Page 91 of A Trade of Blood

“Will you still do this task for Ana?” I whispered through my helm. “Questioning the servants and snooping about to learn more of Sagma’s death?”

“You want to try to talk me out of it now, of all times?”

“No. I want to give you something to look for.” I watched as the Orbiis loaded Sagma’s body into the cart. “Sagma Armenta was not hanged with a rope. The bruising on her neck was very unusual. Too narrow, too smooth.” I held up my fingers to show the width of the contusion. “It makes me think Ana was quite right to be suspicious.”

“So she could have…what, been choked to death and just arranged there, hanging?”

“I don’t know. But were I you, I would try to find out more—specifically about how she was found. I can confirm she was definitely infected with the web. But if she was truly found hanging by the neck, then the manner of how she was put there is greatly suspect to me.”

“I see. Did you find anything else?”

The sight of the flensing halls arose in my thoughts then: the reeking mireponds, and the mountain of bones swarming with vermin. I felt an impulse to ask her of it: if she had known such a place existed, perhaps, and if she knew that such death and ruin occurred mere leagues from the grand, beautiful pastures of the Armentas.

Yet I knew the question was foolish. Of course she knew. How she had reconciled herself to it I could not imagine, but she certainly knew.

“Well?” Fotia said anxiously. “Did you?”

“No,” I said. “No. That is all.”

With a nod and a whisper of goodbye, Fotia paced back to Trikao, who had sat down on the ground, knees shaking.

—

The ride backto Lacanthim was far more dismal than the ride out. The rain had stopped, denying the Orbiis any distraction—and, of course, we now had three wrapped, nude, infected corpses aboard withus.

But none seemed more abject than Tauri, who refused to remove his warding helm, even though we were now far from the flensing halls, and even though he was obviously parched, sweating, and near dehydration. Warding suits could be dangerous things, but especially for a person as altered and sensitive ashe.

“Your eyes are swollen, sir,” I warned him. “I can see them through your helm. It’s been hours, sir. Shouldn’ty—”

“I will suffer more,” he snapped, “if I take the helmet off now! The winds are all wrong! Don’t test me on this, Kol!”

When we finally arrived at Lacanthim, Tauri ripped his helmet off and took a great gasping breath. He looked terrible, his pale skin now bright red and his forehead dripping with sweat.

“Would you like my waterskin?” I asked, offering it to him.

“No, no!” he rasped. “I must have my own. I am forced to drink…drink different waters after such dehydration.” He pulled out his own waterskin and drank deeply from it, whispering, “Thank Sanctum…” Then he staggered away and sat in a small stretch of pasture, drinking in water and sucking in the air.

I followed him. Tauri sat hunched in the grasses and fumbled about with a small object in his hands. Then, with an air of practiced nonchalance, he produced a small pipe, threaded a glass cylinder filled with a yellow powder into its cup, shook it, and puffed atit.

I watched him, slightly incredulous: this, I knew, was urlev-puff, a powerful mood stimulant that draped the mind in a blanket of pleasant bafflement. It was not only highly regulated but wildly illegal foruse in the imperial services. And yet somehow—perhaps due to his very affected insouciance as he puffed at it again—Ifelt bemused rather than shocked.

“Will you arrest me for this indulgence, Signum Kol?” he sighed, exhaling mist from his lips.

“Doing so would cripple my investigation, sir,” I said, sidling up to him. “So probably not.”

“How very practical,” he drawled. His eyes were now densely reddened, and he grinned and sucked at his pipe again. “A bit odd, isn’t it, that the Empire forbids the use of moodies in the Iyalets—and yet if you are stationed at the walls, they give you no end of treats and tinctures to keep your mind stable.” A curl of urlev-mist leaked out of his lips and up his cheeks. “Tough to get the real stuff these days. I am forced to resort to cheaper methods. Isn’t quite the same.”

“You find Sapirdad as stressful as a Legionnaire might the sea walls?”

He laughed roughly. “Perhaps! You might know. You yourself have been at the sea walls, I think. True?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Mm. I can tell. Engravers always pick up little things from other people. Habits and tricks and such. Part of your memorization, I suppose. The Legion has a very particular way of bowing—showing the back of the neck at the bottom. You bow the precise same way.” Another great draught of water, another suck at his pipe. “I was there, too, once. But that does not shock you, of course.”

I said nothing. Just waited.

“You were quite right before, Kol. Found myself stationed on a bombard crew some fourteen years ago. My duty was to design, manage, and aim great, hellish weapons, and rain down slaughter upon those unearthly abominations. Did my bit, bore the smokes and the blasts. Then they asked if I would like to go elsewhere—for the Orbiis in Sapirdad had need of a new commander. It seemed like heaven, compared to what I’d witnessed. Being a gardener for this little patch of pleasant earth? Delightful. But—you haven’t ever seen an Orbiis Caelia, have you?”