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  “Evenin’, Hardohl.” The sergeant raised his right fist to eye level. Mevon returned the salute. “What can I do for ya’?”

  Mevon spared a glance to ensure his Fist had begun filing under the archway. “You can start, sergeant, by telling me where the rest of your watch is.”

  The sergeant huffed, then threw his arms out in a helpless gesture. “With, uh, respect ’n’ all that, where the bloody abyss have you been?”

  “Doing my job. Now answer the question.”

  “You mean you ain’t heard?”

  “Obviously not.”

  The sergeant exhaled, whistling in the process. “Well, no official word’s come down, mind ya’, but we heard of some scuffle out in the east. Got all the scale-backs red-cheeked ’n’ cranky, if you know what I mean. Four outta every five got shipped off to lock the situation down, and the rest of us are left here pulling double duty at half strength.”

  Mevon rubbed his chin. Four out of every five—over two and a half thousand troops—was serious indeed. Had someone finally cornered those abyss-taken bandit lords? The three hundred he’d wiped out had belonged to them, surely, but represented only a fraction of the rogues, thieves, and highwaymen capable of being called upon by the self-proclaimed rulers of the Rashunem Hills. Mevon smiled, thinking of the clash that would unfold if, indeed, the bastard pair had finally stirred too great a bee’s nest with their schemes. How he wished he could be there to see them fall.

  Green flash in his peripheral vision, and he turned towards the gate to see Jasside passing by, her eyes searching in his direction. She had been within earshot of Mevon’s conversation with the sergeant. She jerked her head away, but not before Mevon glimpsed her upturned lips.

  “If I was you,” continued the sergeant, “I’d be gettin’ on to the fortress, quick-like.”

  “I intend to.”

  Two whistles urged Quake into motion. Mevon threaded his way into the cavalcade and passed under the gatehouse archway. After five beats trotting through the tunnel, he emerged into the northern quadrant of Thorull.

  The smell hit him first, the stench of a hundred thousand souls, squeezed together like grapes in a winepress. A wall of noise next struck his ears like a thunderclap, displacing a half month of silence save the clip-clop of hooves and the solitude of his own thoughts.

  Mevon patted Quake on his right shoulder, and the horse accelerated, passing several rows of Elite and sending one basket-laden citizen scampering to vacate his path. He soon came abreast of Jasside. Arozir and Tolvar rode at her flanks, and they inclined their heads to Mevon, a gesture he returned.

  He addressed his captains. “You saw the gate?”

  “Aye,” said Arozir. “Idrus already raced ahead to find out what’s happening.”

  “Good.” He had expected no less. “Until we know more, keep the men on a short leash.”

  Tolvar sighed dramatically. “If we must.” He raised his voice so that those around could hear. “So . . . maximum of, say, ten pints?”

  “Right,” Arozir said. “And four whores.”

  “And two tavern brawls . . . but only if they win!”

  A dozen of the closest Elite chuckled and let loose a mock victory cry. Mevon could not bring himself to join in the merriment. Jasside, her face wholly unreadable, had fixed her gaze on him. He stared back.

  “Give us some room,” Mevon said. “I’d like a last chat with our prisoner before she’s taken out of our hands.”

  “Aye.” Tolvar turned his head around as both he and Arozir pulled back on their reins. “You heard the man, slow your asses down!”

  “They’re horses, not asses!” someone called.

  “Horses, too, then!”

  “And I’ll throw saddles on your back and let your mounts take a ride if you don’t hurry up!” added Arozir.

  “Don’t you mean slow up?” yelled a different voice.

  “Who said that? Why don’t you . . .”

  Their banter continued, but Mevon left them to it, their voices fading into background noise. He and Jasside now had space enough to talk in peace.

  She smirked at him. “Back for more?” she asked.

  “So it seems.”

  Their last conversation had ended with Mevon’s wandering away, lost in thought. He had not spoken to her again in the days since.

  “Good,” she said. “I’d hate to think that you planned on washing your hands of me.”

  “I . . .” Mevon had thought to do just that. He shook his head. “We shall see.”

  She let out a hmph and turned away, a perfect image of apathy. It was a sham, though, and they both knew it.

  “What game are you playing at, sorceress?”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Some conflict is unfolding to the east of here. Why should that please you?”

  She shrugged. “I’m on the way to my own execution, aren’t I? The empire’s woes are among the few things that can still bring me pleasure.”

  “So that’s it then? Are you just like every other criminal I’ve known, throwing empty defiance in the face of the justice when it finally catches up to you?”

  “Don’t talk to me of justice!” The words left her mouth like fire, and her eyes blazed, belying the charade. She took a deep breath before continuing. “You claim to serve its cause, but you don’t. You, Mevon Daere, know nothing about it!”

  Mevon had to stop himself from growling at her. “I’ll not have such words spoken to me. I know nothing, do I? My earliest memories involve lessons in the ways of justice. My devotion to it is unequaled among my peers. Ruul’s light, I named my scorching weapon after it!”

  She lowered her voice to a pitch Mevon almost considered dangerous. “Please. You kill because you enjoy it and enforce a cruel mockery of the term based on the whims and fears of your masters. You know not devotion, only blind obedience.”

  Mevon, his composure shattered, felt his jaw hanging wide. Nobody talked to him like this. And with such words as to drive even a gentle soul to violence, he truly, for one brief moment, lost control.

  Scores of heads turned to him, eyes wide, as he began laughing.

  It was not a gentle thing, nor was it devoid of hysteria. Perhaps two dozen beats it persisted, until finally he was able to bring himself, in increments, back under control. Jasside’s visage held to a mask of horror for its duration. Only as he wiped away moisture from the corner of his eyes did she also make an effort to compose herself. It didn’t matter. The deed was done, and Mevon now knew everything he needed to know about her.

  He looked into her eyes, holding them trapped. He searched her soul, and felt . . . nothing. “A few days ago, such words might have incited me to a regrettable reaction. Now? Just be glad I no longer feel the constant urge to snap your neck.”

  She made a sound very close to choking, then nodded—a gesture too meek to be part of her act.

  They rode together, a cloud of silence hanging between them. Their procession turned once to skirt the edge of the northern quadrant’s market square. Two more turns would bring them to their destination. Two more turns until he was free of her forever.

  Midway through the row, Jasside surprised him by speaking once more. In a whisper, she said, “Mevon, why do you fight?”

  He lifted an eyebrow as he studied her. She faced forward, eyes downcast, chin pressing towards her chest. What angle was she trying now? “You know why: justice.”

  “Yes, but why?”

  “I . . .” Mevon shook his head. “It’s what I’ve always done, what I was born to do.”

  “To what end? What purpose does your justice serve?”

  “Isn’t that self-evident? Justice is its own end.” He swept his arm in an arc. “Look around you. Would civilization be possible without men like me standing between it and chaos?”

  “No. B
ut, is it the order that you protect or the people within it?”

  “What difference is there?”

  She sighed. “Oh, Mevon, all the difference in the world.”

  Mevon shrugged.

  “You asked me to look around,” Jasside said. “Well, now I ask—no, I challenge you to do the same. There.” She pointed. “Look, and tell me what you see.”

  Mevon tilted his head in the direction indicated. “What? It’s just a few musicians playing to the crowd.”

  She forced a smile. “Is that all?”

  “Want me to write you an essay? What more is there to tell?”

  “I’ll tell you what I see. I see three men playing fiddle, skin-drum, and wood-flute. The song is lively. The fiddler is singing the melody. It’s about a shy, pretty farm girl, unable to choose between lovers and causing all sort of trouble for it. The crowd is full of people just off from their day’s labors, eager to ease their tired backs with an ale in hand and a song in the air. I see the tears in their eyes, unshed yet brimming, for the song tells of innocence, of peace, and allows them, for a few brief moments, to forget that they live in a land that has all but forgotten these things.

  “That is the difference. You don’t see it because you’re not one of us. I don’t blame you, though. I guess it’s not your fault. Not really. They’ve had their claws in you since birth.”

  Her words sank into him, each a lance of ice to his soul. He rubbed his chin. Is she right? Am I truly so set apart from the very people I risk my life to protect?

  More importantly: Does it matter?

  The thought gnawed at him as the two of them followed the front half of the Fist into the first turn. Too soon, they made the second.

  The fortress at the heart of Thorull loomed before them. Its blackened stone walls soared nearly twice as high as the city’s outer perimeter. The tips of crossbow bolts peeked out of half a hundred murder holes, and halberdiers by the scores stood at attention along the gated entrance.

  Idrus waited just inside. As the Fist moved off to the stables and began dismounting, Mevon grabbed Jasside’s reins and whistled once, which brought them both to a halt two paces from his ranger captain. “Report.”

  “It’s bad,” Idrus said.

  “I gathered that. The watch sergeant told me they stripped four out of every five soldiers stationed in the city. Any more word? Have the country garrisons been affected as well?”

  “It’s worse than that. The general is in there with the prefect, and it sounds like they may be mobilizing the entire Host.”

  “The prefect? You mean this isn’t just a military matter?”

  “Afraid not.”

  Mevon turned as his other two captains rode up alongside them. “You heard?”

  “Enough of it,” said Tolvar. “Scorch me, looks like it’ll be a short leash indeed.”

  “Very,” Mevon said.

  “I feel for the elegant ladies of the Feathered Dollhouse.” Arozir sighed. “They may have to wait a bit longer for our most dubious presence, I’m afraid.”

  “Right.” Mevon turned to Idrus again. “Anything else I should know before I head in?”

  “Well . . . there is one thing, but it might be nothing.”

  “Tell me.”

  “It’s about the other Hardohl. They seem to be . . . missing.”

  “What? Both of them?”

  Idrus raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “That’s all I know. It might be I heard wrong.”

  “Not likely.” Mevon dismounted. He reached to lift Jasside out of her saddle, a mere featherweight bound at the hands and ankles by coarse ropes. She had an oddly thoughtful look on her face as he reached with a knife to undo her lower bindings.

  “You’re taking her with you?” Idrus asked.

  “I might as well. The sooner she’s out of our hands, the better.”

  All three captains gave each other pointed looks, as if they were concerned parents deciding whether to let their child out for the evening. Mevon did his best to ignore their “affections,” since such instincts served so well on the battlefield. After a few moments of that eerie silent communication they seemed to cherish, they nodded to each other.

  “Very well,” Arozir said.

  “Be careful in there,” added Tolvar.

  Idrus guided a hand to Quake’s neck and guided the horse away. Tolvar and Arozir followed, leading their own mounts. Mevon grabbed Jasside by the upper arm and marched her up the onyx steps to the prefect’s receiving chamber.

  He came to the thick door and cast a glance at the two daeloth guards. Three purple lines, like ragged claw marks, adorned their black tabards, marking them as members of the prefect’s own darkwatch. One quickly turned to grasp the handle, saying, “You’re expected.”

  Mevon marched in without hesitation.

  “ . . . simply don’t know what we’re dealing with.”

  The words came from a familiar figure: General Masri Genrasco, the daeloth commander of all forty thousand troops stationed in the prefecture. She was dressed in the typical armor of her kind: thick steel, jagged, meant to appear imposing in stark shades of black and red. Blond hair curled toward her jawline, looking odd, as ever, against the mahogany skin all daeloth possessed. On the back of her neck and hands, scales glittered in azure globelight.

  Prefect Hezraas stared her down. A feat, considering how short he was, even for a mierothi. Whatever retort he had planned died on his lips as he swung his gaze towards Mevon. “About time you got here.”

  “Honored one.” Mevon bowed his head, then forced Jasside to her knees and stepped in front of her—a formality indicating that she was unimportant and could wait until more pressing matters were discussed. “I hear there’s some trouble?”

  The prefect barely glanced at Jasside. “Your penchant for understatement is ever amusing, Daere.”

  “What’s going on?”

  Masri nearly growled. “It’s the voltensus. Someone . . . destroyed it.”

  “What? How is that possible?”

  The general looked searchingly at Hezraas, who flopped down onto his cushioned throne. The prefect fidgeted with his embroidered silk pants. He grumbled under his breath for a few moments, rage evident in his eyes. “We don’t know,” he said at last.

  Mevon frowned. The voltensus was a crucial part of Mevon’s job, for without it, there was no reliable way to detect sorcerers who were casting without a legally purchased Sanction. Of more immediate concern, though, was the fact that he thought the things were indestructible.

  Clearly not.

  “I see,” Mevon said eventually.

  “It gets worse,” said Masri. “We sent almost two full battalions in to contain matters, but over the course of two days, we lost contact with my field commanders.”

  “All of them?”

  Masri’s face went blank, a sign, Mevon knew, that she was struggling to rein in her fury. “Every last one.”

  “I’m sending most of our remaining forces,” Hezraas said. “The bastards will find themselves in an ever-tightening cage.” He pounded a fist on the arm of his throne. “They will not escape us!”

  Mevon frowned at the prefect for his childish display. Feeling the pressure from Mecrithos, are we?

  “Also,” Masri said, “we’re fairly certain these insurgents have a cadre of powerful sorcerers with them. So, we’ll need you to—”

  “You presume to give me orders, daeloth?” said Mevon.

  The general’s eyes widened as she casually dropped a hand to the shortsword at her hip.

  “This is my order,” said the prefect. “And you’d better deliver. Both of you. All eyes are on us, and if either of you screw it up . . .” Hezraas hissed, spraying spittle through gritted teeth. “Just know that whatever price I pay will be magnified tenfold to you.”

 
Mevon eyed Masri coolly, a look she returned, but they both provided Hezraas with an expected nod of understanding and obedience.

  “If I am to go,” Mevon said, “then I take it the rumors concerning my peers are true?”

  “What have you heard?” asked the prefect.

  “Only that they’re missing. What’s happened to them?”

  Masri and Hezraas shared a silent glance. Slowly, they turned back to face Mevon, and for the second time he heard those infuriating words: “We don’t know.”

  Mevon clenched his jaw. Too much coincidence. All of this reeks of a guiding hand. Someone has been planning these events for a long time. He felt his eyes instinctively drawn down and behind him. She couldn’t have had anything to do with it, right?

  “What do we know about our enemy, then?” he asked.

  “Next to nothing,” said Masri. “But I did receive a brief commune from a lieutenant. He died only moments after beginning his message, but he did manage to scream something about assassins and made a brief mention of a ‘midnight sun,’ whatever that means.”

  “So basically, we’re in the dark,” Hezraas said. “That’s why I need you. I’m giving you free rein, Daere. Bring me the heads of the leaders and scatter the corpses of any who follow them.”

  Mevon smiled. “As you will.” Oh, the reckoning that will come. He began to savor his inevitable triumph and the river of blood that would surely flow.

  The prefect’s eyes moved at last to Jasside. “And who is this?”

  “Oh.” Mevon turned to her. “This is my . . .”

  The word “prisoner” died before reaching his lips. It was her expression: Jasside’s face was . . . aglow. The look she bore was unmistakable. Inexplicable.

  Pride.

  Then, like pieces of a blacksmith’s puzzle sliding into place, it all made sense.