Chapter 30 - Asura (Part I)

The poor quarter was on fire.

How it'd happened, no-one was quite sure. Only, without any warning at all, a great volcanic plume of flame had lurched skyward, a tiny flash becoming wider and brighter and more intense, expanding outward and upward. The percussive crump of the explosion had rippled across the sleeping city, the concussion bending the air, bending sound-

And in the long, breathless moments that followed, it had rained fire.

Burning debris had hailed down from above, plunging down out of the twilight. As a grey dust cloud had rolled outward from deep within the district, the sizzling deluge had given rise to a rippling wave of new fires. Hungry tongues of flame leapt and danced and crackled, spreading with a greedy will; As if at the perverse whim of the God of Wind, the breeze had fanned the blaze higher still.

The ramshackle tenements and wooden shacks had been the first to ignite. Thick smothering coils of black smoke twisted towards the night sky, visible against the lurid glow of the distant blaze. In the distance, shouts and screams could be heard - Distantly, like the echo of someone else's war.

This close to Lord's Bridge, the buildings were more stone than wood. The blaze - not quite a true conflagration, not yet - had yet to reach this far. There was hope that it would burn itself out, given time...Or so constable-captain Vailret hoped. After all, he'd been warned that nothing - nothing - was to interrupt Prince Barbro's planned procession on the morrow.

Any disruption meant that heads, as they said, would roll. Most likely his own.

If the army had been out there, helping to maintain order, this would have been over in a span of hours. However, the Crown Prince's surprise inspection meant that the majority of the armed forces were at the parade grounds, with the bulk of the conscripts barracked beyond the walls: Already preparing for the long, miserable march to E-Rantel, they were as remote and unreachable as the far side of the moon.

Which left the city watch with the unenviable task of dealing with the fire, come what may. Wooden barricades had been erected, the constables in view looking nervous and harried. Most had been pulled from the garrisons, the regulars detailed to fight the fire and maintain order, but they could feel the fearful anticipation in the air: the sense that things teetered on a precipice, one that could swing either way.

It wasn't just here, too. The night had been plagued by scattered outbursts of violence - there were reports of mysterious forces on the move, brief clashes where both the sides and the outcome were never quite clear.

And then had come the inevitable throng. First a trickle, then a flood; With the narrow alleys and twisting streets choked by a growing tangle of people, the flow of humanity and almost-humanity was gradually swelling. Adults clutching children, men and women clinging to bundles of valuables saved - or looted - from burning buildings, street vendors pushing their carts...It made the constable-captain as nervous as his men.

Trouble was brewing. The sooner the streets could be cleared of this rabble, the better. But the constables on horseback had lost contact with those who'd gone to fight the fire, and it was all they could do to hurry the crowd along, knowing that it was only a matter of time before the other shoe dropped.

When the first scream came, Captain Vailret knew his time had run out. There had already been scuffles, the inevitable result of so many people packed into a narrow space - but now the crowd was recoiling, reeling away from something that trailed in its wake.

Trouble. Just as he'd dreaded.

"Hold!" he shouted, his troops pushing through the press towards the commotion. "Steady, men!"

It was like trying to swim upstream. Voices were raised in tatters of half-cohered sound, bodies shying away from the tight knot of horses, seeking refuge at the other side of the bridge. The mounted watchmen pushed forward all the harder, knowing they had to get there before the crowd began to push back…

It was the smell that hit him first - A foul, clammy reek, quite apart from the stench of fear-sweat and unwashed bodies. The figures around him were subtly, eerily different from the citizens fleeing the flames; their faces grey, their mouths slack, staring unblinking as if mesmerized. They moved sluggishly, with faltering steps, their clothes ripped and hanging off them like ribbons, like sleepwalkers or Dust addicts...

And then he saw it. A shape, too tall and long-limbed to be entirely human, clutching a struggling child close. The body crumpled at its feet, ribbons of blood spilling outwards in a hot, coppery rush from a torn-out throat, twitching in the sudden onset of death. A mouth, opening impossibly wide, revealing the thick tangle of entrails that lolled forth like a swollen, distended tongue-

"Wait-!" the Captain called. He tore his gaze from the mohrg, clawing for his sword. "Weapons! Weapons, no-"

But they were already too close. Too close to the grey, staring faces.

The surge came, without warning. A breaking wave of grey forms and grabbing hands, like an ant hive boiling into sudden, murderous life.

One of the mounted troops was suddenly pulled from his horse; he had time for a startled cry as he was dragged down, snagged into a thickening slush of clutching fingers. His horse kicked, lashing out with hooves as it toppled, letting out a terrible screech as it felt teeth sink into its flanks-

A roar of rage and terror went up. The undead, so quiescent until this moment, came on in a sudden rush. They poured ahead, borne forward by their unstoppable and eternal hunger, heedless of the clubs and swords that hammered at them. Drawn to the screams of the fleeing, swarming over them like a horde of locusts.

To feast.

I knew I was awake, for no dream could hurt this much.

The world faded back in, with aching slowness. Everything hurt; Just breathing made my guts ache, a migraine pulse flaring in my skull. Lingering fatigue filled every atom of my being - My limbs felt like distant memories of themselves, stiff and leaden.

Everything was in shadow, a strange pale twilight in which vague shapes swam in and out. I was flat on my back, my head propped against a pillow only marginally softer than the stone floor below.

I could smell incense. Lapping oils and the coppery tang of blood. Somewhere in the distance, the plainsong drone of distant chanting echoed, faintly. As I forced my eyes open, my wavering gaze focused on the tall figure standing over me, a featureless silhouette against the uncertain illumination-

It was Imina.

She looked weary, her severe features streaked with soot and ash. Dried gore clung to her leather cuirass, begrimed by a patina of dust; Her expression was hard, unsmiling, though some unknowable emotion flickered in her violet eyes.

"He's awake," she said, and turned away.

Breathe. Breathe.

Instinct kept my head still, kept my breathing steady. It was easier, now: Each breath hurt less than the one before, as I drew air into my dust-dry lungs. I could feel a migraine-pulse at my temples, my skin scorched and raw as if by a bad sunburn - Yet somehow, the terrible sense of exhaustion was receding, as if I'd found my second wind.

I knew this. Kelart had mentioned something like this.

"Thank the Gods," Roberdyck said. I heard him rather than saw him, my head pounding at the heavy clop of his boots. Everything was too bright and too loud; I had to close my eyes against the sudden, stabbing glare of an oil-lamp, the flamelight stabbing into my brain.

When I opened them again, he was looking down at me, stark relief on his broad, honest features - Even from here, I could see that Roberdyck's face was bruised, his surplice scorched and torn.

"Don't try to move," he urged. "Your skull's been set right, but the healing has yet to take-"

"Where-" I whispered, hoarse. It sounded old, rusty, my throat parched. I coughed, tried again. "...Where am I?"

Imina and Roberdyck exchanged glances.

"Father Lanzerel's church," the priest said, at last. "-It was Hell getting here, believe me."

He scratched at his neatly-trimmed beard, worry etched across his face. "Arche suggested the palace, but your wounds needed tending. How do you feel?"

Like I'd been mangled.

"Better," I lied, my voice still a rasp. With a grunt, I tried to sit up. It was quite a task - Various muscles didn't seem to want to move, and the effort made my guts cramp with sudden nausea.

"You should lay still-"

"I'm fine," I said, and had to squeeze my eyes shut against the sudden throb of pain. Somehow, I got my right arm working: Teeth clenched, I levered myself upright, the world blurring at the edges as it came more fully into alignment.

Slowly, incrementally, my mind cleared. I was still in my armor; That much, I knew. At the corner of my vision, I glimpsed my helm, the gleam of mythril dulled by a patina of dust and ash. I lay on a cot, my questing hands encountering an understuffed mattress and hard, rough wood…

"Is there-" I coughed, and brief fireworks danced before my eyes. "...Is there any water?"

Liquid sloshed, as Imina passed me a flask. I drank so fast I nearly choked, gulping down the cool water in great swallows. Some of it spilled down my chin, but I didn't care: My throat was parched, my mouth as dry as a desert on fire.

Somehow, somehow, I made myself lower the flask, before I guzzled it all. Everything was pulling itself back into focus, the water sloshing uneasily in my empty stomach - Stray rivulets trickled over my armor, leaving weeping trails through the dust and dirt that caked it.

"What-" Another coughing fit, hard enough to double me over. When my hand came away from my mouth, it felt like my throat had been scraped raw.

"What happened…?"

"Ah," Roberdyck said. "-It's quite the story, that."

I hadn't told them where to go.

Of all of my missteps, it was the most stunningly obvious, the most stupid. The thought of what might have come after...It'd never even crossed my mind. Not once, in all that time of waiting and hoping and dreading, amid the complex calculus of planning.

It wasn't that I didn't trust the workers, though trust surely had something to do with it. I'd just-

...I'd simply assumed, with a complete and total lack of vision, that I would be there to accompany them.

When I'd keeled over, in a collapse as total and complete as a light being snuffed out, I'd left them at a loose end. Utterly insensate, I couldn't be roused: Climb, bloodlessly pale and achingly weak from his revival, was in no condition to help.

As for Succulent-

Well, I suppose he was lucky not to have his throat slit.

Half-crippled or not, he was an exceedingly dangerous man - He'd proven as much, in the brothel. I hadn't suspected, not for a moment, that he was anything other than the man he'd been pretending to be; In the face of that, the temptation to do the pragmatic thing, the safe thing, must have been overwhelming.

Imina would have been all for it, though perhaps I'm being uncharitable. Arche, too; But then again, I suppose she had more to lose than the rest of us put together. But Hekkeran was their leader, and he had final say - In the end, he'd decided it was a risk worth taking.

Not that they had much time to make a decision. With an entire row of shattered buildings on fire, the first wails of blind, unhinged panic ringing through the air, it was abundantly clear that the poor quarter - and possibly all of Re-Estize - was a bad place to be.

They had every reason to cut and run. In truth, I wouldn't even have blamed them: It was what I would have done.

But Foresight, like their name, had found a way.

From the air, Arche had spotted an abandoned cart, the horses round-eyed with terror but miraculously unharmed. Imina had taken the reins, soothing the singed, skittish beasts into compliance; Somehow, she'd kept them from bolting, long enough for Hekkeran and Roberdyck - as well as a series of Floating Board spells - to heave their unconscious cargo on-board.

All this, while surrounded by a sea of flame.

At Roberdyck's urging, they'd headed for the church. Simple pragmatism had decided the issue: It was closest and most familiar, and they had wounded on their hands. As it turned out, Foresight was hardly alone in their choice - At least a dozen parishioners had the same idea, lured by the promise of sanctuary. Even as the sickly orange light of the far-off blaze had continued to burn, the workers had been ushered in with the rest of the terrified commoners, laboring under their burden.

I remembered none of this, of course. Red-spattered, bloody hair hanging, flesh scorched and charred from bathing in raw flame, I looked the way Climb felt. Father Lanzerel, so I was told, had exclaimed in dismay - At first glance, he'd thought that I was the corpse.

Now that was funny.

"Is Climb-"

"He's alive. Weak, but alive." Roberdyck's voice was low, soft with compassion. "The priests are tending to him, never fear."

And just like that, the tension drained out of my shoulders and neck. Even as I looked away - fighting the sudden, treacherous tears - I felt the vise in my chest unclench. Relief, instant and palpable, almost unstrung me.

Alive.

Because sometimes, death could be cheated.

Just this once, things had been made right.

In the brief silence, I could sense the silent question in Roberdyck's steady gaze. Questioning, but not asking; For now wasn't the time.

Instead, I drew a calming breath. Looked up.

"How long have I been out?" I asked, wiping my mouth. This time, I forced myself to sip the water, rather than gulp it - It helped with the nausea. Only a little, but every bit counted.

"About an hour," Imina said. "We tried to wake you before, but…"

An hour. That was something, at least.

"What - what did I miss?"

She frowned, as if wondering where to begin. "Little. But the city…" Her brow furrowed, pointed ears twitching, faintly. "Things are turning ugly. It's everywhere, now - Like everyone's this close to losing their minds. The City Watch is out in force; Whatever's happening, they've got their hands full."

"People are terrified," Roberdyck said. "There were mobs, on the way over. Like the food riots, right before the Emperor took over-"

He caught himself. Shook his head, closing his mouth with a click. I supposed he found the parallels too disturbing to consider any further.

It's him, I thought. He's doing this.

The Vanisher was making his move.

The damnable thing was, I didn't know what he was trying to do. I knew his goal - Or at least, I thought I did - but I had no idea how he was going to accomplish it. Or how far he was willing to go, to get there.

Unbidden, memory stirred. In my mind's eye, I could see them: the brothel's staff, the guards, the guests. Burst and burning. Screaming for help, as they drowned in raw flame. Crushed by the avalanche of falling timbers, dying in terror and agony-

How many died?

How many did I-

My fingers and face went numb at the thought. Most of the rest of me, too - All except the icy fist around my heart.

I swallowed, hard. Past the bitter taste of quinine and bone ash, welling up at the back of my throat.

I won't lie. I'm bad at owning up to my mistakes. It's human nature, I suppose - the urge to move around it, to deflect, to set it apart from yourself. To make the oldest of excuses: That you did everything you could. The best you could possibly have done, given the circumstances.

But there was no denying what this was: A disaster.

The Nine had known we were coming. Somehow, the Vanisher had known, all along.

The slow-burning realization made a wave of bile roll through my stomach, a nausea-inducing shudder of flesh. My cold, clammy hands twitched in my gauntlets, as I balled them into fists to stop them from trembling.

"Grandmaster?" There was an expectant note to Imina's voice, one that belied the wary edge to her words. With a sickening lurch, I realized they expected me to know what to do-

Because someone had to know.

Because, even then, they could sense the looming catastrophe that lay just ahead. The cold, clear awareness that things were about to get worse.

I don't know, I almost said. Instead, I squeezed my eyes shut, and counted backwards until the fatal urge faded to nothing.

"I-" The words stuck in my throat. "I just need a moment-"

Just thinking about healing made my vision tunnel. I felt utterly spent, as if all the vital energy had been sucked out of me. This wasn't the dizziness that came, on occasion, with the laying of hands; this was something more fundamental, more total, as if I'd been lost in the desert without food or shelter for weeks on end.

Instead, I focused. Blinked, as the inventory window flickered before my eyes. All of a sudden, a cut-crystal vial settled in my hand, the liquid within a deep and bloody red. It was body-warm to the touch, far warmer than it should have been - When I twisted the cap off, the petroleum reek of it made me wince.

Not good for the heart, Pavel had said. But what did that matter now?

I downed it, before I could think twice. There was something sickeningly oily about the texture, less like medicine and more like aviation fuel: Fermented, chemically distilled, never meant for human consumption.

Amazingly, it tasted like strawberries.

Almost instantly, the redness and swelling of my half-scorched flesh began to recede. I could literally feel the world snap back into focus, my pounding headache fading to nothing. The bruises that stippled my arms and torso no longer ached-

The terrible weight of fatigue eased. I felt buoyant, almost light-headed, a slow warmth spreading from my core and into my weary limbs.

This time, I found the strength to stand. Too quickly - As I lurched to my feet, I came close to overbalancing, a wave of momentary vertigo sweeping across me. I had to lean against the wall, half-bracing, half-crashing into it.

I looked up, all the same. Struck by a sudden thought.

I didn't know where the Vanisher might be.

But I knew who did.

"-Where's Succulent?"

The mausoleum beneath the church was built as robustly as any vault, but inside-out. It was, after all, designed to keep things in.

According to the teachings of the church, the souls of the newly-dead had a tendency to linger. The ties that bound them to the world were many and complex; Only when the first signs of mortification - of decay - set in, could the spirit be truly considered to have moved on.

It was customary for the dead to be buried immediately, then exhumed later to verify that decomposition had set in. But problems had arisen: To would-be necromancers or alchemists, a fresh corpse posed an almost irresistible temptation. More troublingly, sometimes the dead chose not to lay at rest, but to arise and walk and kill.

The deathwatch cells had been the solution. Each one was a solidly built stone chamber, blessed wards carved into the walls and filled with lead. Acolytes, armed with spears and lanterns, would stand guard beyond the portcullis, watching for any sign of revival. An inauspicious resurrection meant the newly-birthed undead would be granted a second death, long before it could break free to indulge a newfound hunger for flesh.

Father Lanzerel led us down the steps himself.

"My apologies for this, Father," I said, keeping my voice low, respectful. The old priest shook his head, as he stopped in front of the heavy bronze door: He looked weary, dark circles under his eyes, long white robes whispering against the heavy flagstones.

"You fight for the Four Gods, Grandmaster Samuel," he said, sorting through the chain of keys on his belt. "I trust your actions are necessary. Whatever aid I can render, you are welcome to it."

That jolted me.

After a moment's pause, Lanzerel turned the key in the lock. I heard mechanisms disengaging, the heavy clunk and clank echoing hollowly in the gloom. With exceeding care, he stepped back, turning to us again.

"-I leave the rest to you," he said. "May the Four guide you, Paladin."

With a last nod, he shuffled away, back up the steps.

I hope so, I thought. Gods, I hope so.

Shaking off the abrupt stab of conscience, I glanced back. Holding a lamp aloft, Roberdyck looked acutely uncomfortable, troubled by the oppressive bleakness of the gloom all around. For her part, Imina looked on edge, faintly claustrophobic: then again, the darkness and silence would have done that to anyone.

The door swung open, with a creak of ancient hinges. It was brighter within than without: Light-orbs illuminated an inner cage door, then a broad passage and a series of cells. Effort had been taken to make the place livable - To the right, there was an annex with well-worn seats and a small table, beds placed next to a rack of longspears. Like the inside of a guardroom, unadorned and grimly practical.

The smell of decay, faintly sweet, hung in the air like a miasma. Death, new and old, clung to every fiber of this place. Even the scented smoke rising from the incense burners at the corners of the chamber couldn't quite drown it out: It clung to the back of your throat, to your lungs, like dust-sickness.

Eschewing the chairs, Arche had seated herself on the carpet, the fabric woven with devotional text. Her legs were folded beneath her, the Staff of the Heavens across her lap. Her lips moved without sound: A prayer or a focusing chant, perhaps.

At our approach, she opened her eyes. Delicate lashes fluttered, faintly, as her hand came up to brush blonde bangs back from her pale features.

"Miss Imina...Rober," she said. Surprise, quickly muted, flickered in her gaze as it settled on me. "Sir Samuel-"

She made to stand up, brushing dust from her skirts. I shook my head, gesturing for her to stay at ease. "No need for that," I said. "Where's Hekkeran?"

"Standing watch," Arche said, pointing ahead. She bit her lip, a flash of worry in her eyes. "We...secured that man in one of the cells, but…"

"-'You can never be too certain,'" Imina finished, for her. Arche nodded; A glance of mutual understanding passed between both women. "Is he awake?"

A tight-lipped shake of her head.

"Not since we found him," Arche said, gripping her staff a little harder. She was nervous, her eyes wide and round despite the carefully serene cast to her features. Whatever this was, she didn't like it.

"The priests - They couldn't rouse him. He's alive, and that's all."

I made a low sound, and Imina glanced over her shoulder at me. I ignored it.

Alive, I thought. That's good enough for me.

I remembered what he'd done to Climb. Part of me longed to make him pay for it, took a spiteful relish in the thought. I could still hear the sound his sword had made as it razored across Climb's throat, the way he'd crumpled as the life had gushed out of him-

But the truth was, I needed Succulent alive.

Not forever, mind you.

Just for now.

Adventurer or not, Hekkeran had the instincts of an old campaigner. Heedless of the ever-present smell of preservatives and decay - a pervasive metal stink no amount of incense could blot out - he leaned against the black stone of the far wall, gnawing on a half-loaf of bread. Like a predator, fueling itself when it could, not knowing when it would next get the chance.

My stomach growled. I couldn't remember when I'd last eaten.

He looked up, as we approached. Like Imina and Rober, he looked exhausted: the past hour or so must have been absolute hell. Still, he made himself smile, the hilts of his mismatched swords clacking lightly against his belt.

"Good to see you again, your Lordship." His grin widened, grew a little more fixed. "-I was worried you'd sleep through the whole thing."

That made two of us.

I'll admit: Face-to-face with him, I felt the absurd urge to apologize. I'd been less than forthcoming with them, kept them at arm's length...But they'd stayed the course. Upheld their end of the bargain, never mind that I'd got them into the worst trouble of their lives.

Instead, I said - "How's Succulent?"

Hekkeran's smile slipped, ever-so-slightly. He shrugged, wiping crumbs from his mouth. "See for yourself," Hekkeran said, nodding at the gloomy cell he'd been facing.

Just like Arche had said, Succulent was comatose. They'd laid him out on a mortuary slab, like a fresh corpse waiting for decay to set in, a sheet draped over the stone in a vague nod at comfort. Even at a glance, I could tell that he was well and truly fucked-up: His right arm wrapped in bandages to the shoulder, the broken fingers swollen up like sausages. Strips of stain linen bound his broken leg to wooden splints, though I privately doubted he'd ever move it again.

An effort had been made to clean the dried blood from Succulent's features, to close the wound in his scalp. It only drew attention to the blackened rings of bruises around his eyes, the way the flesh of his chest and neck were swollen and knotted with buried shrapnel from the explosion. He'd lost teeth, one side of his mouth bloated and half-smashed.

Someone - Hekkeran himself, I suspected - had stripped Succulent of his cloak, boots and black leathers, leaving his whipcord-thin figure in half-charred breeches. For good measure, they'd blindfolded him with a strip of linen, and chained his good arm to the slab.

I didn't blame them. I'd seen Succulent, up close: I had a very clear and unsentimental idea of how dangerous the man could be.

"Arche searched him," Hekkeran said, low and entirely without humor. "Best not to take any chances, I thought. He is orichalcum-ranked, after all."

He stared through the bars, as if at some hideously dangerous animal he'd wounded but hadn't quite killed. I couldn't help but notice that, despite his relaxed stance, Hekkeran's hands were never far from the hilts of his swords.

As if in answer, Arche nodded, solemnly. With care, she laid out what she'd found: His weapons. A shirt of fine orichalcum chainmail, the links making no sound as they clinked together. A small toolkit containing an array of files and picks, rings and an amulet that were all clearly enchanted. Then the belt, with its buttoned pouches.

I opened them, one-by-one. Slim potion vials, tiny metal figurines of creatures I'd never seen before. Odd-colored crystals. Talismans inlaid with delicate traceries of silver, foul-smelling powders and herbs. A whole beetle, suspended in amber. The tools of his trade, I supposed.

"Is there…" I cast around, for the words. "-Is there anything that could lead his friends to us? Or tell us where he's been?"

Arche shook her head. Inwardly, I fought down a sigh: No, that would've been too easy.

"Friends? A man like Succulent doesn't have friends," Imina murmured, almost to herself. Her lips curled in a little scowl. "Accomplices, maybe."

"Dangerous ones," Roberdyck added. He looked rather more wary, as if none of this sat well with him. I could sympathize: I felt much the same way.

For a moment, Arche's touch lingered on the dagger he'd stabbed Climb with. A needle-pointed stiletto, blade still stained with dried blood, it was a weapon of exquisite craftsmanship.

"This one's different," Arche said. "It holds a single spell of the third tier. Held, I mean - Whatever it was, it's been expended." She cupped her chin, contemplative now: "You don't think…?"

"Be that as it may," Hekkeran said, "-I think it's time for some answers, your Lordship." His voice was light, almost casual, but his smile never quite touched his eyes. "Now, you've paid us well - That's appreciated. But you have to admit: This is more than 'a little trouble in Re-Estize'."

"A lot more," Imina added. For moral support, probably. "You've gone one of the Six Arms in there-"

Hekkeran glanced at her, and she fell silent. He coughed, once, and went on.

"What's really going on, Grandmaster? What happened in there?"

He leaned forward as he spoke, close enough that I could smell the charred reek that still clung to his clothes. Some of that was human ash, I knew; the fires had consumed everything.

I looked to the side. At Roberdyck, scratching at his beard. At Imina, her gaze hooded, her features set in a wary cast. At Arche, her lips pressed together in a thin line.

"-I suppose you feel the same way?"

There was an answering grunt of affirmation from Roberdyck. Imina leaned back against the wall, crossing her arms, her gaze hooded as she looked on. Arche just nodded, leaning on her staff like a walking-stick.

"All right," I said. "All right, then." In a way, I'd known that this moment was coming, from the very beginning. It was, in fact, a relief: If anyone deserved to know the stakes, it was them. I'd got them into this, after all.

I drew a deep, steeling breath. "It's the Nine Fingers," I said. "The Crown believes their influence has been left unchecked, for far too long. The plan was to deal with them tonight - We had the Blue Roses with us. Wolfgunblood, too."

I paused, to let the words sink in.

Imina sniffed. "Called it," she said, as if she'd known all along.

"Two adamantite-ranked teams," Roberdyck mused aloud. His chainmail armor rustled, faintly, as he stirred. "The Blue Roses...And Ser Wolfgunblood? They say the man's death incarnate-"

"He's more than that," Arche said, hushed. Her eyes had gone very wide. "He saved E-Rantel, by himself." A hint of awe crept into her voice; she smiled, just a little, as if she couldn't help herself. "Ureirika has a doll of him-"

Her expression clouded over, and she fell silent.

"And your part in this?" Hekkeran said. His voice was mild, but his gaze never wavered.

"Viscount Fondoll was meeting with Coco Doll at the brothel. We meant to take them into custody-"

And look how that turned out, I thought, silently. Even now, the memory made my hands ball into fists.

Hekkeran's blue eyes narrowed. He canted his head to the side, his expression thoughtful. "I see," he said, at last. "...What went wrong?"

That was the question I'd been asking myself, the whole time. How had things gone wrong so quickly? So completely? The next words stuck like glass in my throat, but I forced them out, all the same.

"-They knew we were coming," I said. "We had an inside man, but Succulent got to him first. How, I'm not sure."

"Someone told," Roberdyck said, almost gently. "Someone always tells."

My breath caught. It was stunningly, obviously simple. Of course someone had told the Nine Fingers. How else could they have known?

Someone had sold us out.

I should've known. Should've suspected - But I'd been so sure 'Lockmeier' had been who he said he was. Climb had sensed that something was wrong; Somehow, he'd guessed that things weren't what they seemed.

And I'd been the one to talk him down.

The thought brought the bitter taste of bile to my mouth. I swallowed, thickly, and pushed it aside. Made myself go on: "It was a trap. It always was, from the very beginning. I...broke free, but they killed Climb. The rest, you already know."

"Should've sent Wolfgunblood instead," Imina muttered, and I felt a sharp stab of annoyance. It was an effort not to snap out a retort: I needed them on my side.

"Whatever the reason," I said, through gritted teeth, "-Succulent has answers. I intend to get them."

For a long moment, no-one spoke: In the perfect silence that followed, I could see the calculation happening in Hekkeran's eyes. The cost weighed against the benefit. And, no doubt, their chances of surviving this.

I waited, trying not to let my own uncertainty show. The truth was, I didn't have a plan - All I knew was that I had to find the Vanisher, somehow. I had a sinking feeling that he knew I wasn't dead: Given how meticulously he'd prepared for this, I doubted he'd settle for anything less than my corpse.

Hekkeran's gaze went to Arche, then to Imina, then to Roberdyck. Some unseen communication passed between them, some message I wasn't privy to - But Imina nodded, then Roberdyck, and he sighed. His eyes closed for a moment; When he opened them, it was clear he'd come to a decision.

"You've seen what's left of him," Hekkeran said, palpable doubt in his voice. "I hate to state the obvious, but…"

"I brought Climb back to life," I said, quietly. "-I'll find a way."

That threw him, I could tell. It certainly shook me. Even now, I couldn't quite believe that it'd actually happened. Just saying it sent a shiver of foreboding through me, as if someone had stepped on my grave.

As if, somehow, all of this was finally beginning to make sense.

But it was Roberdyck, looking increasingly uneasy with the proceedings, who spoke up. "Sir Samuel-" he began, clearing his throat. "Even if you can wake him, there's no guarantee he'll answer truthfully. Or at all, as it happens."

Instinctively, he reached up to touch the silver holy symbol he wore. "Grave as our circumstances might be, if you mean to put him to the question...I can't condone torture."

I shook my head. "Not what I meant," I said, and Arche started, struck by a sudden thought.

"I - I have some skill in enchantment," she said, too quickly. "But he's one of the Six Arms. Magic or not, he could resist…"

"Not that, either," I said, and her shoulders slumped in relief. This time, the look she gave me was a quizzical one.

"-You're going to talk him back to life?"

"Not quite."

I'd seen torture before. A data-entryist two halls away, smarter and more ambitious than I could hope to be, had made a profitable sideline in selling amphetamines. I never indulged, mostly because the sickly comedown was worse than going without, but he'd been brazen enough to get away with it.

For a time, at least.

One day, the secmen had hauled him - kicking, thrashing - away from his workstation, and out of sight. Not out of earshot, however: the entire office heard his screams, as they smashed his ankles with their batons and started in on his arms. By the end of it, he was accusing everyone and anyone he could think of, promising anything if they would only stop.

They didn't.

Some of the other temps had paused, looking up with vague, canine curiosity. Their work-rate had suffered for it, and they'd been reprimanded, later. As for me, I kept my eyes straight ahead, pounding the keys, trying not to hear-

When he'd shouted my name, I'd felt a dull pang of fear mingled with annoyance. Surprise, at how he knew my name - I'd never spoken to him, not that I could recall - and an absurdly petty irritation that he'd decided to take me down with him.

They'd ignored him, of course. Corporate security didn't care who his dealer was, or who he'd sold to: instead, it was an object lesson for the rest of us, to avoid ideas above our station.

More importantly, they knew not to trust him. After all, anyone could and would say anything, if it meant an end to pain.

Calm, I thought. Calm.

Make this good.

"-I met a man in Loyts," I said, at last, once my thoughts had slotted into order. "Erya Uzruth. A Worker, as it happens."

This time, it was Imina who stirred. "You've met Erya?" she said, sharply. I felt a swift stab of surprise, as I turned to glance at her.

"You know him?" I said, astonished.

"Only by reputation," she said, her voice hard. "Friend of yours?"

I thought about it. Decided that honesty was the best policy.

"...Honestly, I thought he was a bastard." Her eyebrows rose, and she nodded, silently: I couldn't help but feel, somehow, that I'd scored a point. "But he could fight," I allowed, and the corners of her mouth turned down.

I remembered the nameless elf Erya had brought with him. The way she'd flinched at his every motion, like a beaten dog awaiting the next kick.

How she'd died, anonymous to the end, with a crude knife through her heart.

I'd done nothing, then. Because Pavel had said so. Because we couldn't risk a fight.

Regret is a strange thing. The more you try to set it aside, the faster it returns.

"The beastmen nearly got him. Nearly got us all, in fact." My voice caught; the wound was still raw, closer to the surface than I'd thought. "He made them think he was dead. Slowed his breathing, put himself in a state where they couldn't tell the difference."

Hekkeran was the first one to get it - I could see it in his eyes, in his suddenly-speculative expression. He'd been standing back from the bars, but that didn't make him any less alert: Quite the opposite, really.

Involuntarily, Roberdyck glanced at Succulent's comatose form. "You're saying he's awake?" His gaze flicked to the metal tray that held the assassin's effects. "But we stripped him-"

"His wounds," I cut in, before he could go on. "His arm and leg. Could you heal them?"

The priest hesitated. An involuntary smile crept across his features, as he managed a disbelieving chuckle. "Such hurts are quite beyond me, I'm afraid. Perhaps the Great Priest of the Thirteen Heroes..."

You idiot, he didn't say, and I was grateful for that.

"Then if I were him, I'd play dead, too. Particularly if I knew I couldn't get away. Especially if I knew I'd be shot full of arrows if I moved."

Now Imina's breath caught. She'd unslung her bow, looking like she thought that was an excellent idea. A line of flame flared between Firedrake's ivory horns, the fiery bowstring crackling as it hung in the air.

"-Maybe I should shoot him a few times," she offered. "You know...to be sure."

"Not yet. Let's try diplomacy, first." It took an effort of will to keep my voice calm, to keep talking as if nothing was wrong.

As if I knew what I was doing.

I turned towards the cell, and the mangled figure it held.

"What do you think?" I said, through the bars. "-It's not too late to cut a deal."

After about thirty seconds of motionless silence - long enough to wonder if I might be wrong - Succulent released a long, slow sigh, and said, "What do you want to know?"

Next: Asura (Part II)