 
The Darkening Still

First novel of the

Aperture Series

Copyright 2013 Liam Hays

Cover design by Julian Jackson

Smashwords Edition

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##### Prologue

Fear is a sinister oubliette, reducing us to savages struggling for survival in a context we have no hope of understanding. I was born into that cage, and soon after the death of my warden Marius, a sea merchant and the husband of my adulterous mother, unwillingly released from it. Eventually, when not pressed by fear, I began to awaken. That is where this story begins, within the river city of Felvishar, and the sprawl of shadow beneath it. Spindledar, as it came to be called, was an ancient place, a massive labyrinth of snaking tunnels, caverns, halls and ever extending mines, built by a people whose bones had long turned to ash. A thousand years later, Felvishar would be built upon its ruins.

It's only now that we understand the cataclysm that destroyed this civilization. It's only now that we begin to understand the cataclysm that will destroy our own.

If Lord Bellatine permits, it would be my wish to commission an editor to mend whatever aesthetic transgressions I commit to paper. Also, I have added some material that is not of my direct observation, but of those I have been affected by. I have recorded their stories as accurately as they remember them, however cannot guarantee veracity. For as I await my own execution, I need prove nothing to anyone, the least of whom Bellatine.

##### Chapter 1

It was raining. The horse I straddled was barely more than a mule, but warm all the same. I leaned forward, tucked my arms against its mottled brown coat and hid my face from the large droplets that pummeled my back in the warm summer air, dribbled off my mouth and nose and left their taste on my lips, the kiss of my goddess.

The surrounding marsh stretched for miles around, a marriage of water and earth, a sea of cattails that swayed and heaved with the storm. The narrow road was little more than raised mud, ever trying to diffuse back into the soft mire from which it came, the unceasing waters thrown down from the brooding sky assimilating our path into the unforgiving quick.

I turned my head and peered through the veils of precipitation to see him riding ahead, his back straight and tall, shoulders immense. He hadn't spoken to me since Portshire. He talked about me, he talked away from me, he talked around me, but he wouldn't talk to me.

I fell asleep from exhaustion and did not wake until we were well into Felvishar, a serried jumble of jagged edges, beveled walls. Large buildings leaned over narrow causeways, whetted towers poked at the ashen sky overlooking obsolete battlements and clay rooftops. Shadows blended drearily with angled outcroppings and archways. The streets were consumed with the stench of flotsam welling up from the overflowing sewers, debris washed inland from some river nearby.

My hands were numb, my wrists sore from the ropes that bound them together. My thighs ached from riding for so long. I had never ridden before, and a girl learns to keep her legs together among sailors even at a tender age.

The day was all but done, the streets empty when Carrowyn pulled his horse along mine, a muted silhouette against the colorless world. He leaned over and took my pony's reins as we sat absorbing the weather. Hard lines crossed his brow. A strong jaw and worn, hazel eyes made him appear much older than he actually was. Somewhere behind us the sky rumbled over the dull thrum of falling water.

"This is it," he said. I followed his gaze to a large and unkempt house looming in the mist. Dirty. The alabaster had run, leaving streaks of black down the length of the walls. The many windows had been boarded fast, shutters missing altogether. Judging by the great piles of shingles that lay derelict in the surrounding mud, the roof was in poor repair. A lead gutter hung perilously away from the awning, threatening to strike dead any fool standing beneath it. The only thing firmly in place was a small wooden sign affixed to the wall next to the door, painted in course white letters, Duenna.

I tasted the word, rolled it over with my tongue. That single word held all fear and hope, everything that was left of me, and yet I had no idea what it meant. I abhorred its sound, for it represented not my future, but an unwelcome surrogate. It was some other's choice, not mine, the motivation of which I could not fathom. The one encounter I had with the person responsible for my relocation, a scoundrel by the name of Fleary, did little to provide any comfort or idea of what was to become of me.

Carrowyn slid from his horse, wrapped his hands around my waist and pulled me from mine. My legs ached as they came together, my knees nearly buckled. He slid a small knife between my wrists, cut my bonds and tossed them into the mud at our feet as I rubbed the bruises left in their place.

I didn't look into his face, but instead stared into the whalebone buttons adorning his overcoat, carved images of fields and sky, plows and oxen. It was a strange accessory for a freebooter, better something for a plainsman.

He said something, but my attention was lost. He grasped my face in his hands. "Listen," he said as water dribbled from his chin. His hands were strong, powerful. Had he chosen to, he could have easily taken me, ravaged and tossed me aside, destroyed me with little more effort than it would take to crush an egg in the hand. Such things were not above mercenaries as I understood this man to be. But he did not.

"You're expected. Tell them who you are. But don't dare run. I'll be watching."

I nodded and pushed away from his grip, fumbled to find my feet and turned toward the manor. It was a mere fifty feet away, but miles in my head. With each step I took, my hope of freedom was vanquished, snuffed. I glanced over my shoulder. He was indeed watching. I caught his eyes with mine, but he averted them, waved me on with a dismissive gesture. Somewhere in the gloaming, a brawl ensued over the low roar of the weather. There was a struggle. It abruptly ended. I was at the doorstep.

The door was meant to hold two large panes of glass with a half circle crowning them, but the glass had been removed, replaced by large planks of wood. The half-circle was still there, though cracked. And the handle, an ill-fit piece of iron, had replaced what might have once been a fine latch.

I brought my hand up to knock when the door dragged itself open to reveal an ogre of a woman, towering a clear two feet above me with considerable girth and a permanent scowl scratched across her face: the Madam Duenna.

"Where are your things?" she said, looking me over with the lantern in her off hand. Terrified, I stepped back, out from under the protective awning and into the downpour of water hurtling from the roof. I swear the woman growled, then snatched up my collar, yanked me inside and slammed the door.

Dripping, I stammered, "I have no things," and turned out my pockets.

Her massive eyebrows furrowed, seemed to join, and I wondered precisely what "things" I had been obliged to bring.

"We'll have to make do," she said.

"Yes, Miss."

"You're late, by the way. You were to start a week ago," she said and pulled me along by the arm. "You begin in the morning. Come down with the rest of them first thing," she said, motioning into the hall with a swing of the lantern. The room was enormous, too vast to be wholly exposed by a single flame. The most notable feature was a massive snaking staircase that ran the length of three walls. In the darkness above hung a chandelier, reflecting light from the lantern in jingling twinkles. Water filtered down from the ceiling and ran across the contours of the fixture before careening onto the sodden marble floor.

"Fleary said you'd be well used to it. He better be right or I'll have my turn on you," she said, pulling me up the stairs. "And don't think because you're one of his projects you'll get privilege here."

I stumbled on the hem of my dress and scrambled to pick it up before I lost my footing entirely. "Madam?"

"What?" she said, without regarding me.

Young women were often indentured into debauchery against their will, or so I'd heard. I'd seen nothing to discount that possibility here. The words dribbled from my lips, "Is this a brothel?"

The Madam cackled. "No, not yet," she said, "but given time, why not?"

We reached the top of the staircase and she motioned to a dark hallway, which swayed and breathed with the motion of the lantern in her hand. "Second door on the left is yours," she said and pushed me down the hall. The air was sour; it reeked of mold from the sodden rug under our feet. The Madam opened the door and shoved, then closed the door behind me.

It was dark, and I could see little save a dash of clouded sky leaking through the boards nailed across the single window and two dark blotches of color to either side, what I hoped were beds. Carefully stepping toward the one to my left, but I misjudged the distance and tumbled headlong into a mass of bedding. There was something writhing furiously underneath all that. It screamed. I called out as something jabbed me in the side. A foot was planted on my chest and I was ousted, landing in a wet heap on the floor.

"This one's taken," a voice said.

"Sorry," I said and felt out the other bed for occupants before collapsing into it.

"What's your name?" she asked.

"Fen," I said.

"My name is Genevieve. Go to sleep."

And I did, lulled by the sound of rain and my own dreary exhaustion.

Memories settled on my slumber that night like gulls roosting on a calm sea. I remembered the smell most of all, that heady dampness so hard to drive out of a ship, the smell of sickness, of death. The predawn peeked through the thin glass of the stern-castle windows. I had not slept in days and it showed in the circles beneath my eyes.

Candles flickered from the bedposts. The light danced over his face and chest, giving the cruel illusion of life in a lifeless body. I watched him, unable anymore to grieve. Timbers shifted against the smooth water, the bilge nested a little deeper into the ocean, a little more entrenched. My fingers were locked around a damp rag full of his sweat. He seemed so old now, fled from himself. His face, weathered and sun-baked, betrayed no sign of the rage that once propelled him. There was no glimmer in his eyes to denote the dogged fierceness with which he set about his life or mine. Mighty hands no longer fisted up. His mouth hung open. And his eyes, once not to be met at any cost, now bulged and blankly stared at the wooden planks above. The first mate put a steady hand on my shoulder and said something, but the words were lost as nausea pulled me to the floor.

A careful weight pressed upon the bed. "Are you alright?" she asked.

I shot upright, dark sinews of hair pasted across my face. "What's happened?" I gasped, clutching damp bedding in fistfuls. My clothes were moist with sweat and acrid rainwater.

"Nothing. Everything's fine," she soothed, "but you need to get up."

I looked at her and was caught in her eyes; they fluttered like the wings of an emerald butterfly.

She stood and quickly fastened the black buttons of her burgundy gown. "Otherwise her holiness will rouse you out of bed herself. I know from experience, that's not something you want."

"Right." I threw the covers from my legs and tried to stand, but the floor did not sway as I was accustomed to aboard the Seraph. My head spun for the lack of motion. Genevieve reached for a nearby basin and shoved it into my hands as I heaved into it. Her fingertips came down against my temple and cheek, catching the hair before it got in the way. "I am so sorry," I managed between retching.

"Nothing to be sorry for," she said and pulled my hair into a mass behind my shoulders, twisting it to keep it in place as I recovered. "You're full of sweat. And clammy. I hope yesterday's weather didn't give you a cold."

"As do I," I said and wiped the spit from my chin with the back of my sleeve. "I need a bath."

"There's no time," she said, fastening a sash around her waist.

I lifted my face from the bowl to see her standing before me, prim and well poised. Her auburn hair was pulled away from her shoulders into a bun and held fast by a pair of bodkins. She was tall and majestic, broad shoulders, ample bosom, a smoothly tapered waist that ceased only at the arrival of her hips. "You are so pretty," I mumbled under my breath. She looked to me as if she hadn't understood. I felt embarrassed for the comment, so didn't repeat it. Instead, I rose to pitch the contents of the basin out the window but stopped as I realized it was boarded shut.

"Just leave it on the floor. Lila will take it later. Were you given a set of clothes last night?"

"No," I said and carefully set the basin on the floor in front of the window. The sounds of the city leaked in between the planks, which were nailed slipshod over the molding. I picked the sleep from my eyes and peered through the narrow opening to see carriages rumble by. There were pedestrians, businessmen in wool tunics and summer cloaks, women in brightly colored gowns and wide-brimmed hats to ward off the sun. A pair of clappers ambled by, the city watch dressed in red uniforms bearing their noisy twirling staves, that clacked slowly as they passed.

Genevieve said something else about the house, but my attention was lost to the meager view of the outside world. There was a knock at the door, the handle jostled. It creaked open an inch and a woman's voice spoke plainly from the hall: we were to assemble downstairs in a few minutes.

"Thank you Lila," Genevieve called out. She opened a modest wardrobe and extracted a neatly folded gown. "This is much too large for you, but it'll do for now," she said, tossing it over me and pulling down until my head popped out the other side. She had the sash tied off before I could wiggle out of my damp clothes. I pushed my arms through the too-long sleeves, but my hands were dumbly caught in the fabric. Genevieve reached up the sleeves like a crane poking in the water for a fish and pulled my hands through, then rolled the laced cuffs to the appropriate length.

"Oh, your hair," she moaned. Grabbing the knotted mass, she twisted it again and again until I yelled. Pulling it forward she wrapped it into a tight ball and secured it with a bodkin from her own head. She took a step back, hands on hips. "It'll do. We're late."

Genevieve pushed me out the door into the musty hallway where we were joined by a dozen other girls, all of roughly equal age and prim demeanor. My loaned gown dragged terribly and someone behind me was kind enough to step on it, tumbling me to the sodden floor. I watched as the others passed, each casting a downward glance or sneer. Their classically soft features, bright complexions and dignified posture contrasted dramatically with my own sharp lineament, dark hair, weather-worn skin and nearly black eyes. They whispered to each other, calling me a dirty little gypsy, refugee, orphaned urchin. "I am not an orphan," I muttered after them as they giggled their way down the stairs.

Genevieve was the last of them to pass. She stopped to offer a hand, which I gratefully took, and we joined the line formed across the dingy marble foyer. I could hear the snickers and feel the sidelong glances of the other girls as we stood there; I would come to dread this little ritual as time went by.

The door to what I later found out to be the dining hall swung open, and the Madam herself entered the room followed by a quiet and humble woman with mousy brown hair, Ms. Lila.

The Madam addressed our line as a ship's steward would an unruly crew, stern and loud. The topic of her hortatory was merely instructional: reminders about assignments and class schedules. Much to my relief, this was simply a finishing school, not a brothel as I had feared. The house itself was in such disrepair because the Madam saw profit in renovating the older buildings of the city only to sell them again under the name of her school. Women were forbidden to hold land unless widowed past the age of remarriage, but with certain favors were allowed to foster an enterprise.

Eventually the focus of her attention shifted displeasingly, that is to say, upon me. Her derision was fierce and admittedly not altogether displaced. The Madam introduced me by name and remarked that my background had not been conducive to those mannerisms and habits of hygiene common to more respectable women. It was true that I had gone as long as a month without a proper bath, but that was certainly not for lack of want. She continued, saying that I had been deprived of the fundamental rules of etiquette considered perfunctory in houses of high standing or wealth, neither of which I was from.

That truth raised a question: if I had no material means, then what business did I have here? The thought did not float long in my mind before the Madam provided the answer. I was to assist Ms. Lila in the daily tending of the house in exchange for board and the privilege of attending lessons.

The Madam concluded her address by assigning several of the girls, Genevieve included, to provide lessons in posture, presentation and enunciation. Apparently I had been attributing a back-water drawl to my speech, heralding me as a dock street harlot to any respectable ear.

As the gathering was dismissed, Ms. Lila approached me and said she would provide gowns later that morning, then asked that I stop by the kitchen when I had settled to review a list of daily chores. I gritted my teeth, fuming at this arrangement.

Genevieve's hand found mine as she felt inclined to provide a proper tour of the old manor. Even with the severely dilapidated state of the outside, the inside was worse by far. The rear of the house was adorned with a large ballroom, which looked out on an untended garden. The windows and part of the wall had been smashed in by the sizable branch of a nearby tree. Only half the lavatories were usable, the root cellar was utterly submerged. A fine home for rats this was.

Genevieve explained that the session had just started two weeks prior, and that the master-builder was actually making good progress. She added that there were indeed rats; a number of them had taken to living in the cistern when months were dry, but whenever it rained they were drowned by the score.

Eventually we found the kitchen, which was remarkably well in order, possessing several work tables, a spice chest, two ovens and a larder under the service stairs, and then another short flight of steps that led down into the submerged cellar.

The laundry was next. Attached to the kitchen, this room housed two enormous cauldrons suspended over ember pits with which I would become intimately acquainted. Attached to the laundry was what served as the house bath. Hidden by a large curtain was a third, smaller cauldron that sat next to a shelf holding towels, salts, soaps and brushes.

Wasting no time, Genevieve snatched up a bucket near the laundry, dipped out some of the hot soapy water, then trundled over to the bath and dumped it in. I took a pail as well, and in short time the cauldron was mostly filled with water. Genevieve returned the bucket to where she found it. "Careful," she said as she made for the door. "The floors are slick when wet. I'll see you back in the room."

I thanked her and pulled the curtain around the pot for privacy as she left. I removed Genevieve's gown and set it neatly aside, then shed my remaining clothes like a serpent sloughing its skin. I had worn the same drab, black dress for at least a week; I only had one other and it, along with what few possessions I had, was still aboard the Seraph. Not that it mattered so much.

Marius, being a merchant, was habitually frugal. And since I brought him no pleasure and no gold, he was generally disinclined to furnish me with anything but the barest of essentials aside from books, and even those were sold at times. What things I had were practical, replaceable. The only possession that truly held my affection was the ship itself: a small two-masted vessel with a wide and shallow draft that allowed it, when the winds were favorable, to out-weather most anything else on the ocean. And even then it wasn't the ship so much as the name, the Seraph, after my dead mother, who according to Marius, I destroyed by simply being born.

Finally bare, I climbed into the milky water, took up a brush and scrubbed my skin raw with short, merciless strokes before trying to work the knots from my hair, but it was determined to remain a matted tangle of black.

When there was nothing left to scour, I exhaled and sank into the warm water to my chin, grateful for the solitude and the quiet, idly soaking as memories played in my mind, reluctant to let go.

There were times, when I could escape his attention, at night mostly, when I would creep along the gun wale and make my way to the bow. I would climb along the rigging of the foremast and cling to the sturdy wooden frame as the ship would dip and rise, crashing into the water, the spray from the bow shock dousing me thoroughly. From there I could reach a hand down, just one, and touch the wooden and serpentine hair of the bow spirit. This was Seraph to me. This was my mother, without color, features mostly worn away, just the implication of a face, the vagueness of shoulders. She was a liaison between my goddess and me, the go-between, the medium between life and death, between the misery of the now and the hope of providence. She was neither a creature of air nor water, but would traverse them in turn, down into the wash, back up for air, down into the wash. She was my advocate, my attorney, insuring my place beside the fertile Saduje who slept and stirred in the cool forgiving black beneath the waves.

When the water turned cold, I got out of the cauldron and dried myself with one of the linens sitting on the shelf. I eyed my discarded clothes, a dark and threadbare puddle of soiled fabric on the floor. I had no desire to claw back into those rags so I kicked them into a nearby waste bin, wrapped the linen around my shoulders and peeked into the laundry. Across the room, several white under-gowns hung near an open window. As I was alone, I darted across the room, snatched the smallest one from its hook and donned it, then pulled on Genevieve's gown on as well.

Poking my head into the kitchen, I spied Ms. Lila chopping carrots with angry downward hacks. I tried to sneak past her to the service stairs in the far corner of the room, but she was aware of me nonetheless. "Your gowns are in your room, along with some scullery breeches. Put them on. Be back down in a half hour," she said, not bothering to look up from her work. "There's much to be done. Always is."

"Yes miss," I replied, resentful of her and the Madam, and trotted up the narrow steps. The hallway on the second floor was empty and quiet. It smelled bitter from the rainwater that soaked the rugs. There was a long yellow stain running the length of the ceiling, dotted here and there by festering gashes, water-rimmed wounds where the plaster had given way, exposing the supporting lathe. I pouted the whole way down, cautiously avoiding walking beneath the holes. I would have stomped were it not for fear of falling through the questionable flooring.

I shoved our door open. It swung back, striking the adjoining wall. Genevieve, who sat on her bed, started, her face flush and wide-eyed. She snapped a book closed and shoved it into the space between her bed and the wall.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Nothing," she said and gestured to a set of garments folded over the back of a chair. "Lila left you some clothes." Plying her hair with her fingers, she watched as I picked over the bundle. "So where are you from?" she asked.

I shrugged and gathered a pair of gray breeches and an equally uncharacteristic top from the pile, then retreated behind the door of the wardrobe. "Where am I from?" I repeated. I had never considered it before, never given thought to what the answer might be.

When I didn't produce one, Genevieve offered her own. "I'm from the north," she said. "My father is a landholder in the valley. He sent me here to condition me for marriage." Her voice deepened, and she barked, "You won't find a husband worth his name with manners like a pig!" She laughed. "The only way he'll marry me off is by dowry alone, and I'll make sure it's a large one."

Pulling on the drab breeches, I muttered, "Good for you," though I wasn't sure why.

"Have you been promised to anybody?" she asked. "Of course you have, why else would you be here if not to be kept out of trouble?"

I felt apprehension, a visceral unwillingness to offer anything of myself to her, perhaps threatened by the ease with which she conversed, the fluidity of her parlance and her inquisitiveness, as if she were collecting information to put to some sinister use when chance struck. But as I would better know Genevieve, I would realize her concern for others was genuine and her natural curiosity was nothing more and nothing less than the desire for friendship, a connection to assuage a withering loneliness that plagued her at Duenna. Genevieve, as much as I have always been, was a pariah, never truly accepted into her station. She was too gracious to moor against the petty shores of her contemporaries. She didn't compete for the affections of others or deride those less fortunate.

But at the time I felt uncomfortable with her openness and so continued to steer the conversation toward more shallow waters. "These knots are hopeless," I said, pulling the tangles from my hair. "Could I ask you to cut them out?"

"Of course," she perked. "Though I'm pretty daft with shears."

"I don't mind if it's uneven," I said and gave up, twisting it into one great knot to keep it from my eyes. "Anything would be preferable to this mess."

She shrugged. "Alright, then. We can get a pair of shears from the kitchen."

"I'm done," I announced, tied the crude drawstring into a slipknot and stepped from behind the wardrobe, fully expecting to incur her ridicule. I appeared my station. I was a drudge.

Genevieve looked at me even faced, nodded and said, "You look fine."

From the moment I descended the back steps into the kitchen to receive instruction from Lila, the nature of the arrangement was clear. The proposition which Duenna had set forth, that I would be allowed to benefit from the educational ministrations of the house once my other endeavors were complete, was a cruel ploy.

The list of household tasks I was to perform was a river that would never stop flowing. And when all things were complete and set into place, there were always others waiting, unexpected projects, mindless and unimportant duties that were neglected for more urgent things. Never once was I able to complete the daily manifest of chores before sunset, nor shirk them to attend a lecture.

Not that the curriculum particularly interested me. I saw little need for etiquette or lessons in social convention. I would never be accepted as "well bred," so why bother? I already knew how to sew, though crudely. I already knew how to read; books were my only friends, my only escape during childhood. I already knew addition, multiplication and angulation from watching Marius navigate and plot, much more than any of these presumptuous snots. However I regarded Marius for his malice, he at least demanded that I be studious.

Even still, I would have rather sat in study than been on my hands and knees, scrubbing the floors, clapping the rugs, shoveling embers under the cauldrons, wringing the laundry, or salting the kitchen tables. Not only was I an indentured servant, but one who worked for no reward save the shelter of a leaky roof and the nourishment of Lila's kitchen.

But for the moment, I could see little recourse. It was better, after all, than being left to the streets. Though I considered many times simply walking out the kitchen door and never returning, I had no place to go. Every time I thought of it, Carrowyn's parting admonition came into my head, the way his lips had pursed when he said it. Indeed, there was some strange and unsettling attention on my life.

I was of course being watched, certainly by the Madam and Lila. Lila I didn't mind. She was a matter-of-fact woman resigned to her duties with calm industry. If I needed help with something such as putting away the linens or properly setting the table, she would, without resentment, stop whatever she was doing and patiently teach me the lesser details of how it should be done. In return, I minded her instruction so that once advised, I needed never ask again. In this way we could work cohesively, though in silence. We rarely talked as neither she nor I were at all convivial, unlike Genevieve.

The Madam's attentions, however, were fiercer. Every broken dish, every malfolded tablecloth or tarnished bit of silver brought about some painful result, typically at the end of a leather strap she kept with her, or a wooden spoon if the former wasn't handy. Mind you, she wasn't capricious in her punishments. She rarely struck from pure malice, but more to insure that once a mistake was made, it was never made again. Unfortunately, I was not particularly adroit, and while I learned early on to be meticulous in my duties, there were times when the occasional teacup would slide off the saucer in my hand. And whether Duenna was present the moment it happened or not, I would dread the rest of the day. For I knew she would take inventory of the silver and porcelain each night before the day was done. If something was misplaced or missing, there was little question in her mind as to why. But even a strap across the shoulder lacked the severity I was accustomed to aboard the Seraph. While I don't doubt Duenna's strength, it was nothing compared to the brutality of Marius' drunken fist. And even as she would bark at me for whatever clumsy travesty was committed, lashing at me with her belt, her temper did little to intimidate me. I had survived much worse than she could deal.

Aside from domestic duties, something else addled my nerves. I dreaded going outside, even to dump a chamber pot into the tanner barrel in the nearby alley, for as soon as I stepped into the open air, I felt cold and unnerved. Only in the garden, shielded from the rest of the city by the high iron fence and interlacing vines, did I not feel that unwelcome attention. I was convinced Carrowyn or Fleary or even my estranged father watched over the house to ensure I did not leave.

And finally, there was Audrey, one of the young women tasked with impressing upon me some basic etiquette to befit a young lady. Aside from Genevieve, none of them had bothered to approach me, and I correctly inferred that none of them would. It was considered poor form to regard the help directly. Audrey discreetly observed my drudgery, peeking from around the corner or doorway. And always I could sense her presence. Some people roam the world nearly unseen, rarely noticed unless they make some effort to be noticed. Audrey, however, had such a temperament that even when silent and skulking, there was a tension around her I could not help but feel. I would mostly ignore her odd stares into the laundry as I churned the milky water with a wooden paddle or her curious gaze as I swept the foyer. But once, when I was bent over a pail and brush scrubbing the marble floor in the hall, I felt her eyes from the landing above. She was a tall blond with precise features and a focused attention that I, and I'm sure others, found disconcerting. I could tell she was hardened, perhaps in the same way I was. I could also tell that for whatever reason, she resented me, though I couldn't fathom why. But then getting accustomed to my new vocation hardly left time to wonder much about anything. Out of patience, I stopped scrubbing, sat up and looked at her. "What do you want?" I said. She shook her head and retreated from view.

Later, when I returned to my room, I found her blocking the doorway.

"If it isn't the poor gypsy," she said, a half sneer spread across her lips as her cold stare dug into me. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other to occupy the only means of entrance as best she could.

At that moment, Genevieve came down the hallway and pushed her way into the room. "Fen," she said as I followed in her wake, "This is Audrey. Audrey–"

"I know who she is," Audrey said. "She's the latest of Pruet's little projects." I leveled my eyes at the girl, embittered at the second reference to myself as a project. Her face expertly transformed into that of mock concern. "You truly don't understand the conditions of your tenure here, do you?"

"Tell me then," I said, intent on knowing what business she had with Pruet. But while Genevieve showed her heart to the world, and was often punished for it, Audrey buried hers. In this regard we were much alike, and for that I did not trust her. In retrospect I wonder if she thought the same of me. "Out with it," I prodded. "What do you know?"

Audrey shrugged and rolled her eyes upwards as if the secrets of my soul were scribbled on the ceiling. "You've never been to a school before, as Marius was a mariner, or I should say the late Marius. You're likely superstitious, a child of Saduje, goddess of the sea in the greater pantheon. Though you've never received education, I'd guess you can count, maybe read a little, and you acquired what poor manners you have from eating table-side with sailors in the galley."

"That's the best you can do?" I asked. "Why would any of this be your business?"

She gave a wry smile. "Because you and I exist by the will of the same benefactor."

"Pruet."

"Of course."

My gut heaved. I looked away, stared at the open wardrobe in the corner. Genevieve's dressing gowns hung perfectly uniform, side by side, while mine sat in a clump at the bottom. I hadn't bothered trying them on; what was the point, after all? "Perhaps he's your benefactor," I said, "but he's seen fit to make me a drudge."

Audrey smiled cruelly. "Poor gypsy," she said as a foursome of magpies glided by the open doorway chattering too loudly about how they fancied themselves.

Genevieve listened intently to our conversation but comprehended little of it. She cast looks between us. "I don't understand," she said. "Who is Pruet?"

"He's my true and estranged father," I said. "And our mutual patron, which until this point, I hadn't realized was so mutual."

"Surely you're not the first and certainly not the last," Audrey said as she stepped into the room. She leaned against the small desk allotted for the study I would never undertake. "So we have to meet with Fleary today."

I scowled, not cherishing how Fleary had pressed upon me the first and last time we had met upon the Seraph, though it could hardly be called a meeting, more of a purchase.

"I'm to see him in the study at one this afternoon, you a half hour later. He comes every two weeks and asks questions, sees our marks, nothing too unusual. He'll want to make sure we're not getting lazy or comfortable. He's Pruet's oily puppet, doing all the things your father can't be bothered with," she said, then added, "when he isn't rutting us, that is, though perhaps your lineage will spare you that dubious pleasure."

Not to be left out of a conversation, Genevieve blundered in. "My father has my marks sent to him directly. Honestly, I don't even know how well I've done unless I ask the Madam. Everything goes to my father," she lamented, getting up and smoothing the already placid sheets on her bed. "By the leaves, what I wouldn't give for a little self-direction in my own life." With deft hands she snapped the blankets neatly in line, then turned them and straightened the crease.

"I'm sure," Audrey said, turning to Genevieve. "In fact, rumor has it you'll wed this solstice."

I looked to Genevieve. Naive of coupling protocol, I daftly asked, "Aren't you a bit young to be married?"

"Oh, she's old enough," Audrey insisted, "at least for the northern country. Up there if you're not married by the time your hips jut, you're already an old maid. And Genevieve," she said, motioning to my roommate's full curvature, "is looking like a virile catch already. Have to get her wedded and bedded before she's passed over."

"Being passed over would be quite fine by me," Genevieve spat.

"Too bad her betrothed is so much older. By stars, I think he's older than your father, isn't he? And a big man, too. Good thing you've got a sturdy frame."

Genevieve's face contorted into something that had to pass for anger. "Stop it. You're being mean," she said.

Audrey looked to me. "She's not afraid of the wedding, you see, but the wedding night."

"Get out," Genevieve commanded, throwing a pillow at Audrey, who caught it and threw it right back.

"I'll leave. Wouldn't want to overstay my welcome. I just stopped by to borrow Fen's geometry book for the night. I've misplaced mine."

I shrugged and motioned to the letter desk where a small stack of books had sat untouched for the past several weeks. "I won't need it before tomorrow," or ever.

Audrey extracted the book from the stack. "Oh, and change out of those rags before seeing Fleary. And mind your posture. He appreciates good posture. Pretend that you have one of these balanced on your head. Like this," she said, setting the book atop her pate and gliding from the room.

Genevieve slammed the door behind her, then collapsed onto her bed. "I despise her."

It was a sentiment shared between us.

At twenty-five past the hour, I descended the snaking steps of the foyer envisioning a book perched upon my head, though I nearly tumbled down the stairs for lack of attention to my feet. At least the gown fit, I reassured myself. Mostly. It was still too large, but since it was the smallest size Ms. Lila could find, it would have to do.

The door to the study was thick, and I was surprised to hear Mr. Fleary berate poor Audrey from the other side. Sitting on the wooden bench beside the door, I leaned inward trying to make out the words of their conversation, but they were muffled as Fleary pounded something, probably his fist, against a table in cadence with his reprimands. There was a scuffle, a moving of furniture, quick footsteps and then the door swung open, catching me squarely in the forehead. I winced and rubbed my head as Audrey ran from the room and shot up the stairs.

Mr. Fleary's generous form emerged from the doorway. He motioned down to me, removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "Fenitheer. Good. Come in." I did and he directed me to sit in a large chair, awkwardly pushed away from an oaken desk. I moved the chair back into position and sat down as Fleary rounded the desk and grunted into the chair on the other side. He rifled through a pile of documents and left me otherwise unacknowledged for the moment. After a while my interest waned and my eyes cast about the room.

It was a library, like any other. Behind Fleary there was a notice posted on the end of a bookshelf that read, "All books in this room are to STAY in this room." Below that another, "Theft of books will result in hours/lashings." I wondered what market there must be for such a commodity. After all, "ladies" of the house were given their class books.

"I trust you arrived in good health?"

My attention snapped to the shuddering jowls of the man before me. "I suppose."

"Well, did you or did you not?"

"I did," I said, thumbing the seam of my gown. The thought of Audrey's implication regarding this man disgusted me, and seeing him once again in person summoned the image unwillingly into my mind. I snapped my eyes shut to banish the vision of this loathsome fellow, sweaty and glistening, holding me down as he mounted.

"Yes, I did, Sir," he drawled emphatically.

"Yes sir," I opened my eyes and admired the sturdy construction of the bookshelf behind him.

"Do you find this place to your liking?"

"Oh, it's lovely," I said. "Pardon the fouled cistern, the leaky roof, the festering walls, rotting carpets, the watery tomb of a cellar. I've seen sunken ships that have taken on less water than this place."

"So you do not in fact find this place satisfactory?" he asked, not especially concerned with the answer.

"Would it matter if I didn't? I suppose I ought to be grateful to my alleged benefactor for—"

"That benefactor happens to be your father," he said.

"By technicality only," I said. "The only father I've ever known rests upon the bottom of the sea. As for Pruet, I never asked for, nor wanted his assistance. If he wanted to help me, he could have paid my board rather than reduce me to a drudge working for kitchen scraps. Frankly, I don't care if I ever see the man. He's done me no favor by bringing me here." I was angry, mostly because while I was tasked to scrub the kitchen each morning and the floors each night, and everything else in between, Audrey was allowed to do as she pleased. I hated her for that, never mind her venomous tongue.

Fleary looked at me over his glasses. "You ungrateful little wretch," he said. "Just as well. You are in no way worthy of his presence. Not yet at least. Just as you don't want to see him, he most certainly doesn't want to see the sordid state of your manners."

"Fine."

"Now, Carrowyn. Did he make any offending gesture towards you while you were with him?"

"Aside from forcibly removing me from my father's ship?"

Mr. Fleary raised a brow. "Yes, it is my understanding you put up quite a fuss. But in all seriousness, I am only confirming that he was not wanton. And again, Pruet is your father, not Marius," he said. "As for being removed from the ship, you had no place there the moment Marius died. You can blame the first mate for that, not Pruet."

"My hatred is equally divided."

"The first mate is a considerate man to have agreed to this arrangement in the first place."

I rolled my eyes, which incited him to become louder.

"Common laws upon the high seas state that in an unsubsidized operation," he spat, "when the owner and captain of the vessel passes away without heir or will stating otherwise, command and ownership of that vessel and its interests passes to the next of the chain: the first mate."

"But there was an heir." I hooked a thumb into my chest. "I was the heir."

"No!" Fleary raised a thick finger. "A bastardess is what you are, and don't you ever forget that. A slight upon his good name, living proof of his cuckoldry. And even if you were his daughter, you are heir to nothing. You are but a girl and therefore cannot hold property. In fact," he shouted, "legally you would be considered an 'interest.' No more than property. And being property, ownership of you was transferred to the first mate upon Marius' passing. Had he wished it, Mr. Chellov could have legitimately retained you as an indentured servant for the rest of your miserable life, or sold your services, or even made you his mistress, or mistress to every man on that ship. Be thankful Pruet found you when he did."

"And so now I am his property," I said, staring at my feet. They didn't even reach the floor. "My father never would have allowed—" I started, though I knew the claim was far aside from truth.

"The man you insist on referring to as your father," he said, waving his hand as if it were a blade, "is dead. He has no further impact upon your life. Therefore it is not within his power to allow or disallow anything. And if you consider yourself anything but lucky for your circumstance, I will recommend tomorrow that you are thrown into the streets of this city to be eaten by the rats."

There was a long silence as he awaited my reaction, but I had no suitable response, just frustration and anger, nothing that could serve any useful purpose. He sighed, removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes once more.

"There are no rats left in Felvishar, Mr. Fleary," I said finally. "They've all drowned themselves in our cistern."

"That went well," I remarked as I came back into our room. Genevieve was curled on her bed, wrapped around a small book.

"Studying for exams?" I asked. Knowing her aversion to all things academic, it seemed unlikely.

"No," she gasped, not letting her attention waiver. "It's one of those new books, romantic fiction they call it. How was your meeting?"

"I lived through it," I said, closed the door and sat at the foot of her bed. "A story book?"

"Listen to this," she said, her face hidden behind the pages.

"Brock Torn grabbed Melanie around her waist and with one strong arm pulled her toward him, no longer willing to ignore the attraction they both felt, the raw hunger of their affections. His unbridled passion startled her and she threw her arms against his hard fury, but unable to disregard the burning longing in her heart any more than he. His lips sought hers, his body pressed firmly into her yielding softness. She moaned as his bold firmness pushed her back against the wall."

"It's called A Sordid Affair and it's absolutely wicked."

She looked up and smiled before her grin was replaced by a look of horror. "Did he strike you?" I was puzzled until she grasped my face in her hands, eyes focused intently on my forehead. "How did this happen?"

"I was eavesdropping on Audrey when she opened the door."

She smiled, kissed my forehead. "You poor dear," she said and got off the bed to carefully insert her book into a stack sitting on the desk. I didn't realize why she should be so precise until I read the spines. Together they formed a strange sort of poetry: To Love Long, A Man in Plain Clothes, Speak of Hunger and Virtue, All for Liberty, A Sordid Affair, The Commerce of our Age.

Genevieve was a voracious reader, consuming books at an impressive rate, though never those she was assigned to read. I spent the evening at her side as she turned pages well into the night, falling asleep to the sound of her fingers sliding against paper.

On the rare occasion that I was left with nothing to do, I spent my time reading in the library, with Genevieve or sitting in the overgrown garden. There was a small bench there that looked upon a dry fountain. I sat there one day, having trudged through the many leaves that cluttered the narrow path from the kitchen, remnants of the previous autumn. The sky was gray and spat down occasional droplets of water, reminding me of the day I arrived at Duenna. I pressed my calloused palms against the cool stone of the bench. The air was oddly temperate for the summer, and it moved in refreshing gusts that rattled the branches of the ancient oak tree standing vigil over the walled enclosure.

I gazed into the fountain, a large empty bowl. I wanted it to gush with water, to come to life. Sometimes I imagined that it did just that, a sign from my goddess that all was not lost, that I was not forgotten here, miles from the sea.

The door from the kitchen opened then closed quietly, and I heard the shuffling of feet through the fallen leaves. Though I sat with my back to the door, I knew it was Genevieve. Her clever hands found the knots in my hair and pulled them loose one by one as I sat there. I leaned against her and she adjusted her stance to support my weight. "Do you still want me to cut it?" she asked.

I craned my neck to see her. Genevieve looked upon me, her lips curled with a hint of a smile. "If you don't mind."

"I wish I had more time here," she said. "If I thought I would return next summer, I'd like to tend this garden. I'd plant tulips and daffodils against the fence, do away with all of these leaves and give the roses a proper trim. I would turn this old fountain into a planter, fill it with flowers. And maybe put ivy around the base of the tree. And over there," she extended an arm past the fountain. "Over there, I think would be the vegetable garden. I would grow beans on the north side, then work my way down with peppers, turnips, celery, spinach and finally the melons on the south end. I think that would be nice." She rested her hand on my shoulder and I reached up to touch it.

"That would be nice," I said, though knew nothing about cultivation. That was her god, Ogoun, on the other side of the pantheon from my own. "Shall we?"

Genevieve nodded, and I rose. We strode back inside arm in arm and made our way upstairs.

When we returned to our room, Genevieve pulled a chair from the desk and turned it around for me to sit in.

I plopped down as she took up the shears she had gotten from the kitchen. She placed a small mirror against the wall so I could see, then maneuvered behind me, slicing at the air. "How much would you like off? Six inches? Nine? Should be enough to take the tangles out," she said, pulling it out to length.

I looked sidelong into the mirror and grimaced. At the time the gnarled black mass seemed a hindrance, a knot of brambles. "I don't want any of it."

"But you have such beautiful hair."

I shrugged. Fleary's bullying was still fresh in my mind. And it was clear to me that were I not a woman, I would not have been removed from the Seraph. So many things would have been different. "I hate it. It's a vulnerability, a handle. No matter what we ever do there will always be a Fleary or a Pruet or a Carrowyn or someone to pull us back by our hair."

"What brought this on?"

"Mr. Fleary has kindly pointed out the deficiencies of our sex. As if our delicacies serve to sabotage our free will."

"I understand that precisely," Genevieve moaned as she trimmed the ends. "I have three brothers, all of whom have been given the freedom and resource to enjoy their lives as they should while I remain tied to my father's wrist. I envy the dog sometimes. At least that bitch is left to roam as she may, to rut as she may. My brothers have paid homage to every brothel in the valley and have more than a handful of common whores and who knows how many bastard children. Shame the way they act." I looked away from the mirror, abruptly self-conscious of my own errant conception.

"Cut it off," I said. "Leave less than a handful."

Genevieve bunched my hair near the top and moved the shears in to saw it off but stopped. "I don't think I should," she said.

I could see her lips curl down in the mirror. "Why not?" I asked. "I don't need it. It just gets in the way. I have no one to impress. None to woo."

"Oh you will, love. But you have sharp features. And you don't have, well," she shrugged, "curves. You'd look like a boy. You'll regret it for months if it's cut too short."

I sighed and the differences of our figures. I was a clear foot shorter. My bosom was not at all pronounced if even noticeable, whereas Genevieve's clearly was. And her hips curved gracefully outward, giving a precious look to the small of her waist, where mine were narrow and gave no indication of where my waist actually was. Worst of all, not only did I have the figure of a boy, but it was of one several years younger than I actually was. I closed my eyes, frustrated with my diminutive size, diminutive figure, diminutive status, diminutive everything. "Six inches then."

"That's my girl," she said, and happily snipped away.

"Is it true what Audrey said?" I asked, eager to focus on someone else's misery. "About your marriage?"

"By snails, I hope not," she said.

"But there's truth to it. Otherwise you wouldn't have gotten so upset."

"You've found me out." She stopped, stepped away and eyed the back of my head before continuing.

"So when is it?"

"Hopefully never, if I have anything to do with it," she said.

"What are you going to do?"

"All done," she said, picking up clumps of hair by the fistful. I had put her off, and decided not to broach the matter again, at least not while she brandished a pair of shears.

##### Chapter 2

The night was virile. It moved with a life of its own, breathed into our room like an unwelcome guest. The elm stirred across the street. The cool evening winds of early autumn extracted secrets from between whispering leaves and painted dappled shadows against the far wall by the light of the street lantern. Images and patterns danced over crumbling alabaster, faces and shapes made from the hollows between the boughs. I lay rigid and tense, coiled like a serpent on my bed, watching the silhouettes thrown upon the wall and listening as the house settled. Something gathered inside of me, uneasiness, an anxiety that had kept me from sleeping well the past few weeks. It nettled me awake despite the endless chores of the house. My shoulders always hurt, my hands were blistered and callused, and yet exhaustion proved a poor soporific.

Life in the house had eventually fallen into a rhythm between the constant housework and Genevieve's company. Duenna, with rare exception, was without event. Several weeks after I arrived, a pair of thieves had broken into the kitchen and made off with some silver and cheese before the Madam chased them into the street with a cudgel she used to kill rats. It was an unsettling intrusion, but fortunately nothing had come of it.

Academically speaking, I had little time for study, but then subjects with which others struggled were familiar to me, and presented little challenge. Having been an avid reader aboard the Seraph, and I frequently escaped into the world of literature and sciences, devouring whatever books I could find in port. I was still expected to partake of monthly exams, but would stride in well after the exam had started, it didn't matter the class, precisely complete the test, turn it over and leave before anyone else had finished. In this one way did I aver myself over the chitterlings who sought every other opportunity to chew me down, asserting their refined blood over mine. Therefore, when I had the advantage, I made every effort to let them know.

The exception was etiquette, which was a consistent difficulty, mainly because I saw no use in it and therefore resisted its absorption if unwittingly.

Beyond that, there were times that I dreaded, such as Fleary's bi-weekly engagements, and times with Genevieve that I adored. Audrey remained distant and taunting. Over time I simply learned to ignore her, though was never wholly successful. Life was at worst tolerable.

But Pruet, however unseen, bothered me profoundly, fed my growing and seemingly irrational anxiety. Whatever reasons he had for bringing me here, arranging my "education" and boarding, were not entirely philanthropic. I suspected there was something going on, though couldn't say what. In the months since I had arrived at Duenna, he had not come to see me. Surely I would mean more to him than Audrey, who claimed to have seen him on several occasions. I was never quite certain whether Audrey spoke truthfully of her experiences. Her stories were peculiar, cryptic and feverish, as if she were dreaming. However, Genevieve vouched that Audrey was generally honest to a fault, painfully so.

And then there lingered the question of how I had come to be here in the first place, a matter of timing, really. How was it that Carrowyn and Fleary had been waiting for the Seraph at the docks in Portshire, already knowing that Marius had passed, and where and when the ship was to port? I had brought this to the first mate's attention, but he dismissed my protests in his readiness to be rid of my presence aboard what he saw as his ship. I wondered briefly if Marius' death was truly an act of accident and nature, but then I had more part in his death than accident and nature combined. A pit bored into my gut at that remembrance, and I supposed I deserved much less than I had received.

I turned in my bed, attempting to banish the thoughts from my head with a change of scenery, though the dirty gray of the opposing wall offered little in the way of calm. In the distance, a shrill cacophony pierced the night as a gathering of cats mewed and scrapped. From somewhere further away I heard the urgent "tack, tack, tack" of a clapper's staff at work, chasing down some outlaw or thief. And then the cats again, but then, that was no cat. I ground my teeth as the droning whine stretched out into a haunting and discordant melody, just as it had nearly every night for the past month. I had no idea what made that sound or where it came from, but I knew when I found the sinister instrument, I was going to smash it.

But even this eventually ceased, and there was again the misplaced silence I had grown to despise. I missed the rolling lull of the ocean, the groan of the bilge, the comforting thump of rigging bumping against the masts.

I turned again, my eyes falling on Genevieve. She slept soundly, silently, facing away on her side. The high curve of her shoulder dipped acutely to her waist, then arced upward with the round of her hip. I watched her, the gentle wax and wane of her breathing, enamored and envious all at once. Audrey's incessant derision invaded my thoughts, reminding me of my own boyish appearance, peevish cynicism. Certainly no man could want me as mate. Certainly no dowry would be enough.

My self-pity was interrupted, though, for at that moment the floor creaked tenderly in the hallway outside our room. My heart sputtered. I soon regarded the sound as just the loose floorboards protesting against their nails, much as deck planks do on ships, but there it was again a few seconds later. My senses came alive. I starred at the outline of the door, the utter blackness of the iron handle, the dark mass that was the letter desk in the corner. The entire wall seemed to undulate with shadows. Again there was the noise. I was frozen with fear, eyes fast open as I mentally tracked the sounds, footsteps making a slow, cautious journey in the hallway. My eyes darted to the space beneath the door but spied no hint of candlelight, which would have identified the body as a member of the house. Not conspicuous enough for the Madam or even light-footed Ms. Lila. I wondered if our thieves had returned.

"Genevieve, wake up!" I hissed, but my roommate lay still. I slipped from the bed and silently crossed to hers. I laid a hand on her shoulder and rocked her. "Genevieve, wake up."

She moaned, batting my hand away.

"I hear something. Footsteps."

"It's the mice. Let me sleep," she muttered, turned and covered her head with a pillow.

Again, I heard the soft creak of footsteps as someone carefully navigated the corridor. Spinning around, I inadvertently kicked Genevieve's novella and sent it skidding across the floor. I held my breath as the sounds from hallway the ceased. There was someone there, just outside. I could feel it with every hair on my head, the goose bumps on every inch of my skin as I stared at the door, half expecting it to fling open. An eternity passed before I heard the sound again, a little further down, and I breathed once more.

The door opened under my hand with barely a noise as I peered into the hall to see a shadow disappear down the service stairs leading to the kitchen. I stepped out of our room and tiptoed to the top of the steps, urgently curious to know what lurked about, wary of more burglars.

I rounded the corner to find cold slate eyes drilling into me like a frightful basilisk. I shuddered and recoiled behind the corner. It was Audrey. Just Audrey. "Where are you going?" I rasped. Audrey exhaled deeply, conveying a conspicuous boredom with this little game, but said nothing. "It's past curfew. If Duenna sees you she'll have your head."

She blinked slowly, then raised a finger to her lips, an order for silence, before slowly backing down the stairwell, glaring at me to dare not follow. And it worked until she was out of sight, but as soon as I heard Audrey's boot heels clack against the kitchen floor, I trundled down the stairs after her. By the time I reached the bottom Audrey was already out, leaving the back door to close lazily on its own, unlocked; No wonder we had thieves. I caught the door, leaned out and hissed after her but my admonition either went unheard or ignored. Audrey's platinum locks disappeared into the half-light and shadows of the autumn night.

A heavy hand landed on my shoulder and my wits flew screaming from my head as I spun round. Madam Duenna snapped her hand over my mouth with surprising dexterity and stifled the sound. "It is convenient that your weekends are free of familial obligations," she whispered in a feral voice. "For you have just earned the privilege of stripping and oiling the banister."

My heart dropped into my stomach. "But—" I wanted to tell the Madam that I was looking out for Audrey, but knew Audrey would never forgive me. Besides, that would make me a snitch. "Yes, Madam."

"Up!" She gestured to the stairs, and I climbed, the Madam keeping pace behind. I entered our room and the door was closed forcibly after me.

"Did you find your mouse?" Genevieve asked, rubbing her eyes.

"Yes. And now I have to strip the banister on my only free day. Where does she think she's going this time of night? The worst of it is that she made it out the door cleanly, leaving me to get caught."

"Of course she made it out. She always does."

"What do you mean?" I asked, dropping into bed.

"She leaves the house several nights a week. Weekends, too. She's never been punished for it as far as I'm aware."

"Duenna's never noticed?"

She yawned. "I'm sure she's noticed by now. Probably has from the start. But she doesn't do anything about it."

"Why not?" I said. "Where is Audrey going?"

"You'd know more than I," she said. "Wherever it is, Fleary must be alright with it. Otherwise Duenna would never let it happen."

"Oh." I slipped under the blankets and wrapped them over my shoulders. Her explanation seemed to make sense, though it didn't mollify my anxieties, merely cast them in a new direction. Sometime in the predawn, as the songbirds began their morning herald, I thought I heard Audrey re-enter through the kitchen door and return to her room. Shortly after, I got up once again, though only to help Ms. Lila bring in wood for the cauldrons. It was laundry day.

The banister, as I came to know several days later, was a beautiful thing. Scrubbing it with such meticulous attention led me to appreciate the intricacy of its design: interwoven carvings of geese, elk and deer, a graceful curve as it careened down into the foyer. However, the charm was lost forever after the stripping the first three feet. The task of picking away layers of paint and grime was painstaking and laboriously slow. Having started before sunrise, I hoped to be finished by mid-morning, yet by then I was not even half done restoring the wood to its original luster.

Around noon, a parade of feet rumbled down the stairs beside me, and I looked up to see the other residents of the house descend past on their way to be fitted for new clothes: gowns, hats, shoes, stockings, coats, everything one would need to face the bitter cold of the approaching winter.

"It's a shame the drudge can't come with us," Batheny snickered in passing. "She'll still be tripping over her gown come solstice." I yearned to reach over, grapple the girl's ankle and send her tumbling down the stairs. My face must have betrayed that urge, for Genevieve's hand rested reassuringly on my shoulder before she too descended past.

Audrey paused a moment behind the others, leaned down close to my ear and said, "I know you've been watching."

I felt uneasy, as if I were a glutton caught pilfering from the larder. I searched for something biting to say, not letting my eyes stray from my work, but found my wit easily disarmed by Audrey's insinuation. "What of it?"

"You want to come? See where I go. You think you're entitled. Because you're blood."

"I'll have nothing to do with you," I said.

Audrey huffed in disbelief and moved on. I continued my task with renewed vigor, fueled by aggravation. I hated when Audrey was right. Sometimes it seemed she could see straight through me.

Truthfully, I did want to know. In the five days since that night, Audrey had escaped the house twice, both times about an hour past curfew. Both times she returned shortly before the dawn. And, unlike myself, she seemed unaffected by keeping such odd hours, while large circles had permanently entrenched themselves beneath my eyes.

My appearance naturally incited rumors among the others that I had been mistakenly buried alive and had to dig my way out of the ground. The ever-present grime beneath my fingernails did nothing but reinforce this little anecdote, though part of me gleaned pleasure from the thought of myself, risen from the dead, chasing after a houseful of indignant snots who screamed like a flock of spooked geese in their fright. But such foolish fantasies are just that.

When they had all passed by and out, I rested my head against the balusters and wallowed in my misery. After a few seconds, I stood to stretch the hardened muscles of my back and shoulders, then rolled the sleeves of my sodden tunic back up my arms from where they'd crept down.

"Gotten into a spot with the Madam?"

I turned to see Mr. Fleary standing at the foot of the stairs, smiling. The softness of his expression almost made his face seem kind. "I'm afraid I have, Mr. Fleary," I said. "I'm also afraid your timing is poor. Audrey has just left with the others to go shopping."

"Yes, I am aware of that," he said. "I've actually come to see you." I returned a puzzled look and he explained. "I know we aren't to meet till tomorrow, but your father has something for you." My eyes widened, and though I am ashamed to admit it, a smile streaked across my face as I bounded down the stairs.

"He bought me something, a gift?" I stammered. As much as I resented what had happened on the Seraph, there lingered in me hope that I had family somewhere, and was not entirely estranged from it. Genevieve talked endlessly about her brothers, Jalob, Sivon and Bethrand, and her father and mother and countless cousins, aunts and uncles. I had but a heavy-handed surrogate who had been consumed; the sea had planted that seed in his chest, and I him in the sea. The longing for family was a hollow in my heart.

"It's not a gift so much as an assignment." My smile retreated into a pout upon being handed a blockish parcel produced from beneath Fleary's coat. "You have here three books. The first is a primer written in Naamul, an eloquent though dead language, the second a translation text with which you shall understand the primer, and lastly a blank binding into which you shall translate the primer."

I groaned at yet one more thing to do. "I have hardly enough time as it is."

"You'll have to make time, then. It's important that you do. I've got to be going. I'm late for an appointment," he announced, and tugged his coat back into place.

Fearful of retort, I protested no further, but walked him to the door as he adjusted his cap. "Mr. Fleary, if I may ask a question," not truly sure what question to ask in a way that would sound appropriate.

"What is it?"

"It's about Audrey. What duty does she owe my father?"

He raised a brow. "Been talking to Audrey?"

I shrugged, then nodded, feeling wrong for noticing her transgressions.

"Never you mind about her. She's not your concern. This is your business for the time being," he said, tapping the parcel in my hand. "You're not to counsel with her."

"But—"

"No exceptions," he said and wagged a finger before my face as if I were a dog who had piddled on the floor. "I'm serious. Stay well away from her and her games for your own sake. Audrey serves Pruet in her own way, however she has many disreputable habits that could do you harm. You would not do well to be influenced by her, so please, keep your distance for the time being. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes," I said, knowing full well I wouldn't.

"Good. Now study. You ought to take particular interest in the primer. Your mother penned it," he said and closed the door.

Breathless, I stared at the small leather-bound book clutched in my sullied fingers. I wanted to pull it open and rifle through its pages, looking for messages or secrets she might have left me. This was, of course, absurd, for she passed at my birth, but it was what I wanted, no matter how unlikely. However, I knew if I opened it right then I would soil the pages. Instead, I set the parcel at the foot of the stairs to take to my room later on, and returned to the banister.

Many hours later, I staggered back up the stairs I had worked my way down, lugging Fleary's parcel with both hands. I had barely set it on the desk when the sound of inane chatter flooding the foyer announced the return of the others. Some of them remarked loudly about a "missed spot" and how it was just so hard to find good help these days, as the gaggle trampled up the stairs. Vichelle and Thenylli paused in my open doorway to jabber about my misfortune so that I was sure to hear.

Genevieve burst through them, overloaded with bags and boxes which swung around like children hanging from her arms, then kicked the door shut behind her. She smiled warmly, eyes fluttering a jubilant green. "I'm sorry you couldn't come with us," she said, dumping packages onto the bed before hugging me as I held my arms straight out to avoid staining her gown. "Oh, your hands." Before I could say anything, she dragged me to the basin and scrubbed my hands thoroughly, a service for which I was grateful, considering the state of them. I was about to ask her how the day went, but she was already bent on telling. "I managed to find some things you might like to wear, some things more your size. And hats! I love hats! And oh!" Genevieve's eyes grew wide. "Wait till you see what I found you!" She dried her hands and mine, then turned and sifted through her purchases. "Close your eyes."

I complied and she stepped behind me, held something up to my shoulders, then turned me so that I stood in view of the mirror. "Alright. Open!"

"Oh," I stammered, not sure what to say.

"Do you like it?" Genevieve smiled, and rested her chin on my shoulder. I found the soft touch of her neck against mine endearing, secretly reveling in the gentle contact.

"It's beautiful," I said and stared. And it truly was the most gorgeous thing I had ever owned. It was a dress, not a gown, made to fit. Elegant green fabric was trimmed with black lace around the low neckline, the sleeves and hem. "Thank you," I said, "for being my friend."

Genevieve recoiled with a quizzical expression. "Of course," she smiled. "What else would I be if not a friend?"

"What indeed," I said and carefully put the dress away, mindful of getting a corner caught in the wardrobe door. "I've never had something so beautiful."

"Won't you try it on?" she asked.

"No," I said, exhausted. "I'll save it until I have an occasion worth its wear. I know it will fit."

Aching, I fell into bed, pleased to be near Genevieve, who flipped excitedly through the latest novella in the dim twilight. I opened the primer Fleary had given me. As it was called, so it was: a rudimentary teaching of a peculiar language riddled with odd scratching and symbols. But to me it was magical. I couldn't read it, but it seemed undeniably familiar. I instantly recognized the similarities in handwriting, short quick strokes, a concern for speed and efficiency over penmanship, as if I had written it but couldn't remember doing so. I turned page after page, though found nothing untoward; all of them were consistently academic. When I arrived at the end, I put my nose to the binding, shut my eyes and inhaled its scent: sweet pulp, decayed and rich, the intoxication of black ink even after what was at least seventeen years. I slid the book under my pillow and promptly fell asleep, cozy in the autumn chill, safe and in good company. I had found a part of my family.

There was a scraping at the door, like a cat pawing to get outside. The sound startled me awake and I was momentarily disoriented. I had slept through the evening, past supper and well into the night. "Fen," came a rasping whisper. I looked to Genevieve. I couldn't see her, but I could hear the relaxed rise and fall of her breath as she slept soundly. Slipping from the bed, I fumbled in the darkness to the door and opened it a crack to see Audrey's blue eyes and blond hair, a satchel slung over one arm.

"Good," she said. "You're still dressed. Let's go."

"Where are we going?"

Audrey pushed the door open a few more inches, grabbed my wrist and pulled me into the hallway. "Out," she said. "Now come before we get caught."

"I thought you never got caught," I said.

"No, I don't. But you do."

We made our way down the kitchen stairs, slipped from the back door into the garden and then out the gate to the alley. I was certain someone watched from the window but Audrey's insistent grip upon my wrist and her fast step quickly led us from sight of the house. My senses flew about inside. While I was curious to know where Audrey was going, I had no desire for further housework.

Once far from the house, I wrenched my hand free of her grasp. "Where are you taking me?" I rasped, not wanting to draw the attention of the clappers.

Audrey stopped to look at me. Her hard body shifted under her gown, her face taut and focused. We studied each other for a moment in the pale light of the half moon. In the tenements reaching above the narrow street a man and woman were shouting at each other, though the spat was muffled by wooden shutters. A horse and carriage trundled by, becoming loud for an instant as hooves struck across one of the many iron hatches to the aqueducts below the streets.

"You did want to come, didn't you? That was the point of watching me. You wanted to know, right?"

I rubbed my wrist. "Yes," I said. "But you could just tell me."

She shook her head. "Let's go."

We walked toward the wide river running through the center of Felvishar, Femporlamer it was called. The buildings were all dark save the occasional flickering glow of firelight through a curtained window.

The road we walked narrowed, then twisted sharply between buildings, becoming an alley no wider than a horse. Soon it opened again into a decidedly different part of the city. I could smell the moisture from the river and instantly recognized the merchant district by the street lamps, glowing red, green and yellow through colored glass.

"Audrey, where are we going?" I pleaded, knowing the sorts who lurked here.

"Be patient. We have to make a stop first." Audrey took my arm and pulled me into a doorway, under a crosswalk, up a stair then through a door with a sign hanging above, which I couldn't read. The dank stench of the river was replaced with the bitter reek of burning oil and dust as we entered. Inside, lit golden by many candles were all manner of things: leathers, furs, knives, books, scrolls, ropes, hooks, everything both old and new one could think of heaped against every wall and corner. Between piles of junk, beside the door, there was a broad table minded by a large man with dark hair and suspicious eyes. His hand rested lightly upon the pommel of a sword propped up against the table.

Audrey nodded to the man, who remained motionless, and pulled something from her satchel.

"My geometry book!"

The man's eyes slid uneasily to me.

"We'll need money," Audrey said, sliding it across the table.

The man picked it up with one hand, smelled it and ran his fingers quickly through the pages before setting it down, never lowering his gaze. From somewhere out of view he extracted several coins and placed them on the table.

Audrey grimaced, her lips pursed. She reached to the book and flipped it open. Jabbing at the pages with her fingertips she shouted, "Pictures!" referring to the painstakingly drawn representations of ellipses, parabolas and other mundane though precise graphs.

The man's grip on his weapon tightened as they argued in a heated tongue completely foreign to me, though Audrey obviously knew it well enough to haggle. In the end he offered another coin, which Audrey snatched before heading out the door, me in tow.

"We can't get half its worth this time of night," she said, "but I forgot to bring it when we were out today."

Still reeling from the violence of the exchange, I said nothing and let myself be tugged over the canal locks to the edge of the river where boatmen slept and drank and awaited the occasional fare.

The river greeted us along with the echoed sounds of skirmishing sailors and petulant whores across the slow and smooth waters. With a coin from Audrey's pocket we purchased ourselves across by boat. A young man with brown hair and fair skin not yet pocked by the sun, drove the oars. He eyed Audrey hungrily, a half-empty bottle of sac by his side. For once I was glad my looks did not merit affection. When the boat landed, Audrey tipped the oarsman with a kiss rather than waste a copper, and pulled me onward.

The streets this side of the river were noticeably cleaner, the buildings made of finer stone, not timber, the lanterns a bit brighter. She took us up steep avenues, cobbled neatly and swept, past parks and shops all closed as was proper that time of night. She stopped in front of a large, plain stone building neatly wedged between two others. "I have to make an appearance," she said. "Stay here." Before I could protest Audrey was already at the door, rapping lightly. A small window in the door opened and she exchanged words with somebody inside. The door opened and she stepped in.

Standing alone in the darkness, I gravitated toward the light of a nearby street lamp and hugged myself against the cold air as a breeze whispered around my ankles. A few minutes later Audrey burst from the door and strode toward me. She was followed by a gaunt man with a large angular face holding a roll of papers. I found out later that this was Tiplin, though I'm sure he wouldn't recall this first encounter. Yelling after her, he caught up, grabbed her wrist and slapped the bundle in her hand, then shook his head and walked back inside the building.

Audrey stormed into the street, her face tight with anger. "I have no patience for this." Our pace quickened, and I half ran to catch up with her. "The things you have to look forward to," she muttered.

"What was that place?" I asked. "Is that where Pruet is?"

"Yes, your father and his entourage of sycophants."

"What did they give you?"

"See for yourself," she said and threw the bundle at my feet. It came apart as it hit the ground and I scrambled to collect errant pages. "Audrey," I called as she walked away. "Audrey, wait!"

"My life is my life," she said as I trailed after, clasping pages with both arms. I'm not their little toy. I'm not their doll to do with as they may."

"But have you any choice?" I asked. "He pays your board, your education. Don't you owe him something?" I understood my own lack of gratitude, but Audrey was never asked to scrub floors, wash dishes or load the laundry. I didn't have much sympathy for her.

She snatched the bundle of papers from my hands and threw them to the ground. "There is always a choice. Always. And I owe them nothing." Despite the hard lines etched in her face, the resolve in her demeanor, I could see the wet in her eyes. Audrey must have realized this as well for she turned and kept walking.

We worked our way back down to the river, down a street without lamps where shadows seemed to move of their own accord. There was a heavy musk in the air of something burning as we passed a large open square to our right. Audrey pointed to the center of the square where several still forms were propped up over glowing embers, bodies, lifeless and smoldering. "Heretics," she said. "Traitors to their gods. Remember what happens to people with ideas of their own." The poignancy of this remark set me off ease; it was a warning. I glanced back to the charred remains. I couldn't imagine being burned to death; such a horrible way to die, every bit of flesh eaten away.

If I may pause the story for a moment, I would jot a passing thought. In considering methods of execution, I'm oddly grateful that the act has grown too numerous these days to make death by fire an efficient means of dispatch. Hanging is much more common, often with evisceration if the crowds want a show. Fleary, in all his kindness, has suggested to Bellatine that beheading would be much more "productive" in my case, perhaps preceded by a flogging to make sure that I am "good and awake" at my decapitation. Mind you, I would just as soon decline the whole affair, but at least beheading is more expedient, and hopefully less painful. However, Rouhn, to whom I shall introduce the reader later on, assures me that it's not as quick as one would think. Her peculiar insight in these matters disturbs me. Regardless, back to the story.

We continued a few blocks further before Audrey led us down several stairs and into a narrow alley. Walls on either side loomed like monoliths in the clear night sky. She stopped at a small, unassuming door and knocked three times, then once more. "This is it," she said, rubbed her hands together.

"This is what?"

"Where I go. Mind yourself in here," she said and turned the latch. "And keep your knees together." She opened the door slowly and we entered. The door was shut and locked behind us. The inside was barely lit, and smelled of ginger and something else. Audrey took my hand and pulled me close. "Fen, this is Nigel." I hadn't noticed the large man with ebony skin standing, hand on sword, in an alcove behind the door, bare from the chest up. His lips were large and sensuous, interrupted by a scar darting upward from his chin. Nigel's physical abruptness caught me off guard. The hard curves of his chest eased slightly as his sword arm relaxed. I was aware then that we were not in good company. This was a dangerous place, and these were dangerous people.

"A pleasure," I said, expecting a response. But if he did respond, I couldn't tell.

Nigel dropped a heavy plank across the entrance, then motioned through a doorway obscured by a beaded curtain. Beyond was a larger room with hardwood floors covered by reed mats, blankets and pillows. The walls were past austere; stark alabaster had given way to time and decay as evident by dark streaks, mildew from the forever damp air so close to the river. Patches of the low ceiling had given way as well, revealing the slats of the floor above. Bits of plaster were caught in the smoke colored cobwebs running in networks over the room. Segmenting the expansive chamber were large cloth blinds, stretched canvas held taut in wooden frames, set upright on little wooden feet. Somewhere incense burned, adding dark smoke to the heady malaise that hung in the room.

Nigel stepped before us and I watched his lean form as we threaded through the canvas maze. Muscles undulated beneath his flesh like a stalking cat. His hair was long and matted, coarse locks tumbling past his shoulders.

My eyes grew wide as I caught glimpses of flesh and smoke through cracks and corners of the blinds. I heard sounds of people thoroughly enjoying a meal, smacking lips, quiet moans. My head spun from side to side, open mouthed and eager to understand what the blinds concealed. My heart thumped in my chest as I wondered just what had I agreed to. Audrey yanked me to her side. "Knees together," she hissed.

Nigel directed us to a discreet corner booth adorned with a jumble of pillows, a reed mat and a small wooden table no more than a foot high. Upon the table rested a covered pot, black with odd white markings, a large wooden spoon, several little plates and loose bits of parchment too small to serve any proper purpose. Audrey sat against the corner wall and pulled me down to sit beside her. Nigel glared at Audrey, casting an occasional glance to me.

Audrey put her fingers to her lips and Nigel rose and disappeared from view.

"You're hungry?" She asked, opening the dish to reveal cooked rice.

"Ravenous, thank you," I said. Having missed supper, I immediately spooned a clump onto a small plate, then scooped it into my mouth with my fingertips as there was no flatware. It was cold and not at all pleasing to the belly. "Do they serve anything else? Perhaps some cheese? Or maybe those little honey sweets?"

Audrey pulled a pouch from her bosom, opened it and tapped something into the hollow of her palm. "Rice is all you'll get in the way of food here."

"Really?" I said, chewing industriously on the bland starch. I was unnaturally glib, nervous. "What a shame. What do they call a place like this?" I had no word for it.

She rolled the substance into a scrap of the loose paper and ran her tongue along the edge to seal it neatly into place, then lit it with a nearby candle. From the side of her mouth she said, "This is a tea house."

I slapped my hand over my mouth to keep rice from exploding through my lips. When I had the wit to swallow I glared at her. "Do you know what they'll do to us if we're caught?" I growled.

She shrugged and took a deep draught, held it in a moment, then exhaled, sending the smoke billowing in my direction. "Would you have come had I told you? Besides, they start with the ill-used," she said and held her left hand up for inspection: a thumb, three fingers, and a nearly healed stump where her little finger used to be. I leaned away in disgust. It dawned upon me then that she kept her left hand guarded at all times, using it at most fleetingly, facing away from the eye.

"Of course I wouldn't have come. If you'd heard half the stories I have about places like this, you wouldn't either, never mind your hand." I couldn't help but stare even after she lowered it. Eventually she slid it under the table where it offered no temptation.

"All men, but especially sailors," she said, taking another pull, "tell stories. It's time you stopped living your life vicariously."

She offered the mash to my lips, but I pushed it away. "I don't want to."

"You're in a tea house. You wanted to come," she said. "The least you could do is try the tea."

"Can't I simply watch?"

Scowling, she offered the tea and said, "You'll get us kicked out of here if they think you're here to watch."

Sighing with contempt, I placed it between my lips, glanced to Audrey for any last minute exemption that did not come, and inhaled. The smoke charred my throat and I started to cough. "It burns," I wheezed, tears streaming down my cheeks.

"That'll pass," she said and took it from me before I singed myself. "Nigel should be back soon with some water."

"Good!" I rasped.

Nigel did return, wooden tray in hand stacked well with various implements of consumption and thankfully a pitcher of cool water. He cast an amused look to us as I still labored to breathe, red-faced and hacking. He set the tray upon the table and poured water into a wooden goblet, which I snatched from his hand to douse the cough.

He sat down as well and produced a long, straight pipe mounted with a small bowl at one end, then packed it with a ruddy powder, eyes shifting from Audrey to me and then back to Audrey. He then added a black paste from one of the smaller dishes and leaned uncomfortably close to light it against the candle sitting on the table. Nigel sucked deeply on one end until the bowl whispered a blue smoke into the air. He closed his dark brown eyes and let the fume escape his lips before passing the pipe to Audrey. And so it went on to me and then back to Nigel. I gave up all pretense of innocence at that point, realizing that whether I partook or not, my clothes would reek of the stuff and serve to incriminate me. I sought instead to enjoy it, vowing never to do this again.

By the second time around, the heat of the tea had spread into my body like a blossoming flame, consuming my skin from the feet up. Audrey must have felt it too because she smiled warmly, intense blue eyes now soft and gazing. She'd be pretty if she weren't so caustic all the time.

As I settled into my body, I could see locks of red hair flicker by through a crack in the blind across from us, flashes of painted lips, arms, shoulders, fingers entwined: a great two-backed beast in a very tiny bestiary.

Nigel's shaggy black hair had grown into a proud mane, which shimmered as he nuzzled kisses into the hollow of Audrey's neck and fondled her breast through the thick linen gown with his mighty flippers, gleaming and wet. Audrey shoved him away, tossing our remaining coin squarely into his great, feathered chest. And it suddenly occurred to me that I would very much like someone to wetly fondle my breasts, which incidentally seemed to be growing right there in my hands, dribbling rose petals from the tips, which collected nicely in the hollow of my thighs.

Grabbing Audrey by the collar, Nigel pulled her toward him, sending the top button of her gown flying off. It ricocheted back and forth across the little booth. Audrey fought him off with her hooves, and this time he left her alone, satisfied to count the coins in the purse.

But the button still flew about. I followed it as best I could, though every time I turned my head it was already zinging in the other direction. Gaining enough velocity to punch through the canvas blind, it fashioned a little hole, a wound in my already compromised sapience. The maelstrom created behind it pulled me ever closer to the breach until finally it sucked me through into the next compartment, extruding my body into long, serpentine coils. I writhed against a myriad of tactile explorations, the brittle dryness of the blind, the cool, grimy floor, before puddling out between the knees of a neatly bearded man as he suffered the little death at the lips of his young lover.

Two weeks later, all fingers accounted for, thank you much, I watched Audrey through our newly repaired window as she left the house once more under a cold veil of rain that descended with the twilight. Pulling the hood on her cloak, she made for a nearby awning, then disappeared from view.

"You're not going with her?" Genevieve asked.

"Not this time," I said and closed the window.

"I'm surprised," she said, leaning into the candlelight to read. "Seemed you two had become the best of friends."

I understood why she might think that; Audrey and I had spent much time together, though the experience was rarely pleasant. Audrey had grown impatient with my incessant questions and was prone to explosions of anger, which subsided as quickly as they came. I soon understood that this was the way Audrey was, ever protective of her thoughts and emotions. Her outbursts were diversionary; they masked her insecurity. The confidence she emulated was nothing more than overcompensation for her fear. She hid from the world in a fog of misinformation and pseudo-emotion. It was difficult if not impossible to exist in an equitable friendship with her. But in my determination to glean from Audrey knowledge of Pruet and his enterprise, sometimes no more than a word, a shift of the eye, a silence, I had neglected my growing friendship with Genevieve, who was as gracious and trusting and kind a soul as anyone could expect of another person.

"She's not so much a friend as a compatriot," I said. "I was hoping to find out more about my father through her company."

"Just as well," she said and turned the page.

Leaving my vigil by the window, I lay down next to Genevieve, rested my head on her shoulder, absently read from her page. Her hand left the text and curled around my cheek.

"Could I ask something of you?"

"Of course. Anything," I said.

"Would you come home with me, on the Solstice?" Her fingertips drew against my temple, guiding a few errant strands of black hair behind my ear. "That is if you have no arrangements with your family."

"You are my family," I said. "I would love to come." I wanted to know her kin, to exist among them, to be with Genevieve away from Duenna.

She kissed my forehead. "I'll need your company to ward off the line of suitors my father has arranged."

"I thought Audrey had said your father decided on one, a baron whomever."

"He has, but if the baron doesn't fruit, he'll have others nearby," she said. "Are you sure your father won't mind?"

"Why should it matter to him? Why would I care if it did?" I said. "I know so little about him, other than he works in the east city, across the Fem. That's where Audrey goes."

"So you've been to his estate?" she asked, shifting in her bed to face me.

"No, I'm not allowed in," I said, though I hadn't found the gall to simply walk up and bang on the door. "It's not so much an estate as just a building. I wait in the street while Audrey goes in, though she's never long. She has friends who own a tea house. We go there afterward."

"Tea?" she said, eyes wide. "Bethrand takes it. He's as good as wood after that."

"But by the gods, have you ever tried it? It makes you feel as if your mind opens up and swallows anything it senses."

"Oh, really?" Genevieve smiled with her usual enthusiasm. "Will you take me sometime?"

"Absolutely."

"Alright. We shall go. Just the two of us. Tomorrow."

"So it's a date!" Genevieve bubbled. "Oh, how exciting. A bit of adventure of our own."

The tallow burned down as we talked into the night. Merely chatting with Genevieve lightened my spirits. Being in her presence was often enough to drive away the malaise of exhaustion and uncertainty. Serious things, affairs lying in wait among the shadows, seemed to evaporate under her luminescence. In the end, the candle sputtered and died, and the two us were lulled to sleep, spooned against each other for warmth in Genevieve's bed.

Sunlight spilled across the floor as the morning crept into our room. I could hear the wind sift through the great elm, unseating ochre-crimson leaves. Somewhere overhead, a gaggle of misguided geese trekked northward. I awoke still pressed against Genevieve. My arm rested upon her smooth shoulder and I pulled her a little closer to me. Nuzzling my face against her back, I drew in her sweet scent through her cotton robe.

But then the door shuddered. The handle trembled as what was locked became unlocked and open. Audrey's face poked through, weary and tired. She beckoned me out of Genevieve's bed impatiently. I ground my teeth. For once I was completely uninterested in what Audrey had to say. Careful not to disturb my sleeping roommate, I climbed from the bed.

"What is it?" I hissed at the door. Audrey took my arm and pulled me into the hallway. Her face was weathered, dark circles dug under her eyes. She was trembling.

"Do you have any money?"

"When have I ever had money?" I said.

"Does Genevieve?"

I peered back to bed. I wouldn't implicate Genevieve in any scheme of Audrey's. I lied, "No."

Audrey bit at her bottom lip. "It won't matter. I don't need it. Get dressed. We need to talk."

The severity of her tone demanded I dare not disobey, but first thing was first. "Audrey, I just woke up. I need a wash. You could stand one too."

Shifting her weight from one foot to the other, Audrey thought a moment. "Meet me in the kitchen when you're done," she said, then turned and walked away.

I retreated into my room, scrubbed my face in the basin, tied my dark hair down with a ribbon and pulled on a gown before I realized Genevieve was awake and watching. "I have to go out," I said.

Genevieve sat up, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand. "Can I come?" she yawned.

I grimaced, wanting to keep interaction with Audrey widely segregated from my friendship with Genevieve. I wanted information from Audrey, not friendship. I couldn't be a friend to Genevieve and inquisitor to Audrey at the same time. "Audrey wants to talk. I think it's about my father."

"Fine then," she said and fell back into bed.

I cursed under my breath. How could so much guilt be held by just two words? "I'll make it up to you," I said. "Let's plan for tomorrow."

"Fleary comes to see you tomorrow. Besides, Master Oldive is stopping by for our quarterly exam," she said. "Do what you want. I'm not your mother."

"Right," I said and pulled my coat into place. I kissed the crown of Genevieve's auburn hair and skirted out the door.

Audrey waited at the bottom of the stairs, having regained at least some of her composure. She handed me a day-old roll and we escaped into the bright morning.

"Where are we going this time?"

"Nigel's apartment," she said. "It's not far."

Audrey walked ahead of me in hurried, unmeasured steps. Glancing over her shoulder, she walked a little faster. "Come on," she said.

"Did something happen last night?"

"I don't want to talk about last night," she said. "Nothing happened, nothing at all."

The rest of our path was taken in nervous silence as a brilliant sun emerged onto a turquoise sky. It was no more than a mile, maybe two before we arrived at a run down three-flat, held upright by a winding serpent of wooden steps and scaffolds.

"He's at the top," she said and trudged up the creaking steps.

I hesitated, unsure whether to trust the dubious construction, but Audrey assured me the stairs only sounded unsafe. And so I ascended, though halfway up I twisted my ankle. A blinding, sharp pain shot up my leg.

"That was daft," she said as I hobbled onto the landing. After testing the handle, Audrey pulled the two bodkins from her hair and easily picked the lock, then strode in as if she were home. I limped after her, pining like a mule.

There were only two rooms in the flat. The first was large and sparsely furnished with several pillows, a blanket or two. A basin of water sat on a low table in the corner along with incense that smoldered in a copper dish. A young man with blond hair too long for his face slept on the floor. The second room contained merely a straw mattress, though it was partially obscured by the doorway. Audrey tapped the sleeping man's foot with her boot and he startled awake, azure eyes snapping open.

He scrambled to his feet, astonished and entirely unclothed. "Audrey. What are you doing here?"

"Oh, by the gods," I muttered, averting my eyes.

Audrey leaned into my ear. "This is Loren. He is in your father's service as well."

"Fenitheer?" he gestured to me while glaring at Audrey. "Why did you bring her here?"

"Ease up," she said. "She's one of us."

"You don't know that," he said, tying a linen sheet around his waist.

Audrey turned to me. "Loren is worried you've witnessed him in the dubious company of our friend Nigel. He fears our little cult wouldn't approve."

Hearing his name, Nigel appeared from the second room, looked at the both of us and then questioned Audrey in a guttural language I couldn't understand. "You know what I want," Audrey said. "And no, I have no money." Nigel crossed his arms expectantly and leaned into the doorframe separating the two rooms of the apartment.

Biting her lip, Audrey looked to the floor, then grabbed my arm and turned us around. I fought to maintain balance as my entire leg throbbed with pain; my ankle swelled badly. "Stay here with Loren," she hissed. "He won't hurt you. I need to talk to Nigel in the other room."

"And precisely what do you mean to say?" I growled.

"Sensible things."

"I like you better when you're honest."

"Honesty has gotten me nothing." She turned and unclasped her cloak, which heaped onto the floor, then began undoing the twenty or so buttons down the front of her gown. Nigel moved out of her way as she strode into the other room and closed the door behind them, leaving Loren and myself in awkward company.

Loren scratched the back of his head, exhaled and raised his eyebrows. He motioned to the floor. "Would you like to sit down? Haven't got any chairs, but pillows are comfortable as long as you don't have to get up in a hurry."

"No," I said, flustered. "Thank you, I'm fine. Standing here. Truly."

He pointed to my foot. "Did you twist your ankle? You should put that up. It'll help the swelling."

"Just a sprain, really," I said. Looking down, I realized I had been standing on one leg, the other lifted so only the tip of my toe touched the floor. It throbbed horribly, to the point of making me nauseous. I felt feverish and was grateful Loren didn't believe me as he quickly arranged pillows against the wall.

"I've twisted my ankle on those steps more times than I care to remember," he said, putting the last pillow into place. "It has something to do with the way the stairs themselves turn. Though it usually happens to me when I'm going down them, not up." He took my arm and led me the short distance across the room. "Now gently, I'll support you. All you have to do is bend your knees." His arm slipped around my shoulders and he eased me down onto the pillows. Taking my calf in his hand, he placed several pillows under my engorged ankle. It still hurt, and I gasped, but I felt better once the blood had stopped pooling in my foot.

"Sorry, I tried to be as gentle as I could."

"No, this is much better, thank you." The room continued to turn, and I let my eyes fix on the empty sconce embedded into the dingy wall. I felt out of breath and suddenly hot.

"Would you like anything? Water? You look warm."

"Please." Shutting my eyes, I attempted to press the nausea from my head, but it only got worse so I opened them again. The fever was deposed by a chill.

Loren understood at once. "Are you dizzy?"

I nodded, unable to summon the words.

"Right. Hold on, I've got something that can help that." He stood, went to the basin and poured water into a ceramic tumbler.

"I barely know your name and already I'm a bother."

"Not at all," he said and passed a cup. Clasping it with both hands, I drank. Loren sat down and took a small pouch from a nearby table. "This will help the nausea. The pain, too. Maybe even the swelling." Using a small piece of paper, he rolled some mash. "Try to breathe deeply."

I watched him get up and light it against the incense burning in the corner and then return, puffing intensely to keep it lit. He had soft features, almost delicate. He reminded me of Genevieve and despite the awkwardness of our introduction I found myself attracted to him.

He handed me the lit tea, which I imbibed. It burned, but before I had a chance to grimace, he handed me more water.

"Once more should do it," he said.

"I know. I," coughed, "have done this before."

"I can tell." We passed the tea back and forth as he chattered along dotingly. Something about his voice was soothing, almost hypnotic. From the next room, softly at first, there came a slow thumping that gained speed and intensity. I'm sure I blushed, though Loren seemed to think nothing of it. Finally, I raised my hand to say I'd had enough. He carefully snuffed the mash with his fingertips and set it back on the table.

The sharp pain in my leg dulled as did the rest of my senses in a liquid sort of sticky way, as if my entire body were covered with warm honey. My eyelids drooped shut, and the sound of birds came into my mind. It was just Loren, though. "It's good to know you're with us. I was worried when you and Audrey just showed up like that. Not to be inhospitable, but you know how these things go." I wondered what he was referring to, but by the time he had gotten to the end of his sentence I couldn't remember how it began. And so I let him talk uninterrupted, lulled by the soft timbre of his voice.

"Let's have a look at that leg." Loren peeled back the edge of my gown to inspect my booted foot. He cupped his hands around the ball of my ankle without applying any pressure. "It's very hot." I didn't feel pain, only his touch through the soft leather of the shoe.

"Perhaps you should take it," I started, though speech was proving arduous, "the boot," and fragmented, "off."

"We shouldn't do that," he said. "Right now your boot is the only thing keeping your ankle from blowing up like a gourd."

"Unlace it, then. Just a little."

"Alright," he said, and he did, then kept talking. "And then you said, 'By the gods' and I knew they hadn't squeezed all the sense out of you yet." If I did have any sense at the time I would have wondered what the gods had to do with any of this. But I was, at least for the moment, lost in an effulgent glow emulating from between my legs. My imagination shot back to when we first walked into the room and Loren stood before us, unashamed. His skin was smooth and milky, the composition of his body lean and sculpted. But most of all, he was unashamed.

He picked my leg up and repositioned the pillows to redistribute the weight more evenly. "Your leg is very stiff. Probably from the pain. Want me to massage it for you?" I thought that would be nice, and so he did, though I couldn't recall telling him out loud.

His hands glided smoothly up my calf, pushing the tension from the muscles. This sensuous touch, the kind I had never felt before, ignited a longing in my sex. I caught the smell of him, like a forest after the rain, and wondered what perfume he could be wearing that would smell so good. "I'm not wearing anything at all," he answered. Oh, the images that spun behind my closed eyes. The pounding from the other room grew louder, reaching a crescendo. I could feel the vibration through the walls, against my spine: boom, thump, boom, thump, boom.

His hands reached my knee, fingertips gently probed the tender flesh behind it, causing me to giggle and clap my knees together. "Sorry, that must tickle." His touch eased along the inside of my leg. I gasped as his fingertips reached mid-thigh, and my sex just ached to be touched that way. That is, until I was doused with water from the pitcher.

My eyes flew open to see Audrey, her face gnarled and ugly with hatred and tears, bring the pitcher down over Loren's head. He fell neatly to the side, hand still halfway up my gown, out cold. She dropped the pitcher, which shattered, then grabbed my arm and yanked me to my feet and out the door as her other arm struggled to keep the front of her gown together.

We barely made it down the stairs between my limp and Audrey's attempt not to reveal her bosom to the entire city, all the while cursing. No sooner did we reach the bottom than Nigel appeared at the top of the stairs. His ebony skin contrasted with the sheer white of the bed sheet held about his waist with both hands. A continuous stream of what I could only assume were obscenities spewed from his mouth as we walked briskly away.

"Don't look back," Audrey said. "Never look back."

We turned one corner, then another. Having attracted all sorts of glances from passersby, Audrey ducked us into an alley to button her gown. She looked me over. "You're a mess," she said. "Wake up."

"I'm awake," I snarled, confused and angry and frustrated, but mostly just confused. My gown was soaked, my hair matted against my wet skin.

Audrey looked back into the street, and then returned her eyes to me. "I told you to keep your knees together. If I hadn't come in then, he'd be in up to his shoulder."

"Oh, and did you keep your knees together?"

Audrey's mouth opened, then closed again. "That's different."

"How?"

"That was for profit, a business transaction," she said.

"That does not make you any less the slut."

Audrey raised a finger. "No. I am not a slut. I am a whore. A slut is a peasant with loose hips. A whore is a merchant of the sexes. There's a difference."

"Oh, I see. So you are the whore, and I am the slut."

"Precisely."

Having cleared that up, there was nothing more to discuss.

It took us considerably longer to hobble back to the house. The beneficial effects of the tea having long since worn off, I was left with even greater pain from the walk and a restless feeling of shame, hunger and general unease. When we arrived, Audrey ushered me as discreetly as she could up the back stairs and into her room, then set a chair against the latch.

She laid me down on the empty bed, pulled the pillow from beneath my head and stuffed it under my foot. She then unbuttoned her tunic and pulled a large wad of mash from her bosom.

"I see you were well paid."

Audrey smirked sadly and took a small clay pipe from her desk drawer.

"So, putting our misadventures aside, what was it that you wanted to talk about?"

At first she said nothing, but lit the pipe and took a long pull before handing it over. "I have to leave this place. All of it. Pruet. This house. Everything."

I had expected this. Her interactions with my father seemed difficult at best, if not explosive. Still, I would be sad to see her go. As trying as Audrey's company was, it would mean facing the mystery of Pruet's world alone. "Where will you go?" I asked, propping myself up on an elbow to take the pipe without spilling cinders on the bed.

"I can take care of myself."

"I've never doubted that," I said, stifling a cough.

Audrey took the pipe before I erupted into an uncontrollable hack. "I was thinking," she sucked deeply, "of being a courtier."

I looked up, eyes red and tearing. "You mean a concubine?" I tugged the pipe back from Audrey's hand.

"Well. Yes. But a proper one. Not a street daisy, either. Not too much. You don't want a hunger for this stuff."

"Like you?" I regretted the comment before it even passed my lips, but the tea had already devoured my inhibitions back at Nigel's flat.

"Yes," she said. "Like me. I already know the art, though. And I'm smarter than the lot of them combined. I could make a good living for myself."

"When are you leaving?"

"In the morning." Audrey took the pipe and sat it down on the windowsill. "I forgot to mention, Fleary is sending a carriage to take you to the monastery tomorrow evening. It's a test."

"Snails," I cursed. "Why didn't you tell me before? I should study."

"Not that kind of test," she said. Reaching down, Audrey pulled a sack from under the bed, and from that extracted a hurdy-gurdy: a peculiar instrument with several strings pulled taut over the edge of a small drum with a crank. "It's a preliminary to see if you might have the potential, that's all."

"What potential?" I asked with mash-dulled anxiety. "What am I supposed to have studied?"

"You can't study," she said, ratcheting the crank. "That's the point."

"And if I fail?" I suddenly regretted being so flippant with Fleary, who had at one point threatened to cast me into the street.

Audrey shrugged. "Nothing. You can come work with me." She was joking of course; I was ill-fit for that profession.

I flopped back down on the bed, though no less apprehensive. "Will you be there?"

"Absolutely. Aside from whoring, I've some touch mixing pitch. You're to be well doped, something about subverting the senses. You've got to be absolutely still: can't move a muscle. And it has to be the right mix and the right amount. Too much or too little and you'll prance around like an idiot or sleep for a week."

A long silence fell between us, filled only by a tick-tick-tick as Audrey wound the instrument. Finally, "Did you pass?"

"No," she said. "That's part of why I'm leaving. After tomorrow my duty to your father will be finished."

A hundred thoughts swam through my mind, all competing to surface. What if I didn't pass? Would I have to leave too? Where would I go? What would I do? But what if I did pass? What's the business of this test, anyway? "Will you be angry with me if pass?"

"Why should I care if you do? Anyway, it's not the life I want: endless research, books, investigations," the most I had ever heard from Audrey concerning what went on at the monastery. "I'll have my life on my terms, not spent locked up in some library. Besides, once you pass the test they expect you to give up this stuff," she said and motioned to the pipe on the windowsill. "Completely."

"I hope I pass," I said, having no inkling of the mess I would soon be thrust into. All I knew was if there was a chance to impress my father, to win his affection, I should do so. "I would hate to fail."

Audrey flipped a lever on the hurdy-gurdy and the crank rotated slowly while the drum accelerated. The friction on the strings produced the discordant drone I had been hearing for weeks. Depressing certain keys on the device, Audrey was able to alter the tension in the strings and therefore the pitch of the sound. "Trust me," she said as she began a haunting dirge, "You won't fail. You can't fail."

##### Chapter 3

I felt Duenna's ascension up the main stairs through the soles of my boots. It was time. I adjusted the collar of my chemise and smoothed the creases from my gown. The iron latch bounced and the door floated open. I met Duenna's hard stare, then remembering not to look the Madam in the eye, my view dropped to her feet.

"Mr. Fleary waits for you downstairs," she said. "Report to him at once. You are excused from your duties."

"Thank you, Madam," I said and slipped into the carpeted hallway, then descended into the foyer. I yearned for something to balm my anxiety, the black-sweet succor of mash to be precise. But in the absence of that, I was hungry for the feel of things, the touch of things, the sight of things. Anything tangible or solid would do, anything familiar to quell the maelstrom of uncertainty that churned in my gut. I clung to the dull colors of the alabaster walls, the uneasy resistance of the steps against my feet, the damp smell of mold that permeated the house, the cool, soothing touch of the serpentine banister. Overhead the chandelier glimmered in the afternoon light. I caught the fleeting scent of frying catfish from the kitchen, the dull mingle of sounds seeping in from the street.

Fleary was there, his cap off, revealing his smooth pate. "Come, child," he beckoned and we left the house to board the black carriage waiting outside, which once we entered lurched forward. It was dark; velvet curtains obscured the light from the small windows. Fleary was a dim silhouette sitting across the cabin.

It wasn't long before one of the many questions dancing inside my head found a way out. "Mr. Fleary, what am I about to do?"

"What has Audrey told you?" he asked.

"Little," I said. "Only that she herself did not succeed."

Fleary's shoulders jostled in what might have been a shrug. "That's true, I suppose. Rouhn didn't feel Audrey possessed the proper constitution to warrant further examination."

"Who is Rouhn?"

"There are many people who contribute to our efforts, each bringing with them unique abilities and talents to advance our enterprise. My particular contribution is finding you and others like you. Her contribution is quite extraordinary, and very integral to our industry. Rouhn is a savant. She is skilled in the arts of divination, farseeing, much in the way oracles were said to practice their arts in ancient times."

"Wouldn't that make her a heretic?" I asked, remembering the common law as it applied to the Pantheon. The manner in which one worshiped her goddess varied depending on the deity. However, there was a covenant by which all were bound that addressed the manner in which worship could be conducted. Without it, worshipers of differing faiths could not coexist peacefully. Among these defining articles were provisions stating that no human sacrifice could be made, that worship could only take place in temples, only to those gods among the pantheon. Additionally, any attempt to challenge the power and sovereignty of the gods was deemed heresy. Divining was thought to fall beneath the last of these provisions.

"Heretic," he scoffed.

"You know the law," I said.

A chuckling snort came from Fleary's lips. "Do you really think we concern ourselves with petty lays set down by those hypocrites? Do you truly believe that there can be no gods outside the pantheon simply because some bloviate declared it so? Or for that matter, that the gods even exist, and if they did that they should care about the ridiculous punctilio of theocracy? All of that is rubbish created by those in power to stay in power. Our theocracy is tended by the elite, who exclude all but their own ranks on the basis of nationality, the color of their skin, their profession, their lack of wealth, or gender." He huffed then grew quiet again.

"Besides," he added later on, "women make the best clairvoyants. Your gender seems to be more receptive to that gift. The purpose of your meeting today is to evaluate if you have talent along those lines. It may be up to you to eventually replace Rouhn when she has outlived her usefulness."

I crossed my arms. "How could you presume that I would willingly broach the covenant?" Not that I had any affinity for the theocratic lays; I recognized them for the social devices that they were. Faith in one's goddess superseded such nonsense. However, I had no interest in engendering punishment for disobeying them. "I assure you, I have no aptitude for such things."

"We'll see. Talents often lay dormant without proper instruction, and you are the product of perhaps the two greatest savants of our time. It's reasonable to think you might have some of your parents' aptitude coursing through your veins. Your mother, if Audrey has not told you already, was Rouhn's predecessor. She was the Mod Diva before you were born."

I thought for a moment, unsettled by this strange precedent. I feared implication by mere association, even if I were strong in my faith. "What will you do with me if I fail the examination?" I asked, confident that if need be I could scuttle my chances. I suspected no good could come of whatever was about to happen.

"You won't fail. You can't fail."

I cringed, having heard those words twice in as many days.

"Not if you've retained a drop of your mother's blood. Even if you did fail, your proficiency in mathematics and geometry would be useful to us nonetheless. You would always have a place among us."

"And what if I don't cooperate with your little experiment?"

"You have no choice but to cooperate. By force or free will, you will participate. But even if you could refuse, your education and boarding would cease immediately, and you would be cast into the street to become a flaneur if that's what you want, a wanderer of the streets, with only the disreputable professions available to you." Fleary chuckled, "Though you are no belle, thank your father's blood for that, and your bitter disposition certainly won't aid your efforts."

I ground my teeth, resigning to participate only to the extent of showing up, nothing more.

"But if Pruet were feeling charitable," he went on, "you would be left where you are, forever indentured to Duenna." I thought of Lila and wondered if she had fallen into that same predicament.

We rode on a while in silence, both of us lost in thought. Eventually the carriage stopped and Fleary peered beyond the curtain. "This is as far as I go. I have other obligations to consider this day. Carrowyn will take you further. Do as you're told and everything will be fine."

"Carrowyn," I groaned. The day had just gone from bad to worse.

The small doors opened letting ruddy sunlight spill into the carriage. Carrowyn stood outside, his hazel eyes peering in expectantly.

"Fen," he nodded and offered his hand. I took it reluctantly and was pulled from the forgiving darkness of the livery onto the cobbled street. He smelled faintly of sweat and I remembered how physically imposing he was, his large shoulders, unyielding arms and hands, and how he was accustomed to using them.

"Carrowyn," I said and slid my hand from his callused grasp, spreading my fingers out against my gown.

The carriage moved on as soon as the doors shut, leaving us alone on the cross-street save the occasional transient eagerly striding home before dark. Carrowyn rubbed the back of his hand against his unshaven cheek. "Let's go," he said. I exhaled sharply and stood unmoved. His lips curled downward as he stepped back. "What's this?"

I didn't answer, but instead focused my gaze on the slow, placid waters of the Fem behind him. The dye mills were barely visible on the other side, masked by the soft green marshes further upriver and the white vapor that clung to the surface of the water like an ethereal nimbus. I felt his eyes as he studied me. His boots clacked softly against the stone as he circled behind me, impatient. "Well?" he said. I was determined not to let him have power over me as he did before, not to simply acquiesce to this brute, but it took all of my courage not to tremble.

The wind changed and I caught the heady smell of the water, briny and turgid. It empowered me, somehow gelled my resolve. "You owe me an apology," I snarled.

His footsteps stopped directly behind me and I started as he whispered in my ear, "Still bitter about that, I see." His voice carried a boyish tone that fueled my rage. Though, why I chose to vent my anger at Carrowyn and not Fleary, I wasn't sure. Perhaps I felt Carrowyn was the safer of the two, which says much against Fleary's character. Carrowyn stepped around and past, headed toward a small dory tied to a narrow dock jutting into the river. "I owe you nothing," he said. Again, Audrey's words. "Are you coming or not?"

"Are you going to strike me if I don't?"

Carrowyn stopped. Turning to face me, he said, "I did what I had to do. I make no apologies for that. I was paid to bring you to Duenna by any means necessary." His words did nothing to reconcile my mood. He wrung the air with his hands. "You were hysterical. The way you were carrying on it's a wonder you didn't get us both penned up by the harbor master."

"I'm still waiting," I said, crossing my arms.

"As if I had a choice," he continued. "I was given instructions to use reasonable force and I found reason to use it. I do what I'm told, be it with brawn, sword or gold. If you want to blame someone, blame Fleary. He gave me those orders."

My face contorted with disgust. "You're nothing but a common thug."

"I'm an exceptional thug," he said. "I get the job done. That's what I'm paid to do, and that's—"

"That ship and everything on it was rightfully mine. That was my home. I'll damn any who would dispute that."

"Damn who you want. But I did what I did because I had to, not because I enjoyed it. They were ready to send you to the asylum if I didn't take you away." I looked up at the red-brown sky, feigning disinterest as he continued his diatribe. Nearly a minute passed before he finally conceded. "Alright, fine. I'm sorry. Can we go? We're late."

"I haven't forgiven you," I said and walked toward the dock where the boat waited, old and gray from lack of care. I peered inside to make sure no water gathered in the bottom.

"I don't need your forgiveness," he said and steadied the small craft as I stepped in. "I need your compliance." Carrowyn boarded as well, pushed the skiff into the current and sat down across from me. He rubbed his hands on his thighs and picked up the oars. Dropping the wooden blades into the water, he turned the craft about. It lurched forward as he rowed, cutting a path through the pale mist embracing the Fem's calm surface.

As we traversed the river, his eyes never met mine but darted to the side or over my shoulder. He was uncomfortable being so close to me. I took pleasure in his anxiety, though felt wicked for it. I watched him intently as he labored, knowing my stare disquieted him. I observed the angular shape of his muscular torso tapering neatly to strong thighs, the solid grasp of his hands, the boyish though weathered condition of his face, the worry on his lips. That intrigued me most of all. I have seen freebooters before. I have seen those accustomed to their work. Carrowyn lacked the stoic mouth and singularity of purpose so typical of men who were without compassion. He nibbled incessantly on his bottom lip as if his thoughts never rested, his worries never slept. I wondered about him, about his life. Who was he? What was he like beyond his service to my father?

The pleasure of his discomfort quickly evaporated when I thought of him as a person rather than a brute. I sighed and gazed westward into the ochre sun dipping into the gloaming marsh. A loon called, alone in the twilight.

"Tell me of your family," I said.

He rolled his tongue against his cheek and gazed intently at the iron oarlock. "What do you want to know?"

"Do you have children?"

He nodded. "Two girls, seven and nine."

Settling my chin into my hands, I drew close against myself to ward away the cool evening air; I hadn't thought to bring a coat. "What do they look like? Do they take after you?"

"I hope not," he almost smiled.

"Your wife then, is she pretty?"

"I would say so."

"Do you love her?"

"Of course I do," he said, shifting uncomfortably. "She cares for our children."

"Do you think she's happy doing that? Tending children?"

"I suppose," he said. Abruptly, his eyes met mine. The oars paused, inches above the smooth water as the boat drifted further into the river. "Why?"

I shrugged, looked away. "I guess I wonder what it would be like. To be loved like that."

Carrowyn cleared his throat and looked over his shoulder to a line of docks and jetties extending from the opposite side. "I can't imagine Pruet to be much of a father, but someday you'll have children of your own, and you'll understand," he said and angled the boat toward the docks.

I couldn't see it. I couldn't even fathom it. That was a fantasy for other people, for Genevieve perhaps, not for me. I could envision her with many children, with her family. I closed my eyes and imagined what the upcoming Solstice might be like. I had heard so many stories of this common holiday, which had somehow escaped me completely. There would be food and wine, and talking till dawn, bone fires and games and dances, stories, songs. It warmed me to think of it, steeped in this cockaigne vision, a perfection that didn't exist.

A pair of gulls cackling overhead interrupted my fantasy. I opened my eyes to find Carrowyn studying my face. He averted his eyes.

I reached over the gunwale and dragged my fingertips through the water, letting my hand sink deeper, partially obscured by the silt laden brine. It was cold and forceful between the current and Carrowyn's effort to propel us forward.

As we drew closer to the shore I wondered what awaited me. I felt like cargo on my own voyage, as if the course of my life had been laid, and to upset those intentions would be mutinous. I looked again to Carrowyn, who rowed steadily. His short brown hair bristled amber against the fading sun. He didn't appear especially brutish, not anymore, just bothered.

He looked over his shoulder as tall docks loomed overhead. We floated between a row of thick pillars that smelled of pitch and dead fish. He brought the oars in as we glided through what could only be described as a hole in the bulkhead. Heavy planks slipped past above our heads, shutting out the sky. It was dark, though a little light crept in from the entrance. The walls were held upright with massive timbers, and the smell of wood cure was pervasive. I glanced ahead nervously, not seeing any place suited to tie the dory, only darkness. "Where are you taking us?"

Carrowyn dug for something in his tunic. "The monastery has a hidden entrance beneath the city, a causeway that's said to be part of the aqueducts, the old ones that drew water from the river. Hasn't been used to carry water since the barricades were set."

He tossed something into my lap, which I groped for in the dim light. "A blindfold?" I said, finding a three foot long strip of satin. "You can't be serious."

"You're not really one of them yet. Until you are, they'd rather you not be able to point them out to the constable." He coughed, "As if they'd ever come out in daylight."

"Why all the secrecy?" I said, fitting the cloth over my eyes such that I could still peek out just the tiniest bit.

"Not that I know much about these things," Carrowyn said as he leaned forward to adjust the blindfold, thereby completely obscuring my vision. I felt his breath, smelled the sweet tang of smoke-weed. "Your father deals in secrets, information, a lucrative though dangerous commodity to trade. Hence the blindfold."

The boat bumped into something, then lurched forward as if pulled on a rope. The sound of water lapping against the bulkhead was my only indication of where we were. But I also heard the sound of cable zipping through a pulley, clanks of metal and rigging as we were tugged along. Carrowyn advised me to duck, which I did. The sound of the water changed, dropped in pitch and became sharp as the timber walls were replaced by stone.

"Hold on," Carrowyn said, and our boat pitched downward. I gripped the weathered cross-thwart with both hands as our descent terminated with a splash of water. We sat listless for a moment, then lurched ahead once more. Again our angle changed, though this time we were hauled upwards. "Almost over," he called out as we bumped against the current.

We finally crested and were pulled a little further in calm water before the boat ran against sand. I exhaled, having held my breath with the expectation that I'd be tossed overboard by the tumultuous ride. "You'll be alright," Carrowyn said as his hand touched my shoulder. I heard the clank of a lantern, whispers and many footsteps.

"Such arrogance."

From the balcony, Tiplin gazed across the innumerable shelves of the main chamber. Past the stacks, the likeness of Desarid, the goddess of knowledge, stood nearly three men high, chiseled from stone. Though he couldn't see it well from this distance, he knew the tablet she clasped with both hands was emblazoned with the same covenant fallaciously etched into his mind: "Bring unto all the light I have brought unto you." He repeated the words again and again, falling into an old habit. He settled a little more into a shadow and took survey of the main hall. It had changed little since he had served. The high vaulted ceiling cascaded down into bold columns, interrupted by vibrant splashes of color shining through the massive stained glass windows. The floors were newly renovated, rotting wood replaced by pristine marble, a consideration that made things easier yet more difficult all at once. And there were the books of course, rows and rows. The aroma of ink and vellum hung in the air like perfume in a brothel.

This library presumed to rival Spindledar. Unfortunate that those who governed it had little reservation about disseminating their knowledge to the undeserving. "How could they not expect this?" Tiplin muttered, as he watched the dreck of society wander unchecked though the stacks. A familiar brown cloak caught his eyes as it billowed toward the rear chambers, its owner striding confidently, acolytes trailing eagerly behind.

Tiplin retreated from the balcony as the clamor from the bell tower above him sounded the closing of the newly refashioned Felvishar Library. He followed the noise into the east stairwell and bounded up the steps. The wood creaked beneath his feet, but the clamor above obscured the noise. He stopped just below the hatch to let the howling vibration cease. And then he listened. Hearing no sound above him, Tiplin opened the hatch and skulked onto the bell deck. The wind was cold and ripped through the large belfry. Drawing his cloak, Tiplin huddled into a corner and watched the sun ease down upon the towers and rooftops of the city, slowed his breathing and let his blue eyes close.

Tiplin awoke sometime later to the calm of night and inhaled deeply. The air was sweet at this height, no trace of the muck that clung to the streets or those who walked them. Bring unto all the light I have brought unto you. His eyes opened, but this time to the shadows to which he was so accustomed. Like a cat beginning its nightly prowl, Tiplin rose and stretched.

He removed his cloak and swaddled the clapper of the large iron bell that hung in middle of the bell deck. Sliding the long knife from his belt, Tiplin flipped it in his hand so that he grasped the blade, then leaned over the rope-well to catch the bell-pull with the hilt. By slowly pulling the thick rope, Tiplin angled the bell and let the padded clapper make silent contact. Without releasing the rope, he slipped into the darkness of the well, easing his way down the belfry without so much as a breath for noise. When his feet touched the cool marble of the main floor, Tiplin eased his weight off the bell-pull, allowing the muted bell to come right again. Again he listened and let his eyes adjust to his surroundings. To his left he saw a glimmer of light beneath the door, but heard nothing.

Tiplin entered the hall and made his way into the many rows of books where he could be easily concealed; sconces at the far side of the chamber, at the feet of the stone idol, were the lone source of light. Surveying the hall for other occupants, he crept to the front entrance. The large double doors, held fast by a stout crossbeam, were the only way into the building aside from the back alley. Tiplin pulled several iron-toothed shims from his tunic and pushed them into the space between the doors and the crossbeam to keep the plank solidly in place.

As he gently tapped the final shim into position, Tiplin heard the clack of boot heels on the marble floor. His heart jumped and he fought to remain motionless, to clear his mind of thoughts, a shadow within a shadow as the noise passed only a few yards away. Tiplin breathed once more as the sound of the acolyte who watched over the shelves receded into the stacks, toward the rear vestibules behind Desarid.

He turned and pulled a leather bound cudgel from his belt. Without a sound, soft leather boots on clean marble, he darted after the acolyte, brought the club over the young boy's head and once more for good measure.

Tiplin pulled loose scrolls from the shelves and doused them with a greasy liquid from a large wineskin fastened to his belt, then moved to another stack, trailing liberal amounts of the incendiary behind him until he had wound his way through every row, before creeping along the wall toward the statue.

Grabbing one of the dozen or so oil braziers positioned about the statue, Tiplin sloshed the burning oil out across the floor. Bright fingers stretched along the hall, reaching for the pitch doused stacks, thousands of pages of kindling. The fire was enormous.

By the time it caught, Tiplin had already rung the small fire bell, made his way into the vestibule and was standing behind the study door. The door burst open as young acolytes scrambled into the great chamber hoping to quell the blaze with buckets and water from the cistern. Tiplin smiled as he thought of the small hole drilled three quarters of the way down side of the rain-well, leaking water into the alley since the night before. They would try, and that is what he wanted, but they would not succeed. By the time they realized the futility of their efforts, it would be too late for them to bash their way through the door. A dull clamor mumbled through the library as one of the acolytes tried to ring the main bell and draw the attention of the clappers; again, a useless act. As the last of the young men exited the study, Tiplin stopped the door from closing completely with the tip of his long knife, then slipped in, locked the door and snapped off the brass key inside the lock.

The study was unoccupied. Tables, books and vellum were spread everywhere, oil lamps hung from the ceiling. The oak door to the rarities hung open, and Tiplin could hear master Kraile rifling through the stacked tomes, hoping to save the library's most valuable acquisitions, one in particular.

Tiplin crossed the room to the back door. He unlocked it, and looked out into the empty street, free of clappers thanks to a sizable donation to the local constable. Closing the door, he peered into the rarities to see the back of Kraile's head, short white hair bristling vibrantly.

With a quick slash to the support line, Tiplin sent a lamp crashing to the floor. Oil and fire splattered in all directions, igniting everything it touched.

Clutching a large brown volume in his arms, Kraile spun around. Their eyes met, and Tiplin watched with amusement as Kraile's pale face turned red with rage. "You!" he said. "You are the cause of this!"

"Put down the book," Tiplin said.

"You contemptuous snot. You think you can get away with this?"

"Put down the book," he said, louder, as fire raged behind him.

Kraile hugged it. "I'll not have it in the hands of vermin," he said. "Return to the sewer where you belong."

"I am exactly where I belong," Tiplin said and advanced upon his former master.

I could hear their muttering as they approached, low and incomprehensible. Many hands grasped me. Bony fingers wrapped around my arms, pulled me from the tiny boat onto the sandy cavern floor, then urged me upright and on. "You're late," someone hissed. They smelled of old fabric and dust and ink. I walked uneasily, unable to see my feet or the path they trod. Still, I was pushed onward. Fear grew inside me, rushing over my courage like a swollen tide. I tried to wrest my arms free of their grasp without success. They held on more securely until my arms were outstretched and immobilized. Entangled from shoulder to fingertip, I was hefted up so that my feet barely skimmed the floor.

"Where are you taking me?" I shouted, but got no response.

A door unlatched and opened before us, and a discombobulated voice advised us to the left. We ascended a flight of stone steps as a many footed entity. Another door opened and I was awash in sweet incense and warm air. My heart clamored. I struggled once more but even more hands countervailed my effort.

Pushing my face against one of the arms that grasped me, I dislodged the blindfold and took account of my surroundings. The large room was barely lit by a few candles. Lush burgundy and orange draperies hung on every wall, except where a fire burned in a hearth. Next to it stood a tall clock, the brass pendulum flashing against the candlelight as it passed from side to side.

My breath ceased altogether when I saw the table dominating the center of the room. Constructed of rough wood, it was adorned with many leather straps that fed through slits in the surface. And then the blindfold was refitted across my face. I called out, thrashing desperately.

"Stop it!" someone barked in my ear. "There isn't time for this nonsense."

But even as I kicked, my legs were caught and suspended in the air until I was carried to the table and dumped onto its surface. Straps were brought across my chest and thighs. My feet and hands were fed through cuffs which were then tightened from underneath. A hand pushed down on my forehead, pinned it to the table as a strap was drawn across my throat, another across my forehead. Something was inserted into the table to either side of my head to prevent it from turning.

When I was completely immobile, their hands retreated, but I could still hear their whispers, feel the warmth of their breath upon my face. Tears flooded my eyes and my body shook as I cried. I couldn't understand what was happening or why any of this was necessary.

"Enough," one of them said. "She's hysterical. Fetch the herbalist." The footsteps retreated from earshot and I was left alone.

Moments stretched into hours as I lied there. Dread filled me, a sickening green languor that brought a fever even as I shivered. The leather across my chest and throat felt as if it was constricting, and I found it increasingly difficult to breathe.

There was a soft scuff of footsteps. I swallowed, held my breath trying to listen. But I could only maintain composure for a moment.

"Aren't you a sight."

"Audrey," I called out between sobs. Her fingers slid against my temple. She hooked them under the blindfold and pulled it up so I could see, and wiped the tears from my eyes. She stood over me, clad in a violet robe, bright hair braided and wound tight around her head. An eager smile spread across her face. She looked happy for once.

Audrey rounded the table and stood over my head, caressing my cheek with her hand. "You look absolutely delicious."

"What's happening?" I whimpered, bothered that she could be so gallant at a time like this.

"All this," she said, "is to prepare you for the examination. Don't fret the bindings; they're for your own protection, though personally I found them rather," she cleared her throat, "engaging. Perhaps that's why I didn't succeed. Just as well. I'm not meant for this place."

"And you suppose I am." I tried to look around, but couldn't move my head to either side. The best I could do was look up to the ceiling, painted a deep summer blue, dotted by wisps of bright clouds.

"I think you'll be pleased," she said and walked around to my feet to unlace my boots. "This place is too bookish for me, more in line with your tastes than mine."

"So far, I'm not impressed. The décor is garish and the furniture is uncomfortable."

Audrey smiled. She removed my shoes and massaged my feet with warm oil. I closed my eyes and tried to breathe normally. Eventually the tension in my body began to leave through my toes.

"Speaking of furniture, why would I need protection from myself?"

"As I said before, you've got to be doped and in just such a way. From now on, I want you to be quiet and still, relaxed," she said. "There's a point at which your body is asleep, completely immobile and paralyzed, but your mind is still active. Hypnogogic, it's called. This happens about two seconds before your mind falls asleep as well. You can get there through meditation. But we have to take it a step further. Your mind must be awake and coherent, but at the same time open and empty, like a bowl or a window, so your soul will manifest."

Audrey worked her strong hands under my calves, massaging the muscles with liberal amounts of warm oil. "Rouhn says our minds and our bodies hide it, close it off, guard it. That for most people it's only open when we're children, when we don't realize how hurtful the world is. We bury it because our spirit is our most precious thing, makes us unique, alive. We protect it, but ironically, it's the one thing that can't be lost, that can never be hurt.

"But getting to the point where your soul is accessible," she continued, "takes more time than Pruet has patience." Removing her attention from my legs, she came to my side and massaged my hands. "That's what the rose-pill is for. It's a combination of teas, fermented in goat's milk with just a little crushed apple seed and a dab of ambergris, wrapped in a rose petal. It'll relax you, so much that you might have trouble seeing. Slows your heart and breath and impedes your body's instinct to recoil. Don't worry, though. Nobody's going to hurt you. In a few moments I'll give that to you. When I do, I want you to put it beneath your tongue and leave it there."

My body felt warm as if I had been sitting near the fire. I took a deep breath and began to feel the tension and fear seep out through Audrey's fingertips. She was in such a strange state, so unlike any other time I had been with her, happy, hopeful.

"Do you hear the clock?" she said, moving again to massage my head. I listened for it. "It ticks once a second. Meter your breath by it. Breathe in for four, hold for two, out for four and hold for two."

The sound of the clock was hypnotic, and despite my compromised situation I felt inclined to sleep. Audrey continued to rub my scalp, then moved down to my jaw. "The pill," she said as she drew her thumbs around my forehead, then down either side of my nose, "keeps your mind in that space between awake and asleep. It keeps the body thinking it's asleep, and drains your head of thoughts, cleans the windows, opens the shutters."

"Audrey, will I see you after this?" I couldn't help but wonder what was to become of her. I wished I had her courage. "I would like to see you again."

"The world is but a small dance of souls. I'm sure we'll bump into each other if not in this life then the next. But I'm leaving directly after the examination. This is my final service to your father, and for it I have been paid well."

"I'll miss you," I said.

Her fingertips traced along my chin and cheek, and Audrey pressed her lips against my forehead, then left the table. I heard the lid of a jar open and shut and she returned. "Are you ready?" she asked.

"I think so."

"I'm going to elevate you just a little," she said, and I heard the manipulation of some device beneath me. My feet were lowered and my head raised as the entire table pivoted. Audrey held up something about size of an almond in one hand and a small block of wood with a hole drilled through it in the other. "When I put this in your mouth," she said, "hold it under your tongue. Just leave it there. The wood is for between your teeth, to protect your tongue; sometimes the taste of the pill will make you want to bite down. The hole will let you breathe easier."

I opened my mouth and Audrey pushed the pill under my tongue, then quickly followed it with the wooden block between my teeth. The wood was held in place by a tether on either side of my head. I couldn't refuse it if I wanted to.

The pill did taste bitter at first, but then turned oily sweet. The table moved again as Audrey tilted it nearly upright. "The outcome of all of this is hardly a mystery. There's little question of your ability." Audrey stepped away and, hands on her hips, smiled demurely. She was strong, in control as she liked to be. "So very helpless are we." I didn't appreciate her derision, bound to the table as I was.

She turned away to tend the fire in the hearth, though it was already warm. I watched her, having nothing else to do. The pill remained beneath my tongue for some time. The muscles in my body revived themselves and I became more awake than I was under her caress. Audrey sauntered about in her purple gown, adding kindling to the hearth, poking into it. After a while I became bored, convinced that the pill had no effect, which was both a relief and a disappointment.

"Give it a chance," Audrey said, having sensed my impatience. She set a small log onto the fire and walked from view. I wouldn't have to wait much longer.

As my eyes wandered I noticed the curtains shivered slightly, disturbed by some unfelt draft. But then it wasn't the curtains that moved, but everything else. Everything vibrated, jostled, then the entire room shook with increasing violence. I tried to close my eyes, but found I couldn't, even to blink. My limbs twitched of their own accord, bucking against the restraints.

And then my skin caught on fire, every inch burned, and I was consumed with a pervasive agony. I called out for Audrey, or at least I tried, but could make no sound beyond a whimper, a staccato grunt through the wood between my teeth. Then all sound ceased entirely and I could feel only the intense heat in my limbs. The pain was extraordinary, and yet I couldn't struggle. Even if they weren't held fast to the table, my arms and legs simply wouldn't move. How long I endured this I don't know, but then something changed. I don't know if I resigned to the pain since I could do nothing about it, or if perhaps it grew so overbearing that I lost account of it, but my mind fell to pieces, shattering like glass. Time stopped and all that existed was mad driving anguish and the utter lack of concordance.

Then as quickly as it started, it stopped. Everything stopped. The white hot fire that had extended through me burned out, incinerating everything, leaving nothing but a hollow: no thoughts, no feelings, nothing.

Audrey swam into view and smiled. She called out to somebody and turned to look over her shoulder as two other women entered the room, carrying a large ottoman with handles on either side.

Audrey untied the thong that held the wood between my teeth, then hooked a finger into my mouth to pull the rose pill out. Muttering something about the fun part being over, she removed the bonds. Even without constraints, I could not move, not a muscle. I was paralyzed.

She unbuttoned my gown. It didn't occur to me to resist, or even react, not that I could have. Audrey bubbled more words at me as she leaned me into her chest and pulled the tunic of my gown off my shoulders, then reached behind me to get at the laces of the undershirt. My cheek nuzzled into her shoulder, upon which I drooled profusely.

I was lifted from the table and propped against Audrey as my gown was completely removed by one of the other women. They were older, their skin weathered from too much sun, their hair flowing black, eyes like puddles in the night, like mine. My chemise was removed and I was fitted with a fresh shift. My gaze fell absently on the clock by the hearth. It rumbled in glacial cadence, pounding the time out. "It runs slow," I said, but the words were either ignored or they never made it past my lips, which I couldn't even feel. I counted between the churning registry of its mechanism and fell into its rhythm: one, two, three, four, five, six, TICK, one, two, three, four, five, six, TOCK, another second gone.

One, two, three, four, five, six and the bell clanged. Three hours passed. I was adorned in a vibrant orange and red robe of heavily embroidered satin. It was too large. My work-worn fingertips barely emerged from the long sleeves that flanged out like bells. I remembered, as I sat cross-legged on the ottoman, staring into the clock face, having been dressed, positioned there, hair braided, but it was the memory of another; I was a voyeur watching through someone else's eyes. My body felt heavy as if the flesh on my bones, indeed the very bones themselves, were made of stone, dead, unmoving. The skin of my face was a mask concealing my identity. None of this was me.

My body had been left somewhere behind, feeling no fear or pain or stiffness, while at the same time I was intimately aware of it in the same way one would know the streets of a city by studying a map. I knew where each muscle was, how slow my heart beat, how the blood slipped through my veins, where each strand of hair fell. But it was a dry, distant knowledge.

Audrey returned with the two others. She looked at me, bent close to study my eyes and then spoke, but I could not fit her words together in any cohesive manner; they were lost to me. She clapped her hands a few inches from my face. Inside, something told me that I should flinch, but the voice was far and removed. And so I sat still, eyes forward and wide open, still as a statue without so much as a blink.

The women lifted the ottoman by the handles and again there was an unheeded whisper suggesting I should grasp hold of it or simply get off to avoid being spilled. I was carried through the curtain, down several corridors, through another curtain and into a large circular room with a domed ceiling. In the center was another woman, perhaps twice my age, dressed the same as I with long black hair like spun midnight flowing over her shoulders. Her face was expressionless, empty. Beyond her was a line of candles, and just beyond those a large band of hammered brass, polished to reflect the candle glow back into the center of the room, making vision beyond impossible. But I knew they were there. I could feel them, maybe thirty-five, all focused on the center of the room, watching with critical attention.

I was set before this other woman and we faced each other, unmoving. Her gaze aligned with mine so that all I could see were her penetrating blue eyes, and by an odd force of empathic reciprocation, my own.

A half moment later I was pulled from my body, as a snail is pulled from its shell by a clever bird, until there was nothing left. And suddenly, there was everything.

They were already gathered when Tiplin slid into the meeting room and crept along the back wall to sit on the floor next to Madrum's hulking form. Rouhn and the girl were in place, serene and motionless in the center of the chamber, the energy reverberating between them nearly palpable.

Madrum leaned over and rumbled, "Did you get it?"

"Of course."

"Shame it's completely useless. But at least having it will ensure our credibility."

Tiplin nodded absently, taking inventory of those attending. The usual rabble: half a dozen adepts, a couple magi to bear witness, the typical bookworms, a handful of acolytes and apprentices, and of course, in the screened balcony, Fleary and likely Pruet himself. Across the room he picked out Loren's face among the few acolytes. He seemed enamored with this new one, though Tiplin couldn't imagine why the lad would be so intrigued by such a boyish waif. Couldn't be more than ten. "The little pervert," he muttered with a half-smile. Just as well, it's not as if she has a future.

"You ever meet Kraile, the master librarian?"

Tiplin shrugged. "You might say so."

"Ain't he a party?" Madrum sneered. One of the magi, Corlus, turned and glared at them. The scruffy old man lowered his voice to a rasp. "He takes himself so damn seriously. I wish I could see his face when he finds out the one book, the only thing worth a piss in that entire library, is missing."

"Oh, I'm sure he knows by now," Tiplin said dryly. "So why is Fleary being so obstinate about my attendance at these things? He never has been in the past, and it's not as if I don't have better things to do with my time."

"Maybe he wanted you to meet your new partner."

Tiplin's eye snapped to the girl sitting motionless across from Rouhn. "No," he said. "I work alone. Fleary knows that."

Madrum grinned. "After what happened to Demeta, I'm sure he figured that out."

"Don't blame me if that half-wit didn't have sense enough to check his ropes before rappelling down the east tower. I was there, remember? I saw the entire thing."

"I'm sure you did," Madrum chuckled.

"Don't laugh. It wasn't funny. His little tryst with the cobble work caught the attention of the clappers. Took me half an hour to work my way around to the other side of the tower. And by sands, the man owed me money."

Corlus turned once again and shushed them sternly with a finger to his lips.

"Right."

Tiplin jabbed his hand toward to the girl. "How can anyone expect me to work with that? I'm not a wet nurse."

"I understanding she's older than she looks. I think you're supposed to train her or something. I start with her in a couple weeks."

"And what would be the point of that? The last dozen didn't last more than a couple months. What makes you think this one will be any different?"

"Doesn't matter what I think," Madrum said nodding to the balcony overhead. "It's what he thinks."

"And what does he think?"

"Obviously that this one will fare better than the others we've had. I heard a rumor that she's some kind of prodigy or something. Some even say she's Seraph's daughter, though she more resembles Pruet in his younger days, not that any of us were around in his younger days. Maybe she's from one of the tribes to the North. Have to ask Fleary about it next time I see him. He'd know."

"The last thing I need is baggage like that," Tiplin said, studying the girl's clearly substandard musculature. "What in seven hells are they thinking?"

"Oh, and I almost forgot. She's moving into your study. You'll practically be married."

Tiplin shook his head, "Absolutely not!"

Half the room turned to scowl at them, that was, aside from Rouhn, Fenitheer and bright-eyed Loren.

##### Chapter 4

Berwyn blurred through the emerald forest. Cloven hooves dug into the black earth, tender fronds bent backward to make way. The goddess had selected him above all others to serve her. He had been chosen, and he would not fail her on pain of death. Abruptly, he stopped, listened, an ear turned skyward, toward the ever-climbing spires of the yahdrow trees surrounding him. The splintering of wood, a great crackling growl touched his ears, but the sound was distant, far enough away. An acceptable risk, but he must hurry.

The voice of his mate chimed in his head as he bounded through the foliage once more, Arrived has the hornless one, about your task be quick. Berwyn assented with a thought and urged his legs toward the treeless place. It wasn't long before he arrived. He lingered at the edge of the great clearing where the sky descended upon the good earth like a blue-green hammer, nothing to conceal against the prowling vashloks, no strong wooden friends to push away the leathery wings of hungry feryns. Berwyn peered from the brush at the forest's edge, across the great meadow to the megalith in the distance. Beneath the massive stone structure he spotted a little patch of bright color, like the fire moss that dotted the trees near the village. It was the sleeper. Lewlyn sensed his anxiety and again her voice sounded in his mind, Her blessing have you, forget do not. Berwyn remembered, used that knowledge to gather his resolve and burst from the tender brush into the open. The tall meadow grass whipped against his legs as he ran faster than he ever had, faster that he thought he could. Shaggy arms rocked to offset the desperate thrust of his legs against the hard, sun dried ground. Dark shadows glided across the meadow, long streaming tails followed them. Berwyn forced his eyes to focus on the megalith before him, two towering slabs of stone propped upward on a stone dais, supporting a third laid across them. He dared not look up, for he knew how the feryn hunted, how their eyes would stop him in his stride long enough for the entire gaggle to descend upon him. If he could just make it to the megalith...

More shadows overlaid the meadow grass, a half dozen, maybe more. Berwyn swallowed hard as he heard their shrieking calls, bidding him to turn his eyes skyward. They were close to the ground. He could feel the downward beat of their wings, see the stalks bow down around him. And still he pressed on, streaking across the meadow until finally he bounded onto the stone dais, stumbled and fell to the cold stone, panting.

Berwyn rolled onto his back and raised his fists to the air, letting a long mew of victory bellow from between his mighty incisors; the feryn, no matter how hungry, would not attack him here. In the woods you are not yet, my love. Berwyn turned his shaggy head to see the sleeper sitting upright and motionless nearby, dark hair, hornless, legs jointed to bend forward like those of his goddess. Immediately he sprang to his feet; his hooves clacked sharply on stone. He walked to her, stood before her, then lowered onto his haunches to examine this strange creature. She could have already passed this world for all he knew; motionless dark eyes, opalescent and glassy, reflecting the bright colors of the sky, the ruddy grass surrounding them.

I thinks me too late; stirs she not, he consulted his mate silently.

The prophesy remember: Moves she not the sleeper, nor raise hoof nor horn, still is she for the keeper, as yet she is unborn.

Berwyn nudged the sleeper with one massive arm. She slumped to the side, lifeless. He bit the air nervously before he grasped her legs and slung her over his shoulder. She was light, fragile feeling. He worried his solid grip might somehow break her, and knew that would infuriate his goddess. Berwyn decided he must not do that.

He turned, faced the direction from which he came and noted the howling feryn floating effortlessly above the yawning plain. They awaited him; their deafening calls beckoned him away from the sacred megalith. Berwyn took several deep breaths and sounded a barbaric mew to say he accepted their challenge before hefting the sleeper squarely on his shoulder and thundering across the swaying grass.

The vibrant smell of the forest and cold air greeted me. My eyes were already open when I awoke, my sight blurry and dim. There were leaves all around, rustling in my grasp, swelled up against me in mounds. Overhead, a glimmer of sunlight poked through the woven branches of the domed roof.

"By Saduje, where have they taken me?" I wondered out loud. My first thought was that I had failed the examination and been dumped somewhere in the dark woods north of the city, but then that didn't feel quite right. Something was off the mark. Something was ubiquitously and profoundly wrong, as if the very world meant to tear at my senses.

My attention was drawn to the dim oval of light, the only entrance into this structure, as heavy footfalls shuffled through the leaves outside. A tall shadow fell across the hovel entrance, soon followed by a sight that sent me thrashing backward through the leaves to the furthest end of the thatched structure. The enormous shaggy head of some oxen creature thrust into view. It was no beast of burden I had ever seen, nor any creature of the wild I could have imagined. For though it stood just outside the hovel, I could see the rest of it as it crouched to see me. While it possessed the head of such a beast, its torso was that of a tremendous man with the proud musculature of a giant. Below the waist, its constitution regressed back into that of a beast, fur covered legs ending in large, cloven hooves. The whole of it was covered in dark coarse fur. I stared with disbelief and horror as it regarded me with fathomless intent. I tried to convince myself that this was a dream, and I would wake up at any moment in my bed at Duenna, rise and gather wood for the fires, stir the caldrons, scrub the floors. But my intuition spoke differently. This was no imagining of the night. Duenna felt so far away that it seemed more like the dream. Indeed, the world I knew felt distant and colorless, and I would have given anything to return there that moment.

It looked at me with large orbs of brown and black, then snorted expectantly. I remained motionless, pressed against the interlacing twigs and branches of the far wall, my hands clawing the wood. Eventually it huffed, jerked its head to the side and disappeared from view, leaving only the steam of its breath hanging in the air where it once stood.

I watched the entrance a bit longer, fixated upon the dull brown earth just outside, terrified that the creature would return. I looked for an alternate exit, but saw nothing save the small hole at the very top. I could squeeze through it, but I doubted my ability to scale the walls, which were domed and had no supporting crossbeams on which to stand. There was but the one way out.

"Alright, then," I said, untangling my fingers from the woodsy wall. I rose and brushed the twigs and leaves from the bright orange gown I still wore. The fabric felt strange beneath my touch, tactilely vibrant. I took the moment to observe all of my senses, and indeed they were consistent: visually, everything was refulgent, illuminated; sounds and smells were somehow more potent. The very air I breathed was charged with a virile energy.

I eyed the portal, not wanting to leave the apparent safety of the enclosure, but then I couldn't stay there forever. Gathering my courage, I moved toward the opening, kicking up a flurry of dried leaves with each step. Once near the entrance, I peered outside.

Radiant sunlight, green through the massive canopy of growth overhead, shone down upon the gathered faces of creatures not unlike the one I had just seen. They stood, more than I could count, to either side forming a path before me. I was reminded of the initiation given to new sailors upon their first voyage. Lines of cudgel bearing shipmates would stand to either side, ready to smite the young seaman as he ran past. Standing nearly twice my height, any one of these creatures could crush me with little effort.

Cautiously, I stepped out of the hovel, pausing to study their reaction. I could feel their curious stares. As my eyes darted from face to face, I noticed differences among them. There were males as well as females of this curious species standing above me, even infants suckling against their mothers' breast. Around us, trees with the girth of taverns reached far overhead. The air was still and cool aside from the errant mew of some forest creature. In the quiet I could sense something, some energy that hummed about these strange ones, an excited force binding them together.

I jumped as one of them snorted suddenly; I recognized it as the same creature that had peered into the hovel. He raised a massive arm and motioned me down the path. I advanced, aware of the sound of my lonely footsteps through the foliage. But then I heard movement as they closed ranks behind me.

As I continued, the path curved then came to the dark entrance of another hovel, similar to the one in which I awoke, a mound of earth and leaf and twig with a single circular entrance. I stepped inside and let my eyes acclimate to the relative darkness.

"I was expecting you sooner," intoned a soft and steady voice from the shadows. The words were metered, as if each syllable required concerted effort to form. I squinted into the darkness of the cavernous structure and picked out the silhouette of a woman sitting against the far wall, arms locked around her knees. "Come in," she beckoned. "We've much to discuss." I took a parting glance to the entrance, which was blocked off by the inhuman gathering just outside, before taking a step or two forward. "They're a strong, gentle people. They wouldn't hurt you, but they're innately curious."

"I would hardly call them people," I said, unsure what to make of any of this. I couldn't clearly see the figure against the wall, but there was little question of who it was. "Rouhn, presumably?"

"And you are the great Fenitheer, my supposed replacement," she said with either disdain or disbelief, perhaps both. "Sit down. You'll be here a while."

I did, settling into the leaves like a mother hen lowering herself over her brood. "I wouldn't consider myself great, either. Seems that title is better trusted to your name, from what I hear."

"That trust is misplaced," Rouhn spoke evenly. "I am a tired shadow compared to what your mother was. But that's not why you're here."

"The examination," I said. "I can only assume this is meant to be part of it, a look into my 'talents' as Fleary phrased it. But I will shout from the prow, I'll not participate in whatever witchery brought me here. You can claim your post in the square if you want it, but don't think I'll join you. I'll have no part in it."

"You're already part of it, willing or not," she said. "As for this place, the only abomination is your ignorance, your inability to release it. But there's little to be gained by expounding upon your lack of knowledge. The fact that you are here at all is confirmation of your potential."

Dappled sunlight prying in from the thatch roof washed gently over the woman's dirty face. She wore a simple leather wrap, well worn with holes and what appeared to be burn marks. Her hair was caked through with mud and leaves, and gods know what else, wretched, worse than a back alley whore.

As if listening to my thoughts, Rouhn closed her eyes and said, "Forgive my appearance. I've roamed these forests since before time. There are no hot baths here, no tailors or seamstresses. It's still a primitive place. I've adapted to its rhythm."

"Just how old are you?"

"My body, my corporeal shell, is thirty-seven years old. But here, for us, for you and I, time is a conceptual curiosity, nothing else. Here we may exist for millennia and not age a day."

"And precisely where is 'here'?"

The mod diva tapped her temple with her finger. "At play in the fields of the mind. But a more important question: Where are you?"

I shrugged. "Here. With you."

"That greatly depends on your point of view. If you consider where you are to be equivocal to where your body rests, then you are still sitting in the old mead hall in the monastery under the city. However, if you consider your whereabouts to be the position from which your conscious mind gathers information, then you exist in this strange little world, in a strange little village, populated by a strange though harmless people. The body and the mind don't always cohabitate, but we learn soon after we're born that it's more comfortable if we think they do. And so our essence, that gossamer zephyr, grows accustomed to the cage of our bones and flesh and blood."

At this point I fully expected to see her mounting a pyre within a week.

"We exist infinitely in the ethereal," she continued. It's our natural state. We return to it when we dream, or pass on. We are born of it, and we die to it. In this, the flesh, we are bound by the forces that govern this world. Our bodies are vulnerable and fragile, easily succumbing to time and nature, easily destroyed by fire or sword. We are but transient visitors in the physical world. In this place, however, we are not ravaged by the unforgiving binds of time or mortality. We are only limited by the lack of imagination."

I sat there, absently rubbing one of the many dried, pear-shaped leaves between my thumb and forefinger, trying to absorb her words, the peculiar feel of this place. And then I understood.

Wherever we were, sitting in a hovel surrounded by this forest and its enigmatic inhabitants, my goddess was not. And despite my resolve, in the absence of my mistress the mortar of my faith began to erode. Perhaps it was the strange virility of the woods or some enchantment thrust upon me by the witches, or the rose pill. Whichever, I felt disaffected, spiritually liberated, giddy even, a servant with no master. Every part of my body awakened, aroused as if the very act of living, drawing a breath, stretching, listening, seeing, or simply existing brought with it irrepressible pleasure, and with this realization, I blushed.

Rouhn watched intently as I explored this sensation. "Sometimes it takes a little time for your mind to adjust, but once it does, you feel as if you could do anything, anything at all," she said. "What you're feeling is the absolute freedom of imagination, the closest you can be to your soul's natural state and still draw breath."

"But isn't this just a dream as you've said? Will I awaken to find myself back in Felvishar and this to be an obscure memory, just an imagining? Is any of this even real?"

"This is as real as you believe it to be. But yes, you will awaken in Felvishar as if you had been in a deep sleep. Eventually. When you wish it."

"So it is a dream then, or some vision invoked by the opiates."

"Does it feel like a dream to you?" Rouhn got to her feet with startling agility, and I could better distinguish her features as she came fully into the light. She was slightly taller than I, though still short, attractive if one could discount the brown and black grit that had settled evenly over every inch of exposed skin. "Have you ever known a dream such as this? Is this such a distant place to your senses?" Without warning, Rouhn snatched my arm in hers and dug fiercely into my flesh with soiled and jagged nails. I gasped, jerking my arm back, rubbing my fingertips over the fresh indentations in my skin. "Have you ever felt pain in a dream?"

"But how could this be real? Those creatures..." I motioned outside.

"It's your belief which has made them seem so palpable to you. In fact, I doubt if you have yet the will to refute your senses and disbelieve them entirely; this is a dream from which you are incapable of waking up on your own. If I wished it, I could leave you here. Your mind would roam in this primitive cognition for an eternity. There is no bridge that you could find, no path which would return you to Felvishar. For there is no map to show the way and none could ever be drawn."

"You are truly mad."

"If you could ask any of the inhabitants of this place," she said, shifting her weight from foot to foot, which now that I recall, were completely bare, "they would quickly tell you how real their struggles are. This place is no less valid just because you are not accustomed to seeing creatures who stand like humans, yet have cloven hooves. They are here. You are here. That is enough for most people. That's not to say your cynicism is misplaced. It's imperative we retain knowledge of where we have come while in the cerebration, if for no other reason than to distinguish our grounded world, where our flesh resides, from places such as this. There are dangers if our beliefs do not remain properly tempered."

"But what precisely is this place," I asked, "that it could be found on no map, that it could never be traversable?"

Rouhn smiled, displaying a set of perfectly ordered ivory teeth, a stark contrast to her otherwise disheveled appearance. "Follow me. I want to show you something."

She stepped past me and out the small opening. I hesitated, then clambered to my feet and followed into the emerald light filtering down from the lush green canopy several hundred feet above. The populace of the small village had assumed more mundane distractions. The males had all but disappeared. Young ones trotted eagerly about well-worn paths between plant and thatch. A gathering of women stripped bark from saplings with their formidable incisors. Others were grouped in circles, weaving reeds or grinding seeds with stones held in their large hands. Often they stole quick glances from their work to each other or me. One would make a gesture here and there, or nod. Suddenly all of their eyes left their work to greet one another's, and their faces contorted into something I thought might be a smile. Watching them, I got the impression of laughter and joy, so much so I couldn't help but smile as well. They were conversing. Not a sound between them, yet they chattered like hens. As if I had spoken aloud, all of their eyes focused upon me. I gasped with the uncomfortable attention and hastened to join Rouhn, who had already left the cleared paths of the village for the thick ground foliage that surrounded us on all sides.

"Why don't they speak?" I asked, ducking under a large frond of some plant with leaves like boat oars. I struggled to keep up with her as she moved like a cat through the dense fauna; I was chasing a brown-black blur through ever concealing green.

"There are many dangers in this place, many predators who hunt by sound," came Rouhn's voice from somewhere ahead. "Their village remains safely camouflaged by the forest, however if it were to be found, they would be forced to uproot. If that were to happen too often, it's likely they would never amass enough food to survive the long winters."

"But how do they communicate with no language?"

"Empathy. By feeling. They can 'listen' to emotions as we listen to words. While we rely on a system of crude phonetic symbols, they have a sophisticated interchange of emotions. You felt it yourself when you saw the women laughing. You had picked up on their conversation."

"Eavesdropped, you mean." I felt a little ashamed, as if I had stolen a little bit of their lives by 'listening'.

"In a limited sense, yes. Our emotions serve us well in a rudimentary way. Either we are happy or sad, angry or forgiving. We tend to feel things one at a time, rarely simultaneously. They, however, feel everything at once to varying degrees, and by modulating how these emotions are perceived, they have learned to communicate basic concepts such as hunger or pain or love. This evolved into concrete ideas, and then finally conceptual fabrications."

"Imagination. Stories," I added. "Dreams and fantasies."

"Precisely. I'd suspect they can relate concepts to each other with astounding accuracy compared to our crude dialects."

"How long did it take you to figure all of this out?"

"Not long at all," she said, thrusting forward through the leaves.

We traversed through the dense thicket for what felt like hours. Rouhn strove ahead, periodically stopping to let me, breathless and heaving, catch up. I strained at the journey, quickly tiring. The forest was an endless mesh of vines and roots and branches, greens and browns overlaid upon greens and browns, and all of the terrain seemed to angle upward. I understood why as I saw Rouhn emerge into a clearing. When I joined her, I found it not to be a clearing at all, but a stone precipice overlooking an enormous wooded valley. The sun was quickly setting before us and a cold wind raked across the ledge that glistened in the gloaming. Dappled reds and oranges lit the sky like a bonfire. Shadows reached as tendrils across the wooded panorama before us where salient stone outcroppings emerged from the forest floor. Some sort of large winged creatures soared high overhead.

It struck me then just how far from the city we truly were, for the stars that bedaubed the fiery sky were foreign to me. Mind you, I have spent many nights watching the constellations, and I could just as easily find my way by them as the surest navigator. I pushed the hair and sweat from my face and peered at the unfamiliar sky, but could not fix a single point of light, not one. Rouhn stood beside me, "What do you think of it?"

"It's wonderful," I gasped, exhausted from the arduous climb, but my eyes still roamed the heavens. "How did you find this vantage through all that?"

"I didn't find it. I made it."

"No, truly," I said, in no mood for humor. "Did the villagers show you the way here?"

Rouhn beamed at me. "No, I made them too."

"Are you always so full of bilge water?" I said, narrowing my gaze.

She settled cross-legged on the precipice. "Remember where we are," she said. "This is not the world you know. To us this place is malleable, completely a product of our imaginations. To you and I, who are not born of this place, who are but visitors who recognize this world as undeniably different than our own, this is essentially work of the imagination. Only to those who are born here, who never have known anything else, is this place static and immutable. To those indigenous to this world, it is as real as Felvishar is to us. But for me and eventually you as well, it is merely a plaything of the imagination. It's cognition, a cerebration."

"You can't just will things into being. How could you birth something so solid and tangible from mere imagination?"

"But none of this is truly tangible. You only think so because your senses have convinced you it is. You yet lack the ability to judiciously disregard what your eyes and ears tell you. This place is a physical interjection into the ethereal. It is a place, seemingly real, that exists beyond the physical world you know. It's real enough to those who live and die here; they will never understand what this truly is. But to you and I, it is little more than an enduring daydream. It's a matter of perspective, really. We have dominion over our imaginations, and with immense effort, we can galvanize our fancy into complex and diverse environs as real as our own."

I ground my teeth. She could not be so pretentious as to claim she could accomplish what no mortal should by divine law. "But how could you have made this?" I exploded. "This is gods' work you speak of. You are no goddess."

"Perhaps not from your eyes, and certainly not in our world. But here, I am whatever I wish to be." She gazed intently on the sunset. A silence came between us as I struggled to understand what was happening. I had some sense of it, there just below where my thoughts could touch, just past my sense of reason. But physical discomfort was making it difficult to think. I was getting colder by the minute as the wind whipped over the precipice. I tucked my arms across my chest to hold the heat. I was losing patience with this enigmatic nonsense and wondered if we could leave soon. Perhaps Ms. Lila would make some tea when I returned to Duenna. I looked to Rouhn who, sitting still and unguarded, seemed unaffected by the cold.

"I will miss this place," she offered. "I have spent a hundred lifetimes cultivating this land, this life and people. I will miss the serenity, the savage forests. When we are here, or in any cerebration properly done, we can stop time in our own world." Her head turned, and she leveled her calm eyes at mine. "We have been here for nearly a day, but in Felvishar, not a second has passed. That's the power of it. You can learn, study your creations, build and rebuild a thousand times over. You can acquire knowledge that would normally take millennia in the blink of an eye."

"And all by power of imagination," I parroted.

Rouhn sensed the acerbic tone in my voice. "The greatest power we have, the most precious gift, is imagination. We can imagine a thing, and so we can build a thing. The more we imagine, the stronger the image, the more real it seems. At some point, it will come to life of its own accord, breathe and pulse with vim. It happens all the time. There are countless cerebrations that are nothing but wandering daydreams or errant fantasies or nightmares, but they're rarely enduring. But this," she motioned to the dipping sun, "is order hammered from chaos, steel from slag. Once a cognition is stable, life will take root as if it were waiting impatiently for someplace to seed. Or perhaps life takes root in all such places, but is extinguished when the cerebration collapses. No, this is something quite different. This is fashioned as our world is, and I have done so."

"Why would you risk the anger of the pantheon?" I said. "Don't you fear the fires of inquisition or their clever devices? Would you condemn yourself so readily to their torture? Would you make your god a cuckold?"

"I don't fear the inquisition, or even death at their hands. They can't harm me in any meaningful way," she said. "And what gods are here besides me? Here there is only one god, and I am that one. The only one. The Pantheon has no jurisdiction here. This is not their world. This is mine. I am the mistress of my own imagination. Here I am the sole creator and the sole destroyer."

"You're a lunatic," I said and tossed a pebble off the cliff.

"Undeniably. But here I can understand the truth of our existence."

"I see no truths here," I snapped, "only the misguided artifice of a condemned soul."

Rouhn ignored the slight. "I've discovered the truth of association. This place, though strange, is fashioned by the same underlying principles of motion and matter as our own. That is to say, orderly and stable, consistent and predictable. And that is because it was fashioned by a singular and distinctive prerogative. It was not a collaboration of efforts or a committee of gods, and there's no way it could have been. Too much concentration, too much precision is needed to build a system this solid."

"So you're an excellent transcriber. Little more."

Rouhn continued, "The inhabitants will never understand this to be anything but the real world, though we know it is not. Neither will we ever know Felvishar to be anything other than the real world. That said, it's not a tall step to consider that just as there is a sole creator of this world, there is a sole creator of our own."

"But that's ludicrous. Everyone knows that can't be. That would mean that..."

"The inhabitants of one world would spawn the next, and the cycle would continue recursively, a natural evolution of the imagination."

"Even if that were so, how would it start? How could the first world in the chain come into existence if not for gods?"

"It could begin anywhere along the cycle. There is no binding of time between one cerebration and another. It's possible, and even probable that one system could spawn another system which in turn could spawn the first."

"A clever parlor puzzle you've got, nothing more. It would mean the gods are nothing more than idolatries. And I know the gods exist."

"A god exists, perhaps. Perhaps our theology sees the one god, only in pieces, different facets of the same gem. But a more likely explanation is that the gods you worship are simply manipulations of the unscrupulous, a means to control you, a tool of law. I doubt if any of the Pantheon truly exist, or if they do, it is solely by the will of the devout."

"If you have ever been aboard a ship caught in a tempest, your faith would realign, I assure you," I said, absently pawing a group of jagged little stones before selecting one and hurtling it from the promontory. I detested arguments that embraced nothing but obscurities, regarding them as fruitless and vain. Unfortunately, I was hooked by the mouth. "But even if they were fabrications, is this not one also?" I asked, gesturing to the valley below.

"Forever the mariner's child," she said. "Tell me, has the goddess of the sea served you in bringing you here?"

"It's not she who serves us. Saduje tests our faith continuously. It is our duty to prove ourselves worthy of her waters."

"Tell me then, what is the reward for your endurance? What have you gained from your allegiance to the sea? You were a mere passenger aboard Marius' ship, resented and loathed. There were certainly sailors aboard the Seraph who proved more worthy and enduring than you, who met their fate in the cold, dark waters of the ocean. You were a mouth to feed, a hindrance to a tight ship, a nuisance to an efficient merchant."

"I endured enough," I snarled. "You can keep your barbs corked; I'll not take jabs from you." Rouhn smirked, and I was nearly possessed to shove her off the ledge to be broken on the stones far below.

"You have sustained much, but your tribulations are misplaced. Did you really prove your worthiness to the sea, or simply to your ward's hand? The bruises you suffered in the name of your goddess, are they your reward? Is your crooked little nose a testament of your faith, as you would like to believe, or the callous deeds of a drunken old fool?"

How could she be so cruel as to draw the memory from my head? I bit down hard on my lip trying to keep it suppressed, but it was forced to surface, flashing behind my eyes, the plate at my feet, contents overturned. His feet shifted, a shadow moved against the wall, and then the blinding crush against my face. The cold mead in my hair. A deafening pang in my ears. My hands shook as I reached for the plate, feeling against the coarse floorboards as I could not see through the tears. And then the blood. Slippery and warm. The stain lingered long after, having sunk deep into the grain. No amount of scrubbing could get it out. I'd worn my fingers to the bone trying, tore at the wood itself, but the stain was enduring, indelible.

"It wasn't your fault," she intruded. "None of it was your fault. He resented you for what your mother did. Nothing you could ever do would have pleased him enough."

"You've not the privilege to decide," I said, shaking only partly from the cold. The refulgent liberation I had experienced before yielded to a repulsive loathing with all the splendor of rotting fish rising in my throat. I tried to swallow that pain, to scuttle the memory. I hated Rouhn then. I hated her. "Don't ever speak to me on familiar terms. However you came to know that, it's not your business," I said. "Take me home."

"As you wish," she said and rose to her feet. "It's about to rain anyway. Perhaps it will remind you of your goddess. Perhaps you will take comfort in that. One thing I will say for her, at least she rid your life of that miserable man. Maybe that was your reward."

"As if Pruet is any better," I said through my teeth as I rose. "As if any of them are."

"Pruet has his moments," she responded, "but he is no fool. He's not so random with his malice. Where Marius acted of resentment and anger, Pruet acts with calculated gain."

"And yet you work for him," I said. "Can't say it reflects well upon you."

"I'm not interested in your opinions, frankly. I'm indentured to him, much as are you. But I'm not unaware of the gains I've made, nor am I negligent of the dangers involved in keeping his commission." Rouhn glanced at the sky and said, "We should go now. It'll pour shortly," and strode back into the enfolding greenery.

I stood and looked at the same nearly cloudless sky before heading after her into the thicket. No sooner did I set foot into the forest than it began to rain, a heavy and consistent downpour that left nothing undrenched.

We plodded through the endless foliage, though I should say I plodded, she moved, along a different path than we came, crossing turgid streams and clambering up muddy embankments in the closing darkness. More than once I lost my footing, crashed to the ground in a soiled heap, or banged my shin on a slippery rock. I eyed Rouhn with contempt as the savant navigated the forest knowing every tree, every stone, every fallen leaf like she knew her own toes.

We followed the edge of a stream fed by countless gullies and springs until finally it cascaded from a steep cliff into a dark pool thirty feet below. Rouhn stood upon the edge, silent and still, her attention lost in the water racing off the lip.

The rain dwindled then ceased as quickly as it came. I looked above to see a majestic array of stars exploding through the widening gap in the clouds. The rain had done well to remove the layers of sediment from Rouhn's face. I noted how she shined, beautiful, like the muse of some long forgotten poet, resplendent and aglow.

She turned to me, a gleam in her blue eyes. "This is the way home."

"What do you mean?" I said. "Where's the village?"

"Sometimes to get to where we started we have to go back a different way. Sometimes we have to trust that things will be alright, even when they're not. That water down below us is the way home. It's the portal out of this place. And there's only one way down."

Taking a step forward, I peered into the churning water. I shook my head. "Only a fool would jump into water like that. No. I've had enough of your games. If this is truly your creation, you don't need to do this. Just take us home."

"Don't you trust me? Don't you trust your goddess?" Without a word more, she turned and walked off the cliff. I gasped and moved to the edge, but lost sight of her as she disappeared into the crash of rushing water. I scanned the dark bubbling pool, expecting to see her, or at least her body, bobbing up from the churning froth, but she never did. After a few minutes I sat down and dangled my sodden feet from the edge. Though the rain had stopped, my boots still held a considerable amount of mud and leaves tucked against the heel. I clapped them together, sending clods down into the heaving water. "You're no god," I muttered, but then wondered if I meant Rouhn or Saduje. I looked up to the stars that formed bright patterns in the sky, foreign little lights, distant and winking. I was a very long way from Felvishar.

All of this, all that Rouhn had spoken about, now that I sat alone and undisturbed, began to settle into my mind despite my reluctance. She had planned it that way. She knew I would resist this last test, thus giving me the peace to sit and think. But instead of sorting out the principles she had tried to convey, my thoughts were trapped in memory, the escape from which was like traversing a muddy flat on foot: a few steps in and one was up to the knee in pungent black wash.

I could still taste the blood welling beneath my tongue, smell his feral odor, see the shadows as the lantern swayed side to side. And then there were other memories, strangely calm moments in my life when I would gather strength, braced by the cold wind clambering over the bow, one foot on the gunnel, a whisper in my ear. There was grace in the water that surged below, an enveloping quiet that beckoned my throbbing heart. How easy it would be to find peace and solitude, to slip like a stone into the dark ever-wet, removed from anyone's touch, to just be gone.

If ever it is too much, I heard her say, there is always the sea.

Knowing I had an escape stilled my screaming insides long enough to transmute that tortured agony into resolve. I would fall under his hand, but then I would rise again as surely as the sun. I would endure his drunken aggression. I would outlive him.

"A dream within a dream," I wondered out loud. And the sound of my own voice came as distant and unknown as the heavens upon which I marveled.

I lay against the stone, feeling its cool strength at my back, and closed my eyes. I drew a deep breath and simply enjoyed the quiet, the solitude. I felt safe, at peace. I was unreachable, alone and undisturbed. No one beckoned me to scrub the floors or mind laundry or study. No one mandated my life, barked orders or issued reprimands. I basked in the feeling, and longed to return to that untouchable place every second of every day until I found the ability to create a cerebration of my own.

Eventually the sun began to rise, a growing fire in the sky. I had stayed long enough. With some effort, I sat up and looked down to the crashing maw. There was nothing to see in the predawn, only the tremendous sound of falling water. "Like a stone into the sea," I said and scooted off the ledge. I closed my eyes as my thrashing feet failed to find purchase in the damp air.

The water was cold, and I was acutely aware of my goddess, suddenly stricken with her indomitable presence when her wet fingers clawed into my ears and nose. "What have I done?" I cried, and then realized I was no longer in that place, but sitting in the center of the great circular room. Rouhn was there, across from me, though changed. Her face was hollow, her eyes sunken in from not enough to eat or perhaps too little sleep. Smiling, the savant betrayed a set of broken and crooked teeth before she remembered where she was and covered her mouth with a sickly hand.

And there were others there, many others, none of whom I recognized at a glance, except maybe that one. The one I met with Audrey. Loren, I thought his name was.

Without a word I rose, gathered the hem of the heavy orange and red gown in my fists and shot off the small dais into the crowd of people as they rose and mingled, occasionally dropping a smile in my direction. Nearly all of them were men, of different shapes and ages. I wanted to leave, but I couldn't discern a way out through the burgeoning forest of brown and gray robes. Through the blur of faces I spied the top rim of an arched doorway, as promising a direction as any.

I threaded through the unfamiliar crowd, many of whom attempted to initiate some bit of introduction or polite chatter. I was deaf to their approaches. My need to get out superseded any desire to be social. One of them tried to speak to me and I turned away, attempting to snake past him. But he grabbed my arm in a large hand, holding me in place, forcing my attention. He was a tall fellow with fine dark hair, a striking face, cruel eyes. "I'm Tiplin," he said above the noise. "You'll be working for me."

This delay in my exodus was not welcome. I narrowed my gaze at the man and twisted from his grasp, then ducked back into the mob of people. His reluctance to let go was evident in the pain in my arm and the bruise that later formed.

When I finally reached the doorway, I found it to be a junction of several hallways from an alcove, four splitting away at acute angles, all obscured by the lack of sconce or lamp. I growled with frustration and was just about to turn back when a light jostled behind me, throwing my elongated shadow against the walls ahead. "This way," I heard and spun to see Loren motioning to the corridor on our right.

He walked ahead of me, blond hair gleaming at the edge of his silhouette. I was relieved when we left the noise of the crowded chamber behind us. We rounded a corner or two, then stepped through a door into another passageway which angled downward for a long distance.

"This maze seems endless," I offered with some anxiety, hoping he was leading me out.

"Just about," he answered, glancing back. And then there was only the quiet shuffle of our feet, the lantern light playing against the smooth walls, featureless aside from the thin layer of mortar between the masonry. I didn't feel like talking anyway.

The corridor narrowed, and the sleeves of my gown brushed against the walls as we walked. Loren, much taller and with broader shoulders, was forced to walk with his torso slightly cocked to get himself through. I wondered if the walls might constrict even further. As if reading my thoughts, he explained that this way was rarely used because it was so narrow. It wasn't the most direct route, but it circumvented the commotion and the journeymen well enough.

A silence jutted between us for a while, and then as if he couldn't contain himself any longer, he blurted, "What was it like?"

"You mean being in there with Rouhn?"

"Yes. Being inside her mind like that."

I shrugged, a gesture that went unseen in the broken darkness. I didn't want to talk about it, yet found that I was. "Strange, I suppose. Like a dream that I kept trying to wake up from, but couldn't."

"Were you frightened?" he asked, looking over his shoulder.

I didn't answer at first. It was terrifying, but only after I had woken up. "Just a dream," I said. Just a dream. I already doubted whether the whole thing actually happened, whether the memories were anything more than ghosts in my mind.

The passageway eventually leveled off, then pitched upward before it terminated at a heavy iron door without so much as a peep-hole to look beyond. Loren glanced back furtively before shuttering the lantern. His hand found the latch and the door creaked open into the night sky and the fetor of the slums. I winced as the repugnant smell struck my nose.

"We're on the East side of the river," he said, ignoring the stench. "The tunnels run deep under the city, under the river. "Do you know the streets well enough to find your way back to Duenna? I'll escort you if you want."

"No. Thank you." I slid past him and waded through the formless debris gathered in the doorway. "I can find my way."

"Very well then. Safe journey," he said, pulling the door closed. His soft face disappeared behind the iron door with a muffled clank.

I pressed my eyes shut and breathed in the night, trying not to do so through my nose. It was good to be free of that place, though the night's events had not happened without consequence. The thought that I might have betrayed my goddess devoured my insides. Shame consumed me.

A steady throbbing pressed against the inside of my skull and I clenched my hands against my temples as if to keep my head from exploding. How wicked was this, all of it wrong, all of it horrible.

I forced my eyes open and into focus against the pain in my head. An alley, the door from which I came, was but a shadow in the night. Stepping over piles of urban flotsam I made my way to the nearest proper street, only a side avenue that would eventually bring me to the river; and from the river I knew the way home. I looked to the sky, saw the familiar arrangement of stars, the great bear, and Ophalum the whale. They were old friends I had not seen in ages.

As soon as I left the relative shelter of the alley for the exposed street, I regretted not staying at the monastery long enough to change. I still wore the heavy orange robes. Returning to that place was no option, and although the robe was warm enough for the night, it was unwieldy and far too conspicuous. It was expensive fabric, and likely to attract attention from whatever eyes prowled the night. Furthermore, it was a standing banner of my infidelity. I wanted to pretend nothing had happened, to rip the memory from my head and continue being a simple girl. I even wished in that contentious moment that Marius were still alive, and I still aboard the Seraph. But I suppose that was predictable. I knew the dangers there. I had endured them for seventeen years. I could have endured them longer still.

But this was beyond any damage done by his hand. I could not focus my thoughts; they were a thousand screaming voices, each demanding attention that I couldn't grant. With each step I took the voices grew louder, more insistent. I peered again to the reeling stars as low clouds began to roll into the valley.

It wasn't long before I saw the veiled reflection of Femporlamer. The river was turgid and rushed past. The orange moon glared down through a break in the clouds. There were others in the street even at this late hour, watermen close to the river, agents of my goddess.

As tears overflowed my eyes, I fought to breathe against the grief that weighed upon my spirit. Somewhere between myself and the river a predator found its prey, which howled in its death like a screaming child. The sound soon ceased, but in my head it did not die, only added to the voices ringing in my ears. "What have I done?" I called out, but even my own voice was muted. I felt inhabited by some awful parasite, writhing and devouring my insides. I clutched myself in pain. I wanted to cut it out, sever it like a gangrenous limb, and had I a knife at the time I might have tried.

I fell hard to my knees, hands covering my ears to staunch the noise. Eventually, when the voices quieted, I could hear the river again, could smell the pungent flotsam gathering against the edge. I looked up and saw something I had not seen since traveling inland.

The entrance of the temple gaped open, adorned on all sides by stone seascape: starfish, octopus, cuttlefish, coral and mollusks watching over the shallow steps leading inside. On either side stood two majestic nautilus, as big as barrels, round and beautifully painted, leafed in gold and glimmering like jewels, even in the semi-darkness of the moonlit night.

Wasting no time, I gathered my robes and bounded up the steps into the temple's inner womb. The threshold greeted me with the familiar trappings of my goddess, the sweet smell of pure water and its sound as it crashed into what I knew to be a large pool set before me. I took a moment to let my eyes adjust and to absorb the serenity of the house. Soon I could see the narrow slits in the high domed ceiling that allowed what light there was to filter through. No sconces rested in the walls, for fire would be a desecration.

Before long, the great chamber revealed itself fully to my vision. Mighty pillars surrounded the hall, six of them, one for each of the seas, at the feet of which were scattered gifts and offerings, coins, jewelry, fruit, baubles. Toward the back of the chamber, the stone floor was sunk in to form a large pool behind which Saduje herself stood, twice as tall as I, her proud hair careening wildly in sinuous tentacles, her hands cupped to her breast from which spilled clear, cool water.

My knees weakened, and I trembled with both elation and guilt. I scrambled to the edge of the pool and fell to my knees. Arms crossed over my chest, I slowly dipped my forehead into the cold water. At once the tempest in my mind ceased. "I'm sorry," I muttered as tears left my eyes to join the water. I took a deep breath and prayed for forgiveness.

There was a movement behind me. I swung around, sending long tresses of wet hair fanning out to all sides. A shadow, a silhouette against the light, crept in from the entrance.

"Forgive me," he said. "I didn't mean to disturb you. Visitors this late are most often thieves. But then I saw you were praying. I won't disturb you again."

"Oh no, please," I said, desperate for an advocate. "Are you a priest?"

The figure shrugged. "Acolyte. If all goes well, a priest by next solstice. Are you in need of a priest?"

"I am," I said, getting to my feet. "I need a cleansing before our goddess."

"The priest of this temple will return tomorrow. Perhaps if you come then he can perform the ceremony for you."

"Please. Do it tonight."

"I'm not a priest," he said firmly. "Please come back tomorrow."

"But you will be a priest," I said. "Please."

Silence took the darkness as the shadow considered. "Alright," he said. "But if we're to do this I'll need some things. Wait here." He stepped away into the pitch.

My heart leapt. "Wait! Do you have a spare robe?"

"Perhaps." A moment later a bundle of cloth was tossed into my arms. Wasting no time, I climbed into it. Like everything, it was too large, but it would do. I wiggled out of the orange robe, gathered it in my arms and tossed it into the street before returning and sitting cross-legged on the cold floor, the pool and Saduje squarely to my left. The acolyte soon returned bearing a large ceramic basin. He sat across from me.

"So what has happened that brings you here so urgently?" he asked, dipping the basin into the pool.

"My father," I summarized for the sake of brevity, if inaccurately. I struggled to put into words what had just happened. Just what had I done? "He wishes me to refute the pantheon in favor of a single deity."

"Oh, really?" He placed the now full bowl between us. "One god? That's so blasphemous it's laughable. How could he expect you to cast away one god for another? Our relationship with our goddess is for life. How arrogant is he for thinking we may choose our gods like we choose what we eat, what clothes we wear."

"I don't wish it," I said, though some errant part of me questioned that assertion. I blamed Rouhn for that. She had planted the seed.

"And you are right not to. You must refuse his wishes in favor of your goddess."

"But I fear if I do he'll disown me. Cast me into the streets to be a pauper."

"Ah, I see. In that case you should seek a husband as soon as you are able. Your father cannot by law refuse a birthright to the husband of his daughter."

"Is there no other way? I have no suitors. I'm not pretty. I doubt he'd even let me marry."

The acolyte chuckled, an uncomfortable sound in the darkness. "I'm sure your father will let you marry. If you aren't pretty as you say, then he would be eager to be rid of you to the first suitor. If not, report him to the clappers. Bellatine would make quick work of him."

My voice sparked, "What if I were to become a servant of our goddess? I can read. And write. And clean and do whatever else to please her."

"No woman can serve a religious function," his voice descended like a hammer on my heart. "You should know that."

"Yes," I nodded.

"Shall we get on with it then?"

"Yes."

The air between us grew still, leaving only the constant rush of water from our goddess. "Then let us begin."

I lay with my back against the floor, head tilted back over the rim of the pool, eyes closed. The acolyte took my head in his hand and slowly poured the cool waters over my forehead and scalp. All the worry, the guilt and anxiety I had felt over the day dissolved into that water. My thoughts and emotions began to unify. The current of that gentle stream aligned my beliefs once again. The touch of his hand, the cryptic staccato of the old tongue as he chanted our lady's blessing plied away my grief. I followed every word in my mind, though the language was forbidden to the common people. Opening my eyes, I barely discerned the outline of the statue above. It seemed to sway and come alive of its own accord. I heard in my heart the mollifying sound of grace, mercy where no mercy was deserved. It came with a qualification, a warning: forgiven, not forgotten. But even with that admonition, the seed had begun to grow.

##### Chapter 5

"Anything?" Jamrhad slid in prone, next to Virimu, careful not to dislodge any of the slate shingles and send them splattering onto the street below. It was a bright day, and from the roof of the red-brick hostel across the alley, they could see clearly into Duenna. The high gutters mounted on the hostel provided good cover from suspicious eyes, and the dormer window gave easy access to the top floor, four stories up.

Virimu removed the brass spyglass from his eye and handed it back over his shoulder. "Have a look," he said.

Jamrhad swiped at his eye with the back of his hand and pressed it to the ocular. Through the shedding boughs of an elm he could see the dark shape of a head in the window. "Is that our girl?"

"No." Virimu fumbled in the pocket of his dun colored jacket to produce a weathered scrap of paper. "That is Ms. Genevieve Dubois. She's the only daughter of a lord in the north country, minor nobility, though a substantial land holder. Not really our concern."

Jamrhad looked to his compatriot. "Let's not dismiss her altogether. She may yet be useful. But where's Fenitheer?"

"She's there. The two are roommates, friends. It's not common to see one without the other."

Jamrhad returned his gaze to the manor. "Ah, yes. I see her," he said. "If that's the case then Ms. Dubois might be useful. Looks like they're leaving. Yes, they're walking out the front now. I think they're heading—"

"Is that who I think it is?"

"Where?" Jamrhad said, panning down to the streets below just in time to catch the tail of a cloak disappearing through the kitchen door. "Well, is it?"

"I think so."

"Don't waste time, do they?" Jamrhad took his attention from the eyepiece. The ominous circles beneath his dark eyes betrayed a profound lack of sleep. "They're headed to the eastern markets. There's no point following them. Go back and get some rest, but not before you see if Loren has anything for us. Just don't tell him what we're doing. I don't want him to know anything he doesn't need to. The way that boy talks, it's a wonder they even let him through the door. I'll keep an eye on our gent."

Virimu gathered his things and crawled backward through the window. "See you tonight then."

Jamrhad peered into the glass to see a familiar figure moving through the room. "And so, burner of books," he muttered. "What would be your part in all of this?"

It was late afternoon when Tiplin escaped the insulation of Spindledar in favor of the streets that led him to Duenna. The cool air was seasoned with the crisp smell of burning wood as innumerable hearths were lit. He had missed the biting grasp of autumn that never caught him beneath the city. Drawing his cloak, he shoved his hands into his pockets and plodded through the usual rabble tending to their business like flies feeding upon rubbish. Whether it was arrogance or envy, Tiplin maintained a general disdain for those who considered honest labor an acceptable means of subsistence, regarding them as little better than herded sheep.

He arrived shortly before the sun went down. Lila answered the rear door off the kitchen. She would of course be preparing the evening meal. He bestowed upon her artful commendations, proffering a beaded bauble to slip over her wrist. It was inexpensive of course, but so much more to a woman's affections. Feigning interest, he asked about her health and family, gently cupping the weathered skin of her hand in his. Tiplin had been consistently plying her sentiments since the first of Pruet's experiments arrived at Duenna some years ago. Not that he would ever indulge upon her affinity for him, but then again, perhaps he might.

"I've been sent to see Fen. Is she here?" Lila, pushing the yellow stone bracelet over her work battered wrist, smiled and nodded. He slid past her, suggestively caressing the small of her back as he did.

As he crossed through the kitchen and into the main hall, a parade of young women erupted from the study and ascended the steps in gibbering twos and threes. He watched them hungrily before following them up and into the hallway where they paused to chatter. Tiplin weaved his way between them, brushing against them where he was able to use tight quarters for excuse, engaging in coquettishly trivial conversation, gathering names as one would pluck blossoms from a flower bed: Batheny, Cephelia, Deirdre, Nanne, Ezabetha. He passed Audrey's room. The door yawned open, and he paused. Empty. Pity the bed was already stripped.

He pressed on until he reached Fenitheer's door. Tiplin listened from the hall; it was unoccupied. Glancing down the corridor to be sure the rest of the inhabitants were sufficiently engaged, he quietly tried the latch, slipped through, and closed the door behind him.

The light seeping through the window barely illuminated the small room, revealing a meager set of furniture, a pair of beds, one neatly made, the other a disheveled mess, a single wardrobe and a small writing desk. Upon the last of these was a neatly aligned stack of books. Thumbing open the topmost to a random page, Tiplin read, "She awoke to find herself bound, stooped over a large hay bale as the horses looked on with curiosity from their stables. The house mistress desperately tried to wrench herself free of the coarse hemp ropes, but they held fast both her wrists and ankles. A nearby mare snorted, announcing the entrance of Brock the stable boy, though judging by the hard musculature of his bare chest, he could hardly be considered a mere boy. 'My mistress has been naughty,' he said, taking a riding crop from a hook on the wall."

"Humph," Tiplin said, raising a brow. Quickly, he read down the titles in the stack: The Reluctant Desire, Of the Wounded Heart, Tales of Slave and Master, United in Bond, Driven by Fury, Seeking Strength, Of Gods and Man, before returning his attention to the rest of the room. Tiplin closed his eyes and inhaled the lingering scent of perfume, sweet like fresh cut apples. Must be Genevieve, he concluded. Fen didn't seem the type. Following the scent, he snatched Genevieve's pillow and pressed it to his face, ravishing her with his mind, before returning the cushion to its place. His hand found the soft crease where the top sheet was pulled down over the blankets, and he probed the gap between the tightly bound linens with his fingertips.

Still hungry, he turned his appetite to the wardrobe, a weathered though serviceable pine cabinet. Swinging the doors wide, he took quick inventory of compartments, partitioned equitably to either side. A quick swipe of the finger found the dust gathering on the hooks to one half, its contents in a tangled heap at the bottom. The other side displayed neatly hung gowns among other garments of due fashion.

He seized one of the gowns from the cabinet and drew her scent. He gasped as he replaced the gown in favor of a black cotton bodice. Sliding his hand smoothly against the interior, Tiplin considered the possibility that this arrangement might not be so bad after all.

With the sound of the Madam arriving downstairs, her barks resounding up through the floorboards, Tiplin was prompted to finish his business and be gone. Producing a letter from his breast pocket, he dropped it on the desk and discreetly found his way out. Better not to soil the intrusion with confrontation.

Several days after the examination, I awoke at sunrise as I normally did, prepared the fires, and helped Lila with breakfast before she kindly allowed me to leave for the day. I crept up the back stairs as the other occupants made their way down the main steps for the Madam's daily inspection before the meal. I could hear her addressing the girls in her typical bellicose manner as I softly stepped down the hall and into our room.

Opening the wardrobe, I quickly changed into one of the house gowns and smoothed out the creases with my hands. I marched reluctantly before the mirror, grimaced and tried to reign in my chaotic hair. Giving up in disgust, I left the room.

I slipped out the kitchen door and into the garden, wound my way through the sparse weeds that bathed in the waning sun, out the narrow iron gate and into the avenue, already dense with people eager to go about their affairs.

The streets were still slick with dew and the cobbles seemed to shift and move underfoot as I walked deeper into the city and through the maddening surge of bodies at the market. Grateful that the cold morning air masked the sordid odor of the city, I filed through the engorged square, besieged on all sides by the sounds of economy and community, pressed against those around me, moving in starts and stops until I finally reached the far side of the markets and broke into the less populated and poorer districts beyond.

This was the artisan quarter, a rundown collection of apartments and shanties. Artists often lived in communes to support themselves more efficiently while they struggled with their craft. In this quiet little place no fish man cried, no vender bolstered his goods, and the few who lived here rose well after dawn. The roads and alleyways were generally deserted aside from weak-legged and bleary revelers returning from a night of debauchery, or an occasional prostitute strolloping back from a fare.

I turned left onto Otanm Street, and found myself walking into the morning sun. Hand over brow, I squinted on, blundering past the small bakery. I would have kept trudging had Loren not seen me stumble by and called my name. I loved the way his soft voice intoned it, like a stone skipping across smooth water.

I spun and saw him standing in the colorfully embossed doorway of the café, cradling a cup of tea in one large hand. He retreated into the building as I trotted up the several steps and entered, thankful for the refuge from the bright sun.

The smell of baking bread washed over me. The steady noise of a baker tapping cake from the oven danced lightly about the room with some fore day cadence privy only to bread smiths. Loren nodded to the plump maidservant as he brought us to a small table in the corner of the shop. We were offered a basket of rolls, some round and sweet, others spiced and flat. A pot of tea was set before us as well, steeped long for the morning. Loren poured some into my cup, then refreshed his own as the maid turned into the kitchen through a wide swinging door; I liked being the one served for once.

"Thank you," he started, "for coming out to talk. I know it's early." I shrugged, snatched a brown roll and cracked it open to smell the moist steam seeping from the tender middle. I certainly didn't mind the break from housework. "I thought you might be lost with everything that's going on. I know I was."

"So tell me," I said, devouring the heart of the bread and dunking the crust into the tea to weaken it. "What's going on?"

Loren looked to his hands, his fingers interlaced nervously. "Well, I'm not sure how much you know of us, so I'll simply start from the beginning. A long time ago, certainly before our time, there was a society formed, a secretive gathering of like minds who were curious about the nature of our world, about everything. Why do the heavens move? Why do the seasons change? Why do some grow sick and die while others live? What causes the tides? Unsatisfied with the mollifying explanations of the priests, these forefathers embarked on a journey to understand our world only to find that many of these mysteries had already been solved by the ancients who lived before us." The kitchen behind him had grown quiet as if the baker and bread-maid were huddled behind the swinging door, bent on catching every word that came from between Loren's lips.

"Who knew," I said from the lip of my teacup. Inhaling the vibrant fumes of chamomile, mint and rosemary, I continued to watch him, the hesitation at the corner of his mouth, the downward gaze of his eyes.

"There is an undiscovered wealth of knowledge just under our feet, begging to be found." His eyes met mine, the deep blue of a hot summer sky. "You're being given the opportunity to dabble in things others can't even imagine. Did you get the invitation?"

"Yes," I nodded. Someone had dropped it by a few days ago.

"Good," he said, but as my eyes slid from his, he recognized my reluctance. His brow collapsed in disappointment. "Fen, you have to go."

I looked away to the growing foot traffic passing by the window of the little café. The sun was still climbing in the sky, cutting hard shadows across the glistening streets, burning off the dew. "Please don't misunderstand," I said. "I've nothing against the pursuit of knowledge, and were the circumstances different, were I a different person, I would have no hesitation. But it's clear that your interests, the interests of my father, contradict my own." The incredulous look on his face bid me to explain further. "I've never known Pruet. And I've never known my mother. The only home I've had, until three months ago, was aboard a merchant ship. My only mother has been the brackish swell of the ocean, the never-ending wet."

"Saduje," he said.

I nodded and kept on. "And then all of a sudden, I'm waylaid and brought here by a man, presumably my father, who I'd never met and haven't met still. But he did not go to lengths to welcome his long parted daughter back into his arms," I said, feeling my blood stiffen. "Instead, he indentured me as a drudge, leaving me to wonder what he thinks of me, given the considerable influence and resource he clearly possesses."

Loren simply watched me as I continued on. He hadn't expected this.

"And though Mr. Fleary reminds me incessantly of just how fortunate I am to be in the grace of my father, I must wonder what other future was robbed of me," I said, pausing to sip some tea. Loren opened his mouth to say something, but inspiration struck anew. "And perhaps he's right. Perhaps the alternative would have been far worse. But I would have liked the choice. I would have liked to have been wooed to Pruet's side, not beaten to it."

"I didn't..."

"Worst of all, he presumes to know the inclination of my heart. He dares to dictate where my loyalties lie. He drags me here, turns me into his slave and then expects me to abandon my goddess, the closest thing I have ever had to faith and hope, in exchange for unearned, unmerited loyalty to him and this..." I wrung my hands at the air in search of a suitable adjective, "... this Rouhn! And this ridiculous notion that the pantheon is nothing but an imaginative fancy, never mind that it's the conviction of our entire society, and she is but one feckless heretic, utterly determined to be lashed to the post and burned alive."

I took a deep breath and shook my head in anger, then ripped open another roll, kneading the bread between my fingers. The bread-maid peeked out cautiously from the back room. "Everything alright?" she asked.

"We're fine," I spat, flinging the bread at the door.

Loren, who had pushed himself away from the table as if I had been breathing fire, shot me a timid look. "No one is questioning the pantheon. What we do isn't a matter of religion, but of discovery. We would never presume to deny anyone the right of worship."

"You've obviously never spoken to the resident witch," I scoffed.

"Never had reason to," he said. "No, I'm an illustrator, so our paths rarely cross. For my part, I reproduce maps, prints and the like, not nearly as intriguing. But no," he shook his head. "We're expecting nothing of the sort."

"Then what is this delusion all about?"

"Rouhn's a decent savant but she's brimming with strange ideas. Please don't take her thoughts as any indication of what we're truly about," he said. "We all have our gods, as is right. We all worship as we are supposed to."

"That's not the impression I got from her."

Loren drew my hand into his, holding it gently, but with strength. "Let me assure you, Rouhn was only to establish your potential, nothing more. Anything beyond that was unfounded conjecture from a misshapen mind. And I think that's one of the reasons your father wants to bring you onboard, to eventually replace her. Please don't think she represents the whole of what we're trying to do. She is a servant to our cause, not the master."

I thought about this, and remembered what Fleary had said in the carriage ride before the test, about how I was to someday take her position. It seemed to make sense. I was still angry, but the wind quieted behind my sails. I took a deep, purging breath. "The master, I said. "That would be Pruet."

"Yes, that's him. He guides our efforts. I know he's not been much of a father to you, but he's done well for us, and I'm sure that benevolence would extend to you. I've rarely seen him, but we've certainly profited from his direction. I've heard the accomplishments of your mother were equally as great."

My gaze dropped to the small bits of leaf swimming in the bottom of my teacup. "Is he a kind man? Pruet. My father. Is he not cruel or hurtful?"

Loren's shoulders twisted in thought, head dipped to one side to meet them. "He is, as far as I know, not unkind." He was an uncomfortable liar. "He's an effective man, not one to be crossed. I doubt he's accustomed to being your father, but that might change."

"Well, I'm not accustomed to being his daughter, particularly since he's willfully eluded my presence since before I was born."

He squeezed my hand. "Come to your induction then. He'll be there. You're his daughter. He must attend. Besides, it's an affair in your honor. I'll be there to introduce you, help you along. I won't let anything happen to you."

"Promise," I insisted, gliding my thumb over the wide expanse of his hand, smooth skin overlaying muscle and sinew, dappled here and there with bright paints too enduring to be scrubbed away.

"I promise," he whispered. "Besides, Fleary will have his knickers in a twist if you're not there. The induction is merely a formality. You're already considered one of us."

I looked at him, and remembered him when we first met in Nigel's apartment, warm and compassionate, his arm around my shoulders, the reassuring caress of his open palms, long fingers stretched over my flesh. I remembered him saying something about the gods, but that statement, and the rest of the encounter, were lost in the sweet obscurity of incense and mash, dream-like and magical. Sometimes, when I lay awake at night, after Genevieve was asleep, I would delve into myself for that memory, sheltering it in my mind as if it were a flower in a gale. I relived those moments over again, felt his obliging touch, heard the smooth lilt of his voice. I wondered what would have happened had Audrey not interjected. Wouldn't it be grand if, as Rouhn said, we could will things to happen by imagination, and I could let that moment play out? But then I suppose our lives would be nothing more than a series of fanciful, ultimately hollow whimsy. Still, I wouldn't have minded a bit of that now and then.

"So tell me," my eyes rose to meet his as I finally acquiesced. "Tell me everything you know."

"To do that," he said and settled into his chair, "we'd have to go back ages." And so Loren began a tale of beginnings, and with each word he pulled me deeper into his eyes, into the dark sacred space within.

The ground beneath the city of Felvishar had long been coveted. It existed around the crook of the river. The great plains reached out to one side, the mountains thundered upwards on the other. Fertile cropland nourished the city from the west, the deepening mines to the east clad us in silver. The great northern forests provided the timber to build ships and siege engines. The turgid Femporlamer meant trade, ideas, culture and conquest could reach even the furthest shore.

But few things survived the whimsy of gods, who have from time to time ground our people, our knowledge and culture into the silt that chokes the river. This city, founded nearly a thousand years ago, was erected upon the stalwart walls of countless predecessors, and with the weight of each new construction, sunk further and further into the soft earth that buffets the Fem.

Civilizations had been built and fallen and built again, one atop another through the ages, vast cities, greater than Felvishar, which was merely the most recent. Beneath our feet were forgotten causeways stretching for miles below the city. And if one went deep enough into the dark, there lay the remnants of a civilization both great and enigmatic. This hidden conurbation, this eldritch sprawl over which most unknowingly tread, held vast knowledge.

"Spindledar," he called it, letting the name roll from his tongue like the invocation of some strange and wondrous magic. "It's an ancient place, far older than anything we could imagine. Some say older than even man himself. Some say it was the home of giants, and we still their simple slaves, or even yet unborn in the womb of Xe Xu Mal. But there is more." He leaned in, prompting me to do the same. "Whoever inhabited the city below us sought knowledge just as we do now. For in exploring these enormous ruins, in mapping the topography of their streets, we found that the city was not a haphazard jumble of buildings and streets as is ours today, but a precisely fashioned superstructure, such that if you were a bird and could see it from above, you would observe a geometric alignment of concentric circles. And at the very center," he said as his fingertip spiraled into the hollow of my palm, "in the very middle of all this is the greatest library known to man and god. And in it are entombed the very secrets of life itself, secrets we are charged with protecting."

A week later I found Loren where I had left him the night of the examination, a shadow within shadows, an absence of light standing against the heavy iron door. "Fenitheer," he hissed as I neared the door.

I smiled and trotted over, a ginger lilt in my step as he moved to meet me. Loren took my hand in his, the small of my back with the other, and guided me to the door. It opened without a sound. He'd oiled the hinges, he explained. Just inside, a small lantern sat on the floor, nudging the darkness down the long corridor. I pulled my cloak around my shoulders and stepped through the doorway. Loren snatched the lantern and followed.

The corridor was as I remembered it, moist and warmer than the night air. The damp pale stone threw the sound of our footsteps down and back the lonely passageway. Soon I found myself out of breath and had to rest. Loren offered to take my cloak, but I shook my head. No, not yet. And so we continued.

"What are we to study?" I asked, still curious as to the goings on beneath the city.

"A little of everything, really," he said from behind me. "Archeology, geometry, astrology, history. History in particular. Myths. Lore. Mysticism."

"I wasn't aware that there were peoples before us. Before this city I mean. I've always thought Felvishar had been here all along, that there had been no civilization before us."

"Quite the contrary," his voice rang softly. "As I've said, there were cities built upon this place that, for whatever reason, had fallen tens of centuries past. Felvishar is simply the most recent. When the first of us came from the south, all they found were plains and forests. Perhaps a stone outcropping here or there, but nothing to hint at what was below their plow blades."

"So how did anyone ever find it?"

"Someone tried to dig a well. Fifty feet down they hit stone and couldn't dig further. That's why we bring all our water in on the aqueducts, from the springs in the mountains to the east; it's hard to find reliable water in the ground and the river is too dirty to drink. Eventually, people thought to quarry the rock only to find cut stone and brick. What they were attempting to mine was the ruins of a city. Of course once word spread, everyone wanted to unearth the ruins and look for the gold thought to be buried under the fields. It wasn't long before they discovered that many of the ruins had survived intact and had not collapsed under the weight of the earth. And so they began to explore these endless corridors, rooms and chambers, pillaging what had been left behind by the previous occupants. Felvishar grew wealthy by the treasures of those who came before us."

"And it was because of our greed," he continued, "that the dark ones, thought to be the embalmed remains of the original inhabitants, supposedly rose against us, flooding from the quarries and mines like rats from the sewers, laying siege to the city from within. No matter how many were destroyed, twice as many ebbed from this dark place. They were fought back, though at no small cost, eventually to be bottled up in the deeper ruins."

I stopped and turned to face him. The lantern in his hand cast ominous shadows across his face. "Do you think it's true?" I asked, shallow breaths clearly audible. "Your story sounds more like a sailor's yarn than history."

Loren shrugged. "It's not my story. And believe what you may, the barricades exist. I've seen them. Could show you if you like. But not now. We're late. They'll start to wonder where you are if we're much longer."

I frowned and continued onward. "So this library, it was the prospectors who found it?"

"Yes, but few of them could read, let alone decipher the language. So they had little interest in it. The claim was sold to Lord Bellatine, or maybe to his forefathers; it was at least a hundred years ago. Anyway, once your father realized how valuable it could be, he petitioned Bellatine for a lease. So we began excavating it. Over time we pushed the explorations past the barricades, repositioning them without the knowledge of the city consulate. Tampering with the barricades is a crime, after all."

"But doesn't the city check the barricades? Wouldn't they notice if the barricades had moved?"

"Of course. But anyone can be bought at a price. Records can be changed or even lost given enough gold. And that was so long ago. Nobody believes the stories these days."

"Is there still treasure down here?"

"No, the gold and silver have been gone for ages. When all this started, well before I got involved, we survived on what we could glean from the ruins and private contributions. We were nothing more than a gaggle of hobbyists working in the monastery when we could afford to be away from our livelihoods. But now we devote all of our time to our study and craft and are supported financially for it. Propriety, one of the three pillars by which we work—"

"Ah, yes. Truth, persistence and propriety," I said. "Whoever wrote my invitation scripted the evening well."

"For our efforts, we're often contracted discreetly. If we don't already possess a knowledge, we can usually obtain it by way of an acquisitionist."

"Thieves, you mean."

Loren laughed. "They don't like to be called thieves. But we don't usually resort to that. More often we've already got what the client is looking for; Pruet makes sure we're always in the know. Then we simply sell it for a considerable profit. It's as if we're mining gold. Only this is knowledge, ten times more precious."

Loren's hand gripped my shoulder and halted my advance. His other arm reached around me and pushed at some bit of darkness. A door opened and I was let into another corridor, though this one terminated quickly into a makeshift coatroom, converted from its original purpose as a study. Loren reached for my cloak clasp; this time I let him. As soon as the heavy wool fell away the moist air caressed my bare shoulders in tandem with Loren's gaze as he held the lantern up to let the warm light crawl across my body.

"You're delicious," he stammered, taking a step back as I turned for him. A grin spread across my face. Genevieve had been kind enough to fit me with a bodice. Bound breathless and tight, it granted the illusion of hips, alluded to a bosom that wasn't otherwise there. Over that I wore the green satin gown she had given me. It fit perfectly.

Loren orbited me, round and round, devouring me with his stare. I reached out to his waist, ceased his spin and let the gravity of my eyes draw him near. His lips crashed against mine and lingered, suckling away my strength. His arm closed around my waist and I fell against his chest.

But my breath ran short and I tore myself away from his seeking mouth, burying my face against his shoulder. I longed for him, had since that first day. I wanted to be wrapped in his arms, warm and safe and whole. "Must we attend this dreadful gathering?" I gasped. "Could we not spend our time in a better way?"

His arms circumscribed my body, pulling me even closer until my feet barely rested on the stone floor. "No," he breathed against my neck. I would have melted by the heat of his exhale were the word itself not so cold. "This is important."

"Nothing could be so important," I said, but knew already the battle was lost.

"No," he said again, pushing away from me. "Everyone's waiting for you. Everyone needs to see you. This is more than just a party. Your attendance signifies your commitment. It's your initiation. It's the beginning of everything."

"Can't it wait then?" I appealed, eyes closed, drawing the sweetness of his scent. His hand found my cheek, lips descended to my forehead. "Let's go. We're already late. They'll be looking for you."

My entrance into the crowded vestibule was greeted with a turgid wash of whispers and wide eyes, not because I was late, but that I was there at all. Loren, whose company I'd managed to lose in the confusion, was correct. They had been looking for me, at Duenna, the market, even daring to venture into the sacred houses of my goddess, and not simply looking, but searching. My thoughts raced to Carrowyn, recalling the extraction from Marius' ship.

Word of my arrival passed like a gale through the nervous crowd, out of the hot vestibule and through a passageway so jammed with people that it was impossible to see what lay beyond. There was a loud banging, like a quick and distant thunder, which called the bubbling chatter to cease.

The throngs of people divided before me, forming a wide path out of the vestibule and into the great hall. I tried to pick Loren out from the line of people, but he was nowhere to be found.

A pair of hands gripped my shoulders and pushed me forward into the great chamber, as my heeled shoes clacked against the checkerboard marble floor. The room was poorly lit despite dozens of torches ensconced high into the gray stone walls and rotund pillars rising to support the ceiling lost in the darkness above. Crowds of silhouettes and shadows shunted me toward the center of the room.

My heart sank to see Fleary, and only Fleary, standing on a wooden dais, staff in hand, under lit by two flaming braziers to either side. I stopped short of the platform by twelve feet or so as I had been instructed, and slowly dropped to my knees and bowed my head, letting my gaze fall to Fleary's red satin shoes. All was quiet save the crackling hiss of the fires set about us. I shivered yet felt feverish. Everything inside of me wanted to get out of this place, to flee. Regardless, I had made my decision. For good or ill, there was no going back now.

Fleary lifted the staff, a silver rod, its head bedaubed with various gems that glowed with the flickering light, and pounded it three times against the wooden pedestal. "Fenitheer Saabin," he bellowed, "You have come before us requesting the station of apprentice among our number. Do you confer?"

"It is to this that I confer, master." The words seemed foreign. After all, I did not write them. I would never call Fleary, or anyone for that matter, "master" in any other circumstance.

"And to what effect are you deserving of an apprenticeship among our ranks?"

"It is by your grace alone that I am deserving of any honor you would bestow, my master," I recited as loud as I could without outright shouting. Even still, my small voice seemed lost in the engulfing expanse of the chamber.

"Do you believe yourself worthy of our grace?"

"I am only worthy of that which you deem me worthy of, my master."

Fleary pounded his staff into the pedestal and shouted, "It is by the three lays do we set about our illumination."

The crowd erupted in response, "It is for our illumination do we set these lays."

Fleary pounded once. "It is truth that we seek and by truth do we choose to seek it. It is by truth that we exist as one. It is by truth's light that we may see."

Again, the crowd, "Let truth illuminate our path."

Fleary pounded twice. "It is by persistence that we endeavor to find illumination. It is by persistence that we overcome discouragement, hardship and obstacle."

"Let persistence keep our path straight and narrow."

Fleary pounded thrice. "And it is by propriety that we secure the resources that enable our illumination to progress. It is by propriety that we are able to become unified and efficient in our task."

"Let propriety secure the means to our illumination."

Then there was a moment when nothing happened, an empty quiet as voices sputtered against the distant walls and ceased. I wanted to look up to see if anything was happening, but knew better. Finally, Fleary addressed the crowd. "Tonight we welcome Fenitheer into our midst as an apprentice. She has proven ability suited to this level, and more importantly, the desire for truth, knowledge and illumination. If there are any here who would dispute her worth, let them come forth and be heard." Again, an uncomfortable silence, though I had half a mind to speak up just to be contrary. "Then it is done! Arise Fenitheer, and look to the faces of your new family. For, from this moment on, we are bound together as one."

I lifted my head to a unanimous "Huzzah!" as the clamor of a drum, several mandolins and a flute exploded into the air amid a sudden cacophony of cheers and laughter. Before I was even to my feet a silver flagon overflowing with sticky mead was thrust into my hand.

The music jolted forward with the addition of another drum, what might have been a rebec, and a hollow oscillating drone that could only have been Audrey's hurdy-gurdy, weaving the discordant sounds into a warbling and savage rhythm. An arm looped through mine and I was dragged sidelong into a line of people, eventually to form a circle through my other arm, spilling the better half of the mead and spinning like a wagon wheel off its axel. I struggled to keep pace, feet clopping off beat, forever threatening to tangle. But I didn't fall, and the dance kept going until thankfully the music died and our arms dropped, casting the circle out and apart from itself.

I was relieved to catch my breath at a large table adorned with flowers, cheeses, fruits and sweets that had been concealed earlier by the gathering of people. I nibbled on some bread and downed what little mead hadn't sloshed out of my cup. I set it down on the table only to have Loren put another in my hand.

He was smiling. "Welcome!" he shouted over the excited rabble as the music started once more. It seemed even more drums were added to the acoustic tapestry.

"Thank you!" I shouted back before being dragged back into the dance. I circled arm in arm with so many, I could hardly keep them straight. The monastery employed people from all walks of life, old and young, men and women. Hasty introductions were made, Maryam the bright-eyed typesetter, an old yet lively fellow named Tulian who worked as a translator, Olmos who worked with Loren as an illustrator, and Carden and Javon, two acolytes who toiled without end to index and sort the books in the main stacks.

Whenever I could steal a glance, I would look around for Fleary, hoping to see my father standing nearby, but my eyes never found him. Eventually the music subdued and the dancing mercifully stopped. I staggered back to where the mead was being poured and quenched my burning thirst in between gasps for air.

Loren's hand lighted upon the small of my back and he said something to me, but I couldn't hear him over the raucous laughter erupting from a group of people next to us. "Is there someplace we can go?" I shouted into his ear.

Loren raised a brow and smiled. He took my hand and pulled me through the debaucheries to the far edge of the room, away from the music and revelers, behind one of the great stone pillars. Loren put his fingertips against the course stone of the wall and pushed. A small door opened effortlessly in, barely four feet tall. Loren ducked and disappeared into the small passageway and I followed. "Is anything what it seems in this place?" I asked into the darkness, my ears still ringing from the mirthful sounds of the other room.

"Not at all," he said. A door opened ahead, bathing us in a warm glow. We emerged into a comfortable sitting room, which I recognized immediately from the examination. The same clock ticked away harmlessly. The tableau was gone, replaced with plush chairs accompanied by little wooden end tables. How benign this all seemed now. How quiet.

Loren guided me to one of the couches and sat beside me. "I'm so glad you're here," he smiled. I returned the smile and realized how faint I felt now that I was sitting down. "Nobody thought you'd come."

"Did you? Did Fleary?" I asked.

"I knew you would. I can't speak for Fleary, nor Pruet for that matter."

Mention of my father struck my thoughts like a stone through a glass window. My face must have reflected this discord, for Loren quickly rebounded. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."

"No, it's alright," I said. Caught up in the mirth of drink and dance, I'd forgotten that one of reasons I came tonight was so that I could see him. Much of my hope for Pruet's character was unraveled by his absence. "He's not here, is he?"

Loren shook his head. "No, I didn't see him. He doesn't typically attend such things, but I thought since you're his daughter, he'd come."

"One would have thought," I said. A tumble of emotions broiled inside me, each trying to surface, leaving none in charge. All of the noise and attention and dancing and mead had drained me of energy so that suddenly all I wanted was to be left alone. I didn't want to be the focus of Loren's attention. I wanted to hide behind a mask, to lay brick between us. So I stared blankly to my small aching feet, wishing I possessed Genevieve's proficiency for endless chatter.

Loren looked to my feet as well, perhaps to do something to alleviate the silence that had just bludgeoned our conversation into the ground. "I'm an illustrator, by the way," a morsel of information thrown to me like a fish to a cat, to draw it from under the wharf.

I turned to him, cupping my cheek in hand. "Oh, really?" I raised a brow in a thin attempt to feign interest.

"Yes, I replicate most of the illustrations for the scribes. I also help the cartographers when they need it. I've illustrated some fascinating texts. My last project was a study of butterflies. The most beautiful things you've ever seen," he droned on. "But my true love is painting. If I could, I would spend all day painting, but it doesn't pay well."

"Only the really good painters can make a living at it," I said. The corners of his mouth turned down, and he continued.

My teeth ground, desperately trying to stifle a yawn. Loren was far more interesting when he wasn't talking, though his voice did possess a pleasant inflection, ideal for those with insomnia or some other nervous affliction. I watched his eyes as he spoke, though my gaze slid down the bridge of this nose to rest in the warbling fullness of his lips, similar in constitution to Genevieve's. I wondered if her lips would be as soft as his, whether they would yield to another or be desperate and searching, and what they might taste like.

Loren said something, then looked to me expectantly.

My head rose from my hand as I blushed, "I'm sorry, what was that last bit?" I hadn't heard a word he'd said for the past ten minutes.

"Do you know what you'll be doing?"

I glanced around the room as if looking for some visual cue. "Now? I thought we'd rejoin the party at some point." His lips pursed and he started to say something but the door beside the clock creaked open, admitting a tall fellow with sharp though comely features and long chestnut hair tied straight away from his face. I had seen him someplace, though I couldn't identify where.

"There you are!" he said, a smile stretched over perfect teeth, canines dropping just a bit more than the rest. "You disappeared as quickly as you arrived. I'm Tiplin," he advanced, grasping my hand in an overly friendly gesture. "We'll be working together. I'll be your mentor." He turned to my companion dutifully, "Loren."

"Tiplin," he responded, crossing his arms.

"Anyway, Fleary asked me to pass this along," he said, handing me a bundle of paper. "Enclosed you'll find your assignments for the library and coursework for Madrum and Fleary beginning next week. Come a little early. I'll give you a tour."

"Thank you," I said, sensing something uneasy about this man, but inexplicably glad not to be left alone in Loren's company.

"Are you two finished here? A lot of people want to meet you before the night is over. Your induction is a significant affair for us," he cooed.

"Yes, we're quite finished," I said, leaving my seat beside Loren to rejoin the festivities. Loren followed us shortly, the look of a stricken dog across his face.

The dizzying pace at which the celebration progressed did not stop until well into the night. By the end of it my senses were so muddled I was barely coherent. I remember appearing at Duenna, Loren pointing me in the direction of the door, knocking, then returning to his carriage and driving on before anyone could answer. The street lantern cast my silhouette against the door and I stood there in a drunken stupor, studying the lineament of my own shadow. Had Ms. Lila not heard the knock I would have been there until morning.

As she opened the door I regained enough awareness to hear the woman swear. She pulled me inside but I quickly lunged back out to purge my stomach of bile and mead and everything else; a wretched thing to do in the presence of another, but I felt so much better afterwards. Fortunately Ms. Lila had clever hands and managed to secure my long dark tresses before they fell forward into the spewing muck.

She brought me into the kitchen and wiped down my face. I sat at the worktable and nibbled on stale bread as she started a fire and made a pot of tea for us both. I was always amazed by Lila's ability to move in the darkness, to fuss with things and not make a sound. Lila didn't say much. Didn't even ask where I'd been, and for that I was grateful. I wouldn't know how to explain such an odd day.

When the tea was finished I quietly scaled the steps in the corner of the kitchen, as much with my hands as my feet, dragged myself down the hallway and into my room. Surprisingly there was a candle lit, albeit nearly down to the saucer upon which it sat. Genevieve lay curled in her bed, asleep, peaceful, bathed in candlelight. I watched her a moment as I swayed precariously over her bed. Her hand dangled over the edge, holding open a book in her fingers. I tugged it from her hand and held it to the candle to read the spine, The Torrid Affairs of Madam Devoreau: A young lady's romantic fantasy in a secluded country keep. "Oh how far fetching is that?" I snorted, punctuating my literary assessment with an aromatic belch. Genevieve turned in her sleep. Without further hesitation I dog-eared the page, spat on the candle and slumped into bed, asleep before my head touched the pillow.

##### Chapter 6

I spent the next day in the grips of a throbbing headache and restless excitement as I scrubbed the floors of the laundry room with vinegar and lime; the curiosity of what awaited at the monastery heightened my desire to escape the grueling house chores.

I had grown accustomed to the incessant labor at Duenna, even finding comfort in the meditative tedium, but having been made aware of a preferable alternative, the tasks I had performed for months without complaint now seemed unbearable. This indignation manifested itself in the quality of my efforts; twice Lila reprimanded my lack of attention, which I'd never known her to do.

As I crawled around, brush in hand, bucket in the other, I barely saw the floor before me. Instead my imagination lingered on the moment when I would rise, gather my things and simply walk out the door.

But the moment didn't come that day, or the next, or the next. And with each passing day, I grew more snappish and frustrated. Even Genevieve, who had an amazing capacity to weather my moods, avoided my company. It wasn't until nearly two weeks after my induction that I awoke one morning to the sound of Fleary's carriage pulling up in front of the house. I leapt from the sheets and pressed my face against the window to see him ease from the cabin. Wasting no time, I threw on a gown, grabbed my coat, ran down the hall and thundered down the steps, for once happy to see him.

"Ah," he said as I opened the door. "Good. You're up already. Tell the Madam you'll be spending the day with me."

"Right," I said and slammed the door. Duenna wouldn't be up for another hour, but Lila was bringing firewood in from the back. I found her burdened with logs, red-faced and huffing in the laundry, door held open to the cold as she ferried them inside.

"Help me with this," she said as she saw me.

I couldn't abandon her with such an arduous task, so I stepped outside and grabbed an armload of wood from the pile as I explained breathlessly that I was to be away from the house that day. Lila was disappointed, naturally this meant more work for her, but I wasn't about to feel bad over it.

Once the wood was in and the fire started, I trotted back into the foyer and opened the door to find Fleary exactly where I had left him, on the stoop, irritated. "I see your stay here has done nothing to bolster your hospitality," he said, raising a brow. "Now let's go. We have much to do today."

I joined him outside, expecting to climb aboard the carriage, but the carriage had trundled off without us. Before I could ask why, he said, "We'll be on foot today. The first thing you are to learn is how to properly, and safely, find your way to the monastery. Mind our path so if you need to, and there will be need, you can make it back at night. If you stay to this course you'll avoid drawing the interest of the morally disinclined."

"To late for that," I muttered under my breath as we ambled in what seemed like the opposite direction of the monastery. We continued along, then turned north into a wealthier neighborhood, then east.

"This will take you a bit out of the way, but these streets are well looked over." Fleary pointed through the sparse foot traffic ahead of us to red clad clappers several blocks up. "On this avenue, you will always be within earshot of the city watch."

As we walked on, the borough retained its affluent demeanor all the way to a wide bridge spanning the Fem. Every thirty feet or so there was a halberd set into the rail of the bridge, point up, with a lantern mounted on a hook halfway down. Fleary explained that in times of civil unrest Bellatine saw fit to display the heads of detractors there, on the path to his house. He motioned a hand across the river, just north of where the bridge reconnected with the land.

It was a grand estate, divided from the rest of the city by enormous stone walls on all sides except where it joined the water. Indeed, the only way to get a clear view of it was by this bridge. The shoreline had been reinforced with a series of bulkheads that jutted into the water, creating berths that harbored several large sailing vessels in addition to an oar driven barge.

The manor itself was an enormous complex of pristine white buildings, interconnected such that it was difficult at this distance to gauge where one ended and another began. Each of the structures were roughly square, adorned with windows and capped with neatly maintained buttresses. Most notable was the keep, a tower that loomed over the north side of the complex, square as well but riddled with countless arrow slits.

Separating the manor houses from the shoreline was a considerable stretch of closely trimmed grass dotted with bright blue things that, after a moment, I recognized as peacocks strutting confidently across the verge. As we ambled closer to the opposing shore, I noticed people as well, several plain clothed men here and there working the flowerbeds on the premises. I also spotted what must have been estate guards, two by the water, two by the manor and several more standing behind the buttressed wall. They didn't wield the clumsy, rattling staffs that the clappers used, but donned long sabers. Nor were they attired in bright red, preferring a plain black uniform. They seemed well disciplined, standing at perfect attention, in contrast to the clappers who, by comparison, came off as ill-trained rabble with poor hygiene.

As we reached the other shore, we passed beneath a large portcullis that could, if lowered, cease all traffic coming across the bridge. Directly past the gate on our left was the entrance to Bellatine's estate, large iron doors with no windows. Standing motionless before the doors were two more guards, clean-shaven, closely cropped, with black waistcoats neatly buttoned to the collar. Fleary said nothing as we passed them, but pushed me on so I wouldn't linger.

As our journey continued along the avenue, which seemed equally well to do on this side of the river, Fleary divulged the general nature of my business at the monastery. I was to compile and transcribe texts, as well as undertake occasional research assignments. To my betterment, I was also to spend considerable time each day practicing penmanship; Fleary had noted the turbid manner of my quill from the last exam. Additionally, I was to attend sessions with an instructor by the name of Madrum. He was to teach me basic meditative technique. Once I had attained some ability with that, I was to further my education with Rouhn. I gritted my teeth at the thought of being in her scattered tutelage, but held my tongue. Any animosity toward Rouhn was quickly redistributed as Fleary casually added, "And you'll still be expected to perform duties at Duenna when not working in the spindle." I wanted to kick him in the shins.

Finally, after about an hour of walking, we came to the same humble stone structure Audrey and I had visited weeks before, prior to visiting the tea room where I met Nigel. When we approached the unassuming door, Fleary rapped upon it with the head of his cane. A small window opened as somebody within inspected us, though I saw no eyes. The door then opened and we were admitted.

Standing behind the door was a person clad in black scale armor, sword at the side, helmet and a veil such that we couldn't see a face. I was momentarily struck by the bellicose appearance of this guard. Even the still watchmen who overlooked Bellatine's estate were not as heavily clad. How uncomfortable, I thought, to be forced to wear such armor day to day.

The room inside had space enough for a small table and several chairs. The rest of it was taken up by a large stairwell sunk into the floor. It was lit by many oil lamps permanently ensconced into the walls. Each of the lamps possessed a lidded funnel that allowed the tender to pour oil directly into the reservoir. In this way they could be easily and quickly refueled without being removed from the wall or snuffed. Clever. This sort of lamp was standard in the monastery, mainly to avoid a fire started by a maladroit hand.

As we descended the steps, which were stone reinforced with timber, the air grew cooler than the unusually balmy autumn day outside; the climate beneath the surface remained consistent, unaffected by the changing of seasons. It was forever chilly, humid and slightly acrid from the burning oil.

Just as I thought the long stairwell had ended, we arrived at a landing then turned left to face another set of steps. Fleary led me down these as well. I began to feel anxious so far below ground. My eyes played tricks on me, for in the flicker of lamplight it seemed as if the ceiling and walls might collapse upon us. Fleary, perhaps sensing my anxiety, said that many people felt unease when they first came down this way, and added that this passage had been in place for hundreds of years without incident.

Finally, after what must have been seven stories beneath the earth, we arrived in a small room, not dissimilar to the one at the top of the stairs. A plain iron door blocked our path. Fleary knocked and we were allowed entrance, the door once again guarded by a black clad warrior.

"Hello," I said, making an attempt at congeniality.

Fleary took my arm and hurried me through. "Best not to talk to them," he said. "The journeymen are instructed to be silent in all things. They will not regard you unless instructed to. They are faithful servants to your father and to him only. Don't concern yourself with them."

Passing through this second checkpoint, we found ourselves in an open hall populated with a half dozen people going about their business. From here, no less than six corridors split off, each with a row of doors to either side. Fleary gave me a brief summation of each corridor, armory to the left, lavatory to the right, supplies, inks and quills and such over here, parchment and vellum over there.

"And that?" I asked, nodding to a corridor guarded by yet another journeyman.

"Treasury," he said. "Only enough for day to day operations. The bulk of our wealth lies well hidden."

We walked across the room, my boots and Fleary's cane clacking noisily against the marble, and exited out the other side through a large doorway that led down several steps into an open, square chamber rimmed with shelves and shelves of books. In the center were countless desks and tables all jammed together in the most efficient use of space. These were tended by several dozen people who pored over documents, maps and illustrations.

"So this is the library," I said, amazed that such a large and lively industry could operate surreptitiously beneath the city streets.

Fleary snorted, "Oh, by snails no." He waved his cane over the room. "This is where the acolytes and apprentices work." He led me through the maze of furniture and paper, occasionally introducing me to one of the apprentices or adepts, Davon and Lyad and Ofla and countless others. I felt a strange unease, as if everyone's attention were upon me, not dissimilar to what I felt at the induction. But then, I was Pruet's daughter, which I suppose warranted some notoriety, good or bad.

I thought Fleary was taking me to my desk, but it soon became obvious that we were merely passing though this room into the next, yet another corridor with even more corridors and doors branching away from it. "My office is down there," he motioned. "Ranure, the master illustrator, is over there. Manumit, the master translator, is yonder. Madrum finds his home at the end of that very dark corridor over there. Rector, the master indexer, is over there—"

"And Pruet?"

"Your father?" he said, rubbing his chin. "Well, Pruet prefers privacy. You'll discover his quarters should you ever be called to see him. However, his health is somewhat fragile, has been for years. He doesn't normally take visitors."

"Even his daughter?" I said.

"We'll see. Typically he is tended only by myself, Rouhn and the journeymen of course."

"And where is Rouhn?"

"Rouhn, like your father, prefers privacy. She has her own staff to tend her. You met some of them at the examination, the other women there. As it is your father's intention that you should eventually be trained by her once your sessions with Madrum are complete, I imagine you'll get to know them quite well."

"Anyway," he continued, opening a set of wooden doors ahead of us, "office space is in rather short supply, as we have grown considerably over the past few years. And so, fortunate for you, we've put you in a semi-private room off the spindle. You'll be sitting with one of our finest acquisitionists."

As we walked through the doors, I couldn't have been prepared for what I saw next. Before us was a simple, sturdy wooden rail. Beyond that, there was nothing, just an enormous black abscess in the earth. An upward breeze caressed my face as I stepped forward and clung to the railing. Looking up and down, I could see no ceiling or floor. Across the chasm, I could barely spy lamplights moving along the distant side, a swarm of fireflies fluttering through a dark forest on a moonless summer night. I began to say something, to exclaim, but lacked the words.

"This," Fleary said after giving me a moment to wonder, "is the library. This is the spindle."

A week later, I found myself walking through the endless shelves fanning out from the center pit of the library like spokes in a wheel. JF38559, JF38800, JF39122... JF40031. Confirming the number with one scribbled on a bit of paper clasped in my free hand, lantern in the other, I entered the aisle. "Jalamadra," I mumbled. Such a strange word, it fell from the tongue like a phonetic invocation. I had little sense for what it meant, but the sound of it implied something nefarious. I set the lantern down and tugged a monstrous volume from the shelf. It landed so heavily in my arms that I was forced to ease it to the floor else let it drop. I opened it and carefully leafed through several pages. It was utter gibberish to me, written in a language that seemed to have no direction, no sense of word or phrase. Everything was in symbols, pictograms, quick staccato lines crossed and re-crossed by others. Occasionally there were annotations written in the common tongue I could understand. Interesting, it would say, or refer to A378JD, completely meaningless out of context. Everything in the library was like this. Everything required translation. And though Loren had attested to the fact that our order had translated a significant portion of the library into the monastic code, propriety at work, I had yet to see anything of significance written in a language I could read. Not a single word.

Frustrated, I closed the book. Feeling loathe to heft it back up the daunting spiral of the library, I sat down on top of it to catch my breath. And I listened. The spindle was oddly peaceful and unsettling all at once. One simply didn't hear the same day-to-day clamor of the city this far underground. Everything was quiet all the time, silent and muffled and cold like the morning after a heavy snow, but so very dark. Even the light from the lantern was soon suckled away in this place, a great hungry maw.

For posterity I should describe the spindle's design, since by the end of this story it had met its ruin. The library was spun around a great open chamber that resembled a barrel, 100 feet in diameter, 300 feet tall, set upright into the earth. Around this great hole a continuous ramp curved no less than twenty times, and along it every thirty feet or so was an entrance to a hallway which then split and fanned out into even more corridors. This was the center of the great city of Spindledar. And though the library was extensive, only a small part of it was known. The vast majority of it remained hidden and unexplored behind the barricades.

It was a festering sprawl, moist and damp, fraught with mildew and other creeping growths. Dust was everywhere and we were eternally careful about our feet so as not to kick it up. I took to wearing a kerchief about my face to guard my breathing, which became easily labored from all the impurities in the air. I would emerge from the stacks covered with soot and dirt, coughing and bleary. Though the spindle was cleaned constantly, acolytes armed with brooms and dustbins charged daily down the causeways, the accumulation of filth in the spindle was incessant.

And then there were the rats of course, and with them, fleas. Here the lack of warmth served us in that it allowed us to wear heavier clothing comfortably, which kept the fleas at bay, mostly.

In its time, the spindle was a grand center of knowledge. I wondered about the civilization required to support such a place. Libraries were generally considered fancies of the rich, useless in any practical sense. The only other library that even approached the scale of Spindledar had burned to the ground, killing everyone inside. Genevieve had said some suspected arson, which would duly reflect the resentment common people had toward such wastes of their taxes.

For my part, I've always loved books. Before I knew Genevieve, books were my only companions, friends who would not betray, mock or otherwise do me harm. I would faithfully read whatever I could, regardless of how dull the subject. I knew the proper names of all the sails on a ship, how they were rigged. I knew exactly how much cargo a ship of given length and girth could hold and still weather an ocean storm. I knew how to find my way by the stars, how to plot a course, how to tack, how to repair a splintered mast or seal a leaking joint, at least in theory. Not to say I had ever done any of those things, but I was well read, the one redeeming quality of Marius' auspice. And here I was sitting in the greatest library ever known in all of history, surrounded by hundreds of thousands of manuscripts, and I couldn't read a single word of any of them.

My mind came back to the task at hand, and I realized I had better get moving or else be late, an eternal vice of mine. I stood and looked down to my seat. I could barely carry it with both arms, let alone with the lantern in one, and so I set the lantern on top of the book and hefted them both up and out of the spindle.

I headed to one of the upper offices whose door was so old and worn that the color had been bleached out of it and the planks had shrunk away from each other leaving wide cracks through which I peeked into the darkness beyond. A low guttural voice growled, "Get in here," and I pushed the door open to see a hulking silhouette surrounded by candles, scribing rapidly. "It's about time."

"Forgive me. It took me a while to find the book you had requested."

"Make no excuses for your shortcomings. And understand the relative value of time," the voice rumbled. "If you're to do something, leave time enough to do it. Waste no time and do not procrastinate for the sake of luxury or laziness. Tardiness and irresponsibility built on a foundation of excuses will quickly color you a fool. And I'll suffer no fools in this room."

"Yes sir," I muttered.

"And if you're going to say something, say it loudly or don't say anything at all. If you don't have confidence in your own voice, how can you expect others to have confidence in you? Now come inside where I can see you. And shut the door. You're letting the draft in."

I failed to see how the door could keep anything smaller than a house cat from getting in, but complied nonetheless, pushing the door shut with my toe.

The room was large with walls of rough-hewn stone and a low ceiling that seemed to bow downward in the center. To categorize it as a room at all was an awful stretch, as it closer resembled a cave, mostly empty aside from a table at which sat the sole occupant, a plush velvet chair to one side, and a simple straw mat at the other.

I walked slowly around until I could view Madrum squarely. He was a large man, both in frame and gut, perched on a frail stool that strained under his weight. His hair was brown, graying at the sides and cut close, his chin covered with mottled stubble of the same length. He wore a simple burlap robe that hid most of him save his massive forearms, which were appended with chubby yet strong looking hands.

He looked up from his scribing to study me, all of me, with solemn amber eyes. "The name is Madrum, though you may continue to call me sir if it makes you feel better." He returned his attentions to his work and said, "Now extinguish the lantern and put that book down before you hurt yourself. Put it down where you stand." I did as he said and waited for his next instruction, not quite sure what to do with my hands now that they were empty.

Several minutes ached by as I watched him scribble lines of text from one of the many books on his table. He paused only to flip through pages, or to jab his quill into an inkhorn that threatened to cast itself to the floor every time Madrum jostled it.

At last, he spoke. "You will report here the third and fourth days of the week at three in the afternoon without fail. Don't be late, and don't you dare miss an appointment. My time is valuable and I don't take well to those who would squander it."

"Yes sir," I said, eager to prove myself.

"Sit down over there," he motioned to the nearby mat with the feathered end of his quill. I sat down cross-legged, and I wondered if I should have brought something on which to take notes. The floor beneath me was lumpy, uncomfortable. I shifted a bit, finding some relief.

"Sit still," he said. "And be quiet."

After at least ten minutes had ground by, I sighed loudly. Directly across from me sat the plush chair with luxurious arms and a little matching ottoman. The longer I stared at it the more uncomfortable and irritable I became. "Not to be a bother, but that other chair would be more comfortable."

"I'm certain it would be." He looked up from his work. "In fact, that's the kind of chair a body can just sink into. Probably the most comfortable chair I've ever known. I want you to take a good look at that chair and imagine what it would be like to sit there. I mean, really imagine it. Because that's the closest you'll ever get to sitting in it."

I was not amused. "So when do we start?"

"Patience," he said, continuing to scribble.

So I waited, painfully aware of the minutes as they ambled past. A pebble jutted into my ankle through the thin mat, and being as discreet as I could, I shifted slightly to relieve the pressure only to find a second pebble pushing into my other foot. The chair was taunting me.

"Sir?"

"Hush!" he said, fingering through the pages of his book, the sound of pages rubbing each other almost rhythmical, like waves cresting a beach. "And stop fidgeting or I'll break those bird legs of yours."

And so I sat longer. The combination of impatience and boredom had caused my mind to become hypersensitive. A stone had crept back under my foot. My nose itched ferociously, and my patience wore thin. What felt like hours passed, and I yawned unabashedly. The movement of my breath only made it worse. My entire body was one massive itch that yearned to be bathed in a tub full of brambles.

When the silence and discomfort became too much, I blurted out, "How long am I to do this for?"

"Until I tell you to stop."

Every muscle longed to move, to shake off this senseless exercise. Finally, I gave in and stretched out my legs. "I'm sorry," I said, "but I need to stretch."

Madrum looked up from his work. "I suppose that's enough for your first lesson. Come again tomorrow, and don't be late." He jotted something down on a corner of parchment, tore it off and held it out for me to take. "Pull this one from the stacks when you come, and put away the one you brought to the exact place in which you found it."

I was speechless.

Later that day, I returned to the small office I shared with Tiplin, though why we were forced to commingle, I wasn't certain. He and I did not get along. I could see through his backhanded mince of flattery and insult. Once he realized this, he spared himself the trouble of flattery and focused on insult. Fleary had said I was to work with him because I needed to be near someone who could instruct me on the day-to-day workings of the order. Tiplin, however, resented having to surrender his privacy for my benefit, and the only thing he had instructed me to do in the week we had cohabitated was how not to speak in his presence. That was until he learned I had a proclivity for the written word, at which point he became a pandering idiot.

Among its many activities, the order procured contracts of payment for writing, or in some cases fabricating biographies, which typically came in one of two forms. Often we were contracted to embellish a person's life, for example, minor nobility trying to ascend in royalty by heralding their character or deeds, or those of their ancestry. Alternatively, we were sometimes commissioned to draw attention to a person's faults and misdeeds, and where opportunity permitted, introduce a few that could be neither confirmed nor denied. These of course had to seem credible, which meant researching thoroughly the person's life, interviewing those who knew them, collecting various records, census information, certificates of travel, citations, what-have-you. And while Tiplin was very accustomed to the collection of things, be it information or possession, he despised compiling information into a fluid and effective biography.

Hence, when I asked him to read part of a research document I was preparing at the bequest of Fleary about the tribes of the dark forests, Tiplin recognized some amount of talent in my efforts and immediately seized the opportunity to lessen his workload, consequently increasing mine. Somehow, and I'm still at a loss to explain how this happened, he plied me into an arrangement where he would gather all of the research needed for my work if I would in turn compile his research into finished documents. While this seemed equitable, and it did at the time, there was one particular point that kept the scales unbalanced: I was rarely given an assignment that required any amount of research. As lazy as he might have seemed, Tiplin was tremendously cunning and convincing. Therein lay his strength.

Our office was a thin spur off the main spindle, barely wide enough for two people to walk abreast, and certainly not once tables and shelves and chairs were added. But it was warm and well lit with oil lamps. A wood and glass door kept cool air from leaking out, and compared to the rest of the main library, it shone invitingly from the spindle.

I opened our office door, which by design squeaked like a tortured rabbit; Tiplin would have no thieves skulking about unnoticed save himself. He was there, picking at his lock puzzle: a small brass box with many keyless locks, a contraption designed to teach the ignoble art of lock-picking. I closed the door behind me and slumped into a chair behind my own desk, which was covered with Tiplin's notes including research and other findings.

Additionally, there was something called a commutation box: a plain wooden box adorned with pictograms and letters, and a crank. When the letters were properly arranged and the lever moved, the commutation box would assist in translating common tongue into and out of the monastic code. Every document produced for the stacks was to be encoded in this way, the order of the letters changing every week.

"You seem rather engaged. What are you preparing for?" I asked, trying to be convivial, though I knew I would regret the effort.

"Nothing of your concern," he mumbled back, putting his toy down to scribble a note in a large book laid open on his desk. "How's the Lindtholm biography coming? Fleary wants it by next week."

I looked down to the piles of unorganized and out of sequence notes strewn before me. I hadn't started it. I simply hadn't the time. Honestly. "Nearly done. Don't worry."

"Good," he said, not looking up from his work. I craned my neck to see what consumed his attention. It appeared to be some sort of diagram or map, perhaps of a building. I wasn't sure. "Fleary left an assignment for you. I put it on your desk."

I filed through the clutter until I found a sealed document, which had been opened of course, addressed to me. Signed by Fleary, it instructed me to bear witness to an unsanctioned religious function that was to take place in a few days. I was to observe, then later compile my findings into a document which correlated the events "within a theological context," whatever that meant. "I assume you've read this," I said.

"Of course."

"Since this technically qualifies as a research assignment, as per our agreement can I expect that you'll be going in my stead?"

"Ah, sorry," he said. "Unfortunately, I have another matter to attend to that very same night. Next time for sure. Oh, and if you're almost done with the Lindtholm biography, I have another for you."

"Fine," I said though my teeth.

"But be careful on that assignment," he mocked. "The constable doesn't look favorably upon heretics. Wouldn't want to be mistaken for someone with conviction."

I despised him.

Over the next few days I attempted in earnest to make progress on the Lindtholm biography, compiling the notes of a previous biographer in addition to documents of civic service, land deeds, financial records and census information. The difficulty in writing a biography was in determining how much detail to include, how to concisely aspect a person's life in a meaningful way. Additionally, it would be helpful if I knew what purpose the biography served, so that I might write with a particular slant.

Instead, I blundered through a draft as best I could, then went to Fleary to seek his thoughts on the matter. I stood in his office, a plain though serviceable room, while he painted his derision over my work in bright red ink. I don't know why he bothered with a quill, it would have been more efficient to pour the ink directly from the bottle.

Satisfied that the document had been sufficiently bloodied, he handed it back along with a small leather-bound book. "Your prose is ostentatious, your grammar atrocious. That's fine if you're writing a novella, but this is an official document. These are our guidelines. Mind them when you do your next rewrite. I'll expect it tomorrow morning."

"I've research to do this evening," I reminded him. "I won't have the next draft till the day after."

"Ah, that's right," he said. Reaching across his cluttered desk, Fleary took a blank piece of parchment and quickly scribbled something on it, then carefully folded and sealed it with wax and stamp. "Take this to the treasury. They'll give you the gold to pay the traitor. And it shouldn't take all night. I want to see the rewrite tomorrow morning."

I groaned as I left his office and crossed the corridor. Letter in hand, I gave the journeyman who watched over the treasury office a wide berth as I pushed the solid oak door open. Within the small room there was bench and a barred window that looked into a second room. I peeked through the window to see if anyone was tending the office, but could only see countless file drawers and baskets of receipts. There an open ledger on the desk beneath the window and next to that a large spike onto which fulfilled requests were impaled.

"Hello?" I called out.

There was a sudden snorting and rustling of paper as a small man with disheveled gray hair appeared in the window; clearly I had just awoken him from a slumber under the desk.

"Yes, what is it?" he asked, blearily regarding me as he groped about the table for a pair of thick spectacles. I passed the parcel from Fleary between the bars. The man popped the seal and read it, gumming his cheek as he did. "Just a moment," he said and disappeared from view. A great shuffling of paper commenced as he searched for something amidst the sea of parchment. Moments went by as he continued to forage.

Inspired by curiosity and boredom, I nudged a basket aside to expose part of the ledger. There were several columns heading the page, Date, Req. By, Auth By, Receiver, Amt, W/D. Most of the Auth By spaces were filled with the name "FLEARY" written in plain letters. For the most part, the entries seemed to be for mundane things: stationary, quills, oils, inks, books, etc. Occasionally there was an entry that implied something more intrepid, such as a payment to the local constable, or to a priest; these were annotated with the word "influence." Finally, there were large sums of money, both deposits and withdrawals, from something called the "C.A."

But before I could wonder what the acronym meant, there was an "Ah!" from the back room and I yanked my gaze away from the ledger. With a jangling of keys, the clerk found what he was looking for. The keys opened something out of my view, and a few seconds later the man returned with a small bag which he dumped onto the ledge, revealing six gold crowns.

Clearing the ledger of receipts, he made an entry: Req. By: Fenitheer Saabin, Auth. By: Fleary, Receiver: Bai'Alba (Influence), Amt: 6 G., W/D: W. He handed me an inked quill and turned the ledger around so I could sign it, after which he passed the satchel of coins through the bars and impaled my fund request onto the spike with all the others.

The name Bai'Alba simply meant "bearded one" in the eastern tongue. After being briefed by Fleary and reassured that as long as I did not participate in the ceremony I couldn't be burned for heresy, I found Bai'Alba sitting outside a small café that served tea and spiced meats rolled in soda bread. He sat stiff in a chair, uncomfortable and nervous, casting a dark shadow on the taupe mud walls of the café, turned red in the evening sun. He was indeed bearded; dark curls ran well below his chin. He wore a brown headdress and a plain white gown. I was at once familiar with the look of him. The Seraph did on occasion come to port in lands far to the east where the waters were warm and the markets rich in cinnamon, cumin, olives and salts, but otherwise poor. The steward had taken several of their men aboard. I remembered their language as they conversed like bleating sheep, unlike my own patois, which must have sounded quick and stuttering to their ears.

I watched him for some time before approaching. He looked about anxiously. His dark hazel eyes shuffled through the faces as they passed, though missed mine entirely. When I did come near, he didn't look at me until my shadow joined his against the wall. Confusion rested plainly on his face. "Kai-Havas?" he questioned, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand.

"Kaivas," I corrected, using the pseudonym Fleary had provided.

His thick lips pursed and he looked over my shoulder as if I might be an imposter. His attention returned to me with a frown. "Kaivas," he confirmed. I nodded. He began to speak, though I couldn't understand, and then he reached to touch my head. At once I backed away from his hand. He shook his head, then tapped it with his fingertips. In an arduous, slithering tone he spoke, "You head is woman." And with both hands motioning upwards, I understood. Wherever we were about to go, my sex was not welcome. My garments weren't offensive; both men and women wore the dull gray of the order since whatever we wore was destined to get sooted and ruined by the pervasive filth in the spindle. It made no sense to wear anything but a potato sack. I could easily pass for a young male if it weren't for the length of my hair, which was at the time in a simple braid. He was asking me to wear it up.

He rose and strode toward a nearby alley, motioning for me to follow. "Bring," he said.

I hesitated, not at ease with the idea of following a stranger into a place where, should the circumstance turn dire, few would notice. However, I would see this through in spite of Tiplin's incessant admonitions that I simply hadn't the spine for taking risks. I had to follow.

When I caught up to Bai'Alba, he was quickly unraveling his headdress, revealing his short, dark hair. He then wound my braid around the crown of my head, and with practiced hands wrapped the cloth about my pate in such a manner that it wouldn't slip, and not a bit of my hair was exposed. He then rubbed his fingers together and held out his hand expectantly. I dug in my pocket to produce the small leather pouch. He snatched the satchel from my hand and looked toward the street to make sure we were not watched before dipping his fingers in to verify the contents.

We walked further into seclusion, away from the bustling evening streets, making our way through the city like thieves avoiding capture. I couldn't help but feel we had done something wrong, that we were fugitives. More likely this was how he felt, and I had absorbed his disposition. We stayed well away from the main thoroughfares, instead traversing the narrow alleys that cut across the poorer districts. At last we arrived at an unheralded cellar in a neighborhood known for foreigners and other undesirables. The door was only a few feet high, sunken into the street several steps. He opened it and nearly had to crawl though. I crouched and dipped inside.

We were late. The faces of the other men who were gathered there told us so. The room itself was only about four feet tall, and it was dirty. There was no proper floor, just soft black earth. Large beams above our heads supported planks for the floor above. Entire colonies of spiders lived between the joists. The air smelled foul of mold and things I'm loathe to mention, and of course there was the scent of men, unwashed and contained in a small space. My escort closed the hatch behind me, bolted it and motioned for me to sit nearby before he took his place in the circle. I sat down delicately, not wanting to actually touch the ground.

There was a candle and a bowl of hammered copper in the center of the gathering. Each of the men, there were five others, sat cross-legged and faced the flame. Immediately an argument broke out in subdued though urgent tones, presumably about my presence there. Bai'Alba placated them with open hands and made some explanation that seemed to mollify their concerns until they grudgingly accepted my company.

Though I understood little of what went on, the ceremony seemed simple enough. One of the men, the eldest I was to gather, began to chant in a haunting and guttural drone. He was joined by several others until the sound became more than just the sum of voices, but held a life of its own. Their eyes eventually closed. Then, one of the men broke from the chant and began speaking in quick biting words that stayed in cadence with the others. And as if on cue, all of them ceased, and were intently silent for several minutes. The eldest began to chant again, and the others fell in as well, except for one who produced a small scroll of parchment, no more than half an inch thick, three inches wide. He spoke and held the document in both his hands, as if it were sacred to him, before setting it aflame by the candle. He continued to speak as long as he could stand the heat gnawing at his fingertips before dumping the parchment into the copper bowl. He then joined the chant, and the person to his right did just as he had done, reciting the exact words of the man before him. And so it went with all participants, myself excluded, until the eldest completed the ritual. They ceased chanting and sat quiet for some time. Eventually the eldest leaned forward and spat into the bowl, quickly followed by the other members of the circle. The eldest looked up at me, said something and motioned. My escort picked up the bowl and held it beneath my chin. I looked at them as they looked to me. I had to participate, getting the impression that if I did not, I wouldn't leave this small chamber alive. I took a deep breath and summoned some spittle under my tongue, then let it dribble from my lips to join the ashes in the bowl.

And that was it. The circle dispersed without a word. Bai'Alba cracked open the hatch and looked cautiously into the street before opening it fully and motioning me through. When we were well out of the way of the other participants, he removed the scarf from my head, put it on his own, uttered some parting words and walked away. I watched him recede into the throngs of people headed home for the night, all dark faces and shadows for there were no street lamps on this avenue.

I remained there in a stupor, bewildered by what had just happened, what I had done. People walked past and around me, annoyed to be impeded by this dullard of a girl, a stone set in the path of a river. Leaden clouds obscured the stars and moon, and it was peaceful save the scuffling footsteps and low mutters of strangers. But even those seemed to be properly set. There was an order, a system to the scene lain before me, and the comprehension of that order, however fleeting, brought peace to my mind.

I had participated in an act of faith that was not my own, that was not endorsed by the pantheon, and had that act been exposed, I could have lawfully been burned for it. And yet I felt elated. The theological paradigm that had ruled my behavior began to crack and fall away as I savored a bellicose indignation at the forces that sought to temper my freedom. There was a beauty in self-determination and exploration unhampered by fear of consequence or regard for what others thought. That night, standing there, my soul had a compass, a want and need to experience this world unfettered by convention, come what may.

Eventually my feet began to move and I wandered my way through the city, reluctantly finding entrance underground and returning to the spindle. I penned a testimonial, dropped it by Fleary's office, and that was that.

Over the next few months I would witness many ceremonies, rarely with the same people. Some involved the use of fire or the blood of its participants, and I accumulated more than a few small wounds along my arms as time went by. Occasionally there were sacrifices of chickens or rats or snakes. Sometimes women would lead the ceremony. Sometimes I would understand parts of the language, but most of the time not. The only attribute common to all these rituals was the absence of the sanctioned pantheon, and therefore all of them were conducted secretly, in homes or cellars. The crime of heresy carried a heavy punishment.

Eventually I stopped thinking about the risk and began to enjoy these assignments, relishing the diverse spectrum of spirituality. Their devotion was intensely personal, and to worship a god out of obligation rather than conviction seemed heretical to them. But because these were the downtrodden, the foreign, the second or third or fourth class, they couldn't publicly express their religion.

Even my own theology started to seem backward in some respects. How could it be that we worshipped a goddess, yet women were forbidden from executing the lays?

Later that evening I returned to Duenna, coming in through the kitchen where Ms. Lila and Duenna herself were discussing the more mundane aspects of the house. The matron shooed me upstairs, annoyed that I was spending so much time away from housework due to my duties in the spindle. I was grateful not to engage her in conversation, though I was hoping to snatch something to eat on my way through; I had walked half the city that day on an empty belly.

I found Genevieve sitting cross-legged in bed, surrounded by correspondence from both her family and the family of her would-be suitor. She pored over the documents with an anxiety that I felt powerless to absolve, as she desperately searched for a hint of what her life was about to become.

Genevieve, who I knew to be a gregarious spirit, an unwavering source of optimism, had become prone to long bouts of silence. There were hours when she simply stared at the dingy walls of our room as if they were the walls of a prison. And for my part, I had not helped much. Improving the disposition of others had never been a talent of mine. In some way, I think she envied me. To her, I was more than an awaiting womb, a siring device. Truth be known, I enjoyed the work at the spindle. Considering my options, I could do worse.

Her chin rested in the palms of her hands as she read by candle light. Her eyes were weary and sad, and I could tell she had been crying. I sloughed the dirty robes of the monastery, as well as my boots which were in just as poor condition. Without a word, I gathered the letters she had so carefully laid out on her bed and put them face down on her writing desk. I snuffed the candles with my fingertips, climbed into bed beside Genevieve and held her. I wrapped my arms around her, and she clung to me as she quietly sobbed in the dark. When she stopped, I told her of what I had witnessed, though I probably shouldn't have. I related every gritty detail, trying to distract her from her own affairs. She asked me question after question in her soft voice: what they looked like, were there women or children, what they wore. We muttered back and forth for several hours before she was finally quiet against my breast.

##### Chapter 7

Several weeks later, horribly behind on biographies and needing a respite from the never-ending barrage of housecleaning, I awoke early in the morning and headed to the spindle before anyone at Duenna could protest. The monastery was predictably quiet since most of the acolytes worked in the odd hours of night. I was surprised, however, to find the lamp in our office lit. At first I thought I had left it so from the night before, but then saw Tiplin working with his back to the door. I stood there for a moment. It was strange to see him there at this hour, but then it was equally strange that I was there too. He was copying text from a large tome that was obviously not indigenous to the original library, a recently penned book, so to speak.

The door creaked as I opened it. "You're here early," I said.

Tiplin snapped the book shut, shuffled his transcription into a pile, then rolled and pocketed it. "As are you," he said, whipping about to scowl at me. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," I shrugged. "Just came to catch up on work. Why?"

He shook his head. "No reason. Didn't expect to see you here this early."

Sitting down at my desk, I then dug for the notes I needed to complete the Mowatt biography. "What are you working on?"

Tiplin leaned against the table, squarely obscuring the book he was reading. "Nothing of consequence," he said, reaching up to scratch his neck, tense, frustrated. I had caught him doing something I was not meant to know about. Of course, this only fueled my curiosity. I watched him from the corner of my eye. He got up from where he was and carefully tucked the book, featureless, bound in bright green leather, beneath his arm, being sure to hide the spine. I was careful to keep my eyes on my own endeavors as he slowly walked past, watching me.

"How's it going?"

"Slowly," I said. "Whoever took these notes has nearly illegible hand writing."

"Really?" he said. "That looks like your writing."

I glared at him sidelong, then pointed to a particularly obscure denotation. "Can you make that out? I can't fathom what that word could be."

Tiplin stood close, his hand casually falling on my shoulder as he leaned into me. His touch repulsed me, and I think he knew that. He was attractive and charismatic to be sure, but I didn't trust him. He was a scoundrel, arrogant and opportunistic. I gritted my teeth, impatiently waiting for him to withdraw.

"'Astral,' perhaps?"

I didn't think so, but regretted giving him the opportunity to get this close. "Ah! That must be it," I proclaimed, pushing my chair back then scooting forward to widen the gap between us. "Thank you."

"Any time," he said and slid away. He opened the glass door and said, "I'll be back in just a minute," before stepping onto the main spindle of the library, taking the book with him. As soon as I was certain he was away, I rose quietly and stood over his desk, upon which papers were carefully aligned into neatly cornered piles designating relative urgency of task. I carefully picked among the vellum, searching for anything untoward. The only bit I found remotely enticing was a stack address, #SAA-0315 (SC), not the addressing convention I was accustomed to seeing. I quickly took it back to my desk, copied it and pocketed the copy before returning the original to where I had found it.

I sunk back into my chair just as I saw Tiplin round the corner, without the book. I could feel his glare as he watched me through the thin glass windows in the door. When he entered the room I said, "Ancestral," to throw him off guard.

"What?" he asked.

"The word, it was 'Ancestral.'"

"Good," he said, sliding behind me to get to his own desk. "I'm glad you found it." He threw a glance in my direction before turning his attention to the mounds of paperwork on his desk.

"Read any interesting books lately?" I couldn't resist goading him, as he saw so proper to do to me.

"Nothing as interesting as what you're doing," he said, sitting in his chair.

"Hard to believe anything could be less interesting than transposing Mr. Edwin Razir's journals of the Palo Mayombe. Would have been helpful if he limited his scope to the rituals and peoples themselves. Instead I've found half of what's written here are his personal accounts of body rashes, insect bites and infections. Nearly 200 pages in and I've yet to find mention of the main subject."

"Humph."

After a considerable amount of time transposing notes, sorting references and compiling annotations and citations, I put my quill down, stretched and rubbed my eyes. "I must put this away for a bit." I stood and turned to the door. "Would you like anything?" I asked. "Fresh quills? Water? More ink perhaps?"

"No, I'm fine," he said, not looking up from his work.

With that, I left our office. I leaned over the railing of the central pit, counting the levels down to the reference stacks before heading toward the north steps that would take me to the card index on the seventh floor, the stack address I had copied from Tiplin's desk clutched tightly within my pocket. I passed no less than a dozen people on the way down, most of them index clerks, apprentices to the master indexer, who deposited entries into the index like bees bringing nectar back to the hive.

The index was placed in an alcove across from the great pit, well lit and easily observed from the opposite side of the spindle. Glancing upward, I could see the door of our office several floors above, light ebbing through the glass into the walkway. I watched for a moment, then saw the top of Tiplin's head as he stood and hovered over my desk. My heart raced as I stepped from the alcove into the stacks and waited until he had finished scrutinizing my work and returned to his own desk, safe from view.

The index itself was comprised of several hundred little wooden drawers sunk into an enormous wooden chest raised from the floor by thin wooden legs. Several inkhorns and quills sat upon the index, as well as two oil lamps which continuously burned for the benefit of those who made additions. It took little time to find the stack address, as entries were kept in perfect order. The card for #SAA-0315 (SC) produced the following information: Biography (Saabin), special collections – restricted. I hadn't encountered this designation before but address clearly referred to my mother, Seraph Saabin.

Snatching up a quill, I copied down the information on the card before inserting it back into the index. Glancing over my shoulder to be sure Tiplin wasn't watching from our office, I sought out Loren.

I found him sitting in the cartographer's studio, alone, chiseling out a block of wood for a print. I couldn't help but watch him. His attention was so vested in his work, carefully tapping out little shavings of wood, sometimes no more than a mote of dust, blowing the wood clean in quick, short puffs.

Standing behind him, surrounded only by the smell of wood and oil, I wanted to touch him, absorb some of his focus, but I didn't want to startle him and foul his print. "Loren," I whispered.

His chisel withdrew safely, and he looked up at me, blue within blue eyes. He smiled. "You're here early."

"I was catching up on some things," I said, closing the distance between us. "What are you working on?"

Loren looked down to the print block, hefting it in his hand as if it were a bag of gold. "Some of our older texts are being consumed. Master Manumit is having them requilled, but the blocks used for the illustrations have dried and cracked. So I'm carving reproductions." He pointed to a page torn from a book that was pinned to a nearby wall. The scene was of confusion. People were running every which way, running each other down with spears on horseback, or falling onto their own swords. Men were slaughtered or mutilated. The women were lined up and ravaged while their children were taken from them, dashed against trees and thrown into a fire. It was one of many images depicting some dark moment in the city's past, largely considered apocryphal, or perhaps propaganda to rally men for war. On the corner of the page were the telltale signs of consumption Loren spoke about, a black rot devouring the page. The monastery made efforts to staunch such growth, removing as much moisture from the library as possible, quarantining infected books until new ones could be copied, even developing new types of parchment from more resistant types of wood. But as I witnessed, it was often not enough.

I stood next to him, pressed my hip into his side and leaned onto his shoulders. Even when he was sitting down I was barely taller than he. I pressed my face against shirt. He always smelled so clean. "Do you know where the special collections are?" I asked with all the feminine wiles I could muster.

His hand touched mine. "Of course. But you're not allowed in. For that matter, neither am I, unescorted."

"I'll escort you," I smiled.

"Let me show you what I mean. If you've never seen where the specials are, you'd never know where to look for them."

Together we left the studio and headed back toward the spindle. As we walked, he described the structure in a more precise fashion than I could. "Below the main quarters, which are for everyday use, is the library itself, centered around the spindle. There are twenty-seven levels, each divided into triads, connected only by the spindle itself. Have you ever been down to the very bottom?"

"Seems an awful walk for a casual explore. I've had no reason to."

"The climb back up is daunting," he said with smirk. "But well worth it. The specials are down there, in what I guess would be considered a cellar to the main spindle. Strangely, it's one of the driest places in the library, and therefore the safest."

As we reached the outer rim, Loren directed me to the south staircase and I followed him down the spiral steps which plummeted along the spindle, 27 floors, roughly 20 steps for each floor. What light the lanterns provided at each level along the spindle diminished the further we descended into the pit. Soon I could see little more of Loren than his silhouette.

"Please stop," I said, as the relentless downward turn of the staircase made my head spin, and I became disoriented. Loren found my hand and held it as I regained my senses. I stood two steps above him so that we were roughly the same height. He turned to face me, leaned into my ear and whispered, "We have to be quiet. I don't want them to know what we're doing." His arm slipped behind my back and he pulled me forward so that I leaned against him. His other hand caressed my shoulder as he nuzzled his face against my neck. I clung to him, only partly not to fall. I breathed in his hunger and felt drunk from it. My arms snaked around him. My legs felt weak and they trembled with desire. I wanted him. I wanted to be devoured, eaten up like a ripened peach, consumed so utterly that there would be nothing left of me. I had since the induction, and wondered why he hadn't sought me out until now.

But then he stopped. "We should go. You need to see this. The truth lies in the specials. We're going to walk past the entrance so you know where it is. If your eyes are clever enough, you'll see that it's guarded. But there are other ways in." With that he disengaged from our embrace, but kept hold of my hand.

I was warm and aroused when we entered the bottom floor of the spindle from the stairwell, so frustrated I could kick him. But then I understood why he was so cruelly intimate. Through my desire, my senses became alive, overly alert. Every loose ray of light I caught, every sound I heard. And of course there was the smell; aging paper, the tang of ink, stagnant air. Looking up through the heart of the spindle, I witnessed the majesty of this enigmatic construction from the only place one could, the center. It wound above us, coiled like a jeweled serpent, a whirling tempest.

Loren's hand squeezed mine and my eyes returned to the stone floor we traversed. I saw in the center of the great room a patch of blackness, a stairwell sunk into the floor that led to a pair of wooden doors. And as he had promised, there were two figures to either side of the doorway, silent, still. I couldn't see them, but I could feel their wary attention. The air became cold, a shiver climbed up my spine. There was something strange there, but I couldn't put my mind on it.

We walked past the recessed chamber to the far side of the spindle and into the stacks that spread from the central pit. "Did you see them?" he whispered, once safely out of earshot.

"I didn't have to," I said, grimacing. "The journeymen guard the specials?"

"They are the watchers," he confirmed. "Your father retains them to guard over us. It's best to avoid them if you can. There's another way in, for you at least." Loren took a lantern from a hook mounted on a nearby wall and we pushed further into the labyrinth of text, row after row after row of book and scroll.

I should mention that while in most libraries it's generally sensible to place the stacks in straight, parallel lines, it was not so in Spindledar. The stacks wove in and out of themselves, such that if you could look upon them from above they would resemble intertwining tree branches. It was not a good place to lose one's way.

It seemed like we walked through miles of stacks before Loren finally stopped and motioned to a small hole low on the wall. "That's it. That's your way in."

I peered at it, then at Loren. "We came all this way only to find a hole?"

"It's not a hole. It's a ventilation port. There are two that lead into the specials, one on the north side, and this one on the south side. It's too small for anybody besides maybe a child or..."

"Or me," I concluded, taking the lantern from Loren and holding it to the mouth of the opening. The shaft continued evenly for several feet, then descended below the floor. It was perhaps a foot and a half wide and of course filled with black dust. I looked back at Loren, his fingers brushing against the stubble on his chin. "And you couldn't come with me?"

He shook his head. "Too narrow. I've tried. I'd need at least three more inches for my shoulders to fit properly. But you don't have to do this. You could get in trouble. Perhaps it's not worth the risk."

I was nearly ready to give up, but knew my curiosity would eventually get the better of me. I wanted to know what was so beguiling about the book Tiplin was reading that I wasn't allowed to see. "What's on the other side?"

"The specials."

"Obviously."

"I mean, just the specials. The inside isn't guarded." He added, "Typically. Nobody would be in there this early."

I nodded. "No light then either."

"Take the lantern with you. I can wait until you come back. The other end is low enough that you should be able to shimmy up, lantern in hand."

I bit my lip and wondered if this was a bad idea. But then there was Loren to consider. I didn't want to appear cowardly in his eyes. "Let's get this over with," I said, bent down and started to crawl into the shaft, but Loren grabbed my robe before I could get half way in.

"Other way. Feet first, or you'll get dumped on your head."

"Right." I turned around and backed in, picking up the lantern as I went.

I hadn't far to go. Once the conduit angled downward, it continued only for about thirty feet, then opened into the specials about three feet off the floor. I emerged into the room covered head to toe in black soot as if I worked the chimneys in my spare time. I brushed my hands against my robes, but realized they were just as soiled. I wanted to rub the soot out of my eyes and face, but knew that would be disastrous. Some had caught in my throat and I coughed. I bit my tongue for being such a fool, and held my breath. Listening for the two guards standing outside the door, I heard nothing, and apparently neither did they.

I breathed once more and raised the lantern to have a look about the specials. This was a modest chamber compared to the regular library, roughly the size of the main foyer at Duenna. It was rectangular, with a low ceiling of perhaps seven feet, the door positioned in the middle of one of the longer walls, and as Loren had promised, there was a second ventilation shaft at the far side of the room.

Unlike the rest of Spindledar, these stacks were orderly, arranged in neatly spaced rows on shelves, which had recently been crafted of some fine wood, with small tables attached for study. The entire room was clean, with the exception of the ventilation shaft and me.

Anything that I touched would bear evidence of my visit. I kicked off my shoes and shed my robes, then rubbed my hands against my shift until they left no smudges. I inwardly laughed at the thought of getting caught rifling through the monastery's most precious books in my undergarments.

I dug through my discarded robe for the vellum with the stack address, then went hunting for my book, which I found quickly as the stacks were kept in perfect order. Biography, the spine read. Generally, according to Fleary, biographies were anonymously written, then indexed by the subject's name, not the author. Eager to see if this was what I thought it to be, the biography of my mother, I pulled it from the shelf and retreated to a table in the far corner, away from the entrance; I did not want to be betrayed by light creeping under the door. I set the lantern on the table and slid into the chair. My fingertips glided over the green leather cover, dipping into large letters burned into the front: SAABIN: A biography.

I knew so little of my mother. Marius would never speak of her. She had betrayed him, after all, forever gouged out his heart. Fleary only spoke of her to say she was a gifted savant, a prominent asset of the monastery.

But as I opened the book, the scent of fresh ink escaped the blanched pages and I found myself staring at my own name, Fenitheer Saabin, on the title page. This wasn't my mother's biography. It was mine. I froze, horrified, as if I was looking upon my own tombstone.

Caught by the irrational idea that this was the story of my life in its entirety, from birth to death, I went to the very last page and flipped forward. I was relieved to find most of the pages blank, not yet written. I found the last entry; it read:

Soon after induction, Fenitheer began her study of basic meditative principles under the tutelage of Madrum. Although her conventional abilities seemed adequate, she possessed questionable potential for the more exotic proficiencies. However, members of the order seemed confident that she would be useful in the end, despite a coquettish interest in one of the lesser illustrators, and a marked hunger for opiates.

I grimaced at the less than glowing acclaim and read from the beginning of the biography, which seemed to be missing some important detail:

Fenitheer Saabin is the daughter of Seraph Saabin and the charge of Marius Saabin. She is a bastard child, born of her mother's infidelity, placed in Marius' care after her mother died. Because of the dishonorable way in which she was conceived, Fenitheer was the subject of unceasing and often brutal derision from her steward. She came to the attention of the order when her mother's husband passed away.

No mention of Pruet. Nothing I didn't already know.

I closed the book and fought the temptation to remove it from the specials, to keep it or destroy it. It was my story, after all. Wondering who was charged with chronicling my life, I flipped the text open to examine the precise yet fluid penmanship. Due to the grace of hand, I would have thought the author to be a woman had I not witnessed the care and precision with which Tiplin wielded a quill. It was most certainly his work. "Of course," I muttered.

Curious if there were other biographies within the order, I looked for the most prominent names from the monastery, people who I would consider worthy of a biography, or at least more so than I. I hunted out PRU, FLE, MAD, ROU, SER, but found nothing. It seemed I was to be the only one. But why was I to be watched so carefully while no others were? The thought of Tiplin recording my every move rattled my nerves. Either I was expected to do something dramatic, or something dramatic was expected to happen to me. In either case, I found it worrisome.

My search through the stacks was not completely fruitless. Scanning through nearby shelves I happened upon other books bearing the SAA prefix, including such mundane titles: The Effect of Increasing Lupine Populations of the North Forests, Water Evacuation Proposals, Barricade Identification: A guide to runic translation, etc., nothing that seemed to merit the "special collections" moniker. As I read each spine, my eye caught on one entitled The Geometry of the Soul. It at least sounded interesting, though I groaned with frustration as soon as I opened it; the text was obfuscated using the monastic code, and I had left the commutation box sitting in our office, some twenty stories up.

Most of it I couldn't understand. I spent an undeterminable amount of time, quietly undisturbed, trying to make sense of what I was reading. But without the box, deciphering the text was arduous and slow. The best I could do was to translate a block of text someone had annotated, hopefully an indication of its pertinence:

The aperture is a reactive condition of the opening that exists between the physical body and consciousness, and the ethereal state and subconscious. It is a regulatory measure designed to facilitate the proper exchange of energies in order to maintain a balance between the physical and ethereal. Preemptive studies have shown that tampering with the aperture to produce a particular effect is inadvisable, as the aperture is delicate and prone to closing immediately upon external contact.

I sighed, pocketed the note, and closed the book. Nothing of consequence.

Taking to the stacks once more, I scanned for anything curious and happened upon a book that appeared much older than the rest, the title long worn from the spine. I pulled it and carefully picked through the brittle pages. At the top of the first page written in the common tongue: "Pruet, S38, PR 187," which meant the 187th year post-reclamation, 38th day after the Spring Equinox. I rubbed my thumb over the faded ink, holding the text to the lantern light, not believing what I read. The current year was 326 PR. Did Pruet have a grandfather of the same name? Curious, I read on:

SP 38, PR 187

I went to the wards this morning to see Gavus as his constitution quickly diminishes. Despite our efforts, I'm afraid what is left of Gavus' soul shall soon succumb to the demon that stalks him. In seeing his frightened eyes, I cannot help but wonder if this same fate awaits me, for though I am loath to mention it, else be brought under the same restrictive care as my master, I can feel the dark touch of that possession beneath my flesh, the want of sacrifice.

I am hoping to find a means to purge this foul parasite before I am driven to appeasement. I do not possess Gavus' stalwart character, allowing the demon to destroy him rather than take another's life. I doubt I have the strength to refuse that murderous hunger.

In the final moments of his life, Gavus pleaded with me to abandon the spindle, to let it rot beneath the earth, to swiftly dispatch the afflicted and seal the barricades forever. I could see in his eyes that he knew of the demon I carried. But even if I had the will to take my own life, I doubt it would let me; it seeks only to devour others, not its host.

Indeed, I could feel it writhe beneath my skin as I closed my hand over Gavus' nose while the physician poured water into his open mouth. Perhaps my demon would have been satiated for a while upon my mentor's passing, were his soul not already spoken for.

I am convinced there is a way to overcome the black beast. The answer lies somewhere in the spindle.

SP 67, PR 187

We've received permission from the CA to expand past the barricades provided we only break one seal at a time, a reasonable request. As the newly appointed headmaster of the monastery, I've assembled a party to reconnoiter beyond 38-North, where I believe the air to be drier, suggesting a better chance of recovery. Our group consists of Kvasir and Hyrsaf, two of our guards (though I doubt we'll need them), Gerra the linguist, Almaht the cartographer and myself. A gate winch is being moved into position to lift the crossbeam this evening. We shall gather supplies and set about tomorrow morning.

The Listener posted to this barricade has reported scarce activity, perhaps a shambler at most, which should be easy enough to disable once inside. I don't expect to encounter much resistance as this quadrant of Spindledar has been without incident for quite some time.

SP 68, PR 187 - Expedition #273, day 1

It was a lonely shambler as we had anticipated, stumbling around without even eyes to see with. Kvasir pinned it against a wall with a trident while Hyrsaf took its head off with his sword.

The chamber immediately past 38-North is one I have visited in years past, however briefly. I consulted with Almaht as he plotted the large hall, which he suggested was a receiving room, a place for crowds to gather out of the weather before entering the central library. The barricade should be pushed back so as to encompass this room. It would be useful with proper renovation.

We entered a small antechamber which turned quickly into a clay tunnel that seemed to run against an exterior wall of another building for some length. One side of our path consisted of even-cut stone, the other raw earth. A doorway opened to our left and we pushed through the debris into a large hall, roughly square. In the center of the room stood a stairwell containing two sets of steps, though one had collapsed. Almaht made note of this while Gerra and I debated the purpose of the structure. We agreed that the building wasn't of particular interest and decided to press on.

After visiting several more equally mundane structures, we stopped to rest in a shallow grotto carved into the clay by the first explorers, before the barricades.

SP 69, PR 187 - Expedition #273, day 2

We made good distance this day, despite having to double back nearly two miles because our path was crossed by a swift moving aquifer. Our encounters with shamblers have become more frequent as they stumble along the path ahead of us. At least our two mercenaries are earning their pay.

Our path continued to move from building to building, though the nature of the structures has changed; instead of large halls, the buildings are smaller, most often collapsed or reduced to rubble and crumbled brick. Gerra speculates that these were once dwellings, perhaps row homes such as the ones that line the square in the city above.

SP 70, PR 187 - Expedition #273, day 3

This morning we came upon the remains of a shambler, decapitated and badly decomposed. The corpse bothers me, for to my knowledge, no other has ventured this far past the barricades, which suggests either someone else has gained entry to the undercity or Spindledar is still inhabited, though I don't know what could survive without the warmth and light of the sun.

By mid-day we had moved on to more institutional formations, an enormous financial repository for example; sadly these people seemed not to value gold as common currency as we do now. However, with a bit of determined searching we were able to find some jewelry amid the rust and decay that shall help recuperate the costs of this expedition.

SP 71, PR 187 - Expedition #273, day 4

I think we've found it! After hours of slow and careful search through the tunnels, we finally happened upon a structure still bearing the six pointed star I'd seen in other texts in the spindle. However, Gerra has been quick to temper my enthusiasm. The entry has been cordoned off by debris which appears to have been carefully placed by someone or something. Gerra argues that the doorway was probably blocked for a reason, and that we should return to the spindle to amass more men and provisions, since we are just about through half of our rations. His caution is justified, however I cannot turn away from such an important discovery empty handed. Instead, I sent Almaht back to the spindle for resupply, escorted by Kvasir, after they had helped clear the debris from the entrance. We each have three days of provisions remaining, and proceeding directly, Almaht should make it to the spindle and back in four days; I've been meaning to lose a little weight anyhow.

SP 72, PR 187 - Expedition #273, day 5

We entered the structure this morning, stepping over much broken glass and rusted metal, and were greeted by a half dozen shamblers, making for a few tense moments as Hyrsaf, Gerra and I worked to dispatch them.

The encounter incited Gerra to question my judgment. I should have sent him back to the spindle instead of Almaht, who may not possess a strong a sword arm, but isn't muttering an insolent remark with every breath either.

By mid-day we were able to clear the main floor of adversaries and begin a serious inspection of the facility. While some text was recoverable, I am skeptical of its usefulness. It is my hope that somewhere within this structure we may find a library containing information pertinent to the goings on in this place. Judging by the many oddly placed metal frames, which I believe to have once been beds, I am certain this was a civic ward, inside which I will hopefully find a cure for the demon living in my veins.

SP 73, PR 187 - Expedition #273, day 5

Without Almaht to properly map our surroundings, I have had to produce loose sketches which do not serve to illustrate the enormity of this place. The corridors are endless and exhausting. Our encounters with the shamblers increase as more dark pockets are exposed to the light of our flame. Whoever barricaded the entrance of this facility was right to do so. Still we must press on.

At last we have come across an office of records several levels down. They hold peculiar documents: smooth and translucent velum, illustrations of bones and other things I cannot describe in any meaningful way. Soon after discovering this office, we found the library. So many books, many still legible. All that remains now is to select several promising specimens, fight our way back to the tunnels and wait for reinforcements to come, then properly clear the ward of occupants.

SP 74, PR 187 - Expedition #273, day 6

That fool Gerra, in his haste to retreat, blundered into what must have been the bier chamber; his stupidity roused a horde of shamblers. While he ran, Hyrsaf bravely fought them back to allow us an avenue of retreat. For his valor he was overcome, arms and legs twisted from their sockets, flesh stripped from his bones. His screams still ring in my ears. That should have been Gerra, not Hyrsaf, torn apart like a rabbit between wolves.

Despite his failings, in the end Gerra did prove himself useful. As we struggled to make our way out of the facility, shamblers fell upon us from all sides. As we raced our way to the main floor, it was clear that our reinforcements hadn't arrived. We wouldn't suffer two days through the tunnels while being so closely pursued.

Doing the only sensible thing, I dropped behind Gerra, and with a solid hack to the back of the knee, he fell screaming. I leapt over him and out of the structure as the shamblers converged upon him, allowing my exit.

I made a fair distance up the tunnel before stopping to rest. Despite having narrowly escaped with my life, I do not look forward to the two days of hard travel without the benefit of food or water. I am hoping to meet Almaht on his way back.

SP 75, PR 187 - Expedition #273, day 7

Retracing my steps through the tunnels, I came across what at first I thought to be Kvasir's work, a decapitated shambler, head laid between its feet, only to discover it was Kvasir himself, slain and desecrated. As I turned his body over, I realized the beheading was an afterthought. His chest had been punctured in several places, though not in a row or triad that would suggest a trident. Moreover, the wounds were small, ruling out a spear. Likely, Kvasir was felled with some sort of arrow. The killer had removed the shafts along with other notable possessions: sword, water flask, provisions, etc. I wonder if they had also made off with Almaht.

I continued as best I could, slower for the sake of caution, but had no other encounters to speak of until much later when I found the missing cartographer, resting in a grotto off the tunnel, feverish and incoherent.

Almaht's wounds were consistent with those found on Kvasir: two small puncture wounds on his back and side, a third on his calf. The wound on his side was clearly festering, producing a mixture of dark blood and puss. Lying next to him were two of the offending projectiles, iron bolts about a foot and a half long, fletched with a sort of rigid paper occasionally found in the ruins.

I wrapped the darts in cloth and added them to my pack before sequestering what provisions Almaht still had as well as his sword. Realizing I couldn't leave the poor fellow in this condition, I pressed my boot into his throat until his struggles ceased, and in that moment when his heart finally yielded, I was overcome by a strange sensation, a satisfaction one might get from a particularly good meal or fine port. My demon was pleased, though what it did with poor Almaht's soul, I fear to wonder.

SP 76, PR 187 - Expedition #273, day 8

Somewhat restored, thanks to the last of Almaht's provisions, I've made good time today. I should reach the spindle this afternoon. I will report that despite the unfortunate loss of life due to Gerra's miscalculations, the expedition was an undeniable success. As for the origin of the strange arrows, I shall keep that speculation to myself for now.

I indeed hoped this was Pruet's forefather and not the man to whom I was bound in service. Unfortunately, my hopes would be unrealized.

I found a second volume bearing Pruet's name, however it had been obfuscated and seemed more recent than the previous. With some effort I was able to translate the title without the commutation box: Exploration Journal. Bound in half-page, it fit nicely into the pocket of my robes for later translation.

Time enough spent here, I pulled on my dust-laden clothes and shimmied back up the conduit, lantern handle clenched between my teeth. Loren, who waited dutifully, helped extract me from the shaft as I emerged. "Did you find it?" he asked as soon as I was upright.

"Yes, though it wasn't quite what I had expected," I said, not wanting to elaborate. I brushed myself off and then coughed to remove a nagging mote from my chest.

"I've found few things are as expected in this place," he said and picked up the lantern. "We should go."

And so up we went, twenty seven grueling flights of stairs, actually only twenty since my office was on the seventh floor. Loren seemed oddly quiet on the way back up, but if he was as breathless as I was from the exertion, this came as no surprise. We parted ways sometime before I arrived back at the office. Tiplin was there as I had left him, working merrily over his map. "Long break?" he asked, sounding amused. I grunted a response and collapsed into my chair. For all that distraction, I was still behind in my biographies.

I continued working until Tiplin retired for the day, after which I left as well, the bulky commutation box digging into my side from where it was hidden beneath my coat.

Later that evening I stumbled across the city to my room at Duenna. The Matron herself greeted me with a scowl at the door. She burdened me with yet more housework to tend to before I could retire for the night. And so I scrubbed the dishes and pots from the evening meal, snatching bits of food into my mouth as I did, a half-eaten roll, a gobbet of meat left on the bone. Ms. Lila came and worked beside me in the kitchen, cutting potatoes for tomorrow's breakfast, making polite conversation, which was odd for her. "Fine weather we're having," she said as her knife twisted and flitted, gouging out eyes or mold. "It is," I replied, though I knew nothing of the quality of the day since I had barely spent any of it outside the spindle. Despite my exhaustion, I was glad to be occupied by something so mindless and simple.

When the dishes were dried and put away, the floor scrubbed and the linen folded from the line, Lila said she would bother with the rest and that I should go to bed. I thanked her and retreated to the baths before she could change her mind. I writhed out of my garments and sank into the chill waters, clawing at my skin to shed layers of filth. The water quickly turned black.

Afterwards I bounded up the kitchen steps wrapped in a clean bed sheet I found in the laundry, having deposited my own sullied clothes into the pile for washing. Naturally I'd be the one to wash them alongside everything else in the house, but that was for another day. I came to the top of the stairs, strode down the long hall and into our room only to find the door mostly blocked from the inside by a large piece of furniture. "Genevieve?" I called.

Her face appeared in the narrow opening. She looked tired, and her eyes and cheeks were red. She had been crying again. "Just a minute," she said, and closed the door completely. I heard the sound of wood grinding against wood as she pushed the wardrobe out of the way. The door opened fully this time and I entered the room to find it rearranged. The writing desk was now in front of the window, the wardrobe in the corner behind the door, and the beds were positioned on opposite walls, extending into the middle of the room.

"Barricading ourselves in, are we?" I quipped.

"No," she didn't smile. "No, I was just trying something different," she said and turned away. She took a candle from the desk, opened a letter and sat down on my bed. I sat beside her. "Read it," she said, pushing it into my hands. "Read it and tell me I am more than a thing. Tell me that I am more than a sow or oxen, no better than those that plow the fields."

I opened the letter. It was from her mother:

Dearest Genevieve,

The arbiters have met regarding your impending matrimony to Arkebauer Clodfelter, Lord and Baron of the Eastern Pass. They have reached a favorable settlement satisfactory to both your father and your betrothed. Your father is pleased to say he was able to reduce greatly the demand for dowry, which speaks favorably of you. You are to be Arkebauer's fifth wife, and one of four still living. You will enjoy the privilege of serving him and his house in exchange for conjugal functions when it pleases him, and the honor to bear his first heir, as his previous wives have failed to produce a child. As your father sees little sense in delaying the consecration of this arrangement, he has instructed me to inform you that the wedding shall be held at our house in Confluence during the Winter Solstice. Afterward, you and a maidservant shall be accepted into the baron's care. Please gather your things appropriately, as there will be no need for you to return to Felvishar after the holiday. Your father is pleased with this arrangement, and feels you have been acquired by a worthy suitor. You will be instructed in greater detail upon your homecoming. A horseman will send for you the week before the Solstice.

-Vivian

"I see," I said, setting the letter down on the bed. I took her hand in mine, it was limp and cold. "Genevieve, I'm sorry." She leaned into me and I brought my arm around her shoulder. "Is there something we can do? There's still time, isn't there? We could appeal to your parents to let you stay at Duenna for another year."

She sniffed and shook her head. "No. Once the arrangement has been made it's binding. The marriage itself is just a pleasantry."

"But you could run away, hide someplace."

She looked up at me. "I couldn't do it, Fen. Running from a problem is no different than surrendering to it. My father has gotten rid of me one way or another."

I pushed the tears from her cheeks and tried to smile. "Well, then perhaps it won't be as bad as you think. When I first came here I knew nothing of what was to become of me. But you were here. And you are a blessing to me. Perhaps you'll find happiness after all. Sometimes the gods grant us what we need despite ourselves." Even as I spoke these words I knew they weren't true, but I had little idea for the suffering that awaited Genevieve at the hand of her betrothed.

She smiled, though I think for my benefit. "I will miss you," she said.

"I'll miss you as well." Grief was already forming inside my chest, but I swallowed it down for her sake. "But we can write, and I'm sure we'll see each other."

"Will you still come home with me?" she asked, hopeful.

"Of course," I said. "It's all set."

She smiled through her tears, wrapped her arms around me and held tightly. I had been avoiding asking Fleary, already sure what his answer would be, but now I had to address it with him.

When she had calmed enough to sleep, I quietly unwrapped the commutation box and journal I had stolen from my coat and sat down on my bed. The monastic code, with which most of the recent texts were encoded, was a cipher. Each of the symbols in the text represented a letter. If the symbols could be matched to the correct letters, the text revealed itself. However, the match set varied from book to book, chapter to chapter, and depending upon the sensitivity of the work, even page to page. This prevented proprietary texts from being easily read. The key to the cipher depended upon the date it was penned, and was recorded in a key book Fleary kept on his desk. Lacking the key, however, the cipher could still be broken with a basic knowledge of grammar and much time.

The commutation box did not provide the match set, however it did make the process of deciphering the symbols significantly easier. Aside from the box itself, there were two sets of tiles, each tile about the size of a fingernail: a green set of symbols, a white set of letters. Repeating the pattern provided in the text, the symbol tiles were placed into corresponding sockets. That done, a reasonable guess could be made as to the identity of certain key symbols based upon the rhythm of the text: punctuation, length of words, frequency of symbols, etc. The corresponding letter was then placed into position alongside its hopefully matching symbol. Then, with a pull of a small lever, gears within the box would spin and catch wherever a letter tile was placed, revealing the proper text though a small window below the symbol tiles. If the initial guess was correct, the rest of the text could be deciphered in the same way. Though this dramatically reduced the time needed to decipher text, the commutation box was only as efficient as its operator. It could still be a long and frustrating process.

Fortunately, Pruet's entry into the journal wasn't long, and so it only took several hours to translate the following text, which I copied into the blank journal Fleary had provided for Naamul translation:

Pruet, W17, PR319

Something strange happened this evening that would not normally warrant an entry into the exploration log. However, I feel all encounters of this kind should be adequately documented.

Last spring it became apparent that the water table was rising, inundating the bottom-most corridors of the under-city at a rate of several feet per month. Because of this, I had made my way eight stories below the spindle, near barricade Central-4, in order to assess what must be evacuated to higher levels, and what could be left behind. Generally this task is better left to the Magi, for my health has grown increasingly desperate these past years, but I took it upon myself to aid their efforts when I could, generally in the late hours, and often alone aside from a small contingent of journeymen who stood silently by.

Setting up a portable desk amid the piles of suspect material, I took inventory, fashioning a crude manifest detailing which items were to be hauled up and out of the spindle, intending to leave it for the acolytes who would come in the morning. However, as the early hours approached, I was interrupted by something I had not felt in quite a number of years.

A cold breeze pushed against my ear, carrying with it the whisper of my own name. My senses were startled awake, though I soon dismissed the occurrence as a fancy of weariness, for truly, I haven't slept well if at all for many years, leaving me in a state of near perpetual exhaustion It wouldn't be the first time I imagined things that simply weren't there.

Several moments passed by without event, and so I returned to my work. An hour or so later, however, I was again witness to the sound of my name, though more pronounced than before, rattling through the corridors with a guttural timbre that caused half the quills resting upon my small table to fly onto the floor. I looked to the two journeymen accompanying me, who stood unwavering, and a quick inspection of their senses told me they perceived nothing. Whatever this force was, it was unmistakably ethereal. I wiped the ink from my fingers and rose from my chair. My eyes delved into the surrounding shadows trying to define a shape, a lineament, but there was nothing, only darkness.

The chill wind muttered through the ruined hallways once more, whipping the dust at my feet. Over the stench of decay, I caught her scent. I called out her name into the black. Could she be so powerful, I wondered, as to project past the barricades? My heart paused at that possibility, for surely she would not regard me favorably were we to be reunited. The air surged forward again, scattering parchment and tipping over my slender writing desk, and with it rumbled the words, "Your daughter, Pruet."

Now this was unexpected. "I have no child," I called back. The chance that the product of our misguided tryst could have survived was minimal at best, and yet a child of such a union could be tremendously useful. With that in mind, I took a lantern from the journeymen and headed off to discover the source of that ill wind, leaving the soulless sycophants behind since they simply didn't register in the ether and thus couldn't interact with it.

Gathering my robes, I made my way through the library, over the narrow bridge spanning the south chasm and onto the lower mezzanine, pausing occasionally to study the echoes that reverberated from the stone walls, a sort of purr I took to mean I was proceeding in the right direction, until I peered over where a railing once guarded a dark hole in the floor. It was an entrance to the levels below, inset into an arched alcove, a steep, twisting staircase that beckoned with a dank and feted breath.

The stench alone nearly turned me away. The thought of descending into such a place, from which I might never return, did not appeal. I myself recommended traveling in groups of no less than three. But air belched from the gaping pit, unmistakably, "Your daughter." To stop then was simply impossible.

I descended the snaking stairs as they twisted downward, cautiously scooting debris from the surfaces of the cracked and broken steps. As I reached the bottom, greasy liquid dribbled into my shoes, the water warmer than I would have expected. I sloshed into the black and the corridor opened into a large area that I imagine was a galley. My flame caught on glints of iron, fire pits, the rotting remains of a cutting block.

"So close..." the voice sounded. I moved through the shallow muck and through a wide causeway with a high arched ceiling for some distance before I came to an enormous iron door with a massive crossbeam, one of the original barricades, as yet unnamed and uncharted.

I shambled over to the portal and pressed my ear against it, though I did not hear the sounds the dark ones make: clumsy footsteps, slurred attempts at speech, the clawing of a beast awaiting its release from a cage. Strangely, they did not seem as active as they once were many years past.

"Seraph," I rasped through the pea-sized seam in the door, not wanting to draw undue attention to my presence. Time slowed as I awaited a response. "Seraph," I said a bit louder.

"Don't leave me here," she pleaded softly in a voice no more than an arm's length away. "Open the door..."

I quickly shifted to look through the center of the giant doors. I saw her there in the narrow edge of light bleeding through from the lantern. I saw her blond hair, matted with grime, a glimpse of her eyes as they turned to see mine, shining brilliant azure, fair and smooth skin smudged with ash and dust, but still so beautiful. My view shifted from one eye to the other as if one would not believe what the other saw. My heart ached to touch her, to feel her warmth once more. "How are you here?" I begged. "You can't still be here..."

"Open the door, Pruet," she said, ignoring my question, if it even registered at all. "I have to find my daughter. I have to help her."

Her voice clouded my mind with questions. I had to look away from her to sort them out. I spun and pressed my back against the barricade. What child had we begot from that tryst? What did she imply? "Did she not die with you?" I asked, yet the question seemed out of place, for here she was but a breath away, perfect as ever she was. I would reach out and touch her but for a simple door. How could she have returned to this place, I wondered? How could she linger still? And to see her now, so long afterwards as if she had never left... But what of this daughter? "If the child is not with you, then did it not die?" I asked again.

"Pruet, I must find her. Where is she?"

"I will find her," I said. "But I need something from you. Will you help me?" My question was punctuated by the dripping of water somewhere past the barricade, but otherwise there came no response. "Seraph!" I called. Turning, I looked once again through the slender opening, but she was gone, vanished into the thick darkness beyond. I gasped, groping at the small space, trying to pull the doors open, but she was gone and the door barred fast. "Seraph," I hissed and pushed my ear against the crack, holding my breath so as to hear her better, but only silence crept back through the breach.

I closed the journal and set it down on the bed. I wasn't sure what to think of it. The journal raised more questions than it answered. Foremost, why was my mother, or her apparition, so eager to find me? And, what assistance did Pruet hope to gain from her, and to what purpose?

Exhausted, I curled around these mysteries, quickly falling into a restless slumber.

##### Chapter 8

As time passed, my little table at the monastery became so burdened with notes and maps and testimony that I could hardly remember what color it was. But I didn't mind the work. I became intrigued with the happenings of other people's lives and found myself exploring the world vicariously through their tribulation. I wrote biographies for many people, young and old, rich and poor, noble and common. Some were criminals or tyrants. Others were pious and served their gods well. Some betrayed their faith, others grew fanatical with it. Through the great depth and diversity of this work I attained a certain perspective regarding my own life. My circumstance was not the best, but certainly not the worst.

Though the work was sufferable, the gross disorganization of supporting material had become a hindrance. So early one morning, I began sorting in the hope that I could have it completed before Tiplin arrived. He was forever making sidelong remarks about my lack of tidiness. I suppose by comparison he was meticulously neat, much in the same way Genevieve was. Sometimes I wondered if it were a disorder of the mind that drove them to be that way.

But if disorganization was a vice of mine, so was inefficiency. Tiplin arrived at the door just as I had laid all my notes on the floor in piles, which I carefully straddled, hunched over since there was no place to stand. He peered in through the window and rolled his eyes. The door groaned open, but Tiplin didn't enter the room, which was just as well since there was no place for him to go.

"Fleary wants us to witness the conclusion of the Lindtholm biography," he said, momentarily ignoring the state of our office. "We need to leave now if we're to make it there on time."

"Us?" I grimaced. "I do well enough on my own. I don't need you to witness."

"And I don't have the time to chaperone Pruet's snotty brat, but Fleary wants both of us to go. He was precise about that."

I gathered the bundles of pages by the fistful, hoping I'd be able to distinguish individual piles later on. "Half a moment, then," I said. "You said the conclusion of the biography. What exactly are we to witness?"

Tiplin crossed his arms and leaned heavily into the door jam. "His execution," he said, yawning.

From my knees, pages clutched in both arms, I looked at him. "Execution? I thought the tribunal had absolved him of the heresy charges. His other crimes were thought too petty to warrant punishment against a landholder. He's to be released next week."

"Well, it seems Bellatine has other designs on him. It's his right to overturn judgments of the tribunal if it suits him."

I shook my head. "But that makes no sense. Even if Bellatine is granted that privilege as keeper of the city, it's only to pardon or bestow mercy on those found guilty in the tribunal, not to burn the innocent."

He shrugged. "Apparently it works both ways. We have to leave now or we'll miss it."

"I think I'd like that," I growled and dumped the papers back to the floor. I rose, donned my coat and followed Tiplin out of the spindle to the general quarters of the monastery. From there we climbed up the central staircase that led to the streets.

The autumn sun shone brilliant in a blue on blue sky. I recoiled as the light jabbed at my unaccustomed eyes. It was almost noon. We had to hurry.

Executions generally proceeded in reverse order of notoriety, beginning with the least well known, finishing with the celebrated. I couldn't guess where Lindtholm would rank in all of that. His tribunal had certainly caught the ear of the general public, however if Bellatine had discarded the tribunal's findings then he may have opted for an earlier execution to avoid unwanted derision from his consorts. But then, if he simply wanted the man dead, a public burning wasn't discreet no matter who got the pole first.

Tiplin pushed his way through the engorged streets. I followed in his wake, eyes focused on the pronounced cleft between his shoulder blades. I grew anxious. I had compiled the notes on Sevil Lindtholm. I knew his story well and knew he was innocent. The charges brought upon him were nothing more than an attempt by his eldest sons to rob him of property. It was obvious to both me and the magistrates who had absolved him.

I had spent many long nights reviewing his journals, comparing them against those of his steward. I had read letters he had written to his wife Ellany, and many she had written him. I knew, for example, that he despised potatoes, yet had his laborers grow them by the wagon. I knew he was ever watchful of his wealth, but didn't hesitate to spend it in the interest of keeping those who worked for him in good repair. I knew that his first child Nethaviel had died not four months from Ellany's womb, and that he was buried behind their manor on a hill beneath a stone shaped like a sleeping cat. I knew that once, with too much mead, Sevil had committed an infidelity with the maidservant of a visiting noble, and that the guilt of his indiscretion drove him to confess at the feet of his wife and beg forgiveness, which she granted. I knew so much of this man. His history was forever mingled with my own.

As we walked, my mind reeled trying to understand what we were about to see. Sevil was a self-made man from modest beginnings. His father was a plowman who worked Lord Bellatine's land along with his mother. When he was fifteen, Sevil enlisted as a foot soldier in the royal army, as much to escape the till and yoke as to seek fortune. He took well to the rigors of the military and proved himself a natural leader and tactician. He was a field captain by twenty-five and well loved by his men. His valor was never in question as he insisted on charging with the first of his men in any assault regardless of the odds, yet never fell and was never wounded, which earned him the moniker "Lucky Lindtholm." By forty, Sevil had had enough of soldiery, and retired from the military with considerable wealth. Coffers full with the spoils of war, he bought the land his father had worked all his life, as well as an adjoining manor, and began a profitable business as a landholder. His fortune secure, Lindtholm married his young cousin, begetting four sons from her womb.

Eventually Sevil was able to purchase a small amount of nobility to his name that he would pass along to his three sons when he died. However, his sons grew impatient. By the time his eldest son reached twenty-five, Sevil was nearly seventy, with little indication of passing by his own accord.

An attempt on his life was made, supposedly by a disgruntled hand, who upon torture eventually confessed and was quartered. The attack came while Sevil and his wife walked home from a dance. He was stabbed twice with a dagger. The attacker fled into the night as soon as the bloodied weapon was pulled from Lindtholm's side, not bothering with his purse, leaving him in the street beside his sobbing wife.

His constitution proved victorious over the assassin's blade, however, and Sevil quickly recovered with no ill effect save the two small scars in his left side. It was a miraculous recovery for any man, let alone one of his age. Overjoyed with his own survival, Lindtholm was rejuvenated. The failed assassination attributed him with a sense of bravado that in his own words, he hadn't felt since he was a soldier in Bellatine's army.

Several years later, when Lindtholm showed no signs of slowing, a second attempt was made. It was no secret that Sevil was an avid rider; he was celebrated for it. No longer accompanied by his wife, for she had succumbed to her age shortly after the first attack, he would often refuse a carriage in favor of riding horseback. On one particular occasion, while engaging in a hunt with his family and colleagues, a spur was placed beneath his saddle, a simple, though effective trick. The horse reared, slamming Lindtholm against the stable wall. He was thrown to the ground and trampled beneath the steed's flailing feet. Onlookers rushed to his side only to watch him rise under his own strength and brush the dust from his tunic. Mind you, he was eighty-three.

When the awe of his enduring health faded, his eldest two sons quietly reported him to the magistrate with charges of heresy and witch-craft. They claimed he worshiped gods outside of the pantheon and offered evidence of his miraculous survival as proof of his witchery. The charges were of course unfounded and the inquisitionist simply refused to give them any credence.

Lindtholm's story eventually came to Bellatine's ears, I fear in part because of the notes I had gathered. His two remaining sons surely didn't commission the biography for they would have wanted a pejorative connotation. The commission was for an objective study.

Bellatine immediately had Lindtholm taken into custody by the city watch, with no small amount of controversy. He was to be held until a proper investigation could be conducted. And, as expected, the charges were found baseless and the magistrate ordered his release. However, something had gone awry.

Tiplin spun about and confronted me. I nearly ran into him I was so lost in thought. "Have you got vellum?" he asked. I padded my coat until I found the bulge of bound paper in my breast pocket and nodded. I had found it a useful companion for taking notes, a task I seemed to do more often of late. "Right. Now remember, record as much as you can. Fleary wants every detail of his execution." I nodded, even as my stomach roiled. I hated executions and those who attended them, those who cheered on the destruction of life, the murder of a man I knew to be compassionate and honorable. This was the lowest of all human endeavors, and I was to be an unblinking witness.

The executions were well under way by the time we arrived. The square teemed with pale faces, most smiling and laughing, a few weeping. Two twisting columns of smoke reached into the sky. The stench was of nothing I had ever smelled, the crisp scent of burning evergreen infused with the sick-sweet smell of charred flesh. And there was of course the screaming, barely audible over the jolly din of those around us.

As we became part of the surging wash of spectators pressed into the square, I couldn't understand the general appeal of such a turgid gathering. I couldn't see anything, and for that I was grateful. Tiplin observed my complacency and felt obliged to procure a proper vantage for our task. Grabbing hold of my coat sleeve he pulled me along to the edge of the square and out into the surrounding streets. We walked slowly down the avenue as he carefully studied the buildings that ensconced the square, then stopped. Gesturing to a three flat that seemed identical to all the others, he said, "This one will do."

Glancing at the faces that paraded past us in the street, Tiplin shrugged and walked up the three short steps to the front door. With casual grace, he placed his foot on the door latch, braced one hand inside the door jam and the other on the awning above him, then hefted himself up. He scaled the face of the building and was soon staring down at me from the rooftop while I stared up at him, joined by several curious onlookers.

Digging in his coat he found a length of thin rope, tied a loop in it and dropped it down to me. I looked at it, then looked back at him with disdain. "I'm not made for this sort of thing."

"Imagine my surprise," he said. "Just put it around yourself so we can go. And hurry, I think I see the clappers coming." I gritted my teeth and wiggled the rope under my arms. Tiplin pulled hard and fast, hoisting me above the street amid laughs and jeers as I dangled for the pleasure of the mob.

Jostling spots of red caught my eye as I rose. Tiplin was right about the clappers, they were steadily making their way towards us. But it wasn't long before he pulled me over the edge of the building onto the shale rooftop. Tiplin slipped the rope from beneath my arms, and we crossed the cracking slate to gain a proper view of the proceedings.

The square was transformed by our improved vantage, assuming the properties of a great undulating beast below us. The cheers and cries were tempered by those of vendors and charlatans calling out their wares. The smell of the fires intermingled with that of fried fish and apples, pickles and pan bread. As I peered over the crowds, I saw children dressed in finery with ribbons and flowers in their hair, snaked between and under their larger counterparts, hand in hand in hand. The dour notion of an execution was rutted with all the mislaid trappings of a street fair.

At the very heart of this wretched thing, the black soul of it, stood seven posts, two of them already ablaze. By snails, the pain and sorrow and anguish of it crushed my heart as it beat in my chest, but once my eyes found the cynosure of this gathering I could not turn away. My attention was bound to the burning posts, the writhing flesh and faces. Tiplin nudged me, handed me a spy glass which I snatched with avarice. I set my eye to it and gasped.

Upon one pole were the charred and lifeless remains of two people, one larger, the other small, animated only by the fire playing through their bodies. The other, however, had lashed to it three, a man, woman and a child: a family. They choked and gasped and screamed against the smoke and flame. It was clear to me that they had no stoic resolution that their lives were to end, and I wondered if they even knew why they were being burned alive. It did not take long before their broken pleas fell silent as they could no longer draw a breath not filled with black smoke. Their heads fell limp along their shoulders as they succumbed, and the flames, as if waiting for that moment, climbed up their flesh and devoured them like driftwood.

The crowds erupted with orgiastic splendor only to be surpassed when the clappers brought the next victim through the rabble. The posts were to be set alight one at a time. When the previous fire had overtaken its victims, the next one would begin. In this way the spectacle would be drawn out to sate the hungry malice of the people.

I saw the men brought to the third post, two of them, neither of which was Lindtholm. Both had dark hair and eyes, wore their faces long with beards and donned seersucker robes that had been torn and soiled, a likely result of their incarceration. The fabric of their dress implied these were men of wealth. Their complexion resembled many of the immigrants with whom I had become acquainted. I had the sinking notion that I was partially responsible for making sure these people were to burn.

As the clappers bound them to the post, the condemned looked on with such sadness, unwanted and cast down as they were. And indeed, their people were not favored by the common and poor, who always sought another to blame for their misfortune. Immigrants were often used as political devices by those with power to coalesce the masses.

A crier called out the charges for which they were to die, but his voice was lost over the crowd's insistent calls for the men to burn. Torches were set to the kindling beneath great timbers of oiled pine, and once again the crowds roiled with jeers and laughter as the fire quickly took. The men remained somber and unmoved until the orange-yellow flames began to suckle their feet, then wailed and cried with such tumultuous pain that for a moment the throng of unwashed peasants, toothless and bitter, were held silent. I wondered if the sobriety of this grisly spectacle had finally outdone the crowd's bloodlust. But after what seemed an eternity had passed and the tortured screams waned, applause and excitement quickly filled in the silence with a sexual splendor. The assemblage had not been held quiet by pity as I had hoped, but by the want for another's suffering.

I didn't feel the grotesque pleasure that bound the sight of so many there, nothing so banal. It didn't matter who was dying, or if they deserved to die or not. What I was seeing was the transformation of flesh and mind and memory, ability and emotions acquired over a lifetime boiling away like water into steam. It felt somehow important to witness this passing, to respect it.

I thought of the words I had found in the specials: The aperture is a reactive condition of the opening that exists between the physical body and the ethereal soul, designed to facilitate the proper exchange of energies. Two questions hung in my mind: what happened to the aperture when a person died, and what happened to the person when the aperture closed on itself prematurely? After all, the text that I had read mentioned something about it being unstable, apt to close when tampered with. The men lashed to the post began to sag as they succumbed and I pressed my eye into the spyglass to catch the moment of their passing.

The next three burnings followed in the same fashion as the first three. Among the victims were the wife of a nobleman and her young lover, several more immigrants brought on charges of murder and thievery, and two young women who according to the crier were to die for "indulging in unnatural pleasures," presumably with each other. I watched with unwavering attention, noticing that each of the victims perished by two deaths. The first was the cessation of their will to live as the damned resigned to their fate, all struggle ended, and it seemed as if their souls retreated or fled. The second was of course the demolition of their flesh and bone. Based upon that observation, I wondered if the soul was indeed disengage the body.

The last and most notable execution was Lindtholm. When the sixth post was well engulfed in flames and the cheers from the crowd became a low chant of "Burn, burn, burn," the crier stepped up to the wooden platform in the center of the square and read the order for his death to a quieted and unusually rapt audience. As expected, it was heresy. Added to this were charges of adultery, conspiracy to overturn the city-state, and treason, all of which I knew were unfounded.

There was a tap on my shoulder and I jumped to find Tiplin handing me the bound vellum that was formerly in the breast pocket of my coat. I took it, then looked at him. "How did you get this?"

"Your pockets are an unfenced garden, free to any who want a meal. It's a good thing you have no money, otherwise you'd be a pauper. Look," he said, pointing to a building on the far side of the square. "On the balcony. Do you see him? The man sitting down."

Placing the spyglass once again to my eye, I brought the balcony into view. It was large and well furnished, attached to one of the more affluent row homes that lined the square. Several people were standing around, some wearing the red overcoats of the clappers, others dressed in black. There was only one person sitting down, leaning into the stone rail of the mezzanine and watching the proceedings with more than casual interest. "Who is he?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

"Bellatine."

I strained to see him better. For the lord of a city-state, he was plainly dressed in a brown leather tunic, unadorned with gold or finery as I would have expected. He was also very lean with thin brown hair that receded from his pate. "I thought he'd be much older."

"You're thinking of his father, also Bellatine," Tiplin said. "The name has been held onto for as long as anybody can remember."

"Strange. I've never read anything about his succession."

"It's unlikely you will. Very little is known of him, other than the fact that he's a formidable man like his forefathers."

I watched him for several minutes longer. There was something about him that I did not trust, something that drove me to be wary, as one would be around an unfamiliar dog. People came to his side once and again, said things in his ear. He responded, though his eyes never left the spectacle. "What is so dangerous about Sevil Lindtholm," I muttered, "that he must die, Lord Bellatine?"

I regretted saying his name as soon as it left my lips. As if he heard my casual remark, Bellatine broke his attention from the posts to look upon whoever had uttered his name, though we were surely just specs to the naked eye from this distance. I shuddered and lowered the glass. Without it I could barely tell him apart from the others on the balcony; it's a wonder Tiplin spotted him at all. Raising the glass to my eye once more, he came into view several times magnified. A chill shambled up my spine. Sure enough, he regarded us directly. I observed him as he did us, suddenly frightened that I might have cursed us to be next on the posts. But then he seemed to smile, just a bit, before returning his attention to the proceedings.

Tiplin nudged my shoulder, "They're bringing him out."

I panned across the mass of people and focused upon a gaggle of red-garbed clappers surrounding an old man as if he were an unruly stallion. The man did not protest, and in fact proceeded meekly across the square, but the men still immured him nonetheless. Sevil was a tall man with a lean, though solid frame. His hair was powder white, straight and too long, as was the stubble that poured from his chin. His hands were chained behind his back, and from the brevity of his stride, I inferred his ankles were bound too. Two clappers on either side looped their arms through his, one clapper behind him held a chain that led to a collar around his neck. Perhaps a half dozen more walked close by him to be sure he wouldn't escape. But from the look on Lindtholm's face, there was little possibility of that. His eyes were listless, vacant. His mouth hung open as if he lacked the dignity to shut it. He seemed beyond the jeers of the crowd and didn't respond to the rotting fruit flung at him from all sides.

He was brought through the crowds and bound to the seventh post in what seemed the normal way. And to the rejoicing of the populace, the kindle beneath his feet was set aflame. But he was to prove a poor showman. Unlike the others before him, when the fire began to scald his flesh he did not so much as whimper, nor react in any way. Some in the crowd around him began to hiss and goad him, but their calls were useless. I watched him, wanting to catch the moment when he resigned to his fate, the death of his soul, but it never came. The body burned and burned and burned until it was no longer recognizable, but Sevil Lindtholm did not die there, lashed to the seventh post. Indeed, he was already gone.

The anticlimactic note of the grand finale cast a dour mood over the rabble. They pined and moped and scuffed about collectively as the clappers withdrew and it was clear that there was to be no more. Eventually the throngs of people who had been stuffed into the square bled out into the streets save a few of the deeply morbid who waited around to kick the ashes of the dead. Tiplin and I retreated from our perch and made our way through the defeated onlookers to the spindle where I spent the remainder of the day recompiling my notes and proofreading the final draft of The Lindtholm Biography.

That night I returned to Duenna well after curfew. Not wanting to draw the attention of Ms. Lila or the Madam, I approached the house from the garden on the rough cobblestone path that came in from the alley. It was dark, and the trees loomed in the night like hulking ogres. Reaching the doorstep, I bent down and felt for the loose cobble, pulled it up and took the key Genevieve had found several weeks earlier while planting bulbs in the garden. I unlocked the door and returned the key, then quietly stole up the kitchen stairs.

Genevieve was already asleep when I got to our room. I roused her just enough to suggest we depart on an outing in the morning. After she made a nearly inaudible assent I let her drift back to sleep. I was to have the next day free from both the monastery and house duties, as per my schedule, but knew if I was caught in the house I would be saddled with all the tasks I had been neglecting.

Several hours later, Genevieve shook me awake. I desperately wanted to stay in bed, but it wouldn't be long before Duenna sought me out, and then the day would be ruined. We dressed quickly and quietly, not a word between us, then slunk down the hall and kitchen stairs. We filched whatever we could from the larder, apples and cheeses and bread, more than enough for the both of us, then dumped our provisions into a large basket and slipped from the back door into the cold light of predawn, the basket swinging between us. I turned my head to look at the hulking manor, expecting to see Duenna running after us.

As we turned from the main avenue onto Blackberry Street, I sighed with relief, having shirked my chores and stolen the day for myself. I smiled and nearly laughed. I looked up at Genevieve, and she smiled too.

Between the wealthy district and the river, there was a garden fashioned to soothe the woes of those born into affluence and name. While I had neither, Genevieve had sufficient credentials that we might be admitted. So, that's where we headed.

Though it was nearly across the city, I didn't mind the walk. The streets were empty save for a few dedicated merchants and fishermen who found it profitable to start their days in the quiet and colorless time before the sun. Melon proffers wheeled carts of cantaloupe and honeydew slowly over the cobbles. Fish criers laid out their scaly wares tenderly as if setting babies into a crib, sleeping wide-eyed, mouths agape, one atop another. Even the butchers set about their tasks with restraint, severing meat from bone with a quiet clack, clack, clack. Perhaps caught in the aura of the moment, perhaps not yet awake enough to converse, we didn't speak the entire way to the garden, but I couldn't be happier. I was more than content to merely be doing something of my own accord. And I enjoyed the quiet.

When we arrived at the entrance to the park, we were unmet by the city watch. Only a tall wrought iron gate crowned with little spikes stood between us, and it was unlocked. Genevieve and I looked at each other and shrugged. She opened the gate, and we simply walked in.

The park was not large, perhaps encompassing a city block stretched against the river. It was made smaller by the looming sandstone buildings pressed against it: the city offices, magistrates, records, etc. The words "Civic Authority" were carved into the stone high above our heads. I had found my "C.A." of the ledgers. In the predawn, the buildings huddled like giants sleeping on each other's shoulders.

There was no clear delineation noting where the park met the river. The grass marched right down into the water, eventually transforming into more aquatic marsh, reeds and cattails. Large trees stood proud and noble here and there. A flower garden, replete with stone benches, held the last blossoms of the year, though their colors were muted in the dim light.

I looked to see if we were truly alone, and as well as I could see, we were. We picked a place closer to the river and laid a blanket over the grass, then plopped down, the basket between us. The walk had made us both hungry and we dug into the provisions, eagerly devouring cheese and dried fruits. Genevieve found a bottle of red wine that I hadn't noticed falling into the basket. She smiled and wiggled the cork out with a paring knife, then offered the bottle. I took a long swallow, and it was the sweetest thing I'd ever tasted. I wiped my mouth with the back of my sleeve and handed the bottle back.

"It's good to see you," Genevieve said, finally breaking the silence.

I turned to her and smiled. She seemed pale and ethereal.

We ate and drank more until we both had our fill, yet the basket was still held much.

The sun crept up over the far side of the river, silhouetting jagged and broken rooftops in oranges and reds. The few clouds in the sky were adorned with violet and crimson, long, bloody gashes in the sky. I curled up against Genevieve, rested my head on her lap. She traced her fingers through my hair as I settled into slumber so solid, so removed from the world that I didn't even dream.

I awoke in the late morning with Genevieve spooned against me, sound asleep. There were voices, other people in the park. I lifted my head to see them: a man and two women having a picnic just as we were. I napped some more, eventually waking again to find Genevieve pulling the cork from the wine bottle. We ate again and chatted about simple things. Laughing, we went through a second bottle, and then slept even more before finally deciding to leave in the late afternoon.

We gave the basket to one of the many cripples who dotted the streets on our return route, then strode the rest of the way to Duenna arm in arm. But as we approached the manor I stopped. I couldn't go any further. I knew the Madam would be waiting for me, and I didn't want to sully a perfect day. So we kissed and parted, Genevieve back to the house, and I back to the ruins beneath the city.

The following weeks found me in much the same state, desperately avoiding Duenna, even to the point of sleeping in the spindle; there was a particularly comfortable bench near the reference stacks that was out of the way, and given a cloak or two, sufferable for a nap. What free time I had, away from compiling notes or serving witness, I spent at the executions held weekly in the square. Occasionally I was fortunate enough to make away with Tiplin's spyglass slipped into the pocket of my coat. That is, until he caught me and ran like a child to Fleary. I detested his company, and the feeling was obviously reciprocated. He was a scoundrel, opportunistic and conniving.

I continued attending Madrum's lessons, though they hardly resembled such. I would sit in silence on the little mat as I had many times before. I grew to accept the discomfort, and found that it bothered me less and less. On most days I simply sat in that spot as Madrum, precariously balanced on his rickety stool, scribbled notes, read and mumbled incomprehensibly to himself. Two hours later I would be dismissed, barely a word spoken between us. On one particular day, however, I felt oddly gregarious. Sitting there, eyes closed, I said, "May I ask a question?"

"Would it stop you if I said no?" he grumbled back.

"Precisely what am I attempting to achieve?"

"Patience, to begin with." He said. "Mental endurance. Meditation, like anything aside from eating, defecating and rutting, is a learned ability. Learning requires practice."

"How will I know when I've gotten it right?" I opened my eyes. Madrum was, as always, hunched over his tiny desk like a great whiskered walrus coupling with its tiny mate. I felt sorry for his furniture.

"You'll know." His weight shifted uneasily on the creaking stool. "You'll know when your body falls asleep but your mind is still awake."

"I remember that feeling from the test. It felt like a waking dream. But that was different. I had Audrey there. And there was the rose pill." I reached up quickly and scratched behind my ear.

"I saw that" he said. "Meditation is not meant to be comfortable. If you're comfortable then there's nothing to keep both your mind and body from falling asleep. The trick is to eliminate physical distraction with your mind, not your body."

"But I can't move the stone from beneath my ankle with my mind," I objected.

"Likely not, but you control your mind. And your mind controls your body. Not the other way around." He coughed hoarsely and continued. "After all, it's your ankle that hurts, not your mind. Just flesh and bone. Nothing substantial. Your mind can choose what to feel and what not to feel."

"Wouldn't it be easier just to move the stone out of the way? Or get a thicker rug, or some pillows?" I suggested, eying the large red chair across the room.

"Easier, yes. But not more effective. Not challenging. Sure, I suppose you could bring a pillow, but it won't help. Just prolongs things. Takes more time."

"How so?" I asked.

"People need distraction of some sort. Our minds expect it. If there's no distraction, no physical sensation, then our minds go looking for it. They need to be constantly reminded they're still alive. It's logical. What's the point of having our senses if we never use them?" He coughed again. It was a wet cough and I wondered if he was afflicted with consumption or just had a cold. "Go ahead, though. Try it. Take the stone from under the rug and try it again. You'll find that nuisances you hadn't even noticed will invade your thoughts."

I sighed gratefully, and with one hand reached under the rug and extracted the offending piece of gravel. Feeling around, I found another and another. "Oh," I said, standing up. I pulled the rug back to find so many stones they couldn't have landed there by chance. I moved the rug over several feet to a smoother part of the floor and sat back down.

"You'll find that even without discomfort, your mind will seek something else to be irritated by. With the lack of any distraction it'll start making stuff up, seeing things, hearing things. In a way it's an addiction. We're so accustomed to noises and sights and smells that in their absence we grow uneasy, frightened. Now try it again."

It didn't take long. Without the stones underfoot, I was certainly more comfortable, however just a few minutes after I sat back down and closed my eyes, I was inundated with sensation. I could smell the slightly bitter dampness of the room and the sweet sandalwood incense that I hadn't noticed burning in the corner. I could even smell Madrum, he needed a bath. I suddenly grew cold. Sounds that had once passed unnoticed by my ears grew to outrageous proportions: the scratching of quill to vellum, the occasional creak of Madrum's chair, his breath. "Point proven," I conceded and open my eyes.

Madrum smiled and nodded as he continued scribbling in his book. "The best way to deal with those is to let them wash over you, feel the distractions but don't react to them, which is different than ignoring them. If you try ignoring something, it will clamor for your attention until you give it. The more you practice, the easier it gets."

I got to my feet, crossed the room and sunk into the plush chair, which felt like bathing in warm water after sitting for so long on the unyielding floor. "You'll have no better luck there," he said. "Too comfortable, and you'll just nod off."

"I wouldn't mind that," I said. Sleep came for me in broken fits these days. The most rest I ever got was from the mash Audrey had left me, though that was quickly dwindling and I hadn't the money to acquire more. Madrum dusted his manuscript with sand then turned to regard me sitting in his chair, which I realized was where he likely slept at night. I wondered if he took offense, but then I was feeling contrary anyway.

"What it really comes down to is control. The common lag-about has no idea of his potential or means to control his world. He ends up reacting to his environment rather than mastering it, no better than a carriage horse blindly going on wherever he's told."

He cleared his throat and continued. "Meditation is no different. For most people, the state of their mind is determined by what their senses tell them. They see a lion, they become frightened and run. But if we assert our minds over our senses, over our emotions, we can choose how to regard our senses and how to react to them. Imagine being immune to fear, pain, sorrow. This often leads to wiser decisions, for example, recognizing that if you run from a lion, it will mark you as prey, something to be chased down and eaten, and take pursuit. But if it saw you as something that might put up a fight, give the lion more trouble than it cares to have, it'll likely leave you alone.

"By controlling how we engage our environment, we gain strength and power enough to do wondrous things, such as build a cerebration. And the first step is to detach from the endless parade of distractions binding our senses solidly in this corporeal illusion, distracting us from who we really are, what we want to do."

Madrum returned to his work, still chattering along. "If I were to ask you in one word to tell me who you are, what would your answer be?"

"A maid," I blurted but then realized how right he was.

"And why do you say that?"

I thought a moment. "Because it's easier to say what I do than to truly dwell on who I am."

"Very good. You are absolutely correct," he croaked. "People will define, and thus limit themselves by their profession. If you ask someone who rends meat from bones who they are, they will tell you they are a butcher. Why are they a butcher? Because their father was a butcher before them. Most likely their son will be a butcher as well. Do you see the momentum here? Like geese flying in formation: one behind the other, behind the other. And why do they do that?"

"It's easier," I said, sensing where the conversation was going. "It's comfortable."

"The path of least resistance is the only path for the weak hearted. It requires courage and industry to break from what you expect of yourself, and what others expect of you. It takes courage to think for yourself, to know yourself, to know what you want to do, to become who you want to be. It takes industry to get there."

I felt sorry for Genevieve all of a sudden. For she was a free spirit that all the world was trying to cage. I wondered if she would be drawn willingly into the trap being prepared for her. I hoped not, but then I didn't know what alternative she had.

Madrum rambled without pause. "People who don't resolve to live their lives on their own terms are forever caught in these cycles. Those born to poverty are doomed to poverty. Those born to supplication are doomed to be servants," he muttered into his work. "Meditation is a way to listen to what is truly inside our hearts, apart from all that nonsense. And if we can find that divine self and bring it to the forefront, we will have laid the foundations for realizing enormous potential. By knowing ourselves, what we want to do with our short lives, and having the courage to act even at the risk of failing, we are bound for greatness." He stopped his lecture and looked up at me with reckless blue eyes. "What do you want to do with your life, Fen?"

I opened my mouth to speak, but then stopped, stammered, pursed my lips. I couldn't think of a single bloody thing to say. "I have no idea," I said, embarrassed.

"You've never taken the effort to ask yourself. Take that effort. It's worth it. But not now. Do it later when you're not in session with me." He coughed again and thumped his chest. "I need some water. Meditate. Let every sensation, every worry, every thought, every feeling pass outside of you. Don't think, don't remember, don't dwell. Concentrate solely on the rhythm of your own breath. Let it be your guide, your only perception, your only sense of time. Imagine your mind is like an enormous bowl, empty and clean, turned upside-down. Any mote that falls in falls right back out."

Madrum rose and left the room as I tried once more to still my thoughts. But it was of little use. Even in the red cushioned chair, they were scattered and noisy as a flock of seagulls. In fact, it was harder to concentrate, for that singular discomfort of the rock beneath my ankle was replaced by subtler things more difficult to manage.

Madrum eventually returned and continued his work without another word until the session was over. Afterward I plodded back down the spindle, lost in thought. I entered the office, slunk down into my chair, and rested my head on the unconquerable piles of loose paper that forever covered my desk.

And then I saw it, sitting there, a simple box of dark wood with silver banding and a matching lock. Someone had probably left it there by mistake, probably Fleary, or perhaps some mischief Tiplin had planned. Yes, that had to be it. A trap. He would see me open it, then run to Fleary as he had before with the claim that I kept rifling through his things, which I did anyway, but that didn't make him any less of a prattling child. I snapped my head around to see if he was watching through the glass door, but it was dark in the spindle, and if he was there I'd never spot him. I wasn't going to fall prey to the box. If it was left there by mistake, whoever had left it would eventually be back for it. And besides, it was surely locked.

So I started sorting notes by size; not the most efficient categorization, I know, but it looked nice. I pulled a bundle of papers from beneath the box with some effort and realized how heavy it was. I looked at it once more, just stared at it, expecting it to do something. Eventually curiosity overcame my discretion, and I pulled the enigmatic case squarely in front of me. It was about a foot long, three inches deep and three inches tall. I cast a glance over my shoulder and tried the lid. It opened without resistance.

The inside of the box was lined with red velvet and smelled of freshly hewn cedar. Nested within was a cylinder, roughly a foot long and two inches in diameter made of polished brass with silver fittings, engraved with my name. Tucked along the side was the key to lock the box and a note that read, "Be Forever Watchful." It was signed, "Pruet."

Pruet. This man I had never met, this shadow patriarch, had given me a gift. I lifted the weighty optic from its soft immurement and hefted it with both hands. I removed the protective caps from each end and extended it to its full length, a little less than half my height. I raced to the door, opened it and set the spyglass to my eye, then tried to find the lantern that burned over the stack index many floors below and across the spindle. And there it was, clear and close. I smiled, compressed the device and returned to the office, gingerly placing the optic back into its case, which I locked, then hid the key beneath the back leg of my desk.

Looking back, I realize this was the first and only gesture of affection Pruet had ever bestowed upon me, and indeed I still have it. As I'm writing this, it sits on a shelf beneath the window of my little prison cell. I use it to watch the beheadings in the square, and there are many these days. The warden has been kind to allow such personal affects to make incarceration more endurable. But then, as this story shall later reveal, I've achieved some measure of notoriety. I've earned the last post, as the expression goes.

##### Chapter 9

The next morning I climbed out of the spindle and out of the monastery by way of one of the many passages that lead to the surface. I was deposited into an ill used alley through a plain iron hatch mounted in the side of a red stone building, having chosen this particular exit because of its proximity to the river. The portal closed behind me with a clank as I winced at the refulgent sky. It was cold, bitterly so, and the cobblestones beneath my feet were softened by a thin snowfall. I pulled my coat tighter and breathed on my hands to keep them warm. Then I looked at them in the revealing daylight. They were dry and cracked from constantly handling parchment, ink-stained and dirty.

I left the alley and sought the dry-docks that cradled a small bend in the river. As I walked along the short stretch of shops next to the docks, I caught my reflection in the window of a tavern, which had not yet opened. Above my likeness, large painted letters entitled me "The Black Duck." I observed myself with morbid interest. My clothes were masked in dust and soot, and in places torn. Even my boots had holes. My face was covered with smudges. Dark circles made their way around my eyes. My hair, black and tangled, fell every which way in large matted clumps. My complexion had lost all the color it ever had from being on the open sea, having paled from tan to fair to ashen white. I was becoming a troglodyte.

Behind my image was the haphazard scene of the dry-dock. Large wooden beams rested in every available space, joined by piles of rope and pulleys, crates of nails, barrels of tar and cotton, and carts parked in odd places. Even further, enormous scaffolds reached up against the bare hulls of ships in construction, like whales on stilts.

Loren had said there was an apothecary facing the dock on the north side and I went in search of it. With nobody about, the simple storefront didn't take long to find, but it was dark inside and the door was locked with no indication of when it would open. I pressed my face against the window and wondered if the business existed at all by the state of its largely empty shelves and slim furnishings: a table and a chair, a door that led further back into the building. There was a jar or two on the shelves, but little else. Not wanting to return with empty hands, I curled up in the doorway for warmth and waited.

I fell asleep huddled in that nook. It was a quick and dreamless slumber that could account for no time. I awoke when something tapped against my boot heel.

"Good morning," came a chipper voice. I looked up and saw a lean fellow with dark hair and a slight beard. He was dressed in leather breeches, a white chemise, plain black vest and leather cloak. Under his one arm he held a satchel, in his other hand a large key ring. I scampered from the doorway as he inserted a key into the lock and opened the door, then followed him inside. "What do you need?" he said, putting his purse on the table.

"What do you have?"

He nodded, then disappeared into the back room. I scanned the room in his absence, though there was little not visible from the outside. The air smelled strange, a combination of perfume, rosemary and apples.

"Been a while since I've seen your kind here," he called from the other room. There was the sound of things being moved, scooted across the floor. "How's Loren?" he asked. "Or Audrey?"

The inquiry was worrisome. Spindledar is closely guarded against the common and noble ear alike for fear of persecution under the heresy laws, though Loren said we enjoyed special privilege from Lord Bellatine. Still, if the existence of the monastery were widely known, we'd be dragged out and lynched, which is why our little order goes unnamed, to reduce the chance of our sect being pinned as a political or moralist target.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I don't know what you're talking about."

The shopkeeper returned with a large wooden tea chest, which he set upon the table with much effort. "Come now," he said. "The dust on your clothes matches nothing else in the city. And I'll wager you haven't seen sunlight in weeks. You skin is so pale it's nearly translucent."

I glared at him. "What've you got?"

He averted his eyes and undid several latches on the chest. When he opened it, the chest expanded outward, revealing many stacked trays containing all sorts of greenery. He rattled off the various kinds and their respective prices. I was no connoisseur, preferring economy over quality, so I picked out the second to cheapest, which should have been enough for both Loren and me. He nodded and wrapped the purchase in white linen as I slid coins across the table.

I left the shop suddenly aware of how conspicuous I might be, and wondered who else knew of us and what we did.

On the way back to the hatch I passed a small fire someone had lit to burn scrap wood and tar. I approached it, keeping upwind of the dark, bitter smoke, and snatched a small piece of burning wood. I blew out the flame, but kept the ember alive and looked for someplace out of the way from the many boat-smiths and carpenters taking to the streets. Sitting on the doorstep of a boarded up storefront, I pulled a small porcelain pipe from my pocket and stuffed it full. There was still plenty for Loren, and I needed to calm my nerves. I put the pipe between my teeth and lit it with the ember, guarding it against the wind with a cupped hand. The warm smoke filled my chest and I pressed myself into the mold of the doorway. After a while I reached an agreeable state of comfort and was content simply to watch the goings on of the day.

Time is a funny thing when one is tight. It ceases to flow as a river, with constant and steady purpose of reaching the sea, but instead resembles the mutable properties of a canal, passing in either direction, often stopped, reversed, etc. I watched the carpenters build their ships, but watched only insomuch as my eyes were open and registering the events that passed before them. But what happened in my mind was different altogether. The images I gathered with each passing hour were simply dumped into my head with no account for order. My mind, unable to divine the proper context, constructed the memories into a narrative as best it could, much in the same way it would process the haphazard images of a dream, linking one image to the next to form a chain of seemingly related events. Here, however, everything was backward.

In the street before me, tired men and women set up empty carts for the things they wanted to purchase. Throughout the day, many vendors trotted backward through the streets, one footfall behind the other, seeing only where they had been, conversing in a slithering patois. Some carried things to sell and with some wild knowing, they trudged rearward down the cobbled artery and approached the corresponding buyer for their goods like a compass needle drawn to the north. The purchaser, who was only interested in that particular commodity, haggled up the price as much as they could and bought the item. In this way carts of fish and dried meats and fruits and nuts were amassed in neat piles. It was a flawless economics of categorization, a fluid reversal of entropy. The day ended as the sun drew close in the East. The buyers of all these things energetically pulled their laden carts home, trusting they could find their domiciles without seeing where they were going.

This foreground scene played out against the shipbuilders closer to the river, who climbed across the hulls of their ships, taking them apart plank by plank and stacking the wood in neat piles to the side. Some would extract tar and cotton from between the planks, or pull nails out with large mallets and dump them in their pockets, scrambling like ants devouring a fish piece by piece, deconstructing such a precisely made thing, reducing it to its component parts.

When I finally came back into time it was nearly dark, and a few lonesome flecks of snow fell from the ashen sky. I was shaking from cold. In my open hand was Loren's pipe, in the other the cloth which now held no tea; either I had consumed it all, or it was plucked from my hand by an opportunistic passerby. The ember had landed in my lap, scorching a small hole into my robe. I brushed aside, picked myself up from the doorway and plodded back to the iron hatch from whence I came, teeth chattering the whole way. I opened the hatch, squeezed through like a rat into the sewer and was gone from sight into the moist, warm undercity that had become my home.

With a bit of flint, I ignited the lantern I had left just inside the hatch and plugged on through several miles of tunnel work. When I had first come to the monastery, I considered the endless hallways eerie, the stuff of nightmares, but soon began to trust them. The walls were generally sandstone depending on the depth, and featureless though they sometimes still bore paint in red or white or black. The floors were always covered with thick dust that billowed with a careless scuff of the foot, so I walked lightly, without a sound. It was always so quiet, more so than I could ever describe, as if all the world and the heavens and seas had ceased to move and were still. And it was black. The modest flame of the lantern only beat back the darkness a few feet, and if extinguished would be completely overcome. Occasionally that happened, and it could be terrifying in the deep tunnels all alone. We were instructed not to panic, but to stay motionless for a moment, to spin around in fright would only make the situation worse. Then we were to reach out with the left hand to touch the wall and from there, find our way up as best as we could remember. But the danger was so great that often search parties would be formed to find lost acolytes. They weren't always successful.

The tunnels were endless and largely unexplored. What maps we did have were of course useless in the immuring darkness. Loren, who transcribed the maps into block carvings for the press, eventually took to carrying these carvings with him when he went exploring in the hope that, if his flame went out, he could press his tender fingertips across the ridges in the block to find his way.

But aside from getting lost in the catacombs, there was little danger. There were no spirits scuttling through the place, at least not anymore. And I had yet to see one of the fabled barricades that kept them away. Traversing the tunnels became to me like what one might think of an evening stroll. It was peaceful, shielded from the elements, quiet, never too cold or too hot, and if proper care was taken, safe. Best of all, if one didn't wish to be found, she could disappear completely. I liked that feeling, to be gone, to sink into the pitch and for a while, to simply cease to be. It was solitude, sweet and utter aloneness.

When at last my feet found the steady ascension that led to the spindle, I was exhausted and looking forward to the comfort of the office, as small as it might be. But as I wound my way up to the seventh ring of the great library, I heard voices arguing nearby. I extinguished the lantern and crept closer through the concealing stacks. Tiplin and Fleary stood in the light spilling from the office door. They faced each other, Tiplin's arms crossed, pouting like a child, Fleary with his fists to his hips.

"He can't be serious," Tiplin said. "She's weak. She's got all the reflexes of a bowl of fruit. Audrey would have been so much better at this. Why do I have to get stuck with the lame goose?"

"Audrey would have killed you by now the way you came on to her," Fleary said as Tiplin rolled his eyes. "You wouldn't have suffered her temper and she wouldn't have suffered you at all. Besides, Audrey didn't have the gift."

"Only because she smoked so much mash. Fenitheer isn't any better; she reeks of it." I opened my mouth, then closed it again. Putting the cuff of my gown to my nose, I couldn't smell anything aside from the black dust that permeated the tunnels.

"All the same, if it is his will that you should instruct her, then that is what must be done. And be damned sure you don't lose her like you did the last one. Pruet will have your head on a halberd."

Tapping the floor with his toe, Tiplin shook his head and said, "He hasn't thought this through. If we get caught that'll be the end of it for both of us."

"Come now," Fleary smiled. "You know the law. You'd just lose a hand."

"Just a hand," Tiplin sneered.

"Pruet thinks the assignment is simple, but if you don't think you can handle it, I'll just pass it along to someone with more aptitude."

"There is no one better at this than I am," Tiplin barked. "But simple or not, if I'm getting sent out with that kind of liability it'd better be worth it."

"What do you want?"

"Twenty crowns." He added, "And my office back. I can't work without tripping over her and the mess she leaves behind."

"Well, where should we put her then? There aren't any enclosed rooms left until we expand the library beyond the barricades."

"How should I know?" Tiplin exclaimed. "Stuff her in a tree for all I care."

"Fine then, you'll do it. Tonight. You'll get your gold in the morning. I'll talk to the quartermaster about finding another place for Fen."

"And what do I get?" I said aloud, surprising myself. They turned to face me as I stepped forward into the light. "If he's getting paid for this, why shouldn't I?" Not to seem greedy, but I owed Loren money and mash was going up in price.

"You," Fleary growled, his face red with anger. "You get to not be beaten by me. Duenna says you haven't been back there in a week, completely neglecting your duties. She's demanded compensation from me. You're already costing more money than you're worth."

"Lazy," Tiplin muttered and turned into the office.

"After tonight you are to return there and perform the duties you've been assigned or I'll make sure she thrashes you so hard you'll have to sleep standing up."

I glared at Fleary and pointed into the office. "If you're paying this good-for-nothing snot twenty crowns, it's obvious there's no dearth of funds in this place. By snails, why am I condemned to servitude when you could just pay for my boarding?"

"I am not a snot!" came a shout from inside the office.

"Yes you are," Fleary shot back, then turned to me. "Of course we can afford your boarding, but that's not the point. It's supposed to teach the merits of hard work, which according to Tiplin you have yet to learn."

I stamped my feet and shouted into the open door, "You feckless, toffee-nosed, back-stabbing half-wit!" I then turned back to Mr. Fleary and said, "I do most of his compilation for him. He's barely had to work since I've gotten here. And please relate to me the merits of sore hands, aching back, exhaustion. If you think it's such a valuable lesson to be scrubbing clothes and plates and floors and windows, then send Tiplin over. I'm sure he'd rather have a shot rutting those prissy bilfits than poking the crusty over-painted harlots on Ash Street anyway."

"Those are valuable informants," Tiplin shouted. "And it's Asbury, not Ash."

Fleary grew so mad that he couldn't even speak, stumbling and sputtering over words before finally giving up and saying, "Fine!" and stomping away. I turned once again to our office, took three steps inside and leveled a pugnacious fist at Tiplin, who was quickly flipping through a stack of maps sitting on his desk. "You..." I started, but couldn't think of anything truly damning to say.

"Don't get your knickers in a twist," he said, handing me a scrap of paper. "There's work to be done. Go down to maps and get the design."

An hour later I had traced of the floor plan of a large town house near Ekinborough and Ro. Loren was nowhere to be found, nor was the purveyor of such documents, so I had to do the best I could with limited talent. I closed the monstrous civic atlas, carefully rolled the tracing, tucked it under my arm and left the map repository down on the nineteenth ring. On the way back up the spindle I pulled a slip from my pocket that read, "Tiplin requires fifteen crowns needed for trade as per Mr. Fleary," signed by Fleary though it wouldn't surprise me if Tiplin had forged it. On the third ring I turned into a long corridor, and was passed by several journeymen, clad in dark armor, their boots clanging as they marched the other way in careful, measured steps. They bore a small wooden chest between them and passed by without regard to me. I shivered and continued onward into the treasury. The same gray-haired man was rustling about in the back room, behind the small barred window. I took advantage of his inattention to peek once more at the ledger, which seemed a bit more curious now that I knew the abbreviation C.A. referred to the Civic Authority, the city-state itself, and ultimately Bellatine.

It was obvious by the ledger that we received large and regular payments with his authorization, which was strange considering Loren had said we leased the rights to the spindle from him, implying that we should be paying the C.A., not the other way around.

Glancing down the ledger, I saw more of what I'd seen before scribbled in black ink on yellowing vellum: petty cash, bribes to officials, mundane purchases, and then the payments from C.A. A deposit near the bottom caught my eye, nearly ten times the amount of any other. I thought of the journeymen carrying a chest between them on the way up the spindle.

I saw the withdrawal note on the tack from the last transaction in the ledger: monies needed for supplies. Poking a finger through the bars, I lifted the corner of the note up to see the one below it. It read in very fine print, "Monies provided pending successful aperture demonstration no later than the winter solstice," followed by an official CA stamp.

Just then the clerk shuffled back my way, and I withdrew my fingers from the window. He held out his hand and I passed the note I'd gotten from Fleary. He read it, then regarded me suspiciously. "Where's Tiplin?" he asked.

"Preparing for an acquisition," I said. "He sent me along for the funds."

The elder reread the note, then looked at me. "Well, I don't know about this. If the note says Tiplin needs it, then Tiplin should come get it."

"I realize that, however he's much too lazy to be bothered with such trivial things while I'm around to tend to his beck and call," I said.

He narrowed his gaze. "Such things are not trivial," he said. "If money is lost, then I am responsible for it. And we cannot risk malfeasance. If I gave out moneys to every tart with a note, our coffers would have been empty long ago."

"Is that so?" I liked being called a tart. It implied perceived attractiveness. Then again, I considered the source. "Well, I don't mean to take matters lightly. It was wrong of me to do so. Honestly, though, Fleary gave us an assignment for which we need the gold."

"Well," he said, "I suppose I could check with Fleary later. But tell Tiplin to attend to his own matters from now on."

"I've tried."

I left with the gold in one pocket, questions in the other. What was this demonstration of the aperture? From what I had pieced together from the book in the specials, it was a portal or valve that allowed the divine spark to manifest in physical form. But how could that ever be demonstrated? And for what purpose?

I continued to ponder four levels down the spindle, but stopped when I entered our office to find that Tiplin had shoved all the notes from my little table into a pile on the floor. I opened my mouth to say something, but realized it couldn't be worse than my own organizational system. And now I had a clean table to work on. He was laying out various implements on the surface, only a few of which I recognized. There was a rope, a small crossbow, several vials of liquid, many shiny metal tools wrapped in leather, caltrops, etc. I stood in the doorway and watched him pore over the equipment. "You have yet to tell me what this is all about, but then I think perhaps I don't want to know."

Tiplin looked up from the table. "Yes, I'm sure you'd rather not know," he said, polishing a set of what looked like tiny dinner forks with misshapen prongs. "We're about to sequester a book that your father has deemed absolutely necessary to our cause."

"You mean steal it."

"More like borrow it," he said, wrapping his silverware in dark cloth.

"Is not the definition of stealing to 'borrow' without permission?"

"Yes, that would be stealing. However, we are borrowing." Holding a small metal wand with jagged teeth at one end to the light for inspection, he continued. "You see, I am to gain entrance into the house, then find and remove the book, leaving in its place the coin pouch you've got in your left pocket. We'll bring it back here, have the scribes duplicate it, and then return the book to precisely where we got it. If the pouch is still there, then the book won't have been missed, and we'll reclaim the money. If it's gone, then the owner will have been well paid for his trouble, which is to say none at all."

"But can't we ask to borrow or buy the book outright?"

"Yes, and we've tried," he said, losing patience with my ignorance. "Otherwise it wouldn't have come to this."

"Tiplin," I said, "I'm not made for this sort of thing. I've told you that."

He laced his boot tighter than it was, and all the way to his calf. "I am ever aware of that and somewhat resentful. But as you've undoubtedly overheard, there isn't much I can do about it, now is there?" He moved to his other boot. "Fortunately, however, you can be useful without the pain of doing any work." He sought out a stout little cylinder with a hole on one end and another on the side, and then set it upright on the corner of my desk where I could reach it. "You can stand outside and watch for the clappers. Sound this whistle if they approach."

"Won't it be suspicious if someone is blowing a whistle in middle of the street like an idiot?"

"It's a loon call. Not that obvious. But I don't expect you to need it. Fleary bribed the constable to keep the watch well away from our target. Reliable man for that, he is."

I pocketed the whistle and set the gold I had been carrying on the table. "Had I known I'd be in the company of thieves, I never would have agreed to this whole mess. It's bad enough to be associated with a gaggle of heretics."

Tiplin snorted, "And what whole mess would this be? Filching a book or being part of our little cult?"

"Either," I said.

"You've got a choice, you know," he said flatly. "Nobody is forcing you to be here. If you don't care for what we do then by all means, walk yourself out the door and never set foot in the monastery again. I'm sure you could find work in the more seedy districts. Who knows, there might be some queer fellow down there you could deceive into thinking you were a boy. Wouldn't be much of a stretch, after all."

"Were it that easy," I said.

The whistle was a short, fat cylinder that fit in my palm nicely, a satisfying thing to grip in times of duress. I stood shivering across from the row house beneath a street lamp. Although entering from the rear would have made better use of the shadows in the back alley, Tiplin felt that since the library was located on the third floor, it would be better to enter the residence from above rather than traverse the house from the ground floor. After all, the servants were ever wary of thieves since they often took the blame if something goes missing. It wouldn't be a difficult thing, according to Tiplin, to access the roof from the alley, cross over to the front, slip down to the window on rope, gain entrance via the small window on the face of the building, make the exchange, then drop by rope back down to the street.

The only uncertainty, as he put it, would be my utter lack of ability not to make a fool of myself. I was to blow once if a guard approached and twice if all was clear, not that I should need to if Fleary had done his work. I wondered what purpose I was to serve then, standing in the freezing cold.

I hadn't dressed warmly enough in my robe and black tattered coat. A bitter wind blew torrents of loose snow around my feet, and before long, the dark sky heaped mounds of the stuff upon the city. I shivered, legs pressed together to conserve heat. Tiplin had already made his way up the back alley and I watched him, nimble as a cat, prancing across the roofline. I could only see him because I looked for him. Otherwise he blended well with the night. The falling snow only helped obscure him from wandering eyes. Looping one end of a rope around the chimney, the other end harnessed to himself, Tiplin floated down like a spider descending from a web. He paused at the third story window, quickly wooed the latch open, then disappeared into the home, closing the window behind him.

The breeze ceased altogether, and it seemed as though time stopped, were it not for the enormous flakes floating down from the black sky. A cold drop of water went down the back of my neck and I took a moment to shake the snow from my hair. Despite this skullduggery, the night was serene. I looked down the narrow streets that extended in either direction but saw no clapper, nor anyone else through the veils of snow.

Some time passed and Tiplin did not emerge. Was he alright, or had he been caught, or worse yet, killed by the protective inhabitants? A family lived there, after all, a husband and wife, her sister, six children from four to sixteen years of age, three servants and a long time guest of the house who was a former soldier, if I wasn't mistaken. If something should happen to Tiplin, if he were caught, what would I do? I could wait until the clappers came and took him away, or go for help, or knock on the door and explain that it was all just a misunderstanding, and could I please have my thief back?

I turned left and right, hopping uncomfortably in the cold. Breath escaped my lips like smoke bellowing from a dragon's snout. I tasted the bittersweet smell of burning wood, cedar and pine. Genevieve smelled like cedar sometimes. She kept cedar blocks in the bottom of the wardrobe keep the moths away. Genevieve always smelled delicious. And she was warm. I closed my eyes and savored the memory of being spooned against her, safe in her kind arms, the way things should be. I mouthed the word, "Safe." How I longed to be immured in a loving home, to have a family that wasn't broken and malignant.

I thought Genevieve's family and the Winter Solstice approaching in the next month. Mentally chiding myself for not yet asking Fleary if I could go with Genevieve, I resolved that I would the next day. I fantasized about being in someone's family, about having a family, even if it was only a surrogate. I thought about being with Genevieve, knowing her home, her bed, the places she played as a child. I thought of meeting the mother who had birthed such a gloriously kind person. And her brothers, running the hedgerow maze. The two streams that meet in a waterfall, crashing down together, dashing against the river stones behind the manor. Of food beyond porridge and bread. Venison and wine, orchard wine from their country. Of warm fires, and chats and games. Of all the things the solstice was supposed to be: the excitement of celebration, the chatter of women. The stories. Nephews, nieces. Family, all of them. Family. To be someplace because you were wanted there, not because they were paid to endure your company. Not because your services were needed. To exist where every word, every thought and dream was not a transaction, not a give or take, not to be weighed upon or speculated, but to be merely what it was, nothing more.

"What did you say?" I spun around, so startled that my knees nearly folded under my weight. The red sash fell across his chest, held in place with a brass pin. The bottoms of his leggings were damp from countless shuffles through the city snow. His hair was a mess, thin, blond corn silk, chopped coarsely below his ear. Not a whisker to speak of graced his chin. His brilliant azure eyes shone in the night. "Did you say something?" he asked again with a drawl. I tried in earnest to collect myself, though my lips betrayed me as I stammered for something to say.

"Oh, no. No, I didn't say anything."

"Must have been hearing things. You hear things out at night, all alone. Especially in this weather," he said, kicking at the snow with his boot as he leaned against his long staff, capped with a shorter staff at a perpendicular angle. As he shifted his weight, it swayed on a wooden gear with a clack... clack... as a small plank ran over the teeth of a cog. "Are you alright? Thought it was strange for you to be here by yourself. Thought I would see if you were alright."

I nodded. "Yes, I'm fine, thank you."

"You really shouldn't be out like this at night. It's too cold. It's not safe. I could take you home if you want, or maybe take you to the hospice. You look like you've been on the streets a while. The hospice has food and warmth, maybe some clothes that aren't all torn and ruined."

"No," I blurted, put off that he thought I was a wastrel. "Thank you, no. I'm fine. I wouldn't want to burden you. Besides, I couldn't jeopardize the safety of our fair city by depriving it of its most diligent watchmen." Over his shoulder I saw Tiplin push open the window and toss a rope to the ground. It coiled with a muffled thud against the snow.

I gritted my teeth hoping the young guard didn't hear it. If he did, he made nothing of it. Tiplin began his descent slowly, and I couldn't tell if he knew of the guard or not, the clapper who simply wasn't supposed to be there. "No, really. That's what I'm here for, to watch for bandits and make sure the derelicts have some place to go."

Smiling sweetly, always an effort for me, I said, "You're so kind, but truly, I'll be fine. If I sense I'm in trouble, I have my little whistle." I held it up for the guard to see before puffing on it curtly. It produced a shrill wobbling call easily lost over distance. Tiplin ceased his descent and hung motionless above the street. Slowly, carefully, he reached up with his foot and hooked the rope with his heel, then pulled himself straight along the rope, as if suspended by his ankles, to see fully what was happening. He looked at me, then motioned to my right. I looked that way and sure enough there was another clapper plodding through the snow some ways off. Tiplin made an angry motion across his mouth. Stop chatting and get rid of him, he was saying.

The snow persisted as the young clapper shirked my attempts to disengage from conversation, attempting to divine precisely what purpose I had for being out at this time of night.

I knew my time to avert the guard had ended when I saw Tiplin dropping into the snow from over the young deputy's shoulder. Without a sound, he detached his harness and sunk into the shadows. He knew there was no way he could get around the guard without abandoning me, and that he couldn't do that without upsetting Fleary.

"Name's Geoffrey," he said. "What's yours?"

"Well, it's been a pleasure to meet you, Geoffrey," I said, attempting to force the interaction to a conclusion. But my words were lost as Geoffrey suddenly raised an arm and waved, calling loudly to the approaching guard, barely visible far down the street, plodding steadily towards us through the thickening snow. I cursed under my breath and was sure Tiplin did the same.

He angled a thick arm toward his compatriot. "That's my cousin, Keelan. Maybe he wouldn't mind watching my beat so I can walk you home."

"Alright," I said. Perhaps if I could divert them away from Tiplin, he would have a chance to escape and meet me later, though Duenna was clear across the city.

But Tiplin had other ideas.

He emerged silently from the shadows, deep-set eyes fixed on the back of Geoffrey's head. The sight of him was horrifying. He crept through the snow like a cat stalking a bird, a glint of polished iron showing against his arm. "Let's go meet Keelan, then," I stammered, looped my arm through Geoffrey's and tugged him urgently away from Tiplin. We shuffled several steps through the snow but it was already too late.

Keelan broke into a run, kicking up torrents of snow before his boots, a muffled warning. His staff began to whirl, tack-tack-tack-tack. I turned to see Tiplin as he embraced Geoffrey from behind. "No!" I screamed.

The first blow, a long knife rammed into Geoffrey's lower back, was diverted sloppily by the armor hidden beneath his cloak. The blade slid instead into the soft flesh of his side, just below the ribs but not a place destined to kill. Geoffrey's face contorted with pain and surprise. A wailing cry spilled from his lips. He struggled against the blade, and I was thrown to the snow-blanketed ground along with the clapper's staff. Geoffrey called out wide-eyed like a frightened boy as he desperately tried to free his sword from its scabbard. It wasn't halfway out before Tiplin grappled his head with one long arm. "No!" I yelled again. I could see Tiplin's ashen face over the boy's shoulder, as he pulled the knife from Geoffrey's side and plunged it into his neck, gouging relentlessly as if he were trying to pry his head loose.

The blade came free through the front of his throat sending a wash of blood in every direction, an explosion of crimson against the white snow. Tiplin let go and Geoffrey slumped forward, gurgling grotesquely for want of blood and air. He watched as his hopes, his dreams, his desires and his future puddled warmly against his cheek. The snow still fell and ceased not for the withering beat of a dying heart.

Somebody was screaming. Geoffrey's broken form receded from me, his fixed eyes ever more distant. There was a frantic chattering clack as Keelan's staff spun and spun. He arrived at the body at about the same time a figure appeared at the window from which Tiplin had descended. They shouted things to each other. Keelan peered through the darkness then pointed to me even as the distance between us grew, and mouthed the word "murder."

A stream of obscenities dribbled tenderly from Tiplin's tight lips, and I realized that I was being dragged along by my collar. I tried to struggle, flailing about like a snared fish, sobbing hysterically as the hem of my gown cut a deep wake through the snow, a wide and obvious trail leading back to the Geoffrey's body.

Keelan's staff was answered by others, seemingly from every direction. Frantically, Tiplin pressed on. Keelan advanced upon us, catching up to us easily. He dropped his staff and reached to his belt. There was a quick, delicious sound of a sword being drawn from its scabbard, the sound of anticipation, inevitability. "Damn you," I heard Tiplin curse as he spun around, yanked me to my feet and snarled, "Get up!" His left arm wrapped across my chest as he clutched me, and I felt cold wet metal against my throat, just under my left ear. Keelan stopped before us, a mere twelve feet away, his sword extended menacingly, his face overflowing with rage.

I trembled with the touch of the blade against my throat as tears welled in my eyes. I saw in my head Geoffrey's lifeblood spill over and over into the white snow, an endless crimson cascade, and I thought my blood was to mix with his. Tiplin wanted to kill me in that precarious moment. My back was pressed against his chest and I could feel the hatred radiate from him like heat from a glowing ember. My whimpers became sobs of shame and fear.

Two more watchmen came running with great desperate strides to join Keelan, weapons drawn. Tiplin bit his lip and snapped his head around to observe our location. His grip across my chest tightened and he dragged me backward through a dark side alley as I struggled and kicked to keep my footing. The clappers followed us cautiously, unsure of what to do. We emerged onto Broad Street where we were greeted by yet another pair of heavy boots advancing from our right. Tiplin spun me around to make obvious his quivering hostage, then continued backward as all five clappers kept close with their swords. Behind us I could hear the rushing waters of the aquifer tunneling beneath the city. His steps fell slowly until his boot tanged against the iron hatch. Without dropping his gaze, Tiplin deftly dislodged the grating by hooking the tip of his boot into the handle and pulling upward. Great springs pushed the hatch open with a horrible moan. The waters ran fast and cold beneath the twisted cobbled streets, but they were warmer than the air. I couldn't see the aquifer, but tendrils of steam snaked around us.

"Tiplin, don't!" a guard pleaded, hand outstretched. Another advanced closer than he should have. Tiplin's face contorted into a poignant warning as he gripped me tighter, nearly lifting me off my feet. The knife slid easily into my flesh and I gasped with the pain, with the intrusion of metal into my body, cold and unforgiving, a hard reminder of my own mortality. It stopped, buried partially in my throat. "Please," I wept, my sobs extending the word into a staccato hiss.

"Tell Fleary I will remember him for this," he growled softly into my ear.

Tiplin's arms whipped away, then struck me hard from behind, a blow that sent me toppling forward into the snow. There was a quiet splash and the clappers rushed forward. Blood, hot and greasy, bubbled from my throat and dribbled off my chin and into the snow. The clappers hovered around me, wrapping something around my neck so tight that I found it hard to breathe. I sobbed still as I thought they were going to strangle me. Their hands closed around my throat and I almost wished they would. Instead, the bleeding slowly ceased with the pressure of their touch, and I was hefted into someone's arms and carried away into the night, my face buried into the man's chest.

I sat alone in a small dirt-floored room that smelled of vomit and urine, curled tight and pressed into the corner. I was crying. I couldn't stop crying.

The door, merely an iron grate, hung open, tempting me to run, which I knew I couldn't do without proving my part in the murder. Murder. The word rang in my mind again and again. It clung to the soul like oil on cloth; it couldn't be washed out. Through the open door came various men, the clappers, looming over me, setting things at my feet: blankets, water, food. I couldn't take any of it. My body refused to uncoil enough to reach out. Soon, a man who I believe was the constable came, weathered though sincere. He couldn't console my grief, nor did any of his questions find my ears. My chest ached from crying in shallow, stammering breaths.

All I could think about, all that filled me, was that terrible moment when Tiplin's knife dug inhumanly into the poor boy's neck, and his terrified face. Then to see it emerge, exploding with bits and blood, was a spectacle for nightmares. How I wished I had closed my eyes at that moment or turned away. But I did not. And so I bore witness. And that testimony was forever seared into the soft flesh of my mind.

I felt a soft touch on my shoulder. I recoiled and peered sidelong though my tears to see a woman, short and plump with graying hair. I couldn't see her well, but I could discern kindness in her round face. She introduced herself as the constable's wife. I wish I could remember her name. She didn't even know me, and yet she was kind. She cooed quiet things to me, the invocation that unlocked my knotted arms and legs, and allowed me to accept her touch and be grateful for it. The woman wrapped a blanket around my shoulders and gently removed the cravats wrapped around my throat to inspect the wound. It wasn't serious, she said. And it wasn't jagged. There wouldn't be much of a scar. She cleaned the wound, dressed it with proper bandages, cleaned the soot from my face and washed my hands and my feet, saying what a pretty girl I was, and that my parents would be so proud of how strong I was being. She asked if I might tell her where they lived, what my name was. I greeted her gentle plies with silence. She must have thought I was all of twelve years old. But for the time, it worked to my benefit. Her diligent care allowed me to recompose. She sat next to me and pulled me to her. I leaned against the safety of her embrace and was asleep in less time than I can remember.

Fleary's voice was in my dreams. It woke me with words that fell from his lips like honey, slow and sweet. He had come to take me home. Without remembering how, I was in a black box carriage on the way back to the monastery, that accursed place which slept beneath the city like a dark beast: my home. I hated the city. I hated everything about it. I hated myself most of all. Why didn't I stop him? I could have saved both their lives.

Fleary was silent, staring out the window into the cold gray of the winter morning. Hatred and anger and fear burned inside, bellowing like the fires of a blacksmith, from which I forged venomous weapons: apathy, resentment, loathing, pettiness. "Take me to Duenna," I demanded. Fleary, without protest, redirected the carriage.

"Constable Fray has requested that you return before the end of the week to issue a statement of events," he said. "We'll discuss your account tomorrow. He does not outwardly suspect you had anything to do with the crime. I don't imagine you'll have difficulty explaining what happened."

"So tell me what happened," I said. My head rested against the cold glass, eyes closed against the painful day. The back of my hand absently wiped at the condensation on the window.

"Simple. You were out getting some air when you happened upon the deputy investigating what he thought might be a burglary. The criminal, in his desperation to flee, cruelly and coldly murdered the guard and took you hostage to avoid capture."

"He killed a boy, Mr. Fleary. He killed him and my hands are as bloody as his."

"It was just a guard," he said tenderly.

"And am I just a girl? And was Tiplin just a thief?" There was no right answer to that question. Fleary's silence only fed my suspicion. "Where is our cruel, cold and cowardly criminal now?"

"I don't know," he said. "We haven't heard from him. From what the constable said, he had little chance of surviving."

Had.

The ride continued in silence until the carriage stopped before Duenna. Tears welled in my eyes, but I didn't want to cry anymore. I hated myself when I cried.

"Do you want me to walk you in?" he asked, hand on the latch.

"I want nothing to do with you," I said, pushing the door open. I jumped from the carriage and slammed the door.

He called after me but I was already in the house. The faces of my fellow boarders milling about the foyer greeted me. They all seemed young to me, childish, regressed from the day before, like babies or pretty dolls with no substance behind their molded faces.

Likewise, I must have seemed weathered to them. Their eyes recoiled from the sight of me; I was, after all, covered in grime and blood and smelled like the city prison. They looked at me sidelong as they talked to each other, adoring the sounds of their own voices, rattling off petty critiques as if I couldn't hear them. I avoided the tedium of interaction and quickly shuffled up the main stairs where Duenna happened to be waiting.

"Fenitheer!" she bellowed at me, fists on her hips. "I'll have words with you." She was angry, and had I cared, I might have paused to listen to her.

But I didn't. "You'll have nothing," I spat back.

"Then neither will you," she barked. "I'm terminating your tenancy here. You have a week to make other arrangements."

"Not soon enough," I said under my breath and squeezed past her into my room, closing the door behind me. Genevieve was there of course, deeply immersed in her romances. As tired and overwhelmed as I was, it warmed me to see her. It felt like years since I had been with her. She was a fortress for my heart, a refuge.

As soon as I entered the room she threw her book down. "What happened?" she said.

I wanted to tell her everything, but couldn't manage it, instead relying on Fleary's retelling. I sloughed off my clothing into a heap on the floor, kicked it into the corner of the room. Falling into bed, I closed my eyes as soon as Genevieve's questions ceased. I wished I could believe Fleary's story as well.

Hours later, Genevieve's lips touched my forehead in a kiss, her tender hand brushed against my cheek. "Will you ever stay out of trouble?" she whispered, thinking I was asleep. I was kept awake and stagnant by self-pity and remorse, and I welcomed the kind intrusion.

"I hope someday," I responded silently.

I turned on my side to see Genevieve carefully make her bed, preen diligently over her wardrobe. I delighted in watching her move, even if only a few steps at a time. A cold winter light fell in through the closed window and lay upon her as if that were its only purpose. It traced the lineament of her hips bowing inward to the small of her waist, the fragile contraction of her shoulder blades, the pale, smooth skin of her neck. My fingers dug under the bandage around my own neck, over the large knots of dried blood.

When my resolve gathered I pushed off the covers. There were things to be done. I rose from bed and opened the wardrobe, but the blood rushed from my head and my heart throbbed painfully to compensate as my sight dimmed.

"Fenitheer!" Genevieve called out as I fell back into bed. My sight returned to see Genevieve's concern pour from her face. "Are you alright?"

"Yes," I said trying to get up against her grasp, which pinned me securely by the shoulders. "I'm alright. Please, I have to go." She let me sit up. "I just got up too fast, is all. But I'm fine."

"Where are you going?" she asked, worry in her eyes. "You need to rest. And a bath."

"I have to go to the temple. There's communion this afternoon. I don't want to be late." I rose more cautiously this time, then went to retrieve the robe given to me by the priest. I slipped it over my head, tied my hair and washed my face in the basin.

"I'll go with you then."

"You can't," I said, donning my coat. "You're not allowed."

"I'll wait for you outside, then, or in the antechamber, where it's warmer."

"Genevieve," I grimaced. "Why would you want to?"

"Because I worry for you," she said. "You take so many chances. Why were you on the streets at all last night?" It was an insinuation more than a question. I was thankful it was meant rhetorically. "I don't want to worry like that. I don't want to be left here to worry. I want to be your friend, and you say you want to be mine, but how can we if you come and go with no accountability, no explanation? And then this!" she motioned to my neck. "Every time you leave this place I wonder if ever I'll see you again."

"Genevieve, it's alright. I'm going to the temple for communion."

"It's not alright!" she said. "You wander the streets at all hours of the night, come in drunk or dirty or hurt. It doesn't take a fool to see something is happening in your life and if you let it, it's going to kill you."

"Genevieve," I rolled my eyes, annoyed with what I thought to be an overreaction. "Please, I don't need nor want you to worry about what happens to me. I don't have much of a choice in my comings or goings. Your worry will certainly not change that."

Her eyes narrowed into a glare. "Perhaps you should move into Audrey's old room then. You seem driven to follow her footsteps, broken and whoring on the streets." I was surprised to hear this. I hadn't thought Audrey had told Genevieve of her plans. "I saw her, you know. I saw her the other day purely by chance as I was walking back from the market."

I sat down, intrigued.

"She was pulling rings from the drunks in the alley like a common street urchin, dirty and desperate and destitute. And that look in her eye. Like an animal, a wild dog or something."

"Did she say anything?" I asked. I feared that Fleary had simply booted her onto the street with no recourse. I feared they would do the same to me.

Genevieve shook her head. "No. She ran. She ran as soon as she saw me. And every day I see you change, your expressions, your behaviors. Every day I see you become a little more like her, jaded and bitten. Damaged," she summed, motioning to my throat. "And if that's to be then it's to be and maybe there's nothing to be done about it. But please don't shut me out of your life. Let me try to help you."

"How can you help me? What could you do?" I said.

"How would we know unless you let me try? At the very least, I could be someone to talk to, someone to care about. My shoulders are broad," she sniffed. "But if you're determined to shut me out, I don't think I want our friendship. I can't sit up nights wondering where you are. I can't cease to care about you. But if you would have me dismiss my affection for you, then perhaps I should move into Audrey's old room and leave you as you wish."

I sat down, flabbergasted. I was exhausted and shaken, and yet all that had happened the night before seemed a pittance compared to the prospect of relinquishing Genevieve's friendship. I spent the next half hour trying to convince her that all was not lost, that I hadn't meant to exclude her. I promised her that I wouldn't fall into despondency. I also agreed to let her come with me to the temple, but only after I had taken a bath.

An hour later, we walked arm in arm through the city. I asked her to tell me of her homeland, the north country beyond the great forests. I loved hearing about it. She spoke of vast vineyards, rivers and streams unclouded by commerce or trade, air that had never been touched by the festering breath of civilization. I could tell she missed it dearly. I missed it, and I hadn't even seen it.

We arrived at the temple by afternoon, ascended the short steps between the stone nautilus and passed into the antechamber, where Genevieve sat on a wooden bench to wait. "Thank you for coming," I smiled and kissed her before rushing in to take a place in the large circle of worshipers gathered around the central pool. I glanced over my shoulder as I sat down among the acolytes. Genevieve had pulled a letter from her pocket and was reading it for no less than the hundredth time. I knew our time together was to grow short. Soon I would be ousted from Duenna and would have to take refuge in the dark underbelly of the spindle, while she would rejoin her family with the coming solstice.

I returned my attention to the ceremony. Before me stood my goddess, proud and strong, rising above the cold waters of the pool. The priest, a slightly bearded man, waded through the water and passed us one by one. He would pause before each of us, utter something I couldn't understand and dapple our foreheads with water from his fingertips. Some of the acolytes began chanting with the sort of low sound that fills the chest. I closed my eyes and sought peace in that sound. The priest's words flowed over me like torrents of warm water. I allowed them to coax loose the knotted worries in my mind. I sat still and simply breathed. My mind became a hollow, an emptiness, and for the first time I tasted what Madrum had called the dark between. My body let go of my mind, and I was free, disengaged from anything physical, floating in the waters of the womb.

In that space my thoughts raced with unequivocal speed. They all returned to that night, to Tiplin and Geoffrey. The gruesome events of that evening played over and over, stopping, reversing, going forward, jumping back. I watched as if time had slowed, droplets of that most beautiful color red descending into the pure white of new fallen snow, footsteps and labored breathing in the dark, the clapper's voice.

Tiplin, don't.

He had been betrayed, and I was the unwitting pawn. There was no other reason for the clapper to know the thief he sought. Tiplin was correct in naming me a liability; Fleary had made it quite clear that I was not to be lost. If it hadn't been for me, Tiplin could have easily absconded into the night.

I was nudged in the shoulder. I opened my eyes to find the gaunt fellow sitting to my left trying to hand me the bowl. I took it from him and raised it to my lips, barely taking a sip. Fleary, and thus my father, were not to be trusted. Knowing this helped assuage my guilt and fear. Knowing this gave me some direction in which to act, to guard myself, to redistribute blame.

When the ceremony ended, I emerged from the forgiving darkness of the inner sanctum and collected Genevieve who napped peacefully on the bench. Together we walked to the markets, a great kaleidoscope of colors and faces and fabrics. Street performers and gypsies put on masks and danced about gaily for the crowd's delight. Paupers begged openly for copper, huddling against the cold. Everyone ignored them except Genevieve, who had purposefully broken a silver so that she may have a pocket full of loose slag. We buzzed through the streets like honeybees depositing pollen into outstretched blossoms, going out of our way to place a few coins in the dirty palms of those who asked for them and some who did not.

We also bought some fruit, so rare this time of year, then pressed on to see jugglers and acrobats and players delighting all who cared to watch. Several men with lutes played passionately, giving medium for dancing and cheers. A great circle of revelers had formed, buffeted by a crowd of mirth and relish. We joined in, Genevieve tugging me on impulsively as we spun and spun and spun, laughing with the pleasure of motion. We were breathless when we stopped, and I couldn't recall having felt such joy in a simple thing. And for once I forgot all that troubled me, Tiplin and Audrey and my own confused life. I basked in the warmth of friendship, of being in the company of one I could trust, something I had never been accustomed to.

Stumbling dizzily from the commotion, we happened by a little shop with a poorly etched sign that read "Dead Man's Ashes." A wicked smile spread across my face as I opened the door and pulled Genevieve inside. A proper apothecary it was, confirmed by the license issued by the Civic Authority, in plain view to ward away the constable. Before us was a glass cabinet displaying all manner of herbs and remedies with little cards describing them as if they were candies. From the ceiling hung bundles of flowers and herbs and dried feet of pheasants and fowls. Glass and clay decanters rounded the walls on narrow shelves, separated into essences, elixirs and potions, oils and extracts, and all manner of things. A mousy woman tended the counter. She had soft features with small bespectacled eyes and silver hair pulled into a braid down her backside. Behind her, large jars displayed many a dead thing incarcerated in pungent liquid, frogs and serpents and piglets and mice and sow's feet and anything else that would fit into a good sized jar. Overhead we were watched by crows and heads of badgers, deer and fox stuck still, frozen in death by the alchemist art in fearsome poses beyond anything their natural lives would have inclined.

"May I help you?" the woman asked, surely aware that before her stood two young, giddy women.

"What are we doing here?" Genevieve hissed into my ear.

I squeezed her hand. "Mash?"

The woman nodded, pursing her lips. Her fingers traced the surface of the glass counter and rested over several boxes displaying an array of broken pods and teas, each having slightly different hue, size and consistency. "We of course grind, steep and distill as an added service. For a silver more we can further concentrate the substance with honey and plant oils, making a superb tonic for consumption and other respiratory ailments. A drop beneath the tongue is all that is required, a vast improvement over imbibing the smoke."

Gesturing to the most expensive in the case, I noted its particular variety and asked, "Is the golden meadow the best quality you have?"

"There is none better," she said.

"May I see a sample, then?"

"Certainly," she said, extracting several pods from below the counter. I took it and squinted with a disagreeable expression. "It is the finest quality on the market," the woman explained.

"There are tea houses over the Fem that sell it with much better color for half the silver."

"That's the price you pay," she said evenly, "for getting to keep your fingers."

"I've managed well enough so far. It's too expensive," I said. This was of course nonsense; I was an utter whore when it came to these things, not at all discriminating. But since I was about to spend Genevieve's money, I thought I ought to at least pretend to be discerning. I set the pods on the counter and commanded, "Distill it into a tonic. I'll pay three silver for the full dram."

Genevieve's elbow bit into my ribs as she rasped, "What are you doing? That's not even half the price." The woman's incredulous glare mirrored Genevieve's amazement.

"The price is seven. Distillation makes it eight for a full dram."

In truth, the quality was better than I'd ever had, however I was able to haggle the woman down to five silver and get the distillation thrown in for free. I suppose there are some benefits to spending your formative years with a merchant.

As the afternoon slid into evening we made our way back toward the house. The early winter sun faded and was overtaken by gray clouds that hung low in the valley. That same grayness seeped into my demeanor despite my best efforts to ward it off. I had hoped the communion would have helped more than it did, but it couldn't erase what I had seen. I couldn't even begin to hide from it. I sighed heavily and guided Genevieve into the park not three streets away from Duenna.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

"Come," I said, pulling her to a nearby bench that faced a snow-covered knoll. Birch trees danced among the drifts, thin branches brushing the sky. The park was empty save a lonely magpie cawing among the boughs. We sat a moment in silence, her hand in mine. "I owe you the truth."

"There's something more to that wound on your neck than you've told me," she inferred.

I nodded. "There's much I haven't told you." And so I divulged everything that I knew, though I was certain Fleary would sternly disapprove. I related all that I had experienced, seen, heard, felt: Carrowyn dragging me from Marius' ship, all of my romps with Audrey, the test, Rouhn, Madrum, and of course Tiplin. Fair Tiplin, the worst of them, now drowned or frozen somewhere beneath the streets. I spoke of the libraries, the vast stacks of books and manuscripts, the endless scribing, the indices, legends and tomes and maps. I spoke of my initiation, the induction that followed, the ceremonies, the executions and lastly, our ill adventure. About Geoffrey. About the blood, the clappers and the constable's wife.

When all was said that I could remember to say, the night had taken the streets, and we sat in silence. My head fell against her shoulder. She kissed my forehead, and gently threaded her fingers through my hair. "Come home with me," she said. "Let's leave this place. You can stay with me beyond the solstice. I'll talk to my father. I'll convince him of it."

I closed my eyes; I had yet to ask Fleary if I could go with her at all. "No. I couldn't do that."

"Why not? What have you here?"

"It was made clear from the beginning that my path is set. They took me by force once, and now that I'm vested, I am sure they would have no qualms about doing it again. Besides, I don't want you pulled into this mire."

The moon, nearly full, had broken free of the jagged city rooftops and was making a mad dash across the veiled sky. "I wish I could do something for you," she said after a while.

"You already have," I said.

We came into the house well after supper, but were fortunate enough to snatch leftovers from the kitchen before Ms. Lila ferried them to the hospice across the street, after which we retreated to our room. It was quiet throughout the house. There were language classes on the morrow and Mr. Shank had promised a pretest to keep us mindful of our lessons. But we had no concern of that. I hadn't bothered with exams in well over a month, and Genevieve cared little in the shadow of her impending marriage. We flopped down into our beds. Genevieve yawned and picked up her book.

"And what literary masterpiece have you stumbled upon this evening?" I asked, grabbing a pillow between my arms.

Genevieve turned the little book around so she could read the binding. "The Madam's Cottage: A lascivious tale of the widow and her young bootblack. Want to hear it?"

I shrugged, and she began to read:

The fair widow Mady Ablebud, who was not without her charms, had the misfortune of being married to a mousy fellow with absolutely no inclination toward any inclination whatsoever. This was of course not for lack of trying on her part. Many a night would she make libidinous gestures in their bed, only to have her licentious advances thwarted by a languid Mr. Ablebud and his supine member. However, it was to the widow's fortune that Mr. Ablebud met a quick, though not unpleasant end at the hooves of a randy farm beast. It was even more to her fortune that his demise happened early enough in her life that her fading beauty could yet be spared and put to good use. Further, since Mr. Ablebud had no surviving family of his own and since she herself had no brothers or surviving father, it happened that Mady would keep the cottage and its land solely in her possession, along with a hearty annuity with which she was able to maintain the premises with the help of several hired hands. Two of these hands belonged to a strapping young man known to her only as...

Genevieve paused for dramatic effect, "The Bootblack."

I watched the words unfold from Genevieve's lips like flowers blooming wildly before their time, the way her eyebrows danced over the more wicked insinuations, the hurried gait of her eyes as they scanned the page. Soon her words fell away and I was soundly asleep.

The next day Genevieve and I trundled down the stairs for brunch, happily apathetic to the cares of the house. For the first time, I think Duenna was actually avoiding me. It was just as well, for in two days I would have to move my things to the monastery. But in the meantime, there was food, warmth and Genevieve. Mostly, I was just hungry, and there was scarce little to eat in the spindle. We plunked down at the long table before any of the other girls had a chance to sit. The food was already set before us, eggs and ham, bread and butter and honey and tea, a proper meal, of which as a servant I could never partake. Immediately I snatched the rolls from the plates next to me and pocketed them, pulled a piece of ham from my left to add to my own, gouged out the butter dish with my knife and slathered my bread and ham with it. The rest of the house soon joined us, and as there were only so many seats at the table, the girls sitting around us protested the lack of provisions on their plates. "Missing ham?" I said through a mouthful of the absent meat. "Genevieve, have you seen any of this 'missing ham'?" I asked, gnawing madly. She shrugged, arched her eyebrows and shook her head. Soon those sitting around us finished their meal and left with disgust.

"Have you noticed a rather pronounced schism between ourselves and the rest of the lot?" I asked, referring to the remaining girls sitting at the other end of the table.

"You know, I have noticed," she responded. She was delicately buttering a small piece of bread, while I was trolling mine through the honey pot. "I believe it all started shortly after you arrived last summer."

"My dear Genevieve," I recoiled with mock horror. "Are you to imply that I have had anything but a positive influence upon your social affairs?" I said, taking an enormous bite, honey dribbling down my chin, followed immediately by a solid swig of tea.

"Oh, not at all! I rather enjoy the solitude. Much more time to read this way. Besides, it means more tea for us."

I grinned. "I had almost forgotten."

She looked to her plate, barely touched. "Shall we?"

I looked at mine, scoured clean. "We shall." We leapt from the table and ran out of the hall, through the kitchen and up the back stairs despite the useless admonition of the Madam not to run. We burst into our room, slammed the door shut and leaned a chair against the latch.

I took the small copper vial we had gotten from the apothecary out of my desk drawer and plopped down on the bed. "Wait," Genevieve said just as I was about to open it. "We can't let such an auspicious occasion go unmarked."

Genevieve looked around the room, tapping her fingers to her lips. Inspiration struck her and she flung the doors to our wardrobe open and began to rummage. A moment later she produced the thin sashes from our gowns, then some rouge and a candle. "Let's sit on the floor."

I slid off the bed onto the hard wooded floor. Genevieve sat across from me and placed the candle between us. Taking one of the sashes, she tied it around her forehead, then did the same for me. "Let's form a pact, a covenant between us that can never be broken. Between us we are to be the purveyors of truth, mirth and gossip, the guardians of friendship and everlasting sympathy in times of need."

"Let it be said," I confirmed, popping the small cork from the vial.

"Wait! Not yet. We have to pick our secret names, by which none other would recognize us." She opened the small box of rouge and dipped her fingertips into it. "Close your eyes," she commanded and made a long streak across my forehead, then down the ridge of my nose. "I now give you your true name that shall only be spoken in the sacred context of our pact." She paused a moment to think. "Eris. Warrior of knowledge and spirit."

I laughed, trying to imagine myself as any kind of warrior.

"Keep your eyes closed," she chided and took the vial from my hand. "Now open your mouth," she said.

I did and felt three drops of the bitter substance deposited under my tongue. "Your turn," I said. I took the rouge from her lap, ran my finger through it and traced my fingertip across her forehead and down her nose. "Hold still," I said as she began to giggle. "I now give you your true name that shall only be spoken in the divinity of our company. Subhadra," I said, rolling my tongue.

"Sensuous," she exclaimed.

"Hush! This is serious. Subhadra, you are the warrior of love and kindness and all that is good and right in this world. Now stop laughing and open your mouth." I placed three drops and a fourth for good measure beneath Genevieve's tongue. "This gathering has now commenced. Subhadra, dispense the mirth at once."

"I thought we just did that."

Two hours later the candle had puddled down to a simple mound of tallow as the flame struggled for life. We were reduced to our shifts, which in our altered state of mind flowed and billowed about us in the non-existent breeze like a diaphanous mystery. The rouge was nearly gone to consecrating hands and arms and fingers and toes with swirling patterns and glyphs. It was a testament of trust, of touch. We were painted and thriving in the forests of our own creation, savages of the heart, proud and strong in our belief in each other and ourselves, a strength no god, no ceremony of religion, no mandate, no commandment had given us. We danced about the room, delicious and untethered, simple and pure, before finally collapsing.

Genevieve lay content as a cat on her bed, arm outstretched to me, as I sat on the floor finishing one last spiral into her soft palm. I set the rouge aside and kissed her hand at the center of the spiral, felt her fingers curl against my cheek. I closed my eyes in the rapture of her touch, the sweet scent of her skin. I kissed her open wrist, the most tender of flesh, and held my lips there to feel her trembling pulse. There was no greater bliss, no sensation so strikingly beautiful as that moment. And it belonged to us. Just us.

"I love you," I said, suspended in a thick ether, weightless, held aloft. I swam above her, she who was still and peaceful as a freshly lain corpse. But she was not a corpse and her arms outstretched to receive me. "I love you too," she said, and we kissed. Not the polite way that friends often do, but the way of lovers, fearsome and adoring. And we slept a thousand year sleep, fingers and feet, secrets and whispers intermingled into Genevieve's single bed, no shame between us.

##### Chapter 10

The water gnawed at my flesh, a numbing salve to relieve me of that worrisome breathing. But my anger overpowered it, cutting through the viscous dark with every desperate thrash to keep air in my chest, to keep my heart beating. Fear leapt through me as I lost all ability to see. Pitch black and nothing to do but keep afloat and upright as the quick, cold current pulled me along. I regretted having never learned to swim, but remembered why sailors never do: no reason to prolong the inevitable, to lengthen the misery. I ground my teeth against the fright and growled defiantly.

But the current changed, and I was tumbled end over end, then turned and pressed like a leaf into a bend in the tunnel, the water pushing over and past. I gasped, water rushed into my lungs and I coughed violently. Submerged and terrified, I tried to halt my breathing, to stop more water from flooding my already burning chest. I doubled over, flailing madly, and the drag of my outstretched limbs pried me from the bend and propelled me to the surface where I caught a half breath of air by chance, before a low ridge in the top of the tunnel connected unbearably with the top of my head. I whimpered, winced, still coughing, and grasped against the warm blood that seeped from my head.

A violent cough expelled what air was held in my chest, leaving a horrid vacuum. But water seeped in through my nose, causing me to cough all the more. Something inside said to simply let the water back in. It would be over in a matter of minutes. But then I was racked against an iron portcullis running vertically through the tunnel. I was stopped, pinned by the water rushing past, thankful not to be moving anymore. I reached upward with bruised and quickly numbing arms and pulled myself above the water. I tried to breathe, forcing as much air into my chest as I could, but my lungs still fought water within. The best I could muster was a painful wheeze. Something was wrong inside my chest, it would never feel intact again.

The sound of the water was maddening without light. I didn't know where it went, how deep, how fast or if it ever ended. But I could tell by the loss of feeling in my feet and fingers that I couldn't stay here. The only hope of survival was to trust the current. Trust that it would pan out, slow and perhaps dump me into a reservoir.

I reached an arm past the narrow portcullis into the cold black and felt the water angle down sharply. Groping above, my knuckles rapped against metal. Reaching up, I banged against a hatch, yelling hoarsely for someone to let me out. I pushed against the grate but it was rusted in place. Even the springs that released the hatch felt solid and intransigent. I cut my hand against their sharp edges trying to trip them. I pleaded desperately to be let out, exonerated from this incarceration, but no one came. It was night and nobody would be around till morning, and even then the chances of being heard over the sound of the water and the noise of the day were slim. The point was moot, though. I wouldn't last till morning here with the water as cold as it was.

I wondered how far the water dropped past the grate. Was it a steep drop, or did it angle down on a ramp? Did the water coalesce into a slow moving pool? With all of these questions unanswered I had to dare it or freeze to death clinging to the portcullis.

The bars ground against my chest as I squeezed past, but when enough of me was through, the current did the rest. Immediately I was falling into the darkness with no way to tell how far, no way to see beneath me. No way to know if what lay beneath was deep enough to soften the blow of impact and no way to prepare for it. No way to even know which way was down.

The stone struck cruelly not a foot below the water level of the pool. I landed on my side, though not evenly, legs slamming first against the floor. My right leg was caught under the weight of my body and I felt my knee pop and split. My thigh snapped cleanly with such percussion that I could hear it clearly over the water. I called out in pain for a mere fraction of a second before the rest of my body connected with the unforgiving stone. My chest compressed, nearly crushed as I felt several ribs break in quick succession, followed by a tooth as my head slammed through the shallow water and into floor. It swam inside my mouth in a blood punch.

I lay there a moment, wound into a tight ball, pressed downward by the ever flowing water from above. At least I had stopped moving. I opened my mouth and expelled the broken, jagged tooth, mouthfuls of warm blood. I pulled myself above the water with my arms and cried. Damn the cold and the screaming pain, I sobbed.

My eyes snapped open in the quiet of early morning. The hardwood floor upon which I slept had tapped the heat from my body leaving me cold and uncomfortable, my joints and muscles aching. The canister of rouge sat empty, on its side a few feet away. Genevieve was sprawled across her bed, her arm extending off the edge. A single word reverberated through my mind with cutting precision: alive.

The wardrobe door flew open in my hands and banged against the desk. I snatched a gown from the crumpled heap in the bottom and pulled it over my head.

"Fen?" Genevieve called groggily.

"I have to go. He's alive. I think. I have to find him."

"Fen, wait..." But I was already gone, leaping down the main steps, past the girls on their way to breakfast and out into the misty city streets.

When I finally reached the Monastery and trudged breathlessly down the spindle, I found Fleary speaking to a threesome of journeymen, veiled and armored as always. I didn't think the faceless watchers even knew the common tongue by their silence. I approached just as they had finished. The three turned in near unison and retreated into the darkness of a nearby corridor, nary a lantern between them.

Fleary turned to me and I delivered an exasperated plea to search for Tiplin. He listened for a half moment, then halted my words with an outstretched hand. "Have you lost your wits?" he asked, and I paused to mull the question. "And what is that on your face?"

It took me a moment to realize that I still donned Genevieve's rouge. "Oh by the gods," I cursed, rubbing the sleeve of my gown across my forehead. "He's alive, Mr. Fleary. But he won't be for long."

"Fenitheer, everyone feels Tiplin's loss. I understand this is especially hard for you, but it has happened and there is nothing we can do about it. We must accept it."

"I do accept it. And I accept that he might still be alive."

My words reverberated a little too strongly through the spindle. Fleary looked around to see faces poking from behind stacks and over railings, listening intently to our conversation. Grabbing my arm and twisting it a little, he ushered me into a darkened alcove and hissed, "Dear child, what are you trying to do? Tiplin was the best acquisitionist we had. If I thought for a moment that it were possible he were still living, we'd have acolyte and adept searching the streets. But even if your dream were more than just a dream, that was three days ago. Besides, what you're asking is dangerous. The clappers are out for blood. We cannot risk another loss."

Anger grew in my heart and I bit my lip to keep it in. "And yet you would risk his life for a stupid book."

"No, Fen. It's not a stupid book. Yes, there was a risk. Tiplin knew that risk but accepted the assignment anyway. The fact of the matter was that we needed the book and there was no other way to get it. We had tried to negotiate, but..."

I wrested my arm from his grasp. "You might have well just killed him yourself," I said and walked away expecting to hear a rebuke, but there was nothing.

I found Loren on the top spindle carefully replicating sketches of ruins found at an excavation far to the west. "Loren?" I beckoned softly.

He looked up wide-eyed, surprised. "Fen. How are you? I heard what happened. I'm so sorry about Tiplin, but glad you weren't seriously hurt."

"Thank you, but I must ask a favor."

"Sure," he shrugged. "What is it?"

"I need you to find a schematic of the city's aqueduct."

Loren set his quill into a vial of water and covered his inkhorn. "Is Fleary trying to recover his body? To make sure he's dead?"

I looked over my shoulder, then drew close. Our eyes met and I could find no hint of uncertainty in his gaze. Loren was quite decided about what had happened. "You suspected something," I hissed. "Why didn't you warn him? Or me?"

He looked at me and whispered, "I would have, had I known before you left. But when I heard what had happened, the circumstances, it became clear. Not just to me, but to many of us."

"Then why doesn't somebody speak up, call him on it? Surely Pruet wouldn't abide it."

Loren drew a deep breath. His gaze fell to the floor. "You haven't been here long enough to understand." His lips pursed as he struggled with his thoughts. "To people like your father, and Fleary, propriety is everything. Anything that threatens their power is reckoned with. Tiplin was such a threat, ever since he burned the other library to the ground."

I looked at him. "Tiplin did that?"

"He was only supposed to take a book, not raze the building and kill everyone inside."

"Tiplin did that," I repeated, stunned.

"They couldn't control him, couldn't predict what he would do," Loren said. "But it's not the first time something like that has happened. Perhaps Tip deserved it, but there've been others who hadn't. I was amazed they let Audrey go." I held my tongue about Genevieve's chance encounter with Audrey. "They don't just let people go."

"There are at least sixty of us working in the spindle. We could rise up," I said.

Loren pressed his hands over my mouth and pleaded, "Quiet. You don't know what you're saying. We're fodder to them." He stopped and looked over my shoulder to the open doorway. "Listen. Be still and listen." And I did. And I heard nothing but boot steps moving slow up the spindle. "You hear that?"

I shrugged. "It's a journeyman making his rounds, as they do every day. But there's only a few of them."

"You've only seen the ones they want you to see. There are many more that lurk in the shadows. The one out there is simply to remind us. Otherwise they keep well hidden and watch over the spindle in silence as we work." He cast a long glance through the doorway. I looked too, but saw nothing. "I've never once heard them utter a word, nor seen their faces, for they are masked at all times. But I know that they listen. Your father listens."

He turned to me, took my shoulder in his hands. "Mind your words. It's not just the journeymen. Pruet has influence over the city watch, and some say even Bellatine himself."

I looked up at him, truly frightened for I saw the concern in his eyes, and knew that for all the stories Loren told of faraway lands and creatures and peoples, this was not one of them. "But then why did you persuade me to be part of this? You sat across the table from me and convinced me that this was a worthy cause, that Pruet was a decent man. Either you deceived me then or you deceive me now. Why recruit me into this only to tell me these things now?" I rasped.

Leaning forward, Loren spoke low in my ear, "Because had you not come here willingly they would have bound you, broken your spirit and doped your mind until you could have fought them no longer. They would have ruined you, Fen. I have seen it so many times, and I couldn't bear to see it happen once more." There was remorse in his downturned lips as he spoke. This was no story. I remembered the induction, how they had been searching for me. "And once they were done with you, they would snuff out life in your eyes. I thought if I could persuade you to come willingly you might be spared of their consuming hunger, at least for a while. I'm sorry I had to deceive you." He brushed the hair from my eyes and pulled me close to him. "If you truly want your freedom, to hold your father accountable, you're not alone. He has many enemies. I know some people. But this is not the place to discuss such things."

"First, can you help me find Tiplin?"

"You truly want to find him?"

I nodded grimly.

"We have a schema of the aqueducts, though it's probably very old. They should be somewhere on the fourth. That's where the civic maps are, anyway."

We made our way up the spindle, turned on the fourth ring and entered the crowded maps room by way of a solid, unmarked wooden door. The maps themselves were laid flat on great planks inset as shelves in a cabinet that could be pulled out on runners for closer inspection. There were easily several thousand sorted in no obvious order, in contrast to the residential designs down on the nineteenth which were kept in perfect order. My heart sank as I realized we had to comb through each one to find what we were looking for. "Snails," I muttered. "Who orchestrated this mess?"

Loren smirked, flipping carefully through a pile containing land surveys, mechanical drawings, maps, astrology charts.... "That would have been Henna. Before your time. Quiet lady. Kept to herself mostly. She used to spend day and night sorting and categorizing. Had these things out in little piles all over the place and would bark at anyone who would disturb them before she could get them indexed and sequenced."

"So what would be the sequence?" I asked. "I don't see any sort of order to this."

"Well, everybody thought she was very dedicated to her work so they left her alone. Sometime later we realized she was nearly blind."

"I can see that," I moaned. "We may wish to pull anything that details the city. I would hate to find something useful only to lose it again. So what happened to dear Henna?" I asked, afraid of the answer, but I had to know.

"She fell into the spindle, from the ledge across from your office, if I'm not mistaken. That used to be her office. Fleary categorized her death as an accident, when he still bothered with an explanation," he said, poring over some unlabeled schematic. "Funny the way she screamed the whole way down."

"Funny," I said. After some time we found several maps of the city streets, though each was of a different section and could only be viewed completely when laid out end to end on the floor. We sorted the diagrams as we went, pulling maps from the rest of the hodgepodge, then attributing a rough classification to them. Some time passed before Fleary's large face, lit by a single lantern, rounded the corner, staring at the two us. I jumped.

"Fenitheer, a word." I dreaded the sound of his summons. I wanted to run away from him. I knew I could hide in the tunnels if I had to. I knew I could go so deep that not even the journeymen could find me. But I worried for Loren. I had just implicated him. I left my work reluctantly to join Fleary on the rim of the spindle, careful not to get too close to the edge. "I've spoken to your father," he rasped. "He wants you to abandon this ridiculous notion before someone else is hurt."

I shook my head in protest. "No. No, I will not."

"This is ludicrous. You've no idea what you're risking by doing this. You could lose your life, and Loren's, not to mention all that has been invested in you, all the plans your father has for you."

"And what would those plans be?" I asked. "I would very much like to know." Fleary glared at me, but had no answer. "However dangerous you think this might be, I know if I do nothing, I couldn't live with myself afterwards."

"Your father," he spat, poking a heavy finger into my collar bone, "has forbidden you from carrying out this reckless search, and if you don't cease this madness at once, I shall have the journeymen escort you back to your office and keep you there for a month."

"If my father," I sneered with contempt, "wishes to forbid me anything, he can have the courage to tell me himself. Do what you must. I will do the same."

"Insolent wretch," he whispered as he turned away. "Your insubordination shall not go unmarked."

The spindle was uncommonly quiet after that, and I realized again that we were being watched by the others in the monastery. I took some comfort in that. I returned to Loren who was completely stunned. I didn't address his amazement for the sake of brevity, but said, "Loren, you may be getting yourself in trouble by helping me. But if we're to continue this, we need to get out of here before I'm incarcerated."

"I'm helping you," he stammered. "I found the schema. Let's go."

We left immediately, though with some effort so as not to draw too much attention to ourselves. My heart nearly stopped every time we squeezed past a journeyman in the narrow corridors of the monastery. I took new measure of them and realized just how frightening they truly were. They were of average size and garbed almost completely in leather, though they donned chain mail or scale tunics. At their sides swung fat short swords, easily wielded in a tight space. The journeymen's left hand rested always on the hilt. Their faces were completely obscured, veiled by dark cloth that came down from their flanged helmets. When they moved, it was with a nearly mechanical lurch. When they stood still, they were utterly still.

Thankfully we escaped the complex without incident. Fleary must not have been serious in his threat, or so I hoped. We bolted from one of the many iron hatches onto the city streets and made our way quickly to a tavern Loren knew called The Whiskered Fish. It was large with a high ceiling and a staircase ascending to the second floor. The walls were alabaster white, the trim was warm oak. There was a fire lit at one end in a great circular hearth and the room smelled of roasting potatoes. The barman was wiping down his glasses. Several patrons kept to themselves in the far side of the room.

"So what are we looking for?" he muttered, spreading the large diagram over a table in a windowless corner.

"Well, the robbery was at Ekinborough and Ro. The hatch Tiplin used was not far from that, though I don't know in which direction."

We scrutinized the map until Loren jabbed at the schema with his finger. "Here. The closest hatch would have been in an alley off Broad Street. Are you sure that's where it happened?"

I shook my head and sat down in one of the sturdy chairs gathered around the table. "No, I'm not sure. Some place to start, though." I bit at my nails as I followed the faded lines of ink. "I still can't believe it. I knew these weren't the most reputable people, and here I go giving them a reason to be rid of me. But if you knew all of this, why are you here?" I asked. "You're a man. You're talented, you could go so far they wouldn't know where to look for you."

He offered a sad shrug. "I had an older brother who was lured into this nest. A similar fate befell him as did Tiplin. Only the guards caught up with him before he could slip away. They took his hands right there on the street, let him bleed out."

"I'm sorry," I swallowed.

"The clappers were tipped, Fen. They knew from the beginning. Tiplin was marked, and he paid for it with his life."

"And so you stay in the spindle for—"

"Revenge."

I shivered at the way his mouth lingered on that word, as if he viscerally hungered for it. "But why tell me this? I could report you and then they would have you killed."

He shook his head. "I don't think you will. You're stronger than that. Besides, by disobeying Fleary you've already put yourself in jeopardy," he said, letting his fingertips trace absent circles over the course wooden tabletop. "And me."

"But I'm Pruet's daughter. Do you think he'd have his own blood murdered?"

He stared into my eyes. "I wouldn't trust that connection. You may be his daughter, but I'd wager the only one safe from Pruet's ambition is Pruet. Don't get in his way."

"Too late for that," I muttered and returned my attention to the maps. "It looks like all the aqueducts that feed into the city coalesce into holding pools underground."

"You think that's where he is?"

I nodded.

"Then he must be here at the south reservoir," he thumped his finger emphatically over the name, "Vayette and 27th."

"Can we go then?" I said, rising eagerly.

"We can't just walk in there," he said. "I'm sure it's locked, likely guarded."

"Couldn't we explain that we think somebody is trapped in the reservoir?"

"Killing a guard is not a light offense," he said. "If he's not dead now, he will be when they figure out who he is. We have to do this secretly, or with a bribe. Do you have any money?"

"No, but I can get some. How much would it take?"

He shrugged. "Not much. Clappers are notoriously underpaid."

"But what if it doesn't work? What if we get caught or the guard doesn't have a key? Can you waylay a guard or bash a door down?"

"I'm no heavy," he said, extending his narrow arms. "I wonder if Nigel is doing anything tonight."

"Find him," I said. "I'll see about getting money for a bribe. Meet me at dusk near the reservoir."

"Good enough," he said and took the maps from my hand. "Remember, Vayette and 27th. Do you know where that is?"

"No, but I can find it," I said, bursting from the tavern and heading to Duenna directly.

Three hours later the sun was almost down and we weren't even on the right side of the river. "Are you sure you know where you're going?" Genevieve chimed timidly. She had insisted upon coming. I didn't want to pull her into this, didn't want her on my conscience should anything happen.

"Of course I do," I snapped, though I had the uneasy feeling we were headed in the wrong direction. "We just have to cross the river, pick up Vayette and head south to 27th Street."

"But isn't the river this way?" she pointed to the right. I stopped and looked at her, auburn hair swirled into a bun, though a loose strand fell across her face. There was such tenderness in her cheeks, so different from the sharp edges of my own cheekbones, my whetted chin.

With no small shame I realized what a bear I had been. "Is it?"

"Yes, I'm sure of it."

"Alright then." And we headed to the river. An oarsman ferried us across for a spare copper, and Vayette Street lay open before us on the other side like a painted whore. Horses and carriages trotted about, driven briskly homeward before the darkness, men in woolen suits retreated from their labors for the sanctuary of their families, and clothiers pulled down their wares from the lines and folded them back into their carts.

We moved southward, Genevieve attracting more than a few glances of the less discreet young men who walked past. Their interest infuriated me, though I wasn't sure whether the anger was caused by envy or possessiveness. Whichever the case, I walked faster for it, leaving Genevieve to scuttle noisily after.

The air of the city was warm for winter, and dirty snow sloshed under our feet. Below us, even with the noise of the carriages, we could hear the incessant roar of the waterworks, a watery serpent sliding unseen beneath the streets.

Nigel and Loren were waiting for us when we arrived, Nigel notably, with arms crossed, a smug expression across his face. I wished dearly that we didn't need his help, not wanting to endure the aftermath of our last encounter. His eyes slid hungrily to Genevieve, who for lack of proper introduction introduced herself. Loren returned the gesture, speaking for his compatriot. Nigel grinned. I inserted myself between them.

We progressed the final block to the entrance of the reservoir, little more than a decaying red brick building, already well concealed in the shadows of twilight. A hushed tension surrounded our foursome as we scanned about nervously. There were no guards to bribe, though I noticed with unease the many fresh footprints in the wet snow; perhaps the clappers had already found him.

"Shall we get this over with?" Loren said. Nigel asked him something in a language only they shared. Loren nodded and Nigel casually approached the weathered oak door. With one solid kick the door flew inward with a crash, bits of the door jamb sheering off. The noise reverberated across the street, and we all looked around, but those who passed us on the avenue paid no mention and there was no sign of the city dispatch. Loren pulled a lantern from his coat, lit it and headed inside, followed by Nigel and then Genevieve and I, arm in arm.

The inside of the structure was dark and contained nothing but a spiral staircase dug into the floor. The sound of the water was nearly deafening as the force of the subterranean river pushed the air up the staircase. Stepping carefully down the crumbling stairs, we reached the main reservoir, which was simply a great pool of water fed by many large pipes mounted in the ceiling above. And there, thankfully, was Tiplin, still alive, though feverish, unconscious and covered in blood. He had pulled himself out of the pool and onto the stone ledge. His leg was crooked at a ghastly angle, and he seemed close to death.

Genevieve immediately rushed to his side. Digging in her pockets, she produced several bandages, which she immediately secured over his eyes and head. Then without warning, she grabbed the lantern from Loren and raced back up the stairs, leaving us all in the dark with nothing but the sound of cascading water for company. A moment later, light leaked back down the stairs, followed by Genevieve who brandished several long pieces of wood in her left hand, the remnants of the door jamb. With skill I had never witnessed before, she fashioned a splint and set Tiplin's leg. Afterwards, Nigel carefully hoisted him on his shoulders and we departed up the steps and out of the reservoir.

Though I would only find out much later from Carrowyn, in a nearby alley lurked a freebooter by the name of Cutter, who I would have the displeasure of encountering once more before this story is told. And in his arms he cradled the clapper assigned to watch the reservoir, knife pressed menacingly into the man's flesh.

We carried Tiplin to his apartment. Loren fortunately knew how to get there. It was in the merchant quarter, above a rug shop. As we gained entrance through the small door by way of a key we found in Tiplin's pocket, Genevieve turned to me and explained that she was going to fetch Master Oldive, the doctor who paid house calls to Duenna from time to time, then trotted away into the night before I could protest.

We brought him upstairs, but had to wait at the landing for Loren to rummage about for candles. Tiplin moaned softly, almost whimpered in Nigel's arms. Eventually Loren found a tallow and led us through the domicile.

Surprisingly, Tiplin's flat was actually quite charming. It had two large bedrooms, a formal dining room, a well-kept office, a lavatory with an enormous tub, and of course a kitchen and sitting room. Placed in proper fashion were chairs and tables, couches and such. As expected, the place was exceptionally clean. It seemed the sort of condition in which Genevieve would keep things, not a man without a wife, but then Tiplin was a generally meticulous fellow.

More candles were found and lit as Nigel eased our charge down onto a bed. I rummaged in the wardrobes until I found some blankets, which I laid over Tiplin three thick. Beyond that, I felt utterly useless in trying to care for him. Loren and Nigel spoke between themselves, before Nigel left the apartment without so much as a goodbye to me.

"What time would you say it is?" Loren asked after Nigel had left.

I shrugged, watched Tiplin struggle and wheeze for breath. "Three in the morning, perhaps? What does it matter?"

"I'm hungry," Loren said. "I'm going to go tap the bakeries, see if any are working yet."

"Alright," I said, nervous about being left alone. And then he too was gone, and it was just Tiplin and me. There was a fireplace in the sitting room, so I loaded it with a small pile of dried pine sitting on the hearth and brought a candle to light it. The heat felt wonderful and did much to ease my nerves.

I curled into a chair across from the bed. I sat there and looked at him, my heart stopping every time there was a pause in his breath. "I'm sorry, Tiplin," I said, though I knew or at least hoped that he couldn't hear me. It was because of my incompetence that he had landed in this circumstance. I was grateful he was alive, and that I was able to help him, though it would be all for naught if he didn't survive.

After some time, I heard the door open and two sets of feet ascend. I jumped from the chair and took refuge behind the solid door that led into the sitting room, afraid the city watch had followed us. But it was only Genevieve and the doctor, who as they entered the room, wholly ignored me and set about their task. Relieved they had finally returned, I went to the kitchen, which to my frustration was mostly devoid of anything to eat. There was wine, though, a huge bottle of red wine. With some searching I found a cup and poured some, drank most of it with one draught, then poured some more.

I returned to the bedroom, to my chair, cup in hand.

"Hold his leg still so I can bind it," Oldive commanded. Tiplin's leg was bruised severely, blackened and bloodied from his ordeal, obviously broken. Genevieve held his foot and calf securely between her knees as the doctor reset the joint. "He's feverish. Probably caught some atrocious malady from the cold water. I'd be surprised if he lived another week."

"Oh," Genevieve said, oddly concerned for someone she didn't even know. "I've seen worse survive. If he's strong, he'll come through. Besides, we want to encourage him, not doom him."

Oldive raised a brow. "I'm sure he can't hear. Look at him."

Genevieve's eyes looked reluctantly to Tiplin's face, as did mine. He was handsome, even now as sweat beaded across his brow. His pallor was that of snow, his lips blue. A thin film had grown over his eyes as if he were already seven days dead. He shivered and whimpered incoherently, wheezing terribly.

"I think his fever has already taken his mind," Oldive said. "He can't hear us. Even if he comes about, chances are he'll be blind by the looks of that infection in his eyes. I've set his leg. But that's about all I can do. I can't stay to dote on him. And neither can you," he leveled a finger at Genevieve. "You've got your classes, your own life to think about. Take him to the sanitarium. Give him to the authorities. You are by no means expected to care someone you don't even know." He commented gruffly, "And for that matter, neither am I."

Genevieve bit at her bottom lip. We both knew what would happen if she took the doctor's advice. I simply watched them and sipped my wine. "Yes, sir," she said. "If he survives past the morrow, we'll have him taken to the sanitarium."

"Good," he said. "Now Fenitheer, if you would be so kind as to rise and fetch some salt?"

Taking the wine with me, I ambled back into the kitchen. I had seen a jar of salt in the pantry. I grabbed it and returned to the bedroom.

The door downstairs burst open and again my heart leapt. But it was only Loren bearing meats and fresh breads from the markets.

"Thank you," Oldive said as he took the jar and handed it to Genevieve, who then dumped liberal amounts into a basin of warm water. She stirred it in with her fingers, then soaked a rag thoroughly. With that she bathed Tiplin's eyes. "When you're done," Oldive said, "make sure he's warm and comfortable, but keep his head cool if you can." Digging through his bag, he produced a small bottle which I am ashamed to say immediately caught my attention. "And give him some of this under the tongue every few hours, a few drops or so. It'll help his breathing, or at least make it more bearable if it stops."

He gave Genevieve the bottle, then looked at me sternly. "It's for him alone," he said.

"What?" I pined. How, by the seas, did he know?

"Give him the whole bottle if you like," he said to Genevieve. "Putting him out of his misery is the best thing you could do for him. I'll leave it in your hands." With that he rose, gathered his coat and hat, and bid us goodnight before making his way to the door. As an afterthought, he called back to us, "Remember the sanitarium, 12th and Birch."

"Yes, Master Oldive." We chimed in unison.

I rubbed my eyes warily as Genevieve tended her patient. "Get some sleep," she said, wringing the puss and blood from her rag. "You look awful."

The next day I returned to the spindle to attend a session with Madrum. A lonely candle burned on his desk, though he himself wasn't there. It was quiet and cold.

I hadn't wanted to leave Genevieve's side, but I didn't want to draw suspicion either. I sat down on the thin mat in Madrum's chamber as I had many times before and closed my eyes. I tried to marshal my breath, but I was restless. I yearned to go back to that place, the world Rouhn had built entirely from imagination, an eternity inside a thought. But despite my best efforts, that moment in the temple, surrounded by the droning chants of the priest, the ceaseless spill of water from my goddess, was the closest I had managed, and even then it simply didn't compare. So I sat in Madrum's dark little room and tried to quell my thoughts.

I had always found it difficult to be still, and with all that had been going on it was doubly so. I grew anxious and desperate to fidget a little, wondering if I could get up and stretch my legs. But I knew that somehow the old man would pick that exact moment to enter the room and scold me for disobedience. I would have enough of that when I bumped into Fleary.

My thoughts touched upon Loren and what he had said about getting revenge upon those in the order who had sent his brother to die, and wondered how much of his story was true and how much conjecture. He was such a gentle soul. Though notably, when his anger surfaced it was frightening, like a monster emerging from placid waters, unsuspected, dangerous.

I heard Madrum push the door open and somehow I could tell he was smiling. "Get in trouble, did we?" he ruffed. I opened my eyes and indeed he was almost grinning, a fine display of profoundly yellow teeth.

"The worst kind," I said.

He lumbered in, clad in his usual dun robe, bearing several large tomes in his great arms. "Think nothing of it. I got demoted once for sequencing the indexes in reverse order. Took them days to straighten out."

"I should think it would," I replied, curious that Madrum could be playful, even in his youth.

"It's a year later and Fleary still hasn't forgiven me," he shrugged, "but that man never did have a sense of humor." He leveled two fingers to me and commanded, "Never trust a man who won't laugh. First lesson of the day. It's just a shame you couldn't recover Tiplin," he said, smirking. "Such a shame."

"But no, we—"

"Let me rephrase," he said. "It's a pity you didn't find Tiplin."

I nodded, wondering how much he or others might know of our rescue mission.

Madrum lumbered to his small desk and eased his girth onto the rickety wooden stool. He cleared his throat and opened one of the books he had brought with him. After a few minutes he caught me staring at him and asked, a smile still quite evident on his lips, "Something bothering you?"

I thought a moment, then said, "I know the information we gather is proprietary, and I understand this is to protect our interests and survival. But is it necessary to compromise our integrity?"

Madrum closed his book and sighed. "In pursuing our endeavors, we sometimes find it necessary to steal, bribe, trespass, embezzle, blackmail, or as Tiplin has demonstrated, even kill. Don't tell me you hadn't realized that before now."

I looked aside, shrugged.

"Do you think any other organization has gotten to where it is by being honest? Lawful? Do you think those who create or uphold the laws abide by them? I think not. Their primary function is to control others, not themselves. This is not a kind world we live in, nor is it a fair one. If you intend to profit, let alone survive, you have to take advantage of others' weaknesses, and likewise make sure others don't take advantage of yours."

He looked to me expecting a reaction. I had become notorious for such outbursts, but I felt hollow inside with no fight left. "I see," I offered at last, though it seemed there had to be another way. After all, not everyone was a this way. Genevieve was not, but perhaps her lineage superseded the need to be so. "I have yet to understand why Audrey was considered an odd fit. Her ruthless cunning would have been well received."

"That's not really what bothers you, is it?" he said.

"I've heard rumors," I blurted, perhaps unwisely.

He rolled his eyes. "You haven't been talking to Loren, have you?"

"No," I lied, taken aback that he would see through me so easily.

"Did he tell you about his brother? About how he was set up or something, killed by our own men, or has it changed since I've heard it?"

"He said the guards were tipped, they killed him in the street."

"Well, I suppose that's a fitting story considering recent events," he said. "Unlike you, Loren is a talented liar. His only failing in that regard is that his story changes depending on who he's talking to. Has he told you his plan to exact revenge upon your father?"

"Not yet."

"Ask him about it. You'll find it amusing." He rubbed his brow with a fat finger and said, "You may want to consider lightly anything he says. He's a wonderful artist, and he probably knows his way around the stacks better than any of us, but I'd distance myself."

"I'll keep that in mind," I said, unsure of what to think.

"I will offer you some insight." He was silent for a moment, carefully choosing his words. His voice dropped its upbeat demeanor, adopting a somber tone. "To men like Pruet, the world is divided into two categories, assets and liabilities. If you're an asset, he treats you well. If you're a liability, out you go. But you," he said, pointing at me, "fall into a third category. You are a greater asset than you might realize, but for no reason that benefits you. There may come a time when you are asked to—"

Madrum stopped mid-sentence as a pair of armored feet marched down the hallway, stopping just outside. The door creaked open, revealing Fleary's scowling face. Without turning around, Madrum spoke loudly, "Yes, Mr. Fleary."

"Pruet would like a word with you after the lesson."

"Tell him I'll see him directly after," he said, his face suddenly drained of blood.

Fleary nodded. "I will leave an escort to ensure that you do." He then addressed me. "Fenitheer, I'll want a word with you later."

"Yes, Mr. Fleary," I said as a horrible dread washed over me. Fleary disappeared down the corridor, but the journeyman stood resolutely outside the open door, hand, as always, wrapped around the hilt of its sword. With great effort, Madrum disengaged from his small desk and stool, then hobbled over and shut the door.

I started to say something, but he put a finger to his lips.

"Should we get started then?" he said, redirecting the conversation. "How's your Naamul coming?"

"Slowly."

"Have you opened the primer yet?"

"At least twice," I said, knowing better than to lie about something Madrum was likely to quiz me on if he suspected something amiss.

"Meditations? Are you able to find the middle space yet?"

"Just once in the temple," I said. "I can't seem to be at peace with the surroundings no matter where I try. I can never quite deal with the distractions."

"Even in here?" He motioned about. "Pretty quiet here. Dark." I shook my head. "Perhaps if you stopped consuming opiates you might have a better time of it."

"But I haven't," I started, but his glare stopped my sentence. I gave him a scowl and pointed at the door. "Shouldn't that help?" I said.

"Not really. Being sedated serves its purpose for the test because it lowers your inhibitions. Then Rouhn comes along and does all the work. Otherwise it robs you of your focus. It might loosen the constraint of your mind and body, but you'd never be coherent enough to take the final step inward. No, you should stay away from it. You'll notice a difference, though it might take a week or two to get over the hunger."

I nodded, resolving to give it up so as to avoid falling out of the asset category.

"Come over here," he said, motioning me toward his desk. "I want to show you something."

I did so as he extracted a book from the stack sitting on the small table, and I immediately recognized it as the one I had spotted in the specials. "This book was written by your mother. It's a bit advanced for you, but considering recent events, I think you should have a look." He added in a whisper, "Don't tell Fleary I gave it to you. He wouldn't approve. You'll need your commutation box to read it, and I would do it someplace other than your office."

He opened the tome and once again I was transfixed by the familiarity of the handwriting. Madrum flipped to a marked page. "We'll start with this illustration here." Sketched meticulously upon the slightly yellowed page was an elaborate depiction of a dark sun, inked in black and radiating shadow all around. At the bottom of the page were several simply drawn figures of people. Between them was a barrier, like a dam or levy, which pressed in on the radiating darkness of the sun just so, admitting only a narrow beam that reached downward to engulf a single figure. Just one. "This," he said, "has consumed our attention for the past twenty five years. And it was discovered here. In this library. By Pruet. Your father."

"What does it mean?"

"It's simple, provided someone explains it to you." He pointed to the bottom of the page. "This represents you, me, anybody. Specifically, we think it is a metaphor for things that we can physically sense or impact: our bodies, thoughts, things we can touch and move, or things that move us. And this," he pointed to the dark sun, "is the energy and life-force that sustains us. The unseen, unknown wellspring from which our lives begin. The fire that ignites our heartbeat in the womb drives us to be more than simple flesh and bone. Limitless energy, that is. And in between," his fingers slid to the barrier, "is the controlling mechanism that regulates the interaction between the two."

"The Aperture."

"Quite correct. This diagram is probably the most important find of both our lifetimes. This is a reproduction, obviously. The book itself is purely conjecture, but it's the accumulation of ideas and thoughts about the behavior of each of these components. As of twenty years ago, anyway." He closed the book and handed it to me. "Much has been accomplished since this book was written, but that is for later. For now I want you to get a better understanding of the theory. Once that's done, we'll move on to practical application." His voice once again lowered, "and be diligent. It's important. And get off the mash, or you'll lose more than just fingers."

He had me sit back down upon the floor and continue meditating, but it was obvious his mind was not in the room. Before the session was half over he dismissed me, handed me a list of stack addresses, and ushered me past the Journeyman standing motionless in the hall. Madrum sunk back into his room. I headed for the spindle.

Our office, though I suppose at that point it was to be my office, was empty, dark. I leaned into the latch to open the door, as my arms were laden with books I was to transcribe. There were eight in all, which were to become my personal copies, Madrum's way of ensuring I actually read the texts he thought I ought. I entered the office and dumped the books onto my little desk, then closed and locked the door. Tiplin's scent hung in the still air, the sort of smell one got at the fruit markets late in the day, an odd mix of sweet and acrid.

I shook my head and dropped into the chair. I sat in that dim quiet and tried to tether my thoughts together. There were so many things happening, I didn't know what to do. Genevieve would leave soon, and I didn't know who would take care of Tiplin. I thought perhaps I could stay at his apartment, which would be preferable to sleeping in the stacks. But it wouldn't take Fleary long to figure out what was going on, and then he would finish Tiplin off, I was sure of it. I slumped over my desk and rested my head in the crook of my arm.

And what was Madrum about to say when Fleary came into the room? I may be asked to what? I took a deep breath and let the quiet of the spindle lull my mind into a stupor. At some point I must have fallen asleep, for how long I don't know. But I was awoken by the sound of slow boot steps. I jolted upward to see a journeyman lumbering up the spindle as it did every day, passing just outside the glass door, stilted forward like some malformed homunculi. It wasn't especially tall, nor of great build, but the way it moved was frightening. It. Until that point I had assumed there to be a man behind the veil, behind the armor and leggings. But in truth, I didn't really know. No part of it was exposed, not even a hand by which one may draw an assumption of gender. Whatever they were, for all the times I had passed them, all the times I had been near enough to touch them, I had never thought that they wouldn't be human. But then I began to wonder.

An hour later I sat there still, too fearful to even light a candle. All I could think of was what might happen when I was no longer needed. Madrum's assertion that I was useful but in no way that benefited me did not ease my anxiety. After my indignant insubordination, it seemed prudent to apologize to Fleary and be especially industrious about my tasks.

Without warning, Loren's face pressed against the glass as he tried to see in by a lantern in his off hand. I jumped up to unlock the door and let him in. "Have you seen Fleary?" he gasped.

I shook my head and locked the door again. "Not since my lesson with Madrum, and then only in passing."

"Yavon says he's been in a mood all day. Says he was looking for us. What do you think he'll do?"

I tried to shrug and seem calm, but couldn't manage it. "I don't know. But I couldn't leave Tiplin to rot like that."

"He may be rotting still," he said with some concern. "I just came from his flat. His fever's gotten worse. And his leg looks infected. Genevieve's there. In fact she never left. But honestly, I don't think he'll live. It'd be a shame to get into all this for nothing."

"It isn't nothing," I said. "At least he's not alone. And even if he does die, we'll have made the effort. He won't have died for lack of trying."

"You're not wrong about that," he exclaimed with a boyish wonder. "Genevieve was about to lance the pustules in his knee and gouge out the infection," he said, then added, "which is why I left."

I grimaced. "Where did she learn to do that?"

"She said her mother taught her when they cared for wounded soldiers who had fought the tribes in the northern hills."

Just then, Fleary loomed in front the door, probably drawn in by the lantern. He tried the handle and was enraged to find it locked. He rattled the door impatiently as Loren let him in. The door cried open and Fleary waded into the small room. He pointed a cudgel-like finger at us menacingly, though Loren fled the room as soon as Fleary's attention settled on me. "I just spoke with your father. You are not to leave the spindle without escort. And you shouldn't need to. I've received word from Duenna that you're not to be readmitted. I'll have you know your actions have not gone unnoticed, nor shall they go unpunished. Your transcriptions just doubled. And your status of apprentice has been stripped down to initiate. I was wrong to think you could handle anything more. If you want to be anything better than a scribe you'll have to prove you can follow orders."

"Yes, Mr. Fleary," I said, swallowing hard. To be obstinate now would only invite further punishment. More importantly, I needed him to think Tiplin dead, and anything but a supine response would make him wonder. "We didn't find him," I said at last. "You were right. He must have drowned."

"And that is precisely as I thought. If you had only listened to me, all of this could have been avoided from the start. Now you had better get to work. You've got much to scribe. And mind you penmanship. I've seen your everyday scratch, a waste of good vellum." He turned and stormed away, muttering to himself, not bothering to close the door. I rolled my eyes and shut the door, relieved that Fleary's admonishment wasn't more severe.

Once I was sure Fleary had moved sufficiently down the spindle, I sought out Loren once more. I found him in the print room preparing to replicate a series of runes found deep in the tunnel work. There were several others working nearby, and so I leaned in close against him and whispered, "I told Fleary we didn't find him. If he asks you, tell him there was nothing in the reservoir but rats." He nodded. "Listen, I need to go help Genevieve later today, but I can't risk being missed should Fleary come back to check on me. I'm leaving my candle burning on my desk. Could you make sure it stays lit? That way he might think I'm somewhere in the stacks nearby."

"Sure," he responded quietly, eyes not leaving his work.

"Thank you," I said, and headed for the tunnels.

The chill of Tiplin's apartment was by no means enough to mask the stench. The fire was nearly out. Only a few thin tendrils of flame gasped for life. I stirred it, added several logs, then rushed to the bedroom, relieved to find them both. Tiplin, his eyes bandaged, still drew breath though not without effort. He was sleeping. Genevieve slept too, curled in the arm chair by the bed. Her gown and face and hands were spattered with blood. Beside the bed sat a basin of ruddy water, swimming with rags and bandages. I skulked over and retrieved it, all the while trying not to gag, dumped it out the window into the alley below, then went to the sink and scrubbed it clean before drawing fresh water and setting it on the stove, which I lit with some kindling from the hearth.

When the water had warmed, I took the basin back into Tiplin's bedroom and set it between Genevieve's feet. She barely stirred as I gingerly washed her feet, hands and face. Even when I leaned her forward against my shoulder to pull her gown off, her eyes never opened. I took her soiled clothes into the kitchen, dumped them into a kettle of water, then hefted the large pot onto the stove, added some salt and lye, and stirred the mixture with a wooden spoon. I could at least do the laundry.

Getting Genevieve into a proper recline was challenging. Pulling her arms over my shoulders, I half carried, half dragged her upon my back, teetered into the other room and dumped her onto the sofa in front of the hearth in what might have been a comical sight; while I was a weak-kneed sparrow, Genevieve, by comparison, was a buxom pheasant. Rummaging in a nearby trunk, I found a blanket and pulled it over her. Breathless, I plopped down in a nearby chair and watched my roommate sleep.

Past her, past the couch, the doorway to Tiplin's bedroom laid open like something left undone. It still smelled when I crept back in. The sheets needed changing, but I couldn't do that alone. His eyes were bandaged tightly. Spots of blood leaked through. I wiped the moisture from his forehead with a clean rag and placed a hand there. He felt cool, normal. Perhaps the fever had broken.

"Genevieve?" he asked hoarsely.

I recoiled at the sound of his voice, frightened and overjoyed all at once. I hadn't expected him to be awake, much less coherent. "No."

"Where's Genevieve?" He asked, almost pleaded, fruitlessly looking around the room.

"Sleeping," I explained. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm alive," he said. "There's something to be said for that. What happened? Are you alright?"

"The clappers took me for the night. They mistook me for a hapless bystander, as I think was your intention. Fleary came for me the next day."

"Did they hurt you?"

"No. I'm fine," I said.

"I'm sorry I had to do that," he said. "With the knife and all. It was all I could think of. Would have been better to give myself up. Would've lost a hand but then what's a hand compared to this?"

"Don't say such things," I said.

"Genevieve said my eyes were rotted away. She had to take them out." I shuddered to think they were rolling around in the basin of waste I poured into the alley. Thankfully, he changed the subject. "How long did it take Fleary to find me?"

I rubbed the ridge of my nose and sighed quietly. "Fleary never tried."

"So he sent you to find me?"

"No. Fleary was convinced you were dead. In fact he hasn't been informed differently. He forbid me to try to find you. He said it was too dangerous. Loren helped me. Genevieve and Loren's friend Nigel helped to get you here too."

"Nigel?" he said. "Audrey's Nigel?"

"Yes. A dark fellow with a scar on his chin."

"Be careful around him. He's a cutthroat. Honestly, I'm surprised he helped you. He wouldn't lift a finger unless he was well paid."

I nodded, wondered why he helped us then. We hadn't paid him a thing.

"Fen," he said. "Somewhere here is the book that we retrieved that night. It should be wrapped and tied in leather. Could you find it?"

"Yes, I have it," I said, getting up to retrieve it from the dresser under the window.

"You need to read that," he said. "But don't let Fleary know you have it. It's worth a great deal to the right people."

I agreed, and Tiplin fell back into a labored sleep. I cared for him as best as I could before I too needed to rest. I curled up next to Genevieve on the couch, intending to look through the fateful book by the firelight. It was a well bound book in good condition as if it were recently transcribed. I pried the damp pages apart to reveal nothing at all. Ink had never fallen upon the pages. The tome was completely blank.

I was nearly a hundred pages into transcription by the third day. The stack of books assigned to me had doubled, as Fleary had promised, and stood on the floor next to my desk, nearly as high. I had gone back to Madrum's office the next day, but he wasn't there, nor the day after that, nor did he appear for our next lesson. I asked Fleary about that as innocently as I could muster. He said not to worry about it, that my lessons with Madrum had been terminated, and that I would begin lessons with Rouhn soon, though he didn't mention where or when they would start.

Shoulders aching horribly from sitting at the uncomfortable little desk, I put down my quill and pawed at my neck. As I was rubbing the sleep from my eyes, familiar hands greeted my shoulders like waves cresting on a beach. Loren had crept in through the open office door. I was caught in the moment of his touch, which pressed away weariness and doubt. I closed my eyes and let him knead the soreness from my back as I leaned forward into the desk.

"How is he?" he asked.

"Alive," I moaned as his gentle hands worked their way up my neck. His fingertips caressed my cheek and throat, brushed lightly over the thin scar Tiplin left me. The scent of him was absolutely intoxicating, sweetly biting like a meadow after a spring rain.

"Does Fleary suspect anything?"

My hand rose to hold his palm at my cheek. I kissed it. "No," I replied between his fingers. They smelled of ink and vellum. I remembered my desire for him. I yearned for him, especially now.

"I didn't think so either," he said, pressing against my shoulders with his body. "There's a place, beyond the lower stacks, near the southern barricade. Nobody goes there. I sleep there sometimes, when it's late. Will you join me there?"

"Yes," I said, surprised to hear my answer, surprised even more as my body awakened with that affirmation.

"Go down the spindle to the index. Face away from it and you'll see a corridor straight ahead of you. Follow it until you reach the barricade. Then turn around and head back the way you came. You'll see a door on your right that you wouldn't see coming the other way. I'll find you there." And then he was gone as suddenly as he came, leaving me hungry and wanting.

I lingered a moment so as not to rouse suspicion, then got up from my chair and strode quickly down the stairs, my desire growing with each step. After the longest trip down the spindle I had ever taken, I reached the index and spun around to see the formations of the lower stacks, and beyond them a dark opening. I stole somebody's lamp from a nearby table and lost myself into the towering pillars of books, taking a last glance behind me and up around the rim of the spindle to make sure no one watched.

The tunnel immediately angled downward. The walls were roughly hewn and glistened with moisture. The air cooled as I descended. Occasionally passing small tunnel entrances or broken doorways, I caught myself glancing back nervously, fearful that something might lurk in the places the light of the oil lamp simply couldn't reach. I continued downward for some time, with each step more aware of how far away I was from the comforting familiarity of the stacks.

The meager light of my lantern picked out glints of copper and silver in the passageway ahead as I approached the south-most barricade. Two enormous semicircular doors, ensconced deeply into the mortar and reinforced by three timber crossbeams, each easily a foot thick, well-oiled and ringed with iron to keep them from splitting, blocked the corridor. All manner of glyph and rune surrounded the adamant portal, engraved in stone and lined in silver, four of which were easily identified as common runes: Urus, Nalgiz, Nauviz and Isad, representing protection, life, endurance and persistence, respectively.

The portal writhed with the shadows cast by lamplight, the flame tossed by wind escaping from between the two doors like blood ebbing from a wound in the earth itself. My fingertips found the deep grooves of the runework, smooth and cold, and caressed the enormous crossbeams, then the crevice between the doors. My touch lingered there, timidly plying the gap. Holding the lantern close, I peered in through the space. The barricade seemed to be at least a foot thick, and beyond was only hollow blackness.

I had read of the things that moved behind these doors, wicked things of ages past, when men fought to turn back the darkness of the world. My mind reeled, envisioning the monstrosities that once owned the night. I backed away from the barricade, fearful that the doors would suddenly come apart before my eyes, and I would be devoured by the demons they sought to contain.

I turned to head back up the corridor and saw the door Loren had spoken of, nested in an alcove angled acutely in such a way that it would not be easily seen coming from the other direction. It was a simple wooden door, though sturdy, with a single rune etched crudely on its surface: Kano, a light in the darkness.

The latch turned easily in my hand and a warm, well-candled room greeted me. The stone floor had been covered by many large rugs set on top of one another to leave no gap. Pillows and furs adorned every corner of the room, interrupted only by frequent stashes of bottles, wine and mash, cheeses and fruits and breads, an occasional book or two. The walls were adorned with sketches and paintings, even one of the southern barricade, assumedly by Loren's hand, all of meticulous quality. In the center of the room stood a rickety wooden easel which held, of all things, a portrait of me. A kind hand, I thought as I studied the reproduction closely. The paints had done well to soften the sharpness of my features, expound delicately upon my thin lips and embellish the pitch darkness of my unruly hair. And the eyes, like holes in the night. Perhaps the only true accuracy, I mused.

The latch turned and I spun to see Loren's soft face emerge. The rest of him followed and he closed the door, locked it and lowered a beam across the doorway. "Did you have trouble finding it?" he asked.

"No," I said, arousal suddenly usurped by nervousness and doubt as I wondered what I was doing here. He stepped closer and instinctively I stepped back. Without looking away from me he sat down and unlaced his boots, removed them and set them by the door. "I come here to sleep if there is no other place for me, which of late seems more often than not. You're welcome to stay here if you like."

"Seems comforting," I said. "But how can you sleep so close to the—"

"The barricade?" Loren smiled. "All of those stories we've been told are just stories. Whatever was kept at bay by those doors is long gone. We're safer here than anywhere in all of Felvishar. Why, are you frightened?"

"No," I said.

"Good. Take off your shoes." My heart leapt at the command. Realizing the awkwardness of the request, he explained, "I can't easily beat the dust from the rugs down here. If you take off your shoes, the rugs won't soil as quickly."

I smiled at my own idiocy, then sat down on the floor and removed my boots. Loren got up, took them and placed them beside his next to the door. "What do you know of the history of the barricades?" I asked, half curious, half wanting to ease my nerves with conversation.

Loren took a bottle of wine from the corner, then a pair of small copper goblets and some bread. He shrugged, "As much as anybody, I suppose. Legends. Stories."

"Tell me."

He sat down before me and strained to pull the cork from the bottle with a paring knife. "Well, it was Xe Xu Mal, the life-giver and son-daughter of Ogoun, Aruan, Vel and Saduje, who first brought forth the giants. And the giants," he said, pouring wine and handing it to me, "commissioned Xe Xu Mal to make men to serve them, against the wishes of the four creators. But because Xe Xu Mal was so dear to them, and because the builder fell in love with his own creation, instead of destroying man, the high gods made man forever dependent on them. The soil of Ogoun would give them nourishment, the fires of Vel could keep them warm or burn them, the waters of Saduje could sustain or drown them, and they would forever be dependent on the breath of Aruan."

I gazed into the cup in my hand, swished the blood red fermentation, then brought it to my mouth. The wine passed between my lips like a balm for the soul, dissolving tension like a transmutation, alchemical grace. Please understand, I love wine.

"Man was forever loyal, forever bound to the high gods. But the giants were not. They were ungrateful for what they had been given, and had no strict loyalties as we do. The giants proclaimed to be gods themselves, and for their vanity, the high gods waged war upon them, enlisting men to fight the giants. Humankind betrayed those they were meant to serve, and in return we were emancipated from their servitude."

He sipped his wine as I broke a loaf of bread between us. Nibbling, I listened intently to his story. "But the giants are not like us," he continued. "They could not easily be destroyed, only banished, weakened or trapped. The strongest of them, Psdarque, could not be defeated. He was the ever-living and master of things dead. To destroy him was to give him life. He was Xe Xu Mal's greatest creation. He would turn our own fallen against us, destroy entire peoples, cities, overrun nations with the undead. Man cried out for the high gods to save them. So Ogoun laid a trap for Psdarque, promising to accept him as a true god and grant him the amaranth that would forever assure his place as a high deity."

"Psdarque could not refuse," he continued. "After all, it was what they were fighting for. And when Psdarque came before Ogoun to receive his kiss, he suspected no treachery, for Gilmanord, the deceiver, had not yet been created of Xe Xu Mal's womb. Ogoun gave him the gift of amaranth as he promised, but then swallowed the dark lord into the earth, so deeply that his tendrils couldn't reach the souls of men. His ability to give life to death would become muted. And with him were swallowed his armies and the cities he had taken. And then Ogoun ordered man to construct the barricades to these cities to keep the servants of Psdarque from advancing once again on the surface. But still the threat lingers, never to be wholly destroyed, his armies waiting for the barricades to open."

"And that's it," he concluded. "That's the story. Great for keeping children from the under-city, I suppose."

"Do you think it's true?" I asked, finishing the goblet and holding it to be refilled.

"Who knows," Loren shrugged and reached for the bottle, pouring from it carefully. "But the barricades are here. They've been here for as long as anyone can remember. They're obviously meant to keep something in."

"Or something out," I said. I closed my eyes and tipped the wine to my lips, reveling in the bitter-sweet taste. It warmed me, helped rattle loose the last of my inhibitions. When I opened my eyes Loren watched me intently, sipping from his goblet. But I looked past him, fixated upon a painting on the wall behind him. I rose, wobbly at first, to view it closely.

It was like nothing I had ever seen before, a ship sailing upon a vitrified desert, a sea of sand and sky. The main sails of the ship billowed madly as her dark skinned crew lunged to catch the wind at a proper angle. Meanwhile, two sails exploded outward like wings to either side, a configuration I had not witnessed. The weight of the ship was supported entirely by two enormous blades as if it were a sleigh cutting across ice. The entire vessel was held aloft because of these. But the hull leaned frightfully on a single runner, threatening to crash into the glassy sands, a devastation considering the frantic speed with which the craft seemed to move across the desert.

I reached for the painting, wanting to touch it. My fingertips hovered an inch over the taut canvas. "Where?" I asked, breathless, not daring to look away from it. "Where have you seen this?"

Loren finished his wine and rose, standing behind me. "I never have," he said. "Nigel. He told me of this," and he motioned to the desert in the background. "Vast oceans of sand. No water. Never a drop. Just sand. And the sun would heat it in the day so that it melted into glass so smooth these skids could just glide right over it. Like sailing on air," he said.

"So beautiful," I said, intrigued.

"Extremely," he whispered as his lips gently engaged my neck, just below my jaw where the flesh is most tender. I gasped, tried to breathe, but my breath came staccato and broken. I closed my eyes as the touch of his lips upon my skin shuddered through my body, my heart racing to keep up. I leaned my head away to expose more of myself for him. His hand wrapped around my waist, pulling me back into his hard body. His other arm snaked under mine, up along the center of my chest until it reached the topmost button of my gown. His fingertips touched my collarbone as the buttons were one by one undone, freed from their station, and with each plucked open, the yearning of my mouth and breasts and hands and sex and feet and toes responded with equal measure until at last the final button was undone. With soft hands he pulled my gown away from my shoulders, letting it puddle on the floor.

I stood, diaphanous in a simple cotton slip, desire, lust and anguish burning like a bone fire in the night. My neck arched back to receive his kiss. Lips so tender, they pillowed against mine, around them, suckled them. And then the tips of our tongues met and they moved in a seeking dance within our mouths, conversing in some new language never uttered before. His hand found my breast through the slip; I whimpered and stood up on my toes to meet his grasp. He held me ever closer and I could feel his member pushing against my rump. I reached behind and stroked my open hand against it as it bucked responsively. The yearning was intolerable, and when his hand slid down my belly, found the heat of my desire and pushed against it, my breath was robbed, with barely enough left to mutter the word, "Please."

We lay down, though it was more like falling, onto the many rugs and pillows. He kissed my lips madly while I struggled with his belt and trousers as if trying to free an ensnared animal. His hands glided up under my slip, exposing everything of me. And then his mouth descended to my small breasts, taking my nipple between his lips, his tongue, his teeth, and I moaned aloud as the soft-wet sensation spread like quicksilver through my veins, boiling under my skin.

And then he was freed, hot and pulsing in my hand. My legs opened, encircling his lean waist, pulling him closer, pulling him into my aching sex. All at once he collapsed into me and I was cross-eyed and calling out with pain as my maiden crown was breached, and I learned the tumultuous ecstasy of being filled, tightly packed and touched and loved and felt and known and moved against from the inside.

I awoke some time later and, as Loren slept ensconced in furs and pillows in the dying glow of a candle, I gathered my things and quietly left the chamber amidst regret for what had just transpired. I left the monastery as well, traversing the lesser known corridors Loren had shown me. Eventually I broke into the daylight, relieved to have avoided the notice of the journeymen, and immediately headed toward Tiplin's apartment. When I arrived, Genevieve was sleeping on the couch, Tiplin in his bed. I sat down in the armchair and watched as she slept. Worrisome thoughts beleaguered my mind to the point that I couldn't think straight. All this business with Tiplin and Fleary. And then Loren. I wasn't sure what to make of Loren. I had feelings for him, but I wasn't sure what they were. Part of me liked him a great deal, and part of me distrusted him, though I couldn't say why other than from what Madrum had said. Truth be told, I didn't feel I could trust anybody. Even Genevieve, who I never would have considered venal, seemed wholly bent toward Tiplin, whom I was certain would take advantage of her, turn her against me.

Hoping for some clarity, I pulled my legs up under me, closed my eyes and slowed my breath, once more attempting to achieve that lucidity I had found in the temple. I made some progress. A stillness spread through my body like a warm balm as the incessant questions ceased to rattle in my head. But then Genevieve awoke and immediately set about doing things, stoking the fire, rummaging through the kitchen, walking across the room. And then she began to clean.

"What are you doing?" she asked, picking things off the bureau to dust under them, then plunking them back down, rearranging them as she pleased.

"Meditating," I said, annoyed.

"Meta what?"

I exhaled. "Meditating," I repeated and opened my eyes. Genevieve didn't even hear me though, for at that moment Tiplin called to her and she was pulled back to him as if on a string.

It was no use. I was acutely aware of every distraction and now doubly unable to dismiss them. Certainly the soreness between my legs didn't help, nor my temperament, addled and anxious.

Loren returned to my thoughts like a crow to a cornfield. While he was sweet, though mildly annoying, our tryst was nothing more than the gratification of visceral urges, beyond which there was little substance and could never be. A lingering wariness had settled in my mind. Not that he had done anything to warrant my unease aside from his disrepute with Madrum, but it took little offense to earn my distrust. And besides, I liked Madrum. I respected his opinions.

I leaned forward from where I sat to see down the hallway and into Tiplin's bedroom. Genevieve sat next to him on the bed, outlined by the soft afternoon light flowing in through the window. She held his hand in hers, and her head leaned toward him kindly. Sunlight caught the reddish hues of her braided hair, wound about her crown. Though she was turned away I could tell there was a smile on her face. He spoke to her softly, his lips moving like a stream, pausing only briefly to smile here and there. Genevieve turned her head away, to the side as if to blush. Tiplin's other hand moved to encompass hers and their fingers mingled. Truly, the only clarity I had achieved in the past week was the realization that Loren, after having shared his bed, was not who I ultimately wanted.

Genevieve laughed, a bubbling effervescence that spread through Tiplin's apartment like a flood of warm water, filling every convenient pocket of space. I gritted my teeth. It was not the right laugh. It was mirth too easily given. This was not the Genevieve I knew. That tar-blackened part of me, bitter and contemptuous, wished we had left Tiplin in the sewer.

I forced myself to look away, to do something, to get up, to move. I rose and sorted through the bundle of clothes I had brought from Duenna the day after we recovered Tiplin, organizing what few belongings I had into the coat closet, an activity completely contrary to my nature. "He is a scoundrel," I said with a scowl when Genevieve finally left his side. "You should know."

She looked at me, pale cheeks flushed red, hurt as if the accusation were directed toward her. "Why do you say such things? With all that he has been through, do you honestly think I would begrudge him the simple kindness of companionship in such hard times?"

"I say such things because such things are true. He is a scoundrel to the bone," I hissed under my breath, though more envious than distrustful of Tiplin in his current state. I retreated from the closet and shut the door, then turned to face Genevieve. "He is wicked and dastardly and manipulative, and his actions will serve none but himself. And you are caught in his allure like a butter-fin in lamplight, a daft and stupid fish."

Genevieve's mouth opened, then closed again, then opened as tears welled in her eyes. Before she even spoke, I regretted being so cruel. Words exploded from her lips in torrents. "I am no fool. And just because you excel in simple academia that I will never master, you are none the wiser. There are things in our lives that cannot be measured with words or learned from books or maps or scrolls, like compassion or tolerance or forgiveness or selflessness, things that you've unfortunately never been taught. Perhaps he is a scoundrel," she growled, motioning to the bedroom, "but I will keep my own council on how and whom I should care for, and if I am burned for that, then so be it. I will be that much stronger."

My gaze dropped to her velvet slippers. I trembled not so much from her anger, but because I knew her reproach was justified. "I didn't mean it that way. I just worry for you," which was a half-truth. Underneath it all my actions were borne of opportunistic self-purpose, nothing so noble as what motivated Genevieve, nothing better than what I had just accused Tiplin of doing.

"It's alright," she sniffed. "I worry for you too. But why are you doing this?" I thought she referred to my cynical outburst, but then she opened the closet and eyed my attempts at organization with dismay. "You're never this orderly. Besides, it's pointless. My father's carriage is coming for us tomorrow."

"Carriage?"

"Yes. Tomorrow, remember? You, Tiplin and I are leaving for my father's house. For the solstice." Genevieve stared at me. "I'm being married off to the Baron what's-his-name," she said with a wave of the hand. "You are my bride's maid."

"Yes, of course," I said. With all that had been going on, I had completely forgotten about the solstice. "So Tiplin is going?"

Genevieve rolled her eyes. "Fen. Everything will be fine. I'm sure I can fend off the manipulative skullduggery of a blind cripple. Thank you, however misplaced, for your concern. Besides, I can't very well leave him here, could I?" Just then Tiplin coughed from the other room and Genevieve turned to him. "Honestly, with all the time you've been spending in that cave of yours, I'm surprised they haven't given you a holiday before now."

My heart stalled. "Yes," I muttered to myself, "so am I." I called after her, "Genevieve, I was thinking. Why not stay? I know you don't want to be married to the Baron. We could stay here. The three of us, you, Tiplin and I. You could find work in the markets."

"That's a very endearing thought," she said, resting her hand on Tiplin's forehead. "However, I've resigned to my fate. It would be perfectly within the law for my father and brothers to come take me back by force if they wanted. No, I'm afraid there's no getting out of it."

"But what if they didn't know where you were? How could they know?" I argued. "We could even start anew in a different city. It would be an adventure. The three of us."

Straightening the linen on Tiplin's bed, she said, "I don't think so. As much as I hate the power my family has over me, I couldn't sacrifice them. They're the wellspring of my life. I would be lost without them. Given the alternative of never seeing them again, I'd rather strike a compromise and marry the Baron."

And then she turned toward me, recognizing the agony in my face as the color dropped from hers. "You did ask Fleary if you could go, didn't you?" I shrugged, bit at my lip. Her fists shot to her hips. "Fenitheer, you promised me you would go." The hurt in her voice was too much to bear.

"I'm sorry," I pleaded. "Really, I meant to ask but I forgot."

"Obviously," she glared. Genevieve neither took nor gave promises lightly, and did not suffer well those who did. "So what are you going to do?"

I put my hands to my forehead and paced frantically. "I don't know. They'll have me on a post if I go without telling them." My name was already on Fleary's short list for disobedience, and I was terrified of what he could do in the wake of what happened to Tiplin. Genevieve tapped her foot against the floor impatiently. "But it wouldn't hurt to ask, would it?"

"Tell them. Do not ask. Tell them you are leaving tomorrow for the solstice, a holiday widely observed and celebrated by all peoples. You are entitled to the holiday by common law, as is everyone."

"You don't understand," I interjected. "The order obeys no holidays. Such things are considered trivial. There is too much to be done. I must get all of Tiplin's things in order, complete his briefs and filing, and my own. I can't simply leave."

"You're right," she said. "I don't understand. Do what suits you." With that she strode away into Tiplin's bedroom and shut the door behind her.

I put aside my habit to slip inconspicuously through the damp streets of the city in favor of a half run to catch Fleary before he departed the monastery for the night. My boot heels clacked against the cobblestone, disrupting what otherwise would have been a calm night, overlain with the pale light of the half moon.

My lack of subtlety, combined with the late hour, cost me jeers from the occasional gaggle of whores awaiting their fare outside the brothels and taverns, and drew the attention of some less desirables: cutthroats, poncers, moneylenders and the occasional attorney on the prowl. But I did not slow down for them and they did not pursue.

One of these undesirables, who I have mentioned earlier, was a freebooter by the name of Cutter. He was sitting against the coarse stonework of the Blue Baron Tea Company as I passed, lighting his pipe. He snapped a half glance to me, but otherwise was completely undistracted from his second favorite vice. Inhaling deeply, he rested his head against the wall and gazed skyward into the clear night. With the back of his hand he rubbed the stubble under his chin. He felt no need to engage me just yet. There was no mystery as to where I'd be. With a casualness that betrayed many years living as a vagrant, Cutter climbed to his feet and walked across the avenue into the Black Barrel, where several of his compatriots were passing the time in a friendly, albeit violent game of squall.

When I finally reached the monastery, my lungs felt as if they were filled with fire, and my thighs ached terribly. I stopped in the alcove of the small stone building and leaned against the door, rubbing my sternum as I wheezed. The door abruptly opened behind me and I toppled inward at the feet of two acolytes making their way out. "Thank you," I offered, out of breath, then got up and descended the stairs toward the library. I squeezed past several people chatting about some great war in the far eastern lands, and trundled down into the main offices. The second hallway to the left led to Fleary's office, which I discovered was locked. "No!" I cursed and kicked at the wood, seeing no hint of light escaping from under the door.

I ran for the spindle, pushed past the same group of people chatting in the hallway and bounded down the narrow east stairs, running headlong into Loren and spilling the several hundred pages of notes clutched in his arms. He watched with sinking awe as pages and pages retreated down the spiraling staircase like a paper serpent sliding into tall grass. "Loren!" I shouted, "Has Madrum left for the day?"

"I'm not sure. He might be down below the main stacks, past the specials. He went that way earlier to inspect the renovations. But good luck finding him in that maze."

"Snails!" I growled. "I promised Genevieve I would go home with her for the solstice. I'm going to try and find him, but in case I don't, I need you to tell Fleary that I'm sorry and will finish whatever work needs to be done when I get back."

"Do you have rocks in your head?" he said bending over to pick up a few pages, then stepping down and retrieving a few more. "You can't leave like this. You've already made him angry. Fleary will kill you." I couldn't tell if he was exaggerating or not.

I bent down and helped him gather loose pages. "But I have to go. I made a promise."

"So break it. Genevieve's a sweet girl. She'd understand."

I shook my head. "No, she would not. She lives and dies by her word and expects everybody else to do the same. If she felt I betrayed her she would never forgive me."

"I'd take my chances with Genevieve over Fleary. Besides, you wouldn't want to end up like Audrey."

I looked up. "What have you heard?"

"She's been bought by Bellatine. She's one of his people now."

"Bellatine," I wondered aloud.

Loren looked at me. "Honestly, you don't know? She's up there with him now. It's said that he's got more money than the entire city-state and everybody in it. His mansion is enormous. Like a little city in itself. He's known for throwing wild hedonistic affairs with women, costumes, drink, mash, every pleasure that could be gotten. It's very exclusive, though. Only certain people are ever invited. He regularly buys or indentures women and men for these things."

"How ludicrous," I said, thinking this was one of his fanciful stories.

He shrugged. "As I said, rumors. Who knows, maybe she's there as a kitchen drudge, or working in his library. I've heard he's got a huge library, and some sort of machine that transcribes books a hundred times faster than hand."

"Loren," I really didn't have time for this, "is there anything you have not heard?"

He raised a brow suggestively, though suggestive of what I was unsure.

"I should go. Genevieve will be worried if I'm not back," I said and handed over what pages I had gathered.

Loren put out his hand. "Wait, I need to talk to you. There's somebody you need meet."

I turned to go but paused. "Loren, I have to find Fleary if I can."

"Please. It won't take long. It's important. It's about," he looked past me and lowered his voice, "It's about why I'm here."

I rolled my eyes. "You mean your secret plot to exact revenge for the death of your great aunt's second removed half nephew, or have you changed the story since?"

Loren was taken aback. "Well, yes," he stammered. "But I have to keep changing the story otherwise people will take it seriously and that would be the end of it."

"Believe me," I said, "you're in no danger of being taken seriously. Now if you will excuse me, I really should go."

"Fenitheer, wait! Let me explain. This is important." He reached for my arm, but I pulled away and lurched down the stairs.

"Loren, leave me alone. I want no part in your foolish nonsense," I snapped.

"But I have to tell them something. They really want to see you."

"Tell them one of your daft stories, if they are not stories themselves," I shouted as I stormed past a pair of young men climbing the steps. They looked to me then to each other and smirked. I heard the words "lover's quarrel" muttered behind me.

I came to the bottom of the spindle and dashed for the passageway past the entrance to the special collections. In my haste, I had forgotten to take a lantern and this part of the monastery was dimly lit. Lanterns were only placed where two corridors met or turned, and they were fixed into the walls so they could not be moved.

Rooms of various sizes, all empty and cleaned, being prepared for use, sprouted to either side of the passage. But to describe them as simple rooms would ignore their original function. I didn't so much stand in a corridor but an ancient city street, narrow and twisting, with a ceiling fashioned from the hard clay above, reinforced with stalwart beams.

It was a confusing labyrinth that seemed to follow no sense of order. And to make matters worse, I was wholly unfamiliar with this end of the tunnel work. "Mr. Fleary," I called out as I trotted, exhausted and desperate. I plowed on, trying to remember every turn that I took so I could find my way back. After some time, padding up stairs and down, under archways, through alleys and dimly lit causeways, defeated, I gave up. Fleary was not here.

I retraced my steps, though again, without aid of a lantern or even dust to see my own tracks, this proved difficult. Moving in what I thought was my path, I began to rush back through. A few moments later, I realized with dread that I had made a wrong turn. Frustrated, I trudged back a bit, trying to remember where I had gone astray. I found my error, or so I thought, and continued onward. This happened three or four times before I admitted to being hopelessly lost. I stopped, cross my arms and shouted out a few key expletives. Then I listened. There was nothing. I groaned, then slumped into a nearby doorway to rest and pity myself. Across the narrow street, nestled into a wall, the flickering light of a lantern taunted me. Its reservoir was nearly full, having recently been replenished by the journeymen that tirelessly stalked the corridors.

Summoning all of my frustration, I rose and attacked the lantern, desperately trying to rend it from its casing. If I had a portable light, I could more easily identify my own track. But the lantern gave way in my hands and the glass fixture snapped off and flew across the passage, smashing against the far wall, leaving me in the dark, drenched in oil. Fortunately the flame had been snuffed as the lantern came apart, or I would have been incinerated. "At least I would have had light," I muttered in the darkness.

Picking a direction, I don't remember which, I plodded onward, figuring that if I kept to where the lanterns were lit, at some point I would find my way back into the spindle or someone would find me. However, as time went on I simply grew more confused. At last I spotted a distinguishing feature, a door, a new one by the look of the wood. It stood at the end of a long corridor, a lantern mounted just outside of it. I trotted up to it, relieved that I had finally found a way out of the labyrinth. I put my hand on the brass latch to open it, but then stopped. There were voices within. I pressed my ear to the wood and listened. I could make out one voice, the other was less distinct.

"How many of us were there? Can you even remember? Or have you forgotten?"

"No, I haven't forgotten," came a labored wheeze.

"Neither have I, for while you continue with your designs I am left to tend their souls like sheep in the night. All of them drowned in madness, irrevocably rendered."

"All but one," he said.

"Why is that, I wonder? Why should I be the odd exception? And why should I help you now?" she paused, expecting a response. "Do you even know what will happen? Will she break as the others did? Will you ruin her as you almost did me, yet another to add to my flock?"

"She will last," he coughed. "I am sure of that."

"You have not seen her as I have seen her, nor could you comprehend the implication of her potential. She is dangerous, Pruet."

"Pruet," I whispered. This was my father to whom Rouhn spoke. And they spoke of me.

"Her soul is maddening. It fidgets inside her, never still. No matter how calm she is, how at rest, there is a rage within her that churns like a millstone, grinding away her intent and clarity. There will come a time when you will be unable to control her as you have me."

"I'll be done with her long before that time comes," he said. "What if I told you there is a way to undo the damage done, a way to conjoin spirit to flesh and set them right again?"

There was a silence, disbelief. "But how could you?" she asked. "And at what price? How many others must suffer in their stead?"

"Oh, it is not without sacrifice. But at the cost of only a single life."

I pressed myself against the door to listen.

"I gather your intent," she said. "You would sacrifice one, your only daughter, for the sake of many." My heart filled with a slow and heavy despair, yet I could not pry myself away from their conversation. "So what do you get from this? What benefit do you derive from being so charitable?"

"I have my reasons," he said. "Build a cognition for her. A trap. Immobilize her soul and hold her aperture open. Then expose her to those you wish to liberate."

"They would by nature attempt to reestablish the link to their corporeal forms. Her spirit would be trampled as they rammed themselves through her aperture."

"But they would be reunited, would they not? Whole again before they finally perished. Once they were rejoined, the corporeal and ethereal would be absolved. And you would no longer be a shepherdess."

"I will still be a shepherdess for one who resembles a wolf more than a lamb. You know our attempts to tamper with the aperture have met limited success. It snaps shut as soon as we release our grasp. It is too delicate, perfect, as if its very survival depended upon being perfect. To touch it is to taint it, to upset that perfection. The aperture closes, severs the connection, the spirit and the body wander eternally apart. Thus we find ourselves with so many," she paused, "casualties. And I will be left once more to tend a soul that is unpredictable as it is dangerous."

"But perfection is the key, is it not?" he asked. "Our knowledge of the aperture is little beyond nothing. With all that we know, with all that we have gained in the years before, still our attempts are clumsy and brutish, like opening a bottle of wine with a hammer. We haven't the knowledge nor the tools to safely affect the aperture. And so it collapses like a tower with fools for masons. But you can watch her. You will know when her aperture is about to collapse. And we can end her life just before it does, causing her soul to withdraw back through safely, intact. We would destroy her body to save her soul."

"That leaves an awful lot to timing. Too soon, and it's only partially successful. Too late and her soul is forever rendered. In either case, you daughter is destroyed."

"One life," he said. "It's a small price to pay for the release of so many, and with a little luck, just her life and not her soul."

"And what would you have to gain? You are not in the business of philanthropy, and I know how fond you are of your servants. How would her demolition contribute to your obsession?"

"Not her demolition. Her death would only contribute to your cause, not mine. But what if the aperture were touched from the other side? What if something not as clumsy as this crude flesh were to direct its behavior as we have tried to do? Hold it open and let it not diminish with age or disease, but keep the waters of our lives flowing in even measure?"

"You mean your life. I've long accepted my own mortality and will reckon with that as I please. You, however, have earned the anger of the dark ones that patiently await your passing, whom you would deny proper revenge. And might I say that moment lurks nearby, by the look of you. Do you honestly believe you have that power, a power neither I, nor even Seraph had?"

"Not had," he said. "But that she has now."

"This is a strange game you play, Pruet. A dangerous one," she said. "So then, you would leave your child as bait on the gamble that the spirit of her dead mother would intercede? You want to test this little theory of yours before actually trying it upon yourself."

"She appeared to me seven years ago with knowledge of my unknown daughter. It was because of her that Fenitheer is here at all. I don't feel she would abandon her now, even in death. If I am right, she would sense Fenitheer's aperture closing unnaturally just as we can, and attempt to restore it. And if I am wrong, you will be holding her aperture open long enough to let your lost sheep pass through. Little to lose, much to gain."

"Even if you are right, what makes you think Seraph would do the same for you?"

"She wouldn't. But there are others who might," he said. "And in the meantime, I'll be waiting for Seraph with a trap of my own. The power I could glean from her soul would be considerable, enough to sustain this rotting flesh until I could enact a more permanent solution."

There were several minutes of silence, horrible and vacuous. I trembled, otherwise paralyzed. "I will do what you ask," she said. "But in return you must do what I will never have the courage to. It is forbidden, and there is risk, but it is the only way I may escape your black umbrage with my soul intact."

"The Jalamadra," he said.

"You must promise me. And when I need you to, when I tell you to, no sooner, no later. You have done and you will do worse in your life. You must promise me, and you must keep your promise. I will see your endeavors come to ruin if you do not agree to this here and now."

"But why?"

"You have wasted my time in this world, squandered my life as you have squandered the lives of the others. I would redeem myself, try at least to put right the atrocities I've had a hand in. I would have another chance to do as my soul had intended before all of this began, to balm the wounds of your foolish ambition."

"Fine then. You will have your ruin. Have you chosen a bearer?"

"Not yet. But that is a decision I will make without your council."

"As is your right. Prepare the trap. I will have my servants bring in your quarry."

I recoiled from the door, backed away from it as if their words were a poisonous miasma seeping through from underneath. My heart rattled in my chest as I stared at the portal with disbelief. My legs and arms felt heavy and numb, rendered immobile by fear. I had to leave the monastery, leave right then.

And then I heard it: a slow rhythmic clack, clack, clack of boot steps. The journeymen. I finally broke my paralysis and ran back through the tunnel work. I ran and ran, desperation my only guide. Out of breath, I stopped, leaned against a wall and listened between gasps for air. I could hear it still, drawing closer from behind. I peered over my shoulder and sure as the sea there it came around the corner, walking steadily toward me, black veil drawn over its face, hand upon the hilt of its sword.

I took to running once more, though by this time the length of my gait had waned and I could barely keep ahead of the journeyman's measured step. I moved quietly, turned this way and that along the endless sprawl of corridors, and while my path was chaotic, the journeyman followed with unerring precision. There was no path I could take, no place to hide beneath the spindle where it would not follow. Each moment that I remained in the monastery the possibility of escape became more hopeless until at last I was forced to confront my pursuer.

I had been following the lanterns mounted into the walls and standing beside one of these, I could always see the light of the next one down the passage, however dim. But my trust in their placement led me to the terminus of excavation, the end of a long tunnel, an impasse. I could go no further.

I looked for an adjoining passageway hidden in the shadows, but there was none, only a cart piled with dirt, several shovels leaned against the wall, and an unlit lantern sitting on the ground beneath the sconce. The flame contained by the sconce flickered, though there was no wind. A chill crept through the tunnel as the relentless footsteps drew close. Already I could sense it approach through the thick black.

Snatching the lantern from the ground, I lit it from the sconce and pushed up the wick to strengthen its glow, then peered down the corridor to see the glint of a helmet, a greave, the hilt of a sword. I put the lantern down and wielded one of the shovels leaning against the wall. It was heavy and too long to be an effective weapon in a tunnel, but there was nothing else. I hefted it like an axe, then waited and watched as my pursuer came fully into the light.

As it approached, I gathered my courage and yelled as I brought the shovel down over its head. It made no effort to get out of the way, nor did its sword ever leave the sheath. But then it had no need, for the blow, as mighty as I could make it, felt as if I had struck stone. The most I had done was to knock its helmet off, and I hadn't the room anymore to bring the shovel to bear a second time.

A strong hand tore at the collar of my robe as it tried to grapple me. I spared no time for thought, and in an instant wiggled out of my oversized robe, leaving me in breeches and chemise, then dove for the lantern, swung it around and smashed it at the journeyman's feet. The flames caught easily as my robe, clutched in its hands, was still soaked with oil.

I did not wait to see if this thing could perish by fire, but ran as fast as my legs would allow. I hoped the flame had quenched its misery, though I wasn't about to go back and find out, and thankfully, it did not follow.

It was only after the encounter, when I had gained some distance upon it, that I recounted the likeness which would be indelibly etched upon my memory.

Eventually I blundered back into the spindle. An overwhelming sense of relief came over me as I stood on the open floor, known territory, and I fought to keep from sobbing.

My relief was soon dispatched as I looked upward to see Fleary talking to Carrowyn outside the office. They suddenly cast their attentions about the cavern, and it did not take long for Fleary to spot me standing below. He pointed at me and directed Carrowyn. But by then I had already shot off into another tunnel, hearing the two journeymen that guarded the specials leave their post and seek me.

This time I had the advantage. I had explored many of the ways in and out of monastery, and this particular route I knew quite well, well enough to find my way in the dark, and I could outrun their even steps.

The passage turned and curved and forked, and I kept right with it by tracing my fingertips along the wall until I was eventually spat out of an iron hatch and into an alley not far from Tiplin's apartment. The slim causeway was rife with foul smelling debris, but I was glad to be above ground. I looked up to see the clear night sky between the buildings overhead. So many stars clamored to be seen. I leaned against the wall and just breathed for a moment and watched as if at any moment they might all go away.

Finally regaining my composure, I hoisted my leggings above the filth and made my way out of the alley towards Tiplin's apartment. I had to leave the city as quickly as possible, get beyond the reach of Pruet and the Journeymen. Genevieve said the carriage would arrive in the morning, take us away from all this. I just had to elude them till then.

But I never made it back to Tiplin's apartment. What happened next is an abscess in my memory, an account that I simply don't remember, and for that I am grateful, though I have little way to ensure its veracity given the source. Make of it what you will.

Cutter lingered in the shadows as she passed, her head down, distracted, arms crossed over her chest. Long dark hair tumbled over her shoulders, which aside from a thin chemise, were bare. She was small, easy to take and not the most pleasurable target, but gold is gold no matter how it's got. He slipped into the street behind her, soft leather slippers caressing the ground as he walked without a sound.

Ahead of her a street lamp glowed pale yellow, washing over the coarse textures found in the masonry of nearby buildings, the loose cobbles of the street. Nigel leaned casually against the lamppost. She was nearly upon him before she saw his ebon friend. Daft girl.

"Nigel," she said, startled. "I thought you lived north of here."

Nigel stood upright, the hazy light above giving a reddish hue to his long, tangled hair. He smiled warmly and spoke to her as if their meeting were by chance. She didn't understand the language, though Cutter did and smiled. "I will enjoy watching my friend work," Nigel said.

She stopped momentarily, more than enough time for Cutter to close the distance behind her. He slid the blade from its sheath prematurely, making her aware of his presence. She spun around, gasping at the sight of his drawn knife, bright steel, brass pommel. The look in her eyes was priceless, the perfect "O" formed by her lips, the lurch of her heart he could almost feel, the intoxicating smell of her fear.

"Nigel!" she called out. Nigel crossed his arms, grinning at the spectacle. Her attention snapped to him, then back to Cutter. She stammered, then dashed from between them, quick as a sparrow. So there was a challenge after all. It pleased him. His own feet began to move, well accustomed to such speed whereas her rigid boots struck the stones clumsily, unevenly. She called out for help, but the local residents knew better. The dispatch had been well paid to turn away her pleas.

It was another two blocks before he could catch up with her, and even still she ran like the wind to keep just beyond his reach, panting and crying and screaming pathetically for help all at the same time. Two blocks more and she tired. He could hear the heavy wheeze of her breath.

Cutter found the chase invigorating, didn't want it to end, but he knew it must. Ahead of them was the river. A compliment of sailors milled about in the streets, hollering over a game of tiles. If she made it to them, they might steal his prize.

The distance between them grew as her legs found new strength, seeking the safety of strangers. But then he lunged, entangled his fingers in her dark tresses, and yanked down and back. Her arms flailed as she fell to the street. Cutter's hand spun rapidly to gain better purchase on his prey and winding her hair around his fist, near the scalp so she couldn't escape as her hands grabbed and scratched at his arm.

He pulled her head back so she could see him, trembling in his arms like an animal caught in a trap. Her eyes were large and dark, flooded with tears. She called out one last time before the pommel of his knife descended. He let her drop limp to the street and stepped back to observe the haphazard placement of legs and arms, the mass of dark hair fanned out against the stone. Cutter smiled and sheathed his blade. The commotion drew the attention of several sailors. He smiled to them and nodded. They returned the gesture and went back to their game. A few seconds later Nigel came trotting down the street. He grinned admirably. For a moment he thought she might get away, he said. With barely an effort, Nigel hefted their quarry onto his shoulders and with Cutter, disappeared into the night.

##### Chapter 11

Tiplin's flat was dark and cold, unlocked. Loren's breath billowed away from him in the pale moonlight leaking through the frosted windows. It reminded him of swimming in still water, everything slow and muted. "Fen?" he called out and waited. Echoes. Silence.

As the floor creaked beneath his feet, Loren realized the rugs were gone, the paintings cut from their frames. The furniture was still there, but all of the little things had been taken, candlesticks, goblets, eatery, linens, even clothes.

In the sitting room Loren was surprised to see one of Fenitheer's gowns lain over a chair. The wardrobe held the rest of her garments, the gown Genevieve had given her, the white robe of her goddess, all still there. There was a letter pinned to the robe. Loren snatched it and held it up to the moonlight to read, then raced from the vacant flat.

By morning Loren threaded through the crowded streets of Felvishar like a fish swimming upstream. At last he came to the guild district where he knew Jamrhad would be. He found him, predictably leaned into the doorway of an abandoned building across the street from some tavern, gingerly rolling a small mound of mash into a grape leaf. Jamrhad's eyes rose to greet Loren as he approached.

"What did you do with her?" he spat, out of breath and angry. "I told you I would bring her to you."

Jamrhad looked at him, slipped the mash into his breast pocket. "What are you talking about?"

"You know what I'm talking about," Loren said. "I told you to wait."

"Yes, and I'm still waiting. We've been waiting over a month for you to do your part, yet you seem reluctant. And now am I to understand she's missing, that you have lost sight of her, and ultimately failed, again?"

"It's not my fault," he said. "We have to find her."

Jamrhad shook his head. "No, I don't. You have to find her. She was never my responsibility. Perhaps if you had done what you said you would, I might be inclined to help, but my hands are tied. Go back to the spindle with the rest of the vermin," he said and walked away. "Our arrangement has ended."

Carrowyn peered sidelong at the other men at the table, four tiles cradled in his hand: two ships, one sail and a shackle. The shackle was of course worth nothing, but if he could trade it for another sail for his unmatched ship, or perhaps even trade his extra ship for a slave, he would be in business. The hand alone, albeit not a bad one, would not be enough to recover the high ante. Next round the ante would be down to a slag, and would escalate from there, but for now the stakes were high. If he could win the hand, he could recover his ante and then some, plus get the remainder of the pot.

But trading was risky, and he'd never get away with trading a shackle for a sail. Not that he was bound to honesty or anything, but it could incite a squall. Besides, the only thing he could easily trade a sail for at this point was a ship. Since only a fool trades ships for sails, they would know he was lying. Better off to trade a ship for a slave. The payoff wouldn't be as big, but it might save him a tooth over the next couple of hands.

Rules were rules. He had to trade something. His turn was nigh. Glancing up he noticed the man directly across from him, a big lad with jet-black hair, just growing a beard of the same color, watching him. Not one to dodge a glance, Carrowyn put a ship face down and slid it to the middle of the table, not taking his eyes from the man across from him. "Ship for slave," he declared.

The man looked around nervously. If nobody took the offer, Carrowyn had to pitch in another copper and take his tile back. But if they believed the offer legitimate, somebody should take it. It was a good deal, after all. The man to his left snorted loudly.

The black haired man slipped a tile down next to Carrowyn's and picked up the sail. He gave no counter declaration. Bricks, he thought. No telling what it could be. But if Carrowyn didn't pick up the tile, then it meant the tile was up for grabs. Anyone could then trade anything for it sight unseen, or throw two copper in the pot and buy it outright. Carrowyn didn't feel like taking that kind of risk and so he picked up the tile. It was a shackle. He had just lost a copper in that exchange when he should have made six. Carrowyn suddenly remembered why he didn't like this game.

"Fox in the rye," he called, holding a ship-sail pair and two shackles worth nine total. Not a bad hand, but certainly nothing to get bloodied over. "Put your tiles down, lad."

The black haired man glared and slowly flipped his tiles over. Ship... ship... sail... waves. Waves! By gods, he's got the run of the table with a hand like that and he shanked on an honest trade. The man snatched up his tiles nervously. If the ante weren't so high it wouldn't be an issue. But with this much copper between them, a wave would tip the scale of greed.

Carrowyn knew what was coming next and promptly backed his chair away from the table a few inches. The player to his left threw a backhanded fist into the black haired man, breaking his nose and sending a spray of blood across the table. It was a squall. Since the man to his left had just declared contention with his first, it left only Carrowyn and the man to his right. They had to resolve any trading between them before the squall was settled, at which time all hands would be called and the pot divvied accordingly.

"Slave for sail," the man to his right offered, slapping down a tile upside down.

Carrowyn quickly did the mental calculation. Even losing the eight copper for a ship-sail pair, then another for the shackle-shackle set, he would still retain the four for the ship itself and gain another six for the slave-shackle pair, moving him from nine copper to ten. Unless the man was lying. Carrowyn sized him and thumbed his sail thoughtfully. Big. All muscle, no agility.

He set down a shackle and picked up his opponent's tile. Slave. A cool fourteen copper, but there'd be consequences. Carrowyn watched his face, waited for the downturn of his brow, the sure sign that the man realized he'd been duped, and then stood and with one fluid motion, grabbed the chair from behind him and brought it down over the man's head, knocking him back against the far wall.

Just then the door sentry removed the catch from the only way out of The Black Barrel and let Jamrhad inside. Of course he would walk in now, Carrowyn cursed just before a haymaker slammed into his jaw.

Jamrhad paid no regard to the brawl erupting toward the rear of the tavern, common as water in ale. The barkeep, a large man with dark skin, anticipated his order of bitter. Jamrhad gratefully took it and threw a few coins down. "Seen anybody?" he asked quietly.

The barkeep, who watched the brawl intently, replied, "No." Jamrhad could tell he was reaching for the small crossbow under the counter and decided perhaps now wasn't the time for conversation. Picking up his ale, he strode casually toward the hallway next to the bar and disappeared behind the second door on the right.

The room was small and full of supplies of various types: ale mostly, a little wine, some apples, cheese. A lantern rested atop a small keg in the corner. Jamrhad finished his ale, picked up the lantern and set the empty mug in its place. He pocketed an apple and walked to the far corner where a large keg stood on end. With a kick and a push, the keg split open revealing a hole in the floor beneath, replete with iron rungs descending into the darkness. Down he went, carrying the lantern by the handle between his teeth. The rungs were old and corroding, leaving rust on the hands. Jamrhad hated that part. He had forgotten to put on gloves.

The bottom met his foot softly, yielding, like wet sand. It was always moist down here. After wiping his hands on a kerchief, he continued down a narrow corridor created by a split in the earth until it ended at a hole at his feet. A rope, supported by counterweights somewhere in the darkness above, dropped down through the hole. Jamrhad wrapped his kerchief around a section of the rope, gripped it tightly and then stepped off. Slowly, he was lowered down through the narrow shaft until he landed on wooden planking. As soon as he released the rope it fed back up the shaft. Behind him, Jamrhad heard the hiss of a sword being pulled from its scabbard.

"It's me, Nigel."

"Anyone with you?" he asked in his broken tongue.

"No." Jamrhad turned and could barely distinguish Nigel's lineament from the stone behind him, even with a lantern. "How is she?"

"Don't know."

Good, he thought. Better to keep it that way.

The door to the south opened noisily as it was designed to do and Jamrhad was met by two more heavies. Passing them, he navigated a labyrinth of tunnel work, rough caving reinforced by solid ironwood beams that soon transformed into brick walls. When the corridor finally opened into a large room with a vaulted ceiling, Jamrhad breathed a sigh of relief. More than a few people had been lost in those mines, never to be seen again. A table stood at one side of the room. Two men were playing a simple game with a worn set of tiles. "Cutter, Tracey," he nodded. Cutter returned a grunt, not bothering to look up. Some simple linens, blankets and a pitcher of water sat on the table waiting for him. Tracey could have delivered them, but Jamrhad would not have had an act of grace go unnoticed. He gathered them in one hand and turned the wheel in the east door with the other, slipping through into a long stone hallway. He passed several rooms containing arms, supplies and, of course, captives.

My hands clasped my skull as if it would explode. The cold stone floor was all I could reconnoiter at first, and I was thankful for its strength. My head swam with movement, prompting me to keep it as close to the ground as I could. The room, if you could call it that, didn't seem to spin as much then. I didn't understand what had happened, nor did I have the wherewithal at the time to try, overwhelmed by pain and vertigo.

My last remembrance was of pushing open the iron hatch and spilling into the city, elated to have escaped the monastery. But as the room spun around, I despaired. My flight had been useless. I was still immured in the cold, silent ground.

There was movement outside the door, then a thunderous noise of metal against metal as a key was inserted and turned. The door opened and what light leaked in from the hallway hammered my eyes. I couldn't bear to look up, I was so dizzy. I could see his boots, black and weathered, as they stepped into my sight. I tried to scuttle away from them but managed only a few inches before the vertigo again overtook me and I crumpled against the floor.

"I must apologize for my associates," a man's voice said. "I'm afraid there was a misunderstanding. They were simply to bring you here, not assault you." I heard his words but couldn't listen. They were too loud. The scuffling of his feet was too loud. The sight of anything was too loud. "I am Jamrhad. I've brought you some blankets and some water should you want it. I know you aren't feeling well, and again, I apologize. But I wanted to tell you that you need not fear for your safety here. No one is going to hurt you. We just need to talk to you, that's all. When you've come about we'll have something to eat. Discuss things. But for now, rest." He sat the linen and pitcher down and backed out of the room, then locked the door behind him.

I heard his footsteps recede, withdraw into silence. There was not the quiet one would find in the city, not even in a root cellar. It was the great yawning calm only found far beneath the streets where no sound of life or industry could seep in, nor could any vestige of sunlight. The room was utterly black and without form. I lay there, arms pressed against my head, trying to squeeze out the pain. After some time I must have fallen asleep, only to awake shivering. Groping in the darkness, my hands came across course woolen fabric, a blanket, which I threw around my shoulders. The vertigo had mostly passed by then, though the agony produced by the wound on my head did not cease. Reaching up, I tenderly probed my aching skull to find a lump the size of an apple and something sticky in my hair, blood, I surmised. "Is this to be your clever little trap?" I muttered, rocking back and forth to keep warm. A pheasant awaiting the slaughter, a blood sacrifice? I began to cry and whimper with misery and fear. The sound resonated from the stone walls and floor. It was better than the silence, after all. But soon I stopped; I was too tired, and it did me little good anyway.

Hours might have passed as I waited, or days. I slept some, taking solace in that sweet opiate when my head would allow it. At some point I startled awake at the sound of footsteps. They drew close, pausing outside the door as someone fumbled with keys against a lock. Lantern light flooded inward as the door was opened. I recoiled into the corner. Several men came into the room smelling of mead and sweat, one carrying a small table, another with a couple of chairs. They placed them in the center of the room and left as Jamrhad entered and closed the door behind him. He held a small basket that he placed in the center of the table and sat down.

"Are you hungry?" he asked. He was typical looking, with thick red hair that was cut close to his scalp, a beard and intense violet eyes. It took me a moment, but I recognized him as one of the other patrons in the Whiskered Fish from the day Loren and I were poring over sewer maps. This must have been the "friend" Loren spoke of.

"What do you want with me?"

"What any embittered father wants," he shrugged. "Revenge."

That word again. I shook my head and pulled my knees into my chest, pressing myself even harder into the corner of the cell. This wasn't the trap Pruet had spoken of, but something entirely unexpected. "I have done nothing to you. I don't even know you."

He shook his whiskered head. "Oh, it's not you I'm after. I have no quarrel with you. In fact, I pity you. But if I am to see justice done, I will need your assistance. I need information."

"I know nothing of value. I bear no secrets."

"Perhaps," he said, scratching his copper beard. "But you will. You've witnessed many things for the sake of that accursed enterprise. Now you will witness for me."

"And why would I do that?" I said.

"Because you'll want to," he said. Taking a small wheel of cheese in his hands, he began picking at the wax rind. Soon he gained purchase with his fingernails and peeled it completely off, revealed the soft white of the aged curd. "Once you awaken to the atrocities your patron has committed, you'll want it to stop. But you can't do it alone, and neither can I. And besides," he added, "your participation in this heresy would be more than enough to buy yourself a post. That is, if the magistrates were tipped off, told of the places you go, the things you see. Bellatine is rather strict about heresy, as you've undoubtedly noticed."

"Who's to say Bellatine doesn't already know about us?" I asked, though perhaps I shouldn't have. "Regardless, assailing me in the street will earn you no favors."

Jamrhad looked down and sighed. "I'll apologize again for that. Cutter and Nigel have been on my short list the past three days for their less than delicate touch." Three days, I cursed under my breath. By Saduje it couldn't have been that long, though the churning in my gut spoke otherwise. "Please forgive my lapse in communication. Again, they were instructed to escort you here, not attack you. And honestly, I am not naïve enough to think I could convince you to help me by holding you captive."

"Then why am I here?"

"For your protection. Please," he motioned to the other chair. I didn't move from where I cowered. "Please," he said again. I rose cautiously and sat across the table from him. He poured a glass of wine for himself, then for me. "I'll explain everything."

Jamrhad took a small knife from his side and I instantly pushed away from the table. "It's for the cheese," he said, looking up at me. He cut the mold from the edges, then gouged out bite sized pieces onto a plate and pushed it toward me. "I already told you, I won't hurt you."

I sat back down at the table, prompted by the growling in my belly. "Why am I here?" I asked, pushing a bit of cheese into my mouth, probing it with my tongue.

"Because I need you."

"But why me specifically?"

"Because you are next to receive your master's favors. You will be very close him. And I need information."

"If it's Pruet you want, I've never even met him. I can do nothing for you."

He looked to me, knife clenched in his hand. A silence filled the room, and I could fathom the anger and sorrow that burned inside him. He struggled to keep it under his skin.

Finally he spoke, and did so with a lumbering staccato. "I was a father once, as I mentioned before. I had a son. A little older than you. Tall. Bright. Good fellow, he was. Strong. Noble of mind. You're too young to understand these things. You will never know love, never know fear until you have children. Never know heartbreak and sorrow until they are taken from you." His gaze fell away, then returned to me. "Tell me. When Pruet took you from your father, were you ever asked?"

I shook my head slowly, looking away. His question betrayed an ignorance of my lineage, and I certainly wasn't going to tell him what he didn't already know. "You were taken against your will, without choice. My son had a choice, but he was young. Full of vim." He stopped to pick something from his teeth. "Good fellow he was. Could have been anything he wanted. Came from a good home. We weren't rich, but well off for merchants. He could have captained his own ship if he'd wanted." A spark of recognition lit in his eyes. "Oh yes. Your father was a sea captain as I was before all of this began. An interesting coincidence, I think."

"Yes." I replied. "Odd."

"Do you like it there? In the monastery, I mean."

"It's alright." I wasn't about to voice what I had suspected, to let on that beneath my pallid skin, I roiled with fear. I had such an imminent sense of my own destruction, if not at the hands of this man, then from Fleary, and if not from him, then Rouhn or Pruet himself. At least in that moment, in the dark little cell, I was away from the monastery, away from whatever Pruet and Rouhn were scheming. And so I let Jamrhad ramble on, hoping, at the very least, I could buy some time.

"My son, Evijah was his name." He mouthed the word tenderly. "That fat bastard Fleary sought him out. Don't know how he found him or why he even chose him. He lured him into that hive, changed him. Tainted my boy, ruined him."

"What happened to him?" I asked, prodding him on despite my sincere disinterest. I was much more concerned about my own fate. Besides, this man was clearly not right in the head.

"I don't know for sure. I hardly know anything about what goes on in that place. Took me years to find it, but I did. I noticed the patterns, saw people like you, pale, dust on your hands and clothes. I watched your kind, followed them, and then I found it."

"The monastery?" I said.

"Yes, the monastery. Squatting down beneath the city like a toad, wretched, unclean. And the more I watched, the more I realized how far its squalor stretched, like a disease, literally undermining our fair city, destroying it from the foundation up."

I shrugged, "There are just books. Studies. Learning," I said in effort to make the monastery seem more benign than it actually was.

Jamrhad nodded. "Yes, but books on what? Virtue? I'll wager you'd never find one. Tell me. Since you've been there, what have you studied?"

"Archeology, Mythology, ritual..." I offered, perhaps unwisely, though I wanted to seem cooperative.

"Yes. The arcane. The occult. Things better left buried where they do no harm. Evijah studied what you study now. And then moved on to more. Witchery. Things that would go against our gods, against the pantheon. Just having watched for a brief time, we've collected enough evidence against your kind to have you burned ten times over. But that's not what I want to do. You're young, it's not your fault. But the time will come soon when they will try to ruin your mind as they have my son's."

I shook my head, but knew how true those words were. I turned away from him, to the shadows in the walls where the mortar between the stones recessed.

Jamrhad sat upright, pounded a fist into the table. "I've seen it. I've watched them and studied them, and I have seen it in a dozen before you. It is always the same." His face contorted with anger and conviction. A tear etched its way down his hardened face. "After my son was lost to me, I began to follow the young ones. And I saw it in their faces. In every single one. And I saw them afterward. After your precious monastery had finished with them and threw them carelessly into the streets, rapt with madness."

"What did you see?" I asked, now genuinely intrigued. How many were there, I wondered silently, between the journeymen and those Jamrhad spoke of? How many could there be? "How was he different? How was he changed?" I demanded, trying to extract something palpable from his sorrow.

"Don't mock me, girl. Don't ever cross me," he warned. "You don't know what horrors lie beneath these streets. You don't know what that monster you call Pruet is capable of." He leaned forward. "Or maybe you do." I looked away, unable to summon the courage to stare him dead on. "My son is no longer my son. Yes, we found him. The light that once shined from his eyes is scattered and blemished. He screams. Day and night he screams. You touch him, he recoils, consumed by his own dark fantasy. He is trapped in a nightmare," he said with cold measure, "which no doubt has been arranged for you as well."

"Why should I believe you? Why should I believe any of this?" I asked, still yearning to deny the truth.

"Because it's happened before, and will happen again."

I looked to my goblet, a plain copper dish. I almost took it in hand but thought better of it; all of my body trembled and I did not want him to see that.

"There is an asylum on 47th and Baker," he said. "Go there. Ask to see Evijah Whitfield. And then you will believe."

I grew nauseous and short of breath as my panic finally got the better of me. I stood and backed away from the table, away from him. My head was swimming with all of this talk. I simply yearned to be away, to see the sky. "Then let me see for myself. You said you have no issue with me. Let me go. You said no harm would befall me here, so make good on your promise and let me go."

"I'm afraid I can't. Not yet. But I will soon. We've issued a ransom note for you return. We need to give them time enough to consider it."

I huffed, "revenge be damned, you just want to line your pockets."

"I don't care about the money," he said. "I needed to remove you from the monastery without making it seem like I was trying to win you over. A kidnapping for money will serve that need and remove any suspicion from you."

Jamrhad pushed away from the table. "But I can tell you've had enough conversation for the time being. Think about what I've said." Jamrhad gathered himself, wiping his eyes on the back of his sleeve. He rose and knocked twice on the door. It opened and he slipped through. "We'll talk more later. In the meantime, finish your dinner," he said, shutting the door behind him. It locked with a clank.

The streets were wet and quiet in the predawn. Thick fog hung low, clinging to the alleyways and side streets. Carrowyn's footsteps echoed lightly despite his best efforts to remain quiet. He turned, looked behind him and ducked into a local hospice. Once inside, he approached the woman sleeping behind the desk, set a coin down silently and lifted one of the many keys fastened to her waist. The heavy odor of liquor and urine turned his nose, and he had a sudden desire to wash his hands. But there was no running water here. Even if there were he would be loath to trust it.

He checked the number engraved upon the key as he ascended the narrow stairs, which joined a hallway at the top. Seventh room on the left, he recalled. He arrived at the door and paused, considered knocking, but then simply barged in. Immediately, he found himself before a startled young adept, blond and dirty with barely a beard, holding a small knife. Without a thought, Carrowyn snatched the adept's hand and bent it backwards, sending the knife to the floor with a clatter and the boy to his knees in pain.

"You startled me," he pleaded with a gasp.

"You should know better," he chided. "What's your name?"

"Jesery, sir. I'm sorry. I meant no malice. I'm just not—"

"Just not comfortable out of your rat's nest. Yeah, I know," he said, releasing the boy's hand. "Get up." Carrowyn pulled a small wooden scroll case from his breast pocket and held it out to the boy. "Deliver this to Fleary."

"Yes, I will do that," he said and tried to take it from Carrowyn, but Carrowyn wouldn't let go.

"I don't need to tell you what'll happen if this doesn't make it to him intact and sealed. Now get out of here and don't look back. I'll make sure you're not followed."

"Right," he said as he headed out the door. Carrowyn watched him from the window as he left the hospice before returning to the Black Barrel.

Rama waited for him there, eying him suspiciously. "Where've you been?" he asked.

Carrowyn was caught off guard by the confrontation, though didn't let it show. He smiled. "I had a previous engagement with Lofilia at the red light. You know how demanding she is."

"Ever had her sister? Heard she likes ropes."

"You'll lose more than your coin if you let them tie you up, you know."

Inside they were greeted by Jamrhad who, out of breath, had obviously just ascended the tunnel from beneath the tavern. Carrowyn strained to hear him over the bard in the corner and the rough bunch laughing off to the side.

"Rama, Carrowyn. Good. The ransom note has been delivered. We're going to move her tonight to make sure they've not caught on."

"Where's she going?" Carrowyn asked casually.

"You'll find out tonight. In the meantime get us some food, will you?" He handed Carrowyn some copper. "Man can't live on mead alone and the food in this place isn't fit for cattle."

I was again alone, though thankfully not in the darkness, for he had left behind the table, and upon it rested the lantern, a half wheel of cheese and a nearly full bottle of wine. The last of these I wasted no time in grabbing two handed and raising to my lips. It was warm as red wine should be, and it filled my mouth and overflowed, dribbling down my chin. I gulped, swallowing with it anger and fear until I choked and spat and gasped for air, finally to lay slumped over the little wooden table, eyes fixed upon the unwavering blue-yellow light of the lantern beside me. I moved only to suckle down more wine.

I was lost in that single flame, in the quiet, the absence of sound aside from the muted hiss of burning oil wicked up from the glass reservoir in the base of the lantern. I stared at that lumen in a stupor, shut off and reeling from the circumstances pressed upon me. I simply didn't want to think. I didn't want to feel. I longed to disappear, vanish into the air and leave this place and this world, all of it, for I couldn't fathom how to redirect the momentum of my life. I was but a lonesome wanderer within a labyrinth of Pruet's design, and there was but one way out.

When my senses began to recover from the wine, I was struck by the feeling that something wasn't right. The table upon which I slumped came into focus. Just past the lantern, the space where the nearly empty bottle of wine had sat was now vacant. Odd. I hadn't fallen asleep, and I certainly didn't remember anyone entering the tiny cell. Jerking my head up from the table, I realized that the cheese Jamrhad had left was gone as well. Not a vestige crumb remained on the dark smooth surface of the table, which as I ran my hand across the top of it, seemed too smooth, devoid of even the slightest blemish of wood. My gut churned as I understood what was about to happen. Trying not to panic, I steadied my breath, but my heart pounded in my chest, a beacon for lost souls. And then, as if just awoken to their presence, I could feel them, taste their hunger on my lips. This was the trap Rouhn and Pruet had spoken of. This was to be the container of my soul, a jar for a broken spirit. And I knew of no way to combat it.

I rose, knocking the chair backward as I did, spun around to face the nearest wall, then turned again to face the door. I could sense them coming from the direction of the wall, though I can't describe how I knew that. In the way that one could feel the wind on their face or the warmth of the fire and know from where it came, I could sense their desperation, their rage and insatiable want.

The air felt thick and viscous. I clamored against the iron door, groping for the latch Jamrhad had used to get out only to find the surface sheer, without feature, not so much as a hinge or rivet or bolt, nothing but a monolithic plank of metal set into the wall. And still I could feel them draw closer, a slow unerring progression, and I was the unwilling cynosure of their desire.

I turned and pressed my back into the door as their voices ebbed into my head. They were incomprehensible and jumbled, scattered and mad like a mob of blackbirds just beyond the rough-hewn stones of the cell wall. For a foolish moment I hoped that the wall itself might thwart them, or at least stall their progress. But I watched with horror as the stones themselves began to heave and throb with an unholy wretchedness as whatever sought me phased through the brickwork.

I snatched the glass lantern with both hands and hurled it against the undulating wall, meaning for it to shatter and catch fire. But it struck the wall dumbly and landed intact upon its side on the floor, that single flame unwavering to the side as well. I growled with frustration and fear and anger, then screamed, "Get out! Leave me alone!" The entire cell vibrated and pitched, and I realized that I had power here. Raw desperation broiling out, the room shuddered around me.

But even as my body radiated that strange energy, they emerged through the wall. Possessing no visage of their own, they wrapped the space around them to fit. To look at them was to look at a painting of what was before them, only the canvas was being pressed on from behind. They were pushing their way through Rouhn's little construct. Soon they ebbed wholly, first one, then another and another and another and others still, into the tiny room.

And on they came, more than I could distinguish, vaguely familiar forms melded into one, leaving a wake through the cerebration, their only visible manifestation. There was no means of escape that I could reckon. I was doomed to suffer whatever their desire might be. As I resigned to it, as the distortion in the air before me drew closer and their fluid appendages groped toward me, the anger in my chest grew ferocious, banal and primitive. The fundamental want for survival was not lost upon me. And my anger, which in the familiar context had no form or shape, manifested as a palpable and mutable force.

My flesh glowed. Instinctively, I brought the focus of this newfound power into my hands, compressing it until my fists shone white, blazing and refulgent. And as the first of my predators came within reach I struck out with all of my fury and rage. For a moment, a mere fraction of a moment, as I passed through it and it through me, our disparate minds became one. I could feel the wretchedness of it, like something wicked and ravenous that scuttled low beneath the dark mists, hunting only in part for the abatement of hunger.

There was a tremendous noise, a thunderclap as my target reeled backwards and down, seeming to cower with fear and pain. But even as I fought against their capricious grasp, striking and smiting again and again, they advanced, overwhelming me with the grinding certainty of a millstone. I was struck, knocked against the cold wall and pushed to the floor.

The agony that followed was like nothing I have ever felt since or before. I could not see what was happening, but it felt as if I were being dismantled by bits at a time, skin pulled from flesh, muscle cut away, bones jarred loose then broken and broken and broken again, organs scooped from my chest. They left nothing of me, my eyes, tongue, teeth one by one knocked from my jaw. I took brief consolation as I screamed and writhed that the agony would only last a minute longer, but there was no sweet release from that pain. Though my body was being ruined, and should have lived no longer, I still felt. I still ached and struggled, arms and legs flailing madly until they were torn apart, fingers and toes twisted off, joints crushed. I still felt it all, even the warmth of my own blood as it evacuated my body.

Time slowed as I was broken, and what feeble light there was dimmed further into blackness. And all there was, all that remained was unbearable suffering heaped upon itself. And it was eternal. Imagine the most painful moment of your life. Hold the pinnacle of that agony in your mind. Now imagine that you were cursed to exist in only that moment. I was caught there, held forever in that darkening still.

A scream surged through the stone halls like a wraith, a wave of fear and anguish pushing through the sealed door, past Nigel and Rothgow and the tunnel work, up the narrow shaft into the tavern and outside still. Jamrhad shuddered, little ripples forming in his mead on the table before him. "By the gods," he said, pushing the table out of his way and running headlong for the backroom. "We're too late." He slid down the rope and rushed into the watch-room to see Nigel and Rothgow agape, dumbfounded with horrid fascination, staring at the sealed door that protected them from the darkling witchess.

"Open the door," he commanded, but they only eyed him with disbelief. "Open the door!" he stammered. They hesitated, but soon complied. The sound of grinding stone rumbled through the chamber as the door swung open and her screams flooded the room like a wash of acid, eating away courage and resolve. Jamrhad pushed through it as if he were wading through mud that grew thicker with each step, until he finally reached the cell door, removed the bolt and pushed inside. And there she was, mouth and chin stained crimson with her own blood, vomit and misery, soiled and wretched, tearing her face with her hands. Her eyes were black and searching, desperate to see beyond the prison of her own mind.

"Nigel!" he yelled. "Get in here!" He pounced on her, straddled her and held her hands away from her face with great effort. Feverish, she thrashed and screamed and choked. "Nigel!" he called desperately. "Nigel, we're losing her!" Nigel appeared from around the corner, stunned by the sight of her. "Don't just stand there, get something in her mouth. She's bitten her tongue, she'll choke to death unless we can turn her over."

Nigel took a handkerchief from his pocket and wadded it into a ball. He knelt facing Jamrhad, braced her flailing head between his knees and forced her jaw open with his hands. He called out as she bit down hard on his fingers, breaking the skin, but it gave him opportunity enough to push the wadding between her teeth.

"Alright, let's turn her over. Grab her arm." They spun her about and blood spewed from her open mouth among gasps and coughs and heaves. They sat on her to keep her from dashing her head, knees and feet into the stone floor. The two men looked to each other as she convulsed beneath them, breathing wheezy and quick between cries.

"What now?" Nigel asked, his face ashen and empty.

Jamrhad looked to him and shrugged. Rothgow peeked around the corner timidly and Jamrhad suddenly found his wits. "Rothgow, get some rope. We've got to get her out of here. They have to find her alive."

The Black Barrel was thankfully empty of patrons when they emerged. The girl, slung over Nigel's shoulders, pined incomprehensibly through the gag held between her teeth, wriggling like a fish. Rama glared. "I thought we were moving her later," he said.

"Plan's changed," Jamrhad barked, out of breath, as Nigel handed the body to Rama. "We've run out of time."

"But it's not even dark yet," Rama said.

"We don't have a choice. They have to find her alive or we'll get pinned for the murder." He directed Rothgow to the door. "Get her out of here. Dump her on the street where somebody is sure to help her." Just then something crashed against the door, sending an iron binding clattering across the floor. Rothgow turned to him white-faced, "Jamrhad."

"What?" he asked, though by the time the word left his mouth he understood.

"She's not moving," he said. "Not even breathing."

"By the gods, we're going to burn," Rama muttered.

Another solid strike at the door and Jamrhad knew everything. "Carrowyn," he cursed and ran for the backroom. Nigel was a step faster and made it in before him. Jamrhad slammed the door shut behind him and dropped the crossbeam into place. He turned and found Nigel already gone down the narrow shaft. A half second later, Rama pounded on the heavy wood of the portal. "Jamrhad, open the door! What are you doing? Open the door!"

By the time Jamrhad descended the rungs, he heard the crash of the main door to the tavern as it buckled inward, followed by the sound of drawn swords clashing and meeting unarmored flesh. He grabbed the rope lift and rode it down to the bottom, then cut the line with his knife and watched as the counterweights sucked the line into the darkness above. A metallic crash sounded a second later from somewhere below him as the counterweights met the earth. The final screams of his compatriots echoed throughout the ancient halls and Jamrhad, trembling and sodden with the girl's blood, disappeared into the dark and twisted chaos of tunnel work far below the ancient city of Felvishar.

There was a raging light, a thousand suns converging into one sky. It melted away the walls and the shadows, driving the darkness into the crevices and fissures of forgotten spaces. It burned ferociously, purged the maddening jumble of voices and thoughts that hovered over me, burned them to ash, and then the ash to nothing. There was blue above, punctuated by little spots of white that raced across my view.

The sky spun round to night and all of the cool sweet scents that accompanied it. She was there beside me, working silently in the darkness, mending my soul. Broken bones straightened and healed, fingers and toes rejoined to hands and feet, which were themselves reconstructed with loving precision, and flesh stitched to meet flesh with solid line. The needle hurt, but it was bliss by comparison.

She was not what I had envisioned my mother would be, tall and fair skinned, with long white-blond hair. Her silhouette was radiant in the starlight, pale tendrils spun down to lay among the soft blades of grass beneath us.

Somewhere an owl invoked its haunting spell from the trees overhead, then flew with the quiet wind into the meadows. A breeze danced like children's kisses over my knitted skin. She hummed a melody, familiar from a time before memories were memories, something of dreams in a before-age, a nine month sleep.

With a set of silver shears, she gently cut away the dark tresses of my hair. The grinding of the blades next to my ear was foreign and unnerving, but the explanation soon came to put such anxieties aside. "You have lost part of you," she said in a voice that sung like the lip of a crystal glass. "It has been taken from you." And so she cut and cut and cut my endless hair, aligning carefully each lock, braiding them to make them stronger and tying them together again to fashion a sturdy line as thick as a ten year tree. She rose and laid it carefully around me, tying the ends to make the circle complete.

She sat by my side, guiding errant strands of hair away from my face with her fingertips. "This much I have done for you. But you must live the rest on your own if you are to grow strong." Her eyes shone azure, even in the night, as far off seas almost met with sky. "You are the water of my life. Live where I have died. Thrive where I have withered. You are my love. You are my one." Her fingers held closed my nose and her lips enfolded mine as she breathed the sweet ichors of salvation into my wounded spirit, and I was once again born into this world, even as her essence was leeched away from me, drawn into Pruet's hungry maw.

But before letting go, she gave me yet one more gift. In a vision I saw her, alive and vibrant, her belly full and low, making her way out of the spindle and into the catacombs that were rarely traveled these days, for they rested behind the great barricades. She was met in some dark place by another, an older man with a cane. She walked away from him and he followed her, palm open, pleading. She turned from him and moved further, deeper into the shadows, and yet he followed. Until at last she had walked into a tunnel which was blocked by a wall of debris from a collapsed ceiling. She looked back nervously, pacing from side to side with her great belly. She turned toward the man who followed her, who pleaded with her still. And she strode toward him, meaning to pass him in the hall.

His cane rose up and struck her, knocking her down. He quickly converged upon her even as she struggled. His hands found her throat, and rendered her body lifeless. This was how she died. Not in birthing me, as I had been told.

And then there was nothing left of my mother, not even a whisper in the ether. Anger rose in my heart, anger for the murderer of my blood. But also relief, for I had harbored such guilt for my mother's death, as if through the act of being born, I had deliberately killed her, when in fact I had nothing to do with her parting this world. But then who did? I would have to see Pruet to know surely. And if what I had seen was true, how did I come of this world? Just as she had died, would I not have died in her womb?

Something bubbled up through the darkness. "Don't move," came a grizzly voice through the haze. It was Madrum. "Lay still," he said. "You've got some scratches on your face, you've bitten your tongue. Things will be a little tender for the next few days."

I felt his careful hands at work, unfastening the bindings holding me to the table. There was a tug in my mouth as the block of wood was removed from between my teeth. My jaw ached, and my tongue felt swollen and sore.

"Keep your eyes closed," he said, removing the satin cloth. "It's good they found you when they did. You had slipped away, stopped breathing and all. That was a week ago."

Delicately, he peeled the layers of damp cloth from my cheeks. The moisture left behind stung as it evaporated. "Since then," he continued, "we've kept you sedated, unconscious, and salved your wounds the best we could. Now then, let's have a look at you." From behind my closed eyes I could sense the warmth of a candle moved closer to my face. "No, not bad. You might have a little scarring down your cheeks, but nothing a little powder couldn't conceal. Now, very slowly, try to smile. But don't force it. I want to see how your face adjusts."

I did, and for no apparent reason started giggling. As I laughed pain lashed across my face. "Oh," I exclaimed through clenched teeth, though still unable to suppress my joviality.

"Not too much," he pined. "Wouldn't want your face to set like that. Nobody would recognize you if you walked around smiling."

It stung terribly, but I couldn't help it. The very act of drawing breath, of feeling wonder or pain, or anything at all filled me with such joy that I overflowed. My absurd laughter, a rambling cackle, filled the room. I opened my eyes to see concern mixed with relief in Madrum's bristled face. That only made me laugh harder and exclaim in pain all the while.

"I'm happy you've returned to us," he said as tears draped his cheeks.

The giddiness subsiding, I breathed deeply. I smiled and said, "I am happy too."

Pruet's scheme had only half worked. I had fallen into the trap, but they could not destroy my body as they had intended to do, nor were the lost souls Rouhn spoke of allowed to reconnoiter. I had, with the help of my dead mother, survived them all.

"How have you been?" I asked the old sage.

He smiled and said, "Could be worse. Your father has me working past the barricades now. Never did like the outdoors anyway. It's dangerous work, but then I think that's the point."

"Madrum," I started.

"Never you mind that," he rebuked. "Takes more than shamblers to stop me. Maybe I'll take you down with me sometime. You might like the adventure."

"Maybe," I said, still wondering what exactly a shambler was.

The next morning a cold mist clung to the cobbled streets of the city. The alabaster walls of the Felvishar Asylum rose from the thick vapor as doves cooed softly from its thatch roof. I entreated entrance supposing to be a younger sister, still not without argument. The halls smelled of filth and urine and disease and hay. The rooms were neatly fitted together like rows of closets side by side, and held bodies not yet moving this early in the day, though some seemed ever to twitch. The ward, a large man, unshaven and certainly unwashed, plodded before me, jingling rings of keys between his thick fingers. He looked back at me now and again, perhaps to see if I had lost my nerve and run off.

"How long has he been here?" I asked.

The man shrugged. His enormous shoulder blades undulated beneath his burlap robe as if he were about to sprout wings. "Four, five years maybe. He's a good roomie. Don't talk. Don't complain. Barely eats nothing, so we don't got to feed him much. How long it's been since you seen him?"

"Longer than five years. Do you know what happened to him?"

"What? To make him like he is?" He shrugged again. There was a scuffle of doves in the rafters above, showering our path with loose feathers. "Birds," he looked up with disdain. "No, I don't know what happened to him." He abruptly stopped and motioned to the left. "Here," he said, stepping out of the way so I could have a clear view. "Evijah."

And there he was. A little older than I, though not by much, emaciated and ruined. His hair was blond, like Audrey's, though he had pulled most of it out, save patchy remnants. The gown he wore was once white, but now sullied many times over. In this he shivered and shivered, in this and his tight, buckle-bone skin.

"No," he said. "He was like this when he came."

I crouched, drew close my coat and peered through the rusting iron bars to see him, but he faced the other way. I could only make out the jagged lineament of his hips and shoulders. "Who brought him here? Who signed his committal?"

The ward rubbed his shaggy head with his left thumb and forefinger, looking upward as if the answer was inscribed on the ceiling. "A guy. Big brawny guy signed him in. Ah, what was his name? I remember him 'cause almost always the constable signs them in."

"Carrowyn."

"Yeah, that's him," he said pointing his finger at me. "Said he found him nearly drowned in the river. How'd you know his name?"

"Lucky guess. Who pays his board?"

"Nobody," he said. "City, I guess."

"The Civic Authority?"

"Yeah, that's it." The ward watched me as I stared into the cell. "For a sister, you don't much look like him."

"We're half-siblings," I lied. "Open the door."

He looked at me. "I can't do that."

Without breaking my gaze from the broken boy inside, I insisted. "You have the keys, so yes you can. Please, open the door. Just for a moment. I have to see his face. I have to be sure it's him."

The ward sighed and picked through his keys. "You know I'm not supposed to be doing this, but 'cause you're his sister..." he said, trying a few before finding the match. As the door ground open, the sack of bone and skin continued to shiver, but made no other motion.

"Just don't get me in trouble or I'll lock you up in there with him."

"Yes, of course," I said, no longer paying any attention to him. I approached the huddled mass, tense as a cat. His foot rested near me, and I examined it, noting the many rodent and flea bites, some of which were infected and showing early signs of gangrene. I trembled as I touched him. His skin was cold and alien. Slowly I traced my fingers up his calf, tugging at his wretched gown to reveal more bruised skin hugging bone and joint and tendon, pale and thin as eggshells. But his face remained hidden and so I stepped one leg over him and tugged at his frail shoulder until he spilled over onto his back.

His eyes were closed and still. He shivered and groaned, hands clutched down, gangling and taut like sparrow claws. His face was thin and hollow as if his visage were pulled over a drum. His cheekbones jutted, exaggerating his sunken eyes. His lips were chapped and haggard, blistered and bleeding.

"Be careful now," the ward said.

I put my hands to the boy's face and with my thumbs above his eyes, forced them open. The instant I saw beyond the pale gray of his iris into the empty black between, I recognized him. I had known this soul before. Evijah was one of those who had ravaged me in the cerebration, released upon me like a rabid wolf, a gentle spirit turned predator. It was most certainly him. "Is this what I was to become?" I muttered under my breath.

And as I knew him, so did he descry my likeness in his madness. All the world's fright leapt into me as he called out, spitting inflections of hatred and hunger in a tongue only known to him, bursting from his catatonic state into violent rage and desperation. I reeled back from his weak, clutching grasps and slammed into the iron bars behind me. The ward quickly interceded, grabbed my arm with a speed uncanny of such a hulk, yanked me out of the cell and slammed the door shut.

"What are you doing?" he yelled over the sound of the screaming boy. He motioned toward him, "now I got to get him down."

"I'm sorry," I stammered, but I was not as apologetic as I was horrified.

"Just go. You know the way. I got to take care of him." I hesitated and he shouted, "Go! Get out of here." I turned and walked away, but the beating of my heart insisted I run. And I did, pausing to take a breath only when I had emerged onto the street.

Candle in hand, I found my way down the twisted steps and corridors of Spindledar, gathering stares and conjecture from each passerby. For though I lived and breathed, I could have as easily been a wraith by their startled reactions, or yet another sycophant. I ignored them, however, yearning little to satisfy their curiosity. Soon I reached the small desk I had claimed for study. On it, several tomes sat untouched, having gathered dust as had the stack of notes meant for transcription. I found it strange to think it had only been a week since I looked upon this work, yet it felt like years. Without delay I set the candle down, eased into the chair and began packing my few affects into a leather satchel Tiplin had left on the hook next to the door: books, the optic, Tiplin's misshapen collection of flatware, his puzzle lock and the commutation box.

One might wonder why I returned at all, why I did not seek refuge elsewhere, for I certainly was not safe in the spindle. However, I was driven by curiosity to know why Pruet had schemed for my destruction, why he'd toyed with my soul as if I were a bit of wood for the fire. I couldn't step away from that.

I set the satchel next to the door and dipped a quill into the inkhorn, intending to pen a note to Loren, but then I heard Fleary's heavy feet approach. I crushed the delicate quill in my fist then turned to the open door to find him standing, looking down at me and smiling, though his smile resembled a kind gesture only so much as to bare his teeth, a precursor to a growl. "For a while I thought we had lost you."

How I hated this man. With each breath he drew, disdain grew like a black tare in the garden of my heart. "For a while," I said, "I was lost."

He grunted. "What are you doing?"

I shrugged, folding the parchment over. "Nothing that concerns you."

He noted my hostility and said, "I want to talk to you about what happened."

"So talk."

He looked out into the spindle to make certain we wouldn't be overheard, then closed the glass door behind him. "First of all, what did you tell them?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing at all? Didn't they ask anything of you?"

I shook my head. "No, they didn't want me. They want Pruet's money."

"What else?" Fleary cupped his chin with his hand.

"There is nothing else. That's all I remember."

"What happened to you then?"

I began to tremble with anger, and wished so much then that I could wield it as I had in Rouhn's construct. "You should know better than I, Mr. Fleary. What did happen next?"

Fleary dismissed the implication. He was not interested in answering questions, only asking them. "Speak plainly," he said. "What happened to you?"

I could bear it no longer. Lies be damned, I would not play this charade. There was nothing I could not endure in life or death that would be worse than the torture they had already inflicted. And there was no benefit to be had from fear of them. I spat, "You know just as well as I do, or is it too much for you that I yet exist?"

Fleary's lips tightened as he glanced around once again to see what sort of attention was being drawn to us, for though the door to the spindle was closed, the glass was thin. Few were about and so he took the liberty of my arm, grasping sternly to the point of hurting, but I didn't flinch. The pain was nothing but a tickle to my senses. I smiled, almost laughed as I realized that all true power this man or any had once held over me was insignificant compared to the power and strength I held in my heart. My temerity only angered him further and he drew close so that he could growl into my ear without being overheard. "Listen to me," he said. I could feel his aura, perceive his state of mind. It reeked of malice, caprice and yearning. "You will appear before myself, the journeymen and the magi in two hours. And you will plainly and cooperatively divulge everything that you know, everything that you said, everything that was said to you. And if you do not you will be lashed relentlessly, and what you have just been through will seem like a country stroll by comparison."

I closed my eyes and breathed. I trembled so hard I'm sure Fleary saw it as fear, but it was the welling of strength inside, the excitement of a slave finding the key to her own shackles. "No," I said tenderly. "I will not appear before you, the journeymen or the Magi. I will speak to my father, and only my father. I will cooperate as I see fit, as the circumstance provides."

"How dare you be so insolent. You have no right to speak to me thus. You have no idea of the torment we could press upon you. You will do what I say and when I say it as your master has instructed you to do, else you will be punished, and severely."

His grip lessened slightly and I wrenched my arm free with surprising force. "Do your worst," I sneered. "He is your master, not mine. I am not his sycophant, nor yours. I have endured all the injustices you are capable of and have remained unbroken. I shall not bend to your fetid wind now. If your master desires to know of my tribulations then he may consult me directly and alone. I will return in half an hour. He may converse with me then or not at all."

The veins in Fleary's forehead surfaced as I rose and pushed past him into the spindle, snatching up the satchel as I passed, heading to the surface.

The bitter chill of the evening air struck me solidly, and it felt wonderful after the laborious ascent up the main staircase. Nearby, the clappers were already tending the street lanterns, refilling reservoirs from oil-filled wineskins that swung from their shoulders, lighting the wicks as daylight yielded the sky in fiery protests of reds, oranges and violets, which were caught in splinters of light between the jumble of ice collected on the wide banks of the Fem. Making my way to the river's edge, I sat down on the bulkhead and let my feet dangle over the side, clacking them on the blackened wood. The surge of anger that had consumed me passed, leaving exhaustion in its place. Gone also was the confidence that I had done the prudent thing by being so forward with Fleary. But then I wondered why I cared for his opinions. A breeze came down river and I felt cold, as if my skin were made of paper. A yawn overtook me and I stretched, still sore and hurting from the days past. I hadn't slept since I awoke to Madrum's care. That most gracious of opiates had not descended upon my brow except in an uncomfortable half sleep that lasted only seconds before I startled awake again.

Since that day, I had remained in Loren's chamber outside the barricade, which was comfortable, though lacked anything of interest to do aside from reading and rutting. My newfound restlessness had driven away any patience for the required reading, none of it having any practical application. Even studies on the aperture and the nature of the soul had no allure, since I was determined never to troll those waters again.

Rutting, though it had obvious pleasures, would require some level of intimacy on my part, which at the time I had no desire to give. Loren seemed to share my aversion to it, as he rarely showed his face in my presence, perhaps ashamed for his part in things. He let me stay in his chamber alone, and I did not seek him out.

I was bottled, walled in and guarded against the siege of the world. The crossbeam had been brought across the door, the portcullis dropped, the killing field shorn close and there was a fire under the oil. There was no want for intimacy, only anger, cynicism.

I rubbed my eyes. They were dry and burned for lack of sleep. Images and faces swirled rapidly through my mind and I found myself unable to assert control over my thoughts. I kept returning to the vision of my mother and her death. I suspected it had been Pruet, but I had to be certain. I had to see him for myself. I gazed past my haggard black boots and into the still water of the river some six feet below. A dull mist settled over the reeds poking through the ice on the far bank. A whistle sounded from across the water, followed by a belch of steam as the textile engines shut down for the day. It was late evening, and the last embers of daylight were slowly dying in the westward sky, replaced by the balm of night.

There were boot steps behind me, purposefully heavy so as not to startle. Looking over my shoulder I saw Carrowyn approach. His brown leather tunic was freshly cleaned, as was the white chemise he wore under it. Prim, all things considered. "What do you want?" I asked, half wondering if he planned to kick me from the bulkhead into the gelid waters of the river.

"What do I want?" He sat down cross-legged beside me. "A bit of soil for a garden. Nothing big. Just enough to plant potatoes, maybe some turnips and carrots, with a little path down the center. Maybe some flowers, black eyes and morning bells that my children could pick for their hair."

I eyed him with disdain. "Did you come all the way out here to relate your horticultural ambitions or to keep me from throwing myself in the river?"

He pulled a slender pipe from his breast pocket and put it between his teeth. "Neither, really. If you want to drown yourself, that's your own business. Just don't splash too much. I just had this cleaned."

"If you're looking for gratitude," I said, "you'll have none. You've simply brought me from one scoundrel to another."

He lit his pipe and blew small tendrils of sweet smelling smoke into the air, not bothering to respond.

"You honestly have no idea of what happens here, do you?" I said.

"I know enough to know better," he said, taking a taking a long draught from his pipe.

"I don't think so," I said. "For all the things that you do, I wonder if there is at heart a decent man. But then if you knew, you would not work for them."

"I do the things I do because I have to, not because I enjoy it. You're not the only one bound to his service. It's not like I have a choice."

"But at what price? Would you sacrifice the peace of mind of honest labor so readily?" Again, no answer from him. "I think you do know, Carrowyn. I think you do know, but perhaps you choose not to understand your own place in all this."

"Perhaps," he said, blowing smoke into the air.

Back past the buildings on the far side of the river, there was the glow of bone fires in the square. I closed my eyes and listened. Holding my breath, I could almost hear the screams of the crowds gathered to the spectacle and warmth. I wished to hear Pruet among the victims, smell the sick sweet burning of his flesh. I had never even met this man and already I envisioned his death.

"Your half hour is up," he said, breaking me free from that grim fantasy.

Extending a hand, I said, "Give me your knife."

He looked at me. "You're mad if you think you can walk in there and cut his throat."

"I'm not going to kill anybody," I huffed, rolling my eyes. "I'll give it back. Just let me have it a moment." Reluctantly he pulled a squat knife from his boot and handed it over. I took it and gathered my hair into one hand behind my head then sawed through it, leaving barely enough to cover the back of my neck, then dumped it into the icy water below. It lay there in a great dark mound, refusing to sink out of sight. With a grimace I returned the knife, rose and headed back into the monastery.

Carrowyn was right. I would never have gotten close enough to kill Pruet, though I did entertain the thought. I was searched a little too well by a stern looking magi with a dark mustache and beard before being led into an unfamiliar portion of the monastery, followed by two journeymen whom I pitied immensely, knowing now their plight.

I expected to encounter resistance or at least a word from Fleary, but he remained unseen as I was led through long wooden corridors and into a small chamber, little more than a closet with a bench and a wooden grate through which one could speak to another in an adjoining chamber. A small lamp set on a hook in the wall provided some illumination, but did nothing to reveal the chamber behind the grate.

I sat a moment before realizing there was a person in the next chamber. I could hear his breathing, shallow and sickly as if taken by consumption. "Who is that?" I called out.

"Did you not," the voice rasped with great effort, "wish to see me?"

I snatched the lamp from the wall and shielded my eyes from the flame as I held it near the slats of the grate. I saw a flash of fragile limbs, skin wrought with boils, growths, sores, swollen fingers, deformities, bruises, discoloration, blistering lips, a glimmer of black within black eyes shuffle quickly under brown cloth to evade the piercing shafts of light. It was him. And he was a monster.

"I have agreed to see you," he coughed. "It would be kind of you to preserve my dignity."

"You have no dignity," I said. "You are as wretched a beast on the outside as you are on the inside."

"Such harsh words from a wayward daughter. It would be foolish to take exception at my appearance. For were it not for me you would someday suffer this cruelty as I have, as my forbearers have before me," he said. "Now what is it that you mean to say that demands my presence so acutely?"

"Why? Why have you taken such interest in my life only to throw it away like a bone to dogs? Until you answer that question to my satisfaction, dare not call me daughter for I have never known you nor shall ever know you as a father."

There was a sputtering noise, guttural and wet, and I could not distinguish if he was laughing or crying, or perhaps choking to death. I hoped for the latter. "Thrown away indeed," he said. "Are you not sitting here now, as fine and as strong as you have ever been?"

I suppressed a desire to scream at him, pound through the grate and beat him. "You will not play this game with me. I am not your pawn. You know full well what that trap was meant to do."

"Yes. It was the crucible of your soul, from which you were reborn. The stone will begrudge the chisel, though the chisel finds the beauty of the stone. See this for what it is, the shaping of your soul. It does you no good to chastise the artist who has made you."

"You are no artist," I spat. "And I am wrought of my mother's womb, not from your insanity."

"Yes, your mother. Seraph. We did not throw you like a bone to the dogs, as you put it. We threw you as child to your mother's arms. We knew that she would be there to catch you in the dark between. It was, after all, she who brought you to our attention in the first place. And look at you now, fueled with anger, resolve. You burn brighter now than any sun, passionate, brilliant. Through your experience your true potential has been revealed to you. No manner of book could provide you thus. Your mother knew this, as did we. It is a gift that will serve you well the rest of your long life."

And what of my mother, and her murder, I mulled, biting my tongue. As much as I wanted to declare his guilt, I would not escape the monastery alive if I did. The two journeymen remained outside the door for a reason, I wagered. "You would be so trite as to placate me with such drivel. Do not be so pretentious as to think I am unaware of your self-serving nature. I was an experiment, just like so many before me, only for whatever reason I survived, and am therefore not damned to mindless servitude as are the journeymen that stand outside this door."

There was again coughing from the other side, and I found myself leaning away from the wooden screen for fear of catching whatever malady plagued him.

"You need not retreat from my condition," he said. "Apart from the fact that it is not contagious, you will be from this point on forever impervious to such infirmity. It is my intention to render myself the same, if you must know, by transformation of the aperture."

"Is that what all of this is about? All that loss, so much risked, and for what? All this meddling, the ruining of souls, simply to satiate a selfish urge to prolong your own life?"

He shifted uneasily in the shadows. "No, not entirely. Not at first. But it became that. Though I would not classify survival as being selfish. You know nothing of what awaits me. I cannot allow myself to die. I cannot pass beyond."

"But why not?" I shouted. "Why must you condemn so many others to something worse than death to shirk the fear of your own? If life truly does not end as Rouhn insists, then why continue to live in such a state? Let the sickness run its course. You're not benefiting the world by staying alive."

"Oh, it's not death I fear," he wheezed. "I have dabbled in things no mortal was meant to touch, things great and terrible. And for it I have made enemies both in this world and the next. Should I pass now, there would be nothing after that for me. There are things, shadows that await my arrival into the ether which are far more sinister than I. It is not my life I attempt to save, but my soul."

"And how do I fit into this little scheme of yours?"

"The aperture, as you should know, is the key element in our longevity. It opens when we are born, constricts and gives as we sleep and wake, closes when we die. If it could be held open, one could live indefinitely. But it has been, until now, thought impossible."

"Spare me the lesson. I've read this a hundred times. If the aperture is touched it will close without warning, thus disconnecting the corporeal from the ethereal," I recited from memory. "That is what happened to those 'things' I encountered in the cerebration. But why would you risk your only daughter?"

"No matter how sure of something I might be, I am not foolish enough to subject myself to an unproven concept. I knew Seraph would not let your soul be rendered, and here you are. But even had she not interceded, had you not been abducted, your heart would have been stopped before you were completely ruined, and your aperture would have closed naturally. Certainly you would have been finished in this world, but your soul would have remained intact and free to live once more. However I could not myself take that chance."

"I was fodder for your ambition, then. My soul a test for yours."

"Yes. And in return for proving my theory, you have been bestowed with forever life. You will not wither. You will not age. You will not succumb to disease, or rot."

"Nothing but conjecture. I could catch a cold tomorrow, perish, and all of your sinister little efforts would be for naught."

"There are ways to observe the state of another's aperture, and telling side effects as well. Tell me," he coughed, "do you feel well rested, or are your attempts to sleep shallow and fruitless? If the gate of your soul were not fixed open, if it were allowed to constrict, you might find slumber. But that is something you have to do without from now on."

It wasn't until he offered this bit of evidence that I began to understand what he implied. Was I to be immortal? My stomach dropped, and the room spun as I finally understood beyond theory how my life had been altered, and at what a terrible price.

"But all of those people, those souls are gone because of you," I stammered, angry, hurt, bewildered. "You deserve what punishment you would receive when you pass on. You deserve to suffer for your atrocities, to repay those you have wronged, but instead..." I stood, needing to get away from this place, away from him. I shouted, "all this crime, all this murder, bloodshed, deception, everything for the self-indulgence of one little man. I would rather have died than been part of this cruel design."

I flung open the door to the chamber, pushed past the two journeymen before they could reach out, and raced for the steps and out of the spindle. I couldn't appreciate what had been done. Even if it were true, so much had been lost. Pruet was a destroyer of dreams, and for that I could never forgive him.

I burst from the monastery just as snow began to crowd the sky in thick, dark flakes. And then I ran. I didn't know where I was going, but I needed to get as far from him as I possibly could. Putting one foot before the other, I fled through the streets as the snow fell. I ran through the markets and the red light district. I crossed the river and kept running. I passed the hard stone lineaments of the lenders and civic sector, and kept running. The steam from my breath trailed behind me as I entered the merchant squares. I passed several of the guild halls, then ran through the poorer neighborhoods, into the twisted paths created by the shanties that cradled the city walls, until I finally reached the outermost edge of Felvishar. And there I stopped, for I looked northward as the sun offered the last rays of light into the sky. Beneath this departing light were laid before me, gilded and resplendent, sleeping vineyards and rolling fields interrupted by slumbering copses of oak and elm that stretched for miles and miles, met finally with the edges of proud conifer forests, unspoiled and wild. Beyond those, I could see the upper tips of mountains, barely distinguishable from sky beyond.

I turned around to see the filthy sprawl of the city to the south. Small wooden shacks sat huddled against stone walls. Mismatched stone buildings prodded the sky and belched smoke from countless hearths. Right then, if a giant had come striding along and crushed that foul place with a casual misstep, I would have been glad to see it. But giants had long been destroyed, save one, so Loren said.

Nearby, a small gathering of birch threes huddled together against the weather on the edge of a potato field. I had no desire to return to Felvishar, for there was nothing left for me there, and so instead I walked the short distance to sit down, my back against the smooth white bark of the largest of the trees. In this way I watched the final fleeting moments of day. I stayed there, stunned and limp, my head resting against the solid wood. I remember being cold, but not uncomfortable, blanketed by snow.

One single thought, one pure voice rang inside my mind and spoke with such clarity and decisiveness that I merely sat and listened to it hour after hour. It lay out before me what I must do. I was the culmination of tremendous effort and sacrifice by a great many people. And though my recent transformation had happened without consent, it was my responsibility to make the sacrifice worthwhile, to do some good with it.

Pruet must not be allowed to succeed. I couldn't allow him all of eternity to spread his malice. I would honor my promise to Genevieve, and afterward I would somehow bring about his destruction, rob him of his life as he had done to so many, grind his bones to dust and scatter them so far apart that no two motes should ever again meet.

The armor it wore served only to intimidate and conceal. Otherwise there was no need to protect such hard flesh. Its skin was toughened leather, peeling and chaffed, wrapped tight around slight features and high cheek-bones. It had no hair, simply a smooth white pate. But even without it I could tell that thing was once a girl, a young woman, and I was reminded how Loren had mentioned, if in passing, that women made better subjects. Of all her features, her eyes haunted me the most. They had been removed, and the hollow vugs sewn shut, along with her nostrils and mouth. Even her ears had been cut off and sealed. Despite this horrible mutilation, I still knew her as Audrey.

###

Thank you for reading Aperture: The Darkening Still. The second book of this series, Bang & Hiss, will be available soon.

In an instant he was upon me. I sidestepped so as not to be shoved into the coals as I tried to pull the knife from my pocket, but in the frenzy my wrist was caught in the fabric. By the time my hand was free, his knife had plunged into my side, just below my ribcage, tipped upward to dig at my heart though missing narrowly. Still, I could feel the hard metal inside my chest, taste it on my breath. My insides clenched against his blade. We looked in each other's eyes, caught in painful embrace. He held my collar with his off hand, impaled me with the other. I held on to his tunic to ease the pressure of his blade, to keep myself from falling over.

He whispered, "I'm sorry."

I gasped for breath. Obviously not too sorry, I would have said were not my chest filling with blood.

"I'll let you pass before incinerating your body," he said, sliding the now greasy blade from my side. "I owe you that much."

About The Author

Presently residing near Chicago, Liam Hays has spent what some claim to be an unhealthy amount of time daydreaming. While this may be true, it didn't stop him from earning a degree in English, which was utterly useless in becoming a software engineer. Liam enjoys rock climbing and singing in a local choir, though not at the same time.

A writer since a young age, Liam has published numerous articles and the occasional poem. This is his first novel.

Connect with him online at http://www.liamhays.com

