Villar Orphe waited where he usually did, on top of a roof. He had several favorites, but that evening he sat on the peak of the Trio Vestments Building, where a tailor, a haberdasher, and a cobbler came up with the idea of a one-stop shop for men’s clothing. Villar had never seen the inside of the Trio V, but he was quite familiar with the roof, which hid his home. Tucked in a hidden niche formed by hips and gables, his abode was less a house and more a tented nest built of canvas and discarded wood that he had dragged up at night like a giant owl. His tiny shelter was filled with the few things he valued: a salifan plant that he kept alive in a wooden cup, a torn bit of tapestry, and a sword left to him by his grandfather. That last item he mounted under the eave, so even if someone found his nest, they might not see it. He also had some food reserves—roots, nuts, and berries that he’d gathered on the outskirts of town. The berries were just starting to appear on the warm, sunny hillsides, and he’d found some mushrooms, as well. He had also hauled in a few treasures uncovered in the trash on Governor’s Isle. Someone down there didn’t like salted fish.
The sun was still up, which kept Villar’s head down. He didn’t like moving about in the daylight. He was blessed with the distinctly beautiful features of his people and refused to cover his ears or hide his eyes from the world. He was proud of his heritage; the rest of the world should be ashamed. Villar’s list of shoulds was long. He should be able to walk into Trio V’s and buy a new suit of clothes. He should be able to wear his grandfather’s sword on his hip in public. He should be able to live in a house with four walls and have an honest-to-Ferrol pot for his salifan plant. What should be and what was, however, remained widely divergent, and this kept him hunkered down with his back against the cupola where the pointing-well-dressed-man weather vane proclaimed an easterly wind.
He often mused on what would happen if he dared wear the sword. It wasn’t illegal. He’d heard that some rulers disallowed blades and bows inside city limits, except for those worn by knights, nobles, and city guards. Rochelle didn’t have a weapons law, but then there was no edict against a mir walking into the Trio V, either. Some rules didn’t need to be written down or enforced by the guard. If he was seen with the sword brazenly clapping his thigh, he’d draw looks. Then a crowd would form, and unless he was willing to use the weapon, they would beat him and rip it away. If he used it—if he acted like any other self-respecting person—the city guard would come. While wearing a sword wasn’t illegal, wounding and killing people most certainly was. Villar knew from experience that the guards didn’t like dwarves, barely tolerated Calians, but absolutely hated mir. Villar had no illusions of being able to fight off a squad of trained soldiers. He had no training with a blade, and he’d never been in a fight. He didn’t consider being beaten the same as being in a fight. So, while being a mir was reason enough for a beating, being a mir with a sword was guaranteed suicide.
Looking down between his feet, he could see the river and the setting sun as it turned gold. Carriages rolled across the distant bridges. Smoke rose from countless chimneys. Crowds crawled along the canyon-streets, flowing like some viscous slime that oiled the workings of the city. He was literally above it all, but soon he’d add a more figurative aspect to that idea.
The bells of Grom Galimus began to play their lonesome melody, marking the end of the day. He should be going. The bishop wouldn’t appreciate him being late. He started to rise, then paused. He heard the scraping again. Tiny claws on wood.
The rat is back.
Villar looked to his pile of possessions in time to see the black-and-white spotted rodent scurry into a crack in the roofing. The thief was at it again. This time he had gotten the box open.
Villar fished the old wooden container out of his pile and, in a panic, he searched the contents while guarding against any mischief that the demon wind might be plotting. Everything that had been there appeared safe. He drew out his most cherished possession: a small portion torn from a tapestry that was at least a thousand years old. According to the story his grandfather told, the tapestry had belonged to the Orphe family and had once been the size of a three-story wall. This two-foot scrap was all that remained. The rest had been confiscated and burned by the church—for obvious reasons. Even Villar’s little scrap showed the detailed image of pointed-eared heroes in armor, riding horses and holding swords aloft. This, his grandfather had told him, was a depiction of the Fall of Merredydd. The image commemorated the battles against barbarians that eventually brought low the ancient and magnificent imperial province. A place that had once been ruled by mir for mir.
Villar spread the bit of tapestry across his thighs and lovingly caressed the fine needlework.
A mir had ruled a province.
He stared into the thread-woven eyes of the faces and made them a promise. “If Ferrol is willing, another one will yet rule a kingdom.”
Seeing the sun touch the distant mountains, Villar lifted the cloth to his lips and kissed the image, then folded it and put the torn corner back.
Time was growing short, and he had much to do.
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Villar took his usual rooftop highway route to the cathedral, dropping down in the shadow of the alley. With the workday over, the mass migration of weary people slogged home. Shoulders slumped, heads bowed, few looked up. Even if they had, even if they saw him, no one would have noticed, or cared about, another mir on the street.
The sun was dipping behind the Estate, most of its face gone, its power fading. A host of shadows crept out of the low places and claimed dominion over the world. The coin of chance was flipping. At last tails was coming up.
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His kind couldn’t safely enter most shops, but a few proprietors were sympathetic and looked the other way when a mir slipped in. Those rare merchants would only sell to mir if no one else was in the store. Common practice was to wait and watch for a lull in traffic then slip in, buy what was needed, and hurry back out before anyone saw. If someone did see, the mir would be turned away. The Crow Tavern on the east side went a step further. Each night, they threw bones and unwanted leftovers on the street for the mir from the nearby Rookery to grab. A crowd gathered religiously and fell to their knees, gathering what they could carry in arms or the folds of skirts. Villar had witnessed the event only once; that was all he could stomach. He had felt nauseated and decided that the Crow would be the first building to burn. Its operator, Brandon Hingus, would be the first executed. Maybe he meant well, but the result was the public humiliation of his people. Such a blight would need to be erased with extreme prejudice to expunge the ugly memory.
Despite the common-knowledge ban on most commercial venues, there were a few places mir were tolerated so long as they didn’t make trouble. Public squares were generally safe, as were bridges—beneath which many lived. They were allowed to draw water from common wells even though the law clearly prohibited it. The mir were also allowed to enter Grom Galimus. They couldn’t go past the Teshlor windows, the first pair of stained glass panes that illuminated the nave and depicted the ancient imperial order with images of grim armored warriors who appeared to watch so that not a toe crossed the line.
Still, mir were allowed to stand inside the doors, observe the services, listen to the choir, and then wait on the steps, hoping for handouts. So long as they were respectful and didn’t block access, they were granted the privilege of silent begging. As such, it wasn’t odd for a mir to trot up the marble steps and enter the giant doors of Grom Galimus.
Once more, no one looked, no one noticed, no one cared when Villar slipped inside for his first meeting of the night.
Villar had been a fraction late, but the bishop was more so, leaving Villar to stand between the two stained-glass Teshlors. No service was under way, and the vast interior was mainly empty. The only ones there were a few boys cleaning up and a few devoted faithful kneeling on the stone floor, praying to the statues of Novron and his doting father, Maribor. Despite his covert mission, Villar refused to dip his head or avert his eyes. He would not worship these gods, nor even pretend to. They were the gods of men. From either side, the Teshlors stared at him. Villar felt uncomfortable under their watchful, sunlit gaze—a gaze that suggested they saw more than a stubborn mir—but even as he waited, Villar noticed the light failing and their images fading with it.
Hard heels echoed. A robed figure moved through the gallery pillars. The bishop approached.
When he came into view, he silently waved Villar to a corner. They were still not past the knights, but Villar was also not near the doors.
“Is there a problem?” Tynewell whispered. The bishop positioned himself between Villar and the door, blocking the view of everyone except the boys cleaning up.
“No, everything is perfect.”
“Then why are you here?”
“A Calian named Erasmus Nym will need access to Grom Galimus the morning of the feast.”
Tynewell looked puzzled. “I have an early service. People will—”
“After the service. Midday is fine. He doesn’t need long to prepare.”
The word prepare made the bishop wince. “What exactly will this Erasmus person be doing? I won’t allow him to desecrate the church. He’s not going to sacrifice a goat on my altar.” Tynewell’s eyes widened. “Or a child.”
Villar paused a moment, wondering where that had come from. He hadn’t told the bishop everything. Villar didn’t think it wise, and the bishop didn’t want to know the details. The only thing Tynewell cared about was that every Alburn noble at the feast would die.
“Nym won’t do anything other than what I have.”
Tynewell thought a moment then asked, “And where will you be?”
“Someplace else. A place that I don’t want Erasmus to know about.”
“And what does this Erasmus fellow know about me and my involvement? Is having him use my church such a good idea? Will it point a finger my way?”
“No, this cathedral is huge, and you can’t be expected to know what occurs in every crook and corner. I’ve already shown him where to go, and he didn’t ask anything about others involved. I just wanted to let you know it would be him rather than me in case you happened upon each other.”
“And no one else knows anything, right? You haven’t bragged, have you? Gone off in some tavern about how the bishop has promised you a favor in return for arranging a murderous riot?”
“Mir aren’t welcome in taverns.”
“Be that as it may, the point is still valid. You haven’t been drunk under some forsaken bridge boasting about how you’ll be Duke of Rochelle when the bishop crowns himself king for lack of options, have you? If anyone discovers I’m involved, neither of us will get what we want.”
“I don’t drink.”
Tynewell studied him carefully, then smiled. “Good. You know, I had my doubts about you. Relying on a mir—such a thing doesn’t come easy, but I’m a man of faith. I believe that if you show faith in someone, that someone will prove themselves worthy. This is your opportunity. Succeed and you’ll earn my trust and the rule of this city. Imagine that. You’ll be a hero to your people. You’ll live in the Estate and govern this region on my behalf. I will be king of Alburn—a bishop-ruler just like Venlin—and you’ll be the first mir noble since the fall of Merredydd. You and yours will get their due, trust me.”
Villar didn’t trust him, but this was the only chance he, or any of them, had. The whole affair was a terrible gamble, and there was no way to be certain the bishop would honor his pledge to appoint him duke. But it didn’t matter. Left to itself, nothing would change. Villar would rather die than face another day of eating the Duke of Rochelle’s trash and watching the mir people beg for scraps thrown in the street. And either way, at least Villar would have the chance to fight back. The ability to kill those who had humiliated him and his people for generations would be a worthy reward. This was something Mercator could never understand. She had become domesticated, but Villar’s heart was still free.
Leaving the cathedral, he stood upon the steps to watch the last of the daylight fade. He had plenty of time to reach his second appointment. He would, in fact, be incredibly early. Perhaps he should get something to eat first. He considered rummaging through the duke’s garbage for dinner, something he’d have to do just one last time. He looked down at the Estate, a place that would soon be a place of honor rather than one of humiliation. That’s when he saw them, the two strangers. The foreigners who had been asking questions about the duchess and poking around where they shouldn’t. One was perched high up on the pediment at the far end of the bridge watching the Estate as if waiting for something.
Villar realized what it was, and he knew he wouldn’t be getting dinner that night.