And dust in despair

  Coming last heartbeat

  However it pumps

  Nothing amended

  No sunny conclusion

  It only continues

  The rotten daylight

  Nothing sought rectified

  Sorry I to her

  Oh Hell bring me blackness

  Your moon it burns me

  Nothing sought rectified

  Sorry I to her

  Oh how it dances

  On a very beating heart

  Seasmil laid in his tower, on his bed, alone, wounded and healing, the pages of his poem sticking to the sweat beading off his chest. It had been days since he’d scrambled home. The sight of him had sent Niera into tears and his wife up into the rafters to finally come down demanding answers. His women bandaged him, washed his new bruises, bathed his aching body, and now toiled downstairs as if he were a ghost.

  Despite his worry, no one had come to put him in shackles. Staidilia still mourned the fact that angry groups were stopping by to hurl feces and rotten fruit at their door, but the extent of Seasmil’s heresy hadn’t seemed to have inspired much else. Whenever he limped to his window, there were still those who guarded the vault. That group had dwindled, leaving but two of Irion’s and one member of Ansul’s True to wait, day and night, for some sign of whom Bone had advised must have been a cloaked and mischievous ghoul.

  Work was impossible. Hiring Pelats to attend the morgue had allowed his seclusion. The thought of filing past the three manning the vault had only intensified his despair. They may have been camped around the granite, but they often scowled at the tower. Niera was ordered not to leave home. A storm was brewing, one he could not afford to break on the head of his charge.

  Seasmil peeled the poem from his chest and reached for a bottle of Bleeding Anna. His lips were denied when he heard Staidilia burst through the door. At first it was slamming, then screaming, then feet pounding up the steps until she appeared over him, the basket she’d taken to the market dangling empty in her hand. “I can’t take this!” Her hair, brown as a dying leaf, was covered in filth. She’d dodged spit and accusations, only to “run to my own doorway while strangers threw their garbage. Make them stop, Seasmil! Or I’m going to.” She suddenly scanned the bedroom. “Where is Niera? She was supposed to—”

  He sat up. “What do you mean where? She’s not downstairs?”

  “No!” Her basket hit the floor. “You don’t think—”

  They were down in a flash. They yelled her name, opened and rummaged through each of her hiding spots. While his wife broke into tears, Seasmil stood for a moment with the knob of their door in his hand. Niera was gone.

  To their good fortune, no hecklers barred his way as he ran down to the vault to question Irion’s dogs. Oddly, only the holy warrior was there. He greeted Seasmil with a cautious stare.

  No matter how many times he’d told her, Niera, so loyal to her own blood, had to disobey her father. And in so doing she hadn’t returned. The lone Ansul’s True begrudgingly told him: Irion’s men had taken her.

  *

  The night was cool for Nilghorde. Early enough for the last of the grain carts; their axles squeaked as their wheels clacked over stones, staying on thoroughfares whose lamps were still being lit by workmen. Such convoys had once inspired a different reaction from the poor who swept their stoops and prepared to batten down their windows.

  The newest law had been passed. A good citizen should have at least one pound of flour per child per household. This passed due to fiery proclamations that, if not, the city’s most dear, most vulnerable may still suffer. The Metropolitan Ward now had sweeping authority to inspect homes to confirm stores. Reasonable suspicion surmised: searches had thus far been triumphantly conducted in the outskirts of districts where coin was hard to come by. Offenders were being swept into the Municipal Dungeon, leaving their children hungry, thus proving the wisdom of both the law and the opening of the newest orphanage.

  The Thunder Bustle had yet to be raided. Too large. Too violent. Still too clinging onto a dark past that some whispered had been preferable. Little Pelat, wedged as it was in the black heart of the self-polishing metropolis, crawled with the low street fires and the sullen faces that attended them. A foreign silence hung over the encampment, interrupted by a hard knock on Bone’s locked door.

  “Mr. Oleugsby?” He peered out, opening his door and inviting Seasmil in.

  Seasmil remained in the shadows outside. “I need your help,” he said, wasting no time explaining Niera was gone and who had taken her. He’d made up his mind before the long, thoughtless walk had consumed him. Bone had been recklessly noble; enough to desert power and position for this decrepit hovel and constant looks over the shoulder. He might be willing. “Ordrid black magic,” Seasmil heard himself saying. “There will be plenty of it where I’m going. A little white magic may go a long way.”

  “Seasmil,” Bone pled, offering again he come inside. “Call upon the Ward. Go home to your wife. No good will come of this.”

  “My wife is at her mother’s, and right now our home is in flames.”

  “What?!”

  “It’ll be burned to the ground. One final act of the people on Irion’s behalf.”

  “Seasmil, there is little I can do. You will have to pardon my terseness, but if I wanted to attack Ordrids I would have already done so.” Seasmil was a black statue as Bone explained that even if he did come, his presence meant nothing. He could not divine Seasmil’s daughter’s whereabouts, could not hypnotize another to tell. And certainly, in these sad times, the sight of a former priest would hold no sway. “I’d still be in this rotten position.”

  “A way out of your rotten position then?” Outside the door, Seasmil crossed his arms. Bone had not been able to see his face, but his tone undeniably changed. “Let’s talk of a way how.”

  “Seasmil, your home is apparently burning. Your child is missing. Now is not the time to set up schemes.”

  “Now is exactly the time. What do you need?”

  “Other than prove the entire clergy’s corruption to a regrettably complacent flock?” The man threw up his arms, casting their long shadows through candlelight against his far wall. “Well, let’s just say a miracle.” He declined Seasmil’s request. “I am dreadfully sorry,” he said. “About your daughter. I will pray, though, I must confess, I am no longer sure who listens.”

  Though none could see, Seasmil set his jaw. The muscles in his neck pulled taut as burdened rope. “Fine,” he growled, turning from the open doorway. “The fucking archbishop,” he blurted, “he opens a fucking orphanage with an Ordrid. If that can’t convince your flock he’s as corrupt as a worm-eaten apple I don’t know what will. Have a good night, Bo—”

  “Wait,” Bone whispered. “Wait! Come back. Drot is working with the House of Ordrid?”

  “Get out of your shack, chaste one. Orphanages. Law. Those two are attached at the purse.”

  For a moment it seemed Bone was only speaking to himself: “If I can witness…” He scratched his chin, then shot his eyes at Seasmil. “Or have you witness church leadership conspiring with blatant Ordrid devilry—” He pointed to the mirroring bowl still centered on the floor. “Do you think bad Chapwyns will be at that mansion?”

  The whole time Seasmil had stood in the darkness. Now he ducked his head and emerged through Bone’s candlelight. Bone didn’t feel his own mouth fall open. On Seasmil’s arms, his black garments, his face that pinned Bone to the wall, were the streaks and flakes of a lathered browning red. “Bad Chapwyns will be there,” he promised. “I’m wearing one of them now.” Bone’s eyes followed Seasmil’s hand. In it were a pair of eyes that would guard the Pauper Vault no longer.

  Bone drained pale. He knocked over his table and other sticks as he fell, covering his mouth. After a time, he regained his composure, standing, turning to Seasmil with a face made of stone. “I vowed to vanquish evil. Do you have me a sword?”

  *

  Seasmil and Bone walked together on Bone’s path out of the Bustle. Taking alleyways that scraped their ribs and skirting an imperfect palisade, they moved beyond the fires of Little Pelat, past the last crumbling edges until, seeing the waning inferno of Toadly’s old tower, they disappeared inside the Pauper Morgue.

  Close to a lifetime of dealing with the dead had bequeathed Seasmil an exploding chest of overlooked items. A murder here, a bar brawl there; given enough time there’d been left unplundered coin and boot and clothing enough to outfit a low-rent merchant. There were three swords.

  Picking up one of the finer two, Seasmil bounced its blade in the torchlight. “What a cumbersome weapon.” He turned to Bone, who was holding his own as if he’d never seen one before. “I much prefer knives.”

  “Well,” Bone said, taking a clunky swing at the air. “Bring both. Sounds like we’ll need them.”

  And those were the last words spoken. Bone had received much praise in former years. Rarely had merely a priest tapped so deeply into the well of the arcane. He’d learned quick, fumbling and stumbling only to master the crafts necessary to do the greatest good. As he watched Seasmil practice with this hulking sword, long-gone praises refilled his ear. He now saw what his brethren had seen in him. Where a moment before Seasmil swung sloppily, the blood-covered man sliced through the vacuum of the morgue no less proficient than an ancient, gore-mad raider.

  Bone watched as Seasmil prepared the morgue’s horse. Nothing but an overgrown nag, though as Seasmil hopped on, straddling the beast and seizing its reins in one hand, the mortician appeared a great and mighty warrior.

  “Ever been on one?” Seasmil asked.

  “Not as often as you.”

  “Hop on. I’ll let you off where we agreed.”

  *

  On his horse, alone, Seasmil came upon the side gate of the mansion.

  His hair, wetted by a feathering of rain, hung over his face as he approached. His sword was drawn, hanging low by his side.

  Three guards were ready. Idle stomps from the unarmored nag echoed as one guard detached himself from his post. He walked without words, slowly acknowledging Seasmil by reaching for the horse’s reins while the others held steady the points of their spears. The horse blew steam as Seasmil looked up to a lone lit window. In that window, high above the bailey, the district, the world, Irion would be.

  Seasmil jammed his heels. His horse reared up, whinnying, kicking the foremost guard square in the face. Amid the shouting, another guard leapt over his twitching cohort to put his spear into the horse’s heart. Seasmil went onto the cobblestones, springing to his feet, paying no heed to injury as he whirled his sword upward. Cutting through the guard’s armor, he lodged the blade in the dead man’s ribs before sliding it out and charging the third. Seasmil slipped past the last spear seamless as a thief, punching the frantic man so hard with the hilt of his sword a mess of enemy teeth went flying. He pulled out his dagger. He followed the guard to the ground to puncture down through a useless breastplate. Then there was silence.

  “…Ansul’s ass.” Bone came out of hiding along the wall to gaze at the carnage. He held his own sword with one hand, using the other to guide him to the blood-covered stones to kneel and pray. As he did, Seasmil rummaged through one of the guard’s belts.

  “Let’s go,” Seasmil said, jingling a ring of keys.

  When the entered the bailey, the space was empty. “No guards,” Bone said, more a question than a sigh of relief.

  “They’re around.”

  Together they moved across the dark space. Closer now to the windows, the lower floor had been lit by what appeared through the glass to be an army of candles. The glow flickered against the graves, giving them the hue of being under a low and leering moon. The light had also put on full display the stone and shadow of the side door. Seasmil and Bone climbed its steps, Bone nearly jumping out of his skin when what they’d thought was a statue vibrated to life.

  “Dearest,” Bone gasped. “It is not alive.” Werlyle shuffled forward, silent, covered in the night’s leafs, holding out a laden tray. On the tray stood a glass of wine and, splayed out in front of it, Niera’s Pelati doll.

  Seasmil snatched the toy, bringing it to his chest. Bone reached out to the poor creature and placed his hand on the slave’s cold head. With a word the sack of dead bones collapsed, sending the tray clattering against the stairs.

  “This place is an abomination.”

  Seasmil opened his eyes, stuffing the doll in his belt. “Come.” Seasmil attempted the first key, then a second. By the third, the two were looking at an unlocked door.

  A clanking of armor somewhere out in the darkness marched over the pitter-patter of rain. The returning weather brought with it a howl, sounding all the louder when Seasmil flung wide the door. The massive room before them sat with an oppressive quiet; nothing moved, save for the burning sconces. Bone clutched his sword, fighting an impulse to run down the steps, out of the bailey, and back to his knowable shack. He found courage in Seasmil’s determination as he walked solemnly through the doorway.

  Determined, yes. Able to be reasoned with, no. Bone’s accomplice was beyond the scope of normal retribution. Knowing this, Bone followed, wiping the wet from his brow and squeezing a harder grip on his sword. Bone had assumed he’d follow the killer up a stairway they’d inevitably discover, but that established itself impossible. The sconces hadn’t died—they had suddenly, perfectly vanished. The room was lit, but not by candle nor torch nor earthly hearth. They’d entered a realm of great dread, one even a defrocked priest could see.

  The floor beneath him felt nothing like wood or stone. He poked where he stood with the tip of his sword. The blade cut into a compliant texture. Mixing with the soft steps of Seasmil, he heard a wail or weep come up from the injured floor. Seasmil turned and took a knee where Bone had struck, running his fingers over the cut before looking up. “This place is alive.”

  And indeed it was. Bone turned his head to where they’d entered, no more than ten paces, and his heart bawled as he saw there was no longer a door. In its stead stretched and wiggled the encroaching wall. He placed one hand on Seasmil’s shoulder as they continued through emptiness, stepping on a floor that gave way under their boots. All about them pools of acidic ooze bubbled up to fume the hot, moist air as they struggled to breathe. A wall was before them, pink and glistening. Dead sconces and décor dissolved as the mansion’s guts became exactly that. They trudged their way up the beginning of an incline.

  A sharp swooshing sound, interspersed with high-pitched growls, forced Bone’s attention off of Seasmil’s back and into the air. Bat-like creatures flew. Some dove to flutter their fleshy wings before disappearing in the dank void. Pink as the walls, they went up in a collective whirl and then crashed down on them like a wave.

  Bone scrambled for the prayers and defensives he’d preloaded, but no holy incantation had anything for the wild swings of Seasmil’s sword. As Seasmil would cleave a random flyer, sending it to shadows in pieces, above them loomed a dark figure, darker than all else, a figure Bone was sure, as he faltered his first rite, was the watching lord of this fetid house. Bone took a heroic swing at an approaching bat, missing and lodging his sword permanently into the bleeding wall. Letting go of the hilt, remembering finally a useful string, he yelled out an incantation, slowing the winged beings, bringing them into the full power of Seasmil’s blade.

  Prompted by instinct, they pursued their exit by climbing up what had shown the last angles of dissolving stairs. “Look!” Bone pointed. “There’s a light at the end of the tunnel.” As they climbed a stretched breathless throat, stalactites and stalagmites were all that existed between them and the ordinary light of an ordinary room. They dug their boots deep, surpassing the giant fangs by way of walking on a carpet only recognizable as a moist and motionless tongue.

  After their nightmare, Bone had never beheld a sight more decent than the well-lit office before them, never sucked in an air more honeyed than the vile station of Irion Ordrid.

  “Where is Niera?” Seasmil demanded.

  “Just walk on in.” Irion said.

  Bone couldn’t help but spin around, seeing nothing but the opened double doors of the office, a long red carpet, and the sconce-lit stairs it descended down.

  Archbishop Drot had jumped at the sight of them, taking a step backward before regaining his bearing. At his side a young priest tried not to stare at the imp that perched on Irion’s desk. And, dressed in his most potent robe, Irion was not posing lordly as Seasmil had half-expected. Seasmil’s foe sat coolly on his cluttered desk, petting his leering familiar.

  “Where’s Niera?” Seasmil again demanded, this time taking a hard step into the room.

  Irion’s feet rested on a large locked chest, which he thumped with a heel. “Somewhere safe.”

  The young, stupid, insignificant priest held a bag of: “Gold!” Bone cried. “That, Drot, is what you sell our church for?”

  Irion looked at Seasmil’s belt. “I see you saw Werlyle.”

  Bone waited for the evil archbishop to speak. Getting nothing, he dared turn to Irion. “That,” he said, “undead abomination out there speaks to all our church fought against. Drot, how can you allow such—”

  “I must say, Seasmil.” Irion waved limply at Bone. “I hadn’t anticipated a priest. A real one.”

  Drot furrowed his brow, deciding wisely not to speak. “You allow such foulness?” Bone cried to the archbishop.

  “Is she alive?” Seasmil snarled.

  Drot then spoke, addressing his critic. “My dear Bonaveere, how we have searched for you so.”

  “She most certainly is,” Irion answered. “Asleep like a lamb. Don’t you worry. There was just much to extract, that’s all—a lot in that little head of hers, as you well know.”

  Archbishop Drot extended his soft white hands. “Bonaveere—Priest Bonaveere, think soundly. Do not let your zeal blind you. There is still hope. All can be corrected.”

  When Seasmil turned to Bone, the warm bath of lies Bone was being soaked in evaporated. “Do you see?” Seasmil said. “The House of Ordrid is in bed with your priests.”