CW: PTSD, racism in profiling, paranoia

My dear sons, I will be long dead when you get this. I cannot give you the gift of my name, nor of my estates, nor even a father’s normal pleasures of watching his sons grow up. If you are reading this, I have failed, too, in securing for you a safer future. But I give you instead a warning; when Forrath became the Judge, it was not through fear that he persuaded us to allow him greater and greater power, with which he slowly stifled the papers and the radios, with which he gained our silence as the bodies of labourers on his grand projects and railways grew from piles to mounds to mountains, with which he gained our support as he waged war against Tsetserleg and Celabria and threw our young men into minefields and into the mouths of great beasts… It was love. Love for our country, love for our families, and a fervent belief that he knew the way through the darkness. He claimed it in such a powerful voice that we believed it must be true. Your mother’s love will keep your safe. But do not let love blind you, as I allowed it to; and let it clear your eyes instead, as it has done for me in what is likely to be my final act.

-Theophiel Kieransohn Vandemeer, post-mortem letter, 1898

It was a relief, really, when Jacob got to the the Palace van de Säulen and found that, rather than nothing changing, everything had changed. It made it that much easier.

Of course, he’d come to the Palace since the dissolving of the Black Guard — here and there, mostly for assigning security details or perimeter issues. The Palace had its own security, but during special circumstances, they appreciated soldiers with his kind of experience. Plus, it made Sylvia look good in the process. But he hadn’t lingered. And he hadn’t had old history on his mind at the time.

Before the dissolving of the Black Guard, the columns that held up the massive inner portico of the Palace had still carried the marks of Forrath’s life and death. Bullet holes from his last stand, crumbling stone at their base, and even garlands left over from a celebration before his death — Garrow had been too busy, too frantic, to even think about things like architecture. The tiles had been cracking, too. He wasn’t sure why he remembered that; just that Remy had made some awful joke about it, because he was Remy and that was what he did. Now, the columns glistened white, ivy coiling through the skylight from the rooftop gardens and wrapping around the ridged stone. The pool had been cleaned out and filled with water again, after sitting unused for too long — koi swam through the fresh water, splashing at the surface and sunlight shimmering off their scales. And the tiles.. Well, some of them were still cracked, but there was a ten-year-old living here. That much was reasonable.

“It’s so nice in here,” Tiffany gasped, eyes taking in the view. “Baerelen isn’t anywhere near this pretty.”

“There’s also hundreds of you,” Heinkel replied. “He’s got a lot of empty space to fill.”

Jacob winced a little at that. “I wouldn’t say that in front of the Judge if I were you.”

“Sorry.”

Heinkel wasn’t wrong, though. The Palace was like any other of the great estates, just more so; it was made for more than a family of five and a man who had stopped existing every way except physically. Three kids in the entire Garrow family, and one of them’s missing. Sure, there was staff, and the Judge’s residence was intended to be quarters for more than just him, but it was a harsh reminder nonetheless. Nothing was back to normal yet, not that Jacob was old enough to even know what normal was supposed to be.

“What do we do?” Heinkel asked.

“We sit and we wait. He’s the Judge, Heinkel. He’s got a lot—”

“Lambert!”

Jacob started in surprise. With all the trouble setting up the appointments the day before, he’d expected to be kept waiting for longer. He also hadn’t really expected to be recognized, but Garrow had always been surprising like that. He looked up at the grand staircase that curved down from the second floor, where a figure was coming down the steps, one hand on the banister, the other reaching out in greeting. In fact, it took Jacob a moment to recognize him as the Judge. It’d been a while since they’d actually met face to face.

Judge Heath Garrow, in public, made a point of looking intimidating, if not too intimidating. Part of that was what the symbols of office did for him; a thick cord of twisted silver around his neck, a jeweled spearhead Garrow brooch, and a long, lapis-blue cloak that made his shoulders look broader than they already were. On radio transmissions, too, he used his low, booming voice to his advantage; he’d been blessed with a deep baritone that made people sit up and pay attention. Here in his own residence, though, he cut a different figure, in a cuffed white shirt and waistcoat that still looked classy but didn’t make him look quite so imposing. He also — to Jacob’s amusement — had glasses on.

“Garrow, sir —” Jacob tried to salute — and instead, Garrow grabbed his hand and gave it a firm, warm squeeze.

“No need to stand on ceremony with me, Jacob. I’m just glad it’s you and not someone I have to fuss about with.”

Jacob felt himself go a little pink as he felt Tiffany and Heinkel’s twin stares boring into the back of his neck — “Jacob?” they said in unison.

“I, uh, prefer to stay in the habit,” Jacob mumbled. He’d actually expected a chillier welcome. It was unnerving, realizing that Garrow thought of him warmly. He couldn’t quite decide if it was a good thing. Although — and he couldn’t decide if this was a good thing — it did answer the question of who specifically had requested him on the case. And here he’d thought it had been Bergen or one of the Generals putting him to use.

“Well, either way. Everyone else has been worse than useless, and you’d think Coben of all people—” Garrow stopped himself with a sigh, and Jacob caught the anger born of concern lingering behind the glasses and slight scrub of stubble. He was a politician; he was keeping it together, but not nearly as well as he was managing to pretend. “And who are these two?”

Jacob nodded, stepping aside a little so he wasn’t dwarfing his shorter companions quite so much. He was taller than Garrow, too, although he never felt bigger than the Judge so much as lanky and overgrown. He had that kind of presence about him. “2nd Lieutenant Magnadocht Baer and Warrant Officer Heinkel, sir.”

Garrow nodded, then frowned at Tiffany. “Magnadocht, Magnadocht… You’re Juliette’s daughter, aren’t you? The younger one.”

“Oh! Y-yes, that’s me.”

“Thought I recognized the nose. I’m afraid to say there’s entirely too many of you, so don’t expect names, but I do try to keep up.”

Jacob tried not to roll his eyes. The kindly old man routine was all very well and good, especially since Heath looked about fifteen years older than his actual age; one would assume he was pushing or past fifty instead of in his early forties. It wasn’t entirely fake, either — it took effort to keep up with the manor family children — but it was practical, too. He’d have to teach Tiffany not to be entirely taken in by it. “What did the regular security say?”

“They claim there’s no sign of any problems. That it looks like he left on his own.”

“And, typical, they stopped there?”

“It’s possible you do your profession too much credit,” Garrow shot back with a small smile. “My standards are impossible because of you and Scheffen.”

“I’d take ‘not blithering idiots’. Are Deirdre and Rue —”

“Upstairs,” Garrow said quickly. “I’d rather you kept it low-key, if you could. Talk to them, please, just…” He sagged slightly.

Jacob leaned against the side of the pool, crossing his arms lightly. “The Lady Garrow?”

“Not well. And Deirdre’s anxious as it is.”

“Baer,” Jacob said, and had to cough to cover a laugh when Tiffany took a moment too long to respond. “You good with kids?”

She blinked at him a little, then said, “Do you know how many nieces I have? Yes.”

“Atta girl. Talk to Deirdre and Rue Garrow for me? Heinkel, you go with her, write down anything that sticks out. Then check with the staff about how the Lady Garrow is feeling, see if there’s anything she wanted to tell us.”

To Tiffany’s credit, she saluted to both him and the Judge and set to action before the awed look really had time to settle on her face. Once she and Heinkel were gone, Jacob looked back at Garrow — and had to look away from the raised eyebrow and skeptical look before he laughed. He had to keep reminding himself that Garrow wasn’t his friend. “She’s, uh — she’s a little new. A freshie.”

“She’s very sweet. I’ve heard she should watch out for men like you,” Garrow said archly, then nodded his head before heading back up the stairs. Jacob stuck his hands in his pockets, standing up straight and following Garrow.

“I don’t know what would give you that idea, sir.”

“I hear lots of things. How’s the young Major settling in with his contractor?”

“Pretty well, I guess,” Jacob answered again, feeling slightly mystified. The man was a menace.

“Excellent,” Garrow smiled. “Please pass on that I’ll be keeping a stern eye on their Bloodwork.”

Ah.

He really hated Garrow sometimes.

“For someone who isn’t in command of the military, Garrow, sir,” Jacob grumbled, “you sure do know everything everyone in the military does.”

“I’m the one who outlawed Bloodwork. It seems responsible to keep an eye on it.”

“I’d love to know how.”

“A man has his secrets. Especially if that man wants to stay alive. Keep up, Lambert.” They reached the top of the stairs, and Jacob didn’t miss the small grin on Garrow’s face. Again, the sense that Garrow actually liked him came back with a vengeance, and he didn’t know what to do with it.

“I don’t suppose you got a ransom note and didn’t tell anyone?” he asked.

Garrow blew out his cheeks, the exhaustion showing a little more obviously on his face now that it was just the two of them. “Jacob, you know perfectly well that you and Scheffen would be the first people I told. I don’t trust the ghouls in Parliament.”

“Well, the manor patriarchs are obviously your initial suspects. But…” Jacob hesitated a moment. “But they’d be bragging about it. Showmanship and spectacle, to force you into a corner. It’s the quiet I don’t like.”

Garrow nodded, broad shoulders tense under his brocade vest. “I managed to keep it out of the media for the time being but we’ll have to see what happens. I wouldn’t count out any of the patriarchs just yet, though. The vote for Judge is coming up.”

Shit. He’d forgotten. So it could just be to rattle him, or —

Jacob’s stomach plummeted.

There was a reason to just kill Coben outright.

He’d considered mentioning the bloodstone; he’d left it with Sylvia, but he could still feel the ghost of it in his pocket burning a hole. Now, he thought maybe that was a bad idea. “Who didn’t security talk to?”

“Uh… hm. Hard question. I suppose they mostly kept it to the night-time guard and the staff for the East Wing.”

Yeah, you suppose, and the sky’s only half blue, Jacob thought, but kept to himself. ““Excellent. I can start with the daytime rotation then.” What Garrow meant was that he’d kept close tabs on who exactly they’d talked to, and didn’t want to give that away to even Jacob. Which seemed like a waste of effort, in Jacob’s opinion. He’d been part of the revolution, even if a small one. He’d seen the man fight. Once, yes — and once had been enough. He wasn’t fucking around with vague ideas of who was and wasn’t messing up the search for his son.

At the same time…

At the same time, Garrow was distracted. He was trying to come off like he was fine, and he was likely just as sharp as ever underneath. But Jacob couldn’t help but think about Deirdre and Rue, the little ones. Maybe it was lingering loyalty to Dasta, or maybe just the normal impulse to protect children who hadn’t done a damn thing wrong.

“And I’ll assign some extra security detail to the Palace tonight,” he added after a moment.

“I’m quite alright—”

“That wasn’t a request.”

Garrow looked up at him, one eyebrow arching upwards and blue eyes boring a hole into Jacob. “You think I’m losing my touch?”

“You want to risk it?”

Garrow frowned, and Jacob wondered if he was going to demonstrate just how much he hadn’t lost his touch — he’d probably deserve it — but he sighed, gently and wordlessly conceding the point. “Just keep the damn Bergens away from here if you can.”

“Noted.” Jacob hesitated for a moment. “Sir— why me?”

“Hm?”

“Why did you put me on this case instead of somebody — anybody — from the 215th? Or even Scheffen. Me, I’m —” Nobody, whispered part of his brain, and he fended it away with a sharp mental swat. He was honestly quite happy to be nobody. Nobodies didn’t have to worry so much about their paranoia turning out true. “I don’t know. I’d just like to know why.”

Garrow looked at him over his spectacles, then took them off, cleaning the lenses on the hem of his shirt. “I can’t say I regret disbanding the Black Guard. But I do regret giving it up entirely. There’s not many in the military who understand what it means to be loyal to the Judge, not just the Commander — but if there’s anybody who does, it’s you and Sylvia.”

“The Richteran Guard isn’t enough?”

“The Richteran Guard are a bunch of hopped-up muscle-bound hooligans. That’s probably unfair, but they’re good at their part of the job. Being guards. They’re gorillas, not panthers.” Garrow slid his spectacles back on. “And well, putting Sylvia on the case would be a little too noticeable, for one. Two, I’ve always wanted to see what exactly you were capable of.”

Something cold slid down Jacob’s spine at that. It was a compliment. He should take it as a compliment. “Because of—?”

“Because of who trained you, yes. He trained both of you, but you’ve stayed so quiet compared to Sylvia. Partially my fault, I know. Hard to show off when there’s no hope of promotion.”

“Sir, I don’t want to show off. It’s been ten years. That’s — that’s all behind me.”

“I can respect that,” Garrow said. “But once you find who has my son—” and his eyes darkened, old memories rising up to meet Jacob’s own, “Don’t hold back on my account.”

——

By the time he was done interviewing the West Wing’s staff — the ones who didn’t, theoretically, work with Coben himself, but rather his younger siblings — Jacob was remembering why he’d refused Olive’s offer to work in Investigations instead of NatSec. NatSec was undercover work, spy work, occasionally stings, and the ever-present threat of feral magic… which, for him, was vastly preferable to the absolutely-grueling work of interviewing people who seemed to be absolutely mystified by the concept of an investigation.

He probably wasn’t being fair. It wasn’t that they were confused by it. The West, North and East Wings of the Palace functioned mostly separately; Coben hadn’t lived in the West Wing since he was sixteen, and slept in the East with his parents, the other manor children above sixteen, and the Richteran Guard. So everyone who worked in the West Wing were, essentially, nursemaids and teachers. No wonder they didn’t think they had anything to do with this.

The most annoying part, he groaned to himself, was that he’d have to actually talk to the manor children in the Palace next, and Ridder knew that was going to be a minefield. You weren’t supposed to call them hostages. They weren’t, because they were getting an education. They were solidifying alliances. But they were hostages nonetheless; one of the traditions that Garrow couldn’t afford to abolish without losing what power he had over the manor families to begin with.

“Bad day?”

He started, looking up at the door of the room he’d commandeered for his interviews. There was a girl standing there, small smile on her face. He hadn’t heard her open the door, which was either an oversight on his part, or —

“You’re sneaky,” he commented, wrinkling his nose at her.

“Sorry.” She sounded a little sheepish. “Miss Damask tells me off about that too.”

Jacob looked the girl up and down. She was young, Rook’s age or younger, with the simple blue dress-and-apron of a maid and a white half-bonnet holding her hair back. It was the same modest outfit all the servants wore, but he noticed — and appreciated — the little splashes of individuality as well. Her thick black curls were braided and twisted behind the bonnet, a blue ribbon woven into the complex braiding; when he glanced down at her skirt, too, he didn’t see any sign of the usual slip or crinoline. She’d likely get in trouble if anybody noticed, but it probably made her work much easier.

“With all due respect, sir, I hope you didn’t call me in just to stare at me.”

He pulled his eyes back up to her face. Well, he hadn’t been thinking about it before. And she was way too young for him. “No, no. Er, what’s your name?”

“Mary-Ann,” she said ruefully as she sat down. “Mary-Ann Gilbertadocht Daniels.”

Jacob wrote it down, but looked up at her again, over his sunglasses. “You don’t look like a Mary-Ann.” She was obviously clan, although whether Kanet’, Shuyeda or Dani’it he wasn’t sure. Sometimes you could tell right away — sometimes you couldn’t. Especially without a name to go off of.

“And you don’t look like a Jacob Lambert, yet here we are.”

“How d—” He glanced down at the paper he was writing on. It was written at the top. In very small, printed letters. And, to her, upside down. “Right, you can read, you got good eyesight, and you’re a smart-ass.” I like you, he admitted internally. Not to mention she was both bold enough to point out he wasn’t Elessan, and observant enough to pick up on it in the first place. “No more showing off. This is serious.”

“I know, I’m sorry. I’m nervous.”

That was fair. She probably couldn’t help being rattled. “How old are you?”

“Seventeen.”

Oh, whoof. Jacob quickly amended his last thought. She was definitely rattled. “How long have you been working here?”

“A… year, I think? I pretty much left home and ended up here,” Mary-Ann admitted. “I’m just glad they hired me.”

“What do you do?”

“Uh — a lot of stuff, really? First they just had me in the laundry, but then they found out I could read and write, pretty well, too. So they put me up here to help Rue with his reading.”

Which meant she’d probably gotten saddled with all the younger manor kids who were here. Probably some staff kids, too. “You like it?”

“It’s alright. I have some help, which is nice. Cornelia and Syti – I think you already talked to them?”

It took him a minute, but he remembered them. Cornelia Anseldocht Goldstein and Syti Azhardocht Davis. “Yeah, yeah. So the three of you work with the younger kids. Did you ever interact with Coben much?”

She shook her head — then paused. “I mean, a little. He’s sweet. He drops by and listens in on the lessons a lot. And I run into him in the library here and there.”

Jacob had a funny feeling it was more than just a little. Mary-Ann was good at playing it off, he had to give her credit. No doubt she’d been expecting the question, and she was keeping her face straight, behaving very normally; which, unfortunately, was the tip-off. He’d met Coben Garrow. The boy had inherited the best of both his mother’s and father’s looks, and while he knew enough gay and disinterested women not to discount it, he found Mary-Ann’s deliberately crafted disinterest a pretty compelling clue towards the opposite. “Any idea who might have it out for him?”

“Other than half the country?”

“Well, yes, other than that. We’re looking into possibly more personal grudges. Rejected romantic overtures, maybe, or another kind of insult—” They weren’t, actually, but he was curious what she’d say.

Mary-Ann looked slightly nervous. “Romantic—? I mean, as – as far as I know, Coben wasn’t courting anyone. Or being courted.”

“As far as you know?” He managed to keep his face straight.

“Servants hear things,” she offered in slightly-indignant response, and it was a good save.

“You could save me the trouble and tell me if you and Coben were friends.”

Mary-Ann sat across from him in quiet consideration for a moment.

“More than friends?”

“No,” she burst out. “No, I wouldn’t — give me a little bit of credit, Lambert,” she groaned, the servile tone dropping for a second before it came right back. It was an interesting glimpse into her true character behind the studious, shy mask she’d so carefully put together. “Even if Coben himself gets idiotic ideas from time to time, I have a better grasp of my own station.” Back to being humble, although the streak of oh-so-endearing arrogance was still there.

Jacob jotted a few more notes down, although he was starting to get the picture. Mary-Ann and Coben were friends; Coben, probably-sincerely, was hoping for more. Whether or not his father would have allowed it was moot at the moment, but even if manor families married commoners from time to time, servant girls from one clan or another were definitely out of the question. “Was he bothering you about it?”

There it was; probably the most genuine thing he’d seen from Mary-Ann yet. A soft little smile, wistful at the edges. “No more than anyone who wants the impossible.”

He couldn’t help but feel for her. Clearly the feeling itself was mutual; she was just in a terrible position of knowing who would suffer more for it, and refusing to take the risk. Maybe he’d drop a word to Garrow, suggest that it wouldn’t be such a bad political move —

Right. And hell will freeze over.

Maybe give it another ten years from the Anselm affair.

“When was the last time you spoke to him? And — look, I won’t be sharing any of this directly with the Judge unless I have to. So don’t worry about that.”

She nodded briskly. She was looking nervous, he noted; but she’d probably been praying that her flirtation with Coben wouldn’t surface at all. It was a good thing it was him doing this. He knew all too well what forbidden romance was like. You got used to it, after a while, but that didn’t make it any easier. “The night he disappeared, we were in the library after dinner. Not —” she backtracked a little. “Just talking.”

“Talking?”

She started to blush. “He’s eligible for his seat in Parliament soon. So he’s been researching Elessan history, trying to make sure he’s, you know, informed enough. But he keeps asking me questions, too.”

Jacob rested his chin on his hand, concealing how impressed he was. The Parliament seat was exactly what had come to mind earlier; the fact that he’d been talking about it to someone was a good sign in and of itself. But Coben had never left much of an impression on him before, and he’d certainly never taken him as the kind of boy to actively seek out challengers to what history books told him. Mary-Ann was a good influence on him, it seemed. Frankly, I probably wouldn’t have thought of asking her, either, he admitted ruefully. “About the clans?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “So fast to assume.”

“I know what history books leave out, Daniels, it’s a fair question. And not a criticism, if you’re wondering. Keep going.”

“There isn’t much else. I left to head home after nine o’clock and that was the last I saw of him.”

That was unfortunate. Mary-Ann had been the last person to see him, period. Nine o’clock was a full hour later than the other witness statement they had on record — and she didn’t seem to know that. She could be an Advolk, the cold, Black Guard part of him suggested. You know they recruit young. She’s clan. She’s —

For fuck’s sake.

She was seventeen. She was a domestic servant. She was clever and sharp, far too clever to get involved with terrorists. And she was in love, and scared.

Jacob shoved the cold part of him back into the shadows, and wished, not for the first time and not for the last, that it didn’t exist at all. “You live outside the Palace. Most servants don’t.”

“I like the independence. Also…” She shivered a little. “I know he’s gone now. But it sometimes still feels like Forrath is here. I don’t mind working here. I’d just rather not be sleeping under the same roof he did.”

That made perfect sense. And when he let her go, glad to see that her nerves had fled a little, he found himself wondering if there were ghosts in the halls.

COMMENTS

Two new characters! One of which we’ve heard plenty about, but this is his first time on screen. Heath Garrow is a fascinating guy, really. He’s one of my oldest characters – I think he first showed up in a story I wrote in Grade 6, and he was the Judge/leader of the country there, too. He’s always been this complex, too; a good guy, but with a little bit too much of an edge to be quite comfortable. At the time I wrote him, I was entertaining a long-standing obsession with the Pirates of the Caribbean movies, and in retrospect, I think it’s interesting how reminiscent he is of James Norrington. (Which… doesn’t really bode well, does it?) His kids have about as long a history, too. There’s always been three of them, and the biggest change there’s really been is changing the spelling of Coben’s name from ‘Koben’, to try lessen the number of K names in my stories. That, and apparently Coben is a real name. Didn’t realize that.

Mary-Ann is a favourite of mine who I really can’t say much about yet, but I kept wrestling with myself about how much to talk about Jacob’s instinctive profiling. I eventually settled on having it be a prominent part of the narrative and just warning people about it; I don’t think telling a story like this one benefits much from leaving out the gritty and depressing details, but you can see why I was conflicted. The structure of the Palace is adapted from various places, including Victorian manors, actual medieval palaces and royal households, and even things like Minoan and Mycenean royal household structures.

Edited July 4th, 2022.

SONG: These Good People by The Gathering

Bell, Clock and Candle is free to read online and I don’t plan on changing that; however, if you like it and want to support its author, please consider supporting me with a Patreon pledge or a Ko-fi donation! For bonus goodies, Patreon readers get every chapter a week early, and pledging to the Elementals tier ($5+) gets you access to deleted scenes and conlang progress posts.

CW: self-harm/cutting (aftermath on screen), psychosis, delusions, paranoia, disordered eating, injury, passive suicidal ideation, horrible self-esteem

All Bards build their own spells eventually; it’s the most intrinsic part of Songwork, that your most efficient and effective spells will always be the ones you write yourself. Still, there are some practical concerns. When writing spellsongs, always know what mode you’re using. Ionian is triumphant, glorious; Aeolian is for mourning. Dorian is for summoning and enchanting; Phrygian is for questing and searching. Lydian is used for binding and trapping. Mixolydian is the mode for glamours and romancing. And above all, avoid Locrian when you can; while sometimes a touch of uneasiness is what you need, Locrian stirs rage and fear in the hearts of men, demon and animals alike. Use it wisely — and sparingly.

–Thaumatist Independent Jan Kieransohn Vandemeer, 1914; “Revisiting the Mechanics of Songwork; Rote Learning versus Creativity”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

LOW TIDE

All Bards build their own spells eventually; it’s the most intrinsic part of Songwork, that your most efficient and effective spells will always be the ones you write yourself. Still, there are some practical concerns. When writing spellsongs, always know what mode you’re using. Ionian is triumphant, glorious; Aeolian is for mourning. Dorian is for summoning and enchanting; Phrygian is for questing and searching. Lydian is used for binding and trapping. Mixolydian is the mode for glamours and romancing. And above all, avoid Locrian when you can; while sometimes a touch of uneasiness is what you need, Locrian stirs rage and fear in the hearts of men, demon and animals alike. Use it wisely — and sparingly.

–Thaumatist Independent Jan Kieransohn Vandemeer, 1914; “Revisiting the Mechanics of Songwork; Rote Learning versus Creativity”

The library was one of the places in Den Elessa that Rook had actually missed. The library in Drijkanberg wasn’t bad, no; nor was the one in Haberjasse, although it was even smaller than the Drijkanberg one, and he’d only stopped in once on the way to Den Arden. Nor was the Den Elessa Centrum Library the biggest one even in Den Elessa; that honour belonged to the shared Collegiates’ Archive that sat at the crossing points of the four Colleges. No, it was just… the one that he felt the most comfortable in.

He’d spent a little bit of time getting lectured about the overdue book he’d accidentally lugged all the way to the Zweispars and back, and the other one that he — definitely hadn’t lost, it was just probably somewhere in the spare room’s stacks. All fair enough, and sort of reassuring. When he’d turned around, he’d been more than a little surprised to find Csindra standing at one of the shelves, reading one of the books with laser focus. He knew she could read — she’d been sneaking glances at his notebook when he caught her, after all — but it was always a bit of a hit or miss, even within the military.

“Found something you like?”

“It’s not exactly light reading,” she replied, a teasing note in her voice.

Rook peered over her shoulder. “Anyone whosoever lies with a demon shall be put to—”  He stared at her. “I bring you to a library and you pick up the law code?”

She shrugged. “I have my reasons.”

“Yeah, three guesses what those are.” She was focused, he’d give her that. He’d expected at least a little bit of wavering from the mission, given he’d practically blackmailed her into it, but no, she was determined. Practically more set on it than he was, to be honest, which wasn’t the most heartening thought.

He rolled his eyes and left her to it, climbing up one of the ladders to check out some of the older books that lived at the very top of the stacks. He had an excuse ready on his lips about research, but really, he just liked how it looked — both the old books, and the view. He gazed at them for a moment, before glancing back down at Csindra. When she thought he wasn’t looking, she had her fingers brushing over the spines, wonder showing through the cynical mask. She’d been terrified of the elevator; she was equally awestruck by the sheer number of books here, even if she was too proud to let it show.

Then he bonked his head, gently, against the leather bindings of the books in front of him. Now he was the one getting distracted. He had to stay focused —

It could be a human—

His hand twitched on the ladder. Yeah, the less he thought about that the better. Phania isn’t even in Den Elessa anymore, he reminded himself. That was a good thing. It meant he didn’t have to add this to the list of things he’d hidden from her. No, she was out in… where was it, the cliffs? On the Den Niederung border, anyway. Wolfie was harder to shake, but he wasn’t the most attentive. And Jacob…

Rook felt himself trip over that, like missing a step in the dark. Most of the time, he didn’t even consciously acknowledge that he was hiding — something, anything — let alone more than one thing. Just a big pile of twisted fear that came for him when he let his guard down. What was he hiding? Plenty of people probably suspected that there was something wrong with him. Something hard to describe, something that stank of feral magic but couldn’t quite be pinned down. Even when he did start to name that much even to himself, he managed not to let himself acknowledge that he’d kept or introduced distance in all of his friendships, all of his relationships. He didn’t want anybody too close, so he kept them all at arm’s length… except Jacob.

You can do it with him if you need to. You just don’t.

The twinge in his chest suggested otherwise. Whatever. He’d get over it. It was a crush, not the end of the world. Still, he found himself examining his bone-thin fingers on the ladder, wondering what was wrong with him that he was happier to let a complete stranger poke at his secrets than any of the people who he would have called friends. He supposed the answer was pretty easy, though. If he needed to control the situation, he could. He didn’t need Csindra’s respect, or love, or admiration. He didn’t need to keep her alive. He didn’t need her to like him.

——

Now they were in his apartment, and whatever distraction Rook had found in talking to Jacob was gone. Csindra was still poring over the book. He didn’t want to ask her why. He should — he knew that. Was she reading it for the case, or was she reading it for him?

It’s not feral magic. It isn’t. It’s probably something from using all four styles, or overusing Bloodwork, or something like that. You haven’t even had an incident since getting back.

Which didn’t explain his familiar. Or the ease he had with thaumaturgy in the first place. Or, Visser scheisse, where the hell he’d come from in the first place.

Rook left Csindra to the book, lighting an oil lamp in the corner with one of his spare matches and unwrapping his familiar from his neck. “There you go,” he murmured, easing the snake down to the swiftly-warming glass. “Sorry I’m not warmer.”

The snake pressed his snout to Rook’s hand for a moment before coiling into a little pile next to the lamp. If snakes could purr, Rook was sure he would have been, and the corner of his mouth crooked up into a smile. Poor guy. Being cold-blooded had been a lot easier down in the Zweispars. Hopefully his next form was a little better adjusted for Den Elessa.

Then Rook closed his eyes, trying to figure out which part of his body was hurting now. It kept changing. His stomach? No, he’d made a point of not eating much, so there wasn’t anything for his stomach to complain about, and he’d drunk enough water that it would stay quiet on him. His knees had been bad since Den Arden, so that wasn’t new. Elbows, a little. The ladder had been a bad idea.

He sat down on the loveseat, wincing a little as the headache lanced through his skull. Or that. That was the simple answer. Trying to listen through static half the fucking day wasn’t doing his head any favours. He opened one eye, watching Csindra put the book down on the table and continue reading. “You are dedicated,” he mumbled.

It took her a moment to react. “Hm? Oh. Yeah.”

“How on earth are you finding a legal code so interesting?”

She shrugged again, but after a few moments of silence, she rested her elbow on the table. “When’d the 214th shift from demons to feral magic in general?”

Huh? “Come again?”

“Oh, just — this is an older legal code. I guess you missed that.” She propped up the book, and Rook squinted a little. 1840.

“And you think I’m a nerd?”

“I was just curious. Also, I wasn’t sure where the newer ones were.”

“You could have asked.”

She shrugged again, which was getting just a little bit frustrating. And this time, she didn’t continue. After a moment, Rook realized that she’d asked him a question, and struggled to remember what exactly it had been. Right. Demons. “Uh, I dunno exactly. We still care about demons. They’re still feral magic.” He couldn’t quite see the point of this line of questioning. National Security covered national security. Feral magic meant both demons and people who tried to use feral magic, like idiots. “I think it was under Forrath. Back then, some time. When people started trying to use feral magic instead of thaumaturgy, at least more often — which just gets them killed.”

“It says here the penalty is death for using feral magic.”

He nodded, then wished he hadn’t. He wasn’t sure, now, if this was a real headache or one of the other kind, the kind where he was trying to think through a fog, and when it cleared, he’d realize he’d done something he hadn’t meant to. Hopefully the first. “I mean, yeah. On paper. That’s still true, just turns out you die if you try it anyway.”

Csindra didn’t hide her expression fast enough, and the twinge in his chest suddenly felt a lot more real than normal.

“Spit it out. Tell me the truth,” he said, feeling how blank his voice was coming out, pain putting an edge to his words he didn’t intend (have you been in pain all day, Rook) “or Rustelozen sla me neer, I’ll make you.”

“I’m sure you’ve got practice with that,” she shot back, closing the book in front of her with a ‘thump’. “And I’m not planning on lying to you. I do want to understand.”

“Understand what?”

She conspicuously bit back whatever she was going to say — and he could tell. People always thought he couldn’t. “Alright. Your feral magic policy. Both in here and the one I’ve seen in the files for the case as the standard, or whatever. Capture, divert, destroy. Explain it to me.”

Changing the topic. Smooth. Nobody wanted to say out loud what they thought he was — what they suspected he was. What he suspected, and wanted to find any other answer to. Anything. Still, this was better. Maybe. So he acknowledged the switch with nothing more than a rueful snort. “Rural or not, I doubt you’ve never seen feral magic in action.”

“I have, but I still want you to explain it.”

He glanced at the kitchen, trying to will himself to get to his feet and make some tea, or something. He couldn’t manage it. Maybe in a bit. “Capture. Use thaumaturgy to cage or trap feral magic, especially if it’s taken any kind of shape. So demons, wraiths, spirits, etcetera.” Like Phania, or him, or Wolfie, caging a drabuka with song and smoke.

“I’m guessing for experiments, not so much fair trial.”

He just glossed past that one, especially because otherwise he’d start defending Phania, which meant talking about her. “Divert’s pretty easy. Especially if it’s a force or a phenomenon, just make it go somewhere else. Cheaper, easier, makes everybody happy. Like the quickwater that ends up in people’s basements sometimes during floods.”

Csindra raised her eyebrows at that one. “…Quickwater?”

He chuckled quietly. “Scheffen calls it that. Looks completely normal until something living touches it, then it gets dragged in and reduced to bones in seconds. It’s like battery acid.”

“Oh, I get it. Quicklime, quicksand, quickwater. Cute.”

“Yeah. And it’s just easier to drain it, because once it hits a normal water source, it’s fine again, because it’s magic, not poison.”

Csindra took a deep breath, taking this in. “And destroy?”

Rook hesitated. Technically, you couldn’t destroy feral magic. What you really did when you battled it head-on was weakened it into retreat. Theoretically, enough of its opposite destroyed it; but it usually withdrew long before that. “Use its opposite, take it head-on. Not, uh, recommended but works sometimes.”

“You can’t kill édjan’na.”

“You know an awful lot about feral magic for a Cutter,” he grumbled.

“And you know horrifyingly little, all things conside—” She shut up — but not fast enough.

His eyes had slid out of focus. Now they focused again. The pounding in his head hadn’t gone away, but now it was an underlying beat to crystalline-clear understanding that he was in danger. She knows she knows she knows—

Shut up. Shut up, shut up, shut up. That had been the whole point of bringing her here. Of course she knew — except they’d been walking this tightrope of non-acknowledgment. She knew what he’d told her, which was everything he knew, or knew for certain, except —

(you know an awful lot more than that)

“It’s not what you think,” he managed to get out, and it sounded almost normal. He could make it sound convincing, because feral magic — it was like an inferno. He’d seen it in action. It burned whatever it touched. It was like lightning in a bottle, if lightning had learned that humans were its enemy. “And that’s not what we’re talking about right now.” He opened the folder on the table —

Which had been a mistake. The photos hadn’t bothered him before. They bothered him now, the buzzing in his ears getting loud again. You could do that, something whispered to him, maybe just his own conscience, maybe something else. Remember what you did? Remember? Do you remember?

Csindra leaned her elbows on the table. “Most o— demons can’t actually use magic. They’re made of it, sure, but they can’t…” She gestured at the picture. “They have their specific tricks.”

“And wraiths?”

“Aren’t intelligent. I mean, literally. They’re not, uh… There’s no actual brain, I think is the way to put it?” Csindra wrinkled her nose. “I know words for these in Kanet’valan.”

“Sentience?”

“I think so. They’re conscious, but not actually thinking.”

Which meant a wraith definitely couldn’t have done these, either. He’d said as much to Olive, hadn’t he? Demons didn’t care about family lines. And if you got as far as thinking about someone directing a wraith, you were right back at someone using feral magic. If someone could direct wraiths, do anything more with them than chase them off or trap them…

“You said most demons,” he mumbled.

“Yeah, there’s a few. It’s not one of them, though – nevat’wa nok’ra, anyway.”

“Hm?”

“Roughly translates to I fucking hope not.”

“How come?” He still didn’t look at her. It would make his head hurt too much.

“If we’re dealing with the Odjon’nadja, there’s not a force on earth that can help you, so let’s hope not.”

Rook couldn’t help the snort — then finally did glance up and managed to get the smirk off his face at Csindra’s glare. “Bit dramatic.”

“Do you even know what they are?”

“Demons.”

“That’s like saying a calla lily’s a flower.”

That got his attention a little more. Calla lilies were one of the most poisonous flowers in the Smokework text.

Csindra groaned. “I don’t know if they’re even in your files, they’ve been pretty smart. And —” She fell quiet, grimacing and clearly chewing it over.

Rook shook his head a little, trying to clear it. Looking at Csindra wasn’t hurting his head like he thought it would. “That sounds like you know them a little more personally.”

“No. They’re just…” Csindra rubbed her face. “You don’t need to know.”

“Oh, no. Don’t pull that. Demons are dangerous, you can’t just—”

“You don’t. Need. To know.”

Rook felt the temper surging up his throat. “You said you’d help me. What are the Odjon’nadja?”

“It can’t have been them, Rook—”

“I’m not asking for the fucking case.” He became aware of his fingers digging into the seat of the couch, and took a deep breath, forcing himself to relax at least enough to release them. When he did, though, he felt a jolt of horror in his throat as his fingers slid out of the fabric, instead of off. He’d punched through the couch, somehow.

Don’t look.

So he didn’t, until he had to, and his fingers looked normal, they did, except had there been a hint of edge still on his nails? No. He was imagining it.

Csindra took a deep breath — then leaned back, hand on her axe handle. He hadn’t noticed until now that it wasn’t up by the door, or anywhere else — no, it was unsheathed and lying by her side.

Rook narrowed his eyes, suddenly glad he’d never unbuckled his knife from his thigh. “’Fess up, Djaneki. What’ve you been hiding from me?”

“Not hiding. Just… measuring.”

“Measuring what?” Then it clicked. “Measuring me.”

“I’m not spilling all my secrets to someone after a few hours on a train.”

That… was reasonable. Entirely reasonable, actually, Enough that it bothered him. She was acting like he’d been working for her instead of the other way around, practically. “And now?”

“I’m… still thinking.” She sighed. “Odjakenez.”

It took him a sec to recognize the word. “Oh, right. Odjakens.” Edjanna, odjanin, odjaken. There was a resonance to them, at least.

She winced — but moved on. He couldn’t hear the difference, actually, but clearly there had been one. “I’m not one.”

“Right, I was wondering — if odjakens are just thaums, what’s the difference?”

Csindra exhaled. “Because odjakenez aren’t thaumatists. They’re —” She paused. “Something else.”

He tried not to snort again, especially after how Csindra had glared at him before. The way Csindra had made a point of showing off her axe made that seem like a bad idea. “Demonbound?”

“I hate that word. But sure.”

A prickle of nerves lanced up his arm. Hide. Run. Stop her. She knows. She can tell. She can see.

“So you’re wasting my time with a fairytale,” he found himself saying, not feeling quite in control. He didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to hear what she was going to say. He’d asked, but then the word demonbound —

“Fairytale?”

“Humans using feral magic is scientifically impossible.”

“Scienti-” Csindra scoffed, head falling into her hands. “It’s magic. You just called magic, scientifically impossible.”

“Any sufficiently analyzed magic system is—”

“I hate white people.”

“Hey, I’m not the one being all fidgety about bringing up fairy tales.”

“Den Niederung isn’t a fairytale.”

RUN

“Nobody knows what happened in Den Niederung.” The static was so fucking loud. Part of him underneath all of it was urging him to tap out, find some way out of the conversation until he could think, but he couldn’t, he couldn’t, because if he let on to anybody just how bad it was —

“The full story, no.”

“Advolk?”

“Jonis vol’, no. I hate those assholes.”

Then why was every danger signal he had going off?

Hide.

Run.

Stop her.

She knows.

“Rook, are you —”

He could do this. He’d done it before. He told them to shut up, to shut the hell up, because he had shit to do, and then for the moment, pretended they weren’t there. “Fine, don’t worry. Okay. So a demonbound was responsible for Den Niederung, is what you’re telling me.” The word demonbound. He ran away from it, didn’t even think about it if he could help it — because humans couldn’t use feral magic. If they did, if they could, then they weren’t human. They were something else.

“You said it, not me.”

“Don’t be so irritating. You’re already telling me — in not so many words — that you’ll kill me if I tell anyone.”

“I don’t want to,” she sighed. “These things are secret for a reason.”

“Assuming that you even could.”

“Do you really want to risk it?”

No, he decided. He could keep the pretense up for the moment. If it came to it, though, Csindra would see how weak he really was at the moment; barely able to focus on what was in front of him.

Focus.

It hurt to. He had to keep it together. Ignore the static a little longer. Play the part. “So our serial killer is almost definitely one of these, odjakens, for some reason.”

“That or one of the demons, but I’ll bet you anything.”

“So your suggestion is, what, catch them without any military resources or back-up, to keep the secret from getting out that it’s possible? To keep your provincial town from getting clobbered by possible backlash?”

Csindra was amused by something, but she wasn’t sharing what, even as she cast a darkly humoured look his way. “That would be the general shape of it, yes.”

“And I’m going along with this because you have a very big axe, and my familiar thinks you’re harmless despite the very big axe.” He sighed, resting his head and elbow on the arm of the sofa. “I should have left you in jail.”

“You could always try to kill me first.”

There it was. The challenge – unintended — to his strength. “And then what?” he snarled — with more honesty than he’d meant, and once he heard the note in his own voice, it was hard to stop. “Go back to feeling like a ticking bomb? Spend another six years trying not to self-destruct or kill someone else by mistake?”

Fuck.

Fuck, he’d said it, and he couldn’t unsay it. One word. One word off. Mouth out of sync with his thoughts.

She knows. She knows. She knows. Now she KNOWS and it’s YOUR FAULT–

It wasn’t him. It wasn’t his voice. They had never been his voice, the things that spoke to him when he didn’t keep it under control, they were something else, something cruel (of course it’s your voice, you sick freak, who else would it be, take responsibility for something in your life) (SHE KNOWS ABOUT US SHE KNOWS WHAT YOU DID)

The lightbulb in the anbaric lamp above them burst with a shatter of glass, showering down on them. Csindra covered her face with her arm — Rook started to, but the sound made him stop. It was lingering in the air, longer than it should have, louder than a crash of glass should be. I’m imagining it. Except it held, and held, like a string close to snapping. He could hear the two notes in it now, B flat and G if you turned your head, a little off pitch —

It was getting louder.

Csindra raised her head, watching him. “Rook. Rook.”

“I’m not—” He closed his eyes. Go away, go away. Hallucinations in the dead of night were one thing. It was still getting louder. The thumping of his heartbeat was joining it, too, a howl undercut by a rapid drumming on his bones — not Songwork, not like Songwork at all, Songwork you control, Songwork is actually music —

“Get up!”

He couldn’t. If he got up, he was acknowledging it was real —

SHE KNOWS.

Rook opened his eyes with sudden panic. He could see it now — and his rational mind, what of it was working, told him the truth. Not a hallucination. Not his imagination.

It was a wraith. Except every wraith he’d ever seen had been ones on a rampage already, leaving destruction in their wake. This one was different; the wraith was circling the room the same way the sound was, with no more consistency than ice or snow or the mists on a mountaintop. With every touch of its disembodied, shifting limbs against the wall or ceiling, it left patches of frost – and the space where its eyes should be was pointed straight at Csindra.

It was going to kill her. That was what they—

(who are they Rook)

—were trying to tell him.

Flute. He needed his flute.

Rook got to his feet, keeping his eyes on the wraith. Feral magic could look like this, he reminded himself. It didn’t have to have anything to do with him. They were already hunting a killer. That was it, that was all, it had nothing to do with him. The bookcase was… five steps. Five steps away. He could do that. Second shelf down, on top of the — the — he couldn’t remember. Think. Nearer to him than the door, on top of the book of fairytales. Irony as she was cast. Four. Three. Two—

The sound was so loud now that he wasn’t sure he’d be able to hear himself play; a grating, tearing noise like rocks grinding against each other.

“Move,” he ordered. It was all he could get out of his mouth. She might not even hear it. But whether because she had, or out of sheer impulse, Csindra threw herself against the wall.

The scream from the wraith hit him by surprise, accompanied with a blast of cold. Good thing it wasn’t the metal flute he had, or he would have dropped it. As it was, his fingers ached in protest.

He took a deep breath, lungs filling with cold air, then put the flute to his lips and began to play.

What he’d actually planned on, he wasn’t sure. A binding spell? A warming spell? Something to chase it off? Instead, what came out of his flute was a lullaby, with no magic in it at all except what it carried in the notes. He couldn’t remember learning it, or even where he’d heard it; he didn’t know the lyrics, just that it had something to do with horses, images flickering at the edges of his memory.

The sound began to subside, almost immediately. The wraith didn’t disappear. It paused where it was on the ceiling, a ghost of mist and shadow, the oil-lamp in the corner illuminating it in strange light that sometimes bounced off of it, sometimes through it. As it moved, Rook thought he could see fragments of iridescence on its surface. Like a soap bubble, he thought. Or oil.

“Rook,” Csindra hissed. She was expecting magic, not music.

He’d meant to. But he knew this song. It had come to his fingers all of a sudden, like he’d known it all his life.

The wraith descended from the ceiling, straightening up until it looked more like a person than a poltergeist. A silhouette of smoke. It’s almost the same colour I am, he thought idly, fingers dancing across his flute without even having to think about it — blacks and bays, dapples and greys —

And then it was in front of him, and he had to remind himself to keep playing at all.

It wasn’t a wraith at all. Whatever it was, it was… beautiful. It was only a little taller than him, but its hair billowed around its head, moving on invisible currents and as pure-white as snow. Everything from its pupils to its skin to the flesh of its mouth were pure white, translucent-shimmering, and he couldn’t remember why he’d been so afraid.

He could feel his heartbeat calming down. The room was feeling more open already. The wraith was still here.

I could just let it go, he thought, feeling a bit dizzy. He’d seen feral magic take all sorts of shapes before. He’d never gotten this close. He’d never felt this safe.

Something was still wrong, he knew, something in the back of his head —

The heat came all at once, and he nearly dropped his flute, notes fumbling away. The wraith didn’t look angry; just sad as it vanished in the flicker of flames he couldn’t see — and even if he couldn’t, they were too close, and it hurt, everything stung and prickled in a way that didn’t make sense, nothing about this made any sense —

His flute tumbled out of his fingers and, when he tried to reach for it, the floor came up to meet him instead. He’d almost been waiting for it, all this time. At least he had an excuse. As the heat finally began to dissipate, he turned his head to where it had come from.

Csindra waited a little longer, then closed her hands with a suppressed noise of pain, snuffing out the flames in both of them. Only then did she rush to his side, still-hot fingers pressing to his neck.

“What are you doing?” he tried to ask, but his lips were numb. Not numb, he realized — they were cold. He hadn’t fallen because of his knees; he’d fallen because he was freezing.

“Saving your life, you idiot. How have you stayed alive this long?”

“Spite,” he joked, impulse winning out — and Csindra slapped him across the face. He shook his head, trying to shake the startled response. He hadn’t expected that.

“Take me seriously. That was an édjan’na – kònikédjan, I think —”

“Koh— I don’t know any of these words.”

“I don’t have time to teach you Kanet’valan right now,” she grumbled, hand on his forehead and checking his temperature — although, Rook thought with a suppressed laugh, she probably wasn’t getting any kind of accurate read with her hands still half-burning. “It was freezing you to death. It didn’t mean to. It’s just what it does.”

“So first you’re making a case for feral magic, and now we’re back at it being an enemy—”

“No, Rook,” Csindra groaned. “This! This is exactly why we don’t tell you about this crap! You fucking idiots will demand a mountain moves for you or bore a hole through it rather than just go around the damn thing, and then when it falls on you, you cry foul and say this means war.”

“Idiots?” he slurred.

“Elessans.” She yanked him up into a sitting position, pushing him against the bookcase none-too-gently. He noticed that her palms were burnt; whatever spell she’d been casting, it didn’t insulate her from the flame itself. “Is it so hard to acknowledge that sometimes, things just… exist? They’re not good, or bad. It’s your job to let them exist.”

That… made sense. It was hard. Not because it should have been; just because it’d never occurred to him that neutral was an option. The wraith had seemed so kind, when he’d started playing — so different from the feral magic he was used to.

The tips of his fingers were blue.

Fuck.

He closed his eyes, still trying to catch his breath and hearing with a grimace how it rattled in his chest. “Where’d it come from?” he asked, lips still not quite working.

She just glared at him. “You got scared. Can’t imagine they’re unrelated.”

“You don’t know?”

“Typical. I know something about feral magic that isn’t ‘burn it down’ and you think I’m an expert.” She glanced at him, then groaned, clearly conceding some ground. “I’m not even an expert on Bloodwork. I don’t… I keep trying to tell you I’m not your person. You seem to think I am, and worse, so does everything else, so I guess I’ll do my best, but I’m not any better at this than you are.”

“You seem to know what you’re doing.”

She laughed a little at that, and when the anger on her face broke away, Rook could see the fear underneath. She’d hidden it well; he supposed she had to. Fear for both of them, for him, or just for herself? “That makes one of us. Damn it, Rook. You were just…”

“Just what?”

“Just playing.”

He’d meant to use magic. But the wraith had felt like a friend. Like someone he recognized. And the song…

He swallowed. The paranoia had gone back to being a quiet, waiting thing in the corner. For now. He wasn’t going to risk waking it up again. “…You think this, uh, killer is an odjaken.”

He couldn’t help it; he glanced up at her face to gage her reaction. It was hard to read; a bit of frustration, a bit of fear; but no anger. He wasn’t sure why he was expecting anger. He wasn’t being truthful with her, but he wasn’t lying. He just didn’t want to talk about it yet. “Yeah,” she said finally. “Looks like it.”

“I don’t know. You might be right. And that sounds better than whatever the things are you won’t even talk about.”

Two conversations, one set of words. Maybe she was having the same dual-layered conversation he was, maybe she wasn’t. You never knew with people. “That’s… arguable,” she mumbled, “but at least odjakenez are people.”

He grabbed onto that, held it close, refused to let it show that it mattered that much — and hoped she’d meant it.

“Well,” she sighed, “one way or another, you’re stuck with me until we figure out what the hell is up with you.”

“What, professional curiosity?”

“Because you look like shit,” she replied instead, so blunt it shocked him back into silence. Jacob would tell him if he looked tired, sure. Olive would nag him about eating more. Sylvia… mostly just told him off about one thing or another. Wolfie would never say a word, not even before — and Phania…

It took him a couple seconds too long, but then he scoffed. “I just look like this, Djaneki. I—”

“I know what an albino looks like—”

“Technically, not an albino,” he grumbled quietly.

“—but you constantly look ready to fall over. You’re so thin I can see your ribs. I don’t think I saw you actually eat anything once today — maybe half a bread roll at lunch. You drugged yourself to sleep last night and I’m guessing it’s not the first time—”

“Alright, fine, I get your point,” he snapped, avoiding her eyes again. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“You deserve better.”

…

Well, how the hell was he supposed to take that? He leant his head back against the bookshelf, mulling over the responses that had leapt to his lips. No I don’t. That would take explaining, even if he lowered himself enough to actually admitting it. What better? Except he knew other people didn’t struggle this badly with… well, living. Even a year ago, he hadn’t. Things had just… unraveled, piece by piece. Why do you care so much? That one he really did want to ask, but he was scared of the answer — that he was reading into things. He wasn’t good at people. He didn’t — well, he wanted friends, conceptually. He just kept fucking it up every time he got the chance. He had an idea in his head of what having friends like him would be like, but he didn’t know how to put that in practice. Like him. Nobody was like him.

He found himself with a little grin on his face. “Are you more pissed at me for almost dying or for being so useless that you have to help me?” Still self-deprecating. Better than some

“Jury’s out. Both. Both works.”

He could feel his movement coming back, although the temperature change was hitting all of his joints, not just his knees. “Your turn.”

“What?”

He straightened up a little more, wincing against the bookcase, and held out his hand. “You’re a Cutter. Gimme.”

Csindra rolled her eyes, but handed him her arm, clearly thinking he’d overlooked it or wouldn’t think to ask. She’d clearly used her axe-blade in the absence of anything else; the cut was deeper than it should have been, and a little jagged at the edges. She’d gone for the fleshy part of her arm, though, so she knew what she was doing. The burns were a different story; they would blister if he didn’t help.

“Hey, buddy,” he called out. “You okay?”

There was a little quiet hiss in response. Poor guy. It was probably freezing, but at least the lamp was still working.

“I’m gonna need… aloe, birchbark, and acanthus.”

Csindra watched in curiosity. “How does he—” She was interrupted by the sounds of flowerpots scraping against the hardwood. “You’re kidding me.”

Rook snickered, then turned his head as his familiar slithered onto his lap, aloe plant now parked next to the two of them. The snake wriggled against his legs, clearly trying to take some of the body heat in, before disappearing and coming back — slowly — with the acanthus pot and a little bag in its mouth.

“The bag is the birchbark?” Csindra guessed.

“You don’t see a birch tree in here, do you?” Rook fumbled behind him for a lighter and knife. A couple crushed acanthus leaves there, and one on top of a roll of birchbark; then he cut off the tip of one of the aloe leaves, peeling off the skin and putting it with the birch and acanthus. The aloe gel itself he smeared gently onto Csindra’s burnt palms, then mixed in the acanthus. He put a little extra gel on the cut in her arm, snorting a bit as she winced. “Come on, big tough merc can’t handle some stinging?”

“I hate the way aloe feels.”

“Oh, yeah, you’re from where it grows on its own, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. Got dared to eat some once.” At Rook’s stare, she added defensively, “I was a kid. It looked like it should taste good.”

“You had to find out the hard way?”

She just stuck out her tongue. Rook smiled, then finished wrapping the scrap of aloe skin and acanthus leaves in the birchbark, tying it closed with three extra slivers of birch inside. He set the lighter to the top of the completed wick, then set it onto one of the wooden incense burners he had around, focusing on the smoke and smell of it. Smokework was weird, sometimes. Plenty of the ingredients had magic of their own — the healing properties they were used for by everyone else. Smokework just did something more with it.

Acanthus for relief. He passed his hand through the smoke, although he didn’t really need to do the gestures with this kind of Smokework. The poultice on Csindra’s hands and arm glowed slightly. Birch for… regeneration. He’d put four in, right? Yeah, he had. He could feel the spell working already, speeding up the process of healing — not by a lot, he didn’t have the energy for that, but enough to help. Aloe for — He hesitated, inexplicably embarrassed. Aloe for affection. It was just in there to help bind the other two together, really.

Yeah, he could tell himself that all he wanted. It wasn’t her fault that his friends had a habit of running away scared.

And this is your second spell today, remember?

The two were completely different. The one earlier in the day had been a Grand Arcanum spell, for one, although not one of the worst ones, and boosted with a little bit of Bloodwork to keep him focused. This hardly took any more effort than breathing.

“Thanks,” she whispered.

“Hey, it’s not a cure. It’ll just help a bit, but what would really help is you not slashing yourself up—”

“Navóne vol, you sound like my mother. She was good with these too.”

“Smokework?” he asked, but she shook her head.

“She might know a little, but no, just the herbal remedies in general. I was wondering why you didn’t scar much.”

Rook shrugged. “I have older ones, but uh — Scheffen didn’t like how much I did it.”

“So you just got better at hiding it?”

“I did stop for a while. I still don’t do it unless I’m using it for something. It was the habit I had to get out of — too much magic drifting about unused, and…” He wasn’t sure how to put it in words.

“It’s easy to get hooked on it. Yeah,” she said quietly.

“Your mum didn’t help you with the scarring?”

“My mum doesn’t know.”

Rook was about to nod — and then the present tense hit him like a ton of bricks. Doesn’t. Not didn’t. Not like Scheffen telling him off when he’d first started. Csindra’s mother didn’t know she did Bloodwork at all. He couldn’t blame her, but… still. It wasn’t like he knew anything about how mothers worked. Scheffen had been crystal clear that she didn’t count.

I should tell her about the spell, he thought with a twinge of guilt. Or, better idea, he’d just lift it before she found out. That sounded like a great idea. Because now — well, now, he felt bad. I’ll just lift it. Easy-peasy.

He’d just sleep a little first. No problem.

Then he could deal with the rest.

Comments

Lots happening in this chapter! And another red TW, oh dear… Well, look, if you didn’t know by now that Rook has some serious issues, I don’t know what to tell you. For what it’s worth, the narrative is deliberately vague about the spell that Rook cast, also because Rook is being a bit deliberately vague about it to himself.

The ‘modes’ mentioned in the chapter quote, by the way, are all real things! Most people are at least passingly familiar with the idea of keys, at least ‘major’ and ‘minor’ keys – major keys make things sound happy, minor keys make things sound sad and unresolved. What this leaves out is that there are actually multiple minor keys. A “major” key, or major scale, starts and end on the same note, and uses all the keys appropriate for that scale. For example, a C major scale is the easiest to visualize, because on a keyboard, it only uses the white keys – no sharps or flats, which is what the black keys on a piano are. C-D-E-F-G-A-B. Normally, when you start on another note for a major scale, you shift into whatever that key is, to make it “sound” major. (Ex: The key of G starts on G, but instead has the notes G-A-B-C-D-E-F#) Different modes start on a different note, but keeping all the notes the same. For example, the first mode, Ionian, is just a standard major – in C major, it’s as shown above, same with G. Dorian is the second mode up, which means it starts on the second note. So a Dorian scale for C major is D-E-F-G-A-B-C, and a Dorian scale for G major is A-B-C-D-E-F#-G. (So it looks like a C major scale, sort of, but it doesn’t sound like one.) In order, they’re Ionian, Dorian, Phrygian, Lydian, Mixolydian, Aeolian and Locrian. Of these, Aeolian is the most common other than a standard Ionian/major – it’s basically a normal minor key. The least common is Locrian, which is why here it’s mentioned as being the one that makes people uncomfortable and aggressive. “But why?” Well, listen for yourself. There are very few popular songs written in Locrian… but one that most people know is Army of Me by Bjork, where the instrumental part is written in a Locrian key.

Yeah, now you get it. (This is the great part about music. It all sounds like very boring math and then you hear it in action and get an immediate demonstration.) (I mean. It is very boring math. This is what happens when you’re taught in the classical fashion instead of Rocker Punk Style where you just bang on a guitar until it sounds good.)

This is the…. second? Second piece of Smokework we’ve seen, and the first time we’ve actually seen it being used I think – so this is a good time to mention that I’m (slowly) putting up all of my Smokework plants over on this page. All of the medicinal uses of the featured plants are taken from at least semi-reliable sources; I can certainly attest that aloe vera is actually used like this. The symbols are a little more complex. Some plants have a long history of symbolism associated with them; some, well, don’t. Others probably do, but the culture they’re from is closed and/or not particularly easy to get information on. I’ll get more into that later, but “acanthus for relief” isn’t one you’ll find in a lot of places, while birch for regeneration and aloe for affection are both well-attested.

Edited July 4th, 2022.

Song: All the Pretty Little Ponies by Kenny Loggins

Bell, Clock and Candle is free to read online and I don’t plan on changing that; however, if you like it and want to support its author, please consider supporting me with a Patreon pledge or a Ko-fi donation! For bonus goodies, Patreon readers get every chapter a week early, and pledging to the Elementals tier ($5+) gets you access to deleted scenes and conlang progress posts.

CW: PTSD flashbacks, paranoia

The Office of the Commander-in-Chief denies that such thing as the Black Guard ever existed; if such company ever existed, it was without the knowledge, approval or support of the Elessan Armed Forces, and the actions attributed to the Black Guard are roundly condemned.

Official Statement from the Desk of Commander Cyril Gabrielsohn Bergen, 1912

Truly, all I can bring myself to say is that I had no part in the decisions surrounding the North Anselm affair. I was outvoted, and since the matter’s now done, I don’t see any need to reopen those wounds.

Tribune Elias Jacobsohn Weiss, 1912

The men and women responsible for the devastating events in North Anselm have been taken care of; I believe that’s all the public really needs to know at this juncture. The Black Guard is just a myth, though. A fairy tale, cooked up by people looking for reason in horror.

Judge Heath Garrow, 1912

By the time Jacob managed to drag himself onto the tram, he’d officially run out of energy. He wasn’t going to be able to talk to any of the Garrows until tomorrow, but between the three of them, they’d wrangled the whole family into interviews – which they’d had to schedule, because security was that tight. It almost made him miss Dasta.

Which, all things being equal, was probably exactly why he was in such a gobshite mood.

He slumped down into the tram seat, elbow perched on the window and legs folded up in front of him. It shouldn’t have been comfortable, and it wasn’t really, but it was how he’d gotten used to riding on trams, and it was comfortable in its familiarity. It was… weird, he decided. And unsettling. He’d go months, sometimes a year or two, without even thinking about Dasta. Then he’d turn around, and something would remind him, and the wound would rip itself open again.

He cared that Coben was missing. Of course he did. He was a good lad, if a little off in the clouds, and besides, even if he didn’t know Coben particularly well, he knew Judge Garrow. Not closely, not anymore, very much by choice — but it was a feat of immense restraint on Garrow’s part that he wasn’t storming through the streets or threatening the manor families himself to find out where his son was. It wasn’t Jacob’s job, officially, to be looking for Coben; it was the 215th’s jurisdiction, as an act of likely terrorism or political violence. It wasn’t supposed to be him. It wasn’t supposed to be Heath Garrow, either. It was supposed to be Dasta. Never mind that he would have left a trail of blood; Dasta would have gotten the job done within half a day, if he’d even let Coben out of his sight long enough to be kidnapped in the first place.

Jacob chuckled a little, then shivered, pulling his jacket a little closer and peering out of the window. It was raining. Go figure. He’d even thought idly about bringing Tiffany home — but not tonight, not when his head was places it didn’t want to be, like how Coben now was older than Jacob had been back when Dasta was — well, alive wasn’t the right word. Awake. Around. Conscious. Existing. Would Tiffany or Heinkel bring him up? Probably. Everybody knew about Dasta Raspellov, part of the notorious Black Guard, the ex-Garrow bodyguard, practically the boogeyman. Jacob’s past — well, he kept that part to himself. It wasn’t a secret. People just didn’t have to know he’d been there, too. For one, it didn’t make people think he was uniquely suited for defusing tense political situations he didn’t want anything to do with — Sylvia, he growled to himself, even though it was Garrow who’d asked for him in the first place — or finding lost idiots. Two, it meant he could be the goof who didn’t want to do his job and not someone with more blood on his hands than he knew what to do with. That was nice. That was good.

That was the funny thing, though, about someone like Garrow letting you live. There was no such thing as a favour with no strings attached. He couldn’t say no. So when he closed his eyes, it was with a growing migraine and the taste of salt at the back of his tongue.

A moment later, he found himself being shaken awake. “—Eh?”

“You fell asleep on the tram again, you dork.”

Jacob blinked his eyes open, then sighed, shoulders relaxing as he realized who it was. “Don’t tell me.”

“Did the whole circuit.” Rook crossed his arms, biting his lip and trying not to grin down at him. “Aren’t you glad we only take the Parkland route?”

Great. He really was out of it today. He shouldn’t have stayed out so late yesterday, although he was lucky — if he’d been on a different tram, the whole circuit would have taken hours instead of the ninety minutes the Parkland route took. He’d ended up right back at the Centrum. “At least someone noticed.”

“Yeah, and at least it was me and not someone trying to mug you.” Rook plonked himself down in the seat next to Jacob, and Jacob couldn’t help a wry glance at Rook’s hair – long enough to brush against his shoulders, even if barely. Every now and again he talked himself into a haircut, and it never lasted. Another month and it’d be full-length again; Jacob had to admit it looked best that way.

“You say that like you’re not the scariest thing out here — ow!”

Rook drew his fist back from Jacob’s shoulder, looking just a mite too self-satisfied. “Yes, which is exactly why you should be happy to have me along. Nobody ever tries to mug me. More than once, anyway.”

“I pity the thief who tries,” came Djaneki’s wry, distracted comment from across the aisle. Jacob peered over the top of Rook’s head. The merc was poring over a book on her lap, which wasn’t what he’d expected — although, he noticed, she wasn’t reading it quickly.

“You were the thief who tried.”

“If you think that’s how I try to rob someone, I’m not going to tell you otherwise.”

Rook looked horribly offended. Jacob bit his lip, desperately trying not to laugh — especially when Rook glared at him. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“Hey, she’s got a point. Also, what gave you that idea?”

“Hmph.” Rook glanced at Djaneki, who’d returned to her book completely, and blew a raspberry. “I was looking up demons. The smart ones, mostly, but that narrows it down either too much or too little depending on your definition. Next thing I know, she’s taking out a book on feral magic procedures. Weirdo.”

Jacob chuckled, although his conversation with Djaneki suddenly came to mind, feeling like he was missing something. Maybe that was just his whole day. Feeling like he was missing a shadow in the twilight.

It took him a moment to realize Rook was watching him. “Are you okay? I swear ever since I got back you’ve been… I don’t know. Off.”

“I could say much the same to you,” Jacob mumbled, which wasn’t a denial. Mostly he was embarrassed that Rook had noticed. He usually tried to keep his moods away from the kid, but he’d gotten a little out of practice, and it was getting harder. When Rook had been an actual kid, sure, it’d been easy enough. Now that he was, well, basically grown, it was a pain how observant he was.

Rook looked a little huffy at Jacob’s comment, propping his boots up against the seat in front of him — unoccupied, Jacob was happy to see — and toying with the hem of his skirt. “Wolfie said you weren’t particularly enjoying being on the Garrow case.”

“It ain’t exactly low stress. I’d give it back to the 215th in a second.” Then Jacob laughed. “Wolfie’s desperate for a case. I’d let him have it if I thought he was the right person for it, but honestly, I wouldn’t wish being responsible for Coben Garrow on anybody.”

“What do you mean, you don’t want the moron with the attention span of a butterfly on the sensitive political issue?” Rook snarked — with a little more edge than Jacob was quite comfortable with. He doubted there was any real cruelty to it; he just couldn’t figure out when things had soured between the two. Or, really, if Wolfie had any idea.

“How much you wanna bet he’ll show up tomorrow with a hangover?” Rook asked — but Jacob shook his head.

“You’ve never met him, huh?”

“I’m pretty sure Scheffen’s actively avoided having me anywhere near the Judge’s family, so no.” Then Rook gave him a curious look. “You have?”

“Yeah, a few times. He’s —” He shrugged, a little helplessly. “I don’t know. If it was someone more like you, sure, maybe he’d just be on a bender somewhere.”

“Should I be insulted?”

He laughed, ruffling Rook’s hair then watching with no shortage of joy as Rook sulkily leaned forward and fixed it in the glass. “Nah. My point is — he’s pretty serious. A mite too serious.”

Rook took that in, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “…So you think he was kidnapped.”

“I’m… really hoping not.”

“Kidnapping means ransom, though, right? So you just have to wait for a note.”

“Yeah, well. Lots of people with bones to pick with Garrow.”

“That’s what I don’t get. You’d think people would be happy not having a crazy-ass in charge.”

If only politics were so easy. Besides, Garrow didn’t have clean hands either — and too many people were happy to take out their fury at one triumvir on another. “Couple too many people forget he’s not a dictator.”

“I feel like he’d have to be a lot worse.”

“Not in the sense of being bad, just — he’s supposed to be one of three, right? Hard to remember that sometimes, especially if you’re old enough to remember Forrath as a sole ruler.”

Rook frowned, but seemed to process it alright. It was complicated, Jacob admitted, and even he struggled with it sometimes. Elessa rested on a system of three leaders, or was supposed to; the Judge was the elected leader of Parliament, the Commander-in-Chief was the leader of the military, chosen by the Generals, and the Tribune was the elected leader of the Prole Assembly. That was all well and good, until you had someone like Forrath in charge for thirty years. That was what dictator meant – a single ruler with absolute power. The Judge wasn’t supposed to be like royalty. It also wasn’t supposed to be an inherited position.

“What about the Judge himself? What’s he like? I mean, obviously I’ve seen his speeches and stuff. I just haven’t actually met him.”

Jacob raised an eyebrow at Rook. “Why the sudden interest?” He was also surprised Rook didn’t know more of this, but he supposed there was something about NatSec focusing on specific details and political hotspots that meant sometimes you missed the bigger picture.

Rook glanced back at Csindra, and lowered his voice a little, sounding a bit embarrassed. “Nothing. Just, uh. I don’t know, I should know more—”

He stifled a laugh, trying not to make Rook feel bad, but he couldn’t help a small, sardonic poke. “She’s showing you up a little, huh?”

“Listen, I didn’t know there was a bottomless lake in Etamara. My ego’s suffering. Help me out here.”

“Poor you, having to deal with other clever people. He’s…” Jacob paused, thinking about it. It was kind of ironic, really. He’d already been thinking about Dasta. Heath Garrow was from the same set of memories — ones he didn’t like — but at least editing them for someone else tasted a little better. “He’s reasonable, which I like. Not about everything, but that’s politics for you. Very normal, which is kind of weird.”

“Normal how?”

“He keeps pics of his wife and kids in his wallet.”

“What? Really?” Rook crossed his arms. “I don’t believe you. The Judge doesn’t need a wallet.”

“He’s still a man, Rook. And I swear, hand to heaven. So you see why I think he might put my head on a pike if I don’t find Coben, but he’ll apologize while doing it.”

“Is it bad that I’m laughing at you?”

Jacob was ready to respond to that, but unbidden, a memory came back to him — of Garrow apologizing to him, squeezing his hand in a way that almost felt genuine, that he wanted to believe, before leaving the room. He’d been in handcuffs. You and Sylvia are cleared of all charges. Be happy with that, at least.

“Jacob?”

“Mm?” Shit. When Rook was noticing, he really wasn’t hiding his mood well. “Soz— Sorry. Tired, I guess.”

“Try sleeping in a bed. That usually helps.”

“Aye, I promise.”

“And maybe we can help on each other’s cases. I mean, they’re both NatSec/Investigations, right? Why not?”

He supposed it couldn’t hurt, so he gave Rook a smile, and hoisted himself to his feet at their tram stop. Rook clambered out first, and he watched Csindra negotiate the tram steps, trying not to betray his amusement before following her out onto the rapidly flooding pavement and into the apartment building. “I see you decided to stick around,” he commented, trying not to sound too pleased.

“Money’s a powerful motivator,” she sulked. “…That, and I might actually care about this case he took. Or that Scheffen foisted on him. I can’t actually tell which.”

“Bit of column A, bit of column B, but he’d probably be consulting one way or another.”

He gave them a wave as they got into the elevator, keeping it together until they were out of sight — then leaned heavily against the wall. He needed a drink, which was never a good sign. He needed to stop thinking about Dasta. Dasta, and Rémy, and the Black Guard in general. He —

Something prickled at the back of his neck. Something wasn’t right.

Jacob returned to the door at the front of their apartment building, scrubbing a circle in the glass. He couldn’t see anything. That didn’t mean much, though.

What was he picking up on? He still had Black Guard instincts, even dulled by ten years away from a war zone. Something was different. Something had been bugging him ever since he got to his feet, something —

His pocket. There was something heavy in his pocket, something that hadn’t been there before, something he hadn’t put there.

He’d been asleep on the tram.

I’m not that out of practice. I would have woken up —

Unless the person had been damn good at what they did.

He reached into his pocket carefully, and wrapped his fingers around whatever it was. It was smooth and round; he pulled it out of the leather folds. A handkerchief, wrapped around a stone – as he pulled the cloth away, he saw it wasn’t just a stone, but one of the polished minerals, the kind used by some thaums. He didn’t have them memorized, but he recognized this one. Green, splattered with colour. If he just took a minute, he’d be able to place it.

He unwrapped the rest of the silk handkerchief — then froze. The initials CHG were stitched into the corner in neat embroidery. Coben’s handkerchief. It was a bloodstone.

Well, that answered one question, he thought grimly. He scanned the outdoors through the glass one more time, then quietly, calmly, let himself into his apartment. Nothing had been disturbed. The lock hadn’t been picked. That made sense. He’d only taken the case today.

Jacob sat down on his couch, chewing on his fingernails for a moment, then picked up the phone. “Major Scheffen,” he said, once the operator had put him through. He kept his voice steady. That much, he could still do. “Got a moment?”

COMMENTS

It’s fascinating, thinking about how inured we’ve become to the idea of all characters owning cars; even though I don’t live in the U.S., don’t drive and don’t have as many friends who drive as you’d expect, I actually had to stop and mentally process that in this time and place, cars would still be a luxury. Less of one than you’d think — but certainly in a downtown core like Den Elessa, not that many people would own their own, and actually learning how to drive a car at this time was still a deeply complex process. (Have you seen how hard Model Ts are to drive? They’re HARD.) The U.S. in particular has had its public transit systems steadily cannibalized over the years, and so it genuinely took a moment to realize that Den Elessa would have a streetcar system. Most places at this time did. If you’re not familiar with the word ‘tram’ it just means the same thing as streetcar – think of the Red Car in Who Framed Roger Rabbit.

The Black Guard is another tricky period bit, where terms like Black Ops are very modern, but Elessa isn’t not modern. The interwar period is something where we don’t think about military aspects much, and the “modern spy” comes about in WW2 for the most part, so ‘Black Ops’ is a hard thing to make entirely fit with the period. At the same time, infiltrators, poisoners, assassins, etc. have been around forever, so I ended up getting a little creative with the name. It really illustrates how much high fantasy sticks with medieval and Renaissance aesthetics, and how often our modern or near-historical aesthetics don’t date to any earlier than the 50s. (The name also ends up being a marvellous pun, which I confess might actually be my favourite part.)

Edited July 4th.

SONG: Nothing for Free by Pendulum

Bell, Clock and Candle is free to read online and I don’t plan on changing that; however, if you like it and want to support its author, please consider supporting me with a Patreon pledge or a Ko-fi donation! For bonus goodies, Patreon readers get every chapter a week early, and pledging to the Elementals tier ($5+) gets you access to deleted scenes and conlang progress posts.