything other than a tactical decision, unfair to those he had allowed to die during the Advancement, or to protect Aureu, and unfair on people like Catch who covered for him during his dalliances. So he considered the scenarios, the two options open to him.

He first imagined himself unable to join battles, even temporarily. People died, people he could have saved. It seemed like a simple choice, an easy one, until he remembered he was a Shield-General too. His job wasn't to jump into every battle, but to consider the whole. Would it be so awful to concentrate on that? With no temptation to abandon his post, would he be a better Shield-General, and a better servant of Sol?

Then he imagined his life without Element. Already, the thought of losing her hurt deeply. More deeply than it hurt to imagine life without Sigil. He felt a vengeance in his heart, one that made him scared that he might commit another Loss. He also imagined the other refugees of the Second Invasion weeping, their friend lost, and his heart nearly crumbled. It surprised him how strongly he felt, how much he cared for her in particular.

There was only one choice he could make. He looked at Sigil and broke into tears. As the platform rose, brought them to the surface, he moaned, "I'm sorry. This isn't a judgement on you."

Sigil nodded.

"I just... I... I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

Sigil shook its head. Then, wonderfully and horribly, it spoke in a calm, sexless voice. "I wouldn't have made the offer if I didn't know you would take it. I care too much about you to have you consider something you wouldn't accept."

"You can...? You...?"

His Servant nodded. "I can. I just didn't need to say anything important before. Now I do. I say this: goodbye. I don't know why I'm called the Gift, but this is my Gift to you, who I love so."

"No, Sigil, wait!"

The Servant dissolved, becoming a fine sand which poured onto Element's stomach. Snow tried to grab it, stop the act, but he had no connection to Sigil: it had already ended itself, if not his ability to ever control another Spirit. What he saw now was the pure energy that comprised its form. He wanted to howl, to scream, but owed it to Sigil and its sacrifice to watch what it did, appreciate the enormity of a life saved.

Sigil's personal energy entered Element through her robes. The Contegon's eyes opened and she screamed. A high-pitch buzzing echoed through the narrow shaft. Element went into a fit, her whole body shaking as a narrowing shaft of green light poured out from the wound.

Snow held her down, prevented her hurting herself. He could sense what was happening to her – still apparently able to sense emotions and holy energies – and felt burning within her. Sigil's power was cauterising Element's wounds from the inside, sealing her busted guts together and even, he guessed, clearing the blood and other horrors which had been spilt through her system.

The green light diminished, diminished, and then disappeared. Sigil was no more. A howl rose in Snow's throat, but he held it back to check on Element, whom the Spirit had given everything for. He found the scar of a burn on her stomach, sealed. It looked weeks old.

"Snow..." Element said, sitting up. "Snow, what happened?"

He couldn't respond, simply grabbed her, and held her tight. She reciprocated gingerly, confused at his actions and her state, and then even more confused when, as the hatch above them opened and let the day's light spill onto the rising platform, Snow couldn't stop sobbing.
Chapter 48

It took minutes for Snow to stand, to feel he could lead Element back to the Front. The Contegon's breathing was low, her face taut, but she held him throughout his emotional outpouring. When he looked up, he saw that she had sympathetic tears in her eyes, though she did not know why he cried.

"I don't understand," Element said. "What's wrong?"

"Sol..." he started, then had to take a long, deep breath. Snow wiped his eyes. "Sol has asked for a tremendous sacrifice to keep you safe. He has taken from me, taken something–"

His explanation was cut short when the sounds of approaching Disciples echoed around the clearing. They looked around, the injured Contegon and the former Acolyte, and heard that the monsters approached from the north west.

"Come on, we need to hide," Snow said, rising.

"Why? Can't you fight them?" Element asked.

"No," Snow insisted, pulling her robes still tinted by her blood. "that was what I was saying: Sol demanded the sacrifice of his Gift for your life. So we need to hide, now!"

Element spluttered some half response, but followed him nonetheless. Together, they fled to the cover of the nearest trees. They would have gone further, but five Disciples burst into the clearing: movement would give away their position.

Snow cursed not having sent the platform back down when its presence attracted the Disciples. He also should have realised the Acolyte Killer's death might have set off an alarm. As a result of this, and his inability to cope with Sigil's sacrifice, the Disciples knew someone was nearby: it was only a matter of time before they were found.

The Disciples marched down to the workshop's entrance, and stared at it. Red lights shot from their heads, covering the area around the entrance, crimson dots dancing across the metal, grass, and raised plinth. All five points converged on Snow and Element's tracks toward the tree line, and followed them up.

"Shit," Element said. "They've found us."

"You should go," Snow said.

"What?"

"You should go," he said again. Then he started to pull his robes off. "I have faced Disciples alone before, and I know how they can be stopped. Even a group of them. This is an order, Element: I have not sacrificed my Gift so that you can die here. Now, go."

Element shook her head. "They will just follow my tracks."

"Not if I detain them. Don't disobey me." He smiled. "I'm from a higher Station, after all."

The Contegon tutted. Her eyes narrowed, her lips pulled taut. But she turned and hobbled away.

Snow watched her go and then threw his robes away, leaving him standing in just his underwear. He wouldn't be marked as a soldier now.

The Disciples neared, so he stepped in front of them. Nearly naked, his skin covered with cold pimples, he raised his arms in surrender.

"I am unarmed. I am a civilian, and I surrender," he said.

The Disciples stopped walking and raised their gun arms toward him. Those red lights danced across his naked torso. However, instead of trying to march around him, that strange and horrible battle music started. Whatever slight compassion the Disciples had once had for non-combatants had disappeared.

Snow turned and ran in the opposite direction to Element. Bullets hissed past him, narrowly missing. He threw himself down, turned in random directions, everything he knew to do when facing Disciples unarmed. The tactics worked: he was going to make it to the trees, where he would have more cover, where he–

A bullet clipped the back of his leg then, sending him sprawling. He landed with his hand underneath him, crushing his fingers together and winding him. Wheezing, he tried to stand, but his right leg gave way.

This was it, then: Snow was going to bleed out. His purpose, given to him by Sol, had been to ensure Element's safety. He supposed his Contegon friend was valuable, that she would do great things in the coming war. It almost didn't seem fair, for his part in Sol's plans to be so small, but he tried to be grateful he had a role at all as the Disciples marched up to finish their kill.

A loud scream pierced the Disciple's battle music. Then there was a chorus of slicing, metal being rent in two. The battle music softened slightly.

Snow rolled over, expecting some minor internal scuffle like the one between the Lions. A figure in black robes, a hood leaving their face in darkness and two golden whips in their hands, stood over one of the Disciples. It was sliced in two, its innards steaming by its brethren's feet.

More importantly, he felt something akin to Sol's Gift.

The figure in black lashed out as it span to avoiding the Disciples' bullets. The nearest Disciple had its gun arm shorn clean away by the whip. Two bullets then struck the figure in the head, but that Gift-like energy flared, repelled the bullets like Sigil had.

"Sigil..." Snow whispered without thinking.

This strange warrior fought the Disciples with unerring grace, power, and style. Their moves and techniques seemed familiar, though he could not place them. Their effectiveness, however, could not be questioned: the Disciples were disarmed – literally – so their greatest threat would not risk the warrior. When four gun arms lay on the ground, the warrior used their whips to keep the Disciples at range. Once, they nearly closed in on the warrior, but the warrior swing around the trees behind them, fast as an insect. The monsters had no chance of catching up or closing the distances.

With these tactics, the Disciples were soon downed. They fought to the last, convinced they could beat this superior warrior, but they were wrong. All five were left to smoke on the Brittlegrass.

Then, the warrior turned to Snow. "What is your business here?" they asked in an oddly deep voice that sounded put on. Now they had stopped moving, he could see a slender face beneath the hood, and a mouth whose points naturally turned down.

"I could ask you the same thing," Snow said.

"But you will not," the warrior said. "Answer me first. Who are you? Why are you here?"

Snow felt himself bristle, not used to being ordered about by strangers, but he was in the weaker position here: unarmed, almost naked, and without the prestige of his Shield-General post, he was the suspicious one. Though only marginally more so than the warrior.

"My name is Snow. Shield-General Acolyte Snow," he said, seeing no value in lying to someone with access to something like Sol's Gift. "I came here to track Disciple creatures which attacked the towers outside Tenth. We found them down there." He pointed to the platform. "Then we destroyed them."

The warrior looked him up and down. "Where are your robes?"

"Over there," Snow said, pointing.

The warrior looked over to his clothes, then back at Snow. They said nothing.

"I had to sacrifice my abilities to save someone I care about," he said slowly, concentrating on not breaking down at thinking of Sigil. "When these Disciples came, I was unarmed and she was wounded. I faced Disciples before and they showed clemency to the Stationless: I hoped to distract them long enough for Contegon Element to escape if I did not have my Station robes on."

"Go and get your clothes," the warrior grunted. "Slowly."

Snow retrieved his robes. The warrior – Snow was unable to determine their gender yet – looked over the robes, and then looked over Snow.

"That is Scar's signet?" the warrior asked, pointing at the chain hanging from his neck.

"It is," Snow said, moved to hold the bronze image. "How did you-?"

"Did you not realise that would give you away after you have used it in battle so often?"

He looked down at the signet, and then laughed. "Oh, Sol, I'd not even thought about it. This is just so much a part of me... That explains why they went after me."

The warrior's grim face briefly allowed a smile. "A silly mistake for a Shield-General."

"Agreed. I'm still new to the job. Now, to whom do I owe my thanks?"

The warrior stiffened, their dark robes and their grip of their whips tightening. "You have put me in an awkward position, Shield-General Acolyte Snow: you have discovered something your people are not yet ready to know. It would be easier for us if you died here, as it would allow us to continue our work."

A slight panic rose in Snow, but it was kept at bay by the figure's tone, which indicated an internal struggle. "I am used to keeping secrets, if that is what you would ask of me."

They considered him for a while, in particular Scar's signet. "I do not think I would have... been brought here if our meeting was not meant to be. I would ask your secrecy, but you must know what you are protecting. Not least of all because of this... discovery you have made." They pointed to the underground laboratory. "This, I think, tips the balance, as we were not aware of such Disciple trickery either."

"Who is 'we'?" Snow asked.

The warrior sighed. "My name is Anger of Lun. I am a Lun Cultist."

Snow stepped back, dropping his robes. "A Lun Cultist?"

Anger tutted at him. "Already, you judge me. I have just saved you from five Disciples, and you act as though I am worse than them. Typical Solarist. You all think that the Disciples are the work of Lun, but you have been misled, all so that you had someone to blame for your ills!"

"You shall have to forgive me," Snow said, "but what you are saying is Heresy."

"Exactly!" Anger said, pointing at him. "Exactly! Questioning the Sol Lexic, even if you are right to do so, is suppressed in Geos. You live in a horrible, totalitarian world, where the only option is to worship Sol or remove yourself from society. We Lun Cultists have protected Geos for years, stemming the Disciple advance with our sweat and pain, but you are already internally measuring me for a Hereticum."

Snow's mind whirled. "You are saying that you, those who worship Lun, have fought the Disciples for years? And you've done so here? In the Moenian Forest?"

"We have. Lun granted us powers as Sol granted you Acolytes his Gift. We both use these to fight our real enemy: the Disciples. Yet, only one of us is allowed to exist in Geos, despite the blood we too have shed."

"I am sorry," Snow said, holding out a hand to Anger of Lun, "this is moving too fast for me. You are... you are saying not only that Lun is not the source of the Disciples, but that there is a cult dedicated to his worship that has powers which are the equivalent of Sol's Gift, and you organised a defence of Geos years before we established the current Fronts?"

Anger of Lun shook their head. "Your incredulity disappoints me."

"You're claiming enormous Heresy, but saying it has been beneficial to us," Snow shouted. "Forgive me if that is a lot to get my head around!"

The warrior stepped back, looked around them. "Perhaps this was a mistake."

"No, please," Snow said, reaching out to Anger, "telling the truth is never a mistake: it is just that what you claim is difficult to comprehend. Let me think as though I completely believe you: you have kept yourselves secret from Geos as the Lords, Contegons..." He stopped himself using Lun as a curse, instead said, "Well, everyone would reject you. But you still need to protect Geos because it is your home. You said that you have been fighting this battle for years, right? I guess that coincides with Sol granting Maya the Gift, so it would make sense that Lun – were he not an adversary but an opposite – shared his Gift when he saw his brother did so. He balanced things out."

"Your reasoning is impressive," Anger of Lun said.

"Thank you. So... let's say I'm willing to believe this. And I am, what with what I've just seen, with how...different your powers are to an Acolyte's. What should I do with this information?"

The warrior shrugged. "It is not my place to question Lun: he told me to patrol here, and I did, which meant I found and saved you. You have some role in this for both the Dark and the Light brother." They looked around. "A role that I shall leave you to."

Anger of Lun went to run into the tree line. Snow shouted after them, "Wait!"

"What is it?" they shouted back, not looking at him.

"Two things," Snow shouted back. "We may be pushing the Fronts north in the next few years, depending on how we react to these new Disciples and the underground lairs. If so, your people will need to be ready to move, and hide their presence."

Anger of Lun nodded. "I appreciate the warning. What is the second thing?"

"Can I please see your face? I need to know that I don't know you, ensure you're not someone embedded in the Fronts. Please? It will help me trust everything else you've said."

The warrior sighed, then turned to face him. "Fine. But you need to know that my... my form is a betrayal of who I am: I am male, in spite of my face."

Snow nodded, walked closer to see this warrior. He needed to know that Anger wasn't one of his Acolytes, that he wasn't being tricked in some way by a Disciple sympathiser. At this point, it seemed more likely than Anger of Lun's story, but him revealing his face would put those doubts to bed, allow him to digest the incredible tale he had woven.

Anger of Lun pushed back his hood. Beneath was a thin face that could have belonged to either a man or woman. His cheeks had images of Lun scarred into them, and his dark eyes were steady as he allowed Snow to inspect him, prove he did not recognise this figure with the Gift. Snow did not recognise him at all, and felt something inside him relax at that knowledge.

"Thank you," Snow said.

"May our gods be with you," Anger of Lun said.

Before Snow could respond, he flicked out his whip and started to swing between the trees, leaving behind questions that may go unanswered for decades.
Chapter 49

Snow sat at the head of his table, Scar's signet in his hands, trying to find some trace of Sigil. He was no longer an Acolyte in the true sense, which worried him personally and as a Shield-General whose Front was weakened, though the Lun Cultists may help offset that deficit. Not that he could explain that comfort to anyone. Except, perhaps, for Maya.

With all his reports given, and the Council working on a new, official strategy for dealing with the Disciples' underground lairs, the day-to-day running of the Front took over. Until there was official word from Draw on how to proceed, their main work was in moving reserve forces forward: everyone except a skeleton crew for high-level decisions was now on the Front. That made his days easier, but it had also given him moments such as these to dwell on Sigil's death.

The tent flap opened and Grit, the western Front's other Acolyte, entered. Slight, young, he would have been three years into his Farmer training if Maya hadn't pulled him out.

Snow dropped Scar's signet, and rose. "Grit. I'd not expected you."

"Certainty didn't feel like she could be here, sire," the boy replied. "I was only a bit more able. It... it feels weird to even look at you."

"The last thing I need, Grit, is a guilt festival. I'm... I'm doing enough of that on my own."

Grit acquiesced. "I apologise, sire. I didn't mean to... Yes. I've been thinking about it, and, despite my discomfort about what happened, there must have been a reason for Sigil's death. Sol would not allow one of his Spirits \- Servants, sorry - to... well, what happened... if he didn't have a higher purpose. This Contegon you saved, she must have a future akin to Maya's."

"I can only hope so," someone said.

At the tent flap was Element. Snow felt a strange, bitter-sweet joy at seeing her whole and strong. She stepped inside. Her Contegon's robes were clean. Her weapons had been repaired.

"Contegon Insight. Welcome," Snow said.

"Hello, Shield-General Snow."

"Not until tomorrow," Snow replied.

"Why did you call us here, sire?" Grit asked, taking a seat beside Snow.

Snow shook his head. "There's still one more person we're waiting for."

Element sat beside Grit, obviously expecting their final guest to be of a higher Station. Technically, she was right, but he wanted her next to him. He wanted to be close to her.

"How are you feeling, Contegon Insight?" Grit asked.

"Element. Call me Element, sire."

"Of course," Grit said with a nod. "Still, how are you feeling? I'm fascinated to learn how your wound has healed: horrible as the circumstances were, there is much they can tell us about the Gift, and about Sol."

Her eyes flitted across at Snow, and the corners of her mouth drooped. "I... The Doctors tell me that the Gift's healing was akin to natural healing after a complex surgery, only accelerated by years. I will need to avoid heavy spices to not aggravate the internal scarring, but, beyond that, I'm as I was."

Grit nodded. "I find that fascinating. I guess it makes sense, doesn't it? Sol would never undo the mistakes and pain, but he would make up for them."

"He hasn't made up for any of my pains," Catch said as he entered. He wore his full Shield uniform, and an expression that said his valuable time was being wasted. "If he did, I'd be living in a golden mansion on the Circumference by now."

"That's not how–" Grit started.

"He was joking," Snow said.

"Was I?" Catch asked. He sat next to Snow, completing their little gathering.

Snow looked at them, his mentor, his friend, and one of his Station. They watched him back, nervous and curious about this gathering. The pause allowed him to compose himself, but it also piqued their interest, an old trick Maya had taught him.

"You may not have heard, but it was recently confirmed that Contegon Chain Justicar uncovered a plot in the Mining Town of Buckle to smuggle Disciple goods throughout Geos. She ended it spectacularly, as you'd expect from a Contegon of her name and stature."

"Praise Sol," Grit said, acquiescing to the air.

"Praise Sol," Element repeated.

"What's that got to do with anything?" Catch asked.

Snow tried not to smile: he'd trapped Catch just as he'd hoped. "The problem, Catch, is that Contegon Justicar fought Merchants, a Cleric, and a Stationless man. All of them Heretics. If those noble ranks can be compromised, only one Station can be trusted to not contain Disciple traitors."

"The Acolytes," Grit said.

Snow nodded.

Element looked around the table. "Wait, no, what about the Contegons?"

"And have you forgotten your other Station, Snow? You know, the Shields?"

"I have forgotten neither, Element, Catch," Snow replied. "The problem is there is no tangible link to Sol, or proof of his approval, in either Station. Only the Acolytes have the Gift, absolute evidence that Sol approves of them. As such, only the Acolytes can be trusted."

Catch's lip curled into a snarl. He wanted to respond, to fight back, but he couldn't think of a valid argument. After a few seconds, he tutted and looked away. "Fine."

"No, it's not fine," Element said. "You can't disparage entire Stations on the actions of Heretics."

Grit tutted. "Even if there are human, Disciple-supporting Heretics? Your own fight with the Acolyte Killer shows that humans have turned to the Disciple cause."

"I'm saying," Snow said, interrupting the argument, "that people I don't know can't be trusted, and that a person's Station is no longer proof of their incorruptibility. However, I must trust them to run this Front: the four of us and Acolyte Certainty can't protect the Front alone."

"These two and the Acolytes are the ones you trust most?" Grit asked.

"I'd trust everyone here with my life," Snow rose and rested his fists on the table. "Element, Catch, Grit, we now know Heresy can remain hidden in our ranks for years until it bursts like a blister. So far, the Disciples have damaged us, but there is no killer blow. I do not want there to be, not in my Front."

Element furrowed her brow and shook her head. "What are you asking?"

"There is no one I trust more than you. So I need you to lead tacit investigations into the people on my Front. The Mariners, Farmers, and Clerics are already searching their ranks with a fine comb. They'll be thorough because they'll want to show they are weeding out these corrupt fools, but we can't trust they'll all be honest. And nothing will happen amongst the Contegons and Shields. I want the three of you, and Certainty, to be Sol's light: I want you to shine in the dark places, eliminate the shadows in every Station under my Front."

"You want us to... what, run secret investigations at all times?" Grit asked.

"The Acolytes can read emotions. The Contegons are authorised to investigate anyone. And Catch could order a dark cloud to turn white. Between you, I expect that you will uncover every darkness. Obviously, I want you to be quiet as possible in all you do: we don't need a war within our ranks too."

Catch shared a brief look with Element, before standing. "As you command, sire. I look forward to it."

Snow smiled. "I thought you might."

"And how could I resist an order to shine Sol's magnificence onto the face of evil?" Grit asked as he stood. "As the Sol Lexic says, 'Never pass on an opportunity to shine, for the only thing Sol loves more than creating good and undoing evil is to shine on his beloved, allowing them to do both for themselves.' I will pursue this, as, I'm sure, will Certainty."

"Well put," Snow said. Grit's knowledge of the Sol Lexic was encyclopedic. The focus for his Gift was a small, hand-written copy of the book too. His memory could not be questioned.

They turned to Element, who took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders. "I am uncomfortable with the idea that a Contegon could ever be suspected a Disciple-supporter. The very idea seems Heretical to me."

"It wouldn't be the first time a Contegon turned Heretic, would it?" Catch asked.

"Nowhere is it written in the Sol Lexic that Contegons are always pure," Grit pointed out.

"Nor does it speak about Acolytes," Element fired back.

"I disagree. Consider the follow: 'Sol said, 'Sometimes, he will gift his followers–'"

"Let's not get into a semantic argument," Snow said. "Contegon Insight, you were named for the quality I'm asking you to exercise. Will you do this, not for your Shield-General, but for me?"

Element sighed. "We'll have to agree the parameters of any investigation into the Contegons, but yes, in principle, I will prove to you that my Station has no Heretics."

"Thank you. Thank you, all of you," Snow said. "I shall contact you over the next few days to confirm how you should report: obviously, we can't meet like this every month or people will realise what we're doing."

"Or think us Heretics ourselves," Element said.

Snow looked Element up and down. "Perhaps. Thank you for your time. Return to your duties." He added, when they rose, "Except for you, Contegon Insight."

Catch and Grit acquiesced and left. Element remained on her feet, gripping the back of her chair with her white gloves. Her eyes were narrow, her breathing erratic.

She waited until Catch and Grit were gone before saying, "I don't like this, Snow. And I don't like you manipulating me into something that feels an awful lot like Heresy. You're breaking the clear delineation of the Stations. If you were to order an investigation like this at any other time..."

"I'm not ordering it at just any time, though, am I?" Snow asked. "We've been attacked by Disciple Heretics among our ranks, behind the damn Fronts. The report on Chain's fight makes a strong case for heavier actions: Disciple materials were smuggled beyond the Fronts to waiting people of Station. And there are tunnels beneath Geos' soil, which the Council struggle to come to terms with." He sighed. "Element, we are not fighting the war we thought we were. The Disciples are working in different ways. So should we."

"'Chain?'" Element asked. Her lips were tight, and she crossed her arms. "Do you know Contegon Justicar well enough to use her name?"

Snow laughed. "I suppose so: she was the Contegon present when we landed the barges from Port. Do you not remember her?"

Element shook her head. "I only remember fear, and then you were gone. I remember being led to a strange place by kind Mariners. It was Contegon Justicar who led you away, was it?" Element laughed. "Sol has a strange sense of humour."

"Why did it matter that I called her Chain?" Snow asked.

"I was worried it was disrespectful," she said stiffly.

"That was a poor lie, Element," Snow said, standing and walking over to her. "A Contegon wasn't made to lie, I don't think."

The Contegon took a breath, hitched and staccato. Her eyes crossed his face. She licked her lips and said, "I... I might have been jealous."

Snow's mouth felt dry as he reached out and touched her cheek. Element sighed, a pleasant and happy sound, and took his hand. "Snow..."

"Yes?"

She pulled him forward and into a kiss, the motion swift and strong. At first, he was surprised. Then he was astonished. Then he melted into the kiss.

He pulled back and smiled. As he looked at Element, this beautiful and powerful warrior, this woman he had given his Station to save, a faint green haze surrounded her: love, lust, and hope. Element took his expression as a deep compliment – which he supposed it was – and pulled him into another deep kiss. This time, Snow was prepared for it.

Their time was interrupted, however, when someone landed heavily outside his tent. Snow and Element stood away from one another to protect their reputations.

Snow didn't get chance to dwell on it as Certainty came running into the room. "Sire, I need to talk to you," she panted, red-faced and out of breath.

"What is it, Certainty?" Snow said, his joy lost in panic. "Another firework?"

The Acolyte shook her head. "No, worse. Aureu has been attacked."

## Maya

'What could be more dangerous?

Oh, what could be worse?

Then Lun preparing for some months,

And releasing one great burst?'

\-- Lyrics from Lun's Burst, a folk song.

Chapter 50

As the sun rose on a beautiful summer morning, its light glimmering through her office window, Maya prepared to leave.

Her office. Maya had an office. She was so important she had Clerics, tens of them, making things ready for her. As an Acolyte, a Councillor, and a debated miracle, she had ascended so far she sometimes felt vertigo. To keep herself sane, she refused any Servants, considering that the first step down a dangerous road. So she reviewed her own itinerary, confirmed orders, and personally checked her travel bag.

"Flux has confirmed the food," she said to herself. "Note provided the weapons. The Shields' carriage should be waiting for me." She rifled through the papers again, checked each signature. All were present, accounted for, as expected from the Clerics.

"Everything's going to be fine," Applekill said. The Spirit sat on her desk, a great brass surface with its papers neatly organised. Half of her was burnt and burning, always would be. "I know we've got everything sorted."

"You might, but I don't," Maya said. "I just need to be certain."

She walked across her great office, with its banks of chairs, bookshelves, and oak-panelled walls, and to her travel pack. Her gold-fringed, white robes swayed as she moved, free to flow now she no longer wore armour. She would bring her own clothing and grooming products, which she checked through next. Everything was accounted for; everything was there.

Maya was ready. It was hard to believe, but she was.

"I told you," Applekill says, putting her tongue out at her human.

Maya sighed, stretched, and went to her window. Though she'd forgone most of the trappings of being a Councillor, she couldn't turn down an office with a view of the Journey as it dropped south, graceful water dancing through the land, followed by heavy barges laden with goods. The grassland surrounding it shone like an emerald. If she went to the far left of her office, she could see the saplings of the Planted Forest, now five years into its regeneration. At the far right was the Great Road as it began its journey east.

She would soon follow the Great Road to the eastern Front. Her latest batch of Acolytes, her best and brightest, were scheduled to reinforce there, and Maya had decided to go with them as a combined holiday and morale-boosting trip for the troops.

Of course, they could just fly to the Front, but there were... security concerns preventing that. Besides, Maya wanted to enjoy the trip, to travel through parts of Geos she'd never seen and get to know her latest batch as more than just their teacher and Councillor. This would be her first break since she became a Councillor, so they would travel by carriage, a two week journey, a two week rest.

"Yeah, and don't you deserve it?" Applekill asked.

Maya smiled. She couldn't wait.

Someone knocked on her door. Maya frowned: she wasn't to meet the convoy for another hour.

"Enter," she said.

"See you," Applekill said before disappearing.

Contegon Councillor White entered, her white robes bright and crisp as the day. Time had treated her well: she still looked much the same as when she led the Hereticum against Maya.

"Tone," Maya said with a smile. "This is a pleasant surprise."

"Good morning, Acolyte Councillor," the Contegon Councillor said, echoing Maya's smile. She stood at the door, gripping the handle.

"Please, come in. Sit down. I was just admiring the view: I'm going to miss it."

The Councillor entered the office and closed the door behind her. Walking stiffly, as someone of her age would, she pulled a chair up to Maya's desk. Maya would offer help if it wouldn't offend her friend. And she liked to think the Contegon Councillor was her friend, with all they'd achieved together.

Maya sat too. "You haven't come to say goodbye, have you?"

"I haven't."

Maya licked her lips. "You won't dissuade me from going: we've been over this a hundred–"

Tone raised her hand to stop Maya. "I understand your reasons, and I don't begrudge you a holiday. But I thought you should know that Lord Councillor Blind aims to bring the use of Disciple technology to a vote at the Council session tonight. Whilst you're away."

Disciple technology. It was the big debate, the question on every Councillor's lips. Note, Artificer Councillor and a close friend of Maya's, had pushed for its use at the behest of her Station. Maya and Tone both agreed that, with the population still recovering from the Second Invasion, technological advances could tip the tide of the war further in Geos' direction. The debate had gone public, people protested to argue their cases. A wrong call would determine Geos' success in the war.

Maya went to the window again, watched her city. "Go on."

"I still have contacts inside the Lords. Blind knows you're going to the Front, somehow, and has decided to bring a vote without you. His voting bloc will fire down Note's idea and set us back years."

The bright sun glared off the windows of a building opposite Maya's office, bright and painful. "How can he do that? You need weeks to bring a motion like that."

"Well, he knows the rules, Maya. He plans to use his Emergency Powers to raise it."

Maya shook her head. "That'll just result in a deadlock."

"No, it'll mean he wins, because he will then invoke an obscure rule which says someone who votes against a motion cannot raise it for three years. If he introduces a motion against Disciple technology, and wins the vote, it will silence us for years. The only way our voting bloc could prevent him from killing the matter for three years would be for those present to abstain..."

"Which would mean he would win the vote anyway," Maya said. "At least short-term."

"Exactly. It would give him a big victory in this fight, especially publicly."

Maya closed her eyes. The rules of the Solaric Council were many and contrived, a set of laws grown over decades to prevent abuse of the system. Sometimes they encouraged it, as in Blind's case. Really, the rules were weapons, a force to use if you understood them: like Cyrus Force. And Blind would bring his power to bear at the first Council meeting Maya would miss.

Maya sucked air in through her teeth. "How do we stop this?"

"You know how."

The Council was split almost perfectly on the debate, four Councillors on either side with two regularly abstaining, so even one of them not voting would tip the balance. When to raise the vote was a tactical point, with neither side having blinked yet. Tone was right, she did know how to prevent Blind's victory: launch a counter-ambush by attending the Council session.

"I suppose I could catch the carriage up after the Council session...."

Tone smiled. "I know that you could. As do most people in Aureu."

A subtle reminder of the security concerns: the last time she publicly left Aureu, there was a fifty percent increase in crime as Gangs and muggers took advantage. Hence the secrecy around her current holiday plans. The double-edged sword that is power had cut her again.

"Damn you, Blind," Maya sighed.

Tone gave her a sympathetic smile, though Maya knew she did not approve of her risking herself at the Front. The Countegon Councillor thought Maya's job was to ensure people did the right things, not to do them herself. "He does what he thinks is right. You cannot blame him for following his conscience."

Maya sat down heavily. "I was so looking forward to this break. My Acolytes will be devastated."

"Not as devastated as Note would be."

"You've made your point, Tone," Maya snapped.

The Contegon Councillor raised her eyebrows.

"Sorry," Maya said. "That was rude."

"It's fine: during my first season on the Front, I was denied leave after Disciples attacked. Instead of celebrating my sister's birthday, I shut down metal creatures. I was not, as you aren't now, best pleased."

"Man plans, Lun laughs," Maya said.

"Indeed."

Maya imagined her Acolytes' faces when she told them she wouldn't be coming with them, disappointment and hurt. She'd try to explain the importance of the vote, the cruelty of political machinations, but the Council was a holy entity to them, so it was unthinkable that they should snipe and plan so. Obviously, Maya hadn't had quite such a favourable view at their age, but, well, she was a Heretic, wasn't she?

"I'll cancel my plans," Maya sighed.

"It's for the best," Tone said, not without sympathy.

"I hope so."

Tone stood and straightened her uniform. "I'll see you at the Council session tonight. Don't worry. The look on Blind's face ought to be worth cancelling your plans for."

"It better be," Maya said with a small smile.

"Let's hope so!" the Councillor called back as she left Maya's office, closing the door behind her.

Maya sighed and stood. Sacrificing for the good of others had become as natural as flinching, but that didn't make it easy. She reached into her robes and pulled out Candle's ring, her only physical connection to the man she'd fought with, and Nephilim, who had taught her about the world then ordered her to save it. The ring was plain, tarnished by time, but still worth so much.

"I am sorry that your plans have come to naught, Maya," the Spirit inside Candle's ring said.

"Thank you."

It appeared before her and offered her a cold hug, which she gratefully accepted. "It seems to me that you are doing the right thing though."

"The right thing is never the easy thing, though, is it?" Maya asked.

"If the right thing were easy," it said gravely, "no one would hesitate to do it."
Chapter 51

Request was bored. Very bored. She had nothing to draw with, nothing to read, and was under orders to keep her Spirit secret. Her fellow Acolytes were silent, sullen, travelling with a dark cloud over them. Two were in the carriage, Tie and Press. Disc was driving until they stopped for the night, which wouldn't be long. They rode in a cheap vehicle that amplified every bump in the road so it felt like the carriage might topple at any time. More than once, tall Press had bumped her head during an unexpected jolt.

Request snapped, said what the other Acolytes were thinking, "Well, this burns, doesn't it?"

"It does." Tie, built like a Disciple but not as attractive, grumbled. He wiped his forehead as he looked out the carriage window. "It burns."

"Hey, that's no way to talk," said Press. "It's not Maya's fault that she couldn't come."

"Isn't it?" Request asked. "She said she would, she said we would spend two weeks together, just the five of us. And then some stupid Lord pulls a stunt, and she drops us like bad gear? I'd gamble that she could have done more. I don't like it. And neither does Ink."

Her Spirit appeared when mentioned, a floating miasma of green liquid with two piercing eyes at its centre. "She shouldn't have crumbled like that," Ink said.

"Hey, put her away!"

"Not brilliant, Request," Tie said. "We're supposed to be incognito."

Request tutted. "No one can see in here."

"Are you sure?"

She sighed and dismissed Ink. The Spirit sank back into her paintbrush. In protest, she made the implement feel obvious, heavy: she wanted to remain, stretch her tendrils. Request didn't blame her as remaining hidden, small, was in neither of their natures.

"I still don't get this. Any of this," she said. "We're Acolytes. Why travel under false names in these..." Request looked down at her dull, brown dress and flicked at it. "These disgusting clothes. I love my robes. I want to wear them at all times."

"Well, apart from the impacts on Aureu, there's Draw's Loss to consider," Press said.

"The Folly," Tie said.

Request frowned. "I can't take what you're offering."

"You never heard of this?" Tie asked. "It was all the news."

"I've never been a part of Stationed society," Request reminded them.

"Sorry," Tie said, still a little awkward at talking to someone who'd grown up Stationless. "This was before any of us joined. Sol, it would be a year and a half ago now, wouldn't it?"

"It would," Press agreed. "At the beginning of spring, last year."

"Time disappears, doesn't it?"

Request allowed them a polite amount of introspection, then said, "Who's Draw and what did he lose?"

"Draw is the Shield Councillor, a boorish–"

"A great leader," Press broke in.

"Anyway, the story goes that Draw was sick of the Acolytes, and the Shield-General he was forced to take under his wing, getting all the glory."

"Or that he saw a tactical opportunity," Press hissed, a former Contegon.

Tie tapped his fingers against the carriage's thin glass. "Whatever. Draw technically had control of the Acolytes back then. No one minded either: we were all in the war together, so why would specifics about command structures matter? So he gathered three Acolytes, and ordered them to raid Moenian with a cadre, slash and burn, take the fight to the bastards. Being warriors of Sol, they relished the opportunity."

"Any fucker would," Request said.

"Not any more. Only one Shield returned."

Request blinked. She couldn't believe what they were saying. "They lost three Acolytes?"

Tie nodded. "In one night. A third of the Acolytes, gone. The surviving Shields returned five months later, battered and bruised, and reportedly told Shield-General Eagle what happened. But Maya knew well before that what he'd done, and Draw was nearly tossed out, nearly destroyed, for his Folly."

"His Loss," Press corrected.

"You just going to keep correcting me, Press?"

"Only if you continue to tell the story like a Heretic."

Tie gnashed his teeth, but let it go. His feelings for Press were too strong to go any further.

Request couldn't believe what he'd said, though: three Acolytes lost at once, destroyed deep in enemy territory because a Councillor had wanted to prove his worth. It was no shock that Maya wanted to keep the Acolytes well-protected after that, out of the Shield Councillor's reach.

"That still doesn't explain the secrecy," Request said. "She got the Stations re-ordered, so she doesn't have to worry about another Loss. Why keep us incognito then?"

"When you're robbed," Press said slowly, "you ensure your next wage is well protected."

There was a bash on the carriage. "All right then, my fellows," Disc shouted down, his Port accent thick as his mop of hair, "I do think we're at a good place to stop for the night."

The Acolytes poured from the carriage and stretched to release the strain of being cooped up. Request had lived in Aureu all her life, and so would never have guessed that travel could take so much from her.

"Moving always takes juice," Ink whispered. "And journeys are no different."

"True," Request replied with a smile.

Disc had pulled them into some unclaimed greenery between two farms, a waystation for travellers with a well-worn place for a camp fire. With their cheap, nondescript carriage and poor clothes, they would hopefully be mistaken for young Merchants heading along the Great Road, to Ember or Rise. It was good cover, particularly as they had more food than they needed, including Maya's surprise for them.

Maya... Request didn't really blame her for not coming. Their teacher, their friend, operated at another level, always seeming to have many plans on the go. Some on the Council, such as this Draw, still didn't accept the former Heretic's presence among them. Achieving what she knew was best, what Sol told her was best, meant treading a fine line.

Request knew all this because they had grown close. How could they not, when only a dozen or so people had been granted Spirits to enact Sol's will? Their training and knowledge had pulled them together. They loved each other, and loved Maya most.

"I think you hate her for crumbling still," Ink said. "Keeping the wound."

"Of course I do. But at least I know how irrational it is."

"Request, stop talking to yourself," Press warned as she used the carriage to stretch her calves.

"People are going to think you mad," Disc said with a smile. He was filling wooden bowls with water and holding them to the horses' faces. The beasts gratefully lapped, having had a hard day.

Request blew air out through her lips. "All right, you don't have to shout twice."

"I do not think I'll ever get used to your way of talking, city girl," Disc said.

"Don't throw what you're covered in, swimmer," Request said.

Press laughed. "I've not heard that one in ages! 'Don't throw what you're covered in.' Are people really saying that again?"

Request shrugged. "My Grandma taught me it."

"'Don't throw what you're covered in,'" Disc repeated, tasting the words like grapes. "I like it. I think I will be borrowing that, if and when you don't mind. After all, I am just a swimmer?"

Request smiled despite herself. "Take it. I don't own it."

"Well, well, thank you!"

Disc gave her that boyish smile of his. He was muscular but good-natured as anything you could hope for. Request had never met someone with power who didn't think to use it: you used any scrap of power you had where she'd grown up. Especially when your skin wasn't the same colour as everyone else's.

"Let's set up the tent," Tie said.

"No, let's do food first," Press replied.

"I'll throw my marble at that one," Disc said.

"You made that up," Tie rumbled.

"Damn! I owe you another Circle."

The group laughed. As they came from different parts of Geos – Request from Aureu's slums, Disc from Port, Tie from Mine, a Mountain settlement, and Press from a Farming community called Helm – they had their own colloquialisms, slang, and so on. At Maya's suggestion, they'd made a game of trying to sneak fake sayings past each other. If you got one past, everyone owed you a Circle. If you were called out, you owed the person who called it. But, if someone named a real saying fake, they owed everyone a Circle. It was a fun game, something that bound them.

"Pay me later," said Tie. "Let's cook first."

A call of nature tugged on Request's bladder. "I'm going to the gutter," Request said.

"Thanks for sharing," Tie said.

"Well, I didn't want you thinking I was shirking my duty to cook."

"Go on," Press said, waving her away.

The farmlands were flat, like a soil shelf, so there was only an apple tree to hide her... unless she wanted to squat in crops that would end up being someone's dinner. The thought amused her until she realised it could easily be hers, so she elected for the tree.

One advantage of incognito wear was ease of removal: her Acolyte robes were her favourite possession after the brush her Father gave her – a medium artist's brush with inch-thick bristles tapering to a fine edge – but they were not easy to remove. Half her training, it seemed, had been learning to manage her guts so she wouldn't be caught short. This dress, she only had to lift to relieve herself.

When done, she walked back to camp. Press had a fire going. Tie was debating what kind of meal to put together, facing salted meat and a sack of vegetables like they were enemies. Disc was rustling around on top of the carriage, grinning.

"Hey, what do you reckon this is?" Disc asked. Request's hearing was good: she could still hear him even from a distance. He held a large trunk, well-built, made to protect its contents from the bumpy journey.

"Don't know," Tie shouted, more interested in his food.

The Port boy jumped down and brought the trunk to the fire. "It sounds... metallic. And there's something carved into the lid here, a marking that looks like an M. I cannot help but wonder what it could be!"

"Open it, then, and save us your blathering!" Press snapped. She prodded the fire, trying to get it going, but failing miserably. "It's probably Maya's surprise for us."

"So it is! Request, back up!" Disc called.

"Why?"

"I want you to guess what it is when I open it, but don't want you to get any clues. Okay?"

"Why?" she asked again.

"Why not?"

She couldn't argue with that so she stepped a few feet back. "Is this far enough?"

"That's good. Now, let's see–"

He opened the trunk and it exploded, a great conflagration that threw Request back. Baking heat passed over her like a wave as she flew, making her skin taut, forcing her eyes closed. Ink was alive or suspicious enough to catch her, the Spirit's green tendrils saving her from an awkward landing. Her Spirit put Request back on her feet and floated next to her as she looked around, dazed, ears ringing from the blast.

"No..." Request whispered, her mouth dry. "No, no."

The carriage had been a few feet away from the explosion, but it was aflame, had been tossed onto its side. Disc, Press and Tie could not have survived such a blast. Ink must have covered Request in Gift armour for her to be unsinged. Disobeying Maya's orders by keeping Ink close to hand had saved her life.

What had happened finally sank in. Request shook her head and ran toward the wreckage. Only charred earth remained where her friends, her fellow Acolytes, had stood. The blast had been so hot that it was as though they had never been.

"No! No! NO!" Request roared, sinking to her feet. She punched the earth until she realised she was striking the likely remains of her friends.
Chapter 52

The Solaric Council meet in Aureu's alabaster heart, the tall hope that reaches. So large was the Cathedral that it held the Bureau, the Lords' Lyre, open areas for prayer and partying, and meeting rooms for the great and the good. The room the Council used was called the Advisory, a beautifully-rendered space with motifs and murals of pre-Cleansing heroes, hanging far above the Cathedral's main hall.

The Council would be settling down as Maya sat in a nearby waiting room. She'd decided to arrive late, when Lord Blind would be feeling most satisfied with himself, for the most impact. She hoped to fluster the insufferable oaf as she sat on a luxurious sofa and counted the seconds.

"Do you think Peace is watching us?" Applekill asked, lying on the sofa beside her.

"She may be. Why?"

"Just... curious. It's been a while since she spoke to us."

Maya stood, deciding to enter now. "She was silent for more than a century before the Second Invasion," she said. "A few years is nothing."

"I guess."

Contegons guarded the Advisory. Traditionally, they wore leather and carried halberds, but, after the Second Invasion, they wore thick plate armour beneath their robes, strong enough to withstand a Disciple bullet, and held a Baptism in each hand.

"Acolyte Councillor!" one said. Maya didn't know her: Contegon turnover had increased so much she hadn't had time to learn their names. "We did not expect you."

"Though it is a pleasant surprise, of course."

Neither acquiesced: aside from the Guardian, they were the only people in Geos who don't acquiesce to Councillors, as doing so might compromise their vigil.

"Good evening," Maya said. "I assume you want my weapon."

"And your ring."

Maya gave them a cold smile. Someone had found out that her ring was a source of power and had made sure every Contegon knew it. She suspected it was Lord Blind again. She handed over her short sword and ring, one to each. The Contegon with her ring pocketed it, struggling with her thick gauntlets. The other placed her sword in a sheath specifically made for it, a very thoughtful touch.

As always, she closed her eyes and breathed deeply when separated from her Spirits. Giving up the item you invested a Spirit into cut you off from your powers. The absence was jarring, painful, and wrong.

This separation might have come from Lord Blind, but the Guardian had authorised it: he hadn't liked Sol's Gift making her the strongest in the room. The Council was built on hierarchy, so usurping it was not allowed even by one 'touched by Sol.' Maya had argued and advanced her case, but she had lost. And so she wounded herself and her Spirits for every Council session.

"Shall I announce you?" the Contegon with her ring asked.

"No. I'll just go in."

Maya took another deep breath, squared her shoulders, and opened her eyes. The Contegons' mouths turned into small smiles, their admiration a strange pressure. With a wide smile, she entered the Advisory.

No one knew what the Advisory was used for pre-Cleansing, but it was the most beautiful room in the Cathedral. The First Servant had made it the home of Geos' government the moment she saw it: its walls held murals of tiny gems and precious metals depicting the heroes the first Stations were modelled on. These jewels glinted in the candlelight as Maya entered, sparkling with joy at seeing her. Battle scenes, contritions, and stories were played out in beautiful expense. After her first Council session, Maya had pawed over them for an hour.

The Advisory's table, known as the Mensa, accommodated the Councillors with ease. A great oblong, the First Servant had ordered it made to suit this beautiful room, inlaying it with a golden relief of the Council's seal, nine sexless figures of exquisite detail seated around Sol. It'd been suggested that the new Stations should be added, but, in a time of war, it was deemed a waste of resources.

Ten seats at the Mensa were already filled; Starfish, the Mariner Councillor, only attended one session in four because he also ran the city of Port. The chairs were arranged by the Stations' hierarchy: Visit, Councillor of the newly-formed Maters, sat at the far left; Octave and Flux, Doctor and Farmer, were next, then Note and Quill, Artificer and Merchant; Cleric Councillor Pale sat opposite Starfish's empty chair; Draw faced Tone White; and, finally, Lord Councillor Blind sat by the Guardian, with Maya opposite Blind. No one sat at the opposite head to the Guardian.

Everyone looked up as she entered. Tone kept the pretence of surprise, though she opted for pleasant surprise. Blind took in a sharp breath. Draw scowled.

"Maya," the Guardian said, "we hadn't expected you."

"I had a last minute change of plans."

The Guardian gestured for her to sit, looking more healthy than he had in years, now able to sustain his expression of surprise, which would have been impossible during the worst of the unknown illness which kept him bedridden at times. He had gained weight too, and his grip on the Sceptre of Sol was firm and steady as he sat in the grandest seat in the room.

Maya sat in her chair. Blind gave her the once over, his white beard twitching.

"I understood you were taking a leave of absence?" Flux asked. He was a slim, balding man whose loose skin showed he'd once had much more to him. Octave had helped with his diet, though simply eating less had probably been the answer.

"I was. As I said, my plans changed."

"Well, we're glad to have you here," Quill said. He beamed at her, his teeth almost as white as Nephilim's. It paid for a Merchant to look good.

"Indeed," Pale said. "Shall we start?"

"Why not?" the Guardian asked.

When no one answered, Pale reached into his robes and pulled out a sealed scroll. He went to pass it to Draw, when the Guardian coughed.

"Throw it to me."

Pale's large eyebrows knotted. Decades had taught him better than to question the Guardian, so he threw the scroll across the table. The Guardian reached out to catch it, but knocked it into the air. He got it on the second occasion, which brought a stronger smile to his face.

Maya felt like applauding. Instead, she laughed. "Your recovery continues apace, sire."

"It does. I have Lord Blind to thank for that. Though I fear I'm just stalling the inevitable."

"Sol would surely not allow you to recover this much and not take you further," Blind said. He patted the Guardian on the hand. "I'm sure if you keep this up you will soon be better."

The Guardian cast a glance to Octave, who coughed. "We all hope so," the thin Councillor said, looking away to provide a view of a crooked nose that was almost bigger than the rest of him.

Maya felt sorry for Octave, whose best efforts had brought no improvement to the Guardian. Blind's prayers hadn't made a slight difference, but it was impossible to argue with these people that fortune didn't mean that Sol had intervened. "The agenda, sire?" she said to move things along again.

"Of course. Blind, if you could?"

Blind cut the scroll open with a small knife. This took longer than if Maya or anyone else in the room had, but tradition demanded that the Lord open the agenda. So they waited as his shaking, bony hands worried at the wax, almost sawed it open.

"Right," the Guardian said. This was his first time seeing the agenda: the Council set it to advise him on how to run Geos. "The first item on the agenda is... is no small matter: whether to allow the investigation of the use of Disciple technology. Blind, you brought this to the Council as a matter of urgency?"

"I did," he said. One could almost miss the tightness in his jaw.

"Really?" Note asked, eyes blazing behind her spectacles. "I wasn't informed of this."

"Lord Councillor Blind used his emergency powers to add this to the agenda," Pale said, the arbiter of the Council's laws. "It was added too late to inform those affected."

"How curious," Note said. Technology and the advancement of knowledge was her sphere as Artificer Councillor. Her biting tone reminded everyone of that.

"I thought it important to discuss the matter in light of... questions people have put to us," Blind said.

"Questions?" the Guardian asked.

"As you know, sire, people of influence come to the Lords for guidance in the way of Sol. Just recently, Visit brought me the concerns of her Station: the Maters are worried about the impact bringing such 'technology' into the public sphere might have."

"Visit?" The Guardian looked along the table. "You have concerns?"

"I do."

"What kind of concerns?" Note asked.

Her aggression wasn't doing them any favours so Maya coughed, tried to let her friend know to calm down. The message seemed to be received as Note sat back and took a deep breath.

Visit was a plump woman with well-kept hair and a crow's staring eyes. She had single-handedly pushed through the creation of the Maters, opting for simple soil-coloured robes with green trim. 'The Maters are the soil from which our new generation spring,' she'd said in their first meeting to justify the choice.

"I am just a simple woman," Visit said, "but there can be no good from evil, no light from darkness–"

"Have you not heard of a match?" Quill asked, laughing at his own joke.

Maya smiled politely, but didn't laugh to seem rude.

"But a match is crafted with our hands, which Sol guide. It is not light from darkness, but light from light, formed through the hard work and toil of a brilliant Artificer. I worry that, were this technology explored, we would sink further and further into darkness in an attempt to find that light. I like to think of the Maters as the protectors of the next generation, as well as their mothers, and many in my Station are concerned at the idea of their children wearing golden armour, becoming heartless monsters. It seems like the work of Lun, and I find myself unable to explain why it's not."

If you looked hard enough, you could almost see her strings as Blind pulled them.

"Maybe you can't understand that because you're not an Artificer," Note said.

"That's easy for someone who doesn't have children to say," Visit replied.

"What damn knowledge does unprotected sex grant you that a lifetime of study–"

"Note!" the Guardian said, banging the Sceptre of Sol against the floor. "That is out of order. One more comment like that, and you will be forbidden from the vote."

"My apologies, sire. And to you, Visit."

The Mater Councillor bowed her head slightly, her eyes narrow and lips tight.

The Guardian waited a moment, holding everyone's attention. "Blind, the concerns of the Maters – whilst they clearly have merit, Visit – do not represent a significant enough change in circumstances to bring this before the Council under emergency powers. We have discussed this topic at great length, and I do not wish to tarry on old roads unless we're to have a proper vote."

"If you'll forgive me, sire, I thought they were," Blind says, quickly producing his excuse. Perhaps he'd planned what to say if the Guardian had such concerns. "The Maters are the heart of the common people, being the newest Station, and so having the largest number of previously Stationless people."

"Besides the Shields," Draw corrected, his voice low and gruff. Even though he was going to vote with Blind, he couldn't help but undermine the man's point.

"Beside the Shields," Blind accepted, casting a glance at the broad military man. "And Draw adequately represents their views here. With both of them raising grave concerns about the use of Disciple technology, I felt that showed that most people did not want its use to be allowed."

"If popular opinion is what matters, why did you oppose the creation of the Acolyte Station?" Tone asked.

He narrowed his eyes, looked briefly at Maya. "Because we Lords interpret the Sol Lexic."

"It was your area of expertise," Octave said.

"It was."

"Then why don't we go with the knowledge of someone who understands technology best, Lord Councillor?" Maya asked. "That would be Councillor Tone, wouldn't it?"

"The matter is not just about technology, though, is it? It's about ethics, about the morality and decency of our fight against the Disciples. It's about not becoming that which we fear–"

"Or becoming a stain, a forgotten memory," Note said. "Which is what we risk–"

Note stopped talking when a commotion started outside. Everyone halted, tense, as raised voices passed through walls thick enough to prevent the Council's conversations escaping. Maya, Tone, and Draw stood.

"Maya," the Guardian said, "find out what that is."

Maya strode over and opened the Advisory's door. Behind it, the Contegons guarding the door grappled with an Acolyte. They were being kept at a distance by an invisible force that had to be Cyrus Force.

Maya took a step forward and saw who it was. "Request?"

"Maya! Oh, thank Sol!"

"Request, what in the name of Lun are you doing here?" She cast a glance back at the Council, mortified at her charge's lack of discipline. "I'm in the middle of–"

"I flew all the way here. I had to come, I had to come straight here. I didn't know what else to do. I didn't know what else to do!"

"Request, it's okay," Maya said, entering the corridor. "Just stop using your powers against these poor Contegons, okay?"

Request nodded slowly. The Contegons ceased to be pressed back. They went to tackle the Acolyte, arrest her, but Maya said, "No, leave her," and they held their ground.

"Maya, what is happening?" Tone called.

"I... I don't know. Request, what are you—" Only then did Maya notice the tears, her heavy breathing and trembling lips. Request barely held herself together. "What is it?" Maya asked. "What's happened?"

"They're dead. The Acolytes have been killed."

Maya coughed, her throat raw, then searched Request's face for proof this wasn't a spectacularly ill-advised prank. All she saw was honesty. Her world shrank away as the idea that three more of her Acolytes had been killed sank in.

"All of them?"

"Everyone who was with me."

"No, no, that can't be right."

Request broke into sobs and gripped Maya. Maya stood still, unable to move, unable to think anything other than how much her throat hurt.
Chapter 53

The Council session dissolved after Request's intervention: not even Blind wanted to continue with that tragedy hanging over them. Which was good, because Maya would not have stayed whilst what remained of her Acolytes cooled miles away.

Once the Councillors had all left, and Maya's throat had stopped aching, she said, "Take me to them."

Request, her brown eyes sunk deep, looked up from her seat in the corridor and nodded slowly. She'd had time to process what had happened but was still shaking, fragile, and broken. It would be much harder on her, a witness to the death of a generation of Acolytes.

Disc, Tie, Press... They had shown such potential. They were the first class to truly embrace Cyrus Force, the first to understand what could be done with it. Their imaginations and creativity had gone wild. Maya had learned from them, taken ideas for deploying her own powers. They would have been such heroes...

Maya felt the pain, the hurt, threaten to overwhelm her. She fought it back with a coughing fit, then stood and gestured with her sword for Request to follow her.

Aureu shone beneath them, her veins lit by lanterns and street lamps, as they stepped out onto a balcony. It was an overcast night, yet warm and still. A breeze played with Maya's robes and hair. Just as with Draw's Folly, she was struck by the world's indifference to tragedy, how it barrelled along without her students.

Request ran past her and leapt from the balcony. Viscous Cyrus Force wrapped around her arms in spirals, forming two bat wings. The energy flowed along her back and created a Disciple-like engine that gave her momentum, allowed her to shoot away and over the city limits.

Maya had some catching up to do. She repeated her mantra three times, then formed fiery wings and a fin to reduce air friction before jumping too, diving to gain speed. Her wings flexed at the last moment, shooting her through Sol's Haven.

Aureu disappeared behind them, their shining Cyrus Force was the only light in an overcast night. There shouldn't be too many awake this late into the night, so hopefully their journey wouldn't cause too much trouble. Particularly as they would return soon. She hoped the Gangs would be quiet.

Ten minutes later, Request and Maya slammed into an unclaimed field north of the Great Road. There was little around but farms, making it quiet and still. The site of the attack had been visible from the sky: a charred, blackened patch with the remains of a carriage smouldering nearby. When Maya breathed in, she smelled charred meat and smoke, strong enough to taste.

Request fell to her knees. Her Spirit, Ink, wrapped its liquid form around her.

"Applekill, Mission, look around," she said to her Spirits. Both appeared, Applekill with her burns and Mission with his icy form. They nodded and separated, picking over the area for her.

Maya needed to interview the only witness. "Tell me what happened."

Request sighed. Maya didn't need to read emotions to see the heartache and sadness swaddling her. "I went... I went to the gutter. Sol, if I hadn't had a full bladder, that would have been me as well! I would have... just burned up, disappeared in flame. Fuck. Fucking fuck."

"Focus, Request."

"No, you focus," she shouted, standing. "I just watched three friends die! They were blown to pieces! You have no idea what I'm going through."

Maya stepped forward and put her hand on Request's shoulder. "I have watched friends die, and I have been to blame for their deaths. I know what you're going through better than you think. But I need you to hold it together, tell us what happened, so we can destroy whatever caused this."

Request took a step back, her eyes wide.

"What?" Maya asked.

"I... Sorry, I must be seeing things."

Maya frowned. Then Applekill called, "Is everything okay, Maya?"

"We're fine," Request shouted back.

Applekill watched them for a few seconds before returning to the carriage.

"So. What happened after you went to the gutter?" Maya asked.

"Disc found a trunk on the carriage, something he didn't recognise. He's... Sol, he was so curious, so open. I was just returning when he asked me to guess what was inside. Tie and Press were right by him, sorting dinner. Then he opened the trunk and... fire, an explosion. I was knocked back, a strong, warm wind. And when I stood... there was nothing left of them. They were gone, like someone had just taken them."

Maya embraced Request, and the girl broke down. She usually fought emotions like this, being a street kid, but even her defences couldn't handle remembering what she'd seen. Maya stroked Request's hair, held her tight. Request didn't allow herself to vent for long: she pulled back, wiped her eyes on her plain clothes.

"This trunk, what did it look like?" Maya asked.

"It was maybe a foot high," Request said, looking up as she remembered. "Made of a light wood, with brass handles. I wasn't close enough to see more of it."

Maya froze, her chest a solid object that barely allowed her to breathe. Through her solid throat, she wheezed, "Did this trunk have a symbol carved into its lid?"

"Erm... yeah, Disc mentioned something about that. Why?"

The world fell further and further away. Her lips were miles from her consciousness as she made sure of her suspicions: "Was it an 'M'? Was there an 'M' carved into the lid?"

"It was, actually, yeah."

Maya turned away, put her hand to her mouth.

"Maya?"

She debated whether to explain what she felt, what she thought, but decided she would have to share. "I recognise that trunk," she said, feeling small. "That was my trunk."

"What?! What do you mean?"

"I... I've been to so many fancy dinners, eaten with so many well-paid cooks, that I've lost my ability to appreciate simpler food," Maya said, her words rushing out. "It's the only indulgence I allow myself as a Councillor. So when I was arranging this trip, I sent a trunk off to be filled with spice. That was my surprise for you, fantastic food for a fortnight. When I cancelled the trip, I didn't even think about it... It must have stayed on the carriage."

Request's turned away, her eyes searching the world. "Maya... this was an attempt on your life?"

She didn't want it to be. Damn, but she didn't want it to be. Not for herself, but for what it would mean for Geos that someone would go after the Acolyte Councillor. But what other conclusion was there? The trunk was meant to be her surprise, so Maya would have been the first to open it had she gone on the trip. That explosion, all of this destructive force, was meant for her.

In a way, she was shocked at how much this surprised and hurt her: she'd been in many battles, had many things try to kill her, so she should be used to murderous hate. But those had been robots, creations, not people. This bomb, this assassination attempt, had to have been made by people. Someone in Aureu, someone she had risked her life for dozens of times, had tried to kill her.

"Sol," Request said, filling Maya's silence, "do you realise what this means? There's only one way something like this could happen: there are Disciple agents in Aureu."

"The... the Council have speculated that could be the case," Maya admitted, her voice a small whisper. The investigations into Buckle, into what Chain had found, were still ongoing, but most were convinced of Contegon Justicar's reports. No one outside of Buckle or the Council knew this yet, though, so she had to cover her conclusion. "Most of Call's population is still missing from the Second Invasion: it's been theorised that they could have been turned to the Disciple cause."

"Fuck. Fuck! And they tried to kill you? But got my friends instead?!"

"I'm... I'm so sorry Request. If I'd been here, maybe–"

Request shoved her. "No, don't you make this about you, Maya. If you'd been here, maybe I would have been standing next to you. Maybe you would have gathered us all around to look at your spices, and we'd all have been destroyed. Don't make this about you. Make it about them."

"You're right. Damn, you're right. I'm sorry, I... This just brings..." Maya took a deep breath, closed her eyes. "The implications of this are almost as disturbing as the tragedy itself."

"Maya?" Applekill said.

"Yeah?"

The Spirit held handfuls of charred materials. Maya leant forward: they were bones and teeth. "There are few remains. I've sorted what I could find as best I could by the vestiges of Sol's Gift."

Request sobbed. "That would be Disc and Tie. Press was on the other side when the explosion went off, would have been blown–"

She pointed over, and saw Maya's other Spirit, Mission, approaching with more dark matter in his palms. Tall and lithe, he approached and said, "This is all I could find. They are the remains of an Acolyte."

"At.. at least we can... at least we have something to hold a Pyre–" Request broke down, unable to finish her sentence. Maya and Ink enveloped her as she tumbled into her pain, howling, wailing and falling limp.

"There was nothing else?" Maya asked, her own tears blocking her vision.

"Nothing," Applekill and Mission said together.

Sadness gripped her like a vice, and did not let go until her eyes, nose, and throat were raw. Together, the Acolytes gave voice to their pain.
Chapter 54

The Acolytes' Pyre was held before the Cathedral. Lords prepared their corpses as casualties of war, stuffing them with oil-soaked wood shavings to ensure they burned brightly. People of Station and the Acolytes' families – the latter having been flown to Aureu by Request and Maya – watched as Request and Maya brought the dead out: Tie first, then Disc, and then Press.

It passed as a blur for Maya, a stream of words bouncing from her like sword blows against a Disciple. A Pyre was a celebration, but she couldn't engage in a ritual from a religion she did not follow. Instead of giving a speech, as expected, she stepped up, stood by the wrapped remains of her students, and acquiesced. That seemed enough: the crowd applauded, thinking it a simple tribute. Maya stood and Request grabbed her, squeezed her tight. This, Maya understood: she hugged her student back.

Afterwards, Maya returned to her quarters. Request had become her shadow in the past few days, as though she feared not being near Maya might lead to the same fate as her friends. Maya couldn't deny her such support, so they walked together, quiet, not needing to voice their grief.

Maya kept dwelling on the assassination attempt and all it meant. Contegon Councillor Tone White led the investigation into the attack, but Maya was working at least as hard considering over and over again what might have happened if Tone hadn't convinced her to stay, if Lord Blind's politicking hadn't been leaked by sympathetic sources. Every night, she woke to great explosions, blasts like those the Disciples had rained down on Peace, drenched in sweat.

As though summoned by that thought, Tone White jogged to Maya's building when they arrived. For her safety, Maya had converted a dilapidated warehouse with the aid of Note's most trusted Artificers to form her home. Few would suspect it, a bastion whose awful exterior was matched by its incredible interior.

Both Councillors halted at a boarded-over door that didn't look like it could open.

"Good afternoon, Councillor," Maya said, her voice hoarse.

"Good afternoon. We must talk, the three of us."

Maya gestured for the Councillor to follow her inside. Pressing a particular brick made the boarded door's frame pivot on a central pole. There was no click, no slide to give this away. Maya pushed it open and squeezed through. When inside, she waited for Request and Tone to enter before closing the door, locking it with a twist of the Artificers' ingenious mechanisms.

Her windows were thrice-glazed, allowing the outer panes to be cracked without heat escaping. The floor above was missing, allowing light to flow down from the upper windows and making the open apartment bright. Good, hearty furniture and a glorious kitchen were hidden from outside viewers by the placement of the windows, as were her bed and the long chair Request had been sleeping on.

Maya loved her home.

"Please, sit," Maya said, gesturing to her dining table.

"I thought you should know that we have a list of suspects," Tone said. "Particularly, you might like to know their identities, given their status."

"You've already got suspects?" Request asked, stunned. She fell into her chair, rested her elbows on the table. "How in Lun's name have you pulled that together already?"

"Only..." Maya coughed to clear rust from her throat. "Sorry, few knew I was going to the eastern Front. They would have been Councillors, because none should have shared this knowledge with their underlings... Which makes me wonder how you heard about Lord Blind's tactics, Tone?"

"Pale told me," Tone said.

"Pale?" Request asked.

"The Cleric Councillor," Maya said, momentarily far away: she'd always thought Pale neutral, interested in the correct running of the Council, not its judgements and choices. Perhaps he'd thought Blind's tactics against the spirit of the rules, and so felt compelled to intervene.

"How'd you know the Councillors didn't talk to their underlings?" Request asked. They were discussing a world beyond her. Though that was not necessarily a bad thing.

"We tried to keep this under wraps. For security, and for Aureu: the last time I left, there was a crime wave. We didn't want another set of robberies or murders if we could avoid it." Maya laughed darkly. "Which we obviously failed in."

Tone leaned forward. "The Councillors who knew were issued Secrecy Orders. If they did tell anyone, they are in deep trouble. And we're already at a high alert... right now."

"So?" Request said. "They might've blabbed anyway."

Tone shook her head. "You don't understand. If a Councillor is caught breaking Secrecy Orders, their credibility in the Council will be ruined. They might even be replaced. And each Councillor constantly checks on the others, looking for weaknesses, anything to use against them in the political field. Spying is part of the game, and being found breaching a Secrecy Order would end that game."

"Fuck. What a bunch of– oops, sorry Councillor, Maya."

"No offence taken: they are a bunch of whatever you were about to say." She gestured to Tone. "Present company excluded. So, who did you issue the Secrecy Orders to?" Maya asked.

"I didn't issue them: the Guardian did." Tone reached into her robe and pulled out a report. "The Orders went to Note, Draw, Flux, Pale, Blind, Visit, and myself."

"Why Visit?" Maya asked.

"I need to find that out."

Maya tapped her chin. "Well, we can already rule you out, can't we?"

"Why?"

"Well, you convinced me to stay. In a way, you saved my life."

Tone smiled. "I'm glad to hear you say that. Particularly as the Guardian has charged you and I with investigating this: we are the only ones capable of pursuing the matter. If you're willing to document why you think me innocent, we can work together to find the bastard who tried to kill you."

"And actually killed my friends," Request whispered.

The Contegon Councillor reached across, patted the Acolyte's shoulder. Request gave a small smile, a flash of white amidst her dark skin, but looked down at her shoes.

"Our friends," Maya added, sharing her forlorn state.

"Then maybe Acolyte Request could help with the investigation?" Tone thought aloud. "She's one of the only other people the Guardian can trust."

That hit it home for Maya. "Wait, does he really think the Council has been compromised?"

"He does. And so do I."

"Fucking bastards," Request said. "How could they? How fucking could they?"

Her Cyrus Force built, catching like a flame. Ink appeared with the surge, curious to watch the display. Maya gestured for it to leave and it did, giving her what counted as a nod when you had no neck.

Tone scooped Request's chin up with her finger, made the young woman look at her. "Whoever committed this crime did so easily because they are unholy, impure. Whoever it was is a monster, someone who must be hunted without anger or hatred because those emotions blind you. You must be clear to help us."

Request nodded. Her eyes hardened and she pulled her lips tight. Maya was grateful for Tone's words, for giving Request a purpose, even if she didn't necessarily agree: hatred and fury would power her through finding whoever hated her so.

"Six suspects, then," Maya said. "Though I think we can rule out one already."

"Can we?" Tone asked, looking back at Maya. "Who?"

"Note, of course."

"Why?"

"Well... She's... She's my friend. She wouldn't do that to me."

"Really?" Request asked. "That's somewhat flimsy."

"What, you think she could have done this?"

Tone shrugged. "She has been pushing for the use of Disciple technology heavily–"

"As have I, does that make me a suspect?"

"Maya, you may not like this," Request said, "but she sounds like a perfect suspect. She's close enough to get your trust, and has a strong desire to use Disciple magic."

"Let me paint a picture for you," Tone said. "A Councillor with access to dead Disciples finds she can gain incredible power from those creature's technology. Maybe she works out how to contact Moenian, but that's not necessary, as we know there are Heretics in our ranks. Someone offers her a deal, knowledge in exchange for disrupting Aureu, and she takes it. Then she sees a young girl rising through the Council and decides to attach herself, gain an ally to help overturn centuries of censure of the research she must do. Her orders change after the incidents in Buckle: she is told to develop an explosive, ensure the Acolyte Councillor is taken out in preparation for the Third Invasion. Using her influence, Artificers replace your spice chest with one she has prepared herself, and–"

"That's... ridiculous!" Maya shouted. "It's more likely that an Acolyte spilled where we were going than–"

Request slammed the table. "Don't you dare blame us. Who could we have told? You only arranged it at a week's notice, and we were all locked in your Library that week!"

"I... take that back," Maya said quickly. "Excuse me, Request, please. But it's just as impossible that Note was involved. For one, she is... she's a Chemist!"

"You can create some amazing explosions with the right chemicals," Request said darkly.

Maya looked between the two of them. "I can't believe you're suggesting this."

"Is it more ridiculous than an elderly and venerable Lord Councillor turning traitor?" Tone asked. "Or the leader of a new Station, barely created, going Heretic? Really, honestly, can you say you think Note is not guilty on any evidence other than your personal relationship with her?"

Maya shook her head. She saw the logic in Tone and Request's points, but refused to believe it. "I... I can't see it, but I do see your point."

"Maya, your dealings with the Council will influence your investigations," Tone said, reaching over to grip her hand. "You don't want Note to be guilty. I could name Councillors you'd happily see burn. That's why we must work together on this, all three of us, to ensure our feelings don't get in the way."

And that was why Tone was an excellent Councillor: she had influenced Request into joining the investigation so someone else would back her up if Note became the culprit, and had laid out an argument for her to investigate Note, Blind, and Draw. It was masterful really.

"Well played," Maya said, barely a hint of malice in her voice.

"What for?" Request asked.

"Nothing. Nothing." Maya coughed, stood, and rested her hands on her chair. "Right, shall we split into teams? Tone, you investigate Blind, Draw, and...?"

"Visit," Tone said. "I think I should interview Visit too."

A surprising turn: she thought Tone would have chosen Note. The Contegon Councillor obviously expected Request to provide a neutral viewpoint, then.

"That gives us Note, Pale, and Flux, right?" Request asked.

Maya nodded and asked Tone, "The Guardian has given us permission to interview them?"

"He has," the Contegon Councillor replied. She reached into her robe and offered Maya a scroll. "I've already cleared meetings with them. You just need to tell us when."

Maya didn't know whether to laugh or growl. Tone was supposed to be her friend, but she had played Maya like a guitar. Perhaps she'd done it because of their friendship, wanting Maya's emotions kept out of her catching whoever tried to kill her, but it didn't feel like it. Which, she supposed, proved Tone's point.

"Note, Flux, and then Pale. Today, tomorrow, and the next day," Maya said.

"I shall do Draw, Blind, and Visit."

"The order," Request said, "is that from your highest suspect down?"

Tone's eyebrows jumped. "I suppose it is, but I'd not thought about it."

"Yes you had," Request replied. "If we're going to work together, don't pull this manipulation shit. I get it today, but not from now on. Not when we have a Disciple sympathiser to catch and rip apart."

Tone's eyes narrowed, then she nodded and said, "Very well. My apologies."

"There is almost certainly more than one Heretic involved. Couldn't it be the case that more than one Councillor was involved, then?" Maya asked.

"I... had considered that as well," Tone said. "It's not impossible. Unlikely, but not impossible."

"Because one of you sneaky Councillors would have probably found two traitors by now?"

Tone balled her fists. "Watch your tone, Request. I am your elder and a Councillor. We shall work together, be equals in the investigation, but I will censure you if you address your superiors like that again."

Request punched the table before her. She took a deep breath and was about to say something she would regret when Maya stepped across and put a hand on her shoulder.

"You're going to apologise. Now," Maya said.

"Like Lun I-"

"Say that you are sorry, Acolyte," Maya hissed.

Request took a long, slow breath, fuming still, but said, "I am sorry, Contegon Councillor."

"Tone will do. You owe me nothing more."

"No," Maya said, "but we owe Tie, Press, and Disc one skewered Disciple. Let's deliver them."

"To a Hereticum," Tone added.

"Would that be justice enough?" Request asked.

Maya cleared her throat. "I can assure you, it would be."

"We'll meet again tomorrow, agree tactics," Tone said, rising. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I must go. I'll see you at dawn, when Sol will have placed the seeds of our success."

"Agreed," Maya said, still uncertain whether to be angry at, or thankful to, her friend.
Chapter 55

When Aureu's various quarters were named, people were literal-minded. It was just after the Cleansing \- whatever that really was - so they sought comfort in simple, common ground. Hence names like Sol's Haven, roads like the Circumference, and the Artificers' quarter: Blade's Birth.

Just south of Sol's Greeting, Blade's Birth took up a fifth of the city. Contrary to its name, clothes, carts, and everything Geos ran on came from those few square miles. Much of the area was given over to warehouses and factories, so space in the quarter had once been at such a premium that Artificers and their families doubled up rather than face living outside the quarter. But that was before the Battle for Aureu...

The air smelled strongly of dyes and smoke as Maya and Request walked through Blade's Birth. Hammering and yelling flowed from the workshops, blacksmiths, factories, and homes. Sometimes, one followed the other. In Geos, technology advanced through the replication of past works or forging of new designs, a process they had to hear as they walked.

"This place was always good for our Gang," Request said, looking around. "Plenty of opportunities for small hands."

"Artificers don't tend to be the most... aware of people," Maya said.

"And they don't really keep records of their inventories. Once, our whole Gang took turns to rob lead from an Artificer near his Rest. When the last one went to help herself, she overheard him saying he needed to buy more lead because he must've run out." She shook her head. "Ridiculous."

"The Artificers run on trust, relying on people's good natures," Maya said, a little defensively.

"I suppose you can if everything is given to you," Request replied.

Maya couldn't argue with that. Artificers were funded by selling the rights of their designs to the Merchants. Such arrangements spread tax money, but it created a mindset among some that everything they need would always be provided for them, which was one of Note's biggest criticisms of the Station she ran.

"That'll only be a bad thing when they stop producing important products," Maya said, turning to head toward the Library of Artifice.

"After the war, you mean."

"Oh, far beyond then."

"What do you mean?"

Maya shook her head. She didn't want to say that a people primed for war might find other targets when their crusade was over, that it could be people like Request, those who are different. Experience told her that, as much as they needed to eliminate the Disciples, doing so would only lead to fresh problems.

They walked to the Library of Artifice in silence. The city talked for them, speaking in burning furnaces and learning craftsfolk. The Acolytes nodded to anyone who recognised them, giving small thanks for acquiescences or condolences, until they reached the great library.

The first Artificer Councillor, Pierce, once looked at the Cathedral and proclaimed, "If Sol didn't want me to replicate that, he wouldn't have made it look over me like!" The Library of Artifice was a vanity project born of that statement, started when the people were just discovering their enemies in the north. Instead of concentrating on the war effort, Pierce had pushed ahead and produced a three-storey palace of white marble and painted stone. It took inspiration from the Chamber, wore the same columns and grand balconies, with towers reaching up from its corners.

Each tower contained books: outdated books, forbidden books, and ones no one understood. Note once showed Maya those books considered Heretical by the Lords: most had been like the slim volume she'd found in the Academy's library, filled with forbidden truths. Sometimes, she dreamt about that tower, about throwing it open and bringing people into the light.

"Are you okay?" Request asked, shaking her slightly.

"Sorry, I got taken away," Maya lied. "It's a gorgeous building, isn't it?"

Request looked at the Library as though she'd not considered its beauty. "I guess so. It's due its annual dip of paint, though."

"Must you always see the wear, the flaws?"

"No. I just see an opportunity to add my own mark," Request said with a grin.

Maya clapped her shoulder with a laugh. "Let's get inside before you get us both in trouble."

The sun's light spilled in from arched windows along the walls and ceiling, making the inside as bright as the outside world. They entered the main hall, the Library's opening gambit to overawe visitors, which stretched away for what felt like miles. Its shelves helped deny Maya perspective, hence the Library sometimes being called the House of Tall Shelves. Vanity drove the twenty-foot high shelving: Pierce had said his Artificers would fill them all, and spent a day walking along each shelf to prove the designs safe. The first ten feet of the nearest shelves were packed with thick wooden tomes that detailed how to make wonders from paint to the Fixing to hemp. Some Artificers spent their entire careers climbing tall, wheeled ladders to codify this knowledge.

It was Request's turn to be awed: only once inside did you realise Pierce had managed to copy the Cathedral's ability to steal your breath. She looked up, as everyone did, and watched a grey-robed Artificer deftly sort piles of books twenty feet above them. Behind them, far behind, were pristine white arches that formed books where they met.

"See any flaws in here?"

Request shook her head. Her eyes were wide as a river.

"Come on. Note is expecting us."

"One of those books is as tall as I am!" Request shouted.

Maya smiled, knowing where the Acolyte was pointing. "The Artificer who wrote it had terrible eyesight: the only way she could ensure her designs were correctly drawn was to make them that big."

"How'd you know that?"

"I asked Note about it on my first visit here too."

The young Acolyte looked around constantly as Maya led her through the main hall. Maya couldn't blame her, but did pull her insistently along, not wanting to keep her friend waiting.

Her friend. Note was her friend, Maya was sure of it: they had spent many evenings together, drinking, talking. She was interesting and funny, had thoughts about Solarism and the Bureau that made Maya believe in Geos' ability to progress. Maybe ten years older than Maya, Note had mentored her through some aspects of the Council. And yet here Maya was, interviewing her like a criminal. Tone had been right to insist they scratch her off the list for legitimate reasons, but Maya didn't like it.

Well, she'd had plenty of practice putting her thoughts and opinions aside.

When they reached Note's office, Maya took a breath, straightened herself, and cleared her love of her friend away before knocking.

"Enter," Note called.

Maya led Request inside. Note's office was enormous: Artificer Councillors were expected to continue contributing to Geos' advancement, and their Councillor's office had been built to accommodate the chosen Councillor's specialisation, no matter what it may be. For Note, a twenty-foot workbench covered with chemical glassware and small, focused fires were enough. The room also contained the Councillor's library, several cupboards of liquid chemicals, solid elements, and other compounds, a small, neatly kept desk, and a dozen chairs for attendees.

Note was behind her desk, a book in hand. Too slim to be a volume of knowledge, it was likely one of the fiction books she loved. Her pale brow lifted on seeing them, and her hand lowered the book to her desk.

"Maya, this is a surprise," she said. Her Cyrus Force confirmed it. "I'd expected Tone."

"We have decided to try and surprise our fellow Councillors when we can." Maya turned to Request. "Councillor Note, may I introduce Acolyte Request?"

Request bowed, stiff and straight-faced. Maya suspected Tone had spoken with her in private, told her to be tough where Maya might be soft.

Note nodded to Request, then handed Maya an edict. "The Guardian has issued these."

"What is it?" Maya asked.

"A command that Sol's Gift must not be used on Councillors during investigations into Lun's Burst."

Maya frowned, took the paper. As she read, Request said, "Is that what they're calling it?"

"I'm afraid so," Note said, a tad apologetically.

Maya checked the edict. Then again. Somehow, it was legitimate. She couldn't understand why. Handing it to Request, she asked, "Do you know why he ordered this?"

Note shrugged. "Probably because Blind kicked up a fuss. I can see the logic hiding behind it: if you can't use the Gift in Council sessions, why should you use it against us in interviews? Also, I'm unsure readings from the Gift are admissible in Hereticums."

"I understand the second point," Maya said after a deep breath. The Guardian was probably thinking ahead, already trusted them to find the culprit, and wanted nothing to diminish the perpetrator's Hereticum. She'd never considered the legal legitimacy of the feelings she could read... perhaps because she'd never thought she'd have to use Cyrus Force to interrogate.

"Damn, this'll complicate things," Request said, screwing the note up. She was about to toss it away when she remembered she was in a Councillor's office, so instead she put it in her pocket. "It would've been much easier to catch the fuck with Sol's Gifts."

"You can still use Sol's Gift," Note said with a shrug. "You just can't make it obvious, or use it as proof. And you can start with me: I have nothing to hide."

"Are you sure?" Maya asked.

"Why wouldn't I be? I have nothing to hide."

"Well, thank you," Maya said.

"Shall we sit?" Request asked, unimpressed by the Councillor's offer. Maya couldn't tell if her feelings were real or an act, as it was rude to read another Acolyte.

Maya sat in front of the desk. Request remained standing.

They started with asking baseline questions, letting Request in particular get a reading on Note's emotional output. Mostly, they concentrated on Note's whereabouts and meetings over the last two weeks: dull questions, but important ones. Everything Note said agreed with her public diary.

"You have been added to the list of suspects, Councillor, because you were issued a Secrecy Order by the Guardian over my proposed trip to the eastern Front," Maya said when they had finished their baseline questions. "Why were you issued this order?"

"The Acolytes and their Councillor were viewed as the best people to look after a prototype weapon of mine," she said, calm, almost emotionless. "It was a liquid glue I believe could gum up a Disciple's workings. It was to be tested by an Acolyte in their first encounter with a Disciple."

"That's all?" Request asked.

"It is. A Secrecy Order must be thorough to be worthwhile: even someone with little involvement has to protect the secret. It's also worth knowing that Maya had told me already, and I was also bound by the covenant of friendship."

There wasn't a hint of nervousness or worry on Note. Her Cyrus Force was placid, unflappable. Maya knew she told the truth, but her emotionless state showed how useless reading Cyrus Force could be.

"You provided the prototype and nothing more?" Request pressed.

"Nothing more," Note replied. Maya saw no response, no flicker of emotions.

"What do you have against Geos then?" Request asked, leaning on her desk.

"Sol excuse you?"

"What do you have against Geos? Why did you turn traitor against Sol?"

Note's mouth tightened. A bloom of outrage filtered into her Cyrus Force. "I see what you are doing. I hope you can see how little I appreciate it."

"Oh, you're a little annoyed, but probably because I'm getting so close to the truth."

Note's eyes flashed to Maya, who shook her head as imperceptibly as possible. Request was following a decent line of inquiry, with so little to go on: in Contegon training, you were taught to wear down a potential criminal, find any weakness in their story or character.

"I am annoyed because I love Geos and Sol, working tirelessly for both. I have spent longer producing ideas and Artificers for the people than you have eating solid food, so I don't like having my faithfulness and commitment questioned. Even by an Acolyte."

"I am an Acolyte, Councillor Note. My Station is above yours."

"But not above the position of Councillor, Acolyte," Note said, her nostrils flaring. "Remember that in your future interviews, young one."

"Did you tell anyone else about this delivery?" Maya intervened, diverting Note's attention to catch her out.

"No, why would I? It was my experiment, and I only had to deliver it to Pale."

Request growled, "Did you kill my friends?"

Note leaned forward, took the Acolyte's angry gaze in with utter calm. "No."

"Like I'd believe—"

"Enough, Request. Stand down."

The young Acolyte slowly straightened and took a step back. "I think you were right about her. There's nothing to suggest she's to blame."

"Or that she isn't," Maya said. "Our Gift is a shallow tool for reading emotions. She could be angry because you were getting close to the truth, or because you were insulting her."

"Maybe," Note added, sitting back in her chair, "this is why the Guardian told you not to use the Gift on we Councillors. Lord Blind would be full of disdain and anger at you even questioning him, let alone doing anything more. It's potentially colouring your view of whatever he was saying."

"And maybe you allowed us to read you because you knew that," Request said.

Note tilted her head, gave her a small smile.

"So the question is whether you wanted to get away with something, or teach us something for the interviews you knew would be more fruitful," Maya said, rubbing her shoulder.

"I think you know the answer."

"Me too," Request said.

"You think me innocent, then, Acolyte Request?" Note asked.

"I do," Request said, sitting. "I've read your file, and there's no hint of anything which might cause you to turn traitor or Heretic. And I can read people without the Gift."

Maya dropped her hand into her lap. "There would have been nothing in my file."

"But you were moved to turn Heretic by Sol himself."

The lie was so entrenched in Maya that she smiled without thinking about it. "True, but I didn't know that at the time, did I?"

They sit in silence for a while longer, thinking.

"You can ask me more questions if you want," Note said. "Try to break me."

"You would be okay with that?"

Note nodded. "I have allowed a full hour for this."

"Well," Maya said, "we have not proven to any satisfaction that Note is innocent. If you don't mind, we'll interrogate you harshly for the full hour."

Note stretched. "Please, continue."

"Okay," Request said. "Let's start by asking about your sex life..."
Chapter 56

Sol was retreating into the sky as Councillor White was driven to the Shield's quarter. Her diary was an exercise in brutality, full of meetings with senior Contegons and Councillors, with any gap filled with paperwork, so her head was bowed, her concentration fixed on reports, and she didn't notice she'd arrived until her Servant opened the carriage door.

"We're here, Contegon Councillor," Blast said as he unfolded the carriage's stairs.

"Thank you," Tone replied as she folded her paperwork away.

The Grip, the Shields' home in Warrior's Welcome, was built of the strong stone as Aureu's outer walls. It was short, squat, and wide, but difficult to assault with its protected parapets and anti-Disciple defences such as the Baptism Launcher. Entrance was only possible through passages Tone had to walk through crabwise. At the end of the slender corridor was an iron door, which she bashed three times.

"Who goes?" a Shield called. They sounded quite old.

"Contegon Councillor Tone White."

The door opened, and Tone shuffled through. She stretched as she exited the narrow courtyard, her old bones not enjoying the confinement and the cold. 'Courtyard' did the stretch of dirt that circled the main building a great service.

A clang rang out as the old Shield locked the door. Most Shields in the Grip should be on their Rest, but no one could be spared at this time of war. If the Disciples attacked Aureu again, Tone thought it would be all these Shields could do to not break their arms when unsheathing their weapons.

Not that Tone excluded herself from that: her time as a fighting Contegon ended decades ago. She no longer carried her spear, and her training sessions were sporadic. That was the way of the world: Sol had little light left come sunset.

The Councillor entered the main building, a cylinder buried in Geos' soil: one floor peeked out, four remaining hidden. Draw's office was on the lowest floor, the most secure spot. A central staircase drilled into the ground, the stone dampening as she descended. Two old Servants wiped the walls on the third sub-floor, clearing moss and mire. They acquiesced as Tone passed.

"Sol's blessings upon you," Tone said with a smile.

The staircase ended abruptly, a varnished door with brass hinges and a knocker almost jumping out at Tone. It was only respectful that she knock. The impact echoed in the narrow space.

"Enter," Draw boomed in response.

The floor was Draw's quarters and office. To her left was his private area, shuttered off with curtains held by brass hooks. To her right were great maps of Geos with models and markers representing the Front, a table big enough to rival the Mensa, bookshelves swollen with books, and several desks. Open bags of rice sat throughout the room to keep the dampness at bay: Strut, the first Shield Councillor, had rejected Artificer concerns about the damp problems, and hadn't lived to see how wrong he was.

Draw was stood at the model of Geos. "Contegon Councillor."

"Shield Councillor. How does the day find you?"

"Busy," he said, looking back at the model.

Tone stood beside him. An uneven and jagged line stretched across the map of Geos, taller in the west. New Call and New Response were fabric messes of tents a few miles behind the Fronts.

She looked up at him – the man always stood when they spoke, tried to use his height to intimidate her – and said, "Of course. We all are. If it's the same with you, I'd like to get this interview over quickly so I can get back to my duties."

"Fine," he grunted, his brow furrowing. "Ask your questions."

"Let's sit, shall we? My old bones aren't as strong as yours."

Few people's were: Draw was built like an ox, all muscle and height. Even now, twenty years since he'd seen a Front, he kept himself fit. Tone supposed physical strength showed power and discipline to other Shields. Their Station was a strange world... but then, every other Station was. Including the Acolytes.

"Fine," he said again. He marched over to his replica Mensa and sat at the head, his back straight as a well-made blade. "Interview me. Though I don't see why you should."

"Draw," Tone said, sitting at the opposite head of the table, "you were issued a Secrecy Order, to keep secret that Acolyte Councillor Maya was planning to leave the city. Only you and the other Councillors should have known Maya was on that—"

"You seriously think a Councillor did this?" Draw interrupted. "After that debacle up in Buckle? Those damn Acolytes must've given it away."

Tone shook her head. "The Acolytes were isolated from the issuing of the first Secrecy Order to the day they left for the Front. No one but these Councillors knew Maya would be on that trip, as Pale planned. Before you say anything, he will be questioned too. Anyway, Draw, we know this attack was one on Maya's person because the explosive was put into her possessions."

He tutted. "So they targeted her. A sound tactical move. It wasn't mine, though."

"We can get to that," Tone said, "but first I wanted to check what exactly caused you to be listed on the Secrecy Order? I couldn't puzzle that one out."

Draw's wide, clean-shaven face was blank as a slate. He took in a breath. "I asked where she would be on one of the days she was scheduled to be away. I was told she would be on a holiday, but that's a common Councillor tactic, so I pressed for more."

"Why?"

He paused again before saying, "I had hoped to discuss the output of Acolytes with her: four per year is inadequate to progress in the war. I knew it would have been a delicate matter to raise, so I wanted to do it privately, not ambush her in a Council session."

"Do you mind if I record this?" Tone asked, taking parchment and a pencil from her robes.

"If you must."

Tone made some notes, underlining the Councillor's unhappiness with the provision of Acolytes. "And what would you have done if the Acolyte Councillor said Sol could not Gift any more than he does?"

"I would have sought a second opinion."

"You mean, you would have spoken to Lord Blind?"

"The Lords are the authority on Sol's actions, Contegon Councillor," Draw said.

Tone pursed her lips. It had always been a curious debate, whether Lords or Contegons best represented Sol on Geos, being the mind and body of Solarism. The presence of the Acolytes had only muddied unclear waters further... and it was clear where Draw fell on the debate.

"What response did you get when you pressed for information about her diary?"

Draw sat back, stretched his arms behind his head. "The Secrecy Order, naturally."

"Did you inquire as to Maya's availability through a subordinate?"

"Of course."

"And how were they dealt with?"

"The usual way," he said. "Cleric Councillor Pale issued a falsified note which said Maya's time had been locked by the Guardian, at the same time the Secrecy Order came to me in a sealed envelope. My underling reported this, and I pretended to be vexed, then dismissed them."

Tone didn't write his use of the word 'underling,' but noted it nonetheless.

"Why don't you like Maya?" she asked, changing tack.

"That's a leading question."

Tone leant back herself, tapped her pencil to her lips. "It's an accurate one. I don't need deduction to have noticed that in Council sessions. Why do you dislike her so?"

Draw narrowed his eyes. "Why would I give you more ammunition, more motive?"

"Because it would look more suspicious not to."

Again he watched her, tried to unnerve her. That stare probably worked on his Major Shields, perhaps even on the Shield-Generals, but Tone knew what a real, dead stare was. Tone looked back, asserting her dominance as a Contegon and a once-superior warrior.

"Fine," he said after some time. "If you insist." Then he stood, leant on his table. "I dislike the Acolyte Councillor because she forced a Shield-General onto me who was neither ready nor capable, all because she claimed Sol ordered it. It was nonsense: she felt guilty for damaging Snow's life and wanted to make amends by giving him the position his grandfather held. My plans for succession were ruined, and I had to accommodate someone who barely knew what a Shield was."

"We're talking about Shield-General Acolyte Snow, yes?" she asked.

"Yes."

Tone made more notes. "But didn't the Guardian accept her proposal? Wouldn't that change Maya's aim, even if it were selfish, a holy one? After all, he led the refugees from Call back, gave us enough warning to mobilise against the Second Invasion. He saved lives."

Draw's mouth twitched. "Many young Shields save lives. I don't promote them to Shield-General for it. You asked me why I dislike her, and that is the main reason, the start of my distaste that has only bloomed since. I think she is unprepared for what Sol gave her, and arrogant in her ignorance of the importance of being a Councillor. She is a failed Contegon sitting at the head of the Mensa."

Tone knew she'd prompted this, but she didn't enjoy the invective. "I notice you didn't mention the Loss?" she asked as she made more notes.

He growled. He actually growled. "No, I didn't."

"Did Maya's reaction to the Loss not colour your perception of her?"

"It's not impossible," he said. Only his mouth moved. Every other muscle was still.

Tone stood and walked round the table. "She demanded your removal from the Council. That must have angered you? Made your blood boil, especially with her highlighting what no one could call a successful mission? A mission entirely of your own devising."

"I see what you're doing," he hissed, gripping his hands into fists. "It won't work."

Tone stood beside him, watched his wide chest rise and fall as he tried to control his anger, veins bulging from neck and forehead. She leant in, rested her hand on the table too. "Would it be fair to say, Draw, that you didn't like her before, but now she represents, and reminds people of, a high-profile and damning mistake which nearly ended your career?"

"Stop it," he said, closing his eyes.

"She embodies that moment when you saw glory, your chance to make a name for yourself as Snow and Maya shot to prominence, and ignored good sense? Does she remind you of your weakness... or, perhaps, of your waning influence and power in Aureu?"

"Stop it!" With a roar, he punched his table. The boom echoed in the room, bouncing from wall to wall. The impact vibrated up Tone's arm, shook her bones, but she did not move.

"Contegon Councillor," Draw said between breaths, "it would be unfair to say any of those things and you know it. I did not leak word of Maya's leaving, nor did I arrange for her death. I am a good man, a godly man, and I would never seek to destroy what Sol has raised."

"Not directly," Tone said.

He straightened and took a deep breath, his control returning. "A Lord is still a greater representative of Sol than any other. If Lord Councillor Blind thinks Maya should be prevented from getting her way in certain matters, then I support him."

"Even if that prevents a Contegon's will?"

He did not answer that.

Tone made more notes before sliding the parchment into her robes. "Thank you, Shield Councillor, for your time. We have other Councillors to interview over the next few days. Your testimony will be considered alongside theirs. Please have the note Pale issued your 'underling' sent to my office."

"I shall," he replied, now fully relaxed.

Tone walked back to the central staircase. Before she left, she said "And Shield Councillor?"

"Yes?" he sighed.

She opened the door but did not pass through. "Maybe you should consider whether it is right to let your unhappiness at having to redo a plan, or accept the price of failure, obscure your perception of the Acolytes? I've always thought, in my prayers, that you might not have incurred such... folly... if you'd cared as much for the Acolytes' lives as you clearly do for Contegons'."

Draw hung his head, but did not respond. Tone tutted and left.
Chapter 57

Maya woke early and, alongside organising the search for new Cyrus Force users, investigated Note and the Farmer Councillor. Note's records were, as her friend suggested, clean: she had been involved in the usual childhood traumas, only stepped out of line once during a Ten Days celebration which resulted in a fine for 'public indecency,' a report Maya would certainly ask about during their next card game. There was nothing to be concerned about, no evidence of Heresy in her past.

Flux had a curiously spotless record. Note had, at least, been suspected of minor crimes as a child, but there was nothing on the Farmer Councillor. The eldest son of a wealthy Farmer family, Flux had come to the Station, and then the Council, because of his family's proprietary recipe for open-air crop fertiliser. His whole life was summed up in a paragraph and some dull dates.

"How could that be?" Request asked when Maya relayed this.

"There's a few options," Maya said as they walked through the Farmer's Park's orchards. She tried to ignore the deep emotions those flourishing apple trees stirred. "He could be genuinely law-abiding: the Farmers are not as ambitious a Station as others."

"Why would you be if you just grew things for a living?" Request asked. "I mean, I get that we need them to feed us and so on but I... I couldn't do it."

"Spoken like a true teenager," Maya said.

Request shrugged. "I'm comfortable with who I am."

"As are the Farmers," Maya growled. Then she calmed herself, remembered how stupid she had been at Request's age. "Anyway, perhaps Flux comes from so powerful a family that stay-at-home Contegons and Clerics didn't investigate him for minor crimes: why would someone with enough money to buy a Council position steal a loaf of bread?"

"Dangerous thinking, that stuff. Station thinking."

"Completely agreed. Tone and I are trying to change that." She didn't add that taking Request in was part of the efforts to change the Stations. "Another option is that his record was wiped clean recently. It would take a lot to access the Bureau and replace his few files, but it's not impossible."

"Wouldn't someone question that?"

Maya shook her head. "Since when did Clerics question official paperwork? If it's on the page, it's true."

They left the apple grove and entered a set of enormous palaces. One stood out in particular, a grand white building with paint as fresh as the grass surrounding it, one that glinted in the summer sun.

"There's another door to choose," Request said, stalking ahead. She looked more purposeful today, either because she'd picked up Maya's desire to do better, or she'd felt as awful about their failed interrogation. "He might've kept his nose clean to avoid suspicion."

"That'd imply he was gotten by the Disciples long before the Second Invasion."

"Well, do we know where that family recipe really came from?"

Maya had to smile: that was the attitude they needed.

Flux's house was named Filter's Mansion after his great, great Grandfather, who claimed the land shortly after the Cleansing. The interior was as well-maintained as the exterior, regularly painted and replaced. Something about the family must've encouraged them to present this constantly-renewed facade.

When they knocked, a Butler led them into the kitchen. Request eyed him hurriedly, her head on one side, but said nothing. Flux stood, kneading bread, in that enormous space. His green Farmer's robes had been abandoned for simple blue ones, their arms rolled up to allow his hands to dig into the mixture.

"Sires," he said on seeing them. After an inspection of his forearm, he wiped his thinning hairline with a clean patch of pale skin. "My apologies, the time just gets away from me when I'm baking. I'd not realised it was so close to our appointment."

"Don't worry about it," Maya said. The kitchen was large enough to hold a dozen cadres, and equipped to cook for them. It reminded her of the Academy's kitchen, though everything here was bright and new, impossibly clean. "It doesn't matter if you're a little dirty, only that you answer truthfully."

"And why wouldn't I do that?" he asked, looking confused.

"If you had laid down the order for Maya's death," Request said. Her hands were on her hips and her face was as hard as granite. Unconsciously, or, perhaps, as suited their personalities, they had fallen into the pattern of smooth and rough, calm and angry.

"Well, I... I suppose so." Flux kneaded the bread more vigorously.

"You are aware that Councillors who knew about my trip are the prime suspects in the death of three Acolytes and the attempted assassination of myself?" Maya asked, taking a seat opposite the polished marble surface Flux had dusted with flour. "Those who were under the terms of the Secrecy Order."

"I had heard tell of that, yes," he said. "I suppose that it makes sense."

"We're investigating these suspects with Contegon Councillor Tone White," Request said. She opted not to sit, instead leaned her fists on the counter. "On the orders of the Guardian."

Flux concentrated on his bread, burying his fists in the wide circle of dough. Maya suppressed a smile: they were putting him on edge.

"Why were you put under the Secrecy Order, Councillor?" Request asked.

"Well, you couldn't travel to the eastern Front without food." He pressed harder, face twisting momentarily with the effort. "We had to ensure you had provisions, and that meant gathering dried and long-term food. Such would be difficult to keep secret during times of plenty, let alone when at war, so I was enlisted ensured supplies were gathered."

"There were only five of us," Maya said. "Not a cadre by any stretch."

"No," he said, gathering the dough together and rolling it into a ball, "but it was enough to make the Guardian nervous. Aureu doesn't need much preserved food during summer, sire, so our supplies go almost exclusively to the Mariners. Even the smallest deviation would be noted by the Mariners, Merchants, or other Farmers." He slammed the ball down with a wet slap. "Ruining your cover."

He seemed more confident now, like he had crossed into safe territory. Perhaps he was simply nervous at the beginning: he was not the strongest Councillor, and it was easy to imagine him fearing his own bumbling nature would implicate him.

"So you shifted the food to ensured no one would miss it?" Maya asked.

"Shifted is not a... pleasant word," Flux said, displaying an impressive knowledge of street slang. "Skimming Merchants shift, Acolyte Councillor; I ensured the supplies were available without anyone being aware of their purpose. I brought together dried meats from different sources, using my Servants."

"That's risky," Request said, eyeing him like prey. "Couldn't your Servants work out something was up?"

"It's unlikely," Flux said, shaking his head. "I often sample food so I can recommend products to other Councillors." His eyes flicked up at Maya. "Much of it goes to waste. Rest assured, when they went to collect your food, my Servants were separate and unaware they each took more than I need."

Whilst Flux had grown fat, Outer Aureu fought for a hundredth of what was at his disposal. Losing weight, then, was more a political move than a health one. Maya wondered who recommended it, who'd told him to lay off the feasts whilst times were hard. She imagined it came from his father.

"That was your only involvement?"

"Yes. I provided food to the Bureau, and they took it to your convoy."

Maya stood. "Did you specifically fill the order to provide my spices?"

He blinked, looked down, and started kneading the dough. "I did. It mostly came from my personal stock. I filled your supply myself."

"That trunk held the explosives," Request hissed. "When it was opened, three people died in a conflagration. There was only a handful of each person left."

Flux winced, slowed in his kneading. "I am sorry for your losses. Both of you."

"Do you not see how suspect it looks that you personally filled the trunk?"

"I do."

"Have anything to say about it?" Request said, as much a challenge as a question. She was building up a good head now, being more and more unfair.

"Now, now, Request," Maya said, playing her part. "Let's not accuse people already. There are more Councillors to interview before we can come close to that. And we need to check every alibi and story, ensure they match what we're being told."

"I... I don't know what to say about this whole thing," Flux offered. "Many people had opportunities to change the contents of your trunk after I handed it over. Clerics put the carriage together. Shields guarded it. The other Stations you'll investigate knew about it, could easily have followed it to its location. It was a simple trunk, one you could swap out easily."

"That's your defence?" Request asked. "Someone else could have done it?"

"It doesn't look good, Farmer Councillor," Maya agreed. And she meant it: if he wasn't guilty, someone had set Flux up, made him a fall guy. "It doesn't look good at all."

"How did your family come by their fertiliser recipe?" Request asked, wildly changing tack.

"Excuse me?" he asked, stopping his baking.

"You heard. How did Filter come up with the recipe?"

"Well, that is, I... Look, I can't tell you as it would give away what is actually in the recipe. The story of its discovery is indelibly, and completely, linked to its contents. Only those who have access rights in our family know it." He stood straight, squared his shoulders. "It is, in fact, under its own Secrecy Order."

"Is it now?" Maya asked.

"It is. I'll have my Servant get the Order." Flux clapped the flour from his skin, then pulled a small bell from the cupboard below him. He rang it with forcefulness. Once again, he was confident, on sure ground.

A Servant appeared then. Tall and wide, broken-nosed and vicious, he looked more like a Shield than someone who worked for a Farmer Councillor. But he approached Flux and acquiesced, considered himself beneath the Farmer Councillor despite being strong enough to crush him.

"Sire," he said, his voice oddly pleasant, "what do you wish?"

"Receptacle, can you find our fertiliser recipe's Secrecy Order for me, please?"

"As you wish," he said.

Receptacle span to achieve his order. But he was more confident than graceful, and he slipped on the smooth tiled flooring. Falling like a tailor's dummy or a stage performer, he looked ridiculous until his head cracked against the corner of the kitchen surface, the sound sickeningly loud. He crumpled to the floor.

Flux screamed, a high-pitched sound, and Servants flooded in, scared. They saw Receptacle on the floor and panicked, though some had the presence of mind to run, hollering for a Doctor.

"Sol," Request said. She looked pale, shocked. The fun of their interrogation had disappeared, replaced by horror at this poor man's clumsiness.

"We shall go, leave you to look after him," Maya said, grabbing Request's elbow. "May Sol be with him."

"Th-thank you," Flux said. He knelt by his Servant to assess the damage. The kitchen unit obscured how bad it was, but the other Servants' reactions told them it had not been a good fall.

"Sol," Request repeated when they left the building. "That was... that was fucked up."

Receptacle's accident had been as sudden and unexpected as her friends' death, though not half as brutal. The sudden and fickle cessation of life seemed to have gotten to her, as Request remained silent and distant for the rest of the day.
Chapter 58

Councillor White knocked on Lord Councillor Blind's office door. There were no go-betweens, no Servants monitoring his time, nothing preventing her entry: as a Contegon, she had free rein when inside the Cathedral they once shared with the Lords. Tone didn't doubt Lord Blind would soon push for the Clerics' Bureau to move as well, leaving them with primacy over the greatest building in Aureu.

A young Lord opened the door for her. Maybe twenty, his hair was shaven into an image of the Sol Lexic, and he had the milky pallor of someone who spent their life reading indoors. Without speaking, he stepped aside and motioned for Tone to enter.

"Ah, Contegon Councillor," Blind said. He stood by the Cathedral's enormous windows. The pre-Cleansing Lord statue he shared his pale blue robes with loomed behind him, looking over Aureu with an inscrutable gaze. "Is it that time already?"

"Lord Councillor," Tone said, acquiescing. She couldn't get used to kneeling to anyone. "It is."

"You may leave us, my friend," he said to the other Lord, who retired quietly.

When the door shut behind her, Blind's face fell from the stoic echo of the Lord's statue into disdain and disgust. "Sit. I want this over with."

"I wasn't hoping to extend it myself, sire," Tone said.

"Don't take that tone with me. It is a travesty that you can waste my time like this: we both know a Lord would never be involved in the death of those... Acolytes." His sneer curled further as he leaned over a plinth holding the Sol Lexic. He idly turned the pages, as though looking for some reason to be rid of her. "Ours is the holiest Station. I am the Lord Councillor. By rights and default, I am the holiest and greatest man in Aureu. Besides the Guardian of course."

Tone sat on a chair in front of the plinth, looked up at him. The window cast light around Blind's bent shoulders, set it bouncing from his delicate robes. It was a subtle piece of showmanship, but one she didn't appreciate. Not that she would let him know that, antagonise him.

"Come on, out with it, woman. Waste your words."

Or, she decided with a breath, maybe she would antagonise him. But charging recklessly had never been her style. "We have been charged by the Guardian to investigate every possible avenue in finding who is responsible for Lun's Burst, and I'm afraid that yours is one of the most compelling cases, sire."

The Lord laughed. "Is that what they're calling it? I don't remember being consulted."

"It is a reaction, I suppose, from popular culture. That song is widely known."

He slammed the Sol Lexic shut. "No. It is not. It is an example of our degradation is what it is."

She held his fiery gaze evenly, not rising to him. "Regardless, you are the most likely suspect because you forced your way to the information about Maya's planned trip."

"For the right reasons," Lord Blind said.

"So you claim."

"Yes. I do. That ought to be enough."

"Sadly, 'because I said so' is not evidence any Hereticum can accept. We are talking about the murder of three members of arguably the highest Station in Aureu." She enjoyed his twitch of rage before continuing. "Murder with a device not forged by the hands of a normal Artificer."

Blind stroked his beard. "And I suppose that Note told you that, did she?"

"No. Former Artificer Councillor Flag told me." Tone reached into her robes and pulled out a statement from the former Councillor. "He was an expert in explosives, if you recall, and has kept up with recent advances, such as they are."

"Flag?" Blind asked, calming. "He was some Councillor, a great man. He knew his proper place."

Which meant he didn't argue with Blind. Flag was a pious man, quiet and simple, who preferred his workshop to Council sessions. He had been part of Blind's voting bloc, giving the man almost complete control. Tone had sought him out specifically because Blind would not argue with his testimony.

"Do you wish to read it?" she asked.

Blind considered it, then shook his head. "No. I trust Flag."

"Good. As I was saying, we are dealing with a crime for which a Hereticum is the only outcome. This means the perpetrators' former, and current, Station will not protect them."

"I notice that you are protected, Contegon."

Tone smiled, enjoying aggravating the obstinate fool. "That is because I convinced Maya to remain in Aureu. My doing so saved her life, as the evidence shows she was the main target for the attack."

"Ah," Blind said, gripping the plinth. "I have you to thank for her presence at the meeting, then."

"You have the will of the Council to thank for that particular judgement, Lord Blind." That Sol's was also responsible was left implicit, another little needle placed in the man's ego.

"Indeed," he said. "Fine. You want to know how I found out about Maya's trip?"

Tone nodded.

"This is, of course, in the strictest confidence, Contegon Councillor. I would not share this with your... partner in this investigation."

"I cannot guarantee that," Tone replied, "but I will try."

"It is the Lord Councillor's responsibility to ensure Sol's will and strength are translated from the Sol Lexic," he lectured, rubbing the Sol Lexic with his fingertips, "into the hearts and minds of the Stationed and the Stationless. Sometimes, we must measure what people think and feel without them knowing we do so: after all, if you ask a man what he thinks of you, you won't get the truth."

Tone held her reaction. She had been told when she took up her Councillor position that the Lords placed children into other Stations to ensure no sedition or heresy took place there. She'd thought it paranoid nonsense from someone who resented leaving her post, but now realised she had judged her predecessor too harshly.

Not that he was confirming that outright: he could simply be saying that the Lords use their privilege to access the Bureau's records. The Clerics needed some oversight after all, even their Councillor. She knew for a fact the Lords couldn't have read Pale's notes to find out about this trip... but, again, he could have somehow read another Councillor's private papers...

Tone shook her head, made herself relax. She was too old for panic. But, even as she took deep breaths, she couldn't escape that feeling that something great had occurred under her nose. Again.

"You realise how much that looks like you're crossing your Station's boundaries?"

Blind turned to face her. His eyes were wider as he rested his hands back on the plinth. "I'm checking what people think, not how other Stations work."

"And whose conscience were you weighing when you found that Maya was leaving?"

"I'd rather not say."

Tone scoffed. "Are you sure?"

When Blind did not reply, Tone asked, "Is this something you regularly do?"

"Only when I feel that I have cause to. I'm certainly not double-checking Pale's fine work, as he was the one who discovered I'd learned about Maya's trip."

He seemed calmer now. Tone imagined this was how he'd acted when the Guardian found he'd burrowed his way into their secret. It was said that his relationship with Blind had grown more strained as their leader's health improved, that Blind had expected to be the next Guardian in a year or so. Receiving a Secrecy Order and censure would no doubt have angered him greatly.

How he must regret helping the Guardian with his health now...

"The Guardian mustn't have been pleased with your involvement," she said.

Birds chirped outside, singing as he glowered. "He wasn't, no. I was given a warning about abusing my position, and slapped with the Secrecy Order which condemns me to waste my time talking to you."

"It must hurt, your relationship with the Guardian being so perfunctory now?"

"I don't know what you mean," he replied in a tone that made it clear he'd lied.

"You helped him see Sol's healing light when Octave failed. You returned him from the brink of death. And yet he is not quite as grateful as you want him to be, is he?"

He tutted, gripped his Sol Lexic. "You overstep your bounds, Contegon."

"It seems I am not alone in doing so," she replied. "When did you discover Maya's plans?"

Blind stroked his beard. "Two days before she was to leave. Once I realised why she had been evasive in discussing future plans, I raised the emergency agenda item to take advantage of her weakened position on the great issue. That, I say, is proof I did not kill those children: the moment I knew, I took advantage of my knowledge. Maya is an opponent, and I would not have waited so long to use her absence. The Guardian's word and the timing of the Secrecy Order should absolve me."

"It is not that simple, sire."

He sighed then looked out over the city behind him. "Why?"

"We cannot know when you discovered Maya's plans. You might have known from the start, and only made it obvious when it suited your other aims." Tone stood and joined the Lord Councillor in watching Aureu. "Someone with access to the Disciple technology and explosives that caused Lun's Burst must be working with and for the Disciples. It could, therefore, serve the conspirator's cause to ensure the people of Geos do not learn the Disciples' secrets and use them against the monsters."

Blind tutted. "Your own thoughts on 'the great cause' colour your perception, Contegon."

"Perhaps. But you cannot deny it is possible."

He looked at her sidelong, old, yellow eyes scanning her white robes. "And in this theory – this fantasy – why would one of the most powerful men in Geos side with what he has been trained to hate and fight?"

Tone had expected this question, and had constructed the scenario as easily as she had with Note or Draw. "It is no secret, sire, that the Lords' influence has dwindled since the Acolyte Councillor was found holy by the Hereticum. People have shirked your subtler connection with Sol for their more obvious powers. This reduction could hurt a proud man used to having his word taken above all others, especially when his opportunity for becoming the Guardian was slipping away... and the Disciples could have identified such a man as a weakness, offered him power and secrets in return for primacy."

"Pure fantasy," Blind hissed.

"Only if you can disprove it with evidence, sire."

The Lord Councillor slowly shook his head. "My methods mean that I cannot prove that information of Maya's leaving only came to me just before she planned to leave."

"Can you at least prove your subordinates did not find this out and pass or sell it on to Disciple sympathisers?" Tone asked.

Blind took a long, slow breath. "No. But rest assured, only I knew of Maya's holiday."

That inability to prove his methods concerned the Contegon Councillor greatly.

"I hope you'll forgive my slander," she said, changing tack. "I am merely performing my role to the best of my abilities, and that means understanding and imagining how every suspect could have orchestrated Lun's Blast. The other Councillors will be treated the same."

"I don't care how the other Councillors are treated. One of them is a Disciple."

"That's entirely possible, sire," Tone admitted.

They stood in silence, watching Aureu. Sol shone brilliantly, making the room almost white. The Cathedral must reflect light into this office, she decided, one of the many tricks and secrets that the pre-Cleansing building hid... including, obviously, the flowering Acolyte that protected Aureu during the Second Invasion. In the growing silence Tone would not break, she wondered if it was watching them.

"Was there anything else, Contegon?" Blind asked.

"Yes. May I see your copy of the Sol Lexic?"

His eyes widened, shock piercing his thick hide. "Why would you ask that?"

Tone shrugged, tried to play off the request. "It could help to ensure that your Sol Lexic is as it should be. After all, a Lord must rewrite his Sol Lexic every year, and yours was done recently."

Blind's eyes rolled over to his book, then back at Tone. "If you can give me a good reason for doing so then maybe I'll allow it."

"I'll think on it, sire. Besides, I'm sure that once you consider my request further, you'll... revise your position," Tone said.

The Lord Councillor narrowed his eyes at her, but said nothing more.
Chapter 59

Investigation absorbed Maya and Request. Though their interviews only lasted hours, documenting them and comparing notes took much longer. When not filing reports or preparing for the next interview, they reviewed the suspects' files and reports for secret messages. It was long, laborious work, but neither complained, so absorbed in the idea that a Councillor had killed their friends that nothing else mattered.

That morning was the first day they'd had any free time. Cleric Councillor Pale was not available until the afternoon, breaking their routine of going straight to their interview on waking. After breakfast, they sat in Maya's hidden home, the upper windows open to allow a faint, cleansing breeze, and talked.

"I can't believe how powerful the Stations are," Request said, holding up a wad of paper. "Each can move people and materials and Sol knows what else, and no one follows it."

"Except for the Clerics," Maya said, thinking of Buckle and the coming confirmation of Heresy.

"Yes, the Clerics watch the totals, but they only know what gets reported." Request scrabbled amongst the papers. "Remember how I said my Gang always stole from the Artificers? Well, that didn't get noticed, did it? If it had, the Clerics would've reported it to the Contegons, and we'd have been caught."

"I suppose the Guardian trusts his Councillors to marshal themselves," Maya said, realising how hollow those words were even as she said them. "It is a stupid system, isn't it?"

Request leant forward. "It allowed Lun's Burst."

Maya couldn't argue there. The Station system allowed pockets of absolute power. Each Station, if challenged, could cripple Geos out of spite. Perhaps the Guardian knew this, had decided to preserve a flawed system rather than allow it to crumble during a war.

"Where's Councillor White?" Request asked.

Tone White had been too busy to meet Maya and Request for days. Running the Contegons, managing the Academy's affairs, and reviewing reports from the Fronts took up most of her time. As such, they'd not had chance to review their findings, or discuss techniques to question the other suspects.

"She's looking after her Station," Maya said.

"We'll have to interview them all again, you know," Request said. "Our suspects."

"I do. But this is the way of things: every Councillor is busy with the affairs of their Station. It's why we have to fit our interviews around their diaries."

"I've been meaning to ask," Request said, looking away. She folded her arms. "Why aren't you as busy as Councillor White? Why do you have so much time to yourself?"

"Besides that I cleared my diary for a week's holiday?" Maya asked.

The young girl winced. "That's a good point."

"There is more to it, though," Maya admitted. "I can't interview Acolyte candidates until the other Stations have selected their intake. Some Councillors allow me to select from their ranks, but others refuse me access, and I cannot intervene until they've decided who's untouchable. It's a stupid system, but I had to negotiate it with fools who protect their fiefdoms." Maya leaned forward. "Does that explain it, Request?"

"But you don't have to take just from the Stations, do you?"

Maya licked her lips. "Much as I wish I didn't, I am advised to by Lord Councillor Blind. You were an exception, Request. And I had to fight hard to get you."

Request's ascension.... Unlawful Painting, known as 'Tagging', was a strange and rare crime, so a sudden spate by one artist had become the talk of Aureu. Stay-at-home Contegons had patrolled Sol's Haven and Sol's Landing to prevent the artist known as 'Truth' daubing anti-establishment messages on their walls. They had been unsuccessful, as Truth proved a clever and fearless risk-taker.

It came to Maya's attention when her building was Tagged. The painting, a rough depiction of someone half Disciple, half Lord, had been spectacular, but the swollen Cyrus Force within it had really drawn her. Truth, whoever they were, was an ideal candidate for the Acolytes.

From then, in her spare time, Maya hunted Truth. Her Spirits scoured Aureu, and she met with stay-at-homes, read every related report. It took weeks, but she eventually caught Request painting in the same art style, and with the same depth of feeling. She let Request know she was watching, but told her to finish, wanting to watch the transfer of Cyrus Force. It'd never crossed her mind that an artist could wield Cyrus Force so effectively, but, by the time her anti-war poem was complete, Maya was convinced she should take Request, and every artist she could, as an Acolyte. This year's search was keyed to find them.

"It's not fair," Maya said, breaking from her memories, "that the Stationless have so little power, but we can only break that principle one step at a time. You are the first Stationless Acolyte."

"You don't count Snow?" Request asked.

"Would you count the son of a Shield-General?"

Request shook her head. "So, you're saying that the only way to change things is from inside?"

"Kind of," Maya said, nodding. "I think the only way to change things is to have power. You can try to seize power, but those who currently have it are loath to let it go. I think it's best to gradually change things, make people comfortable with the journey you take them on."

"That's pretty easy for someone of Station to say whilst the Stationless suffer."

"Hey!" Applekill said, materialising beside Maya. "Maya does come from a Stationless family!"

"I know," Request said evenly. "But she wasn't Stationless herself. Stationlessness isn't really hereditary, it's based on luck and opportunities. Maya had both."

"And you had them too, Acolyte Request," Applekill hissed.

"You know what, I'm not going to fucking apologise for..." Request stopped shouting, pursed her lips, then stood. "I'm going for a walk."

"Applekill, look what you've–"

"No, don't blame your Spirit." Request said. "Or yourself. This is about me. I need to think."

With that, Request left. Maya watched her go, then turned to her Spirit.

"That wasn't helpful," Maya snapped.

"Neither was a conversation about the Station system."

Applekill sat in the chair beside Maya. "I need to voice something you don't want to voice."

"Oh?" Maya asked.

She leant forward, her burnt features creaking with the effort. "Regardless of the Secrecy Order, it's entirely possible none of the Councillors you're investigating had anything to do with Lun's Burst."

"Well, I know that–"

"Do you? You're putting all this effort and hope into paperwork and interviews. You want one of them to slip up, to tell you something that leads you to someone you can watch burn. And you want it too badly: you're not giving them the option of being innocent, and that's colouring your judgement."

"What do you mean?" she asked, her throat feeling clogged with rage.

Applekill looked down at Maya's hands. They were balled into fists. "I mean that."

"So what? So what if I'm angry? Isn't that natural? Isn't that allowable?" Her throat began to burn. She slammed her fist against her table. "Do we have to be some perfect being who none allow to be hateful and hurtful? Must we be perfect?"

"What... what did you just say?" Applekill asked slowly.

"Must I be perfect?" Maya repeated with a frown. Then she started coughing.

The Spirit shook her head, her undamaged skin running pale. "Okay. But–"

Her other Spirit appeared then. It had once been a long, ice-winged lizard, but resurrecting it from Nephilim's ring had changed it. Perhaps Maya's Cyrus Force had overwritten Nephilim and Candle's: now, Mission was a tall warrior covered in thick, encompassing armour, though he had still had scales and a tail.

Maya was in the throes of a coughing fit when he stepped started rubbing her back. "What was that?" he asked Applekill, the blue eyes that blazed under his helmet wide.

Maya didn't hear the response as her cough worsened, her world becoming violent respiratory explosions. Tears streamed down her face as she fought for control, but it was to no avail: she had to ride the fit out.

"What is it with my anger and coughing?" Maya asked when her coughing passed.

"What do you mean?" Mission asked.

Maya stretched her back, which ached now from the effort of coughing. "Well, I had a similar fit just after Draw's Folly, didn't I? My defences must get lowered when I'm furious, make me more susceptible to whatever illness is going round."

"That's exactly what I just said," Applekill said. At some point during Maya's coughing fit, she had risen from her chair and now stood beside Maya.

"Yes," Mission said, "it must be that."

Maya frowned. It felt like there was something the Spirits weren't telling her.

"My point still stands, Maya," Applekill said, as though sensing this discomfort, "that none of these Councillors might be involved in the attack that killed your Acolytes."

"Then who did it, Applekill?" Maya sighed. "Do you have some evidence to share?"

"One of them might have let slip about your trip, and a treacherous underling enacted the plan," Mission said. "Perhaps they did it without realising, letting their subordinate know a small detail that the traitor pieced together. That way, they would not have broken their Secrecy Order. If it happened with enough time to spare, the benefactor of this secret could easily have arranged your death."

"Don't be angry, Maya," Applekill said, putting a hand on Maya's arm. "We're looking after you. We want whoever tried to kill you almost as badly as you do: we just don't want you to run down a blind alley, be furious and despondent when you find there's no way ahead."

"I more fear that if you hunt traitors too ardently, you will make them," Mission said.

Maya looked between her two Spirits. Their ultimate task, laid at their feet by Nephilim, was to destroy the Disciples. When she'd left that odd underground garden, Maya had imagined that would mean training a few people like her and then running rampant over Moenian, but the years and deaths had pounded that idiotic idea out of her. Now, they were investigating traitors and murderers, wheedling out a Disciple incursion of a different nature, having never even seen Moenian.

She closed her eyes, asked herself what Nephilim would want her to do. He certainly wouldn't approve of her anger, of disagreeing with her Spirits, who were reflections of herself. Nephilim, she decided, would want her to find the real source of the Disciple treachery and burn it out before it became as much of a threat as the Disciples to the north... And he'd want her to do so without making it worse herself.

"You're right," Maya sighed. "It's more important to find out what really happened. I suppose I was focussing on the Councillors so much because it was easy, offered a simple path to personal revenge. But this isn't about my revenge, is it?"

Both Spirits shook their heads in tandem.

"They remain the most viable candidates to have orchestrated these attacks," Mission admitted, "so you are not completely in the wrong: only those high in a Station could have planned such an assault. Just ensure your attitude is correct and your mind open. And fear not, as we will help you."

"Thank you. I need that calming influence."

Applekill smiled. "That's why we're here, after all."

"Indeed," Mission replied.

"Well, that and to help me fight my enemies," Maya said with a smile.

"Hopefully," Mission said, "we will soon find some to face."
Chapter 60

Cleric Councillor Pale was directing some prodigious bureaucratic struggle when Maya and Request arrived: Clerics ran into and out of his office with bundles of paper to their chests, toing and froing like agitated insects, and more could be heard shouting inside. Having never been here, Request assumed this was normal and so approached his secretary without pause.

"We are here to interview Councillor Pale."

Pale's secretary, a young Cleric with a sober face and an expensive quill, looked up from his writing. "The Cleric Councillor is in the middle of something right now, Acolyte, Acolyte Councillor. Could he perhaps reschedule the meeting with you? He's free next week?"

"No. We will interview him when he's ready. Right, Request?" Maya said.

Request was frowning, concentrating on something, and so didn't seem to hear Maya. Maya repeated herself, and that snapped the girl from her thoughts. "Yes, yes, we'll wait."

"He is likely to be some time," the secretary advised with a false smile.

"We are patient."

The secretary sighed. He scribbled a note and stopped a passing Cleric to hand it over. "Sit, then, and I'll make the Councillor aware of your presence."

Maya took a seat and watched the comings and goings. Request remained by the secretary's desk, unnerving him: he looked up at her, asked if he could get her anything, but soon realised it was best not to question the immobile Acolyte.

After a few minutes, Request shook her head then sat beside Maya. Immediately, she summoned Ink and raised her eyebrows at Maya. It took the Acolyte Councillor a few seconds to realise she was suggesting they talk through their Spirits, a common practice between Cyrus Force users.

Maya chose to summon Mission. She could feel Applekill's unhappiness at being overlooked, and apologised as the icy statue stood opposite Ink, bowed his head as a greeting: Mission was more well-spoken than her first Spirit, would suit the conversation better.

"Request wonders if you clocked that?" Ink asked. It was a swirling mass with piercing eyes. Having come from a paint brush, Maya would have thought it would be 'Paint,' but naming a Spirit was a personal matter, and she would not pry into what granted it this name.

"Clocked what?" Mission asked.

"What the Cleric Councillor flapped about just before we were shaken off."

Maya frowned, but couldn't remember anything specific or interesting from the conversation.

"Perhaps Maya was distracted whilst talking to the secretary?" Mission said. "Neither she, nor we, her Spirits, can remember anything curious or interesting said by Councillor Pale."

Ink blinked slowly. "My side-holes are great, people, so I clocked the Cleric Councillor saying that he'd found something out of the plan. A trunk. I waited, listened. It's freaking him and everyone else in the building. They're trying to find out who shook up the plan."

A trunk? Was someone trying to assassinate Councillor Pale, or was this another attempt on Maya's life? It seemed coincidental for such to arrive when Maya and Request were scheduled to interview the Cleric Councillor. A black chasm opened in Maya's chest: she'd expected the war to escalate, but a second trunk meant the Disciples embedded in Aureu were stronger than she'd feared. Maya had thought - or, perhaps, hoped - that Lun's Burst was the result of years of planning and co-ordination. But a second trunk suggested a third, a fourth, a fiftieth...

"Maya can understand now why you chose to discuss this through Spirits," Mission said.

"Request wants to know what the plan ought to be."

Mission looked back at Maya, who was suppressing a snarl. "Maya is furious. She is of the opinion that we should burst in there and take charge of the situation."

Ink tilted its body, a sort of nod. "Request respects that plan."

Maya stood, walked over to the secretary, and said, "I understand that your Councillor has been sent a trunk much like the one involved in Lun's Burst."

The Cleric's eyes widened. "I... That is... How did you know?"

She tapped the image of Sol dangling from her necklace. "We are taking charge of this situation, young Cleric. And that means we're going into his office now."

Maya didn't wait for permission to enter.

Pale's office was an airy space lit by a coloured glass effigy of the pre-Cleansing Cleric hero. A dozen desks were set in crescents around the biggest desk Maya had ever seen, a giant slab of wood that belonged to the Cleric Councillor. Paper dominated the room: piles, bundles, books, scrolls, and notes. It covered every surface in neat, organised arrays, ascended from the floor or hung from the ceiling.

"Sire, what are you doing?" Councillor Pale asked. He was sat behind the enormous desk, a quill the length of his forearm in his hand. He had not stopped writing even when she barged in.

"Councillor Pale," Maya said, forgoing all tact and politicking. "I know you were sent a trunk akin to the one used in Lun's Burst, that someone has made an attempt on your life or mine."

Those bushy brows, like untended hedges, shot up. He sucked air between his teeth. "I had hoped we could sort it without your involvement, Acolyte Councillor. Note's best Artificers are on their way to deal with the... potential device."

"Why? We're far better equipped to deal with this... stuff," Request asked.

He sipped water from a mug beside him. "Well, there is an extraordinary amount of Lun's devilment in the trunk appearing this morning. As I am still a suspect, I thought solving the problem without putting you at risk would clear my name and my Station's. Especially with the... information I have to share with you."

"You're putting your Clerics' lives at risk to prove your innocence?" Maya asked, her fury not sated by the comment about useful information.

"I... That is to say, I hadn't..." His face dropped slightly. "I hadn't thought of it like that. We have secured the device. But you're right, I have put people in danger."

"I'm sure Sol forgives you," Maya said. "But where is the trunk?"

"It was delivered to one of the Bureau's lesser entrances, to the north-west. One of my braver Clerics brought it inside. We have evacuated the area around it as best we can."

"It's inside the Cathedral?" Maya asked.

"It is."

Request stepped forward, her fists so tight they shook. "We need someone to take us there," she growled.

"I will do so, sire," someone behind them said. They were a very young Cleric, or one in training. Her blonde hair was pulled into a ponytail and her hands were empty of paper. The other Clerics shared looks of shock, panic, or fury that they'd not put their name first. Maya wanted to believe this was bravery on the young girl's part, but she probably had her career in mind.

Pale considered this for a second, then said, "Yes, I suppose that makes sense: there's no sense in risking a senior Cleric. Thank you... what was your name?"

"Tower, sire," she replied, proudly.

"Tower, lead the Acolyte and Acolyte Councillor to the second western entrance. Quickly."

This young, brave, or enterprising Cleric gestured for the Acolytes to follow her out of the office. Once they were clear of it, she broke into a sprint which Maya and Request easily matched.

"I'll take you down through the least-used route," Tower called back. "It'll be quicker, as people will be less likely to use that to flee."

"Fair enough," Request called back.

Maya wished she knew exactly where this bomb was so she could have flown from Councillor Pale's window. The minutes they would waste getting to the device could cost lives. She tried to contact Peace to ask whether the First Thought would protect people if they were too late. No response came.

Tower took them down a narrow spiral staircase that dove all the way down the Cathedral. At the bottom, was a corridor of small offices, the homes of lesser Clerics. They raced past narrow doorways, some of which Clerics opened to see who was running. One or two shushed them.

"Run, leave this floor!" Maya shouted. "The Disciples are attacking!"

The Clerics' shushes died in their throats, and they soon sprinted away.

"Why are those idiots even here?" Request asked.

"Some people view their work as more important than their lives," Tower wheezed. "They ignore memos, but not a shouting Acolyte."

After minutes of running, Tower was doused in sweat and barely able to breathe. Rather than talk to them when she came to a stop, she pointed pathetically at a door.

"It's in there?" Maya asked.

Tower nodded, then fell against a wall. Maya tried not to judge her too harshly: the life of a Cleric didn't require an Acolyte's fitness. And even her own body was struggling after the sprint.

Request slowly entered the store room. Movable shelves of books and scrolls took up most of the space. The trunk squatted in the remaining space, dark wood bound by pig iron. It had no markings or pattern scored into it, but it was much bigger than Maya's had been, which worried her greatly.

"What do we do?" Request asked.

"We place our energy underneath the trunk, slowly lift it, and build a dense and powerful housing around it," Maya said. "When we're convinced it's safe, we crush the trunk and contain the resulting explosion."

"Should we do that here? We could fly it above Aureu?"

"If panicking people weren't a consideration, then yes," Maya replied. "But two Acolytes flying over Aureu, and a large flash, would cause some concern."

"Aren't enough people going to hear that someone attacked the Cleric Councillor anyway?"

Maya shook her head. "These are Clerics, Request. They were already keeping this a secret. Lun, you saw them, they didn't even run until we ordered it. I wouldn't be surprised if the Artificers don't know why they were summoned. No, the Clerics will close ranks after this: only rumours will escape. And rumours are less dangerous than a large explosion over the city."

"Less dangerous than one inside the Cathedral?" Request asked.

"We'll have to make sure that doesn't happen."

Request was unconvinced, but she nodded, accepting the plan.

Maya closed her eyes and repeated her cant, "Concentrate, care, you win if your dare." Her mind calmed, became a true battlemind, and Mission and Applekill's Cyrus Force flowed into her. It was a heady feeling, and one she missed: summoning her wings was so reflexive she didn't taste her Sprits' power.

"I will start the enclosure. You reinforce it," Maya said.

With that, she slid her energy beneath the trunk, advancing from all sides to not tilt it. With a slither of Cyrus Force beneath it, she lifted the bomb equidistant from the floor and ceiling. Then she condensed both Spirits' Cyrus Force, ensuring its purity and strength was great enough for the impact to come. Once she felt she'd gathered enough, she moulded the dense power around the trunk's skin without touching it. The trunk now floated about four feet from the floor, surrounded by three inches of Cyrus Force so dense that Maya could not see through it. That was the best she could do.

Expending this much Cyrus Force tired her. She trained every day, of course, but always ensured that Mission and Applekill had enough power in reserve to face any potential danger. That meant never emptying her wells as she had now, so she wasn't used to the fatigue. Her muscles weakened, and her eyelids closed slightly. Shaking her head, Maya growled at herself.

"Now?" Request asked. She looked about as tired as Maya.

"Yes. Now."

Ink's Cyrus Force dripped over Maya's. The protective sphere increased in size by about half again, so secure that Maya was certain nothing could break through it.

"I'm going to crush the trunk," Maya said.

"I'm ready."

Maya tensed, ready for a backlash, then crushed the trunk in one smooth movement.

Nothing happened. There was no explosion, no reaction, nothing.

"Are you going to do it?" Request asked, her eyes closed.

Maya straightened, loosened her muscles. "I just did."

"What?"

"I just crushed the trunk. Nothing happened."

"What was inside, then?" Request asked.

The Acolytes recalled their Spirits. The rush of unspent energy returning through them was dizzying: Maya had to steady herself against the wall. Request didn't have as much energy to reclaim, so she was the first to see what remained of the trunk.

"Fuck," Request said, "it's empty."

Maya shook her head, then looked for herself. As Request had said, only a crushed pile of wood and iron remained. Slowly, Maya approached it and moved some of the debris aside with the tip of her boot. There was nothing beneath.

"Was it a mistake then?" Request asked, stepping beside Maya.

Maya took a deep breath, tried to shake the adrenaline from her system. "I suppose someone could have just sent Councillor Pale a trunk. It's not that unusual a present."

"It seems too coincidental though."

"Lun works in weird ways," Maya said. "Besides, what would someone achieve by sending an empty trunk to the Clerics? Aside from panicking them?"

Request gasped. "They got us down here, didn't they?"

Maya turned to face her, feeling as though all the blood was draining from her. "Oh shit."

They ran out of the room. Cleric Tower was waiting for them, having recovered much of her composure. She frowned at their expressions. "Sires, is everything okay?"

"Did you receive any other unusual packages today?"

"No, not that I know of," the Cleric replied. "Why?"

"Why might they have wanted us down here?" Request asked, ignoring the Cleric.

Maya looked up, considered what someone had gained from this. "So that we weren't present when something happened to Councillor Pale?"

Request blinked, then burst into a sprint. Maya followed. So did Cleric Tower.

"Wait, is the Councillor in danger?" Tower asked.

"No. We might already be too late," Maya said between breaths.

Maya and Request easily pulled away from Tower, both more toned and trained. They got back to the staircase quickly, then started their ascent. Request was the faster of the two, so she got to the right floor first, led them through to stop whatever fate awaited Councillor Pale.

Whoever had done this could have attacked Councillor Pale on any day, at any time, but had chosen to do so today. That meant either the Cleric Councillor had discovered something useful to their investigations, or the bastard traitors were sending Maya a message. Perhaps it was both.

Both Acolytes were puffing, short of air, as they jogged into the Councillor's office. Clerics were filing out of the office, their hands on their hearts. Some looked up at the ceiling. Others spat at the ground. Tears filled every eye, soaked every cheek.

They were too late.

Maya pushed past the Clerics sharing looks of horror and loss. Her breath froze in her chest. She wished, desperately wished, the Clerics had been wrong. They weren't Doctors; they might have made mistakes; he might still be okay...

When she saw Councillor Pale slumped in his chair, foam around his mouth, eyes staring glassily out into the world, she knew no mistake had been made. His mug had been knocked over, water spilling across the paper he had spent his life organising. Slowly, quietly, the water dripped to the floor, where it pooled.

The Cleric Councillor had been assassinated.
Chapter 61

Maya was impressed by the Clerics' response. Many Stations might lose focus if their Councillor were assassinated during an attack: the Contegons would go into quiet prayer, the Lords would be up in arms that everyone failed them, but the Clerics responded with quiet efficiency and a dignity that said Sol's work was greater than its workers. There were processes for what to do, ones they followed with silent tears and hidden grief.

Maya remained in the Cleric Councillor's office, searching for evidence, as they organised themselves. The method was confirmed as poison shortly after the Cathedral's most senior Doctor, a rotund man named Arch, arrived: Councillor Pale's mouth was ulcerated, and the smell of his rotting guts suggested his stomach had been eaten through by whatever he'd consumed.

The Acolytes both said prayers over his corpse as it was removed. It seemed the right thing to do, even though the words were meaningless. Request was interviewing the Clerics, leaving Maya to the scene.

Maya's search took hours, and her effort proved fruitless. Whoever laced Councillor Pale's water with the tasteless poison had done so quickly, quietly, and had left without a trace. She assumed it had to be a person, as there were no scratch marks or wounds on Pale's body that the Disciple spider might leave.

Tone White arrived just as Maya was despairing over her waste of time. "I've only just heard," she said. "What happened?"

"Someone poisoned Councillor Pale's drink," Maya said, rising slowly from his desk. Her hands were tight lumps, and her throat felt bloody. "It ate him from the inside."

Tone took a deep, slow breath. She shouted at Request, got her attention, then gestured for the junior Acolyte to enter the office. When she had, Tone closed the door and asked, "Are we alone?"

"We are," Maya said.

"Do we know how fresh his water was? Who brought it for him?"

Request shook her head. "Even Clerics don't record drinking habits. Councillor Pale asked for water maybe two hours before he died, but it was simply brought by a Servant. The poison could have been introduced before, during, or after. No one remembers anything suspicious, but Clerics constantly brought papers to his desk: it would have been simple to slip something into the drink without him noticing."

Maya tutted. Wasting so much of her time by going through the Cleric Councillor's desk had left her mood black, one which didn't seek to be darkened further until it had to be.

Tone asked, "Did any Cleric report seeing anybody unusual? Someone they didn't recognise."

"No," Request replied.

"Why would they?" Maya asked. She sat on the Cleric Councillor's desk and hunched forward, joined her hands over her knees. "If someone wears a Cleric's robes, they must be a Cleric. You don't challenge someone for their Identity Papers when you're in the very heart of a Station, do you?"

Tone tutted. "I suppose I wouldn't."

"Especially not when there's a threat, when people are gathering information about the delivery of a suspect trunk," Maya said. She laughed darkly. "That trunk achieved many things, creating the chaos that allowed a conspirator to sneak into the Bureau: will petitioners have been marshalled carefully with so many Clerics trying to deal with the emergency? Will every Identity Paper have been checked? Whoever planned this knew nowhere is beyond panic's obscuring power, and made sure to cover themselves in it."

Tone's brow furrowed. Her lips moved as she tried to form a sentence, then she shook her head. "You assume that this was not a conspiracy by his Clerics," she said.

"Yeah," Request said, taking a step towards the Contegon Councillor. "It could easily have been a public execution, something to show their strength. Gangs do it all the time."

"You weren't listening to the Cleric Councillor, were you?" Maya hissed. "He said he had information pertaining to our investigations which cleared him and his Station. If I hadn't been so damn angry that he'd not involved us in the trunk business, I might have asked more..." She punched the table. "Damn. Damn!"

"Sol, he did say something like that," Request said, her tone rising. "Yeah, I remember. He wanted the Clerics to deal with the trunk to clear their name, so we would listen to him."

"Exactly," Maya said. "He had something. He definitely did. If the Clerics were involved in this, he would have spoken to us in private about it. Instead, he needed to prove his innocence so we'd listen to him. But that's a dead end now: his damn personal files are in code." Maya leant back and struck the bundle of incomprehensible characters and symbols. "We'll not find out what was in them in a million fucking years!"

Tone's eyes raced along Maya's face, searching her, scanning. Maya watched her fellow Councillor consider her and asked, "What?"

"Are you coming down with something, Maya?"

"Is my health really the most important thing right now?"

She looked at Request, who also looked nervous. "I suppose not," Tone replied.

"Do you have something to ask about my health, Request?"

"No. No sire."

Maya glowered at them. Applekill appeared before her. "Maya, calm down. Take a deep breath, please."

She turned her attention toward the Spirit. It was callous and unfair to appear when Applekill knew she couldn't reply, a trick the Spirit should be above. It made her furious, made her snarl. But her deploying such a cheap tactic meant Maya was losing her temper, so she took a deep breath, closed her eyes.

Bright red eyes stared back at her from behind her lids. They all blinked, then were gone.

"Maya?" Request said. "Are you okay?"

Maya opened her eyes. A shake of her head cleared the image of those eyes. "I'm just so furious about this. First the disciples go after us, then Councillor Pale? These Disciple traitors are beating us. They're winning. And they're laughing at us for our failure, we can feel it."

"It's usually been the case that the Disciples beat us when they first engage in a war," Tone White said, walking across to put a hand on Maya's shoulder. "They only enjoy that for a while before we respond and crush them. We will do the same here, I am certain."

Maya let out a long sigh. "I wish I had your faith, Contegon," she said, honest as she'd ever been.

Tone searched her face again and looked troubled. She opted to change the subject. "Whatever the Cleric Councillor discovered dies with him, like you said. Cleric Councillors spend their opening month in office designing ciphers for their notes and documentation: they are only allowed to use their full rank when no top Cipher Clerics can break it." Tone looked at the pile of paper, but said no more.

"Someone who creates an unbreakable code wouldn't share what they'd learned with their juniors," Request said. "If your secrets are that important, you keep them. No one else will know what he found..."

"Then why kill him?" Request asked, looking between the two Councillors. "Why go after him if they didn't know he'd found something concrete?"

"I can think of two possibilities," Tone White said. Her voice was low, quiet. "Our conspirators might have realised they'd left a trail, some information in the Clerics' files which betrayed them, and so destabilised the Station to give them another year or so... by which time, they will have changed their methods."

"Alternatively, they had been watching the Cleric Councillor, and they wanted to send a message with his death," Maya growled. "They wanted us three, specifically us, to know they can get us at any time. They have warned and mocked us: more deaths are coming, and there's nothing we can do about it."

"Well," Request said, "we could find the fuckers."

"Speaking of which, how have your interviews fared?" Tone asked.

They shared what they had learned from the last few days, their insights into the five suspects. "I believe we can strike Visit from the suspect list, or at least deprioritise her: the Mater Councillor is still too busy actually creating her Station to achieve something like this," Tone said after giving Maya a sidelong glance. "Plus she has no real influence to undertake this conspiracy."

"How did she find out about our trip, then?" Maya asked.

"Her and Lord Councillor Blind are somewhat close. He could've let slip the information."

Request tutted. "He broke the Secrecy Order."

"If so, it adds weight to the case against him," Maya said.

Request paced across the room. "So we've got the Farmer, who had the best opportunity but no motive. The Shield, who has motive and capability, but seems too Sol-fearing to follow through. The Artificer who has the technological capability, but learned about the trip too late to affect it. And the Lord, who has the network to enact a conspiracy, a motive, and may have broken the Secrecy Order." She stopped, looked at the Councillors. "We know who we've got to go after, surely?"

Maya didn't answer. She wanted Councillor White to say it, wanted her own prejudices against the man to not be blamed for their decision.

Tone knew this. She turned to see if Maya would reply, but Maya refused, challenging the Contegon Councillor. And she did not disappoint. "We should investigate each equally still."

"Why?" Request asked.

"Yes, why?" Maya repeated.

"Flux has not been adequately investigated, nor have Note and Draw. I'm certain if we dug into any Councillor, we would find something to incriminate them, as we have with Lord Councillor Blind. We've only determined that we can best find evidence against the one we most want it to be."

"Then we need access to more evidence," Maya said. "We need the Councillors' personal files, and to interview each Servant, their families, their friends. I mean, are we currently watching their homes to ensure they're not burning important evidence?"

"The Councillors are being protected for their safety," Tone replied evenly. "As are their premises. But Maya, anything more would require express approval from the Council. It would be a grave and illegal invasion into the matters of another Station without that."

Maya stood. She loved that Tone was skirting the edges of her abilities, but it wasn't enough. "Then I shall raise this request to the Guardian. Now. The rules must be relaxed whilst we search for the traitors. We must get deep into every Councillor's past and shine Sol's light where Lun wishes things to remain hidden."

"We must search the shallow waters of their heart," Request said simply.

Maya stopped. Everyone knew Chain had communicated to her ragged cadre that they should douse the Disciples in the Journey using that quote. At first, she thought her Acolyte was trying to rile her. But few outside of the Hereticum knew of Chain's slip, so she probably was still a hero.

"Yes," she said. "And when we find these traitors, we'll drown them in the Journey."

"Maya, you are forging a dark path," Tone said. "I understand your anger at Pale's death–"

"And my friends' deaths," Request added. "Don't forget them. Ever."

"I would never do so," Tone replied evenly. "But the rules about investigating another Station exist for a reason. When you start digging into another Station's dealings, you are questioning thousands of people. Damning them even. I do not know that I can support you in this."

"What?" Request exclaimed. "Why not?"

Maya stood close to Tone, face-to-face with the older woman. "We would do anything and everything to bring whatever scum is helping the Disciples to justice. They killed our Acolytes. They killed our Cleric Councillor. None should be allowed to survive."

Tone stepped back, raised her hands in surrender. "I understand your depth of feeling. More than once, I saw Disciples kill people I knew, people I loved. But darkness is a poor answer to darkness, Acolyte Councillor. Consider this carefully, else you won't have just the suspects against you in this matter."

Maya licked her lips, then lowered her head. "Perhaps I was too forceful there."

"I don't know," Request said. "I'd say you weren't forceful enough. We should be tearing these damn Councillors apart to get at the truth. And a Contegon Councillor should be strong enough to support that. We only seek to bring Sol's fire to bear."

"Spoken like a young fool, and a criminal," Tone hissed.

Request was about to say something everyone would regret when Maya stepped between them. "We are all letting the pressure of this get to us." She looked between them. "All of us. Let's separate, consider our moods, and meet again tonight to share a drink and forgive each other. Okay?"

Tone stepped back and laughed, shook her head. "You're right. Sol, I've not been that wound up in decades. The Second Invasion was easier than this."

"For some of us," Request said.

"Request, stop," Maya said, her tone a simple warning. "The Disciple traitors are doing a good enough job of undermining our authority and our investigations. Let's not add to their successes."

Request's dark eyes flashed at Maya, but she said only, "Sorry." She added, "A drink later might be good. It does feel like we need to loosen up."

"Until tonight, sires," Tone said. She acquiesced and left.

"That thing you said about drowning the traitors in the Journey?" Request asked as she went to leave too.

"What about it?"

"We can only do that after I get five minutes with each of them."

Maya laughed. "Only five minutes?"

Request laughed too. "I don't want to be greedy, now, do I? We are the representatives of Sol's fury and his righteous indignation, not Lun's desire for mindless violence."

"That we are," Maya lied, thinking of her true mission. "That we are."
Chapter 62

"I wasn't always a politician, Request," Tone White said as she poured more wine, her words askew. They were in her sedate home beside the Academy, the remnants of a good meal were scattered on Tone's kitchen table. "Other Stations elect through elections or nepotism – Lun, most do – but the Contegons are chosen for our faithfulness and exploits. That's why being a stay-at-home is usually such a curse. And the Gravit Mountain towns are more so."

"Except for... what was her name, Oasis?" Maya replied, not entirely sober herself.

"Oasis," Tone replied. "And Chain Justicar. They are exceptions to the stay-at-home curse."

Maya pursed her lips. There was no denying that Chain was a hero, might have been a candidate for Contegon Councillor after Tone White until the Hereticum. Perhaps she would be now, after her exploits in Buckle, that fight against the Disciples which many had thought an isolated incident. Lun's Burst proved how stupid they had been.

She wondered how Chain was, hoped that she and her child were happy and healthy.

Happier than Maya, anyway, who knew she wasn't coping with Lun's Burst and Councillor Pale's death. She needed to relax. Maybe an evening with a bottle of wine and interesting company would help their investigations. With the preparations for her trip to the eastern Front, she hadn't had time to see Note or anyone socially. That could also easily explain her temper.

"Yes, Chain," Maya said. "She might have done well, but maybe what she did at the Hereticum was for the best. Who knows?" She paused, then added, "Besides Sol, of course."

"Aye, besides Sol," Tone said. "He usually knows what's best for us, even if we don't."

They each took a drink. Request chewed her lip to stop herself objecting, tearing open the rift between her and the Contegon Councillor. She started a new conversation. "Where are you from originally, Tone?"

"Me? I'm from Aureu. My mother was an Artificer, so I grew up in Blade's Birth. She was of middling skill, so we lived towards the north-eastern edge."

"Up near the smelting warehouses?" Maya asked.

"Yes, though there was only one when I was growing up: we didn't need as much metal then, as the Shield Councillor thought that any Shield who couldn't avoid a Disciple's claws had offended Sol." Tone paused, shook her head. "We've had some absolute morons in the Council."

"I'll drink to that," Request said, her voice low.

Tone considered the young Acolyte. "If I'm honest, Request, I once had the same fears and worries as you about the Council. How couldn't I, having worked with them for so long? But I believe in the structures Sol created through the First Servant. And I believe in the Guardian."

"Things change, though," Maya said, leaning forward. "Look at us. And the Maters. New Stations can and will be created, improve the way things work. The old structures are not sacrosanct."

Tone shook her head. "Maybe with you Acolytes, but look how few of you there are."

"Sol's Gift doesn't come to everyone, and it takes time to learn how to use it properly," Maya slurred. "When I was given the Gift, it was raw and undisciplined, an urgent task to save Aureu. And I still nearly died... It's taken me years to refine my ability and all of that must be passed on to my..." Maya reached out and grabbed Request's hand. "On to my Acolytes."

Tone was about to respond when Request asked, "You said 'maybe with you.' Does that mean that you don't believe the Maters represent progress?"

"No. If anything, they represent regression." Tone looked into her drink. "They encourage something we need – the replenishment of our numbers following the Second Invasion – but I think they're part of a wider plan. Or a wider Revision."

"Revision?" Request asked, looking from Tone to Maya.

"You think Lord Blind is a Revisionist?" Maya asked.

"I do," Tone said simply.

"Sol," Maya said, sitting back. She put her arms behind her head and breathed out slowly. "I can see it. It makes complete sense. What a bastard. No wonder he put forward the petition for another Station shortly after I moved onto the Council."

"Can you stop talking in slang?" Request said. She didn't seem as tipsy as Maya or Tone.

Tone coughed. "Revisionists believe the First Servant put her biases onto Sol's word, influenced the Staions' hierarchy and make-up by virtue of being a woman. As evidence, they point out that there was no place for male warriors in the original Stations, despite there being one on the Cathedral. They claim the Sol Lexic should be considered a rough guide interpreted by an exceptional, but ultimately mere, woman."

"I don't understand." Request said. "What does being a woman matter?"

"A good question," Maya said. "To anyone sensible, it matters none."

"Hey, what about us Contegons?" Tone asked with a laugh. "It matters quite a lot to us."

"So why aren't men allowed in the Contegons?" Request asked.

Tone finished her drink and placed the wine glass on the table. She was about to answer when someone else said, "Because the First Servant thought putting men in such a strong position would be bad for Geos."

The two Acolytes and the Contegon Councillor turned to see Note standing at the kitchen doorway, another bottle of wine in one hand and a small, brown parcel in the other. Her robes were crumpled from a long day of work, and she looked like she needed a drink.

"Note! Good of you to join us," Maya said, rising.

"Good evening, Note. Let yourself into my home, why not?" Tone said, her face and voice deadly serious for a moment. Then she laughed. "Come on, sit down."

Request and Tone made space for Note. The Artificer Councillor sat and poured a large drink. "Gender politics," she said. "You must have been at it for a while."

"Not too long," Maya said.

"Not quite long enough, I'd say," Tone said. Note's appearance had really cheered her.

"Might I muddy the waters by saying there are more to human beings than just men and women?" Note asked as she sat. "Any Doctor will tell you that."

Tone shook her head. "That just complicates matters."

"Not to those born so," Note said.

"I just don't understand any of this stuff," Request said. "Why would putting men – in the traditional sense, Artificer Councillor – in the Contegons be bad? What's the difference?"

"Broadly? None," Note replied, taking her first sip. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the taste. "Besides physiological differences, and those our society imposes. The problem is the border cases. Male cruelty and evil can be different to female cruelty and evil, more damaging because it encourages less cruel or evil men to march under its banner."

Tone nodded. "The Contegons are arguably... Lun, I'll say it, we were the most holy and respected Station in Geos. We were designed to spread Sol's word and marshal his people. This was, of course, before Lun showed his hand and attacked. Anyway, the idea was that men were in such positions before the Cleansing, and had brought the world to destruction... and that women alone should have that power."

"I'd recommend reading Lord Real's treatise on the First Servant," Note said. "It was the first assessment of the First Servant's diary, and explains much of this."

"I get the plan," Request said. "Some of the male Gangers I rode with were vicious, horrible. The women could be just as bad, but it was... different. But shouldn't the First Servant have relied on Sol to prevent the worst elements getting into the Contegons?"

"No," Tone replied, "because he barely manages that for the Stations as is."

Request's eyes widened. Then a hint of a smile graced her face and she nodded.

Note took a deep gulp. "Well, this is all very fun, isn't it? How about I add some more water to the fire we're drowning?" She put the brown parcel on the table. About four inches tall and two wide, it was tightly wrapped and sealed with the Council's seal.

"What is it?" Maya asked.

"Open it."

Maya tore the paper from the parcel. Inside was a box made from stiff paper containing a slender metal tube with two circular joints. It reminded her of a spider's leg. She plucked it up, and found it cold to the touch. Its tip was sharp and hollow.

"What am I looking at?"

Note leant on the table and knitted her fingers together. "Artificers have been combing the site of Lun's Burst for insight into what the explosive was and how it worked. We found that thing embedded in a surviving scrap of the chest. "

Tone gestured that she wanted to inspect the item. Maya handed it over. The Contegon Councillor turned the leg over twice, and said, "That looks like Disciple technology."

"Spot on. I guess it is the leg of a small Disciple. There were remains like this in Buckle, but they contained some agent that corroded them rapidly. Our assumption is that the explosion prevented this Disciple from destroying itself: other pieces were found in the debris which correspond to the design of those monsters, but that is the largest surviving piece. It even still had some of the poison it contained in its 'thigh.'"

"Poison?" Request asked, taking the leg for herself.

Note nodded. "Evidence suggests this Disciple was created for assassination: if you forewent your spice collection, Maya, this little horror would have ensured you did not get to the eastern Front."

The four women all stared at the leg, imagining the Disciple it could have come from.

"Something like this could have killed Councillor Pale," Request said.

Maya had come to the same conclusion. "How big are these things?"

"The ones which attacked Buckle were around six inches wide."

"Easily small enough to sneak into the Bureau and deliver its payload," Request said, seemingly accepting this furtive talk about Buckle. Maya expected she would have to explain matters tonight to her.

"Why bring this to us now?" Tone asked.

"Normally, I would present a discovery like this to the Council for their advice," Note eyed Tone in particular as she said this, "but I am a suspect in the attempted murder of one Councillor and the successful murder of another. I did not know exactly how to proceed, but I did know I couldn't sit on this for the sakes of those at the Front."

"Do you see now, Tone, why I feel we need more evidence on the Councillors?" Maya said. "Even, and please excuse me for this Note, the Artificer Councillor?"

Note shrugged. "I'll give you complete access to anything you ask for. I want you to get me off that damn suspect list more than ever so we can get the Shields, Contegons, and Acolytes to watch out for these damn things. Because this proves Buckle wasn't an isolated incident: more of these things are out there."

Tone looked at the Disciple's leg again. "Perhaps we do need more access than we currently have. Note, do you really mean you'll allow my Contegons full access to your personal files and home?"

"In a heartbeat. Start now, if you want."

"Then we will," Tone said. "Excuse me, I'll go message my best Contegons."

"Thank you, Note," Maya said when the Contegon Councillor had left. "That should help our case, having one Councillor voluntarily allow us the access we need."

"Yeah, thank you," Request said.

"Please, don't. This isn't about me. Though I obviously have wrecked your evening. I apologise for that."

Maya shook her head and grinned. "No. If anything, Note, you've made our evening."
Chapter 63

Maya was the first to arrive at the Advisory. The days of relative inactivity, of collating their evidence with Note's new evidence, had been worthwhile, but they left her desperate to push forward and destroy this conspiracy. She handed her sword and necklace to the Contegons well before her fellow Councillors.

The Contegons had an extra item to search: Note's package with the Disciple leg. They were naturally concerned, but accepted Maya's explanation of what it was. That they accepted her word on this without much questioning concerned Maya: she would raise it with Tone later.

Maya took her seat and stared at the package. What hadn't Nephilim told her about the Disciples; what lessons were to come? What didn't she know that could save lives? The thought haunted her, all the more cruel because she knew he was so close, so easy to access. But she would not renege on her promise to leave him be, not unless everything depended on him.

She picked the spindly limb out of the packaging, then removed her glove to touch it. She couldn't see Cyrus Force without her Spirits, but she could feel it through her skin: rolling her finger across the bright, glinting leg, she couldn't find a hint of Cyrus Force.

No one had ever cared about this leg or the creature it came from. A human would fill their craft with Cyrus Force, so Disciples had created this. The lack of Cyrus Force also showed this was not fabricated evidence. Any concerns she had over presenting it to the Council, an item produced by a suspect, evaporated. She laughed, delighted and relieved, then placed the leg back in its box.

But the idea of an item without Cyrus Force haunted her: surely, at some point during its creation, a human had placed this robot in her belongings? Had they simply not cared about this back-up plan, done out of a cold, calculating logic? Or was it impossible for Cyrus Force to attach to living Disciples? Disciple corpses dripped with emotional energy, but that scorn and hatred might've been poured on after their death?

"Oh, Acolyte Councillor, good morning," Lord Blind said as he entered the Advisory.

"Welcome, Lord Councillor," she said, that mind's river irreparably diverted now.

The man straightened and walked to his seat. Slowly, deliberately, he pulled his chair out and sat. Even sitting required pomp and circumstance.

"I understand you will make this an interesting meeting," he said, leaning back. "That you will ask for something unprecedented."

"I will report on our investigations so far. Then I will request what not only I feel is necessary, particularly in light of the unprecedented assassination of a Cleric Councillor."

Blind tilted his head. "You keep us on our toes, Maya."

"I'm not the only one, now am I, Lord Councillor?"

"Yes, the Disciples keep us busy as well," he said without irony.

Before she could respond, the Advisory door opened. Lord Councillor Blind greeted the arrivals, "Ah, Visit, good to see you. And Tone and Flux."

Every Councillor was there eventually. Even Starfish had been pulled from Port for this meeting, and that made Pale's absence all the more obvious: his vacated chair seemed to throb, taking every casual glance, and making Quill and Draw, either side of the vacant seat, nervous.

After some idle chatter and carefully-concealed barbs, the Guardian appeared. "Good morning," he said, moving to his chair at the head of the table with vigour and purpose. "How does this day find you all?"

"Not as good as it seems to find you," Blind said, smugness flirting with his words.

"I am feeling better every day," the Guardian said. "It is something of a miracle."

Blind nodded. "We do try our best."

At one point, the Guardian had looked as old as Blind: now, his hair was thickening and he moved without shaking. Whatever had ailed him for so long no longer did, whether through determination, belief, or luck.

"It is immeasurably sad that we do not have our colleague and friend, Cleric Councillor Pale, with us today," the Guardian said, lowering his head and knitting his hands together. "He was a great man, a friend, and a champion of everything Sol represented. His Pyre will be tomorrow, and attendance is mandatory."

"You don't need to be telling us that, sire," Starfish said. He was a caricature, bless him: swarthy, bearded, and sea-salted, built like the Cathedral. Only thirty, he was the second-youngest person in the room, and someone Maya could always rely on. It was a shame his duties to Port kept him from Council meetings.

"True, though it doesn't hurt to remind people," the Guardian replied. "We will celebrate his reconnection with Sol tomorrow. For today, I would like us to remember our departed friend."

He bowed his head further and closed his eyes. Maya balled her fists and rested them on her package, imagining the creature that leg was shorn from, a narrow spider with a hundred mechanical legs that tapped as it approached its unwitting target. For some reason, she imagined it a shining black, with eyes like rubies across its body.

"Okay," the Guardian said, pulling her from the image. "Without a Cleric Councillor, it falls on me to discuss the agenda." He put the Sceptre of Sol on the table and pulled an unsealed scroll from his robes. "The first item is quite pertinent: Maya, can you update us on the investigations into Lun's Burst? And, I suppose, the wider conspiracy which planned it?"

Maya nodded. "The case – as you know, sire, but many of my colleagues won't – is based on who knew I was leaving for the eastern Front when they planned the assassination. Only six people should have known: six Councillors. One has been deprioritised, a second is cooperating, and the third was Cleric Councillor Pale. We have interviewed each suspect, and are close to clearing the cooperating suspect, leaving us with three suspects."

"Wait, you're investigating people in this room?" Starfish asked, astonished.

"Six of the Councillors in this room were placed under Secrecy Orders," the Guardian said. "One of them must at least have broken the order."

"Well, who are they?" Starfish asked. He looked around the room nervously. "I've got to say, I'm not too happy being in the room with potential Disciple-loving freaks."

"Starfish!" Blind exclaimed. Flux coughed, nearly choking on his own spit. Draw and Visit merely glowered at the Mariner. The rest of the Councillors seemed to know who was being investigated, having bonds with at least one of those who'd been spoken to so far.

"The point was that we were trying to protect their identities," Maya said.

"Not that there's much point now," Tone added.

The corner of Starfish's mouth twitched, a micro-smile: he'd gotten what he wanted.

"Halving the list of suspects in a week is an impressive feat," Octave said, nodding. The face behind his great nose seemed pleased. "You, your Acolyte, and Contegon Councillor Tone White are to be commended for moving so quickly."

"It wasn't enough for Cleric Councillor Pale, though, was it?" Visit asked with a sniff.

Maya wanted to be angry at her snide comment, but she'd given Maya an opening. "No, it wasn't. During our investigations, Cleric Councillor Pale suggested he had discovered something relevant to our investigations. Within an hour, he was dead. That means someone was observing him."

She looked across at Blind and Draw. Both challenged her stare, not wilting or giving anything away. Then she turned to Flux, who seemed as nervous as ever.

"Our investigations have only proven who didn't plan Lun's Burst," she continued. "The problem we have is that two Stations are investigating three, and our fellow Councillors are under no obligation to help us."

"A principle the Council was founded on," Blind said. "That is, the idea that no one Station should have the power to interfere unnecessarily in the running of another."

Note leaned forward. "You mean, like trying to stop us using Acolyte technology?"

"That is another topic for another day," the Guardian said, killing that argument before it could flourish. "Maya, what are you getting at?"

"Organising Lun's Burst and the assassination of Cleric Councillor Pale required planning, discipline, record-keeping and obscuring. Only people in a Station could have achieved this undetected, so it must have happened within the offending Station's framework. In that case, we cannot access the real evidence. We can continue interviewing our fellow Councillors, but that will take some time." Maya stood, a faux-pas at the Mensa, but it allowed her to lean forward on her fists. "And with two Councillors having attempts on their lives in the last nine days, time is a luxury which Lun and the Disciples won't provide us."

"What do you propose?" the Guardian asked. His eyes moved down to her chair, a subtle cue to sit.

After allowing Draw, Blind, and Flux to sweat, she sat. "I propose that Contegons not attached to the investigation raid the accused Councillors' homes and offices to gather evidence. I then propose that our investigations delve, with the aid of independent Clerics, into the Councillors' personal papers and their Stations' secret files to root out the corruption in at least one of them."

As expected, Blind and Draw jumped to their feet, talking over one another. Quill, Flux, and Visit added to the cacophony, making an incomprehensible mess of outrage and fury.

The Guardian smacked the Sceptre of Sol against the Mensa. Everyone quieted. He gestured for Blind and Draw to sit. Glowering, simmering, they did so.

"Maya, do you realise what you're asking?" the Guardian asked.

"I do, sire. I am asking for sacred boundaries to be lifted temporarily to capture someone in this room at least for the crime of breaking a Secrecy Order. I'm suggesting that, now we face humans who sympathise and conspire with the Disciples, our laws are now antiquated." She pounded the table. "We had proof that this could happen in Buckle, but my colleagues whose Stations were implicated insisted we delay and investigated more. Given all this, the death of a Councillor should make my fellow Councillors put aside their cherished privileges and allow Sol's justice to be done. That is what I suggest."

Many Councillors tried to speak at once. The Guardian bashed the Sceptre of Sol to quiet them again. "Note, I notice that you are being awfully quiet. Please, share your thoughts."

Starfish coughed and looked across at Note, who gave him a small smile. "I am, right now, a valid suspect," she said before she turned to the Guardian. "I have already agreed to this. Two experienced Contegons and two Clerics review my personal papers and much of my reports' as we speak."

The Guardian took in a slow breath, surprise written large across his face. "That would explain why a third Station was expected to be crossed off... Then why is this a vote, Maya?"

"Ask Draw, Flux, and Blind whether they would allow the same thing."

"I wouldn't," Draw replied sullenly.

"It is, is a preposterous suggestion," Flux replied.

Blind took a moment, considered the Guardian, then said, "I feel that Flux is correct. This would be a dangerous and worrying step."

"Agreed," Visit said.

"I wouldn't be happy, were it me," Quill said. "We're autonomous for a reason, sire: you don't want your every decision, every internal squabble, exposed. Particularly not to the Contegons. I mean no offence, Councillor White, but some things kept amongst the Merchants might be considered disturbing to someone who doesn't understand our customs. We would not feel free to conduct ourselves in the right manner should this happen, the manner we have done for decades."

"The manner that you did in Buckle?" Tone asked.

Quill opened his mouth, but didn't have a response.

"I don't get the fuss," Starfish replied. "It's not a complete, open house. It's a one-off."

Blind tutted, shook his head. "You understand little: I agree with everything Quill said, but my real concern stems the precedent such investigations would set. The affairs of one Station will be ranked below another, making the Contegons a greater Station than they currently are now."

"You mean, it'd expose some practices you don't want us to be aware of?" Tone asked.

"Like everything a Contegon does is perfect. Discipline Chambers, for example?"

Tone growled. Maya closed her eyes, her own treatment in a Discipline Chamber springing to the fore. It annoyed her that Blind had a point.

"Octave, what do you think?"

Maya turned to look at the Doctor Councillor. "I think that the very fact of how much concern and panic this suggestion has created should warn us against it, let alone that it is borne of a mood of fear and suspicion. And, dare I say it, vengeance, Acolyte Councillor?"

"Maya does know a lot about seeking vengeance," Draw added.

"And you know a lot about follies, Draw," Maya fired back.

The Shield Councillor narrowed his eyes. "Hush, woman."

For a third time, the Guardian struck the table with the Sceptre of Sol. "Enough. I would hear from Flux, then I shall render a judgement as to whether this should be considered."

All eyes turned to Flux, who seemed to wilt under the pressure, his loose skin flapping in panic. "I... Well, I'm not for it. I'd be worried where it might end. Regular inspections? Speculative Hereticums? Even the Guardian being investigated, sire."

The Guardian sucked air between his teeth, and then fell silent. After much consideration, he said, "Maya, I don't think you would win this vote, so I will not allow it to come to one. Even if you had more support, I'd be inclined to prevent it anyway."

Maya's heart plummeted. "Why, sire?"

"I don't think panic should rule us," he said. "We have had this framework of investigation, evidence gathering, and Hereticums in place for an age, and they have not failed us. Not once." He turned to Draw and Blind. The two Councillors had been looking smug, but they recognised the rebuke. "We need patience and trust in ourselves. Should any Councillor volunteer for this inspection then that would be a different matter."

"Any takers?" Tone White asked.

Almost in unison, the three men shook their heads.

Maya couldn't believe it. These Councillors, these men and women, had put their own fiefdoms ahead of the capture of Disciples. They were risking their lives, and the lives of others, for their personal pride. What were they doing that scrutiny worried them? What did they want to hide?

Everything that Request had ever said about the Stations felt true. That added to her bitter tone as she slowly said, "Very well. But I and Contegon Councillor Tone White will not be held accountable should more blood be spilled as a result of these slow, incapable methods."

"The matter is closed," the Guardian said, looking around the room to enforce his point. "After that... heated discussion, I want us to take two minutes. I am calling a recess."

He stood, then stepped away from the Mensa to show that any conversations the Councillors held would not be official. Her fellow Councillors shook themselves to relieve the tension of their debate. Note and Tone went to one another, had a whispered discussion.

Maya sat, stared at the box. Her head pounded. Her voice box felt like she'd been talking for twelve hours. She raised a hand to her temple, and found her fingers shaking uncontrollably. In all her clashes with the Council, she had never been this angry. It was a burning black feeling that dripped down her throat like she had inhaled tar. Deep breaths would not calm her: if anything, they inflamed her fury.

Rationally, she knew she couldn't feel like this in a Council session. There was another point, a key point, to make about the Disciple creation: not only that, but she had to retain her credibility. But the feeling would not pass. If anything, it grew.

She needed to vent. And she only knew one way. Standing, she left the room, yanking her sword from the vigilant Contegons and running to the nearest balcony. Once there, she soared into the morning air, through the thick cloud covering. All her concentration and energy went into breaching the damp, billowy gloom.

Soon she rested gently over a carpet of grey with the sun and pure blue surrounding her. The vista calmed her. She looked around, seeing the Gravit Mountains to the north, and considered paying a visit to the Front and destroying some Disciples. But the idea was daft: she had to be at the Council meeting, mustn't seem weak by throwing a fit when she didn't get her way. She had to return.

With a final look around, she plummeted back to Aureu, pulled her wings in to descend rapidly. When she spread them out after a mile or so, started her spiral, she noticed that her Cyrus Force wings were black.

The realisation made her lose concentration, almost sent her back to Aureu much faster than she wanted. She slowed as quickly as she could, flapping her wings wildly to pull out of a tailspin... but her wings were Cyrus Force green again. She frowned, extended her wings fully to check them, but only saw green.

"Applekill, did you see that?"

Applekill appeared beside her, floating without a care. "See what?"

"My wings, did you see their colour?"

The Spirit eyed her nervously. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Mission, what about you?"

"Maya, you didn't bring Mission with you, remember?"

Maya shook her head. "Of course. What was I thinking? I must... What I saw must've been my imagination, or a trick of the light."

"Or you're over-tired and stressed. Maybe you should take the rest of today off?"

Maya shook her head. "That's not going to happen."

With a flick of her wings, she made her final approach to the Cathedral. She couldn't rest, not now the most logical route had been shut to her: to save any lives, make any progress in her investigations, she'd have to redouble her efforts. There would be no rest, not for them, not at all.
Chapter 64

Request ate alone and tried not to feel uncomfortable with doing so. She found being alone somewhere so large disconcerting: her home was a quarter the size of Maya's, with three times the occupants and considerably more holes in its roof. The Acolyte's Academy had been small too, barely giving her enough room to stretch in between lessons. Maya's home, like everything else in Sol's Landing, had more to it, more consideration and care. She would have hated staying in the area if the Stationless hadn't been allowed to live here, if she didn't see people like her when she left the house.

Not people like her though, she reminded herself: she was Stationed now.

"Someone's stepping in," Ink said. The Spirit floated behind her, forming shapes and drawings from her body as entertainment for them both as Request ate.

Someone opened the front door. Request was expectant, hopeful, then tried not to look disappointed when it was Councillor Tone White.

"Good afternoon, Request. Is your Councillor not here?"

"No. She left well before I woke."

"Did she say where she was going?"

Request shook her head.

"She left far before dawn," Ink added, surprising Request.

After a pause, Request asked, "I assume the vote yesterday didn't go as hoped?"

"Not as Maya hoped, no. But it did go as I had hoped."

"How do you mean?"

Tone White seemed to consider responding, before saying, "Mind if I sit?"

Request gestured to the table. "Have some food. It'll just go cold otherwise."

"Thank you. I may do so."

The Councillor sat. The dish before her was a simple stew, beef and vegetables, which Maya had loaded with spices. Tone ladled some into a clean bowl, then took up the cutlery Request had laid for Maya.

Request watched her, oddly fascinated by her deliberate movement in eating. "The vote?" she asked.

"Yes. I was fully behind Maya, supporting her personal need and this investigation's urgency, but I agreed with my fellow Councillors: plumbing other Stations would set a dangerous precedent. I also don't like the idea that we... we throw away everything we've built up over decades just because the Disciples have developed a new tactic." She took another mouthful, then added, "Not that it isn't a horrific and awful tactic we should respond to, of course."

"I don't get it," Request said, dropping her spoon into her bowl. "Some investigations under a horrible, unique circumstance wouldn't threaten the mess you've all created."

The Councillor flinched but didn't rise to her point. "But it would give Contegons and Acolytes too much power, as we would then be expected to dig into other Stations if there's evidence of wrongdoing. Not only that, but it would question the fundamental principles of the Stations: Sol put us in the positions we currently hold, so it was his plan that I am a Contegon and you are an Acolyte. Allowing what Maya wanted says that only the Acolytes and Contegons are truly chosen by Sol."

"Not if Acolytes and Contegons could plan against each other," Ink added.

Request nodded. "Yes, the Acolytes and Contegons could be responsible for each other's honesty."

Tone frowned. "What would you get, though? Suspicion and constant counter-investigations? No, it's better to trust people. That is what Sol teaches us."

It annoyed Request that she could see the ghost of a point in what Tone said: constant suspicion would never end well. What she was, the pinnacle of a Station, separated from others by her last name and her robes, made Request's mind itch, but she respected the woman. If anyone deserved such power, it was Contegon Councillor Tone White.

"She's one sharp blade," Ink agreed, knowing the Councillor wouldn't hear. "You want to be her when you're grey: driven by your beliefs and free to plan them out. Only your beliefs make you different."

Request couldn't argue with that. Though Maya and her Spirit Applekill sometimes bickered, Request never disagreed with Ink. How could she? Ink was her urge to create, her talent. More than once, she'd wondered what part of Maya her Spirits represented: Mission was clearly duty, honour. But what might Applekill be? If she were, in fact, part of Maya: as the first Spirit, she could be a part of Sol.

Request stopped staring at her food. In the meantime, Tone kept eating. "Can I ask, then, why don't we just trust that the Councillors were all wrongly implicated?"

Tone tipped a piled spoonful of stew into her mouth, and then started chewing. To avoid being rude, she put a hand before her lips. "Well, we have evidence that a law was broken."

"Wasn't that the case under Maya's proposal for greater access?"

"I suppose," Tone conceded. "But her urge to break the rules came not from a fresh piece of evidence."

"A dead Councillor isn't evidence enough?"

"That's smack on," Ink added. She swirled round Request. "She can't knock that one down."

Tone swallowed, sat back in her chair. "You are certainly a challenging one, aren't you, Acolyte? Don't get me wrong, that's not a criticism." Her voice started to drift, as did her attention. "Maybe we need that now: maybe we need to grow and adapt along with the Disciples."

Request watched her, waiting for another barb. But Tone had nothing more to say, had entered some internal world instead of continuing the conversation. It was, she supposed, commendable that she was even admitting that there might be a need to change.

For some reason, Request felt she should reward that admission. "I was saving this for Maya's return, but we might not want to sit on it. You see, I can prove we prematurely cleared the Mater Councillor."

Tone's eyes cleared of confusion and debate. "What have you found?"

Request walked along the table to her papers. "I was thinking about other suspects beyond the current three we're working with. You cleared Visit through her lack of connection with the attack, right?"

"You mean the Mater Councillor?" Tone replied, reminding her Visit was her superior.

"Yes, her," Request hissed at the unnecessary correction. "Anyway, Maya requested a list of everyone involved in packing for her trip, so I went through it and looked instead at the suspects' spouses."

"Why?" Tone said, sitting forward with interest.

Request went through the papers, trying to find her list, but didn't stop talking. "Well, people tend to Join within their Station or with the Stationless, right? Cross-Station Joinings need to be approved, and are discouraged because of that..." Request waved vaguely at Tone. "Mean you have to remain separate."

"That's all accurate. What's your point?"

Ink flew to Request's shoulder, then snaked a tendril toward one of the piles.

"Ah, here it is," Request said. She grinned as she brought the document to Tone. "I went to the Cathedral this morning and pulled the Joining records of everyone involved in the preparations. All of them Joined with the Stationless, or within their own Stations. All very normal. Until I noticed a name I recognised."

Request put the list on the table and pointed to the name. Tone's eyes widened. "Visit?"

"Exactly," Request said triumphantly. "She was Stationless when she Joined... Crab, his name is, but has since become the Mater Councillor. The decision was never revisited." Request turned the page of notes over to a list of responsibilities. "And look at what Crab was in charge of according to Pale's public notes."

Tone read this new list. "He was the Cleric charged with buying the travel equipment."

"Now, were you a Cleric charged with a secret task, what would be the safest way to ensure no one realised a large number of trunks, suitcases, and so on were being gathered?"

"Keep them at home," Tone nodded. "Taking them to the Bureau would be noticed. But wait, Flux and his Farmers had the trunk after Crab passed them on. Wouldn't the whole plan have been at risk then?"

"I've considered that: we don't know enough of Disciple technology to guess at the size of the mechanisms they use. Whatever killed my friends could have fitted in the lock, and so was only active when the Farmers locked it for the journey. Or it could have been time sensitive. Sol, they could have hidden the explosive and that new Disciple in a false bottom so the Farmers would never know."

Tone looked Request up and down. "This is very impressive work."

"Thank you."

"I think we need to interview Crab. Today."

Request frowned. "Do you think he could have been in on it?"

"It's not impossible: the ties of a Joining are greater than the ties of your Station. Which is why inter-Station Joinings are frowned upon." Tone let that point hover between them before continuing. "But I want to confirm that he kept the trunk at his home first. If he admits this, Visit is officially a suspect again."

Request smiled. "Are you going now then?"

"We are going now. Unless you're busy?"

The suggestion took her by surprise. "I thought we'd separated into teams for a reason?"

"Only for ease. Besides, I would value the view Sol's Gift will provide on Crab."

Request's smile deepened, gained a new edge. "Now hang on, Contegon Councillor, I thought the insight Sol's Gift provided couldn't be used as evidence against someone?"

"It can't. And, normally, I'd refuse such a thing. But we aren't using it as evidence in a Hereticum, but an indication as to whether a Councillor should be considered a suspect. They're different things," Tone said, winking at Request. "Think of this as me growing and adapting."

"Yes, you definitely want to be well-ordered as her when you get wrinkles," Ink confirmed before disappearing, knowing it was time for the humans to deal with their matters.

"I'm not too busy to help a Contegon Councillor," Request said, ignoring her Spirit. "Let's go."

"You realise, though," Tone said as they closed the door behind them and ensured that no one had seen them enter, "that growth does not mean that you abandon your roots?"

"It does if you're a new plant altogether."

Tone snorted, either mild derision or amusement, then led the way to Crab's home.
Chapter 65

Maya left the house without her short sword or Nephilim's ring. For some reason, carrying them felt repugnant, and leaving them behind didn't warrant withdrawal pain. With much on her mind, she didn't waste time examining the impulse, merely went with it.

Request was still snoring when she closed her defences and went into Aureu. Large, open, bitter Aureu, a town with so many souls they couldn't all thrive. She hated the city now. It seemed low and dark, a skunk in tall grass. Every time she met a new street, she spat at it, firing dark phlegm into the world. It was quiet, early, so no one saw her disdain.

It occurred to her that Applekill would, had she been there, warn that she was going too far, but the thought withered and died before she could consider much of it. A heat replaced it, one which burnt the withered idea clean away. Maya didn't even remember thinking of her Spirit.

Having been denied access to the suspects' private lives by the narrow-minded Solaric Council, she resolved to look further into their underlings: the bastards could deny her greater insight into their precious Stations, but she could get just as much from interrogating those who worked for them.

Her hands shook as she pounded through Sol's Landing. Even the Guardian had failed to see the wisdom of her request! She shouldn't be surprised at what Solarists could fool themselves into believing, but the Guardian shocked her. Perhaps it was her upbringing, repeated lessons that the Guardian was uniquely wise, but she almost couldn't believe what had happened. It angered her that those beliefs still remained. She'd tried to dig her upbringing out of her since meeting Nephilim, but some things refused to budge, their roots tightly knotted around her personality and memories.

But yes, underlings. Many Stationed people had been involved in getting Maya to the eastern Front. Whilst they were unlikely to have been involved directly, it wasn't impossible. Even if they were innocent, their answers would reveal much about their Councillors. She could demand their honesty provided the questions didn't breach the clear distinction between the Stations, something apparently more important than the Councillor's own lives. The Shields who guarded the carriage already awaited her interrogation.

Maya stopped near the great walls around Sol's Landing. She gritted her teeth and punched the brickwork, working out her frustration on painted stone. Its white surface cracked. Chips drifted to the floor. For a moment, the stone darkened.

She licked her lips, suddenly missing her Spirits. She looked back toward home, considered returning for them, but that would waste time she could use to interrogate the Shields. She shook her head: there was little Draw would have liked more than to mock her tardiness.

Maya took a deep breath as she stomped away, tasting copper and rot.

Draw was orchestrating this. He had to be the Disciples' lackey with his penchant for killing Acolytes. Her poor Acolytes... Draw's Folly was still a raw wound that fed her anger and hatred, giving light like a sunny day. She couldn't believe Draw had ordered Consult, Pear, and Grill to raid Moenian.

Ordered them to their deaths.

What had he been thinking? That perplexed her more than her lost friends and students dying or no reason. She remembered them all: Consult with her gray hair from when she'd technically died as a child; Pear with her love of singing, who wrote songs which still haunted Maya; and Grill, a wasp of a man with a belief so strong it made his Cyrus Force brighter than any she'd ever seen. Her heart felt shredded and bruised for thinking of them, a tear escaped her, but the pain was weaker then her confusion at Draw's actions.

Some of it made sense: it was no surprise that Draw had chosen female Acolytes and the smallest man, leaving Chalk and Mane alone. Full of faith in Sol and their leaders, these three had ventured north on the order of their commanding Councillor, someone they trusted. Sometimes, particularly in the weeks after Draw's Folly, she dreamt of their deaths. Her normally dull imagination outshone itself in each nightmare, presenting a hundred ways for them to die.

Of course, now Maya knew Draw had ordered the Acolytes north to weaken Geos. Perhaps they had been captured and tortured, experimented on. Maya quailed at the thought, a horrified gasp leaving her throat. She had to find the evidence against him. She had to.

Her journey to the Grip passed in a blur of half-remembered nightmares and desperate desires for blood-soaked justice. It almost seemed like she'd blinked and then was at the Grip's iron door, standing sideways to fit through the narrow entrance.

"Who goes?" a voice asked.

"Acolyte Councillor Maya," she rasped.

"Excuse me?"

"Acolyte. Councillor. Maya. Don't make me repeat myself."

She sensed some trepidation from the Shield. Had Draw been relying on her arriving late? Was he coaching his Shields how to respond to the interrogation?

After a few seconds, the iron door opened and she was allowed in. The Shield who guarded it, a tall and wide lump of flesh, smiled in relief. "Oh, Acolyte Councillor, it's you. Are you ill?"

"No," Maya said, pushing past. "Where are the Shields I am to interrogate?"

"Oh, is that why that lot are all gathered?" the Shield asked, pointing across the courtyard to eight Shields standing in two rows. "I wondered what they were up to."

Maya stalked over without replying.

"Ah, Acolyte Councillor, I see you're almost on time," someone said as they sidled beside Maya. It was an older Shield, a man with lean muscles and beady eyes. "My name is Mint."

She didn't respond, kept stamping over to the Shields.

Unfazed, Mint continued, "At Councillor Draw's request, I have gathered the Shields who guarded your carriage. Please accept my condolences over the Acolytes' deaths, by the way."

Maya grunted, unwilling to accept that from a lackey of Draw's.

"Anyway, these eight Shields guarded the carriage in the twenty minutes between it being deposited in a safe location and the Acolytes collecting it. I have been asked to say that they did not enter the location, or know what was within. As such, they could not have been involved in Lun's Burst."

Six of the Shields were old women, lean things standing like statues. "Why are you here?" she asked Mint.

"I am here," he said, "to ensure the Council's recent ruling about the distance that Stations must keep from one another is maintained."

She tutted. Draw hadn't even had the courage to follow through on the order himself. The heat rose in her lungs again and her throat began to hurt, as though she'd drunk scalding tea.

"Very well. Let's begin this." She turned to address the Shields. "I assume that you all know who I am?"

The Shields knelt in tandem, their hands cupped above their heads..

"I'll take that as a yes. As such, you'll know about the event known as Lun's Burst?"

"Yes, sire," they responded, a chorus of discipline.

"You were all left with the vehicle which proved to be the delivery system for Lun's fury," she said, taking slow, purposeful breaths to keep her voice level. "Only you could access the carriage during that time. Perfect for a bunch of Disciple-loving fucks to plant a bomb."

"Sire, are you accusing these Shields?" Mint asked, stepping beside her.

"No. I am positing a theory, so they know that suspicion has fallen on them." She leaned over, into the man's personal space. "Now back off and let me work."

Mint jumped back immediately.

She grinned in satisfaction, then knelt beside the nearest acquiescing Shield, a young warrior with a plain face marred by scars. "You," she growled. "What did you do during that time?"

"Sire, I stood at my post until your Acolytes relieved us."

"Nothing more?"

"Sire, nothing more. I stood and watched."

"Did you know what you were guarding?" Maya asked.

"Sire, I did not, sire," she said, her hands shaking.

They leaned close to the Shield. "You seem nervous, Shield. Why is that?"

"You are a physical manifestation of Sol's brilliance, and you're shouting at me, sire."

They laughed and stood. For a moment, they felt sympathy for these Shields: one of the most influential, powerful, revered entities in their world was interrogating them as criminals. It was almost enough for them to relent, to let the Shields go. But they couldn't, not whilst they held the truth from them.

"Are you telling us that none of you knew what was inside?"

"Sire, no, sire," the Shields chorused.

"How are these lot issued their orders?" they asked Mint.

The man almost jumped back under their stare. "Are you all right, sire?"

"Why are so many people asking us that today?" they roared. "Just answer the damned question, Shield."

Mint stepped back, looked around for support. "I... I think I need to get Draw here. Or another Acolyte."

"Why?" they asked, stepping closer to him. "Are you nervous? Are we onto the right results here? Are we digging into the right vein, finding your Heresy?"

With a small shriek, the Shield turned to run away. He wasn't fast enough: with almost no effort, they surged forward and grabbed him by the throat. Mint almost choked on their dark fingers. The effect was pronounced when they lifted him, held him so his feet dangled.

"We didn't give you permission to leave us, did we?" they asked.

"No, sire," he just about choked from between their dark fingers. His fear was delicious, a palpable thing that sustained and invigorated. "I'm... I'm sorry."

They dropped him, preferring the taste of his panic and terror to his death. "You will go nowhere. You will remain in our presence. Do you understand, Mint?"

Tears coalesced at the corners of his eyes. "Are you Sol's fury?"

They smiled a ruby smile. "We are that and more."

So much fear came at them then. The Shields in the courtyard and those manning the walls looked down at them, quivering, quailing, knowing that they saw true power. They sipped its delightful flavours – smoke, ash, and copper – and returned to the eight Shields acquiescing on the floor. How could they not grin at such power? How could they not descend into delighted darkness?

Maya snapped back to awareness as she was beating a Shield. Her hands were black and twice their size: one gripped the Shield's collar; the other was pulled back to punch his purple face and swollen eyes.

"What... what is happening?" she asked, dropping him.

The Shield scrabbled away, whimpering. More than thirty others crowded around her. Some were bleeding; others held broken weapons. Another Shield by her feet was breathing with great difficulty, her robes were covered in blood and her eyes were so swollen she couldn't see through them.

"What's happening?" Maya shouted at the amassed Shields. The dark layer around her hands disappeared, and the blood that covered them fell to the ground.

"Acolyte, we have been trying to calm you," Mint said. His throat was red, and it bled in five places. "It seems that Sol's fury got the better of you. A Messenger has been sent to the Guardian. We were awaiting his response on what to do when you suddenly stopped."

She looked around the courtyard. Weapons were embedded into the Grip's walls. "I did this?"

"You did."

How? How had she done this? What had happened? She could only remember Mint introducing himself, being a little officious. How had she blacked out? What had happened to her?

Fortunately, Maya had enough presence of mind to say, "No, you are wrong. Sol did this."

"Yes, yes, he must have," Mint said carefully. "Shall we wait for the Guardian's response?"

Maya was about to fly to him when she remembered that Mission and Applekill weren't with her. Instead, she stood aside, made it clear that the Shields could tend to their fallen comrade. The bravest three stepped forward and collected the injured Shield slowly, never lowering their guards or weapons for long.

Maya heard something howl in the distance. No one else reacted.
Chapter 66

Mater Councillor Visit's husband was a Night Cleric, someone who works to clear reports and petitions whilst no more are received, so he was home when Request and Tone went to interview him. What's more, he would be asleep when they got there, meaning he would be disoriented and at a disadvantage.

"Such are the small tricks we play," Tone said as they walked. "The tools to shine Sol's light in dark places are many and subtle."

They were in Sol's Greeting, the wealthiest area of Aureu. Crab and Visit lived toward the edge, not quite rich enough to afford a place on the Circumference even with Visit's newfound status. Tone seemed to know where she was going, so Request followed, listening to the Contegon Councillor's anecdotes.

She even allowed herself to use Tone's first name. A Contegon's second name was another of Sol's subtle tool, a way of placing them above others. Request wondered whether Maya had considered asking for second names for the Acolytes, but decided no, not when she thoroughly rejected the Contegons.

That, she guessed, was another reason why Stations kept secrets: one might not respect their capabilities and moral authority if you knew their mistakes and secrets. That Acolytes were told by their own Councillor to hide their Spirits was proof of that: Maya might have excellent intentions in wanting to break the Stations apart, but she would also suffer from increased openness.

"You're walling up for the Stations, you know," Ink pointed out.

Request nodded, astonished: she was defending the Station system. She was beginning to understand them, the circles within circles, processes within processes. Maya had lectured on that subject before. Request had dismissed it as a waste of time. Now, she understood a little more of what Maya had been saying about consequences and reactions, about Geos' connectedness.

That didn't, though, forgive the Stations' mistakes and hubris. They still had much to learn, especially in working with and treating the Stationless. No one cared about the problems of the poor, such as forcing Merchants and Artificers to improve the standards of all housing, not just the politically-sensitive places.

"You're pretty absent too," Ink hissed. "What have you achieved?"

Once again, her Spirit was right. "Remind me of that later," she whispered.

"Sorry?" Tone asked.

"Just talking to myself, sorry," Request lied, before saying, "Tell me about the Maters: all I know is their little recruiting campaigns, those women handing out white feathers on the street."

Tone's eyes narrowed. "The official story is that, just after the Battle for Aureu, Visit had a vision of Geos losing the war due to under-population. She took this dream to the Lord Councillor, who saw the wisdom of Sol in her, and helped her create a new Station dedicated to preventing that grim future."

"And that was the Maters?" Request asked.

"It was," Tone nodded. "Conveniently, the matter had been on the Council's agenda for weeks: we had lost so many people, we didn't know how to cope with such death. Then Blind came with this proposal to make women who dedicated themselves to producing children, bolstering our ranks, into a Station... A proposal brought by a woman admittedly filled with Sol's vigour."

Request frowned. "So they just... what, fuck a lot and give birth a lot?"

"In a holy fashion," Tone said after laughing.

"But you don't like them. And you don't like Visit."

Tone lowered her voice. "I do not. I abstained from the vote on the Station's creation: this was the same meeting where the Acolytes were created, and I knew that blocking Blind's pet Station would lead to him blocking the Acolytes. It was a trade-off. One I still question the value of."

Request hoped there would be enough time for Tone to finish her point before they arrived. "You said before that they were part of a... a Revisionist agenda. What did you mean?"

"Before the Maters, the only single-gender Station was the Contegons," Tone said, gripping her white glove into a fist. "That role was indelibly linked with strength, power, and protection. Now, there is another role: spewing out babies. I fear this is the role some would prefer for us, that the Maters represent the start of a transition. Soon, someone like Blind will say the Maters should be the priority, and that men should swell the Contegon's ranks... and then the other Stations will venture down the same path, leading us where the First Servant was terrified of going."

"Where?" Request asked, her head spinning at such a slow, long game being played in the Solaric Council.

"Eventually? Another Cleansing," Tone said. Then her shoulders slumped and her eyes glazed over.

Request let her have her privacy to process what she had said. Tone's concerns sounded crazy, but she was one of the holiest people in Geos, so she mustn't be mad... but, then, neither should the Lord Councillor be. Her thoughts felt muddy, clouded.

After minutes of silence, Tone shook her head and looked around, as though they'd just appeared in the wide, clean street. It was surrounded by houses with gardens that would hold another fifteen families where Request grew up, and this was the poorer part of Sol's Greeting.

"Ah, that's the one," Tone said, pointing. "Two-hundred and thirty-nine."

"Lead the way," Request said.

Tone knocked at the front door, firm and confident impacts that boomed within. There was movement inside, and a man with a slender frame who stooped into a black suit answered the door. His eyes widened when he saw the two white uniforms.

"Crab?" Request asked.

"No, this is his Butler," Tone answered. "We want the man of the house. I assume he's in?"

"Cleric Crab is currently asleep, sires," this 'Butler' replied, "but I will assume he'd want that to be rectified in the presence of a Councillor and an Acolyte." He stepped aside. "Please come in."

Tone took his offer, walking confidently inside. Request followed, eyeing the tall man, wondering what he was. His shoes were polished, his clothes pressed, but his hands were rough and he looked tired, worn. He looked like someone Stationless who'd stolen some clothes.

"Take a seat in the parlour," the Butler said, gesturing to a large room with several sofas and glass cabinets filled with antiques, "and I shall awaken Cleric Crab."

Again, she took Tone's lead and sat on a wide leather seat so new it couldn't have hosted many people. She tried to make herself comfortable on the firm chair and whispered, "What is a Butler?"

"They are a kind of Servant," Tone replied.

Servants, the step above being Stationless: a secure life where you never had to worry about where your next meal, but the Stationless looked down on them. Not talented enough to be Stationed, unable to take the fight of being Stationless, they bent their knees instead. Perhaps, she admitted, the Stationless envied mostly their relative comfort.

The Butler returned a minute later with a portly man wearing Cleric robes he'd obviously hastily thrown on. Balding, he had a red complexion and the bleary eyes of someone who'd just woken up.

"Cleric," Tone said, rising from her seat, "we are sorry for waking you."

Crab's eyes widened as he saw who addressed him. "Sire, the Contegon Councillor doesn't need to apologise for interrupting anyone. Let alone when she brings an Acolyte with her. Good day to you."

"Good day, Cleric," Request said, standing as well.

"Please, sit. What can I do for you both today?"

Tone sat. "The Acolyte I have with me is Request, one of Acolyte Councillor Maya's latest batch. We appreciate you must be incredibly busy during your shifts, but we have a specific question for you: you were responsible for purchasing the travel equipment for Maya's journey to the eastern Front?"

Request was impressed: Tone had said why they were here without mentioning Lun's Burst, and put him on edge with reasonable words.

The Cleric showed this by looking from Tone to Request and back. "I... By which, I mean..."

"Calm yourself, Cleric," Request said smoothly.

Crab took a deep breath, but he still seemed filled with a blind, feral panic. "I was in charge of that yes. Though I must, must stress that I had not a single inkling of what the items were for!"

Though he had the opportunity, the sickly fear he emanated meant he had nothing to do with it: he only feared he would be blamed for something he had not been involved with. Besides, his Councillor, poor Pale, wouldn't have explained what the suitcases were for.

"And we do not believe you are directly involved in Lun's Burst," Tone said, "but we wanted to ask about how you bought the suitcases, trunks, and so on?"

"In the standard way," Crab answered, feeling a little more comfortable behind Cleric processes. "I identified a preferred Merchant and placed an order using a Cleric Replacement Note. Then I had the items delivered and provided them to the Clerics ordered with delivering them."

"You also gave one item to the Farmers?" Tone asked.

Crab shook his head. "The Cleric above me, Minus, may have done so, but I did not."

That put a little salt in their sugar, but of course Pale would separate the assembly of a secret carriage into smaller tasks so no one involved could grasp the whole of what they did.

Tone stood. "Well, thank you for your time, Cleric."

Request did her best not to frown. The Contegon Councillor hadn't forgotten their main reason for interviewing the man, so she must be playing a game. Request stood too, started for the front door.

"I'm glad to be of any help I can, sires," Crab said with a frown.

Tone joined Request by the door, and then turned back to the relieved-looking Cleric. "You had the travel gear sent here, didn't you?"

"Yes, of course," Crab said without thinking.

Tone nodded and opened the front door. Request followed, casting one look back to see the Cleric frowning, looking down as he puzzled through that exchange. She wondered how long it would take for him to clock that he had implicated his wife in Lun's Burst.

Chapter 67

A cadre of Shields led Maya to the Chamber, their weapons readied. It was humiliating: people stopped to stare at an Acolyte amidst Shields. That a Contegon led them was the only thing that saved face for Maya, but lesser Stations were still dragging her to the Guardian's administrative home. She was a criminal, something to fear, something to keep from the people of Geos.

She glanced at the shackles around her wrists. Draw had insisted on them in his gruff manner, but he hadn't enjoyed making these demands. The cold iron weighed heavily, kept her hands at hip level, but she would not hide from the public: this was the consequence of her actions, punishment she deserved.

Not that she could remember what she did. She could discern only fury from the gap in her memories, a rage that replaced every detail with deep red. Draw claimed she'd attacked the Shields, beating and hurting them for information: that a cadre of Shields tried to stop her, but she'd refused to halt her rampage, hurting many in the process. Maya was only thankful she'd not killed anyone.

Never before had her life and her self-control, just disappeared: she'd blacked out when struck in the head or wounded, but there was no trigger or trauma for this loss of control, this fugue. Maya tried to establish a cause as she was paraded before Aureu, and could only come up with Applekill and Tone's warnings about controlling herself, keeping her anger in check. But, if that were the case, it suggested an illness in her sensibilities, a fever in her judgement: it suggested she needed a Mentalist.

She didn't feel mad: her mind felt in order, she was in control, knew who and where she was. She'd had no trouble sleeping that couldn't be explained by the pressures of her Station. If anything, she felt clearer than she had in weeks. And yet there were Shields lying wounded in the Grip, and her hands had been covered in darkness.

Regardless of what happened, she needed a Mentalist. In the coming conversation with the Guardian, she would promise to meet one... if, of course, he didn't force her.

Thinking of the coming conversation made her heart a lead weight. Nothing good would come from a hurried meeting to discuss her attacking Shields. Her mind fizzed with potential punishments and punitive measures. And then there was the damage to her standing within the Council: how would her fellow Councillors judge someone who had fought Shields, how could they trust her counsel or views? Her heart plummeted away, fell deeper and darker than Nephilim's secret home.

Maybe she was reaching, but she didn't think that, under normal auspices, she would go on such a violent spree. That felt beyond her capabilities. Something related to Cyrus Force had happened, and it had happened when her Spirits weren't present. Though facing her punishment was important, she needed to gather every detail, every scrap of information, for study. Applekill might be able to use the testimonies to construct what became of Maya, explain why she became like she had.

"May I see your report when it's ready, Contegon?" Maya asked, speaking for the first time. "And the Shields' reports as well?"

"I don't imagine you'll need to defend yourself, Acolyte Councillor," the Contegon replied.

"Nevertheless, I would like to see them."

The Contegon, Maya thought her name was Zip, was far beyond her Rest. She arched a wrinkled eyebrow at Maya and nodded: despite Maya being in chains, she still ranked above the Contegon.

The Chamber looked mute under the dull sky, its marble a deeper and less vibrant grey without Sol. The Shields peeled away as the steps approached: with their order to bring her to the Chamber done, they circled round and marched back to the Grip in a tight formation. She and Zip watched them go.

"Come on, let's get those shackles off," Zip said. She produced a key from her robes and unlocked the iron mechanisms. "I don't think you're a risk to myself or anyone else." She smiled. "Besides, even if you were, these cuffs would not stop you."

"Thank you," Maya said, rubbing her wrists to return feeling to them.

"I'll hand you to the Guardian's Clerics. The Guardian will meet you when he's available," the Contegon explained as she climbed the Chamber's stairs. Her voice was easy, like she was discussing something amusing her child had done.

"Am I not under arrest, then?"

Zip shook her head. "It's uncertain whether you committed a crime, beyond taking your interrogation techniques too far. From what I was told, the Shields you injured were not too badly hurt. It was nothing that they wouldn't have experienced in a Discipline Chamber."

Maya stopped, the world seeming to grow around her. Zip had meant the comparison as mitigation, a reason for her freedom, but it rocked her. Had she emulated Contegon Ward in her pursuit of the truth? Had she taken her torture out on others? Maya fought not to vomit.

"Acolyte, are you okay?" the Contegon asked, sounding a little scared.

"I am fine," Maya said as strongly as she could. "Just considering what you said."

The world felt too large - or she too small - as Zip handed her to the Guardian's Clerics. These serious folks in alabaster masks led her to the Guardian's office. Maya had been here often, so she didn't need to be led, but it was helpful as she tried to refocus, tried to reduce the world.

Maya spent an hour in the Guardian's waiting room, a six foot passage with comfortable chairs and copies of the Sol Lexic on its low tables. She meditated during the wait, turned her attention onto her failing mind. Everything was back in proportion by the time the Guardian stepped out from his office. His face neutral, he gestured for Maya to follow him inside.

Without talking, they entered his office, passing rows and rows of chairs. The Guardian stepped behind his desk and sat purposefully, disdain and unhappiness in every movement. Maya didn't hide from his judgement, merely sat in the chair left out for her.

"This is not how I expected to use my afternoon," the Guardian said after a long, searching stare. "I have matters to see to, and having my most influential and powerful Councillor dish out violence against another Station wasn't supposed to be one of them."

Maya didn't say anything, though tears tried to form in her eyes.

"What happened, Maya?" he asked.

"I think–" Maya couldn't get beyond those words without a sob. She took a deep breath, shook her head, and tried to act according to her Station. "Sol's Gift is based in emotion. My negative emotions around the loss of my Acolytes and the Cleric Councillor got the better of me, worked themselves out on the Shields."

The Guardian seemed to consider this. "You talk as though you're absolving yourself of any responsibility, Maya. You attacked and wounded the Shields you were supposed to be interviewing!"

"I am not hiding from what I did," Maya said. "You asked what happened, and I answered. I lost control of my Gift and in my..." She wanted to say crazed, but settled for simply saying, "state... I hurt those Shields. I take full responsibility for what I did, and I will cover Draw's Doctor fees from my own wages."

"This isn't about Doctor's fees, Maya. You attacked those people. With Sol's Gift!"

Maya closed her eyes. "I don't remember doing it."

In her private darkness, she didn't see his reaction, but worry tinged his words. "What?"

"I remember waking this morning, but whatever I said or did during that interview is gone," Maya said. "Like smoke blown away by a gust of wind."

"That is not a good sign," the Guardian said. He sounded almost sympathetic.

"No, it is not," Maya agreed. She opened her eyes and stared at her boots. Dried mud clung to the dark leather. "It is not a good sign at all."

"This may sound like a stupid question, but which emotions do you think overcame you?"

"Anger. Mostly anger."

"Anger at what?"

She met his eyes. Though the glorious shine drawn in his Identity Papers had faded through illness, they looked brighter than they had in years. And in that brightness was an inquisitiveness, and, yes, a little fear.

"Anger at the Council for blocking my requests. Anger at our suspects for Lun's Burst. Anger at the slow pace of the investigations. Anger at my own inability to see through the tangled mess these Disciples have woven to hide themselves..." She took a deep breath. "Even anger at the victims, at Pale and my Acolytes, for not avoiding this situation we find ourselves in."

The Guardian slowly nodded. "You have had much to be angry about recently. Perhaps Sol is angry, and that fed through you?"

"We all have had reason to be angry," Maya replied with a shake of her head. "So it is no excuse. And we would have seen other Acolytes losing their tempers if that were so. Sire, I am concerned: the knowledge Sol gave me says this should not have happened. I have requested the Shields' and Contegon Zip's reports so I can review them for clues as to what did happen. I will also... I'll book a session with a Mentalist."

He sat back in his chair. "I'm surprised, though also glad that you're taking this seriously."

"I am," Maya said, not adding that it was because she never wanted to compare to Contegon Ward again.

"I must take this seriously as well, Maya," he said evenly. He stood and walked over to lean on his large windows. "You attacked people. Stationed people. Regardless of the reasons, that cannot be allowed, let alone when a respected Councillor does it."

"I will accept whatever punishment you see fit to give me," Maya replied.

"Of course you will," he said, nasty for a moment. "Here is what will happen: Secrecy Orders will be placed on everyone who knows about this event. The Shields, Draw, you, the Contegon, and my Clerics. This was either a lapse or the action of Lun, and I don't want it to have worse repercussions."

"Thank you sire, though I know you don't do that for me."

"No, I don't. I do this for Geos, which you have damaged with your actions."

"Of course," Maya said, shrinking into her seat.

"Your punishment will be twofold, Maya," the Guardian continued as though he hadn't heard her. "Firstly, I will hold you to the financial penalty the Shields will incur: the Doctors, Artificers, and Merchants fees needed to recover any and all damage to property and people will be deducted from your pay. Secondly, I can't trust your judgement on sensitive matters until you get a certificate of health from a Mentalist. As such, I am pulling you from the investigations into the criminals who killed Cleric Councillor Pale and your Acolytes, and removing your vote on matters brought to the Solaric Council."

"No, sire, wait–"

The Guardian held up his hand, silencing her. "Maya, if you were in my situation, would you trust someone who cannot control their anger at the suspects, victims, even themselves? Would you believe they could provide impartial judgement?"

Maya tried to think, her mind racing. Whilst she'd been ready to accept any consequence of her frenzy, she hadn't expected to be rendered powerless and ineffective. But every excuse or comeback withered under consideration: the Guardian was right; she couldn't be trusted with the investigations into Lun's Burst.

"I thought not," he said, lowering his hand. "I expect a confirmation letter from Quill that you booked a session with a Mentalist by tomorrow. Your young Acolyte, Request, will produce a report on the possible reasons related to Sol's Gift for your... outburst. You can contribute to this, of course, but not lead. I want that report by the end of the month. You will rest and recover until you are deemed worthy of your role again by the Mentalist. Do you understand?"

"I understand," Maya said, though her mouth was dry, and her chest felt empty.

"Now leave," he said, sneering slightly. "I hope for your sake that you're ill or a victim of Lun's devilment."

Dismissed, rejected and chastised, Maya left. She closed the Guardian's door behind her and had a strange feeling this would be the last time she held an audience with him.
Chapter 68

After her meeting with the Guardian, Maya did little but inspect her conscience. When reunited with Request and Tone, Maya had no words to ease their confusion, make them understand what had happened: how could she when she didn't even know herself? Request tried to spend time with Maya when she wasn't working: at each dinner, she was bright and jokey. Maya understood she was trying to distract her, but didn't like being treated like an invalid, someone who needed to be handled with delicacy.

Even if that's what she may be.

Three days later, Tone called Request to investigate something – Maya wasn't allowed to know what, which was probably for the best – providing her first chance to talk to her Spirits without Request present: perhaps Request had been ordered to hang around her, look for warning signs of another episode.

"Come out," Maya told them, holding her short sword and Nephilim's ring. "Give me your thoughts, both of you, on what happened."

Applekill stepped forward, talked quickly. "Your memories have been tainted, twisted, so I can't see what you did. What the reports suggest, though... It's not good. You hurt so many people..."

"You were not in the correct state of mind, nor a healthy one," Mission said, folding his liquid arms. "That much is certain. I can see your thoughts were not truly your own."

"What might have caused it?"

"I think," Applekill said, eager to speak, "the Mentalist needs to work with you. Your memories seem like they've been affected by a mental disorder: a mental illness and a Cyrus Force influx could have combined to create what happened to... to those poor Shields."

Maya took a slow breath. "That was one of my fears."

Mission did not seem convinced. "I suppose you're not talking about an impossibility, but I can't shake the feeling that there's something else to this."

"I am certain," Applekill said. "I pull this from Warmth's memories: people who shape and control Cyrus Force that develop mental illnesses have strange and negative reactions to them. The First Thought's experience tells me this is a combination of anger, hatred, and something wrong... wrong with Maya."

"I don't understand how you can be so certain," Mission said.

"Well, I am, okay?" Applekill hissed.

Maya examined Applekill closely: she wasn't being honest. "Is there something more to this, Applekill?"

"More than the provider of my Cyrus Force potentially being ill, you mean?"

Spirits, though separate entities, relied on humans for sustenance and life. As such, her acts would always upset the Spirits, which might explain why Applekill's attitude and Mission's trepidation. It did not, though, explain the lies, but Maya would have to wait to press that point.

"Perhaps what Applekill says makes sense," Mission said. "I have only what knowledge Nephilim left for the prior version of me to draw upon."

Applekill seemed to relax. "Exactly. Maya, give the Mentalist a few weeks to work with you. See if they can diagnose a problem. As you do, we'll work on finding another cause for your... indiscretion."

Her wording amused Maya. "Indiscretion. We should keep that term."

"Perhaps that will be for the Mentalist to decide?" Mission offered.

"Perhaps it will," Maya said.

She found out when Portrait arrived for their appointment the next day. The Mentalist was Tone's age, bald by choice, and she carried herself with great delicacy, like each move was planned days beforehand. She stepped into the room like it was hallowed ground, but kept a professional manner during their session. A session that was ultimately fruitless: they only talked about things unrelated to her indiscretion, such as her upbringing and living arrangements.

"Don't get frustrated with this process," Portrait said as she left, their hour evaporated away. "This will take months. Illnesses of the mind are not like those of the body: they are like thread in a loom, in that they must be teased out and worked through before you get anywhere. I'll see you tomorrow."

Maya showed her out and felt sour for the rest of the day. If she hadn't promised the Guardian, she would have dismissed the Mentalist. But her word, and Applekill's worried diagnosis, prevented her doing so.

Instead, she looked through her Acolyte papers and caught up on the administration her Station required. Tracking down who caused Lun's Burst, and reviewing potential candidates for the Acolytes next year, had dominated her time, so there was a pile of work awaiting her. These smaller clerical tasks took the rest of the day. She went to bed, drained, before Request returned from her investigations.

After another jovial breakfast with Request, Portrait appeared, frowning at an envelope as she entered.

"What do you have there?" Maya asked.

"It's a letter. For you," the Mentalist said. "A Messenger delivered it to me on my way here."

"Excuse me?"

Portrait looked up, puzzlement making a maze of her wrinkles. "A private Messenger gave it to me shortly after I left my home in Sol's Greeting. They said that it was for you, that they didn't know where you lived."

"But they knew you were working... with me?" Maya asked.

"Obviously so. In spite of the Secrecy Order."

Maya took the envelope from the Mentalist. The paper was cheap, nearly pulp, and the envelope was sealed with plain wax. Nothing was written on the front or back, but it felt as though a thin letter was inside.

"Will you open it?" Portrait asked.

"Later. I think it's more important we concentrate on my indiscretion, don't you?"

The Mentalist looked hungrily at the envelope. "Of course, you are right. Whatever that is pales in comparison with your mental well-being, I'm sure."

Portrait pulled two chairs from Maya's dining table and placed them opposite one another. This done, she gestured for Maya to sit. "Shall we get started? I'm keen to hear more about your anger issues."

"What anger issues?" Maya asked cautiously.

"A Mentalist's job isn't to get their patient's version of the truth, but other peoples'," Portrait said, patting the empty chair. "I have spoken with those you've worked with to understand your mental state around the time of your indiscretion. I'd like to discuss what I've gleaned from them."

Her first impulse was to ask who had talked, whether her enemies in the Council or her friends had betrayed her. "I feel like you have gone around my back, that you either can't trust what you've heard or I have been sold by people close to me."

"Let's discuss that, shall we?" Portrait said, pointing to the chair again.

Maya sat in the empty seat, and they did discuss it. This session seemed more fruitful, as though Portrait was driving toward the cause of her indiscretion. She made Maya angrier than the previous day, and together they explored the roots of that anger, though they could not go into great depth yet. Maya thanked Portrait when they parted ways.

When the Mentalist was gone, she returned the chair to the dining table. On the table was the envelope: featureless, cheap. Maya considered it, before opening the envelope.

It was an invitation. In a script falsified to hide the writer's idiosyncrasies, it said, "Former warehouse sixteen, basement, three hours after Solfall. Come alone if you want evidence of Council Heresy."

Maya read it three times, not seeing anything different on the third viewing. She was being invited to a secret meeting in a warehouse that now held refugee living quarters. 'Evidence of Council Heresy' was too perfect a hook: evidence that those she was furious with were Heretics? It had to be a trap, but she couldn't turn it down. The wording didn't specifically say this was related to Lun's Burst, so she wouldn't defy the Guardian's orders by attending...

Whoever invited her knew of the Secrecy Order, and so must have known they'd need to be tantalising and specific in what they said. Whether it was a physical trap, or a political one, Maya could fight off whoever it was.

"What do you two think?" she asked her Spirits.

"That was written by hand, by someone who cares deeply about the subject," Mission said.

Maya looked for herself, saw a strong Cyrus Force signature. "It's not hatred. More like... expectation."

"Hope," Mission suggested.

"Someone with something to gain from a Councillor being a Heretic?" Applekill suggested.

"An underling, perhaps, one who is a likely replacement?" Mission said.

"There's only one way to know," Maya said, folding the letter. "Do you object to us going?"

Mission clucked a tongue he didn't have. "You needn't ask our permission, Maya."

"I know. But, until we know what I did to those Shields, I think it's best if I do. You two may not be affected by my... issues, so you can check my thinking. That's right, isn't it, Applekill?"

Applekill looked away. "It is. You can trust us."

Mission watched her other Spirit closely, but said nothing.

Maya spent the day feeding her Spirits, pouring her emotions into her short sword and Nephilim's ring. Mostly, she treated them to fear, excitement, and hope, the most readily-available feelings. After, she lunched and wrote to her parents, who she hadn't seen since they'd visited last Cleansing Day. She liked being honest with them, but couldn't dispel the official line that she had gone into mourning for her Acolytes.

Maya closed her eyes, her quill not yet having touched paper. When Request had informed her of that lie told in her defence, Maya had nearly lost her temper again: it placed her in such a weak position. Her indiscretion was her own fault, no one else's, but they'd used a horrible excuse to protect her.

Perhaps that was the point, though, and it was part of her punishment.

Both the letter and feeding her Spirits were therapeutic, left her feeling calm, centred. Better than since she chose to go to the eastern Front, the perfect frame of mind to meet whoever had invited her to a basement.

Maya left half an hour early. It was only a ten minutes journey, but being early let her inspect the building, choose potential exits and prepare against potential sniper's position. There was still a Disciple conspirator at large... Her inspection was rapid, but thorough, and she found nothing untoward.

Convinced she was safe for the moment, she entered the old warehouse. No one greeted her at the main door, which was surprisingly unlocked. Small abodes with copper numbers on their doors rested within. At the end of a damp, crooked corridor was a door with a huge brass handle and a large lock, the only route which wasn't someone's home. It opened to reveal stairs plunging down into a well-lit basement.

The stairs were new enough to not creak, allowing Maya to descend silently. People murmured below, two distant voices. Lanterns were dotted on each beam overhead, transforming the basement into a sunny day except for two tall shadows.

Standing straight, she decided to surprise them, increase the mystery around her. At the opposite corner were two men in grey robes. One had a nasty-looking scar which ruined what otherwise might've been a handsome face. The other had a shorn and scar-speckled face and the stance of someone ready to fight.

"Acolyte," the badly-scarred one said as he bowed. The warrior followed in tandem. "I am so glad that you decided to meet with us."

"I could hardly ignore an accusation of Heresy, could I?" Maya said.

"Quite," he replied. "My name is Wasp. This is Slant."

Maya recognised the first name but couldn't place where from. "Which Station do you belong to?" she asked, hoping to put it together.

"We have no Station. Not yet," Wasp said, stepping forward with almost-regal poise. His manner reminded her of a Merchant or a Lord. "We are... concerned citizens, citizens who found evidence of Heretical behaviour from someone in the Council. When we discovered what we've found, we thought, 'Who might be the best person to bring it to?' Well, who, besides the Guardian, is closer to Sol than you?"

"What have you found?" she asked, annoyed at herself for not knowing where she knew his name from. "My absence will be noticed, so I don't have time to waste."

Wasp grinned, the same smile a cat gave its prey. "Come now, surely you have a lot of time available to you after you injured all those Shields?"

"The rumour has spread that fast, has it?" Maya asked. "In spite of the Secrecy Order."

"Rumour always does."

Maya waited for him to continue. Her silence displayed her displeasure, gave him air to fill.

"Very well, to the point," he said, smoothing down his robes. "We have found something which directly connects a member of the Solaric Council to the Disciples."

Maya marched across the gap to consider this Stationless man, this scarred thing who felt he had dignity and power enough to play games with her. He did not flinch under her attention: his line about being Stationless might be true now, but he had certainly been in a Station once. And high up in that Station.

"What did you find?" she asked.

"That's the wrong question. You should ask, 'What do you want for this evidence?'"

Maya pursed her lips. "You want to trade for evidence? You realise what you have on your hands?"

"I do. That's precisely how I know its value, sire."

Slant shifted uncomfortably, moving from one leg to another. Maya wished she could have a crack at him, break him, but Wasp wouldn't allow that. He'd planned this out carefully, like a Merchant plotting a deal. A Merchant...

"I know you," Maya said. "You are the father of Contegon Chain Justicar's daughter."

"A daughter?" Wasp said, his mouth falling open. He shook his head, his cool shattered. "Look, I don't care if you know who I am. Yes, I used to be Merchant Councillor, so I know inter-Station politics. You need something good to break the Station involved. I have that, but I need an endorsement to create my own Station."

Maya looked up at the ceiling. Any Councillor could endorse the creation a new Station. Giving someone so much power, particularly someone who had treated Chain the way he had, was asking a lot. "That is a tall order. What would this Station do?"

"Have you been to northern Buyer's Haven recently, Acolyte?" Slant said, stepping forward. "Or the north of Ocean's Edge."

"I have not," she admitted.

"This is because the Merchants and Mariners don't want you to, sire: it is a new Outer Aureu. Poverty and desperation have set in there and many other places. I know because I have been there for a while... and because I used to live in Outer Aureu."

Maya closed her eyes: she had taken her eye from the issue of poverty, assuming the regeneration of Outer Aureu and the refugee influx into Sol's Landing would solve it. Yet here was someone claiming the slums had moved. "I can only apologise and say I will fix that. We do not need a Station for it."

"With all due respect," Wasp said, interjecting sharply, "the Custodians would not prevent slums, but keep the laws broken in them. Gangs and Zones are rife in Aureu, and the Contegons are too busy pushing into Moenian to keep the peace. Even your Station is depleted. I offer my condolences for that, by the way."

"Accepted," Maya said. "You want to run a Station dedicated to keeping law and order?"

Wasp scratched his scar. "Don't say that as though it were a trivial matter."

"If the situation in Aureu is so urgent, why has no other Councillor supported your idea?" Maya asked after some consideration. "Why must you trade valuable evidence for my endorsement?"

"You're smart," Wasp said. It wasn't a compliment. "You can only apply for an endorsement once per year, and, since the Maters, most Councillors have been swamped with requests for the wealthy's pet projects: influential Doctors and Merchants wanting to up their personal power by side-stepping the hierarchy above them. Many now flat-refuse all requests. Including mine."

Maya could believe that: her own office was bombarded with requests for new Stations. "Okay. If this evidence is as strong as you say, and you can produce a full proposal for this Custodian Station, I will endorse it," she said. "On the condition that, as your sponsoring Council member, I shape the Custodians."

"That... wasn't the deal, sire," Wasp said.

"Why not?" Slant asked, shocked.

The former Merchant's eyes narrowed, a brief look of hatred and violence. "I suppose that there is no good reason to deny your condition. Okay, sire," he said as he turned back to Maya, "we have a deal."

"What do you have then?" Maya asked. "Hurry."

"Slant?"

Slant stepped back and uncovered a blanket on the floor, something she had discounted as detritus in the warehouse. Beneath it was a Farmer's jug, the kind used to store food, which he picked up carefully.

"Months ago, I was in a Farmer's warehouse, investigating a Gang that supplied Seed to Zoners. I found jars marked differently to the others. Notice the crosses cut into the lid, sire?" he asked, his hands shaking. "These are the unique markings of Flux, the Farmer Councillor. None may open them once they are sealed at his Farm in the Gravit Mountains. We have tested similar jars covertly, and found Heresy within each one. You can see this one is sealed. When I open it, I expect it to contain the same horrors."

"And you found this out months ago?" Maya hissed.

"When you have something this valuable," Wasp said, "you wait for the best moment to cash it in. Besides, would you have believed a Stationless man accusing a Councillor of Heresy before Lun's Burst?"

"Of course I would!" Maya shouted. She grabbed the man by his robes, lifted him into the air. "We should arrest you right now."

Wasp shrugged in her grasp. "If you do so, you will taint this evidence."

"Maya!" Mission shouted, concern filling his voice. "Keep your cool."

She took a deep breath and dropped the man. "Open it," she said, mouth dry, heart beating.

Slant opened the jar. Inside were maybe a hundred tiny legs, like the one found at the scene of Lun's Burst, or that Chain found in Buckle. Slant waggled the jar, and the legs rattled against one another lifelessly, spreading to show that other Disciple parts were beneath.

"The evidence is damning and complete," Wasp said, his face sombre. He pulled scrolls tied with dark ribbon from his robes. "This documentation took us some months to procure – we had to do so in order to be certain, you understand – and it proves the markings belong to Flux. There are strict orders for them to be handled with care, and that they are not to be opened except by Flux's direct staff."

"Flux... Flux is a Disciple traitor," Maya said, taking the documents from Wasp. She looked them over, confirmed their legitimacy. This evidence painted him as a mastermind, someone deeply involved in the smuggling of Disciple technology into Aureu. The same technology that had been responsible for the deaths of her Acolytes.

She looked up at the two men. "I must run. I must take these and run."

"We expected you would," Wasp said. "Go, but remember your promise. I will come to you after Flux's Hereticum, with the proposal for the Custodians."

"Yes, of course," Maya said, already no longer caring about these 'Custodians.' She had in her hands the evidence that cracked open the investigations into Lun's Burst. She had present it to the right people, a list she made as she ran away, jar and papers in hand.

"You must remain calm," Mission said, floating behind her as she climbed the stairs. "Do not kill Flux. That would be the worst thing you could do in this situation."

"Agreed," Maya said. "Keep me in check, okay?"

"We will," Applekill promised.

The Acolyte and her Spirits left the warehouse and ran into Aureu. Justice was at hand.
Chapter 69

Maya ran to Tone's house, hoping the Contegon Councillor would be home. She didn't know what might happen if not: after what she did to the Shields, Maya couldn't be trusted with evidence so explosive and revealing. She couldn't even consider the consequences if another episode ruined the admissibility of this evidence...

When she arrived, out of breath and sweating, Tone's Servant thankfully said, "Acolyte Councillor? Contegon Councillor White is in her study."

Maya sighed, grateful, between torrid breaths. "Thank you."

"I can go and bring her down here if–"

"No," Maya interrupted. "No. I'll walk up there myself. Thank you, though."

"Very well," the Servant said as she stood aside.

Relief brought the impacts of her sprint crashing down on her. Drained, she stumbled to Tone's study. Her breathing slowed as she went, the world cleared, her blood blunted. She couldn't believe how unfit she'd become: she wouldn't have noticed that run a few years ago. Her Acolyte activities had replaced her training, and now she was a wreck. Climbing the stairs onto the second floor, she resolved to get back into a training regime, not allow her political capabilities to blunt her physical ones.

The second floor corridor ended abruptly after the stairs: Tone reduced the official Contegon Councillor's home when she came into office, deeming it too grandiose. Maya touched the new wall – artfully done, but obviously newer than the others – before knocking on Tone's study.

"Enter," the Contegon Councillor replied.

Maya stepped in. In the small room was a miniscule desk and the vital woman behind it, both lit by dancing candlelight. "Good evening, Tone."

"Maya, what an unexpected treat," Tone replied, taking off some reading spectacles and standing. Then she saw the sweat covering Maya. "Sol, did you sprint here?"

"Yes, I did," Maya said. "I couldn't risk flying as it might tip people off."

"Who? Maya, what's wrong?" she asked. "Are you feeling okay?"

Stepping into Tone's study and closing the door, Maya said, "No, I'm not. But there is good cause this time. There's something that I must show you."

Five minutes later, Tone understood Maya's urgency. "May I review those documents?" Tone asked. "You are not supposed to be involved in this investigation."

"I didn't go there expecting to find evidence on Lun's Burst, Tone," Maya said as she handed over the scrolls. "'Evidence of Heresy' could have meant anything."

Tone didn't reply, just looked over the documents. One was a key for the markings on Farmer's jars: some signified the type of food inside, others predicted when the contents would spoil. Twin crosses were, 'Vital contents. Must not be opened or dropped at any cost. Failure will result in disbarment.'

"Disbarment?" Tone whispered when she read that.

"Seems extreme," Maya asked. "Kicking someone out of the Station because they dropped a jar."

Tone moved onto a directive issued by Flux that ordered that twin-crossed jars must be transferred to his warehouses along with regular deliveries of food. This was likely done to prevent anyone knowing how many jars there were, and ensure that no other Station commented on how many deliveries Flux received. He'd said himself that he took many, many deliveries, so who knew how much contraband he'd moved...

The Contegon Councillor read through the other documents, things written in Flux's hand that further confirmed that twin-crossed jars were his. When done, she put the scrolls carefully on her table and looked at the ceiling, tried to put together what she'd read.

"Your interview of Flux turned up nothing, didn't it?" Tone asked after a minute.

"To my shame, yes. There was an accident which ended it abruptly, and we didn't really follow up on it." Maya gripped her hand into a fist. "I was too focussed on my political enemies, on who I wanted the Heretic to be. And Request followed my direction."

"Don't be angry," Tone said. She stood, straightened out her robes. "I wouldn't have concentrated on Flux either. In fact, I overlooked Visit, but Request turned up evidence that she was a strong suspect. She's currently working with the Mater Councillor, trying to prove her guilt. Wastefully, it seems."

"Thank you," Maya said. "I still blame myself though."

Tone took a deep breath. "Of course you do. Just remember that shame and anger in future: it's the only way to not end up drowning in regret. Anyway, I must bring Flux in for questioning. If he is a Heretic, it's unlikely that I can bring him in alone. Acolyte Councillor, would you accompany me to detain Flux?"

"I... I would like to, but I'm unsure of my health..."

Tone stood and put a hand on Maya's shoulder. "I'm not wasting time waiting for Request, so your concerns are noted, but you are coming with me. Don't worry, I'll keep you in check. Let me talk, and only step in if he becomes violent. I know you, Maya, and I know that isn't asking too much."

"Okay," Maya said reluctantly.

"We will take my carriage: you were right, your flight might risk alerting Flux."

Tone's Servant – Leg, Maya remembered her name was Leg – brought Tone's weapons as the Contegon Councillor put on her armour. Tone leaned on her spear like a staff. Maya supposed the weapon had once been perfect for striking at a Disciple's weakness, but it did not suit someone of her advanced years. Not that she would say anything: it was Tone's place to decide her limits, not Maya's.

Once the Contegon Councillor geared up, they went to her waiting carriage. Tone secured her spear to the side before saying, "Hurry to Farmer's Park, and I do mean hurry."

"Yes sire," the Contegon manning the carriage said.

Maya stepped onto the carriage and it set off, maintaining an impressive pace as it wove towards Flux's home. The Contegon never put a pedestrian at risk, keeping complete control and grace in the horse's movement, only slowing for sharp corners. An Aureu bathed in Lunlight passed by the carriage window, unaware of the showdown that was to come.

They were at Filter's Mansion in record time. "Stay here. Raise the alarm if I don't return in ten minutes," Tone told her Contegon. "All stay-at-homes must track down the Farmer Councillor in that case."

"Yes, sire," the Contegon said, her fear barely showing.

Tone jogged over to the mansion and knocked. Maya was just behind. The butler who answered her insistent demands turned pale at the sight of an armed Contegon Councillor and the Acolyte Councillor. "Hello, sires. What can I do for you this evening?" he asked.

"We will speak to Flux," Tone ordered. "Now."

"The Farmer Councillor is in the drawing room," the butler said. "Please follow me."

"Don't ring that bell," Maya said when he reached to warn Flux visitors were here.

The butler baulked, but did as he was told.

It was impressive enough that Flux's relative had built a drawing room at all, let alone one as big as the one they entered: it took up the whole depth of the Mansion and was filled with comfortable seating and wide desks. Flux sat on a couch at the middle of the great room, his burly Servant Receptacle beside him. They had been in a deep, quiet conversation when the Butler opened the door, but now they stood.

"Sires," Flux stammered. "Why are you here? It is too late for a social call."

"This is not a social call," Tone said, her voice hard as her expression. She closed the drawing room door, shutting the butler out. "I need to ask you some questions, Flux. It might be best if your Servant left."

Receptacle, who seemed to have suffered no ill effects of his accident, not even a bruise, shook his head. "Whatever you have to say to Flux, you can say to me too."

Maya didn't like the Servant's manner, his stance. It was fine for the Stationless to be confident and forthright around the Stationed, but there was something else there: amusement, maybe.

Still, Flux nodded at his sentiment. "He, that is, Receptacle, is right. There is nothing you can say to me which he shouldn't hear."

"As you wish," Tone said. "I need to ask about your personal deliveries. Specifically, a marking which denotes that some Farmer's jar carry the penalty of disbarment should they be dropped."

Flux's face went through several emotions, going from shock, to terror, to panic. Then he sighed, and looked to Receptacle as though for aid. "What do we do?" he asked.

Receptacle tutted. "What exactly do you think you've found, Councillors?"

Maya suddenly became aware of a small scratching sound, like a dozen pencils writing on cheap, rough paper. It was low, almost a whisper, but it was definitely there. She looked around, but couldn't see the source. Perhaps, she feared, this was just in her head.

"Why am I answering to a Servant, not my fellow Councillor?" Tone asked.

"He speaks for me!" Flux thundered, sounding brattish and young. "Receptacle is my Servant, but he speaks for me. Now, answer the question!"

Maya subtly reached for Nephilim's ring. Using Mission's power was much different to Applekill's, more like directing soldiers from afar, so her mantra for him was different: "I ask, you do, we win." She thought this over and over, securing their connection.

Tone waited for Flux to calm. "Jars marked as being your personal reserve – we have the documentation to prove it, multiple letters written in your handwriting – were found to contain Disciple technology. These are delivered to your home only, and only you and people you have designated can open it."

"So, you're not here to investigate me," Flux shouted, his face turning a bright red. "You're here to arrest me. They're here to arrest me, Receptacle! Me!"

"I don't suppose you have the evidence with you?" Receptacle asked. He stepped forward, a grin slowly growing on his lips. "You can't prove it right now, can you?"

"Step back, Servant. Of course we didn't bring the evidence to an arrest," Tone said.

"That is a shame. It would have made this much easier."

Tone tightened her grip on her spear. "Made what easier?"

"Command Alpha Whiskey Echo," Receptacle said.

The scratching tripled, so even Tone heard it. The sound came from all directions, from each wall, the floor and the ceiling. Maya called up Mission's Cyrus Force, preparing for an attack.

"Call off whatever you just did," Maya said. "Now."

"Why would I–"

Tone stabbed the Servant, a shot in the thigh not meant to be fatal. Receptacle roared, a bellow of agony.

No, it was a word. He shouted 'Execute'.

Arachnid Disciples then burst from the walls, ripping right the plaster to assault Tone and Maya. Maya recognised them from Chain's reports. Mission reacted quicker than Maya could, threw his energy around her. Its intensity melted the Disciple monsters' thin legs where they tried to pierce her skin.

But Tone had no protection from the cruel Disciples. They viciously stabbed into her, a thousand small wounds. She screamed once before falling to the floor, where she convulsed, her eyes rolled back into her skull. She did not suffer long, though she died a mess.

Black fury threatened to overcome Maya, a familiar and consuming desire to destroy. She looked at Receptacle - the smiling, thuggish Disciple bastard - and Flux, who had paled but seemed triumphant nonetheless, and wanted to hear their screams, wanted to burn through their forms and find the horrible parts of their minds which followed the Disciples, freeze their eyes in their skulls, feed them their own–

"Maya, concentrate," Mission said. "You are losing yourself."

"Listen to our voices," Applekill said. "Please. Don't fall into their grip."

"Yes, take control," Mission said slowly. "Be yourself."

Maya could hardly make out their words, but their tone, their concern and love, got through. She trusted Mission to keep her safe and closed her eyes, swallowed, denied the part of her that wanted such destruction. For just a second, she saw her rage: familiar red eyes in an infinite darkness. Then it was gone.

The insect Disciples were worrying at her, draining Mission's power as they crawled up and over her body, when she returned in control. She called for more Cyrus Force and shot it out around her in burst. Mission chose to turn it into tiny shards of icy shrapnel that slammed into the creatures, leaving them scattered across the drawing room as nothing more than metal and horror.

Flux shrieked as he was peppered with Disciple's remains. "You said that you would definitely be able to kill an Acolyte if they came! Receptacle, what the fuck are we going to do?"

"Shut up, Flux. I don't know what we're going to do." The Disciple looked at Maya and tutted. "It's a damn shame that Cyrus Force constructs are faster than ours."

"How do you know of Cyrus Force?" Maya asked.

Receptacle frowned. "How do you?"

She took advantage of his surprise and jumped at him. A spike of Mission's power appeared in her hand, just corporeal enough to feel like a sword as she cut into his other leg. His skin froze and cracked where Mission's power touched him, parts of him falling like dust.

The Servant fell to the floor, and held up his hands. "Wait, you must let us go!"

"You just killed a Contegon Councillor. I will destroy you."

"You shouldn't, though: there are dozens more Black Widows across Aureu," Receptacle said. He kicked the remains of his personal army. "They have an order keyed to my life signal: if it is snuffed out, a hundred more of these will go into a frenzy and slaughter many, many people."

"You're lying," Maya said.

"He isn't. He isn't!" Flux said quickly, his voice quavering. "I helped him. They're across Aureu. It will be a slaughter if you don't let us go."

"If that is true," Maya said, gripping the spike of Cyrus Force tighter, "I will incapacitate you and allow the Contegons to prepare for a battle. Then I'll kill you."

"I can set this order off any time I want to," Receptacle said. "Let me go and I won't have to."

Maya laughed. "Do you think me stupid? How could I possibly trust a Disciple to keep their word after I let them go? You were going to attack Aureu with these things anyway. If anything, you have given me a reason to kill you, ensure we get every monster on the streets for a real fight."

Receptacle's eyes widened. He went to say something more, argue for his life, but Maya slashed his throat. His red blood – human blood – sprayed onto Mission's Cyrus Force, where it froze. Receptacle gripped his bleeding throat and fell to the floor, doomed to die in a few seconds.

"You... you've just killed hundreds of people," Flux said. He sank to his knees. "People I knew. People who worked for me. You've just doomed them."

Maya kicked him in the stomach, winded the bastard. As he doubled up, eyes watering, barely able to breathe, she knelt and sliced the backs of his legs, ensured he wouldn't escape.

When his wheezes of pain died down, Maya said, "I have killed only a Disciple traitor. You doomed those people when you helped the Disciples, when you spread these weapons across the city. Remember that, Flux. I hope every death weighs on you heavily."

She left the drawing room, ignoring his replies. The Butler cowered in the corridor outside, having apparently heard everything that transpired.

"I am ordering you and everyone else in Filter's Mansion to ensure Flux does not leave this house. I will be back soon and, if he is not here, everyone who lives, works, or even has visited here in the past month will be put on a Hereticum," she said. "Am I understood?"

The Butler nodded hurriedly. "What... What about the Contegon Councillor?"

"Don't talk about her now," Maya said, a wave of emotion threatening to overcome her senses. "I... I cannot deal with her death. Prepare her for..." She couldn't continue talking, her battle mind compromised by the passing of her friend. She sobbed.

"I understand what you're trying to say, sire," the Butler said, straightening. "I will inform the Contegon outside and get it done."

Maya nodded, pitifully grateful, and ran out of Filter's Mansion. Screaming greeted her. Death greeted her. Receptacle hadn't been bluffing: Aureu was under attack.
Chapter 70

Maya took to the skies on Applekill's wings and surveyed her screaming, infected city. People fled their homes, scrabbling to escape squat, spidery Disciples. Across the city, in every quarter and Outer Aureu, they were under attack. She counted a dozen swarms before another Cyrus Force user shot up to her.

It was Request. "Shit, Maya, what the fuck happened?"

"No time. Kill every Disciple. You take the east, I'll take the west."

The young Acolyte nodded, then they shot down to Aureu.

Maya landed sword first in a crowd of the Disciple spiders – these Black Widows – in northern Buyer's Haven, crushing six creatures as they neared a group of shrieking Zoners. The remaining spidery devils turned on her, scything their needling legs into Mission's protection. Maya slammed Mission's ring against them, throwing the monsters away or cutting them in two. It took quick reactions, frantic expulsion of Cyrus Force, but nearly a hundred were soon dead.

"We can't continue like this," Mission said. "That took too long."

"I know," Maya said as she took to the sky, found the nearest swarm. "But we must fight."

The Black Widows were all over the people they chased, delivering their horrible poisons so they died screaming. She roared as she threw herself across Aureu, landing just short of a pack. As she plummeted, she drew Applekill.

Controlling both Spirits required great concentration: sustaining links with two different mantras, different emotions and energies. She likened it to reading two books at once, one for each eye. It helped that Applekill and Mission were distinctive, but she couldn't afford to mix the two energies and waste both.

Maya fell into a fierce, hopefully-unbreakable battlemind and cleared the Disciple monsters from their victims. She made tough calls, prioritising those who still had fight left in them over the convulsing. Applekill melted metal hides, Mission sliced them apart, and they destroyed hundreds of Disciples, but only saved twelve people: the rest were already doomed from the poison in their systems.

Impotent rage, pitch and oily, crawled along the edge of her battlemind as she went from one glut of Disciples to next. This feeling rose and encircled her, probing at her self-control for a weakness, a release for whatever cruel aims it had. Maya tried to ignore it as she spotted children running from forty Disciple spiders, and was thankful when it relented for the fight that followed.

Whatever that overcoming darkness was, it didn't feel like part of her: it was akin to a parasite or a disease. Had she been in a normal state of mind, an alien infesting her psyche would have chilled her to her core. As it was, she continued fighting compromised: the rage urged her to go too far, to destroy whole blocks of Aureu to guarantee victory. It was only deep in her meditative state, her connections to her Spirits unyielding, that she could resist repeating the destruction she wreaked during the Second Invasion.

Sometimes, when she took to the air, she saw Request's inky Cyrus Force crashing down on more Disciples. They both worked down from the north, unconsciously matching tactics.

In some areas, people wearing matching clothes or daubed armour fought for their lives, furiously slicing into the Disciple bastards. Conventional weapons were more effective than Maya had expected. When she found one Gang had killed all but one Black Widow in a hoard, she changed tack: the Contegon and Shield populations of Sol's Greeting, Warrior's Welcome, and Sol's Landing would protect them, so she swept along the Journey to save the Merchants and Mariners fighting at Ocean's Edge. When done there, with a thousand kills to her name, she saw to Outer Aureu, cleared eight more clutches.

Working together with Request and the people of Aureu, they eventually destroyed every Disciple. She used much of Mission's energy and half of Applekill's in the fights: the icy Spirit was happy to be her armour, preferring to protect her instead of Applekill, who didn't argue at being left out.

Request flew into the air and remained still. Maya met her over the centre of Aureu, searching together for any Black Widows they missed. They saw people weeping over lost ones, and others cheering and raising their friends above their heads after surviving a Disciple attack without Contegons, Shields, or Acolytes. It was a cruel mix of desperate joy and broken sorrow, but it was better than a screaming city.

"Maya..." Request said when she was sure there was no more fighting to be done. Her eyes were streaming with tears, and her robes were soaked with sweat. Just like Maya's.

When she too was convinced they were done, Maya reached across and embraced her Acolyte, a Spirit-to-Spirit touch that felt as good as physical contact. The young girl – and she was just a girl, as Maya had been when she turned Heretic against the city she loved – sobbed.

"What happened?" Request asked. "What fucking happened?"

"We found the Heretic responsible for Lun's Burst. They were working with the Disciples."

Request pushed Maya away, faced her. "Who was it?"

"Flux."

"Flux? Flux? The fucking Farmer? I'll kill him, I'll–"

Maya shook her head. "No, not yet. You can be the executioner if you want, but he must stand for his crimes. For all of this... this murder. The people will need closure."

Request looked down, her inky wings flapping to keep her afloat. She arced her back up at Lun and howled, a guttural and prehistoric noise. Maya examined her for signs of that horrible blackness which had infested her and found no sign of it: Request was venting normal, human pain and fury.

"At least," Request said as she stared at Lun, her voice now croaky. "At least we can trust the prosecutors of the Hereticum. You and Tone won't allow the bastard to escape."

"Request, Tone..." Maya couldn't say any more, her resolved breaking apart. She closed her eyes and felt tears gather to their corners.

"No. No, Maya, no! Don't you fucking say that!" Request grabbed Maya's shoulders, shook her, which momentarily affected her ability to fly. They descended until Request let go and shouted, "Don't you fucking tell me that Flux killed Tone."

"He didn't. His Servant did."

"Maya, no, no..."

Maya kept her eyes screwed shut, unable to look at her young Acolyte. "Receptacle was their connection to the Disciples. He seemed to be the one who planned this. When Tone and I confronted Flux, he assaulted us with those Black Widows. Tone... Tone was killed instantly."

"Fuck. That's.... Why didn't you save her? What in the name of Sol were you doing?"

"You saw those things," Maya shouted. "One can kill you in a moment. A dozen..."

Request shoved Maya back, fury in her voice. "And you're the god damn Acolyte Councillor. You're supposed to be the most powerful of us all. Why didn't you save her? Why?"

"Request..."

Maya opened her eyes and looked at her raging, brilliant young Acolyte. She was full of fire, of anger, but it was healthy, normal. And it was a cover for the pain of seeing so many deaths, the most of which was Tone's. They must have grown close during their investigations.

"Request, I'm..." Maya nearly choked. "She was my friend too... I'm sorry..."

The young Acolyte shook her head and sobbed, a tiny, hurt sound.

Maya was about to comfort her when her mind was invaded by a strange sensation, a vibrating coldness. It made her stop, drew her attention to a patch of sky just by them, where an image formed.

"Do you feel that?" Request asked. She too was looking at that patch of sky.

"I do. And I don't know what it is."

A hairless woman with blue veins throughout her form shimmered into existence. She wore simple, dark clothing, and the expression of a vicious statue. Tubes entered and exited her, pumping materials around them like Nephilim had with Candle. Some tubes disappeared, as though connected to the darkness.

Request reached out grabbed Maya's hand. A barrage of screams assailed them from below, and terror-tinged Cyrus Force filled the air: the two Acolytes were not the only ones seeing this.

"I shall not be long," the strange woman whispered. "I detected that our Black Widow Models had been engaged, so I thought it only fair to contact you. People of Aureu – Contegons, Shields, Acolytes, and Councillors – I am Brya of the organisation you call the Disciples, and I formally declare war on you. Each of you will die at my will, if not my hand. If you wish to survive, convert to our cause or leave this land."

Brya... the name meant something. Hadn't Nephilim and Candle mentioned it during their rushed preparations to save Aureu? Yes, she was the leader of the Disciples, the sick mind behind their constant assault and destruction of the people of Aureu.

"Fuck you," Request hissed at her image. "You will be torn to shreds."

The Disciple Leader's expression softened: however she connected to so many people, it wasn't easy on her. "I say farewell on this note: we have infiltrated your government on almost every level, and we have barely started. Consider that as you gather your dead."

Brya disappeared, gone more rapidly than she had appeared.

"That was our true enemy," Maya whispered. "She has hidden behind her Disciples for years, only now showing her face. Finally, we have seen her."

"How do you know that?"

Maya turned to Request. "When I received the Gift, I was warned to beware of Brya. It's not a name our people would choose, so it was easy to do so. Even easier when she just appears before the whole city."

"Then I will be the one to kill her, Maya," Request said.

"Not if I get there first."

Request smiled slightly. "Listen, Maya, about before–"

"Water along the Journey," Maya said with a nod. "Let's report to the Council. They will want to hear confirmation that Brya's words were the truth."

Request nodded and shot down toward Sol's Haven. Maya stayed a second longer, examined the spot where Brya had materialised: that's the woman she was taught Cyrus Force control to kill, the hateful enemy who'd ended thousands of lives. She wondered how Nephilim had known her name, having been under the ground for most of his life: maybe the name was passed down through the Woodsman's history... which meant Brya had to have been in charge for more than a century, a strange and ancient being.

Maya followed Request then, keeping her eye on the young Acolyte. No matter how old Brya was, or what Request thought, that creature would die by Maya's will, if not her hand.
Chapter 71

Cleric Councillor Pale had worked through many scenarios for catastrophes that could befall the Solaric Council, convinced that preparation was worth the time. Nobody had appreciated his careful plans and processes in life. Now, with two Councillors dead and another accused of Heresy, the man's foresight was invaluable.

"Thank you," the Guardian said as he took an envelope sealed with the Cleric Councillor's mark. Mist, a high-ranking Cleric who was the front-runner to replace Pale, sat in the spare seat. The Guardian turned the envelope over and showed the assembled Councillors what was written on the front: 'More than one Councillor dies during a Disciple assault.'

"He thought of everything, didn't he?" Lord Councillor Blind said.

"He was a true servant of Sol," the Guardian agreed. He cut the wax seal with a sharp knife. Inside were documents to be handed round.

Maya and Blind split the pile and passed the documents around the sparse gathering: with Starfish rushing back up from Port, only seven Councillors remained to advise the Guardian. Obviously Maya was not able to vote. The attendance didn't seem high enough to make meaningful decisions... but Pale's report on the rules of the Council stated otherwise.

"Thank you," Octave said to Maya when he took his copy. He leant across and shared with Visit, the Mater's eyes still red and puffy. "You saved many Doctors, Acolyte Councillor. Thank you."

Maya didn't know what to say. She'd kept silent since the session began, only confirming that the official report presented by a senior Contegon spoke for her experiences. Her reticence to speak came not only from her actions against the Shields and her complete lack of power in the Council, but also her concern that she may not have done the right thing in triggering the attack by the 'Black Widow' Disciples.

Pale's report was a long list of precedents, prior judgements and interpretations from former Guardians that ended with a summary of what the gathered Councillors could do. Maya skipped the jargon, to the meat.

"It seems we aren't constrained," Note said, having done the same as Maya. "We can make decisions as though there was a full attendance."

"Provided we don't pass judgement on a Station not present," Merchant Councillor Quill added. "Which, I suppose, we weren't likely to do."

"Not with recent precedent," Draw said, looking at Maya.

She held his gaze. Whilst she had to make amends, Maya would not apologise to that man. Especially not if her problem was a mental one... or from her use of Cyrus Force.

"Then we have much to discuss," Maya said to dispel that thought. "Shall we get to it?"

"Yes, we shall," the Guardian said. "We have not only yesterday's events, but two more Disciple configurations from a report from the Front."

"Two more kinds of Disciple?" Note asked, leaning forward.

Draw opened a folder and held up a report and a sealed letter. "Acolyte Certainty of the western Front flew this across the Gravit Mountains and to a Mining Town named Stalk. From there, a pigeon was sent, which arrived two hours ago. The report came in two parts: one for my eyes and another for... for you, Acolyte Councillor. I have been assured that all military matters were in the erstwhile report. From its contents, I think it likely the failure to assassinate Maya caused this escalation in Disciple activity."

The Shield Councillor threw the private letter across to Maya. It slid to a stop just before her. Maya looked down, recognising Snow's looping script. "I shall read this as soon as the session is done. If there's anything pertinent within, I will share it."

"The sovereignty of the Stations is a wonderful thing, no?" Blind said snidely.

"Hush, Blind," the Guardian hissed. "Draw, continue."

The military man nodded. "Over a week ago, the western Front was attacked by mutated wolves or lions which killed almost two cadres of Shields, one Contegon, and injured many more. It was not known whether they were definitely Disciple creations, so a discretionary report was prepared instead. Octave, you'll be happy to know a Doctor is producing a study as we speak."

"I was about to ask," the thin Doctor said.

Draw gave him a false smile. "Acolyte Shield-General Snow and a Contegon tracked these creatures to a Disciple location, where they confirmed these 'Lions' were of Disciple origin. Not only that, they found a human-Disciple amalgam, one which resisted the powers of an Acolyte."

Maya took a deep breath, looked away. "I believe I know what's in this letter now."

Draw continued. "This amalgam – named an Acolyte Killer – was a weaker version of the standard Disciple, and shows some vulnerability to strong blows. It was the Contegon with Snow who killed it. Details and sketches will follow in three days, Note."

"Thank you," Note said. "I will arrange a Lesser Council for the day it arrives."

"So, we are now dealing with three new kinds of Disciple?" Lord Blind said. He blew air out through his lips, looked to the sky. "The sneaking Black Widow, the Lion, and one specifically designed to counteract Sol's Gift. Lun has been busy indeed."

"It's worth noting," Maya said, "that Black Widows were involved in the Uprising at Buckle, and they may have been working for the Disciples for months. We may need to review all suspicious deaths over the last six months or so to confirm they weren't assassinated."

"We can get to that. But how could something overcome Sol's Gift, Maya?" Visit asked.

"I will have to read this letter first," Maya said, holding the envelope up.

"Take an educated guess, Acolyte Councillor," the Guardian said.

Lacking a proper response, Maya gave the nonsense answer. "Lun must be helping them. If Sol can grant powers, it's possible Lun can. But allow me to read Snow's account first. I will report to you then, sire."

The Guardian gave her a long look. "Draw, work with Maya and whomever the Contegons choose to replace Councillor White to alter our strategies. We cannot be caught short again."

Draw nodded. "I will, sire, particularly in light of a final revelation in Snow's report: the Disciples have networks of tunnels deep beneath the soil."

The man knew he would get gasps of surprise and bluster. Maya couldn't help her reaction, was on her feet, rage filling her system, before she knew it. Deep breaths and an admonishment that she should have expected this after Nephilim's underground home narrowly prevented another episode.

"Would you care to explain?" the Guardian asked once everyone had calmed down.

Draw dropped the report onto the table. "I don't know much: there is a decision to make about committing manpower to exploring this network with the elevated threat against the Fronts, so we know only that there are miles of tunnels, and workshops, down there. These workshops were used to create the Lions."

"Could they extend underneath the Front?" Maya asked.

"Snow theorised they probably do, yes."

"Which explains how the Black Widows were brought to Aureu," Note said.

A hush fell over the Council as they faced the reality that their decades-long strategy to destroy Moenian had been for nothing. It was one thing to know that their ranks were infested, but the Disciples quietly bypassing their defences was another altogether.

"Well, that explains your progress north over the last few years, doesn't it?" Quill asked, looking from Draw to Maya. "We thought the Disciples were terrified by the Acolytes, when really they were withdrawing to regroup and tunnel beneath whatever we put forth."

"That thought has occurred to me," Maya hissed.

"And me," Draw said slowly, his wounded pride as obvious as a facial bruise. "Our Fronts can no longer be considered safe, or our territory."

"Can I disagree with what Note said a moment ago?" Blind asked. "You said that the Disciples used these tunnels for smuggling. I disagree. I believe they smuggle materials in through the Fronts."

"What makes you say that?" Draw asked. "I ask particularly as it'll be my Shields who would be involved in such an activity."

Blind gave Draw the smug smile Maya was often treated to. "I can't share how I know."

"Either way," the Guardian said, "it doesn't matter. These tunnels, and these new models, are the key threats. I will advise the Contegons to rush their selection of a new Councillor, then Draw and Maya will sit down with her to form a cogent plan for dealing with them."

"There is something else we could consider," Maya said. "As well, I mean."

"And what would that be?" the Guardian asked.

"Allowing the Artificers to access Disciple technology."

"Not this again," Blind said, shaking his head.

"We've discussed this so often I'm getting bored of it," Visit said, always Blind's parrot. "Why waste our time again when the rebuilding of Aureu and our response to the war declaration need our attention?"

Note shook her head. "I disagree. This could be more important than all else as it will influence our response to these new dangers. If my Station were to use what we might learn from the Disciples, imagine what new armours and weapons we could produce to help in a clearly-escalating war?"

"I must change my previous position and agree with the Artificer Councillor," Draw said, much to Maya's surprise. "I lost almost two-dozen men to three Lions. We have lost more than a hundred citizens to the Black Widows. This... Acolyte Killer nearly killed Snow, our second-greatest Acolyte. We need every advantage we can get: we need our Artificers more than ever."

Maya didn't interrupt by suggesting Chalk was Snow's superior, but said, "Now is the time to decide, before we choose a strategy that could waste manpower, whether Disciple technology will be included."

"The Merchants will always look to benefit from new inventions," Quill said. "Now that our Shield friends have changed their position, we will too."

"And I supported it from the start," Octave said.

"Shall we bring what looks to be the final vote on the matter to the table?" the Guardian asked. "Who here opposes the Artificers' sanctions against the use of Disciple technology?"

Visit and Blind raised their hands.

"Who here supports it?"

Everyone bar Maya raised their hands.

"Then it is settled," the Guardian said. "Note, I expect a report every week on every single thing your Artificers find, from now until the end of time. If you develop a new kind of screw, I want a full report, schematic, and a copy of each document associated with it circled to every Councillor. Am I clear?"

"Yes, sire," Note said. She smiled, a private, victorious gesture.

Maya tried to feel victorious, pleased that her will was finally imposed on the Council, but her mind had already moved on to this Disciple designed to nullify Cyrus Force. Much as this Acolyte Killer would do to her Spirits, the letter and what it represented robbed her of her joy and left her cold, numb.

"Very well," the Guardian said. "You will also be a part of the strategy meetings for the war, Note. Draw, Maya, ensure she is included. Now, shall we move on?"

Blind tutted, folded his arms, but made nothing more of the issue. He had lost. A small ghost of a thrill passed through her at seeing his expression, but nothing more. She felt numb throughout the rest of the Council, a feeling which remained right up until she opened Snow's letter that night.
Chapter 72

Maya finished reading Snow's letter aloud and looked across the table at Request. The young Acolyte had kept silent, fascinated to hear from the Acolyte Shield-General on these Acolyte Killers.

Maya didn't know how she felt about a class of Disciple being named after the death of her students. Nor did she know how she felt about the sacrifice Snow had made: she obviously knew Cyrus Force sensitive people could give up Spirits, but to do so to your only Spirit... She shuddered, unable to consider it further.

Request summoned Ink and wrapped her arms around it. The liquid form returned the gesture, gripping her as hard as it had been gripped.

"If it makes a difference," Applekill said, "Snow has not given up his status as an Acolyte. He will be able to, with enough effort and time, form a new Spirit."

"It won't be Sigil, though, will it?"

Applekill opened her cracked lips to answer, then thought better of it.

"Exactly. Exactly," Request said, breaking her embrace with Ink. "How can you be so calm when it's your fucking kind we're talking about? That's the first Spirit we've ever seen die, actually fucking die, and you're calm as a windless day? What in the name of Lun's wrong with you?"

"Request, it's because I would do the same thing for Maya. I'm calm because Sigil is a hero."

Ink nodded. It communicated with Request somehow, sharing images or emotions, and Request shook her head. "I'd never give you up for anything or anyone, Ink. But thank you."

"What else do you think?" Maya pressed. "I'm keen to get your views: I'm still confused about all of this."

Request considered the question. "I think Snow is lucky he has a brilliant Contegon as a friend. And I think we're going to need more Acolytes to deal with this problem. Maya, Lun's Burst suggested it, but this new Disciple proves it: we're more vulnerable than we thought. We can't waste time picking out the perfect fucking Acolytes and spending all year to get them right. We need more of them now."

"What are you suggesting?" Maya asked.

"We step up recruitment. I know you spend months vetting candidates, letting the other Stations fuck about, but we need to be stronger. We need to produce as many, if not more, Acolytes as the Academy produces Contegons. Our sort need to be out there to protect people from these Lions, Black Widows, and Disciples, and to replace one another when an Acolyte Killer takes one down."

Maya shook her head. "No, Request, we can't do that."

"Why the fuck not?"

"Because I say so, as your Councillor," Maya hissed.

"That's not good enough. Give me a real reason."

She jabbed violently at Applekill. "There's an element of picking the right people, of picking those who have the most power and flair, but that's not even it. The fucking Spirits, Request. Have you forgotten about the sheer shock you felt at being introduced to Ink? The religious terror at meeting a representative of Sol? We must pick people who can handle this, or else the work we've put in until that point is wasted."

"'Perfection is a horizon," Request said, "you never catch it.'"

"Yes, you don't need to lecture a former Contegon on the Sol Lexic, Request."

Request shook her head. "Apparently I do. But it's not even about that, not really. There's something else, isn't there? In the first few years, you were slowly increasing the numbers of Acolytes you produced. You were getting better, improving your processes. One, then two, then four Acolytes appeared. And then it stopped rising, right after Draw's Folly."

"You don't know–"

Request slams her fist on the table. "I fucking do know what I'm talking about, Maya. Do you forget I can read emotions as well as you can? That I'm an Acolyte too?"

"That's an unacceptable way to talk to me, Request."

"What's unacceptable is saying 'because I say so' in response to that idea, Acolyte Councillor Maya," Request hissed. "What's unacceptable is your pain at Draw's monumental idiocy costing lives. This year, Maya, is your final chance before the other Acolytes ask why their ranks aren't swelling. And I can see you were wanting to use Lun's Burst as an excuse against ramping the efforts up further. Because–"

"Request..."

"Because you didn't want to see any more of your Acolytes die."

"Request!"

"That's it, isn't it?"

"Yes!" Maya howled. She slammed her fists on the table over, anger flooding her senses. "Yes, yes, yes!"

Applekill touched her on the shoulders. "Maya?"

Maya blinked, looked at the burning form in front of her: the Spirit's eyes were red rubies and her skin was dark. She shook her head, and the vision passed.

"What... what was that?" Request asked. She was a few feet from the table, holding her paintbrush like a weapon. "Maya, what the fuck just happened to you?"

"I... I must have had an episode. Like I had with the Shields...."

"No, Maya, no. Stop fucking lying to me! That was something else. That wasn't you. It was dark, sick, and slippery. It was... I don't know what it was. Sol, Maya, what just came over you?"

Maya goggled at her young Acolyte. She'd sensed something... external in Maya too, something that wasn't her? Until then, she'd hoped that feeling had been a mid-battle delusion, something she entertained because she couldn't handle the truth. But Request had confirmed it.

Maya looked at Applekill, who shook her head. "I... I can't be a part of this conversation."

The Spirit disappeared. Mission took her place, stepping forward.

"What's going on?" Request asked, growing in panic.

"I'd like to know that as well," Maya asked.

"You really don't know, do you?" Request said, astonished.

Mission coughed, stepped forward. "Applekill can't be a part of this. Maya, Request, promise me you will not call her back, nor will you ever mention to her what we are about to discuss. It is... it is so, so vitally important that you do not. Am I understood?"

"Mission, you're scaring me," Maya said.

"Promise. Both of you. Swear on what you hold dearest."

"I swear on Sol, Mission," Request said.

"I swear," Maya echoed.

Mission's stiff, military posture softening. "It's taken me a while to piece this together, mainly because Applekill wasn't sure what she could and couldn't say. She has shared some of her... shall we say, ancestral memories, and that helped me understand what I'm about to say. Even then, I only had the confirmation a moment ago, when you lost your temper."

"Confirmation of what?" Maya asked.

"Maya, Request, there is an... anti-Gift, a twisted form called Taint. Normally, it requires an extraordinary amount of negative and inhuman emotion to form such a thing, but it can also apparently be formed when something is brought back from... I guess you would have to call it Sol's Brilliance.

"Before you were gifted Applekill, you Dived into that brilliance. Whilst there, you accidentally killed one of Sol's... natural Spirits. It left a bitter taste in your mouth, one that remained when you returned? That remnant of a Spirit twisted: it fed on you, and then on Aureu's negative emotions during the Battle for Aureu, becoming true Taint. It has continued to feed on you, remaining in the background as it grew stronger. Now, it is strong enough to take control of your body."

The Spirit added, only to Maya, "As it did during your part of the Battle for Aureu. When you lost control of yourself just after Candle's death? That was the Taint coming over you."

"Sol... I mean... Sol..." Request said.

Maya looked Mission up and down. Her chest felt sunken with panic that a malevolent Spirit was inside her, one that could take her body. It explained so much: her blackouts, the warpath she cut through the Shields, that external feeling her anger gave her...

Questions remained, though. "Why couldn't Applekill tell me this?"

Mission replied with his own question, that impassive mask coming down to her level as it sat, "What's the last thing you remember of the Battle for Aureu, Maya?"

"I was... fighting. I fought a number of Disciples alone. They wounded me. I fell unconscious and then... that's it, until I woke up in Aureu. Why, is there more?"

"Prepare yourself for this."

"For what?" Request asked.

"Are you braced?"

"I'm angry and scared," Maya said. "Is that what you were aiming for?"

Mission nodded. "Maya, you died. The Disciples ripped their claws through you, and they ended your life. Applekill tried to save you, but she couldn't because healing requires a supreme effort, as Sigil showed. She didn't even have enough strength to sacrifice herself."

"No, that can't be right. No..."

But Maya's words weren't strong. A memory tickled her, one of Disciples standing over her as strength faded from her body. She'd always thought it a nightmare, something she'd dreamt when she'd fainted. But now, it felt more like something which had happened, her last moments before...

"What's that got to do with Applekill?" Request asked.

"Applekill, in her desperation, begged this Taint to heal Maya's wounds. Taint... it has more innate power than Sol's Gift because it deals in destruction, pain." 'Entropy,' Mission added for Maya's benefit. "It was also fat from consuming Aureu's panic and stress. Applekill convinced it that saving her was in the Taint's best interest. So it agreed to grant Maya life in return for Applekill not telling her, you, about its existence. And it did so, 'eating your destruction.'"

"Wait, aren't you fucking risking Maya's life by telling us this?"

Maya felt claws in her skin, cold steel that wanted to bleed her. She looked down and saw blood seeping through her robes. Standing, panicked, she pulled her clothes up and found three surface wounds in her sternum. They looked like Disciple wounds, but they weren't even bleeding.

"Sol, Maya..." Request said.

"How–?" Maya croaked, her throat raw, as it had been when she returned from the Dive.

"How do I know the Taint won't kill you? Because I worked this out on my own. Maya, I've sensed something odd in you for some time. It was only when Request noticed the Taint that Applekill could no longer hide the truth from me. I am not you, Maya. I am... different, as you know. Which means Applekill did not tell you when she told me."

"And she didn't tell us when you did," Request said. She appeared at Maya's side and helped her up. "Fuck. How could she keep a secret like that?"

"Easily," Mission said. "It saved Maya's life."

Maya looked down at her torso: the wounds were not getting worse. She shook her legs and arms, tried to return some blood to them. Grabbing a mug of water and downed it, quenching the burning in her throat.

"I... I need to think about this all." Maya shook her body, which felt alien now she knew that somewhere, somehow, it was infested. "In light of this, Request, I agree that we need to step up the Acolytes. Mostly because I can't be trusted. Not whilst this fucking thing is in me. We'll talk through what we do tomorrow. For now, I need some time to myself."

Request considered Maya for some time. "Maya, I think more of you now I know this."

"What makes you say that?" Maya asked, perplexed.

The young girl put a hand on Maya's arm. "You gave your life for Aureu. Addled by this Taint, you fought the Disciples and whittled down ninety percent of their ranks. Maya, you're brilliant."

"No. I should have done better. Could have done better. This should never have happened."

Request laughed. "You idiot. Of course you should have done better. Everyone says that afterwards. Don't you think I've thought that a million times since Lun's Burst? What matters is that you did very well, so very well. I'm proud of you."

Maya smiled. "Thank you, Request. You may go now."

This young, brilliant, amazing Acolyte who had stood shoulder-to-shoulder with a Contegon Councillor, who survived more than one Disciple attempt on her life, smiled as she left.

Maya turned to Mission. "I need privacy from you two as well. Especially Applekill."

"Of course," Mission said. He was gone before his second word was finished.

Maya plonked herself down and stared ahead. She did not move, her mind in turmoil, for quite some time.
Epilogue

Maya enjoyed being back in her office. Now that the investigation into Lun's Burst and the night of the Declaration had been concluded, she was allowed in public locations. And, with a clean bill of mental health, she was a full Councillor once more. Standing in the thick dust, she looked around her uncared-for office and smiled. This felt like normality: this felt like she was getting back onto track.

Dirt entered just after her, the young man's officious face screwing up as he took in her office. "I'd not realised how much work would be required here."

"That's a great way to talk about me on your first day," Maya said, stepping inside.

Dirt sniffed. "I'm merely reporting the truth, sire."

Maya laughed at the Cleric. His stuffiness might eventually annoy her, but it would also come in handy. To truly escalate the production of Acolytes, she would need help from people like him. Request couldn't provide it – she was now deep into recruitment, finding people with talent and capability amongst the Stationless of Aureu – and it was not a job for an Acolyte, so a Cleric would have to do.

"What's on my agenda for today, then?" Maya asked.

"Besides a thorough cleaning for this office?"

"I don't believe that went through the proper channels, Dirt."

Dirt made a note on his paper. "I'm allowed to add meetings I think are appropriate. Of course, the cleaning will be handled in your absence."

Maya wanted to wave him off, to tell him not to be ridiculous, but that was the old her talking. She needed to devote every spare moment to the hiring, training, and deployment of Acolytes. Nothing else mattered. She and Request had agreed a motto for their activities: 'If it won't create or improve an Acolyte, it's not worth doing.' Cleaning wouldn't do either. It certainly wouldn't improve her mood.

"My schedule, Dirt?"

"There are meetings with the Cleric and Shield Councillors this afternoon, a regular catch-up with Request, a session with Portrait, and a game of Skulls with Note, Request, and the new Contegon Councillor."

"Her name is Mint Piety," Chain said.

"You have passed the test," Dirt said archly. "Before all of that, though, you have the special meeting. The one you asked me to keep off the official schedule?"

Maya sat at her desk. "When is that?"

"Now, sire." Dirt acquiesced. "I'll go and get enough dusters to sort this place out. May I hire a carriage?"

"No, you sod, you can carry them all yourself," Maya said, laughing.

Dirt acquiesced with a wry grin and went to the entrance to her office. Two minutes of silent anticipation later, and there was a knock on the door.

"Enter," Maya said.

The Contegon entered, stiff and tall. Maya had been told to expect the wound, but it was still shocking.

She rose as the Contegon entered, stepped around her desk. "You'll have to forgive the mess," Maya said. "I've only just been allowed back into the office. It'll take a few days for things to get back to normal."

"Of course, sire."

"There's no need to call me that. Not you, of all people."

"Of course... Maya."

Maya stood before the Contegon and looked her in the eye. "Your letter wasn't very specific. I've arranged everything I could. Now, do you mind telling me what you've found?"

Chain licked her lips and nodded. "I know where we can find more Heretics."
