The City of Blood: Book 1 of the Dreaming Cycle: Cultural Characterization, Worldbuilding, and Heroism in Dark Fantasy By Aaron Cope A thesis submitted in fulfillment Of the requirement for the degree of Master of Arts in English Weber State University Ogden, Utah December 3rd, 2024 Approved Ryan Ridge ______________________________ Ryan Ridge (Dec 9, 2024 17:38 MST) Professor Ryan Ridge Sian Griffiths ______________________________ Sian Griffiths (Dec 10, 2024 14:18 MST) Dr. Siân Griffiths ______________________________ Dr. Michael Wutz Cope 1 Critical Introduction to City of Blood: Cultural Characterization, Worldbuilding, and Heroism in Dark Fantasy The history of fantasy genres is complex, interwoven with the cultural melting pot of America, western legend traditions, and with sprinklings of global cultural influences. My novel, City of Blood stands firmly at the intersection of traditional fantasy, cosmic horror, and chivalric romance. What differentiates my work from the historical and contemporary market is a unironic blending of Dark and Heroic fantasy genres, using the former as a backdrop for the latter. Reconstructing the conceits of Heroic Fantasy and highlighting their virtues in contrast to a Dark setting. This serves greater thematic purposes of questioning the role of culture in producing heroism, the nature of sacrifice, and the individual vs the collective. In City of Blood and The Dreaming Cycle, this interplay of subgenres is what establishes the aesthetic and core themes. The setting is Dark and High scale, but the characters are Heroic, and the immediate narrative is Low. City of Blood is about the struggles of flawed but good people brushing up against a side of their world they know little about and being forced to confront themselves. The term High Fantasy first appears in Lloyd Alexander’s “High Fantasy and Heroic Romance” but is not defined directly, “one form that draws most directly from the fountainhead of mythology, and does it consciously and deliberately, is the heroic romance, which is a form of high fantasy” (Alexander). He cited the works of William Morris as the first true catalyst for fantasy literature, followed by Lord Dunsany, T.H White, and epitomized by J.RR. Tolkien. As such, High Fantasy typically follows Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings as its structural and aesthetic guide, to wit, a different world that often resembles some era of medieval Europe, with kings, lords, and knights. Magical or fantastical elements placed prominently in the world, Cope 2 plot, and conflicts. These elements are presented more positively than in other subgenres; there might be evil magic wielders or evil dragons, but those elements are rarely intrinsically evil. Morality is black and white with clear distinctions; this ties into the typical antagonistic driving force of High Fantasy being a singular force of evil and destruction, whether a dark god, an evil sorcerer of incredible abilities, or some other force of pure evil. Low Fantasy often grew out of a desire for more nuance and ‘realistic’ stories, partially by deconstructing the tropes common to High Fantasy. The main differences are the reduced scope of the narratives and the reduction of explicit fantastical elements. These elements are usually not entirely absent but are far less common. Magic will be difficult, dangerous, or have specific and highly limiting rules. Likewise, the moral center of Low Fantasy shifts as well; the source of evil or antagonism is but an extrapolation of real-life mundane cruelties and persecutions, often with emphasis on political intrigue, personal survival, and desires of the protagonists rather than notions of law, justice, right or kindness. Heroic Fantasy stands between these two. The scale is often closer to Low Fantasy, with the conflicts of the heroes being the narrative focus. The world is typically not doomed, kingdoms and nations are depicted by the protagonists’ actions on or in them, rather than as abstract critiques of systems or the inherent cruelty of existence. Heroes will be heroic, or at least not terribly dark; a knight will want to save people, a dashing rouge will have a heart of gold, the witch more of a playful trickster or serious scholar. The hero’s journey narrative concept is the baseline for Heroic Fantasy, with many modern incarnations influenced by Dungeons and Dragons. Older examples are influenced by Arthurian lore or classical myth. The first codifications of the genre share links with the earliest Cope 3 Sword and Sorcery creations, both made by Robert E. Howard with characters like Kull and Conan the Barbarian. For example, in one of the first Kull stories I read, By This Axe I Rule! (written in 1929, posthumously published 1967) King Kull slays his twenty assassins using an old battleaxe on the wall of his room before being rescued by a nobleman he earlier had to inform that by the law of the kingdom, no noble could marry a slave, or free a slave to marry her. Despite this disappointment, the slave had informed her lover of the plot, and the noble arrived with her to save the king. Kull then announces that they are to be wed, and when the gathered nobles and advisors cry out, he responds with, By this axe I rule! This is my sceptre! I have struggled and sweated to be the puppet king you wished me to be—to rule your way. Now I use mine own way. If you will not fight, you shall obey. Laws that are just shall stand, laws that have outlived their times I shall shatter as I shattered that one. I am king! (110) Notably, this Ur-example contains the essence of both genres, a singular powerful protagonist set in a fantastical world (The Shadow Kingdom features Kull dealing with a conspiracy of serpent-people using mind control, illusions and other magics to seize control of the kingdom) who solves their problems with force of arms and conviction more than anything else. Outnumbered but not outmatched, the hero acts in their own interest and with some moral goal. Dark Fantasy is an additive to the previous genres I’ve mentioned; it still exists in that spectrum of style and structure of the High-Heroic-Low method, but what distinguishes any sample is tone and aesthetics. It is quite common for a piece of Dark Fantasy to pull the trick of being simultaneously High and Low Fantasy, often by having the background world having the Cope 4 fantastical, while the actual story is structured around Low Fantasy tropes and genre conventions. For example, The Black Company books by Glen Cook are about a gritty mercenary company working for the highest bidder, currently a powerful, semi-immortal sorceress known only as “The Lady” because she killed every person who knew her birth name. Names have power over wizards, and if they want to be powerful and not enslaved to someone else, a wizard must be almost nameless. Titles and sobriquets are how people are identified. The first twentyfive pages has the mercenaries trying to figure out a way to exit their contract as the political situation in a city gets worse and worse. None of them really care about the ancient monster the riots unleashed on the city, just getting paid and getting out alive. High setting, Low focus. The Gotrek and Felix books by William King start with small skirmishes, fights with mutant gangs or incidentally stopping skaven plots. They grow increasingly heroic throughout their books, until they face down a Greater Daemon of Chaos in Daemonslayer. Even then, this is Felix’s reaction to danger early in the novel, He felt a sick feeling spread in the pit of his stomach, a tenseness in his muscles, and somehow a strange light-headedness too. His mouth was dry and his own heartbeat sounded loud in his ears. Just for once he would have liked to have been calm and relaxed in the face of danger, or filled with furious berserker rage like all those heroes in the storybooks. As always, it didn’t happen. (35) Felix retains the more realistic behaviors of Low Fantasy protagonists, while contributing to moments that would not be out of place in High Fantasy, such as wielding the Hammer of Fate in the novel’s climax to smite the daemon. “Felix flung the sacred warhammer forward and Cope 5 released it. It hurtled forward like a falling meteor, trailing a comet tail of blazing lightning. It smashed directly into the daemon’s head with a noise like a clap of thunder” (218) William King used Gotrek and Felix as vehicles for a Heroic fantasy story set in a fundamentally Dark universe, showcasing the great tonal strength that glimmers of light have on a work. That glimmering is something I aim for my work, complicated by the setting being strange and twisted. One of the genre goals of City of Blood and The Dreaming Cycle is to establish a Dark setting that only seems as such to the audience. The society and world of the novel are acclimated to the Lovecraftian elements, violence is quite normal, and the taboos around blood are virtually gone. Yet its characters would not be out of place in a more traditional setting and more Heroic tale, signifying that even in dire circumstances heroism and nobility can still exist. Harrington is a hardboiled detective in a fantasy world, beaten down less by the things he’s seen and more by the guilt he feels for, in a moment of weakness, prioritizing himself over his city and then being praised for almost twenty years after. He copes by becoming obsessive, self-destructively determined and constantly sacrificing for his sense of duty. Astra is driven, intelligent and exceptionally learned. But she doesn’t quite realize that her quest for knowledge will not give her the answers she seeks. Her life is defined by her religion, one she barely practices and often disagrees with while still clinging to a central tenet to justify herself. She seeks understating and mentorship to fill the void left by her community. Ironically, she is so paranoid that she struggles to embrace, or even realize, her growing relationships. Joaquin is an action hero, a chivalric romance character, and a bit of a chosen one. He is riddled with commitment phobia, has few points of human connection, and exults in violence. Cope 6 Yet he has spent much of his life being a wandering hero, rolling into a town, stopping something horrible, then leaving with token payments. His self-perception paints his past as selfish, greedy, and lonely, but he demonstrates the opposite. Each are conflicted in one way or another, filled with inconsistencies and driven by powerful events that colored their perceptions forever. Each grapple with moral impulses commingling with hard realities and their narratives all deal with surpassing their past or being broken by it. The setting allows multiple genres of narrative to be told, without impacting the reality of the others, the believability of another story. For example, the blood-based power system emphasizes physicality, transmutation, and change, rather than more esoteric abilities that would invalidate many dilemmas (telepathy, teleportation, time travel, resurrection etc.) and these abilities are short-ranged and relatively small scale. No oldblood is going to start melting entire cities with a flick of the wrist, nor is someone going to say, “I can solve this with my X-power!” Instead, I have constructed a world and story where the characters are faced with problems their abilities cannot solve. Each of the protagonists have a different take on this concept. Harrington is never going to be strong enough to just muscle through issues, he must play politics and investigate. His tainted blood is weak and constantly hinders his ability to do his job. Astra’s greyblood does nothing to help her stay secretive, and it is one of the things that constantly drags her into other people’s attention. It makes her a target and lacks the raw power to successfully extricate herself. On the other hand, Joaquin is an incredible fighter with the third best blood type in the novel but that doesn’t solve his internal conflicts, his inability to really commit to anything, or the political environment that he’s pushed into. In fact, his deepblood is responsible for most of his external problems and the events of his backstory. Cope 7 One of the ideas I’ve played with and developed was to use the characters to build the world while telling the story. It’s a bit of an ouroboros, craft wise, as the rough setting informed my earliest draft of the character’s archetypes, but as they developed the world became clearer to me. Now the issue becomes making the world clear to the reader without halting the plot into a long and boring history lesson. Burroway brings up a point about direct characterization via dialogue, saying that “in addition to conveying content, [dialogue] either moves the story forward or enriches our understanding” (51) This is where the idea of using the disparate factions in the city and giving them different dialogue starts to color the world. The Vigilant Watchers talk about different things from the university professors or the Great Houses and the lesser nobles. Astra’s first spoken line of dialogue is, “Depending on the amount of pre-feeding the leach has had; it will be between seventeen and twenty five percent. Up to forty if it was starved” (25). She says this in response to a surprise academic question, immediately setting up that Astra is intelligent, quick thinking, and knowledgeable about minutia that most others wouldn’t bother to remember. Joaquin’s first line, “You know, if I lose a hand because of you Clarissa, I will break everything in the shop,” (34) is followed by the recipient laughing, thus establishing the tone of their relationship and the relative closeness of the two, which is followed by what Douglas Unger in his essay “Angles on Dialogue”, calls a third-level dialogue, “in which characters talk past one another—a literary intensification of the distressful truth about human nature that people in conversation quite often don’t really listen to what another person is saying” (Unger). This talking past tactic is merged with an earlier element of omission. Cope 8 He didn’t want to go through this again, least of all with a friend. ‘Soon, Clarissa, soon. You know how it is, when a house starts getting duels, they always pay extra. House Tel’anir pays better than most anyway, with things as they are? I’ve been paid more in the last month than the last four! Besides, it wouldn’t look good to jump ship once a house starts getting challenges. (35) Within his first page, Joaquin is already established as someone who avoids hard conversations and obfuscates his real motivations, even to himself. He then proceeds to avoid Clarissa’s repeated attempts to open the dialogue with a charmingly practiced smile and a cocky reassurance. “Instead of arguing with her, Joaquin smiled at her as he walked to the front of the shop. ‘You know that won’t happen Clarissa, I’ve won the last twenty duels and I’ll go for twenty more!” (36). He’s not lying but simply avoiding the issue, while trying to legitimately reassure her that his current course is not going to backfire. As the rest of the novel shows, he’s half-right but is deliberately ignoring the core of what Clarissa is getting at with his motivations. This is revisited much later in the novel when he does open up about the why to her, revealing the truth of his back story to the audience. This is paired with subtext and the unsaid, to create more lively dialogue. Part of the reason each character has so many scenes with one-on-one dialogue is to create an atmosphere of verbal trickery and the interplay between subtle references and blunt, direct questions. Each of the characters are direct, or they want to be but can’t for some reason. Harrington, at his captain’s request, must not make waves so early in the investigation. Astra is paranoid and a little introverted so whenever she is forced into an interaction she tries to cut it short, especially when topics like Yalgemites come up, but she is socially and personally pressured to keep up the mask the nobility habitually wear. Joaquin is more personable and Cope 9 charismatic, with a social position that others lack from his status as a duelist and his rare deepblood. These let him slice through verbal games and political maneuvers… except with the people he wants/needs to be honest with. Over time, references to things in the world are dropped here and there, with more mundane ideas being internal exposition and dialogue being used to add to the mystery, characterize, or to build tension between characters. Mattia Rugani’s first interactions with Astra are littered with small references to other nations and paint himself as an outsider looking into Arlon. He can see the kingdom’s great strength and selfsame flaw, their devotion, and observes: “I believe in many things, some quite odd to our Mothers-blessed neighbors, the blood-folk of Arlon. An entire nation under the Empty Throne, and every one of them a devout worshiper of something. Not that they would like to admit it” (56). Mattia’s continual reinforcement of his status as the integrated outsider, half-in half-out of Arlon’s upper class is maintained by a social mask of deliberately cultivated accents and peppering foreign words into his speech. He only momentarily drops this when he is strongly trying to influence people in a way they need. Structurally he reinforces the need for verbal finesse in Astra, despite her disdain, and introduces the idea of many, many competing factions within the seemingly unified city. He parallels Astra, who already is hinted at being a similar outsider due to her religion. Dialogue becomes a primary tool, not just in my sample, but throughout the whole novel. For example, in chapter six Joaquin has a conversation with Lady Feya Tel’anir riddled with the unsaid, and with their attempts to bring up an important topic between them getting cut off by the appearance of another character. It provides characterization and tension (with a reference to a short story detailing their first meeting). In chapter eight Harrington interrogates a professor who Cope 10 is implied to have attempted to initiate an affair with Cabrella Rosenoth but was rejected. Both Professor Mortis and Harrington engage in petty power plays to establish conversational dominance, since both are used to being in charge and Mortis is a little arrogant. Mystery and tension, with a transition to meeting Dr. Tissre in a different light than Astra does. All conversations are used to not just move the plot along but to showcase what kind of world makes people like this. These techniques are combined with a running theme, common to mysteries, that everyone is more than they seem. Most of the characters in the novel wear figurative masks that only come down around certain people or events; Lady Feya has the most due to her social standing and tenuous position politically, but most are hiding something or another. Professor Mortis does care about his students and is protective of them, even while being the strict and harsh teacher. Spectoris Morrigan deeply respects Harrington but is experienced enough to see his flaws and acts aloof as part of her job. Captain Bloch is a busybody and deeply devoted to House Tel’anir, always maintaining its perfect image. But he cares for the emotional well-being of those around him and is willing to broach uncomfortable and even taboo subjects to try and help, etc. All the characters have depth and motivation beyond the surface, and as the novel goes on more of those layers are exposed due to events in the plot or simply greater exposure. This character-based grounding follows some advice from Benjamin Percy in his book Thrill Me: “The world King created—a postapocalyptic world, a sorcerous world—enchanted me, but it was Roland who ultimately moved me” (68). It was Roland who captured Percy’s attention and brought him back to the story. He notes there is a danger for new writers in being enamored with the big idea, the big twist, the thing that makes the work different. At the Cope 11 beginning of my work, bloodcraft was the thing; its magic powered by blood but made visceral and physical, tangible without quite going into absurd territory. My next thought was how did bloodcraft affect the world? How does that world affect people? I started to war between the world, the system, and only work with basic archetypes, X character type would have Y scene. While some good came out of that, City of Blood only blossomed when I started writing characters. When I started twisting ideas and sliding them together to see what comes out. Kedyir Molvurin is an Inquisitor Knight, a violent zealot, unflinching and absolute in his efforts. And he’s right, disturbingly so to modern sensibilities. How did he get this way? Why does he keep going? What are his last ties to humanity? Joaquin is a swashbuckling hero whose life has been violent escapades, adventures, and quasi-criminal scrapes. Why does he never move forward, only running in place? Harrington was the first invented for the setting, at least as a vague abstract. But he became real when I had to justify the scene he was imagined for. What drives a man to destroy himself, his body and sense of living with a dangerous drug, just to keep working? Answering these questions helps flesh out the soul of the characters, gives them heart, gives them power. For whatever abstract vagueness and potential mystery is lost, the audience gains a link to the text, but they begin to make the characters natural, believable in a way that no amount of exposition will make their fantastical world. Three key elements distinguish City of Blood from contemporary works. Firstly, my blending of Cosmic Horror elements is treated as simply another form of cultural divergence rather than the classic ‘see the unspeakable and go mad’-trope. While there is still some of that, it is less constant and absolute than Lovecraft’s work. Cope 12 Secondly, the strong emphasis on individual heroism making a difference, not just on the small scale, but on a world-level is strongly at odds with a large amount of Dark Fantasy. Heroic methods, High results, Dark aesthetics mingled with a bit of mystery and a bit of Cosmic Horror to create a narrative that culminates into what I have tentatively named Cosmic Hope. But this comes at a cost, requiring sacrifice to maintain thematic consistency. Finally, I play with traditional fantasy elements but with twists as elements of setting mystery. This world worships strange, nightmarish deities, who are so intrenched that they are the normal deities of the setting. While this is a more subtle detail, most in Arlon find more anthropomorphic gods, like those in classical Greek mythology or in many modern fantasy stories, to be bizarre and impossible, uncomfortable and alien. Signifiers of traditional fantasy become alien and dangerous, inverting a Cosmic Horror trope. The end of the novel hints that Arlon and the greater world used to be a standard fantasy world until something happened. This adds layers of mystery to the setting and helps keep audience members engaged between books, thinking about what might have happened. It also enables some specific and unique-feeling story points and dramatic irony down the line, as well as opening a chance to have a double twist. I have distilled a myriad of influences into City of Blood, in genre, setting, tone and construction. This creates a rich tapestry to explore themes of heroism, self-doubt, resilience, selfishness vs duty, and the ideas of personal vs political power. It also creates a fresh take on fantasy settings, reinvents old genre elements and utilizes multilayered characters to tell a complex story while rooting the narrative in universal human experiences and emotions. Cope 13 Works Cited: Alexander, Lloyd. "High Fantasy and Heroic Romance." The Horn Book Magazine. December 1971. https://www.hbook.com/story/high-fantasy-and-heroic-romance Burroway, J., Stuckey-French, E., & Stuckey-French, N. Writing fiction: A guide to narrative craft. The University of Chicago Press. 2019. Cook, G. Chronicles of the Black Company. Gollancz. 2010. Howard, R. E., & Offutt, A. J. Kull: The Fabulous Warrior King. Bantam Books. 1978. King, W. Daemonslayer. Black Library. 2003. Percy, Benjamin. Thrill Me: Essays on Fiction. Graywolf Press, 2016. Tolkien, J. R. R. The Lord of the Rings. Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2012. Unger, Douglas. Douglas Unger - Angles on Dialogue, https://www.douglasunger.com/WritingsAnglesOnDialogue.html. Accessed 11 Nov. 2024. Cope 14 City of Blood Two hundred years ago, in the year of our Mothers, a discovery was made. In the buried ruins of Ash’Nico-lur, a large chamber was uncovered. Within, murals depicting the gift of blood to man and the first generation of oldbloods uniting to seize the world. Stone tablets littered the mural-chamber, instructions for awakening all bloods. Scholars studied jars of medicinal blood found preserved in the chamber. The first documented and successful account of modern bloodcraft was recorded one hundred and ninety-eight years ago, two years after the discovery in Ash’Nico-lur. A new age began. No longer a rare ability found randomly in noble families or even more rarely among peasants; the world changed irrevocably. Now bloodcraft is taught and used widely, with blood scholars delving deeper and deeper into our blood to discover hidden secrets. Though some secrets are not meant to be found by mortals. -Dr. Orador Mortis, On the Dreaming Age; History and Consequences Cope 15 Chapter 1: Vigil Unseen (Joaquin) Seventeen years ago Harrington was awoken in the night by a sleepy junior Vigilant who was clearly unused to the hours of the night shift. “Notice from the captain, Inspector. Head for the West Lakeshore District. There’s been an incident.” And so, newly promoted Inspector Chadwick Harrington was off. The carriage held four Vigilants, two junior Vigilants with only a few months of experience and one other inspector, Davius Nordruth. Nordruth was promoted only a few weeks before Harrington, but he already had that initial jading the job brought. The Vigilant-Watchers have long protected and maintained Blestellon. Investigating and punishing crimes, upholding public order, and hunting down dangerous subversives are all part of the job. Harrington swore an oath to the city; to defend and serve his fellow citizens, to expose and destroy crime, and to protect the institutions of Blestellon. All very good things. Except that most nights Harrington just cleaned up the aftermath and caught killers, when he’d been lucky. He’d always assumed that the other, older inspectors were just not invested enough, or tough enough, or had been in the job too long to be as cynical as they were. But after a few weeks, he’d started to sympathize with them. Though Harrington was certain that he’d never become so jaded. The carriage pulled up into the district, turning left down the dockhouse street. After a few turns, the carriage stopped. Harrington stepped off the carriage. The moon glittered off the lake’s dark waters; it was a cool night. The slight breeze almost pushed the smell away–blood. Not the healthy kind either. Cope 16 Soon enough, a young Vigilant approached and saluted. Probably noticing the badge of rank on Harrington’s breast. “Vigilant Kerd reporting, sir!” “What happened, Vigilant Kerd?” Harrington said. “Well Inspector, we found a body… it’s pretty badly…” the young guard looked a little queasy but managed to compose himself, “It’s torn apart. What bits we found were shredded. We secured the alley and searched the immediate area but haven’t found anyone.” Harrington sighed. “Alright, show us the body. We will take over from here.” Kerd nodded and guided them to the alley silently. The buildings were cramped, this side of Lakeshore was mostly laborer housing and trade houses, a few decades of rapid growth forced the city to construct new on top of old. As a result, many buildings had little room between them and often connected at the roofs when a new level was added. Vigilant Kerd led them into a network of covered alleys, not just a gap between two buildings. Lanterns were needed to avoid tripping on loose stones or littered garbage left to rot. The smell intensified; instead of a slight iron scent Harrington could taste it on the night air. No breeze off the lake, not this far into the buildings. The blood scent was powerful but fresh, meaning it had not putrefied yet. The killer could still be in the district. As they rounded another corner, Vigilant Kerd stopped. “It’s just around the corner, sir. If you don’t mind Inspector, I’d like to stay here.” He noticeably avoided looking at the alley. Harrington nodded and moved past him to see what had happened. It was a woman. What scraps of cloth were littered around the smeared wall told him that much. Expensive-looking lace sleeves soaked in blood. The arms were mostly Cope 17 intact, except where they would connect to the shoulder. There they looked torn and oddly grey. The legs had heavy bruising with little cuts spaced every few inches along the bruise; they had the same tearing and coloration the arms had. But the body… Harrington understood why Vigilant Kerd did not want to look at it, given the chance he wouldn’t either, but someone had to determine what killed this woman. Every inch of the torso was lacerated, dozens of diagonal cuts had been made, crisscrossing each other. The main exceptions were a deep slash up and down the left collarbone down below the ribs and a second cut, at least a hands length deep, in the center of the chest running towards the heart. The blood had drained from the hundreds of wounds. Using a truncheon carried by the junior Vigilants with him, Harrington lifted the body a little to confirm his suspicions. There were wounds on the back, but they mostly looked different from the cuts. More burned and rough. Like they had been dragged across a cobblestone street. He glanced up at the wall and sure enough the blood smear was the same size as the body. Someone or something had dragged this woman across the rough wall. He lowered the body, then passed off the truncheon. Looking at the alley, he could see small splotches of dried blood along the ground. She had been injured, probably the cuts on the legs. She was fleeing when her pursuer caught her here. Harrington stepped back from the body, looking for any other signs of the struggle. The wall was cracked. In several spots the solid stone blocks were cracked and dented. As if someone took a hammer to the wall. Oh no. Harrington looked for the arms and began looking for anything that would tell him who this person was. A ring, paper, anything to prove their identity. He tore off the blood-soaked Cope 18 sleeve amidst the shouts from his fellow Vigilants. They stopped once he wiped off the back of the arm, revealing a tattoo. Two crossed spears piercing a castle and leaves. Sweet mothers, someone killed an oldblood. Not just any oldblood. They had killed a noble member of House Tel’anir. Harrington fought to keep the rising panic from entering his voice. “Gentlemen. We are looking at a murder, committed by someone with incredible bloodcraft, potentially another oldblood.” He glanced over to the other inspector. Nordruth had looked bored on the ride over, but now he was rapt with attention, processing what this meant. “Inspector Harrington, we have to find them. The city could tear itself apart. You know those tattoos are only given to the leading family…” Nordruth trailed off. If one of the houses had killed a leading member of Tel’anir, and if Tel’anir suspected anyone, it could start a blood feud. Harrington told the junior Vigilants to watch the body while he contacted the Hand and Eye of the Vigilant-Watchers. They had to head off any noble aggression. He had to uphold the oath. To protect and serve Blestellon’s citizens, to expose and destroy crime, and to protect the institutions of Blestellon. All Harrington could think to himself was “Sweet Mothers, help us.” He had to find the murderer. Cope 19 Now It was a sunny day. Few clouds covered the blue sky and the sunlight made the city glow. He got out of the carriage and glanced around. A half dozen junior Vigilants were busy moving traffic along and controlling a growing crowd, curious as to why an old crumbling building was being examined by the Vigilants. Senior Inspector Harrington shared their curiosity. He’d been in the middle of an interrogation when a message had come detailing that he was needed on Copper Street in the South Lakeshore District. Harrington walked past the junior Vigilants and entered the building. Part-business part-warehouse, this three-story building had seen better days. Clearly it had not been maintained well, if at all, and was on the verge of collapse. Lose bricks could be pried out of the dry and crumbling mortar, and the wood furnishings had succumbed to rot. He followed the noises of investigators and Vigilants to the back of the large warehouse. There Harrington could hear his old colleague Captain Nordruth issuing orders. Nordruth spotted Harrington and stopped talking, moving instead to intercept Harrington before he could get around the shelving which blocked most of his view. Nordruth stood a hair shorter than Harrington, thinning hair kept in a moderately fashionable style. Dark eyed and serious, a far cry from when they had first met almost twenty years ago. Nordruth put his hand on his shoulder, “Harrington. I’m glad you’re here, I need to talk to you for a minute. Before you see the body.” He looked around as he led Harrington away from the others. He spoke with a hint of urgency. “We found a body. Torn apart and shredded. Exactly like seventeen years ago. Now I want you to stay…” Cope 20 Before he could finish, Harrington dashed over to the milling Vigilants gawking at the murder. He pushed past them. He had to see. He had to see it for himself. After all this time, why now? Harrington saw the same shredded body, the same limbs tossed aside, the little girl he’d had to tell that her mother was dead. The figure in black fleeing off the roof into the harbor. It all came back to Harrington like a wave. Damnit. Damnit. “Mother’s Blood!” People looked at Harrington, he ignored them and began examining the body. Checking the cuts, where they were, how deep they were, if any blood remained in the headless torso. The blood was dark, soaked into the ground. This happened at least a day or two ago. The smell was worse, but the legs lacked the bruising he’d found so long ago. Everything was the same. Every cut, every slash was the same as in his dreams. Whoever murdered this woman, Harrington was sure it was the same one who killed all those people seventeen years ago. “Harington!” Captain Nordruth shouted, splitting the Vigilants apart as he strode toward the Inspector. “Harington! I don’t need you going off on your own like you did then!” Nordruth said. Nordruth motioned for Harrington to follow him. Once they were in the cramped business side of the building, he turned and slapped Harrington. No bloodcraft, but with enough force to send Harrington reeling. “Harington. Don’t you ever ignore me like that again. Are we clear?” Harrington just stared at Nordruth. After a few seconds dragged by, he nodded. “Good. Now, I want you to lead this investigation. Even with your…difficulties. But if you make me nervous that you’ve lost perspective, I will pull you off and send you on the village circuit,” Nordruth said. Cope 21 He sat down. Breathing heavy. Command had not been kind to Nordruth these past eight years. Harrington sat down, calming himself. He had to stay calm, that’s what got him close last time. After minutes of silence, he spoke up. “Do we know who was killed? Are they an oldblood?” Harrington said. “Yes and no. Her name was Cabrella Rosenoth. She was a member of House Orlandis by marriage, not blood.” Rosenoth, he wasn’t familiar with that family, they must have been a lesser relation. “If she’s not an oldblood, what is she?” “Grey Blood. She was an assistant researcher at the University of Natural Mysteries. We don’t know much more than that. I’ve already arranged for a carriage to take you to her home; perhaps her husband can shed some light on why his wife was in this building without any guards. I am going to talk with the Eye and Hand. Keep them informed,” Nordruth said. Nordruth looked at the wall and sighed “At least it isn’t like last time. If it had been another oldblood, one from a major family in House Orlandis…” He shook his head. Harrington stood up to leave but he continued “Look, Harington. I need you to keep this professional, not like last time. But I want you to be aggressive and effective. If you discover anything, you need to tell me,” Nordruth said. Harrington tried to look as calm and professional as ever as he spoke. “Don’t worry about me, Captain. I’ll get to the bottom of this. We have a better lead than we did then.” Nordruth nodded. Harrington left the room and headed to the carriage. Off to talk to Mr. Rosenoth. And find the bastard who escaped seventeen years ago. Cope 22 As he stepped outside, all Harrington could think about was the murder so long ago. The night where he… no, he couldn’t dwell on that. Shaking his head, Harrington pushed those thoughts away. He couldn’t let his failure then cloud his mind now. It would be unprofessional and unbecoming a Senior Inspector. The crowd had only grown while Harrington examined the crime scene. The Lakeshore workers and shopkeepers couldn’t help themselves; this was probably the most interesting thing they’ve seen in weeks. Harrington wondered if they would be so interested if they saw what was done to that poor girl. The juniors were clearly unable to disperse the curious citizens. He’d just have to show them how it was done. Making his way past the juniors, Harrington took a deep breath and bellowed “All right folks, nothing to see here. Move along.” No one moved. One particularly weedy looking man piped up “If there nothing wrong, why the guard still here?” Harrington looked straight in the weedy man’s eyes and said nothing. He looked around, as if expecting anyone else to conveniently be Harrington’s real target. After a few seconds to let his gaze sink in, Harrington walked towards him. “You know. When a Vigilant Watcher says there’s nothing to see. There’s nothing to see. Wouldn’t you agree?” Harrington said. He towered over the man, who was now distinctly uncomfortable. He could see a little bead of sweat form on the weedy man’s brow, as they stammered and muttered something unintelligible. “Look at me when I’m speaking to you, Citizen. It’s good for your civic pride.” Cope 23 The man quailed and some of the crowd began to quietly murmur, but most went silent. Raising his voice, Harington spoke again. “Now I repeat. There’s nothing for you to see here. Move. Along. Now.” The core of the gathered bystanders glanced at each other and left without a word. Within a minute the crowd was gone, and the average passerby got the message. As Harrington turned to leave, he noticed that the juniors looked uncomfortable. The tallest one, a young man with dusky brown hair swept back and behind his ears was shocked. “Sir, they weren’t causing a scene. We could have handled them in time.” Harrington knew what he really wanted to say and decided to oblige him. “Vigilant, what is your name?” “Durill, sir.” “Durill, how long have you been a watcher?” He glanced around at his fellows before replying, knowing his answer wouldn’t be very impressive. “I’ve served for six major moons. Since Candle’s Eve.” Harrington turned to look at the lake and paused for effect before speaking. It was always good to establish control when teaching the inexperienced, after all. “Well, Durill, I’ve served for almost… twenty-four years now. Seventeen years as an inspector. Solved more cases than the next three senior inspectors combined. Seen more riots than I care to count. Some from before you were born. I know exactly how this city thinks and feels. How its citizens can be too curious for their own good. Not every crime needs to be spread around like a plague, worming its way through the common folk and spreading fear or distrust. Cope 24 Sometimes people need to be reminded of their place and what is their concern and what is our concern,” Harrington said. Harrington turned. Durill was looking at the ground and his face was a little flushed. Once he noticed Harrington looking at him, he snapped to attention and tried to hide his embarrassment. Satisfied he understood, Harrington continued. “Of course, there are times where we must be a little more insistent, a little more forceful, to make them understand. As you witnessed just a few moments ago… but the real trick is knowing when that is appropriate. And more importantly when it is not. Do you understand Durill?” Harrington asked. The poor junior nodded. “Good. Now attend to your duties. Be watchful. Be vigilant. Be present.” They all responded with “YES SIR.” Smiling a little, Harrington went out to where his carriage was waiting. Nodding to the driver, he hopped up into the cabin. Next stop, House Orlandis’s lesser family home of Rosenoth. Cope 25 Chapter 2: Lectures on Bloodcraft (Astra) Astra ran as fast as she could. Around the corners, past groups of students, beyond the displays of exsanguinated creature corpses and fossils and skeletons. Papers bound in bags and books, scrolls peeking out of her arms, desperately clinging to her for fear of the ground. Astra ran because she was terrified. Because she was late. Late for one of the most important lectures given in the University of Natural Mysteries. The great Doctor Kayrupt Tissre would be explaining in incredible detail the processes of blood augmentation and flesh shaping, and even going as far as to demonstrate the process live. Hearing his insights and learning from him was simply the opportunity of a lifetime! And she was late. “Damn that Luska, always trying to parcel me out to halfwit nobles so I can ‘relax’ when I should have been getting ready. I should have been there early,” Astra thought. Luska’s… romantic inclinations and indiscretions aside, Astra wouldn’t even be here if not for Luska. It wasn’t like Astra had any money. No connections. Nothing to break past that barrier of entry. Astra jumped over another student who had fallen, scattering piles of papers scrawled in ink and blood. She sympathized, but that was a vision of her least acceptable future. Whishing past him, Astra hit the grand staircase hard, two or three steps at a time. Doctor Tissre’s voice Cope 26 rang out into the hallway and Astra skidded to a stop outside the room. A deep breath, a little bloodcraft soothing of her aching legs, and she was ready. As Astra walked in the room, over a hundred pairs of eyes turned to look at her. Some amused, some insulted, some blank, but one pair was particularly unnerving. Those of Dr. Tissre himself. They were cold, hard eyes, with a glint of deep understanding. His age was only beginning to show as creases around the eyes and a slight pallor of the skin. His hair was dark at one point in his life, but it had faded with bright streaks of silver forming. As Astra walked towards an open desk, she heard his voice. “And you, young miss, what is the blood content of a Nuberian leech after partaking of an oldblood for less than one minute?” She stopped and swiveled to face him. It was a simple question. “Depending on the amount of pre-feeding the leach has had; it will be between seventeen and twenty five percent. Up to forty if it was starved,” Astra said. Dr. Tissre’s lips almost moved into a flat smile. “And what use will a Nuberian leach have once it is full of oldblood?” Tissre said. Astra was surprised, everyone should know Nuberian leeches can be used for transfusions and storage… so he would want a nonstandard answer. She smiled, hoping it would cover her uncertainty. “Why they can be used to regulate the mixing of bloods, maintaining the body’s vitality during the shaping process, as described by Professor Carthis Lankwell in his treatise, The Varied uses of Nuberian Fauna and Flora,” Astra said. Dr. Tissre smiled at this and turned to the class. “And to think, not one of you could tell me what they were used for. Fortunately for the university’s future reputation, this young woman Cope 27 actually read the suggested works I had the university distribute to those interested in learning from me. Miss. What is your name?” Tissre asked. “Astra Lukos” He smiled even more, looking almost grandfatherly “Well Miss Lukos, I am glad you decided to arrive, now take your seat. I prefer prompt arrivals in the future,” Tissre said. Astra nodded and sat down, papers and notes tucked under the desk. Her heart soared. He didn’t kick her out. He was impressed. Astra began listening intently. The lecture was astonishing. The work Dr. Tissre had done in the fields of bloodcrafting interactions with organs and tissues and his studies of exotic anatomy were legendary. Dr.Tissre had a cadaver of a Nissial ape-hound brought in and he demonstrated how even dead flesh could be revitalized through the proper application of blood and focus. How our own bodies recycle particulates of our own flesh every minute. And how blood was the source of all the nutrients needed for a functioning body. “In fact, blood generation is easily the most important aspect of the body in virtually all living creatures. As the duelists will tell you, repeated loss of blood though bloodcraft is exhausting, but the only way to train the body to produce more of it. Most of the progress made in the last half century in blood-based body acclimation and training has been made in the so called “Dueling Cities” precisely because they expended the effort and fluids in exploration of this concept. It was not the academics, but the common and noble fighters who deserved the honor for that discovery,” Tissre said. He smiled knowingly “Not that my illustrious peers would ever like to admit it!” Light laughter filled the lecture hall. Bands of sunlight reflected off the glossy wood floor, giving the room a comfortable glow. Dr. Tissre was out of the light, making him seem Cope 28 much older than before. He scanned the audience, looking for something. Twice, his eyes swept past Astra, but on the third pass he locked with hers. That same little smile he made when she’d first entered the room spread across his lips before he continued with the lecture. “Well, regardless of my peers’ opinion, I feel that progress itself is more important than who discovered what. It’s driven me to discover the deepest secrets of all bloods. Old, blue, deep, grey, and the like. Each hide little mysteries in the smallest drops. Even base blood has potential to unlock our flesh and expand the mind! The power of all blood cannot be underestimated. Life is its purpose and blood is life’s currency. It must be spent well. Which leads me to our next topic, the flesh shaping research I have been participating in alongside other like minds,” Tissre said. The class became more interested, the idle rich simply for novelty, the intellectual for understanding, and her. Not just for curiosity, but for salvation. Astra’s notes of the past hour were shuffled to the side; this was why she’d worked so hard to get into this lecture. Why she had Luska use her influence and not a little money to ensure that she was able to attend. Why she was willing to attend Luska’s ridiculous parties and raucous excursions. Dr. Tissre began to speak. Slowly, almost reverently, as if this could mean as much to him as it did for Astra. “There are ancient tales. Of blood sorcerers and hideous curses, of arrogance and anger. Of man and god. The mythology of our world is forever etched into our culture, a great well of wisdom… and for those who can see, a source of secrets. I first read of the old tales as a child, tales of man-beasts and the blessed ones gifted with the forms of divinity.” The doctor’s gaze fell on Astra again, just as he said divinity. A flicker of apprehension crossed his features before he continued, his hands gesticulating as he spoke. Cope 29 “I learned of those who dwelt beyond the dream of man, watching him grow from beast to fire-bearer, hunter to warrior, survivor to master of all he sees. The oldest stories, ones barely remembered and full of hidden meaning because of it, told of how men learned to shape their blood within themselves.” Dr. Tissre became more animated, almost a little feverish at the idea. His words held that reverence from before, but now there was a real hunger in his voice. He continued. “Imagine it! Changing the very structure of your blood, of your life! In time you could gain the traits of any blood-bearing lifeform, you could become anything! Anything at all… My young mind was fascinated by this idea. It’s what led me to study bloodcraft. To learn anatomy and shape. I believed that some ancient souls transformed themselves into new beings. And that we could become new, better people by following in their footsteps. The blood of man could give us the strength and ability of all that moves and breathes. I have made great strides in following our mythological forebears, but I must admit I have not begun to match their ability!” Tissre said. A student called out “Then why are we here? You’re an expert, aren’t you?” Astra turned to find the offending voice a few rows behind her. Broad faced and stoutly built, with short blonde hair and narrow eyes. A noble youth as far as she could tell. She looked back at Dr. Tissre, whose eyes were hard and piercing as he glared. “I am an expert, young man. One with decades of experience. I have even succeeded in altering the form of test subjects and animals. On a scale considered impossible for over a century before Dr. Ardrus and I began our research. Which is far more than I can say for your house, Mr. Karius. Oh, don’t look so surprised, I could smell the cheap liquor your family sells Cope 30 by the bucket to keep its gambling debts from sinking it. I do have a finely tuned sense of smell after all,” Tissre said. The noble’s eyes went wide, and his mouth opened as if he was going to respond but Dr. Tissre cut him off. “Oh no, Mr. Karius, now is not the time for you to be speaking. Unless your house managed to spawn a most uncommon genius amid its drunken stupor, I greatly suggest you hold your tongue,” Tissre said. The Karius noble closed his mouth and fumed silently. Astra couldn’t help but smile, Karius was a bad mark on all nobility, that much was well known. But she had never seen anyone so directly call a noble out, aside from someone in one of the Great Houses. Not publicly at least. Dr. Tissre evidently did not suffer fools in his presence, regardless of their pedigree. Astra liked him even more than before. She didn’t hate nobles; she knew from personal experience that most were fine, decent people, if a little self-centered and spoiled. And besides, judging a whole class of people by its worst examples was wrong. She’d experienced that too. The lecture continued without interruption, except for some clarifying questions once he began explaining the mechanics of blood and flesh manipulation. Most from Astra herself. “Doctor Tissre, what about growing new limbs? Fingers and toes removed away from an oldblood treatment? Too old to reattach. If you cannot change a thing, wouldn’t growing a new body part be easier? Like how a strong enough oldblood can repair someone’s eyes?” Astra asked. She was at the edge of her seat. How many problems could be solved if broken, badly healed arms and hands could just be replaced? All over Arlon, there were villages like hers Cope 31 without easy access to any high bloods. As cheap as blood-based cures were, they could never quite replicate having real, fresh blood healing. Dr. Tissre sadly smiled. “I am afraid growing extra limbs is still impossible for neophytes like myself. Oldblood can rejuvenate eyes and if done by an expert, grow new eyes for implantation. But that is different than making a limb or restoring an extremity. High enough blood remembers its shape far, far better than our blood can. That’s why oldblood-made eyes always take the color of the oldblood donor, and not the recipient.” He lifted up one of the Nissial ape-hound’s arms, moving it at the elbow to demonstrate. The limb should have been stiff and creaky, but Dr. Tissre had earlier lubricated the joints and muscles of the preserved cadaver’s arm using drops of his blood. “Take this example from earlier. Even my most potent rejuvenative effort cannot give life to the dead flesh, only briefly restore some semblance of motion, slow the deterioration it experiences. The body remembers what it’s supposed to be, even in death. The only way for this flesh to change is to rot, be made into dust, or be consumed by a living animal and used as fuel. In theory this…. Flesh memory should enable us to grow more flesh at will, but instead the wound is remembered. It is always remembered, except by the highest blood, and even they must work quickly, efficiently to recover.” “So, in order for your flesh molding to work, you have to make a body briefly forget what it’s supposed to be?” Astra clarified. “Precisely. As of yet, our greatest strides have been in modifying a body’s musculature. Accelerating its natural growth is far easier to ‘convince’ it to do, than anything else we’ve tried.” After a little while longer, the lecture ended. Cope 32 “And there it is. A simple primer on the work I have dedicated my life to. While I was unable to completely explain the deepest complexities of bloodcraft and flesh molding, I hope you all have a far greater appreciation for it,” Tissre said. As Astra was organizing her things, a sheaf of papers slipped off her desk and scattered across the floor. She cursed under her breath; she didn’t want people to see her notes. Before Astra could move to grab them, Dr. Tissre approached. “Oh, my dear girl, let me help you.” He crouched down and began to rapidly pick up and neatly stack the papers together. Pausing after every five pages or so to organize them according to page number. He stopped and took long looks at some of the pages. She quickly moved to pick up the rest, “Dr. Tissre, you don’t need to bother...” Astra began, only for him to laugh. “Nonsense! Of course I need to bother you! I wanted to ask you something. But I must say, some of these notes look very complex. I did not realize you had read Tithworch’s Journals Beyond the Blood, but according to this hemotolic circle you’ve drawn here...” He pointed at a circle she had painstakingly copied from the journals, an interconnected ring of one hundred points, forming into a network of orbs, each representing a cluster of blood particulates found in oldblood. The ring represented Tithworch’s conceptual vision of what blood in its purest form looked like below the visible surface. Dr. Tissre looked happy as he continued. “According to this circle there are ten anchoring points, which each correspond to different types of bloodcraft powers, or areas of effect. You’ve marked here and here that these foundational links actually connect to each other to form the bridges necessary to lend the Cope 33 strength of blood to each end of the ring. That is not mentioned in his journals, nor in almost any text a second-year student would have access to,” Tissre said. His smile made his eyes soften and the excited glimmer of discovery Astra had noticed in the lecture crept into his face. “I think you perceived that idea on your own. Since on the next page you wrote a different hemotolic ring with a second, inner chain, with four permanent anchors. The other points have multiple connections to the anchor points of the outer ring Tithworch mentions. How did you devise this model Ms. Lukos?” Tissre asked. He handed the stack of papers to her. Astra collected the notes while trying to think of the answer. One that she could give without revealing where exactly she had learned that part of bloodcraft. After a few moments she started dissembling as best as she could, trying to replicate Luska’s tone whenever she did that. “Well, Dr. Tissre, I enjoy reading. A lot. And so, I spend much of my free time reading anything I can get my hands on. I thought of the second ring after I read a short collection of poems by Abdul Kinzered. In one of them he laments that the inner rings of the self have broken, and he cannot see the secret workings of his body. In another tome I read about the difficulties in mixing blood. The author suggested that all bloods lacked a means of anchoring themselves to each other. As I sat in the parlor, I thought why the inner rings of the self would be mentioned separately from the workings of the body?” Astra said. Dr. Tissre answered simultaneously with Astra “Because the blood is a ring though the body. Separate from the flesh!” Dr. Tissre clasped her on the shoulders “Dear girl, you figured out in your second year what took me a decade of thought to discover! The blood feeds the flesh that makes it, but the Cope 34 blood of one place can feed another! The veins form a loop for the lungs to empower blood before it travels out.” Sighing, he stood up and offered a hand. She took it, and with surprising strength he lifted her up and spoke. “Ms. Lukos, I must ask you to join me one of these evenings to discuss your further education! I cannot let such uncommon genius be hampered by a lack of reading material! It would be a tragedy. Now, let me give you my address, are you available this week?” Tissre said. He began to rapidly scribble an address in the city on a paper he pulled from somewhere in his robe. “I can come tomorrow eve Dr. Tissre. But are you sure…” Astra said. He shoved the note into her hand and clasped his hands around hers. “Ms. Lukos, you were the most attentive of the students today. You answered a trick question with only seconds to think. And you’ve contemplated advanced bloodcraft concepts that no one else in this room, save myself, could have even thought of for years. I’m sure I want to loan you some rare tomes I have collected. Come in the mid evening. I want to have at least a few hours perusing your thoughts without leaving you to travel home in darkness. I’ll have a tidbit of supper ready as well, as some other students of mine might be joining us. Now I must be getting to a meeting with Dr. Ardrus. I’ll be expecting you!” Tissre said. With that, he hurried off and left her holding papers in an empty room. She was meeting with Dr. Tissre for a personal discussion on bloodcrafting processes. He invited her to his home and offered to lend her rare writings he had collected over his decades of research and discovery. All Astra could think was “Oh Yalgem, what had I done to deserve this opportunity? I will be sure to read the obedience’s tonight.” Cope 35 Astra left the room with growing excitement. Two flights of stairs later it had turned into dread. Luska would never stop mocking her about it. Invited for an evening supper with a distinguished older gentleman? Offered rare volumes for her time? Astra could imagine Luska’s voice now. “Oh Astra, I never realized you enjoyed older men! If I had known, I would have invited their fathers to the party! Oh, you minx! Using your wiles on old men to get some musty old books? I never thought you had it in you!” Shuddering, Astra decided that Luska’s taunts were worth it. This could be the beginning of a career of scholarly achievement and historic discoveries! But… if Dr. Tissre found out who she was, or rather, whose she was… He could get Astra expelled, Luska’s money or not. She silently prayed to Yalgem to hide his influence on her, to protect her secrets and her obedience. Ironic, praying to something for skill in hiding the very thing you worship! Her parents would lash her if they ever knew, she was sure. A tiny seed of hope sat in her mind. Perhaps, even if he does find out, he might be tolerant or even interested! The sun was high as Astra stepped out of the lecture building and she couldn’t help but smile at the morning’s events. Cope 36 Chapter 3: A Duelist’s Encounter (Joaquin) Joaquin tightened the straps on his bracers, checking the leather for cuts as he went. The dull red bands in the steel lined up with mounting points and clasps. He’d never used hemoglobic steel before, but Clarissa assured him that nothing short of a light-lined broadsword would cut through his wrist. “You know, if I lose a hand because of you Clarissa, I will break everything in the shop,” Joaquin said. The middle-aged shopkeeper started laughing at him while strumming her fingers on a metal box bolted to the ash-wood countertop. “Oh, you’re optimistic! If you lose a hand in this fight, you’ll be dead long before my shop will be in any danger! Besides, I always have my security waiting for trouble,” Clarissa said. To accentuate her point, Clarissa rapped her callused knuckles on the grey metal. It shook. Whatever security she had would be extremely unpleasant and Joaquin pitied whatever poor fool tried to rob her. Finishing with the straps, he cinched the dueling breastplate on and fastened the short cape emblazoned with House Tel’anir’s crest; Two crossed spears piercing a Cope 37 castle wrapped with leaves, with the declaration “What is lost, was taken. What is found, is earned” underneath. Joaquin liked house Tel’anir, they paid freelance duelists well and weren’t picky about blood type when it came to long term contracts. Clarissa spoke, her eyes resting on the cape clasp and it’s Tel’anir seal. “Joaquin. This is the fifth duel this month, when are you going to let your contract run out?” Her eyes narrowed slightly. He didn’t want to go through this again, least of all with a friend. “Soon, Clarissa, soon. You know how it is, when a house starts getting duels, they always pay extra. House Tel’anir pays better than most anyway, with things as they are? I’ve been paid more in the last month than the last four! Besides, it wouldn’t look good to jump ship once a house starts getting challenges,” Joaquin said. She waved her hand dismissively before continuing. “Yeah, yeah, I know. But really, you don’t have to keep doing this for them. Tel’anir isn’t as influential as it used to be, and if you keep running to their rescue people will think you’ve thrown in with them. And then no one will hire you,” Clarissa said. She clasped her calloused, thick hands together, as if to squeeze out the nervousness in them. “Look, with your blood, you could get hired on by at least three other houses, ones that don’t take such... extreme stances. Honestly, Joaquin, there aren’t many deep bloods left, you could use that to your advantage!” Clarissa said. She stopped squeezing her hands and rested them on the little security box before continuing. Cope 38 “I know you don’t like relying on blood, but sometimes it’s worth it. I just don’t want to watch you get impaled by some Kesilvic thug because a Tel’anir noble doesn’t know when to shut up.” Clarissa was just trying to help. But she wouldn’t understand. Sometimes he didn’t understand why he stayed. Instead of arguing with her, Joaquin smiled at her as he walked to the front of the shop. “You know that won’t happen, I’ve won the last twenty duels and I’ll go for twenty more!” Joaquin said. Clarissa weakly smiled, the concern in her eyes still apparent. Just then the bell tolled, warning him that there were only two hours left before the duel. “I must go; I’m meeting with Lady Feya. I’ll see you next week.” Joaquin left the shop with a bow and entered the busy street. Clarissa’s shop was in the old market quarter, situated between an herbalist, whom he was certain was over a hundred years old, and a bookstore. It was an odd place for a bloodcrafting smith. But when he had suggested moving to the Lake-Watch District, where numerous bloodcrafters and duelists from all houses frequently shopped, Clarissa just laughed. She’d told him to never go into business and stick with dueling. As Joaquin walked along the street, he soon noticed someone following him. The man following him was wearing the most conspicuous, garish cape Joaquin had ever seen. Bright purple mixed with a disgusting shade of yellow, embroidered with lime green thread. By the Martyred Mothers, who would wear something so… ugly? It made Joaquin sick just to look at him. The garish man was following Joaquin in the crowd, moving calmly and with purpose. Cope 39 Joaquin thought “If he hadn’t been wearing something so ridiculous, I probably would never have noticed him. What does he want?” The cobbled streets were filling up with more people as they approached the central bazar, a huge open-air market with peddlers and transient merchants everywhere. Most came to the city seeking blood cures and trinkets to sell back home at inflated prices. An almost endless stream of carts and wagons moved through the market, the never-ending demand for goods requiring them. Joaquin could lose his pursuer in the stalls. He could feel the heat coming off the sea of bodies, the scent of spices and sweat filled the air, mingling with hazy smoke. Crossing the stream of carts that bisected the crowd, he dashed behind a stall filled to the brim with jars of medicinal bloods, roots and herbs crushed together to form dark brown pastes. Pulling out a pouch of silver coins he tossed them to the stall owner, who followed Joaquin’s gaze to the garish rainbow moving through the crowd and nodded. With that managed, Joaquin finally got a good look at his pursuer’s face, it was thin and angular, pale and scarred. Dozens of old, thin scars crisscrossed his face, the man had silvering hair pulled back into a ponytail. But that wasn’t what struck Joaquin. It was the eyes. Pale grey and luminous, they were the eyes of a predator. Joaquin could recognize that much. But who was this man? Joaquin continued to watch. The man had a sword belted on his waist, a sword with a crimson blade, two thin white spikes coming out of the hilt parallel to the blade itself. Thin and angular, it seemed familiar, but from where? The garish man was scanning the crowd intently, from Joaquin’s hiding place he saw several large men approach the garish man. They began to discuss something and one of them pointed at the purple-lime cape. It suddenly made sense to Joaquin; the man was a distraction. A Cope 40 distraction to prevent him from noticing the other men! But they did the job a little too well, they didn’t expect Joaquin to give them the slip. Normally, Joaquin would confront anyone, but he didn’t have time for this, he had an appointment to keep. Joaquin started to sneak away when another man stepped in front of him, the man’s eyes widened, and they shouted, “He’s over here! Now wait a...” He never finished. Joaquin spun around and grabbed a jar of scab-colored paste, continued his motion, slamming it into the man’s face. Staggering backwards, he clutched at his bleeding head while glass clattered on the cobblestones. Joaquin jumped up and kicked the stunned thug straight in the chest, using the motion to spin in midair and land on his feet. Shouting, Joaquin’s stalkers charged through the crowd, shoving people aside in a desperate effort to reach him. Dashing to the side, Joaquin leapt onto the flow of carts, sprinting on the backs of crates and cages. They couldn’t hope to keep up with him, having to fight through the crowd would slow them down too much. Joaquin thought of how this would make a nice story to tell Feya, she loved hearing about his adventures. Except when they ended in him getting stabbed… or shot. Or any other kind of injury really. Joaquin was sure he would get away when the garish man jumped over the crowd, sailing twenty feet in the air, and landed a few carts behind. Joaquin could see the blood dripping from his hand. Damnit, bloodcraft. He must have damn good blood to pull off a stunt like that. He shouted at Joaquin, his voice strong and bold. “Joaquin of Alvien! Champion of Torbenic! Stop!” Joaquin almost stumbled. Alvien? How did he know about Alvien? Joaquin wanted to turn around right there, but the duel was approaching… Joaquin kept running, but the man was Cope 41 jumping from cart to cart, gaining on him. The light around the garish man’s hand was growing, while a disquieting keening filled the air. He knew who Joaquin was, that much was clear, and that glowing could only be bloodcraft. Whatever he was doing was some high-class blood use. Joaquin thought “should I fight him? Run? Talk?” as he whipped his head around, seeing the crowds slow at the sight of the two men running on carts. The garish man’s backup was gaining ground, the duel was too close to risk anything. Lady Feya was waiting. Damnit, Joaquin wouldn’t fail her for anything. “If you want me! Come and get me!” Joaquin shouted. He dove off the cart and dashed towards a nearby alley, boarded up with some planks. Three quick slashes cut a triangle in the warped wood for him to break through. The dark alley was choked off from the sun by hundreds of tarps and banners strung between the buildings. The damp smell of rotting garbage greeted the duelist as he sprinted to the opposite end. Joaquin planned to cut through, head west and exit the market quarter, then grab a carriage and be home free. He could still hear the garish man chasing him, but the rest of his men had fallen behind in the market. Joaquin came out of the end of the alley; the gatehouse was close. As he glanced back, the man made a fist, and the world shook. Light was ripped from around them, focusing on the fist before erupting. With a crack of a thunderbolt, the flash struck Joaquin down. He hit the pavement. Hard. He rolled forward, smearing his cape in something. But he kept moving forward. Joaquin thought that he really must thank Clarissa; her armor works wonderfully. The armor was heated, and Joaquin could feel the bruise form on his back, but that was a small price to pay right now. Cope 42 He shouted “Guards! House representative! Close the gates!” Joaquin had to give the guards credit, at the flash of light they immediately pulled the leaver to lower the portcullis. Joaquin could hear the gears grinding within the walls, shifting counterweights, and releasing the weight of the gate. It was lowering fast enough that he wouldn’t be able to make it unless he used bloodcraft. Joaquin pulled a glove off and bit into his palm, just under the thumb. Blood gushed out and he focused on it. Instead of the surge of power, he felt strange… like his blood was being squeezed. The world cut out. Joaquin wasn’t in the street anymore. He was in a pitch-black sea. Everything was dark and cold, except for his blood. It burned, boiling in his veins. The pressure built across his entire body as it burned from the inside out. Pain and excitement joined together while time became meaningless, everything became so slow. An eternity later something began shifting in the black waters. Closer and closer it moved towards him. Some primal instinct started screaming to get away, but he couldn’t move. Emerging from a rising cloud of silt came twisting limbs and grasping tendrils. A vast form loomed, hazy and indistinct. But Joaquin felt its age. Its hunger. It wanted him and nothing was going to stop it. Just before he fell into the cloud of flesh and silt, reality snapped back into place. He wasn’t in water; he was running on a street. What happened? What was that… THING? Ignoring the rising sense of terror, Joaquin forced himself to channel blood. He forced blood in his legs to release old strength, charging with energy. With a burst of speed, he dove under the five-ton iron gate before it closed. He kept running. With his blood feeding him, Cope 43 Joaquin felt like he could run forever. That stopped a few minutes after he came off the high of bloodcraft. His muscles burned, his blood hurt, and his head was actively trying to split itself open. He had to tell Lady Feya about this. Joaquin called over a carriage, told the driver where, and gave him a bag of coins. By the Sacred Sun and Martyred Mothers, he was tired. Too tired. Joaquin had deep blood, and was experienced in bloodcraft, either that bolt of light or the vision sapped far more strength than he thought. Who was the garish man? He obviously was a highblood, no lower blood could do the things he’d done but aside from that Joaquin knew nothing else. How did he know about Alvien? Alvien… Joaquin hadn’t really thought about it in years. The village he’d been born in, the hooded men who came, the fires. Joaquin had survived, making it to the city. His blood awakened that day; he had learned he was without a doubt a deepblood. A strong deepblood at that. The past was a chain. Dragging silently through his life, until it came in roaring, demanding to be listened to. Joaquin didn’t like being demanded of and he leaned his head back, bidding darkness to take him instead. The driver woke him when they reached the city manor of House Tel’anir. A tall, stately building, crafted from granite, layered with rich marbles and gilt edges of blotsilver. Lined with carved pillars of dark stone leading into the main hall, where reds and golds ruled the decorations. Joaquin had been here many times before, but it still had an impact on him. Mothers, this House had money. More money went into the front face of the entrance than an entire village would have made in a decade. And Clarissa wondered why he worked for them. Maybe his village would have… but Alvien was long gone, and as far as he knew the ruins had never been resettled. Cope 44 Joaquin passed the doormen, who recognized him, and entered the large lobby hall. He spotted a tall, broad man standing in the adjoining hallway, speaking to several servants. His polished silver armor reflected the chandelier lights, making him glow slightly, notwithstanding the black cape and dark blade on his hip, each which seemed to eat the light around him, sucking it into some maw from which there was no escape, which reminded Joaquin of his eyes. Bloch, the captain of the guard greeted him, “Ahh Joaquin, I was worried you weren’t goi….” His face went hard, his gaze taking everything in, everything off with the duelist’s appearance. He launched into an interrogation, asking questions too quickly for Joaquin to answer. “By my mother’s blood, what happened? Were you attacked? It was those cowardly Kesilvic bastards, wasn’t it? They tried to gang up on our best duelist, didn’t they? I’ll have their heads for this! Are you injured?” Bloch said. Joaquin put up his hands to stall the torrent of questions. “I might have made a scene in the market after being followed, got shot by a rainbow, then got a ride here. And I’m flattered you think I’m the best duelist,” Joaquin said. Bloch was about to start spitting questions again when Lady Feya entered the lobby. Standing at the top of the stairs, she cut an impressive figure. Tall and graceful, beautiful and radiant, she was every bit the standard of an oldblood noble. A dress made of spun spider silk, silverworm line and embroidered jewels that burned with captured light. Gold hair flowed down her head, wavy and long. A sharp and well-defined jaw mirrored high cheekbones, which gave her smile a most warm and inviting look. Cope 45 On seeing a disheveled Joaquin, she rushed down the stairs, repeating the rapid-fire stream of questions, admittedly she sounded better than Bloch did. Her rich, soft, cultured voice hid an intensity which served Tel’anir exceptionally well. He put up his hands again. “Attacked, don’t think it was Kesilvic’s, hit by a bright flash of bloodcraft, had to use some of my own to avoid a fight, fixed hand. Chased by a rainbow on a river of carts.” Lady Feya looked surprised, arching a brow then glancing at Bloch. “Did he hit his head? Because I am positive, he just said, chased by a rainbow on a river of carts.” Bloch shook his head and shrugged. She looked at Joaquin, a little worried, raising her soft, warm hand against his head, she began to check him for injury. A hand came back with his blood, Joaquin could see the little black spots deepbloods have in their blood on her skin. “Joaquin! You’re hurt! Here, let me help you.” Pricking her thumb and stepping close, she touched his head again. Pressing against what he realized was a swollen cut, probably from when he hit the street, she closed her eyes for a second. Suddenly warmth trickled into his skull, the dull aching Joaquin hadn’t even realized was there, evaporated in moments. Leaving a heady buzz from her blood. Oldbloods could do anything couldn’t they? She opened her brilliant sapphire eyes and smiled. “Now, my dear duelist, you must tell me everything that happened. But first we have to get you cleaned up and ready for the duel!” Feya said. She was still cupping Joaquin’s head when Bloch coughed. Loudly. Both of them realized the mild impropriety and pulled back slightly. He became extremely interested in the tip of his boot, and she was strengthening out her dress. Cope 46 “Ah... Yes. Thank you, captain. I am sure Joaquin needs help cleaning up, lets help him get out of his clothes… change into clothes. We have a duel to get to after all.” Lady Feya started quickly down the hall. Bloch took Joaquin by the arm to lead him along. Joaquin decided he would mention his… vision to them later, after the duel. Chapter 4: Unwise Promise (Harrington) Harrington’s carriage pulled up to the Rosenoth home just as a group of people were leaving, three men and one woman, professors by the look of them. Curious. Although it was tempting to rush after them and see why they were visiting so early in the day, Harrington restrained himself. Chasing down coincidental visitors to an associate of the victim was exactly the kind of behavior Captain Nordruth didn’t want to see. Besides, Mr. Rosenoth needed to be informed of his wife’s death. Telling the carriage driver to wait, he got out and began walking towards the main entrance to the estate. A smaller building with several stories, the fitted stones appeared weathered and unkept. The building couldn’t be more than a hundred years old, as this part of the city was built around seventy years ago. If anything, this house shouldn’t be more than a few decades old. House Orlandis was extremely wealthy, only House Tel’anir and House Lindreth could match them for money. Why would any family not keep their home in peak condition? The garden was maintained, though less than Harrington would expect. The only flowers which were in good condition were little clumps of purple and black streaked flowers he had never seen Cope 47 before. They were probably imported from the Carrowlands or someplace similar; nobles always imported plants for some reason. The courtyard of the house was visually cut off from the street by a hedge grown around an iron fence. The gate was open and not just because of the visitors Harrington had seen leaving. There was a thick chain, slightly rusted, tied to a stone post. It looked like something one would expect from a poorly kept ranch. Reaching the door, Harrington began to knock but before his knuckles touched the door, he heard something in the house. A dull bang. He waited a moment to see if the noise would happen again, but it didn’t. Harrington steeled himself for this, informing a victim’s family was difficult, both because of the emotional strain and because it was a chance to interrogate. People can be pried open and reveal much more than they mean to while distraught. If they had no response, that would tell an observant investigator just as much. Harrington doubted any of the family had anything to do with this case, but he had to be sure. He knocked. A minute later the door opened, revealing a particularly thin man with knifelike features and sandy brown hair swept back behind his ears. A slightly nasal voice followed. “Yes? What can I help you…” He stopped upon seeing the badge of office and stiffened. “Umm... how can I help you Sir Watcher?” His dark eyes looked around as if he expected a team of Vigilants to rush in. “I am Senior Inspector Chadwick Harrington. I must speak with you, may I come in?” The thin man nodded and opened the door fully. The inside of the house was much better looking than the outside. Rich wood floors and wall panels ate the streams of sunlight coming in through the windows, which highlighted the thin layer of dust that had accumulated even in the Cope 48 entrance. The man guided him to a sitting room that doubled as some sort of study or office. Comfortable furniture was spaced around a sturdy table littered with papers and scrolls, inkwells, and other cluttered bits of academia. More unusually there were a dozen glass fronted cabinets with bizarre objects: stuffed animals from far off places, hundreds of insects and beetles arrayed with little slips of paper identifying them, a coiled snakeskin marked with ink to form patterns Harrington couldn’t trace, a fetish made of bones and leather sat next to a milky crystal and so on. These display cabinets were meticulously cleaned and had no dust on them. Sitting down, Harrington began asking questions. “To be clear, you are Mr. Rosenoth, correct?” He nodded. “Len Rosenoth, at your service Sir Watcher. What is this about?” Harrington clasped his hands together before responding. “I am sorry to inform you, Mr. Rosenoth, but earlier this morning we found your wife dead in a warehouse in the South Lakeshore district,” Harrington said. The effect on Mr. Rosenoth’s face was immediate, horror and sadness swept over him. Tears formed in his eyes and very quickly he began to weep. Harrington sat there stupidly waiting; he hated this part. The only consolation was that it wasn’t a little girl crying for her mother… this time. After a few minutes Mr. Rosenoth regained composure and while wiping away tears he asked, “Did… did she die peacefully? Quickly?” Harrington shook his head “I’m not going to lie to you Mr. Rosenoth. She was killed in a brutal way, which I would rather not describe to you, but I can assure you it was quick. I am sorry for your loss.” The tears welled up again, but he managed to control them. Cope 49 “Thank you for your honesty. I never thought… never thought I would live longer than her; we’ve been married six years and… and... I never imagined outlasting her. Oh Cabrella,” Mr. Rosenoth said. Harrington studied Mr. Rosenoth, who seemed genuinely affected by her death. He could be acting, but Harrington’s instinct was that Mr. Rosenoth didn’t murder his wife. “Mr. Rosenoth, as best we can determine, she was killed one or two days ago… why was your wife not reported as missing?” Harrington said. He shifted uncomfortably. “Because… I thought she was staying at the college, or with a colleague. She would sometimes do that. Stay overnight when she was working. Especially when she was working with a famous researcher like Dr. Tissre and Dr. Ardrus, or Professor Mortis. She hasn’t worked with them in months though,” Mr. Rosenoth said. “But surely, you would have known if she was staying with a friend?” Harrington said. Mr. Rosenoth looked at the ground “Cabrella and I… haven’t been speaking much in the past few weeks. We’ve had a disagreement of sorts.” He suddenly looked panicked and said “Oh Mothers! You think I killed her! I didn’t, I swear! I love Cabrella! With every bit of blood, I love her!” Harrington put up a hand to stop him. “Mr. Rosenoth. I have not made any accusations. And frankly I don’t think you killed her. You don’t look the type. But some of my colleagues might come to that conclusion, so it is very important you give me as many details as possible. Where you were the past few days, who would have seen you, when you last talked to your wife and what it was about, that sort of thing. Then I can ensure that not only are you protected, but that your wife’s murderer is brought to justice. Alright?” Cope 50 After a moment Mr. Rosenoth relaxed and nodded. Harrington continued, “Alright, now when was the last time you talked to her?” “We last spoke four days ago. We had agreed to meet at the Blacklick Arboretum and work out the… disagreement we had. She said that she would come home a few days later, after she had finished some business. I ordered some more of her favorite flowers as a present… I just wanted to...” Mr. Rosenoth trailed off. He began crying again, saying sorry over and over. It was never an easy thing to lose someone. Harrington understood that but couldn’t say anything to help. Nothing ever really did help the victims. Even justice, catching the guilty and punishing them severely, only gave closure, not healing. But it was all he could offer. All he had left. Except when he couldn’t. Like seventeen years ago. “Mr. Rosenoth. I need to know more. I can catch your wife’s murderer, but only if I know enough to find them. Why would your wife be in the South Lakeshore district? And why would she be alone?” Harrington said. “I don’t know. Cabrella never liked servants. Never liked having them I mean. She wasn’t from a wealthy family, was never used to it. When we got married, she was uncomfortable having them around, so I only had servants clean when she was gone and kept only a single butler to assist us. She liked that. She said it made her more like the other professors,” Mr. Rosenoth said. “And where is this butler now?” “I sent him off to pick up the flowers. He will be back soon.” Mr. Rosenoth paused, looking over to the display cabinets before continuing. Cope 51 “Sir Watcher, I don’t know what Cabrella was doing. But I know she was spending a lot of time at the college, working on hemotolic research, you know, bloodcraft? I have some of her notes from before she left. They are unorganized and inscrutable, would that help?” Mr. Rosenoth said. Harrington nodded and Mr. Rosenoth stood up to fetch them, coming back a few minutes later with a small stack of loose papers of differing sizes and quality. Harrington glanced over them, they were written in a flustered yet fever-fast pace, the neat characters were crammed around oddly artistic graphs and drawings. Dense with academic language and strange leaps from subject to subject, it would take him a while to glean anything from this. But it was a start. This could be motive; bloodcraft research was critical to the Great Houses, but how did it connect to the first murders? Those had been frighteningly random, some important politically, some in well defended locations, as if to spread fear, but others were nobodies. None of them had been researchers or professors. The murderer was the same, the killings were identical. He just needed to discover the connection and exploit it. “Mr. Rosenoth, as I was riding up, I noticed a group of professors leaving your house. What did they want?” Harrington said. The noble looked unsettled, and a little guilty as he responded. “Sir Watcher, the professors had been here to ask for any notes of Cabrella’s. And to ask that I give her a message, since she hadn’t kept an appointment at the collage three days ago,” Mr. Rosenoth said. Leaning forward, hands tented, Harrington kept his voice calm “And you hid these notes… why?” Cope 52 “I just felt like it. Why should I give her things to Mortis! He’s always attaching himself to her research, always making snide comments about her family’s lack of interest in her pursuits. I followed her work closely!” Mr. Rosenoth’s voice rose as he became more and more animated. His veins shivered as his blood reacted to his anger. But as quickly as it had come, it passed. He gripped his knees and took short breaths. “I’m sorry. Professor Mortis… gets me upset. He was always lurking around her, and I didn’t like it. He asked for her notes when the others just wanted to leave the message,” Mr. Rosenoth said. “What message was that?” “That her evaluations were coming up and it looked bad to be missing appointments with her fellow researchers. I told them that I would tell her once she got back,” Mr. Rosenoth said. “Thank you, Mr. Rosenoth. I can work with this.” Harrington stood up to leave. The butler could wait. Mortis was far more interesting, why would he ask for her work if she was alive, and they hadn’t worked together in months? And what was Cabrella doing that made her miss appointments? “Mr. Rosenoth, I will take my leave now. I might have more questions for you later, do not leave the city until this is resolved. Do you understand?” Harrington said. Mr. Rosenoth nodded. As Harrington was walking away, Mr. Rosenoth called out. “Catch them. Please.” Harrington said the words before he could think. Never promise the family of the victim. It was a lesson all Vigilant Watchers learn by the time they’re junior inspectors. “I will. I swear it.” Cope 53 Off to the university. Perhaps Professor Mortis could give a little insight into this matter. Chapter 5: Family From the Continent (Astra) “Le Donnina Astra! A moment for greetings on this fine day.” Astra’s mood took a turn for the worse, Mattia Rugani was approaching her. No one else would use traditional Napillian greeting customs in Arlon, no one except Mattia. Mattia was a foreign student, itself an anomaly in Arlon, but more shocking was how he became a student. He braved the Maelstrom; the enormous, unending storm that raged for years on end, separating the isles of Arlon and the Continent. The Continent was distant from Arlon at the best of times, when the Clear-Cycle would calm the Maelstrom and allow travel between Arlon and the rest of the world. But while the storm raged, only the most daring, desperate and skilled captains would dare leave the safety of the shores. Smugglers often made a semilegitimate living carrying cargo through the Maelstrom in wave-cutters, though at outrageous prices. Mattia rode a fourteen-man wave-cutter through the storm, into the South Salong piers, and purportedly marched to Blestellon to enroll in the university. Rumor was, he paid his way with gemstones. Since then, he attended a smattering of classes. She’d only shared one in two years with him and they’d only spoken a few times. He was olive skinned, with wavy brown hair, middling height… if he wore boots. A boyish grin showed his perfect teeth and gave him a Cope 54 perfectly approachable look. Astra knew better from living with Luska, that kind of smile was practiced. A ruse, a deception meant to lure in the unwitting into talking. That was the trap, Astra thought, to start talking with his kind. Nobles often played a kind of game with each other, spending lots of time talking and no time saying anything but trying to fish out some morsel of information. Luska was great at it, but it was exhausting to Astra, who much preferred to just say things directly and get it over with. Or at least to argue about something. The few times she had spoken to Mattia before, it was like he knew things she didn’t and was trying to get her to ask about them. It was infuriating. Worse, people seemed to like Mattia, which made her feel like she was missing something about him, and that was doubly irritating. In short, he was annoyingly handsome, nosy, and a horrid gossip. Astra had enough of that from Luska. Maybe if she glared at him enough, he would just leave. If Mattia noticed her glare, he ignored it. “Ms. Lukos, you seem to be doing well today. Ahh, you smell of stargraves, quite a hassle to find here in Blestellon, I hear they don’t grow well in this… aah what’s the word… climate. Not like in my own home, or Carishia. Though I rarely have had cause to visit that dry, dreary little land. The only things interesting there are the people, the religions, so different from the rest of the continent, more in common with Arlon, no?” Mattia said, ending with a little laugh. Exiting this interaction was becoming more and more of a necessity, but she couldn’t just refuse to talk to him. That could start rumors or make him more insistent on talking to her in public; Mattia seemed to be the type to enjoy something like that, a game of cat and mouse. Cope 55 Being seen was necessary, even helpful for her work, but being remembered for anything other than being one of Luska’s entourage was not. It would be, in fact, the opposite of helpful. “What do you want, Mattia? I have to go study,” Astra said. “Ahh, I very much doubt that, Le Donnina, you’ve gotten all the little words down in your mind already. It’s not like you do much else other than reading, even when we go to the same parties! Well, except when Domina Luska would have you do something other than mingle, yes?” Mattia said. Mattia’s knowing smirk put Astra off guard. He knew something about what Astra did. How did he know? “What would Luska have me do at parties other than mingle and drink? I am not a terribly good dancer, Mattia, verbally or otherwise. Perhaps you could be specific,” Astra said. “My dear, I very much doubt you would like me to be specific about your activities. After all, Domina Luska pays quite a price for your talents, and it’d hardly do to invalidate her investment! Suffice it to say, I can tell when wine goes bad. Napillia is well known for our wines, my family even bottles their own. I’ve spent a great deal of time, eh, testing wine for the subtle imperfections that might seep into a barrel or cask. We mastered the art of using… what do you say… little droplets to flavor the wine.” Mattia leaned in closer than Astra liked, but not enough to justify slapping him, before he continued. “As Le Donnina surely has too. Curious, no? How often those who irritate Domina Luska tend to become indisposed since you’ve joined her entourage. Quite a secret, I’m sure. In the old country we had many secrets, and secret keepers, you might say,” Mattia said. Cope 56 The way he said secret caught Astra’s attention. He couldn’t be… a Yalgemite? Napillian’s weren’t all Yalgemites, but they were certainly more common there than in Arlon. Even if he was, Astra still couldn’t see the point to Mattia’s words. She wanted to grit her teeth, as much as she disliked some of Luska’s activities, Astra wished her patron were here. Luska could see through this noble-guessing game nonsense, the dance of words they all so enjoyed. Now she had to navigate Mattia’s game. “Oh really? I would never have guessed, given how much of a gossip you are, Mattia, that any Napillian could keep a secret,” Astra said. He laughed. The kind of laugh that made people want to laugh with him. Bright white teeth flashed, and the jewelry he adorned himself with glinted in sunlight. He looked at her with mirth in his eyes. “Oh, you wound me, Ms. Lukos. I assure you, I only gossip about the unimportant details of social life, not anything truly secret or sacred to others. Just the little foibles and funs people have. The kinds of things that lead to a little embarrassment and leave no mark. Or let those with needs find those that can provide,” Mattia said. “Let me guess. For a price?” Astra said. “Exactly. It makes me a trusted middleman for many who otherwise would not have access to the ears of the oldbloods. Or those without the right looks for certain deals. After all, I am quite the… how do you say it… Looker? Hooker? No, no, ehh, a picture-perfect sight? Regardless, a little gold here, a little note there, a smile freely given and the assumptions of those around us, and soon enough all get something they want,” Mattia said. Cope 57 No one as versed in Arlon upper classes as Mattia would ever mix up looker and hooker. It was just another layer of his performance, his mask. She couldn’t help but smile a little bit at his antics, which was probably why he did it. “And what, do you want Mattia? I doubt I have any good gossip for you. Everything I do is appropriate and my little ‘funs’ are reading old books and looking at scrolls. Hardly anything you could use to cajole your peers with,” Astra said. Mattia glanced around before responding, his smile still broad but his eyes taking on an intensity to them. “What I want… is immaterial. It is what messages I have that are important. And I do believe that your cousins might disagree with your interpretations of what is and isn’t appropriate. After all, not many would find your services to Domina Luska wholly innocent. Though your efforts to remain secret would earn some begrudging praise from them, if presented in the right light,” What was he talking about? Who else would know what she was? “And whose praise would you acquire for me with your lies and misdirection?” Astra said. “Your cousins. They expressed interest in your wellbeing during one of our transactions. Yes, they were concerned you might not remember where you came from. Your responsibilities to the greater family.” Mattia smiled apologetically, but his eyes never broke from hers. Like he was trying to perceive what was in her mind through them. “Your cousins might be worried about you, Le Doninna. I told them we’d only passed each other from time to time, and that you were doing well, though they might have taken that as Cope 58 doing too well. It happens, you know, when someone comes to a beauteous city, gains patronage from a wealthy family, starts making waves in the university. They might forget their past, forget their family and people. I’ve seen it happen all the time in Napillia… especially with some who never really had a strong link to their legacy, their belief,” Mattia said. The last word hung in the air. Whatever Mattia himself was, she thought, he certainly knew more than she liked. “I believe in the Mothers, as much as you do Mattia,” Astra said. He snorted at that. “Turnabout is not a skill of yours, is it Le Doninna? I believe in many things, some quite odd to our Mothers-blessed neighbors, the blood-folk of Arlon. An entire nation under the Empty Throne, and every one of them a devout worshiper of something. Not that they would like to admit it. This city has more than a few who believe odder, and darker things than you or I or your patron,” Mattia said. Mattia gestured around them at the passing students. “Roots are important, Le Doninna, they tie us to the past and future both. One cannot abandon them without abandoning what makes them special. Unique. They remind us as much of what to do as not. Even here, the past has power. Your cousins are simply concerned you’ve forgotten them,” Mattia said. “You can tell them I know exactly who and what I am. Do not mention this to me again, Mattia, or I swear you’ll regret it,” Astra curtly said. It wasn’t a threat empty of intent but of means. Maybe Luska could get him removed from the university, but then Astra would have to reveal why she wanted him gone. Which Cope 59 would mean telling Luska about Yalgem and that was unacceptable. Mattia smiled at her, clearly seeing through the threat. “Burn not the messenger. I only move to help others, I am but a go between, a courier, telling what people need to hear, for a price. It wouldn’t do to abandon the old country for me. I suspect the same goes for you,” Mattia said, spreading his hands wide and placatingly as he did so. “Pike off Mattia, I don’t need yours’s or anyone’s help. And if I did, I would ask for it,” Astra said. The smile faded a bit, and Mattias’ eyes grew more serious. He began fiddling with a ring on his left hand, with a mist-taker skull design. “Firey spirit aside, Le Doninna Astra, they are worried about you. The city is not terribly kind to some folks, yours and mine both. Watch that you do not become what you are not. They only want to remind you that there are others who share your passions for learning, and are willing to help you, should you need it,” Mattia said. Astra could barely contain her anger. This witless moron was dropping too many hints as to who her people were, in broad daylight, and now he plays the worried messenger? If her parents were concerned, they would simply write to her or send someone she knows. So, whoever Mattia was allegedly doing this for wasn’t anyone she cared about. Was it one of the cabals’ clerics? Or the conclave she’d already turned down? Yalgem help her, wasn’t it hard enough to fit in and go unnoticed in this city? Did every branch of Yalgemites have to harass her constantly? Controlling herself, she closed her eyes for a moment and took a breath. She imagined a long, soothing study session after this, instead of throwing something at Mattia. Opening her Cope 60 eyes, she saw his smirking face and decided this was his unique way of tormenting her. Like Luska, he clearly derived a sick pleasure from annoying people. “I am sure they are. Just like you would, for a price anyway. I am fine as I am, Mattia, and I am not without my own ‘friends’. Remember that the next time my ‘cousins’, ask you to deliver a message for them. Good day Mattia,” Astra said. Mattia inclined his head respectfully, taking a half step back as he did so, before responding. “And to you, secret keeper. Maker of Ways bless your path, Astra Lukos.” As she left, Astra could hear Mattia mutter something under his breath; it was in her grandparents’ language. A traditional blessing? Or a curse for her rudeness? Astra couldn’t tell. Mattia knew what she was, of that much she was certain. What she did not know was how or why. This knowledge should have worried her, and normally it would have, but she couldn’t detect a hint of hostility to Mattia’s words. Of course, it wouldn’t have been the first time she was fooled by someone who she couldn’t sense hostility from. She clamped down on that thought, cutting it off before a swell of memories could burst forth, unbidden and sore. Astra headed for her home. Maybe things would be clearer after a bit of studying. 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