Chapter 6 - Thero

‘Mass for weight and Essence to shape;

Light to yearn and Heat to burn;

Space to dwell and Motion propel;

and Time - above all - to lapse.’

- Primality’s Verse, inscribed above the Eidgate of the Septarium

The problem wasn’t finding the fire - it was getting there.

It took the better part of a quarter bell for Thero and Zarja to leave the Seat and make their way Portside. The Avenue of Arms was usually quiet around now, the menagerie of pilgrims who had come to see the City of the Empty Throne already ensconced with warm food and drink in one of the countless inns catered to them. The central street of the city between the Zones was not a straight line, switching back and forth across the surface of the island of Haedralia.

As per the Thronekeepers’ decree, no major commerce was permitted along the Avenue itself, and as such Thero did not see a single stall or vendor until they reached the bottom of the street, where it met Aryth Way at the grand arcades of Palatine Park, where all four Zones met.

Thankfully, they managed to avoid the largest thoroughfares. However, they would need to cross the second street, which proved to be a challenge.

Aryth Way was forty feet paces across at its narrowest point, running parallel to the city’s harbourfront and acting as a sort of unofficial border between Portside and the rest of Equinox. It was also the largest commercial artery on the island, and the favoured route of any trader looking to get their goods from somewhere to anywhere else.

Even at this time of night, the Way did not sleep. They had to thread their way through throngs of men and women at work, rumbling fleets of wagons and carriages, and the ever-shifting landscape city’s night markets. Everywhere they looked, they were bumping into someone new. He’d be more worried about pickpockets if his companion wasn’t openly wearing the armour and cloak of a city guard.

Looking back at his escort, there was no mistaking Zarja’s pursed lips for anything other than disdain.

“Something wrong?”, he called over his shoulder in Naxa. His companion never minced words, so better to speak plainly in their tongue. One never knew who might be listening.

“This is too much… just too much.” His kinsman threw up her hands at nothing in particular, indicating their surroundings indiscriminately. “How many live in this city, Thero?”

He considered her question. The last official census had been taken in 643 in the Imperial Reckoning calendar, just after the signing of the Accords. But that was nearly six years ago, now - and he knew for a fact that the population had been growing steadily since the end of the war.

“Well over a hundred thousand,” he replied eventually.

“I do not understand it,” she shook her head. “Why would so many choose to come to this place? To stay on a giant rock, pressed so close with nowhere to run. You wake up, go about your day, and go back to sleep surrounded by thousands of strangers.”

Thero frowned. “It is not so different than Aydori.” One of the largest in the Iscerian heartland, home of the Septarium and his adopted city outside the Confederacy. He knew for a fact that Zarja had stayed there during her first stint as a Summer Knight.

“Yes, but at least the Zephyr City has gardens, open spaces, room to roam. You could fit this whole nest of walls and shadows into the Horizon Ward. Not to mention the noise.”

As Thero edged past a couple of Aelian teamsters coaxing a workhorse down the cobbled lane, he heard a woman call down from a tenement, something about ‘bringing the fucking beast back properly shod or not at all’. She’s got me on that last one, at least.

Equinox’s harbour, the mouth from which it spoke to the world, was a cornucopia of languages. Loud and rapid Helkorite, Valmontese dialects, and variations on Low Alterian all floated through the briny air, mingling in a mutually intelligible pidgin which almost everyone understood, but only a few could speak with ease.

Thero knew it well. He’d gained his first instruction in foreign languages in his teenage years down in the midlands, translating for traders in exchange for a spare scepter and a smile. He hadn’t imagined in those years that he might follow the linguistic fragments of this pidgin back to their homelands.

Not that any here spoke Naxa, or had even heard of it. But it was like Malak di Brija had written in her Grammaticae Obscurum: language was the bedfellow of empire.

He noted belatedly that Zarja hadn’t complained about the constant duels, or the general way the locals looked down on Nascyians. Their people were rare enough this far south to warrant curiosity, certainly… but it seemed that the Iscerians' enemies had picked up their hostility. ‘Dogs of the Reaches’, as they were called, tribespeople not to be trusted.

Hate, as it happened, was easy to teach.

But he had no desire to visit that topic with Zarja again. Her words from before still stuck with him. You can’t make a better world without first stabbing everyone who does not agree with you.

Did she really believe that?

“You’re right,” the kyneid admitted as they finally crossed the Way and into the narrower byways of Portside proper. “Equinox is nothing like home. It is filthy, and gloomy, and dangerous. Its people do not want to see us succeed. We are not one of their Four Thrones, Zarja.”

How long had it been since he’d seen the sun set over the steppes of Saraiku, heard the lilting calls of the flocks of the kweh birds as they flew over Lake Osae?

If Thero closed his eyes, he could picture it all. He could stand at the head of his family’s valley, hear Mother’s voice calling him in for supper, watch Ani and Berah tussling in the dirt and laughing, their smiles stained white from chewing the sweet nascel leaves that grew beneath the orange trees.

Then he saw plumes of dust in the hills, and felt the steady earthquake of a thousand heavy boots.

“But I believe we can be, one day. And to do that, we need to be here. We can make a difference, but only if we play their games. The old ways would see us crushed for standing up, and burying our heads now only dooms the next generation of our people to further vassalage - ”

He cut himself off. He hadn’t realized how much he’d raised his voice.

“Maybe,” his confidant replied after a minute, golden eyes flickering down at his robes, then her armour. “But if we sit at their tables and wear their clothes and eat their food… how long until we are lost to their world regardless?”

He had no good answer for that. Instead, he pushed on. They were close now: he needed no Working to pick up the column of smoke rising over the roofs ahead and to the east. The remnants of the fire had cast a charcoal veil over the cold face of Agyú.

The imperials called this moon Kannia, but he had not forgotten anything Uncle had taught him about the night sky. To misname one of the Three Crones was to invite misfortune.

The flames had been largely put out by the time Thero and Zarja rounded the last corner, although the damage had clearly been done. The building - he recognized the profile of a low-set drinking house in this typical style - was more ember than wood. He didn’t usually frequent this part of town so he didn’t know this particular establishment, but the faint sting of burnt spirits in the air was rather hard to miss.

They were far from the only ones here. A small crowd had gathered; mostly bystanders, willing to watch but not step in and help. As they pushed through the people, he picked up a few murmurs of conversation.

“... got out of control, didn’t see but I heard that Novi sailors were…”

“... multiple bodies, still pulling them out…”

Thero put away those pieces of the puzzle for a moment as he ran straight into a cordon of green cloaks and gray shields.

He warred internally at the presence of the harbourfront Thronekeepers. On the one hand, it meant that the fire had been properly contained. On the other, his chances of getting in to see the scene unobstructed were all but gone.

The Thronekeepers had a broad mandate of authority over every part of Equinox not already governed. In theory, outside of the enclaves of each nation’s Zone, they were the arm of the law. However, even their uppermost echelons answered to the collective will of the Justices in their capacity as peacekeepers. The Hall received regular reports of the goings on throughout the city, as was procedure.

Of course, given any guardsman’s penchant for taking bribes, the veracity of those reports was often in question.

He could, in theory, step up and take command as the Keeper of Chambers. His title was not absolute, but as a member of the court he felt confident he could leverage this situation if he wanted. Zarja’s presence - though as an irregular, she had not been assigned a district - would be helpful.

As long as she doesn’t, you know, talk.

The direct approach would give him access to investigate with a free hand, figure out whether this was an accident or if there were clues for him to follow.

But a show this big, word would get back to the rest of the jackals in the Seat, including de Lanceryn. Who had just expressly warned him against doing this exact thing.

He should not be here. He should just stay out of this.

From the corner of his eye, Thero spotted a lone woman leaning up against a nearby wall. She looked to be at least in her late forties, shoulder-length hair chased with white and pulled back in a severe bun. Her vest and trousers, he noticed, were stained with ash and soot, and her hands were scratched. She wore a stained bandage on one side of her head.

She was also the only one here looking away from the site of the fire, staring out into the night and seeing nothing. By the redness in her eyes, Thero saw she’d been crying. But she had nobody around her; none of the guards had noticed her, nor any of the dozens of people all clamoring to see what happened.

She’d been in the fire, he knew.

Inconsequential games. That’s what Gillea de Lanceryn had called them. The pastime of the lowest member of the court, the Small Justice.

A nod to Zarja was enough to get her in front, nudging people out of the way to clear a path to the woman. Her shouts of ‘Thronekeeper business, coming through’ would get the attention of whoever was in charge. Around them, heads began to turn.

He’d taken the leap. It would only be a matter of time before this made it back to the Hall. But in that moment, Thero found he did not care.

“Adanna’s blessings, stranger.” A sliver of the imperial ten-faced god in his mouth, but of all the Virtues, she spoke most often of peace.

The woman did not stir at first. Only when Thero repeated himself did she shake herself back to the present moment and meet his gaze.

“Fuck off,” she said just above a whisper.

Understandable, but he had been hoping she’d be a bit more forthcoming. They only had a few minutes before the guards here picked up on his presence.

“Please, I won’t take too much of your time. My companion and I could not help but notice that you look like you were in the building. Has nobody come to ask you to make a statement?”

“No, they haven’t.” The woman had just caught sight of Zarja’s uniform. Her shoulders tightened, and Thero could see her body close up. Defending itself. She’d done something wrong, or perhaps believed she had. Or maybe she was just nervous around the guards.

Many in Portside were. It was a well-known secret that around the docks, the Thronekeepers had as many masters as they had coin in their pockets.

“Don’t worry, I’m not in the habit of hauling away witnesses. If I really thought that you were guilty of something, we wouldn’t be talking. I promise that whatever you tell me, you won’t be spending any time tonight in a cell.” He spoke slowly, letting her absorb each word. “I’m Thero. Who are you?”

“... Tyma.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Tyma.” He held out a hand for her to shake. “Why don’t we start at the beginning. What were you doing inside?”

She let out a desperate chuckle. “S’my bar. Or my husband’s, anyway. Jhory was sick of us hauling crates all over Alteria, so we saved up and bought it when the war ended. We called it the Mess. Wasn’t much, but it’s all ours.” She paused. “Was all ours.”

Stolen novel; please report.

Thero blinked. How in Creation had the guards here missed the literal owner sitting less than fifty paces from the fire?

They must not have sent anyone to figure out the real story, he realized. That meant they weren’t interested in learning the truth. Someone had likely paid them off already.

“So can you tell me what happened?”

“Was a usual Felling night,” she recounted, “had a rowdy bunch of Helkorites playing cards, a few others. They’d just come off a ship - Countess of Thul, I think it was called - and were staying in town until end of tenday. They were semi-regulars, had been to town before. It was the Iscerians who started everything. Bravos all, earned blades. Alonso Cabal was First among them.”

Thero knew the name. A firebrand, and scion of a middling house. His mother was friends with the di Ayads, which meant he had connections. He’d never had the pleasure, but by all accounts the man had been in over a score of duels and not lost one.

“Well, them and the stranger.”

“Stranger?”

She nodded, warming to the story in the telling. “A big guy, all covered in scars. Didn’t talk too much, except to order some ales. He was with a woman, sitting in the back. I’ve seen her around - she comes in sometimes with people, always asks for a private table. Got the sense they didn’t want anyone listening in on them.”

Interesting. He was starting to put the pieces together. “So the fire was really an accident?”

Tyma let out a deep breath. “Aye, but avoidable all the same. I should never have let Cabal and his boys in. The fight started honest enough, until those bastards drew steel. Been in enough scraps to know it was going to go bad after that, but got knocked down. Two of mine dragged me out, patched me up. I paid ‘em, told them to lay low for a bit.”

Thero placed his hands over hers. “It wasn’t your fault. You did what you could, you got your people to safety.”

She got a dark look in her eye. “Not all of ‘em. My bouncer tangled with the stranger. Vedran. Worked for Jhory and I for the better part of three years. He was taken down, burned up with the rest. At least, nobody saw him leave.”

He didn’t feel the need to ask how many bodies lay in the building.

“What about this scarred man? Did you or your people overhear any of what he was talking about, with the woman?”

Tyma didn’t answer right away. “One of my servers told me the man mentioned soldiers. Something about a bunch of friends of his being snuck into the city, but he didn’t seem the friendly type. I’m guessing he wasn’t after a chat about old times.”

His mind was already racing. Why would someone be sneaking in - no, the why didn’t help, there could be any number of interested parties with reasons to bring in a secret army, he needed to narrow down the who.

“Did they hear anything else?”

The barkeep shook her head mutely. Thero wasn’t exactly surprised; he couldn’t expect to get the whole story from a single account in a Portside tavern. He had more questions, of course. Who had the resources to smuggle in veterans from the Four-Throne War? Who stood to gain from an armed conflict now? Where were these supposed soldiers staying in the city?

It seemed that this woman had told him everything she knew. But that did not make her worthless in his eyes.

He was already running down his list: the roll of names of people in this city that owed him for one matter or another. It was not a short thing, nor were they fleeting debts, for he’d made sure that all of them knew he’d come to call in the chit one day.

Sometimes, being a player of games paid off.

Barzan could work. He owes me for arranging the dance with Lady de Thiesse’s cousin. But he was away on business.

What about Ivetta? He’d cleared up the trouble she’d had with her porcelain shipments from the Far Isles. Dockmaster Costatyn had not been easy to appease.

No, he decided. He wanted to hold onto that one for a special occasion.

Kaltia… He stopped. She’d be the best fit.

“I am so sorry, for everything you’ve lost tonight.” He dug into the pocket of his robe, producing a piece of folded paper, and handed it to her. “This is an address. 56 Argent Place, in the Medeus Zone. I have a friend who lives there. She’ll give you room and board for a while if you give her my name. Knock four times and ask for Miss Sorenbrand. Do you have a permit to cross?”

When she shook her head a second time, he looked pointedly at Zarja. She leaned in, speaking in Naxa once again.

“Boss, that’s a bad idea. And leave you alone out here? What if you get attacked? I won’t be able to track you down for at least another quarter bell.” She blinked. “Besides, if you die, how am I going to get paid?”

She then did her best impression of a pout, which looked to Thero decidedly like a beached fish.

Thero grinned as he replied in the same. “Touching as ever. Don’t worry, I can take care of myself. Besides, I’ve got Qirax to keep me company!”

Reaching up to his neck, he scratched the bottom of the sleeping lizard’s chin. The perimastyx stirred after a moment, opening his heavy-lidded eyes begrudgingly. A maw of tiny teeth stretched wide in a lazy yawn.

He looked back to Tyma. “My companion here will escort you. You’ll be safe, and nobody will come looking for you. This isn’t permanent, just until you can get back on your feet.”

“Thank you,” she murmured.

Before they could clasp hands, he met her gaze.

“To be clear: as of now, you owe me. If I deem a situation appropriate, I will call on you to see the debt paid. Not in gold, but in favour.” He let her mull that over for a second. Like all the rest, she needed to hear the whole thing.

“When someone owes me, I stick to two principles. I will not ask you to do anything outside your conscience, and I will not ask you to put your life in undue danger. Beyond that, any request I make of you will be honoured at a time of my choosing. Do you accept these terms?”

The former tavern-keeper didn’t have to think long about it, grabbing his hand firmly. “Aye, fair enough.” She gave a pointed look down to his robes and boots. “Fancy lad dresses as nice as you, figure he doesn’t hand out shelter for nothing.”

He could feel Zarja’s stare too, but he ignored it. She could worry, but it wasn’t like he was about to jump right into danger. Besides, he had managed to survive over a decade in the most ruthless arcane university in the world without her watching his every move.

Well, there had been that thing with Kiftaya. But he felt sure that the Septarium would have forgotten about all that by now. What was a little harmless fun between colleagues? It wasn't like anybody died.

Dismissing his bodyguard with her new charge, Thero turned his mind to the situation at hand… and what he could do to tip its scales to his eventual advantage.

What did he know? According to Tyma’s source, someone was bringing an army into Equinox. He hadn’t remembered seeing any reports about such a thing recently - though of course, anyone sufficiently motivated had the money to pay off the right officials to make sure a Thronekeeper never wrote a report.

Still, that implied some means. Bringing an army in was no small feat. One of the Justices could do it, but he would have heard whispers if a group of any size was hiding out in any of the four Zones. Beyond the soldiers themselves, there would be issues of food, lodging, and equipment. A Latent like himself could cut those problems in half, but he kept lists of all known Latents and their likely specialties.

On an island this size, there were only so many versed in the Art. A newcomer would not be able to hide their talents for long, and he felt sure he would know if any had arrived recently.

Another question: how long had this been going on for? The size of the contingent would depend on the way they were getting in and the length of the arrangement. He knew only a few crews capable of trafficking people reliably into the city, let alone between Zones. Most of the dockside gangs didn’t have the manpower or the connections to do anything without a practitioner.

That’s the missing factor, isn’t it? There was no way these men were getting in without magical assistance. It narrowed down the suspect pool considerably. Three groups came to mind off the top of his head; all operating outside the rules, all led by or aided by Latents.

Izar’s Daughters. The Silent Masques. Undertow.

And to make matters more complicated, there was apparently a new player in town, one who was actively hunting this group. That smelled of the exact kind of trouble that Equinox - that he - didn’t need right now.

He couldn’t take any chances. If he took off after one group, odds were he was giving the real culprits the time they needed to cover their tracks. He needed more information, and there were a few sources left here that he hadn’t tapped.

Tilting his neck, he looked down at Qirax. The lizard let out a resigned grumble.

A minute later, Thero found his way to where the crowd thinned in front of the scorched ruin… nose to nose with a squad of guardsmen. They must have already been heading in his direction - it was a minor miracle they hadn’t spotted Zarja getting Tyma out of here.

“Keeper Varglass,” spoke a figure from behind him. A mailed hand clamped down on his shoulder in what he thought a rather unfriendly manner. “I had not thought to see an official of your station down here tonight, sir.”

The clipped, acerbic tone and formal register gave away the speaker’s identity.

“Lieutenant Moraine,” he replied hopefully. He could guess what he would see if he turned to face his newest obstacle.

Lieutenant Elle Moraine was a rising star in the Portside division who had joined the force as a transfer from Septimanes just over four years ago. Outwardly, she was known as a stickler for regulation: kept her armour tight, her riding boots perfectly polished, and her blonde hair cut just above shoulder length. And like any guard worth anything, Moraine could wield an accusatory stare like it was second nature.

She was also as corrupt as it could get, routinely accepting and organizing payoffs within the dockside guards. Thero had it on good authority that she'd taken at least three shady deals the last two tendays alone. Her affiliation with crime in the city was something of an open secret among his colleagues in the Hall, though outside the upper echelons of power he understood that her reputation remained stellar.

In a way, it was a stroke of good luck that Moraine had been the one to get the call. It cut out the part of his plan where he had to seek her out later to shamelessly extort her.

“Pardon me, sir, but we’ve cordoned the area off from civilians until we can clean up the bodies, embers, and broken glass.” The hand lifted, but he heard her take a step closer to his side. “If you’d like, I could arrange to have two of my men escort you home? It isn’t safe for such a prominent figure out here at night.”

She was already trying to get rid of him. And there was no mistaking the implied threat couched as leal service. He’d heard it plenty of times before. It was a good thing, too, since she wasn’t going to waste time with idle chatter, he might as well cut straight to it.

“Thank you for the offer, but I am perfectly capable of navigating Equinox alone. I was actually hoping to speak with you about a rather sensitive matter.” He dropped his voice. “Concerning your shipment of scepters.”

(Bribes were relatively easy to trace if one knew anything about imperial currencies, Thero had learned. The indefatigable Financial Office of the Seat sent out the payroll to its Thronekeepers in golden thrones, the most widely circulating coinage in the four nations of Alteria. Despite the continent's perpetual shortage of silver, the Mint - he'd not ceased to wonder at the word's provenance since hearing of it in school - continued to strike an abundance of gold, silver when it needed to, and bronze practically never. This was likely because the time to strike a coin was the same regardless of its denomination, and it profited the Mint to produce as much gold as possible. However, gold wasn't a very liquid currency, at nearly ten times the value of silver on today's market. So, if a Thronekeeper officer wanted to pay people off, they would always do so in scepters.)

The hand returned, this time just above his left elbow, the grip tight enough to bruise.

“I’m so sorry sir,” she continued to speak at her normal volume, dangerously calm, “I’m not sure I heard you correctly. Perhaps you misspoke.”

“I certainly did not.” A superior was not obligated to look their subordinate in the eyes, and so Thero saw no need to do so here. Instead, he made a show of turning his cheek away from the source of her voice. It gave him the illusion of control - as though he hadn’t even noticed the second threat she’d leveled his way.

It also concealed the fact that he was currently quite blind, as he’d once again invoked the Secret of the Wandering Eye.

Rather than waste his time concentrating on a few guards, Thero had been seeing through Qirax for the last few minutes, the tiny lizard scampering underfoot past the Thronekeepers and into the torched remains of the tavern.

The place was even more of a wreck than he’d first thought. At the perimastyx’s height, he got a rather uncomfortably close view of several charred bodies. There was one big corpse sprawled not three paces from the ruined bar - probably Verdan, he realized with a pang.

It was always more real when he knew their names.

He felt Lieutenant Moraine’s grip turn into a drag, and he let himself be pulled away from the noise of the crowd and the rank and file. Out of the corner of the lizard’s eye, he could see himself and the Thronekeeper officer draw close to the tavern doorway. The door itself had fallen away from its hinges, the bolts either broken off or loosened by the fire.

“I don’t know what you’ve heard,” the lieutenant hissed, all pretense of politesse gone, “but I’m not about to discuss my pay with some bastard-born bureaucrat. Don’t drop insinuations unless you’re ready to bring some charges my way, got it?”

“If you thought I was insinuating anything untoward, please forgive me,” the kyneid watched his own lips move from afar as he formed the words in his head. “I rather meant to state plainly that I know you are for sale. Deny it all you like, of course, but as you’ve just pointed out, nobody is here to arrest you. Think of it as an opportunity.”

Qirax had not stopped moving while he spoke, and Thero made sure to take in everything he could from the scene. The scorch marks on the floor and walls left standing, he deduced, matched Tyma’s story. A single point of origin, somewhere near the back of the room. The fire had truly been an accident.

What interested him, however, were the blood and the shattered window.

“What do you want from me?”

“Nothing more than you’re already willing to do for certain groups on the other side of the law. I pay you, and you tell me things.” He didn’t need to see Moraine’s face to know that she was thinking it over. She knew that she couldn’t shut him up, at least not here - too many people had seen his face, he was too important to the Hall.

That left a risky refusal, or capitulation.

“... brass balls of Barahisse. Fine, Varglass. You’ve got a deal - one time only. But I want pay up front, before I answer anything. Five thrones.”

Steep, but manageable, and he didn’t have the focus to haggle. “Done.”

Using Qirax’s line of sight once more, he made a show of turning away from Moraine to fumble at his coinpurse. Thankfully, thrones were larger and weightier than scepters, so it only took a second for him to count out five and slide them over.

“Here you are. Now, what I want to know is this: what have you heard about a group of veteran soldiers being smuggled into Equinox? Probably in the last few weeks, and through an established network.”

While Moraine occupied herself finding the best way to word her response in a way that protected her neck, Thero was already investigating the evidence his lizard found.

First, the blood. The fire had burned away most living matter inside the building, but Thero couldn’t overlook a sticky pool of darkness when his Focus' claws got stuck in it. Someone bled quite a bit here.

Not too far away, he saw yet another body. Was there a fight here? He made out the melted slag of some kind of weapon.

Second, the window itself. Based on the pattern of shards - more notably their absence - Thero was looking at a window that had been broken from the inside. That spoke to at least one person getting out of here unseen. There were even more blood droplets leading from the pool to the sill.

Balance of probability told him it was the scarred man. A combat-capable stranger covered in scars wouldn’t hesitate to throw himself through some glass to escape a fire. Most would be desperate enough, he could admit. But desperation was not the same thing as will. And if Thero was reading this scene right, he’d done it while critically injured.

Who was this man? And who was he chasing?

Back in his body, he listened to Lieutenant Moraine speak. His stomach dropped even further.

What in all the Unquiet Hells have I gotten myself into?