Ben was almost upon the kitchen door, tiptoeing his way over there ever-so-lightly in order to hide his approach. Sybil watched intently from her seat at the long table, the untouched breakfast on her platter growing colder by the second.

Time to meet the cook, Ben thought, with the unique thrill that came with sating his curiosity. Only a few more steps. He turned around and smirked in triumph at Sybil. It all started with her daring him to sneak a peek.

It was the third morning after beating Sweeney’s challenge, and the Brigid Festival was half-a-week away. With their training having come to an end and nothing else to fill the itinerary, they’d been whiling time away with well-earned rest and general idleness.

The door to the dining room swung open before he reached the kitchen, and Orangier entered excitedly. Ben almost jumped out of his skin, immediately feigning disinterest by the fireplace.

“Lady Blake, Mr. Umber! Having a late breakfast, are we? I’ve been looking for you all over the manor,” Orangier said. “I’m about to head into the city to shop for supplies. Free as you are, I was wondering if you’d like to tag along. I daresay some fresh air would be agreeable.”

Ben and Sybil looked at each other and grinned in unison. The mystery of the cook could wait for another time.

“I daresay you’re right.” Sybil concurred.

Orangier plunged his hand into his vest and protruded a pocket watch. He checked the time, tutted, and put it back in its place. “Well then, we better hurry before the good produce is gone. Come along, you two!”

Sybil wolfed down her breakfast in a few ravenous seconds and then joined Ben in following the butler out of the dining room. Well-earned rest and general idleness are all well and good, but it wasn’t every day one could explore an improbable city.

“Where are we going?” Ben asked as they closed the arched gateway behind them.

“Somewhere you’re familiar with—but shouldn’t be,” Orangier replied without turning around. “Although you’ll see that Nebuchadnezzar Avenue is quite a different place before sunset.”

Ben raised an eyebrow but didn’t ask further. He knew his master’s moods and fancies by now, and he knew they wouldn’t pry another word from him on the matter. They made their way to the entrance of Ochrefriars and hitched a snail-coach across the Hanging Gardens. It was a beautiful, cloudless morning as they peered outside the wagon windows.

⦶⦶⦶

Orangier had been right; the street was a much different place during the day. Gone were the shimmering lights and extravagant displays that adorned the storefronts at night. A mismatched patchwork of stalls of every stripe and color covered the sidewalks in their stead, each overflowing with their respective merchandise.

Moon-shaped fruits and petrichor-smelling spices, finely ground chaiberry, and sun-dried yarrow leaves overwhelmed their senses with a splash of colors and a symphony of aromas as soon as they descended from the snail-coach.

The banners that hung from the closed shops fluttered in the breeze, casting dappled shadows on the cobblestone street below. Vendors announcing their wares and the necessary back-and-forth of bartering formed a constant, almost pleasant clamor.

Orangier, never one to waste time, gave his pocket watch a second glance with a practiced gesture. “Well, you two, I won’t be long. Perhaps a couple of hours at most. Do you think you can manage not to get into any trouble in the meantime?”

Ben and Sybil nodded with theatrical solemnity. They would’ve agreed with anything the butler said not to waste an opportunity like this.

Orangier sighed, but ultimately gave in. He produced a stipend of groats and handed it to Sybil. “Here you go, Lady Blake—ahem, Sweeney. This is for both of you. Treat yourselves to something from the stalls while I’m gone. You’ve earned it,” he said, scratching his head awkwardly. “I’ll meet you back in this spot in a bit, then. Do be careful.”

With that, he disappeared into the throng of shoppers, muttering a list of grocery items to himself as he went. Ben and Sybil watched him go, an unconscious smile on their lips as they felt the sweet taste of freedom.

Roaming aimlessly around the market was their first order of business. After a while, they found themselves drawn to a quaint ice cream stall nestled amongst other delicacies. The owner, a stocky gnome with a bushy mustache, reminded Ben of old man Genos back in Machen; albeit a younger, more spirited version.

The gnome greeted Ben and Sybil with a warm smile as they approached. “Welcome, welcome, customers! What can I get for you on this fine morning?”

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Ben glanced at the colorful array of flavors on display, his mouth watering at the kaleidoscopic sight. In the end, his eyes stopped on a vibrant pink ice cream dotted with small black seeds. There was a small plaque beneath it—dragon fruit. “We’ll take two of this one, please.”

As the gnome scooped generous servings of the creamy treat into waffle cones, Ben’s gaze shifted to the person, a boy around their age, who had formed a line behind them. It was a boy around their age, a pudgy, friendly face with a smattering of freckles across the nose. His build was short and stout, and his brown, almost ginger hair appeared to have been recently tousled. Color flushed his cheeks, and Ben suspected they were perpetually so, regardless of the weather. He seemed like the kind of person who wouldn’t hurt a soul.

chapter_img_05 [https://imgur.com/NR2W8Cd.jpg]

Meanwhile, the gnome, oblivious to his distraction, handed them their ice cream with an acrobatic flourish. He snapped out of it and made to grab both as Sybil paid for the desserts. “Two dragon fruit delights are comin’ your way! Fourpence groats a piece, if you please, milady.”

The dragon fruit ice cream tasted mildly sweet, with a subtle pear-like undertone to its flavor. As they dug into their snack, the gnome greeted the other boy with excess familiarity. “Sam, my number one client! How are your folks doing? What can I get for you?”

The boy, Sam, approached the counter of the stall, his face lit up with a broad smile. “Managing like always, Mr. Lump! Y’know how it is.”

Mr. Lump chuckled knowingly. “That I do, oh yes, I do. You’ll get the usual?”

Sam’s happiness was palpable, rubbing his stomach as he eagerly nodded. “Yessir!”

Suddenly, as Ben was enjoying his ice cream, he heard an increasingly loud ruckus on the far end of the street. He turned around, his attention diverted by the commotion in the distance. He saw a gathering crowd forming into a semi-circle, their murmurs rising along with their interest.

With the growing commotion, he had a hunch about what was unfolding. Ben thought of the cultists he had chanced upon in Dool Proper back when he first arrived, and he shuddered. He hoped they were a different kind of disturbance.

“Let’s go see what’s happening!” Sybil exclaimed; her enthusiasm was evident as she gulped down the remainder of her ice cream in a couple of bites. Her zest was short-lived as she suddenly winced in pain, her hand flying to her forehead. “Ouch! Brain freeze.”

Ben couldn’t help but laugh at her small misfortune. “That’s what you get. Come on, there’s no hurry. It must be something unsavory.” The air buzzed with anticipation as they walked toward the source of the excitement. He discerned a repetitive chant as they got closer: Unseen no more, our peace restore! Unseen no more, our peace restore!’

It sounded like a strike, and Ben could tell it was quite a large group. However, the choir of demanding voices seemed somehow strange, even gossamer. They snaked their way through the crowd of sorcerers and spirits until they found a spot from which to observe the procession.

A chill ran down Ben’s spine. Before him, slowly gliding across the street, was a large group of angry ghosts. He had encountered a few of them when he first arrived in Dool, but everything had been so new that he hadn’t paid much attention to them. Seeing so many of them together, however, stirred a sense of unease within him—a reminder of his own inevitable demise.

“What do you reckon’s their problem?” Ben asked, barely audible over the din of the crowd and the ghostly wailing.

Sybil shrugged her shoulders, tilted her head toward a middle-aged lady in front of them, and tugged at her sleeve. “Excuse me, ma’am, do you know what’s going on?”

The middle-aged lady turned around and regarded Ben and Sybil with kind curiosity before she waved the ghosts off. “Oh, don’t mind those mischief-makers. If one becomes more senile with every passing year, imagine where they’re at!” She pointed an accusatory finger at the undead strikers. “This lot is saying someone’s been targeting them. Can you imagine? Afraid of death, even after croaking! Now there’s a conundrum, if there ever was one.”

Ben saw the ghosts in a new light. Much like other spirits, they were more victims than offenders, bound to the whims of sorcerers and their beloved bureaucracy. While lost in his musings, Ben noticed a man parting the crowd and stepping before the procession, interrupting their advance. He sported mutton chops for a beard, and he kept one eye locked in a perpetual squint. Unseen no more, our peace restore! Unseen no more, our peace restore!

As slow as their procession had been, it didn’t take the ghosts much effort to stop. The mutton-chopped man crossed his arms and stared at them defiantly, then spit on the ground beside him. “The time has been that, when the brains were out, the man would die, and there would be an end. But now they rise again with twenty mortal murders on their crowns and push us from our stools.”

The ghost who spearheaded the strike glided forward to meet the mutton-chopped man. He wore attire that Ben surmised must be hundreds of years old. There was some sort of regal demeanor that belied his authority.

“The time had been that younger generations would respect their elders,” the ghost began, his voice weighed with gravitas. He turned his gaze to the assembled crowd, his ethereal eyes scanning them without resting anywhere in particular. “Someone has been pilfering our graves. Comrades-in-death of mine vanished without a trace! You all know, as well as us, what this means.”

Tensions mounted as the crowd’s murmurs grew louder. Jeers and boos blended with heated words as an argument broke between both parties. Tension mounted as heated words turned into jeers and boos, escalating the confrontation. Then, cutting through the chaos, a single word echoes through the street, spoken with a tone of ominous certainty: “Necromancer!”

The ominous word hung in the still air, casting a foreboding shadow over the crowd. It cast a pall of silence over the gathered crowd. Even the mutton-chopped sorcerer, who had been dismissive moments before, doubted his own recourse for an uncertain moment.

“N-No one’s seen a necromancer in centuries,” he finally ventured. His voice was a beacon of certainty for the suddenly fearful gathering. “Their sorcery’s long been forbidden and forgotten. Good riddance, says I. No, these scoundrels mean to sack the city for resources!”

His words rang true with many, especially the sorcerers, who perceived the ghosts’ concerns as a threat to their resources. Bravado was quick to replace their fear. “Get outta here!” came the first shout. “Why don’t you take those crazy Samhaelites with you on your way out?” Laughter erupted—even the pleasant, middle-aged lady who had answered their questions ridiculed the ghosts and their concerns.

A sharp, stabbing pain shot through Ben’s right arm, jolting him with a sense of urgency. Sybil gripped him tightly, and she spoke with a soft, almost inaudible voice. “Look. Over there.”

His blood curdled, and fear immediately overwhelmed him. Hidden amidst a sea of faces, looking straight at them, was a hooded figure covering their face with a red mask. He remembered the warning that the fortune-teller had given them back in Charon Pass. Beware the red masque of death. The vizard was almost plain, with devilish traits carved on its surface.

They didn’t need to communicate further. Ben could tell that Sybil had gone pale with fear. Retreating backward into the crowd, they returned to the rendezvous point at the quickest pace they could muster without arousing suspicion. As they waited, Ben and Sybil felt an unshakable worry gnawing at them. They weren’t as quick as the others to dismiss the ghosts’ concerns.