Datra’s naked feet slapped over stone as he barreled down the boardwalk, towards the gate and the delta. Blurry stars loomed under the arch, and a sea-borne breeze filled his nose, fighting through layers of shit and slime. With one hand, Datra wrung the neck of his bottle so hard he feared it might shatter; the other groped after the cork, slipping again and again until it popped free with a plink. Datra slowed and threw back his head and dumped quine across his face, rubbing it into all the pits and crevices—Lord, his eyes burned—then he put the glass to his lips and sipped.

The bitter liquid sat heavy in Datra’s mouth, swishing between his teeth. He leaned back to let it settle in his throat, then Datra swung forward and pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth. Two jets of quine shot from his nose, searing his sinuses like molten lead. Datra took another swig—hardly a spoonful—and swallowed, fighting his own body as a warm tightness spread out from his guts.

Datra’s skin tingled, but he tried to ignore it.

He belched and sprinted for the gate, following the blur of the moon through tearsoaked eyes. The tension spread through his back and thighs, his breaths grew shallow, and each step took more effort, as though his entire body was beginning to cramp. By the time Datra burst over the threshold—free of The Maine and free of the city—it hurt to walk. With a final strain, Datra stood tall and forced his eyes wide open, scanning the horizon as fresh air hit his pupils—better to have been pecked out by vultures.

Tufts of grass rolled off either side towards the horizon, spread between Ze’s outer wall and the blue-black sea. In the center, two stout stone walls ran straight out from the city, plunging deep into the bay. These twin piers, the Animundi, squeezed The Maine from either side, making sure the soiled water was well into the ocean before it had any say in which direction it flowed. At the tip, where shit water hit salt; fins and scales danced in the starlight as the fish kept up their ninety-year banquet.

Datra’s skin burned, but he tried to ignore it.

Halfway out, a squat building floated on pontoons: the outbuilding, Medical, Datra’s people. Orange light flickered in a window, but Datra’s eyes flitted right, down the coast, where the sandy loam of the delta gave way to rocky shoals which ran steeper and sharper as they curved East towards the hills. Datra spied a familiar cluster of stones and marked his destination. In a flash, he saw the moon and the stars and the path through the grass, then his eyes swole shut and his stomach turned to pig iron. Datra staggered and fell, rolling into the grasses below. He took a few seconds to cry, then fought up to a crouch and crawled towards the sea.

The grass felt soft under his knees, even as it stabbed his belly and genitals. His mouth filled with water, and Datra nearly sobbed with gratitude as his chest began to heave. He emptied his stomach, tasting a rancid mix of quine and grappa as threads of bile splattered between his fingers—the pain remained, but his nausea was gone. Emboldened, Datra gritted his teeth and clawed forwards; but within seconds a similar chaos built up behind his anus. There was nothing to be done, so Datra didn’t fight it; although he did vow that anyone who spoke of this was going straight to the hamlets—perhaps the reservoir, if he was feeling generous.

Datra’s skin moved, but he tried to ignore it.

He kept up a good pace, all things considered. The sound of waves drew close, and Datra sought them like a scraped child, scampering across the sand as grass gave way to shell and stone. His hands found a sheer edge, and Datra dropped to his chest, groping around in search of seawater. Gobs of foam squelched between his fingers, and Datra dragged himself up on the rim, ready to drop in once he saw it was safe. He took a deep breath, brought a hand to his face, and pried open his eyes.

The pool was clean and clear, with room for half the Bureau, let alone Datra. A hole in the edge, man-made but polished by time, linked it to the bay; and every swell of the tide sent a fat ripple across the surface, pushing the bubbles and scum into a great green crescent. In the center, Datra stared into his moonlit reflection, battered and bloody, face wet with tears and snot, ringed by a mane of iridescent worms. They writhed and coiled, probing with one head while the other held fast, with a few walking end-over-end in the manner of a leech.

Datra curled his fingers and scraped down across his cheek. Some larva slid past unharmed, and others broke, leaving a trail of greasy stumps behind Datra’s nails. The fast ends carried on as though nothing had changed, and their other halves spun and thrashed too quick to see, hooking into whatever patch of skin they happened to land on. Datra shuddered and let himself fall into the pool.

He bobbed face-down, limbs splayed like a starfish. The worms bit down and quivered in the brackish water. Their spasms stung, but Datra floated still as a stone, hoping to pass for driftwood. For several seconds, there was nothing but pricks in the darkness; then Datra felt a flutter about his thigh, another near his ear, then dozens more between. Datra held until his lungs were fit to burst, then leaned up for air. The patter stopped—Datra froze—it started again, a hundred little prods, from the crook of his arm to the tip of his penis.

Datra stole another breath, braced himself, and opened his eyes. They touched seawater and smashed back shut. He tried again, and got his lids just a hair higher. Each time, Datra dreamed of trading his predicament for a seat in the flayer’s rack, but he forced them open until the gray blurs turned to shapes and shadow. He examined his hand and saw a field of larva squirming across it, thick as rope where he’d scraped his knuckles. A fat, shiny minnow dashed in and chomped down on the base, twitching from side to side. The worms broke off, and the fish gathered a mouthful, sucking them in bite by bite. Scraps of wormflesh floated down, and a school of fry swam up to meet them, reaching higher and higher as they raced for the choice cuts. One got too brave, and the minnow snapped it up with the larva, clipping its tail before the tiny creature vanished into big brother’s gullet.

Parasites all the way down. Datra couldn’t help a smile.

The water grew still, so Datra rolled over, and the frenzy started anew. Datra pulled apart his buttcheeks, looked at the stars, and thought of better days: coming here as a child with Birch; then again as a man, taking along Anya, Quinn, and so many others. Building the pool at Headquarters had turned this one into a curiosity, but Datra always liked bringing new officers here as a rite of passage—How long since he’d last done that? It might have been Tremaine.

The fish swam away, and no change of pose enticed them. Datra looked up for the time and let out a long, cool breath. He dragged himself out of the pool and stood on the sand, balls shriveling in the Autumn breeze; then he rubbed his shoulders and looked around to weigh his options. The obvious choice was Medical, but who might open the door?

Datra crept up the beach towards the Animundi. He staggered up a crumbling staircase, then walked out along the crest, the city’s filth flowing beside him. Datra slowed and crouched towards the outbuilding, stopping a ways off to peek through the window. He saw a young, pale man in a rocking chair, reading by light of a candle. Black locks curled over his ears and eyes, stopping just short of his shoulders and the wrinkled robes which covered them. The Medical Lieutenant turned a page. As he did, his tongue ran across his lips. Seconds later, he turned another page, and licked his lips again. Each time Datra saw this, the walk home seemed shorter, safer, more practical; but he forced himself to the front of the building.

The gangplank which connected Medical to the Animundi had been pulled up, leaving a gap of nine or ten feet between them. Datra looked at the nearest mooring post, where a brass bell dangled on the end of a string. He pinched the handle, ready to ring for assistance, but then he looked at all the windows and thought of how long he might stand there while Barlow fumbled with the gearbox and asked stupid questions.

Datra set down the bell, turned away from the warmth and shelter before him, and began the long trek home.

He walked back along the Animundi and stopped at the guardbox near the arch. Datra craned over the empty window and found a canvas sack in the corner. He rifled through it: needle, thread, some opium, roll of matches—interesting, until Datra realized there was nothing to light. He found a cloth undershirt rolled up in the bottom and pulled it over his head. The arms fit alright, but the body bunched up around his chest and dug into his stomach. Datra looked down, then tore the garment back off—it was somehow worse than just being naked. He toweled off and tossed it into the sewage.

Datra turned East, stepping onto the wallside path. He set out in decent spirits, with faith that a brisk pace would fight off the chill; but didn’t make a mile before his ankle started to hurt, slow at first, then red-hot and throbbing. He hobbled and leaned and picked up a dry branch, but the pain grew worse, and each step became a labor. For an hour or more, Datra stumbled along, passing brambles and stones and the distant light of hamlets, but eventually he gave in and hopped towards the wall where the rubble of fallen parapets lay scattered. Datra made a seat of the bricks and sat, panting as sweat ran down his chest and his balls shriveled on the cool, dark stone. He looked to the stars and back down the path, wondering if it was too late to turn back.

Datra heard the canter of hooves, and he crouched behind the ruins, one eye peeping through the grass. A horse strode along the path carrying a hooded rider; and Datra squinted to make him out. He hoped for a taskmaster, but would accept a Sudra, who could, of course, be sent to fetch his taskmaster. If this stranger wore a praetor’s tabard, Datra would sit quiet and let the rider pass. However, as the horse drew near, Datra recognized the speckled haunch and knew it as one of his own. Luck burned in his chest as Datra rushed out to the road, standing tall with crossed arms, grinning and ready to share a laugh with his rescuer—this could have happened to anyone, after all.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

However, as the rider trotted towards him, Datra’s smile began to crack. A well-lacquered baton swung from the figure’s hips, which were soft, and wider than the shoulders; tall enough to pass male at fifty moonlit paces, but not pulled up broadside across the path, silhouetted by the chipped mortar of Ze’s outer wall. She spoke, and Datra’s face fell as limp as his penis.

“What have you done to yourself?”

“S’nocte, Sargent,” said Datra. He reached for the saddle, but Anya pulled the reins.

“What did you do?”

“Our job.” Again, he reached forwards. Again, she backed away.

“Why aren’t you at Medical? People are out looking for you. Where’s your quine?”

“I used it and soaked in the alcove. I’m not clean clean, but there’s an easy way to solve that. So quit playing and take me home.”

“How’s your stomach?” Anya asked as she backed away a third time. “Did you swall—”

“Anya…” Datra said in a low, calm voice. “I’m getting on my horse now.”

She walked the animal towards a wayward slab. “Fine, but tell me if you need to stop,” she said, extending her hand. “Try not to shit on my horse.”

Datra doubted there was anything left to purge, but he merely grunted and swung himself over the saddle. A small, tight fart slipped out as he bounced into place and wrapped an arm around Anya’s waist. Datra felt her tense up—whether from disgust or laughter, he could not know—and he wriggled back, moving his hands to the leather ringlets between them. She flicked the reins, and they rode on in silence, following the city wall as a patchwork of fields rolled on besides them, farms and orchards broken up by hamlet fires and a rootstalk of starry canals. The only true darkness was in the black hills which rimmed the hinterlands, holding back the wastes beyond.

Familiar sights and smells, the gentle rock of their horse—Datra slipped into trance as candlelit huts drifted by, leaving him colder for having seen their warmth. In another’s care and so close to home, Datra softened, feeling as raw and pink as a freshly-molted crab. The throb in his leg climbed the rostrum, followed by his burning eyes and guts. Then came the shame of accepting help from Anya.

She cleared her throat; Datra felt the hum in his chest and realized he was resting on her shoulder. He stiffened back and coughed, trying to re-raise his guard—Datra’s body thought he was safe, but he knew his body was wrong.

“So, what happened?” asked Anya.

“An ansel got into The Maine, and some merchants had a candle. It was going to charge, so I killed it.

“How did you get in the water?”

“That’s where the fly was.”

Any rode in silence for some time, long enough for Datra to hope she accepted his explanation. No such luck.

“Datra, they were foreigners. They were fine.”

“They would have lived, probably, if that’s what you mean. Lived and shown the scars to every whore in the empire.”

“If it stung you…”

“I would have drowned, and those men would leave with nothing but a story. Birch would be acting Chief until they named my replacement, and life in Ze would carry on, with or without me.”

“The Patriarch would think we killed you.”

“Well, uh...” Datra started to chuckle, but realized she had a point. “Maybe, but I’m sure the officers would smooth things over.”

“They would blame me.”

This time, Datra did laugh. “That part’s just not my fault.”

A weatherworn stable came into view, built against a stone fence which swept out in a big half circle, either end set against the wall. Anya guided the horse to the nearest stall, and Datra hobbled off while she hitched it and unlaced the saddle. He limped his way along the curve until he reached the iron gate in the center, mounted between two squat columns. A pipe stuck out from the mortar, dangling a chain with a tiny brass hammer on the end. Datra struck the pipe three times, and it rang like a chime. Several moments passed. Anya stepped besides him and rung it again—once, hard.

“Where is he?” She asked.

“Pissing, probably; unless you convinced him to abandon his post.”

“No. But he said he might send Tremaine.”

“That’s fine.”

Up on the wall, a hatch swung open, and a man leaned out on crossed arms, robe hugging the curve of his shoulders. He rubbed his face and yawned, squeezing out an “evening, boss” halfway through. He dropped his hand, and short, dark locks framed his face: square and handsome, save for the purplish bags beneath his eyes. “How was your patrol?”

“Lever first, wiseass,” said Datra.

Levine smirked and slipped back from the hatch. A moment later, something heavy and metal slammed into place. Datra heard water and hidden gears, then the gate before him began to creak open.

“So, what happened?,” asked Levine. “Did you really jump? Or is that an indoor conversation?”

“It’s an eight-in-the-morning conversation. We have business in G.”

“You mean J?”

“Did I say J?”

“No sir, no sir. Shall I call the lieutenants?”

Datra nodded. “Birch will already be asleep, but find your juniors and send them to bed. One sleepwalker will be enough.”

“Sure thing. ‘Though I’m not sure why we bothered with Anya on the case. You should have seen her, Boss. Surprised there’s a door left on its hinges.”

She ignored this and slipped through the gate. Datra waited for the gap to widen. Levine kept talking.

“Maybe catching you naked and alone was too good to pass up?”

“I think she’s seen it, Lieutenant.”

“I mostly meant alone.”

Datra wriggled inside. Levine slammed to reverse, and the gate inched closed. Datra wound through sheds, shacks, and piles of old equipment, following Anya to the wall.

“You know,” Levine called down. “If you want the whole city to see your secrets, there are easier ways to do it.”

“Let me guess: a trip to the Old Palace?”

Levine broke into laughter: a hoarse, tired wheeze. “Front and back,” he said. “From the asshole on up.”

Datra looked up. “Well, if it ever comes to that. I know I’ll be in good company. Now go set things up and try to get some sleep. I want copies of everything we have on the Eastern tip of G.”

“That peninsula thing?”

“Yes.”

The hatch slammed shut, and Datra joined Anya at the base of the wall, near the bins and cleaning stations. She kicked her sandals into a crate labeled “footwear”, then slipped off her sash and baton with one deft motion. She reached for her subungula as the robe hung slack from her shoulders. Seeing his head-start disappear, Datra went straight to the nearest bathing stall, gritted his teeth, and yanked the chain. A burst of chill water came down on his head, and Datra savaged his skin with a well-lathered sponge, resenting the cold but so grateful for soap after hours of stewing in filth. The next stall over kicked on, and Datra doubled his pace—Anya wouldn’t need half the washing he did.

“I hate when they do that,” said Datra.

“Do what?”

“Stop just short of an ass-kicking. Levine’s the prince of that garbage.”

“Is he not your favorite anymore?”

“No. He is. But I messed up and let him know it.”

Datra pulled the chain, and another freezing torrent crashed over his shoulders.

“You know,” Datra said. “Years ago I slipped a proposal into my annual report. It requested funds and engineers to source these from boilers instead of aqueducts. I pitched it as a safety enhancement and had Barlow add some gibberish about how it would open our pores. It came back the next day, and guess what was written in the margins.”

“Denied?”

“Nope. Nice try.”

Datra started a third wash, but Anya stepped out of her booth, so he slapped the soap from his body and limped to her side, facing an innocuous door in the base of the wall. Datra opened it to reveal a narrow, dark chamber with stone sides and tiled floor, featureless except for a square pit set in the far end, filled to the brim with water. Datra held the door, and Anya walked up to the hole. She bounced on the balls of her feet and dropped in, straight as a board.

Datra took her place at the rim, pausing to savor the humid air. He looked down the shaft—nothing but water—and jumped in. He sank into a crouch against the marble bottom, then kicked off the wall, shooting under the barrier like a great fish. He stood and shook his hair and looked around. The pool was empty, save for Anya, who glided right to her favored place near the “kid’s bench”, perching on a shallow seat where the water barely reached her navel. Datra waded left, deeper, towards his own spot under a cracked mural. He slumped against the wall, and every joint ached as hot quinewater lapped his shoulders.

Several brass vessels floated between them. Anya took one up, filled it with water, then lifted it over her head, revealing a thin chain which trailed down to a bracket in the rim. She dumped it over her head and filled another bowl. Datra looked up and across at her as this kept going, wondering when she would break the silence, or leave—he would be here a good long while, but for Anya this was a formality.

“Nice of Levine to set the lamps,” said Datra. “Not sure my fingers could work a match right now.”

“Datra, why did you call a meeting?”

“Just need to catch up with the lieutenants. Administration and all that.”

The words hardly left his lips before Datra began to regret them. Anya seemed to swell in the slanted light, dark face framed by pale orange shadows which rippled across every brick and pillar. She stared down Datra, and he stared back—although, under the water, he felt his knees squeeze together.

“Datra,” she said. “You jumped. You got trapped. I found you. Tell me what’s going on.”

A hot fist clenched inside Datra’s head. “You think you’re entitled to that?” he said, thinking of all the ways he might put the sergeant in her place: docked pay, promotion to taskmaster, a simple punch in the tits. However, the fire died as fast as it rose, leaving him cold and limp, caring for nothing but how to reach his bed with as little heartache as possible. Datra exhaled and fell slack in the steaming quinewater.

“Someone has precocious flies,” said Datra. “Upstream of the outbreaks.”

If Anya found this interesting, Datra could not tell. She softened her posture and poured a final bowl of water over her face, then she stood and wrung her hair. “I’ll tell D’rar he’s watching the kids,” she said, stepping out of the pool, towards the line of stalls set into the far wall. “How long will this take?”

“Who says you’re going anywhere?”

“Didn’t you say it’s in G?” she called out, voice echoing over the rush of a faucet.

Datra hmm’d and stared at the ceiling. He’d forgotten Anya was clade G’s point-of-contact. “Fine,” he said. “But mind your bounds. Go ask Levine how you can help.”

“Sure thing, Chief.” Anya grabbed a towel from the bin and ran it through her hair, then she took her robe off its peg.

“If you’re kicking D’rar out of bed, tell him to fetch me some wine. He can take a horn if he brings me the bottle.”

“Okay.”

Datra watched her march toward the door, and with each echoing step, a knot in his stomach grew tighter. She reached for the handle, and Datra curled his lip, struggling to speak as he felt the moment slip away. Anya stepped out into the hall, and just as the door was about to latch, Datra called out “Anya”. Her head popped back into the room, doe-eyed and attentive.

“Thanks,” said Datra.

“Mhmm,” Anya bobbed her head and hummed in the high, sweet voice she usually saved for children, then she pulled back and latched the door behind her.