R glyph [https://i.imgur.com/ORGpksi.png]

In the pre-dawn gloom, a procession marched through quiet, shuttered streets. Eight guards armed with guns and swords flanked two men carrying an unconscious woman on a stretcher.

Eranon, Lord Oryche, walked beside her, his long fingers resting lightly on the stretcher. Riga’s eyes remained closed, her scalded face peaceful in drugged sleep.

The streets were deserted. Ahead of the marching men, rats fled along the gutters. The good citizens of Athanor slept, and the bad had enough sense to stay out of the way.

Yet Eranon felt uneasy. His home had been invaded, his treasures rifled through by thieves, the codex stolen, Riga injured and left for dead. None of which mattered, for it didn’t impact his plans in the slightest, but it was unsettling to find a hole in his defences.

And Riga — her death would be regrettable. Of course, he had other bodyguards, but Riga was loyal to him personally in a way few people were, and intelligent, and familiar.

You’re fond of her?

The corners of Eranon’s mouth twitched. Fond was not the word he would use, but perhaps, yes, he was fond of her — as a man grows fond of his favourite hunting hound, or a tool he has honed and oiled for many years. Riga was useful and his investment in her considerable.

Puddles splashed beneath his boots. The guards closed their ranks; the street they were on was narrow and dark, without even the usual gas-lamps. They turned into a court overlooked by the blind backs of three-storey buildings, and halted before an unmarked door.

Eranon knocked.

The door was opened by a child: a half-starved waif of a girl, eyes large in her pinched, pale face. She glanced at Eranon, and saying nothing, stepped back to allow him entry.

He ducked through the doorway, followed by the stretcher and its bearers. The girl sidled before them along a dingy corridor, down shallow steps, and into a gas-lit workroom.

The walls were lined with shelves full of jars and bottles of every shape and size, filled with murky liquids in which pale shapes drifted. Five long narrow tables filled the rest of the space. On one lay the lean grey body of a wolf. Another was occupied by a bundle wrapped in sackcloth.

The stretcher bearers dumped their load on the nearest table. Riga stirred as she was moved, but didn’t wake.

‘Wait outside,’ Eranon told the stretcher bearers.

They left quickly. The girl had already slipped through a door at the back of the workroom, presumably to fetch her master, so he was alone but for Riga and the dead animal.

Eranon waited, breathing shallowly on air that smelled of death and chemicals and cheap soap. The bundle sitting on the table drew his eye, the smallness of it out of place. Idly, he lifted the cloth that wrapped it.

He stared at the bloody thing for a long, long moment.

The door at the back of the workroom opened, and a man entered: a slight middle-aged man with a sallow complexion and pale eyes, dressed in a gown that had once been white, but was now brown with layer upon layer of fading stains. He approached with a hesitant leftward-leaning sidle, eying his visitor as he navigated the tables.

‘Limathael,’ Eranon said, not lifting his gaze from the blood-matted ginger hair, the staring eyes.

The man bowed. ‘You honour us, my Lord Oryche. How may we serve you?’

Eranon dropped the cloth. ‘Would you care to explain where this head came from? Because, if I am not mistaken, it belonged to Jonas vai Oryche. One of mine.’

‘My Lord…’ Limathael licked his lips. ‘Good materials aren’t easily come by.’

‘A noble. An Oryche. I thought it was understood you didn’t touch my people?’

‘My apologies.’ Limathael turned and shouted: ‘Girl. Come here.’

The girl appeared in the doorway and crept across the room to her master.

Limathael bent down. ‘Where did you find this head, girl?’

She whispered in his ear. ‘She says,’ he relayed. ‘He was dead in an alleyway. Robbed.’

‘But an Oryche.’ Eranon grimaced. ‘You shouldn’t have done it. He has family. Questions will be asked.’

‘I see,’ Limathael said gravely. ‘It’s rather late to correct the error now.’

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Riga groaned. ‘Jonas. He’s dead?’

Eranon turned to her, blocking her view of her cousin’s head. ‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Good. Little bastard blasted me.’ She blinked at the ceiling, her eyes unfocused. ‘I’d bloody kill him if he wasn’t dead.’

Eranon frowned. Jonas was the one who’d attacked Riga? ‘What happened?’

Her gaze flicked from Limathael back to Eranon. ‘Sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I failed you. Jonas was skulking round the House with Simon. Attacked me.’

Limathael peered at her with clinical interest. ‘Ah, yes. I remember this one. What is it this time?’

‘Burns, broken ribs, possible internal injuries. The House healer gave her hypnium.’ Eranon frowned. ‘I want her back to work quickly.’

Riga closed her eyes. ‘Have him make me stronger. I must be stronger.’

Limathael shrugged. ‘It will extend recovery by a day or so, but if you’re willing to pay…’

‘Our usual arrangement,’ Eranon said.

‘As to that,’ Limathael said. ‘It isn’t straightforward, you know…’

‘Just do it.’ Eranon stroked Riga’s unburned hand, but she’d fallen back into her drugged slumber and didn’t stir. He watched her sleep for a moment, thinking.

So Simon had stolen the codex. That was an unexpected development, though Jonas’s betrayal was less surprising. He’d had his doubts about Jonas’s loyalty before now. The boy was an opportunist, pure and simple. And now he was dead… ‘Limathael, did he have a book with him? A book bound in red leather?’

Limathael blinked owlishly. ‘I don’t see how… Oh, you mean the body. Girl?’

The girl shook her head.

Eranon crouched to look her in the eye. ‘This is important. If you lie, you will be punished. Was there a book?’

She shook her head again.

‘Was there anything else?’ Limathael said.

‘Hmm?’

‘Anything else you wanted to ask? Only I ought to get on.’

‘How long before Riga can resume her duties?’

‘Five days, give or take. She heals fast. Can we keep the head?’

Eranon gazed at him. Few things disgusted him these days. The emotion was striking in its novelty.

We could kill him, if you want.

— No. Horrible as he was, Limathael was too useful to waste. ‘I certainly don’t want it.’

Limathael smiled. He re-wrapped the head and handed it to the girl. ‘Put it in the cold room, with the others.’

The eight guards and the two men who had carried the stretcher were waiting outside. When Eranon joined them, they fell in around him without question. Shielded from the city, he walked in silence, as alone as he ever could be.

Strange.

— What?

Humans are strange. They cry demons are evil. They fear Powers beyond their control. Yet no demon ever contemplated half the things men do to other men, often with enthusiasm. Strange, is it not?

— Not really.

You are worried. What concerns you?

— The codex was stolen—by Simon, with Jonas helping him.

And now Jonas is dead. So what?

—This doesn’t concern you?

You fear Simon will use the codex against you? He will not. He is weak.

— I should have had him killed as soon as he returned to the city. That was a mistake. I was too cautious.

You don’t need to kill him. He’s harmless. What can he do to you?

— He knows too much. Even now, he could be… inconvenient.

You fear without reason. He is one man: helpless, weak, fearful, stupid. Just like all your Adepts. Your Arcanum makes them so.

— Well. We know why. The Other that occupied his head did not respond, though Eranon caught the edge of its cold amusement. I’d still prefer him dead. How can I find him?

It’s a big city. You will need assistance.

Not much of a suggestion, but Eranon already had ideas of his own. And the Council meeting, this afternoon?

You hardly need my advice. The pieces are in place. Use what you have to hand…

— Jonas?

Exactly. No one cares if a few slum-dwellers are killed and cut up, but when even our most promising young nobles can’t walk the streets safely… Poor child! Robbed, murdered, decapitated. You should take his head to the meeting. That would be amusing. How they would scream…

—Amusing, but melodramatic.

Humans. You’re so dull.

The Other retreated into silence, and Eranon let it go. The conversation had settled his nerves. The theft of the codex, Jonas’s death… Even the actions of his enemies furthered his plans for the city, as if it were all predestined. No Power above or below the earth could stop him now.

A glyph [https://i.imgur.com/ZLENX3y.png]

Andra crept along the tunnel, her pulse pounding in her ears. She disliked these closed-in underground places with an intense, skin-prickling loathing. The very air congealed in her throat, warm and humid and mouldy. Yet — this was the place. Her sister was here, somewhere.

Smells were many, strong, and thick. Humans, obviously: adult men, sweat and food and alcohol. Animals too — dog, wolf, bear — scat and urine and rotting meat. Gas and rock formed the background. And among all this, faintly, but clearly, her sister’s scent.

Cara was here.

Somewhere.

Bits of straw and animal dung carpeted the floor of the tunnel. She trod silently, straining to hear. The rock muffled noise and echoed it, creating confusion. She caught the murmur of voices, the whine of a dog or wolf, but couldn’t be sure of the direction or distance.

Alert for danger, she walked on. The passage branched. She sniffed, and thought, and chose the more travelled route. The faint noises she had heard grew clearer and closer.

Again and again, she came to a junction and had to choose a direction. She stopped and crouched down, beset suddenly by a feeling new to her: she didn’t know where she was.

Lost, that was the human word. She had never understood it before, but now she knew — this was the sick, unbalanced feeling in her gut and head. If she turned back now, she could find her way back to the entrance, and perhaps she would remember the way Simon had led her. Or perhaps not.

In the open air, she never had to think about finding her way. She followed her nose and ears, or took the straight path — as much as one could in this human anthill. But underground, without sun, or natural light, or wind, or landmarks… If she continued, she would lose herself. She would never find her way back through the maze.

Did it matter if she did?

She had always told herself that once she found her sister and took her revenge, she would return home. But home was only fading memories of better times. She had no one to return to, nothing that mattered as much as seeing her sister dead.

So lost or not, she would follow her sister’s scent to the end — to her own death, if need be. Though she did not relish the thought of dying in this unpleasant place.