Temple District
The crack of a nearby musket jolts Berend from sleep. He is out of bed, crouched behind one post with his pistol in hand, before he registers where he is and where the sound came from. His heart hammers in his ears.
“What was that?” Lady Breckenridge asks, sounding still half asleep. “Berend?”
The volley of gunfire that Berend is ready for does not appear. He gets up, forcing himself to breathe slowly and evenly, and places the pistol on the bedside table. Another breath, and he curls shaking fingers into fists and goes to the window, pulling the heavy curtain back.
He is in the city center, not far from the square, but the reaching spires and pointed roofs of the old architecture take up most of his view. He’s waiting for another shot, but it does not come. There’s a clamor of voices, and people running in the street below.
What’s going on?
Lady Breckenridge, now wrapped in a silk robe, comes up beside him. She looks as confused as he is. “That sounded close,” she says.
Berend can only nod. He swallows, his throat dry.
A pair of guards dash into view, coming from the direction of the square. They’re gone just as fast, turning a corner underneath a street lamp.
“Is there something happening in the square?” Berend says, as much to himself as to Lady Breckenridge.
She rubs at her eyes and runs a hand through her loose hair. “Nothing that I know of,” she says. “Wait—there was a council meeting today, I think. Something for the university.”
That explains exactly nothing. But the flow of townsfolk and constables from the square is slowing to a trickle, and the noise is dying down. If there is a threat, it will soon pass.
Berend dresses and sits by the window, watching the movement below. After a short time, Lady Breckenridge returns to bed, leaving him to face the night alone.
It occurs to Berend that civil unrest, in whatever form it is taking, would be the perfect opportunity for another bloody, public murder. He considers going down to the square, to see if he could catch the murderer before yet another poor bastard ends up like Mikhail, but that would leave this apartment and Lady Breckenridge undefended. Worse, he could lead someone with ill intent back here. He hadn’t seen his scar-faced follower since his last attempt to find what in the West Gate was turning him aside as if by magic, but it remains a risk, nonetheless. He will stay here, and hope that nothing terrible happens elsewhere.
What a mess I’ve gotten myself into, he muses.
The shaking in his hands has stopped, but he’s still on edge, as though he still expects to be shot at here, standing a few feet from Lady Breckenridge and her feather bed. He thought the seven years between him and Braeden Hill had slowed his response to sudden noise—he is certainly slower in other regards than he was then.
Well. He had learned readiness for a reason, and it’s good to know he still has it, as much as he would have liked to remain asleep. Eventually, his eyes grow heavy, and he goes back to the enveloping softness of Lady Breckenridge’s bed. He can imagine that all is right with the world, and after a while, he sleeps.
It’s midmorning when he wakes up, though it doesn’t look like it. Outside, the sky is threatening rain, the clouds full-bellied and dark. Lady Breckenridge is gone, leaving behind a plate of bread and cheese and fresh fruit with a note tucked between the dishes promising Berend that she will contact him when she sets up the meeting with Warder.
He would like nothing better than to take his time here and put off thinking of the things he has to do, but he makes himself get up. The food is delicious, and the water in the basin across the room is warm. He is out the door within the hour, but he promises himself to make some excuse to call on Lady Breckenridge again before his work inevitably takes him out of Mondirra.
For now, he has other business to attend to: the place he couldn’t find yesterday. He doesn’t think any further attempts to walk there will be more successful than they were then. He needs someone who knows magic, and the easiest way to find that someone is to find Isabel again.
He goes to the chapel on the blue field. A quiet tension hangs over the city, in addition to the oncoming storm. The eyes of the townsfolk are lowered, and the constables are jumpy, their hands over their clubs.
The guard at the southern gate stops him. “Where are you headed, sir?”
“I’ve business with the Sentinel,” Berend says, opening his coat to show his pistol. He has nothing to hide. “She’s staying at the chapel.”
The man gives the gun a dubious look, but Berend is well-dressed enough not to cause an undue amount of suspicion. One wouldn’t deny a gentleman his weapon. “Can’t be too careful, after last night,” he says, waving Berend through.
“What happened?”
“The council passed the Resurrection Act,” the constable says. “Church folk weren’t too happy about it. Can’t say I blame them, but the guard had to force them to clear off.”
So that was the disruption last night. “Was anyone hurt? I thought I heard a shot.”
“A few heads cracked,” says the constable, with a gesture to his club. “Nothing serious.”
It was serious enough to fire a musket, Berend does not say out loud. He does not want to involve himself in the church’s affairs or the council’s business. The less he knows about all of this, the better.
He tips his hat to the constable and continues on his way.
Isabel’s gray mare is tied outside, but when Berend enters the chapel, there is no sign of her. The church is empty, the candles dark. No footsteps creak upstairs.
“Hello?” Brother Risoven’s voice carries from the back room.
Berend takes off his hat and walks over, stopping before he crosses the threshold. “I’m looking for the Sentinel,” he says.
Risoven looks up from his work, and his magnified eyes blink at Berend. “Ah, Mr. Horst. I’m afraid she’s not here. I haven’t seen her since last night, and I’m starting to worry.”
That’s not good. “Did she say where she went?”
“She was going to the Temple District,” Risoven says. “She told me she would be back.”
The room has only a single window, but the old monk has placed enough lamps around to render it brighter than the day outside. Risoven is working on a set of bones, laid out on the table before him, and Berend can see every pit and crevice etched into them by earth and time. A familiar break in the ribs identifies the body as one he had unearthed in the warehouse. The bones are clean now, almost white. They look thin as paper under the flickering lamps. Beside them, at the corner of the table, sits a pot of black ink and a set of fine brushes.
“There was a riot last night,” says Berend. “Apparently a lot of people from the Temple District were involved.”
Risoven squints, and he bends down to inscribe a small, curved character on the skull, just above the joint of the mandible. “It was a peaceful gathering,” he says. “Though I wasn’t present. Terrible business, the Resurrection Act. Think about what would happen to the poor people here.”
If Berend’s assumption is correct, the blue field will receive significantly fewer dead in the years to come. The bones on the table are likely of no use to the university’s researchers, but there are always others—like Mikhail, for example. Brother Risoven might find himself out of a job before long.
“Do you think Miss Rainier has been arrested?” Berend asks.
“I haven’t heard anything. I suppose it’s possible.” Risoven inks in more symbols with a practiced ease, moving up the curve of the skull.
Berend almost hopes she has. The alternatives are much worse.
“I’ll look for her,” he says. “Thank you for your help.”
The gate guard recognizes him and doesn’t stop him on the way back in. He heads first to the Fox and Dove and retrieves his sword and his breastplate. Today is already off to a difficult start, and he wants to be prepared.
He’s still tense, feeling like a taut string, or a hilltop before lightning strikes. He stands up straight and walks with a slight swagger, to maintain the outward appearance of confidence and calm. It is all he can do not to look over his shoulder with every other step.
The Temple District is clean and quiet, the roofs of the alabaster temples gleaming in sharp contrast to the darkening sky. It’s not as busy as the last time Berend was here. He heads for the temple at the base of the hill.
Before he reaches it, he glances behind him, a momentary lapse in control. A familiar scarred face looks back at him from beside a small shrine of piled gray stones.
You’re still following me, whoever you are, Berend thinks to himself. Is this Mikhail’s murderer, intending to remove Berend before he finds out too much, or someone else? One of Sterry’s men, perhaps?
It doesn’t matter. Berend has had enough of it. He looks into the man’s eyes and crosses the street toward him, a hand on his sword.
The man sees him and turns, feigning a casual pace as he ducks behind a building. Berend drops all pretense of composure and breaks into a run.
He is led through the southwestern corner of the Temple District, down tree-lined streets and between the cloisters where the clerics make their home. When the first missing cobble almost turns his ankle, he knows he has crossed into the Shell District again. Someone shouts after him, but he takes no notice.
The scarred man is faster—he is younger, now that Berend has a good look at him, and he’s less burdened by armor and weapons—and he stays well out of reach of Berend’s arm as he weaves his way through dirty alleyways and through the cramped spaces between leaning buildings.
Just as a sharp pain between his ribs tells Berend he may have to give up the chase, the other man stops. He turns, smooth as a dancer on one foot, with one lightning-fast movement of his arm.
Berend does not see the flash of the thrown knife until it reaches him. He twists his shoulder back, hoping to catch the blade on his breastplate if he can’t avoid it entirely.
A flash of pain emanates from his upper arm. The knife has cut a clean line through his sleeve, and blood stains the fabric. It doesn’t look deep. He draws his sword and charges.
The man wheels backward, and Berend’s blade whistles harmlessly through the air. Momentarily safe, the man draws another knife from somewhere on his person. He tries another attack, two rapid stabs under Berend’s arm. They knock into his breastplate with the ring of metal on metal.
Berend twists around, stepping back to take advantage of the greater length of his weapon. His next two-handed, drawing cut slashes across the scarred man’s chest, slicing through his leather jerkin and finding skin.
A dark stain spreads from the slash. The man puts a hand over it and staggers backward. He throws another knife, but it goes wide, clattering onto the cobbles.
He might be quick, but Berend is stronger, and better at close-quarters tactics. He advances again.
The man dodges his downward slash, but isn’t ready for the pommel strike to his abdomen that follows. He doubles over and falls to his knees, gasping.
He tries to crawl away, backwards, but Berend’s sword is under his chin before he can gain any distance. Berend kneels down, looking him in the eye, and draws his pistol with his free hand, placing the barrel against the man’s knee.
The man stops moving. His eyes are wide, his breathing ragged. He’s even younger than Berend had thought—twenty summers, maybe.
“Well,” Berend says, “either you’re the one who killed my brother Mikhail, in which case I’ll just kill you, or you’ve been sent by someone else. I’m not in the mood for a long conversation.” He pulls back the hammer, and the firing mechanism gives a menacing click.
The scarred man—the boy—eyes the pistol with obvious terror. “It was Belisia,” he gasps. “Belisia sent me.”
Thanks for reading! Come back soon for the next chapter.
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