*author's note: found the artwork via pinterest. i don't know whose it is, but please reach out to me for credit if it's yours!*
"Get me to the general. Now," I tell the sentry, who does not need to be told twice. Questions ricochet in my head, pounding against my skull, but I ignore them.
The sentry, Romulus, and I finally reach Tempest's sparsely furnished, large study. The general herself presides at her desk, imperial officials clamoring and shouting around her.
"Sergeant Seneca, Private Cassius," she says, her voice authoritative and clear. Silence falls when she speaks, asserting her power. "Did you find out anything about the fabric? This is key. Report."
I explain a much more concise version of the story the fey girl told us. "The girl gave us a contact as well. I returned to ask for your permission to go and meet with him. At the Stalls. She claims he is one of very few merchants with access to the moon muslin."
I can practically hear the thoughts running through Tempest's brain as she processes my news. She slams her fists on the dark oak desk. Romulus and I are the only ones in the room that do not flinch.
"Damn Toad. He can't even die easily, can he? We cannot let word of this get out to anyone but the Commander. The panic of nobles and merchants at this would be disastrous... with all the rebel activity recently and Lord Massimo's disappearance, if they suspect someone's running around murdering the wealthy, they will freak. Seneca, Cassia, be discreet. Find out exactly who this man is. I need to know about his trade dealings, above and belowground, his enemies, sources, and all of his secrets. Addiction, crimes, mistresses. Whatever you can get. It's likely that, if he was one of the only shippers with access to the fabric, your contact should know him."
She stands from her desk. The officers just stare at her, unsure, until she waves them out with an annoyed flick of her hand. "Meet me at the palace for a meeting with the Emperor and some others three o'clock tomorrow afternoon. He—" she glances at the sentry who brought us in "—will debrief you on your way to the Stalls. Dismissed."
We walk swiftly through HQ, not bothering to stop other than snatching up some cloaks to look less conspicuous at the Stalls. The sentry, his hands shaking, fills us in. "Toad was... was found at nine. You two were gone by the time word reached us, a half-hour later. Not long after that, news of the others came in." I stare at him, nodding for him to continue. He fidgets with the strap of his sword's sheath.
"Both of the new kills were wealthy Celodian merchants, one in spices and one in weapons. Killed by a poison dagger to the forehead, of all places. All three were found stripped buck-naked in alleyways near their homes. All of the weapons were the same, too. Daemon steel, the handles inlaid with Syreni pearls. Expensive." Gods, the private must be fresh out of training. He looks barely older than fifteen when cadets must be at least seventeen to graduate. He's done remarkably well, though.
"Thank you," I say, meeting his eyes and nodding my head before we stride as swiftly as possible into the streets.
-
The Stalls are a dark, dank cesspool that becomes even more nefarious as the sun sinks. They feel eerily like a living, breathing creature, its body made of a thousand parasites, its maw gaping and hungry for something, anything.
Our hoods are down, my wings tucked in enough beneath my cloak to pass for weapons that nobody will dare check. We're armed to the teeth, my scythe handle collapsed and tucked behind me, small throwing knives and daggers tucked into my pockets and straps. The markets reek of waste and mugwort smoke. I crane my head up over the throng, trying to get a better view. Dirt grinds beneath my feet with each step.
The pathways between the vendors have no logic or pattern to them, crossing and looping and interrupting one another in dead ends. I almost find it hard to believe that such a sprawling, clearly illegal place exists within the capital city of the Empire, but I suppose that everyone benefits—government officials are paid off, vendors pay taxes to launder their money, and producers earn much more from the higher rates they can charge. Everyone benefits, that is, except for those on the receiving end of the weapons and drugs.
After a short time asking around for Blandus, a scimitar vendor with a wicked smile and too many silver piercings to count directs us to a nearby spice stand.
"A man named Blandus," Romulus whispers, clearly suppressing laughter, "running a spice stand? That's the most amusing thing I've heard all week."
"Blandus will likely beat you to a pulp if he hears you saying that," I warn under my breath.
As it turns out, Blandus is a very brawny, very bald, and very pale wolf shifter. He must have heard our conversation long before approached his stall, and doesn't seem nearly as amused by Romulus's comment as the soldier himself does. His face is grim. The tattoo near his ear, marking him as a wolf shifter of the Northern Elbii pack is displayed proudly. Next to him stands another man, his exact opposite; lean, a head full of coiled hair, and a dark brown complexion. They bear matching silver bands around their fingers—his husband, I realize.
"Why do you look for me?" he asks roughly, his voice heavily accented.
"We were sent by S. We need to speak with the cloth-seller," I explain, keeping my voice low. Romulus usually handles our conversations, but I figured it would be best to avoid insulting Blandus further. He looks slightly terrified beside me, his eyes wide and his smile more of a half-hearted attempt.
"S sent you? You don't seem her type..." He gives Romulus a brazen once-over. "You might—" he looks at me, then shakes his head sagely, "but no." I feel strangely offended that this large, bald man doesn't consider me attractive enough for S, whoever she is.
"We aren't..." I sigh. "Never mind. Could you take us to the cloth-seller, sir?"
"Only because you ask nicely!" The toothy smile he gives us stands out against his intimidating appearance and the darkness of the market. "Too many customers these days," he complains. "No room for all here! Dark business is growing fast."
We follow him through the labyrinth of stalls, finally arriving at a large warehouse building on their edge. Blandus knocks thrice, then kicks the bottom of the door lightly with his boot. As the door swings open, an even darker area manifests behind it. He shoves us in, giving Romulus a good kick to the behind as he stumbles forward.
"That is for making fun of my name, you dolt!" The door slams shut behind us. Even if we tried, I have a feeling that we would not be able to open it again. I squint, trying to make out anything at all in the darkness. All I can feel is the gritty stone floor and Romulus beside me. I can make out a few pieces of furniture as my eyes adjust, but I still cannot tell if any people are there.
Something scrapes a few feet away. I whirl towards it, but too late. A hand grabs my arm. I fight it, easily prying off the fingers and bending them back, even as another hand scratches at me.
"Gods above, kid, stop it! I'm not trying to kill you, okay?" says a voice, loud and female. I release her, only slightly. "My name is Kova. I'm here to take you to the cloth-seller. That is what you want, yes? S sent you?" For the thousandth time, I wonder about S. How does a fey seamstress girl have so many contacts in the black market?
"Yes," says Romulus, sighing with relief. It seems his wits have finally returned. "She sent us. Please, lead the way." The woman grabs him as well, lugging us both by the elbow through a doorway on the opposite side of the room, too far for us to have seen. The next room, although dim, feels as bright as a furnace in comparison. My eyes are blinded by white-orange light for a few seconds before I can adjust again, even with my enhanced sight. I pity Romulus, still rubbing his human eyes as I begin to assess the room.
Lamps are lit in sconces on the walls, illuminating most of the space. I can now see the woman who brought us in clearly. She seems to be a mix of Vanidan and Avinin, with golden-brown skin like mine and the thin, uptilted eyes of Vanida. Her grace is the carefully cultivated movement of a woman raised in high society; someone who's never had to lift a finger. It's at odds with her position, behind the cloth-seller, holding what looks to be a logbook for sales. Presumably, she's now working as his assistant. Beside her is a man—younger than I expected, tall and wiry, golden-eyed and dark-skinned. He's sporting a heavily beaded, immaculately tailored shirt that marks him as the cloth-seller. His eyes gleam as if he is already picturing how he will wring my pockets dry of my tild.
Another woman, a guard from the looks of her, stands in front of him. She eyes us warily. Muscles strap over her body, visible even with her dark combat gear. I count four weapons at least. Two scimitars at her sides, a knife strapped to each black-clad thigh, and maybe more in her boots. Her severe, blazing orange bun is held in place with another thin dagger. Undoubtedly, she was hired by the cloth-seller to ensure protection for both him and his wares.
Behind all of them, heavy, richly dyed fabrics are artfully draped against the walls. Golden and jeweled trinkets, each likely worth more than Romulus and I combined, litter the floor and low tables, scattered as if they are peanut shells on a tavern floor. The cloth-seller steps forward.
"Welcome, welcome. I am Luca Tiberius, the cloth-seller. You, though, can call me whatever you'd like," he says with a wink at Romulus, who flushes just barely. His voice is velvety smooth. "I heard you were sent by S. She is one of our most delightful customers, and I am happy to assist you in whatever way I can for her. Take a seat, would you?"
Long, elegant fingers sweep towards the cushions dotting the floor. I sit, still watching the red-headed bodyguard from the corner of my eye. Romulus plops down, now recovered from Tiberius's flirtations, and glances at me. How do we go about this? I nod almost imperceptibly. Do what you do best.
"Your shop is superb," he says. "Never in my life have I seen such fine fabric, nor such a fine cloth-seller, I daresay." This is the first time I've seen him work his charm on a man, but he seems to be doing well.
"Then today is a very fortunate day indeed," replies Luca, reclining comfortably in his cushioned chair, legs stretched out, forearms hanging off its back. "For you have stumbled upon the very finest in both categories. Please, do tell. What can I do for you boys? My curiosity is killing me."
"Well," says Romulus, "We were interested in purchasing some cloth for my boss. She's a noble, very particular about her dresses. S, my dear friend, is a seamstress, as I'm sure you know. She recommended I come here and ask you about a specific cloth. Moon muslin. You know of it?"
The merchant looks amused, but in a deadly cunning way. He reminds me of one of my old comrades in training; a strategist, as she devised risky, high-reward battle plans.
"I see." His smile is feline. "Yes, I do know of it. A large shipment I recently purchased was supposed to be here about now. The seller was a man by the name of Silas Galba." It has been so long since anyone has used Toad's real name that I had nearly forgotten it. "A kind man. He always offered me good prices for my wares. Almost too good, even—above market value. Must have had a generous backer, for I heard of him selling for prices lower than even the Empire's."
That last word, said with such emphasis and keen knowing, made me certain of what I had already suspected; he knows why we are here. Our cover is blown. I wrench Romulus up by the collar, and he knits his eyebrows at me, bemused at our sudden departure.
"Well, you have been a great help," I say as cheerily as possible, "but we must leave now, I am afraid. Our mistress will be expecting us back soon, but our greatest thanks for the informa—"
"Not leaving so soon, are you?" The beautiful half-Vanidan woman tilts her head towards the sole doorway, and Redhead bars it with her spear. We may have to do this the hard way, I suppose. The air in the room tenses, everyone poised and waiting for the first strike.
I decide to seize it. I run a few steps forward, launching into a roundhouse kick, aiming for the spear. She blocks my foot with it. I'll have to get past it if I am to get the door open, though. I reach to draw my scythe, but my hand tangles in fabric. I jerk it away, but I've already lost too much time.
I hear the scrapes and shrrrings of metal as Romulus engages the assistant and the cloth-seller behind me, but I cannot risk dividing my attention. Redhead pushes towards me with a series of spear-swipes, which I block easily with the long daggers at my sides. Still, she has the advantage of reach when I'm not using my scythe. I'm forced back from the door with each blow.
I again press the attack, this time letting my throwing knives fly to weaken her guard before pounding strike after strike on her spear with my scythe. She's pushed the fight far back from the door, closer to the low furniture and shocked customers occupying the back of the warehouse. We weave and bob, each trying to gain more ground, swerving to avoid hanging fabrics. I spot Romulus, much closer to the customers, backed up against the wall to my right.
I dart behind a thick, hanging tapestry. She slices straight through it, cutting a gash through my leg, and it flares with blinding, searing pain. I ignore it, though, and use the extra seconds to send a spark of intense sadness into her, quickly calling on memories of what happened to my parents. She just stands, staring at her palms, weapons forgotten. I swipe my blade through her neck, at least giving her the mercy of a quick death.
Romulus is holding his own, but only barely. I rush to help him, drawing my daggers once more to parry the strikes of the cloth-seller and assistant. They are surprisingly well trained; they must have been born into wealthy families, as almost all merchants are, and received lessons in combat. The woman throws knife after knife at Romulus from a distance, who swipes them aside with labored grunts—she must be putting considerable force behind her throws. Tiberius slashes forward with a long, wickedly curved sword.
"Imperials, yes? I was not sure which centuria, but I am honored now to meet the famed angel of the 51st," he says derisively.
I grimace. "The honor is all mine," I respond, slashing forward thrice. He parries. His tunic, heavy with a thousand tiny beads, swings and catches the low light as he moves. Parrying with one blade, I use the other to swipe down his front. It's not enough to disembowel him, but beads fly everywhere, distracting him while I knock him out with a hard, swift blow from the hilt of my dagger. I cannot kill him—he hasn't outlived his usefulness quite yet. Once he's out, I make swift work of doing the same to the other woman.
As the battle focus clears from my mind, I finally look around and notice the customers of the cloth-seller. Gasping, gaping, some screaming at the dead bodyguard. One starts to leave, but I again reach out with my power; finding that thread connecting me to each of them and sending out something a little more advanced; forgetfulness. It's too difficult to erase all of their memories since it's not truly an emotion, but the gods' powers all mostly stem from the same sources, often blurring together just enough to make use of others. I manage about half of the dozen people in the shop. Their stolen memories, combined with the illicit nature of the Stalls, will keep the rest from talking.
Patrons bumble around the store aimlessly now, many forgetting why they were here in the first place, others looking confused at their indifference and the lack of bodies, which Romulus has already made sure are unconscious and slid back into the dark room. As we leave, taking the two still-living opponents we just faced, I ignore the glassy eyes and already-paling face of the redheaded bodyguard. I always do. Instead, I focus my energy on carrying the cloth-seller. If he were conscious, Luca Tiberius would be enraged at the bloodstains marring his exorbitantly expensive carpet.
-
Dragging bodies through a bustling city is no light work. Especially when we don't intend on being seen, and especially when the wound in my thigh stings every time I move, a constant reminder of the failure. I let Romulus take the assistant—whose name we learned was Kova from a card tucked inside her pocket—because she was far lighter, but now I'm paying the price by means of my leg. We turned through alleyways and passages, only stopping once when we ran into an elderly couple taking an early evening stroll.
Romulus, ever the quick wit, launches into song, belting out some explicit ballad about the wonders of alcohol. We hoist the bodies up between us and he sways. Reluctantly, I join in. We laugh maniacally, and the couple hurries past. They don't even blink at the bodies we lug between our shoulders.
At Imperial Headquarters, we lock the pair in an underground cell. Kova wakes up first, once we wave smelling salts under her nose. Her icy eyes slowly flutter open, but she closes them immediately upon who she sees standing over her. General Lemaure. The general glares daggers at her, cold and unyielding.
"I know you're awake," she says, her voice so detached she doesn't even sound annoyed. I keep silent, leaning against the wall of the cell to Kova's left. "Tell me. What did your shop have to do with Silas Galba? Why did you attack my men?"
She begins talking immediately. With Tempest staring at her, I don't blame her. "We bought the moon muslin. That's it, I swear. He didn't have the best reputation, but Luca said he offered a ridiculously low price for the cloth. We aren't in the business of asking questions." Tempest glowers at her, asking a silent one. Kova sighs. "He came to our warehouse in Stele, dropped it off, and rode off with a boatload of gold. That's all I know!" Tempest doesn't relent. "I swear it! By blood and by earth!" The general says nothing, but walks away, letting the cell door slam shut behind.
I follow silently. She's nursing an idea, I can tell. Her shock-white hair wafts around her face on a light, invisible breeze, lit yellow by the ensconced torches lining the walls. She walks just a fraction too fast through the dark halls of the Corps dungeon, her thick combat boots thudding on the stones.
"General. Any idea what's going on here?" I try for a smile, but she's lost in thought.
"I'm not sure," she mutters absently. "I might have an idea, but... I'll see if anything comes of it. Fill you in at the meeting tomorrow with the Commander. Be ready." She waves me off, walking back to her office. Her hands are looped together behind her back like they always are when she's contemplating something big. "Dismissed."
I take dinner in my room, not even trying to hide it as I leave the mess hall. Legionnaires aren't allowed to eat anywhere else, but no one bothers me.
That is, except for a few of the 51st when I leave early. I respond to their booing with an inappropriate gesture and leave anyways, disappointed not to learn about what happened with the Toad case. I fish the enchanted stick I use for engraving out of my drawer, along with a gold-handled dagger. Romulus will enjoy filling them in more than I would, and I need some time alone, although I wish I didn't always have to be alone.
I cut off that line of thought before it can begin. Entertaining the idea of caring for anyone is dangerous, and not just for them. For me, too. I don't think I will have anyone to stop me this time if another loved one perishes at my hands. I would put myself and even more people in danger. I remember the faces, twisting with emotion—
Pain rips through my fingertips. I touched a hand to the stick by accident. I give up on the dagger I was working on engraving, placing it and the stick neatly back into its drawer.
The ceiling of my room is rough wood beams, oak, and not sanded enough. I can identify every groove and splinter of it without even looking because of how many bored, hopeless nights I've spent staring at it. When I do, I remember the phantom blood on my hands.
Today, that red-headed bodyguard. Even if she was hindering the mission, even if she was working for a shady cloth merchant, she did not deserve death. I have no right to decide who lives and dies, and yet I do.
I can still see her eyes, ice blue and turned misted, as we left her in that dark antechamber. Her blood, dripping and trailing across my blade. The faces of others I've killed flash before me. A tradesman who got involved with the wrong sort of people. The teenage son of a slave trader, trying to defend his father. My mother and father. Their faces are seared into my mind as much as the patterns I etch into metal. A hundred faces, names, people circuit through my mind, over and over, until my eyelids are so heavy that I cannot prevent my drifting into a restless sleep.