“Captain Pacorro.”

  “Don’t know a Captain Pacorro. And I don’t see a uniform on you. Who are you with, exactly?”

  Tarana sighed. She’d hoped the man would be lax in his duties, that he’d be too busy with the workmen to ask questions. But it seemed that hope hadn’t borne out. “We’re with the rangers. You may have heard Commander Fevre was arrested a little while ago?”

  The man chewed the inside of his lip for a good few seconds before responding. “I hadn’t heard about that. But it makes sense, with what Captain Okal’s been saying about her.”

  “Right, he’s had it out for her for a while.” She didn’t dare confront him; not when she needed his help. “At any rate, the man she named as her replacement has sent us to see if we can find any evidence to clear her name. Standard investigation, you know. I’m sure we won’t find anything, but orders are orders.” She did her best to seem nonchalant, like a grunt simply following her superior’s commands.

  He stared hard at her, frowning as he took in her and the men standing several paces back. “Skora, I have no interest in starting a fight with rangers. And I have a feeling that’s exactly what would happen if I say no. So here’s the deal: I’ll let you – and only you – inside, and show you the damage. If you find any evidence, maybe we can share in the credit for clearing the commander’s name.”

  “Deal,” Tarana said, following the man as he turned to lead the way inside the dungeons.

  “Name’s Nyeri, by the way,” he said.

  “Blacksword.”

  Nyeri tensed; clearly he’d heard the name before. Regardless, he kept up a steady pace as they reached the end of the hallway and arrived in the main chamber.

  Tarana approached the round hole in the floor, wide enough for five men to lay head-to-toe. She leaned down to stare at the bottom. The ground and brick had been charred black in several spots, forming a splotchy pattern.

  “We don’t know how they did it,” Nyeri said. “But they ruined the lift. You see these poles leading down from the top level? They’re meant to keep the lift stable as it moves between floors. Something down there sliced right through one of them, and another was warped and twisted.”

  “But they’re made of metal. How could someone do so much damage?”

  Nyeri shrugged. “No idea. But I do know it’s made them a lot of enemies among the officers. Having to hoof it up and down floors like the rest of us seems to have left a bad taste in their mouth.”

  Tarana nodded. “Well, lead the way.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Nyeri continued to a half-destroyed staircase on the far end of the room; the way down was almost clear, but the only path up was via a series of planks tied together with rope.

  Thankfully, it seemed they were headed down. Tarana followed him down three flights of stairs, whistling at the scene of destruction that greeted them at the bottom: black marks charred the walls, including one that formed an almost-perfect outline of a man wielding a spear.

  “We cleared most of the bodies already,” Nyeri said. “They didn’t leave anything of value. Took the weapons, armor, and mail. Anything that was still good.” He walked along the platform in the center of the room, with Tarana trailing close behind. “We lost a lot of good men when they attacked. Don’t tell anyone I said this, but I understand the stuff with the nobles. They’re hoarding food in a city full of starving folks, so I can see how some of those folks would want to rob ‘em. But why us? We’re just as starving, and we don’t keep any food stores here.”

  “I have to admit,” Tarana said. “This rescue attempt seems like it would’ve taken some resources. This wasn’t the work of street thugs.”

  Nyeri nodded excitedly. “You don’t know the half of it. The first group – the ones that managed to steal control of the lift – they were dressed as priests of Mirao. Had the red robes and everything.”

  Tarana pulled up short. Dressed as priests of Mirao. Where did they get the fabric? “Do you have any of the robes?”

  “No, unfortunately not. If any of those who came in as priests didn’t make it out, they must have stripped them.” He continued down a hallway, gesturing for Tarana to follow.

  Her mind was still on the mystery of the robes as they walked down the hallway. Something about it felt off to her, but she couldn’t put her finger on what. As a distraction, she tried questing out with the portion of her consciousness that was tied to Calamity. She felt nothing but a dull pounding in her chest, a vague sense something had happened. Unfortunately, she wasn’t able to sense anything more.

  They turned a corner, revealing a scene that made Tarana grimace. One of the cells contained a body that had been covered in a sheet. Closer to the cell door, someone had written in blood: May your souls rot in your gra…

  “’May your souls rot in your graves,’ I think it’s supposed to say,” Nyeri told her. “This man was one of ‘em, according to our officers. Guess they decided they didn’t want the body after everything that was done to it.”

  “Can you remove the sheet?” she asked.

  Nyeri sighed. “Yes, ma’am.” He scowled and searched his key ring, fitting a particularly rusted key to the lock. The door’s hinges groaned as he opened it and slipped inside to tear off the top half of the sheet.

  The body underneath was ashen, its hands bent at impossible angles that made Tarana rub her own wrists out of sympathy. “Was he like that when you brought him in?” she asked.

  “Like what?”

  “Thin. Looks like he was starving.”

  Nyeri frowned, his eyes drifting up as if he was honestly trying to remember. “I’m never assigned to this floor, so it’s hard to say. I think I saw him once when they brought him in. He was already thin, then.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “Don’t know. A while back.”

  Tarana considered the information for several seconds. It seemed strange that the group the man belonged to would allow him to starve, especially when they had the connections to obtain the robes of Death’s own priesthood. Not to mention their fire weapons.

  Unless they didn’t need any special connections to obtain the robes. She chewed her bottom lip as she followed the train of thought. Death’s followers offered food to any who would throw themselves upon his mercy, and there was no way they could have brought enough to maintain such an offer indefinitely. Stealing from the noble families must have seemed like the next best thing. And the priests travelled throughout Accalia; it was entirely possible they’d originally found the fire weapons somewhere obscure and figured out how to replicate them.

  Her eyes narrowed. It all fit in a way that made her skin crawl. If the priests had decided to forsake millennia of dogged neutrality, the damage they could do would be unparalleled.

  “Thank you for showing this to me,” she said to the guard, her tone as steady as she could make it. “If I find anything that will be useful in the investigation into what happened here, I’ll let you know.”

  Chapter 20

  Micol

  The row of three buildings that served as home of the Wolves of Vicrum stretched out below Micol as he leaned against the railing of the plateau stairs. In what had become his morning ritual, he’d ascended high enough that he could see the entirety of the slums in the shadows, staring out at them while he awaited the day’s orders.

  Cracks snaked their way from the base of the stucco walls of each building all the way to the top. The angled roofs were missing most of their shingles; when the dark clouds that had been looming overhead for what felt like an eternity finally let loose, he was sure they would wash away what was left and leave those inside open to the elements.

  “What do you stare at?” a woman asked, coming to a stop behind him. It took him a moment to recognize the voice as Visala’s. “Every day you ascend partway up the steps, just far enough to remain in shadow. Why? What do you see from here that you can’t get from a balcony?”

  Micol shrugged. “The air is better here. And our quarters are getting crowded.”

  “Ah, so it’s solitude you seek.”

  “In a way.” He turned to face her. “Honestly, most of the time I’m just trying to get away from the nightmares. Every time I fall asleep I hear Asoka’s screams.”

  “Asoka?”

  “He was my closest friend before I – you know, before I left the Tevulun army.”

  Visala joined him at the railing. “What happened to him? You don’t have to answer if you don’t want.”

  Micol took in a deep breath. “No, it’s okay. We got ambushed by Pestilence and the Ma’isans in the forest outside of Lelet. He shot her with an arrow, and I ran before they could catch me. They still got him, though.”

  She cocked her head in surprise. “When you say her, do you mean…?”

  “Pestilence, yeah.”

  “Is she dead, then?” Visala’s eyes narrowed; she looked past Micol, down into the city below. “Huh, I suppose that explains a lot. I wonder who’s inherited her powers now.”

  “No doubt someone else loyal to the Ma’isans. Seems like all the aspects owe allegiance to some great family or another. Except Death.”

  She looked back to him, her expression softening. “We want to end it, you know.”

  “End what?” Micol asked.

  “The system that allows those in power to pretend they deserve it because they happened to be born in the right family. That’s what we’re doing here.”

  “I thought the priests of Mirao were supposed to be… you know, neutral. You just ferry the souls of the dead, right?”

  Visala shook her head. “It was bound to happen eventually. After so long watching the strong prey on the weak – ordering us around as if Death wasn’t the only aspect left trying to do his job – someone on our side was bound to snap.”

  “So what are you doing in Vicrum? How does all of this help end anything?”

  “Do you really want to know?” Visala lowered her voice, stepping closer to Micol. He felt the heat coming off of her, closer than any woman he’d known before. “We’re building an army, Micol. Death’s army. You and the Wolves are only the tip of the spear.”

  It took Micol a moment to process the revelation. “An army? For what? Why--?”

  “Keep your voice down,” Visala whispered, eyeing a couple at the base of the stairs. “We need an army to do just what I said. Topple the nobles and their petty fiefdoms. Death has envisioned a world without any kind of rulers or subjects; a world where each man will be judged solely on merit rather than their family name.”

  “But the amount of blood that will be shed…” Micol said.

  “Will be minimal compared to what will be spilled if we don’t do anything. Micol, you cannot see the souls of the dead around us, but I assure you this city is packed with them. And it’s like this everywhere. Our numbers have been dwindling for centuries. But even if we had the numbers, it would be the same. Our priests haven’t even been allowed to set foot in the Ma’isan Protectorate for nearly forty years. Can you imagine the magnitude of souls that will forever be denied passage to the Everlands if we allow this to continue? No, something must change.”

  Micol grimaced. “So what’s happening to the souls of the dead in Vicrum right now?”

  “Death is shepherding as many as he can, but he’s not strong enough. The thousands he is able to help each day pale in comparison to the number that are left. And if the Ma’isans break through, there will be many more.”

  “I don’t know, something feels wrong about all of this. I didn’t sign up to be a killer.”

  Visala fixed him with a steady stare. “You served in an army before. What’s the difference?”

  “I didn’t think I would ever see combat. With Death’s army – with the Wolves – it sounds like we’re going to have to take on the whole world.”

  “Not the whole world. Only the corrupt ones. The rest will see what we’re trying to do. Many of them will even help us.” Visala turned at a commotion on the street below. “Sounds like something’s happening down there. We should go check it out.”

  She bounded down the steps two-at-a-time, putting a dozen paces between her and Micol before he even thought to follow. He started after her with a sigh. By the time he reached the bottom of the stairs, she’d turned out of view, the skirt of her robes flying as she ran toward the Wolves’ homes.

  As Micol got closer, he saw the cause of the sudden crowding was centered on the smallest of the three buildings. A boy and girl were lying against a pile of refuse beside the street. Visala was approaching the fallen boy, her strides even as the crowd parted to let her through.

  Micol felt a shiver run up his spine as he looked at the boy, focusing on a cluster of sores at the left corner of his mouth. He felt an overwhelming urge to give into the heat that roared inside of him; he had to look away to fight it, gritting his teeth as he did.

  When he looked back the urge was gone, as were the sores. The boy’s eyes blinked open, focusing on Visala. “Am I dead?” he asked.

  Visala’s bright laugh seemed to chase away the heavy shadows surrounding them. “No, you’re not dead. You’re safe now.”

  The boy nodded. “Thank you.”

  “Of course.” Visala cocked her head. “You and your friend look hungry. When was the last time you ate?”

  “Dunno. It must’ve been a while ago. We’ve been giving most of our food to our mom. She’s sick, see. Been out of work since the gates closed.”

  “I see. Well, what would you say to a hot meal? My friend here will find your mom and ensure she meets you at the warehouse.” Visala gestured to Micol, bidding him to step forward from his place among the gathered Wolves.

  The girl – a lean child who looked about eleven or twelve – straightened, her mouth forming a thin line. “No offence, but she wouldn’t like that. She doesn’t trust strangers.”

  Visala smiled sweetly at her. “That sounds like a great way to never meet anyone new. But if you and your brother don’t want our help, we won’t force you to accept it.”

  “What else are we gonna do?” The boy whose head Visala was cradling asked. “I’m hungry!”

  His sister’s hands formed fists; no doubt she felt the eyes of everyone else on the street on her. Micol felt a swell of respect for the defiant way she held herself – there was a certain pride there, a spirit that refused to be crushed. “I can take your friend to our mom. But if I smell anything rotten, the whole thing’s off.”

  “Deal,” Visala said. “Micol, you’ll make sure the children and their mother make it to the warehouse safely, right?” Her look hinted at a deeper reason for choosing him specifically, but he could only guess at what that might be.

  “Of course,” Micol said.

  “Well, come on then.” The girl took off without hesitation. She raised her arms as she approached a wall of Wolves to push them apart, but they moved before she reached them. Micol followed after a couple moments, feeling awkward as he trailed behind her.

  What should I say? he wondered. He felt as if the right words would convince her of his good intentions, but the right words didn’t come. Rather than try the wrong thing and risk alienating the girl further, he decided to keep his mouth shut.

  “Well?” the girl asked. “Are you a mute or what?”

  “I’m not a mute. I just don’t know what to say.”

  His honesty got a snort out of her. “Don’t you want to ask why my mom doesn’t want us to yoke up with your lot?”

  Micol frowned at her choice of words. He relented, phrasing the question a little more charitably. “Why doesn’t your mom want you to accept Death’s charity?”

  The girl eyed him with a lidded expression. “They took Grandmama a while back. Snatched her off the streets without warning. We only found out about it after, and by then they wouldn’t let us take her back because they said they wanted to make sure she was taken care of. They let us visit her a couple times, though.

  “The first time, she seemed afraid of something,” the girl continued. “But the second time she was totally different. When I mentioned my birthday, she acted like she’d forgotten about it. Which may not sound strange, but… birthdays were always Grandmama’s thing, you know? No matter how rough times were, she’d find a way to sneak us a treat, or she’d whittle a toy or something. Not this time, though.”

  Micol paused. “What does your Grandmama look like?” he asked, thinking back to the woman he’d met in the warehouses what felt like a lifetime ago. The memory of her desperate grasp on his wrist made him shiver.

  The girl shrugged. “She was old and wrinkly. She looked like Mom, but older. Sorry, I know that doesn’t help. She had white hair, mostly. Except for one lock near the back that refused to change. Called it her stubborn patch.”

  It has to be the same woman, Micol thought. “You’re speaking about her in past-tense,” he said, leaving the implied question unasked.

  “They told us she passed away soon after our second visit. We never got a body, though.” She stopped at the threshold of a shoe store. “Well, this is it. Mom is inside. Good luck trying to convince her to go with you; even half-starved, she’ll go fists-raised with the best of ‘em.”

  Micol entered the store cautiously, taking in the empty displays and broken tables surrounding him. He was surprised to see a family that had apparently been well-off falling victim to starvation. Up to that point, he’d assumed those who’d been taken in by Death had been like himself and the other Wolves: men and women already lingering on the edge of destitution, pushed over the precipice by the scarcity of supplies.

  But it seemed some of the merchants were falling victim as well. He pushed open a wooden door, careful to nudge it gently so that it wouldn’t creak too loudly.

  “Jin?” a raspy voice said. “Is that you?”

  “No,” Micol said, stepping into view of the room. A woman was lying on a single pallet bed, large enough to fit a couple and one or two children. On the wall to his left, he saw a simple stove with a pile of thin sticks that seemed unlikely to keep it fed for more than a few minutes. On the right was a worn-down dresser and the remains of leather soles; teeth marks made it clear the family had resorted to eating them.