After the events of the first day, the remainder of Cadryn’s beginning week at the Neeft lived up to Sil’s name. Nothingness, just a series of long days of the same waiting that had dominated his first hours after the carriage crash, filled his existence. Inspect cargos, collect tolls, or mark down passages for those with established rates. That was the long and short of it in the days that followed. There was the Neeft, rising above the mundane doldrums of his post, sometimes he’d watch Gita flit about the spires high above and found himself jealous of her ability to do so, if not her lot.

His desire to be re-assigned had sprung up anew in his mind like a weed, and it was on this front that Cadryn found his only solace from the silence. Awakening, he made his bedding, put on the cleanest shirt he had, and made his way to Sefton’s office.

“He did not stop,” Sefton said, without looking up from the ledger he was balancing. “I would leave word for you if he had.”

“Why is the Imperial Messenger not collecting our missives?” Cadryn asked, not for the first time.

Sefton replaced his quill, and folding his hands, looked at Cadryn like the headmasters of the Academy often had. “If I knew that, do you think it would still be happening?”

“You could close the gates, then he’d have to stop.”

“I could, and then I would also need to pull more of you to handle the lines that would inevitably form with only a single guard manning the post. Worse, people would widely become aware of how few of us there actually are here.”

“So you’re just going to let him continue to ride by?”

“Yes, he will collect the monthly report, or I will ensure he’s hung for dereliction of duty. But any additional missives-“

“Like my request.”

“Like your request, yes, will have to wait.”

Cadryn stood, staring, trying to think of a way to force the issue. The sunlight blazed in the window, highlighting the Tax Collector in a radiance that seemed to grow as the seconds stretched onward. The wind shifted, setting the edge of his ledger rustling, and wicking away the sweat beading on both their brows.

Sefton resumed his work, but was interrupted momentarily by the clattering arrival of Gita through the open window. The bureaucrat’s hand snapped to his inkwell, apparently recalling past disasters. Shooting the Batsel a glare that asked the question, Gita settled to the desk, head bobbing.

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“Come quickly! Everyone!” she announced.

“What is it, Gita?” Sefton asked, resuming his checking.

“A head! A severed head at the northern gate.

Cadryn felt his heart stir anew, “a head? Like, a person’s?”

“Yes! Why would someone leave an animal’s head?” Gita asked.

“For the same reason they’d leave a man’s,” Sefton answered, without stopping, “To send a message. Well . . .” he paused, looking at the two of them, and apparently disappointed added, “Go see what the message is, that’s an order.”

“Yes, sir!” they yelled, and made for the gate. By the time they’d arrived, Deafening Silence and Nine were both examining the grisly object. Seeing them, they both nodded in greeting.

“Cad,” Sil said, and clicked her tongue, “Ever seen something like this in Throne-home?”

“I’ve seen dead bodies, and heads . . .” he said, and looking at the head began to notice details, the missing eyes, and the severed tongue. “But nothing like this.”

“Then it’s become a softer place,” Nine said, and touched the spike holding the head with a thin fingertip, smoke curled at the contact and he hissed something that might have been a word. “Cold wrought Iron . . . unusual choice.”

“If Deliberate,” Sil offered, but the symbolism of the eyes and tongue are obvious.”

“Saw something, talked,” Gita peeped from behind Cadryn’s ear.

“Do you recognize him?” Cadryn asked, feeling it was worth a shot, but no one answered. “I mean, what’s the point if they didn’t leave a message and we don’t know the guy?”

“He left a note,” a haggard voice called from the guard post above.

Everyone but Nine jumped.

“What the hell are you doing up there, Rof?” Sil said, and the man was slow in answering.

“I was sleeping,” he replied.

“More like drinking,” Sil muttered.

“Eh shove off!” Rof bellowed. “You kneel before a contradiction and call it Religion . . . why do my actions need to make sense? Here.” A crumpled piece of bloodstained parchment came sailing out the shutters.

Catching it, Cadryn opened it so the others could see.

I didn kill Fistus.

–Grasstane-

“Well, that’s pretty definitive,” Sil said, barely containing a snort.

“Who or what is a Grasstane?” asked Cadryn.

“Grass-Stain,” Nine corrected, “and Fistus Brump is, was, a drunk lunatic living outside of Kellen’s Veld in the woods. I didn’t recognize him without that swollen tongue.”

Cadryn felt, no, knew, Nine was lying about not knowing who the head belonged to, but didn’t see much point in the accusation. “So, that still leaves me, at least, in the dark about Grass-Stain.”

“Oh,” Nine said, and shrugged, “He’s a Troll.”

“Do you believe him?” Silence asked, sensing the start of a long day.

“I do,” Nine replied, and began walking, “Come. I know where he lives.”

Cadryn considered staying behind, but then realized he really didn’t have anything better to be doing with his day.