Canticle

standard cipher and inquired after Petronus’s health, offered a few lines about the “recent troubles on the Delta” but all in all had nothing particularly useful. But the code was there, and though Rudolfo could see it, plain as plain, he could not read it.

He looked around the bench and saw no other letters. Just empty parchment, though the box of matches and the metal pail on the floor nearby explained why. Bending slightly, he sniffed the bucket and wrinkled his nose at the scent of fish guts and smoke.

Bringing the note, he walked to the back of the boat house where his medico bent over his two patients. Rudolfo put his hand on the scout’s shoulder and pressed his message into the hard muscle he found there. Prognosis?

The medico straightened, handing off a steaming mug to one of the scouts who assisted him. The scout knelt and resumed soaking a cotton bandage in the bitter-smelling elixir, pressing it to the lips of the unconscious Gray Guard. “They’ll live, but they’re not well. They need to be abed in a warmer, dryer place.”

The one who’d answered the door coughed so violently that he shook, but he still tried to sit up. “The bird,” he said, his eyes wild and wide.

“The bird is safe and sound,” Rudolfo said. “But you are neither safe nor sound here. The powders are undoing you, and you will need better care and rest than this hovel can afford you.” He nodded to the coops behind him. “You’re running a message post,” he said. “Why?”

The man swallowed, his eyes lighting upon the note in Rudolfo’s hand. “I am under Grymlis’s orders.”

Rudolfo leaned closer. “And what are those orders,” he asked, “exactly?”

The man’s eyes were glazing over from the exertion of sitting up. He shivered and fell back. “I don’t know the codes,” he said. “I can’t tell what I don’t know.”

Rudolfo gritted his teeth. The damnable paranoia of the powders combined with the normal caution of a loyal man were wearing his thin patience thinner yet. “I’ve not asked the codes. I’ve asked your orders.” He forced a reasonable tone to his voice and he lowered it. “I am a friend of the Order,” he said. “You’d know this if you were in your right mind.”

The man laughed. “The Order has no friends.”

Rudolfo sighed. “Very well. You’ve left me little choice.” He whistled, and First Lieutenant Jaryk entered, concern washing his face. “Dig up scout uniforms for these men, and when they’re dressed, bring the horses. Two of our own will stay here with me to mind the birds. I will hope to sort this puzzle out myself.” He gestured to the two Gray Guard. “These you’ll deliver to the inn in Kendrick’s Town. Lodge them there for three weeks’ time under my good credit.” He waved his hand. “Tell the innkeeper the truth-that they’re overmagicked and crazed from exhaustion.” His eyes narrowed. “They should be restrained at all times until in their right mind.”

The Gray Guard’s eyes went wild. “No, Lord,” he said. “We can’t leave our-”

Rudolfo’s voice lowered to a near whisper. “You are leaving your post one way or another. You either leave it in the care of my fully informed Gypsy Scouts or you leave it in more haphazard straits.”

Swallowing one part pride and a good measure of phlegm, the Gray Guard passed his orders on to Rudolfo. Rudolfo knelt beside him, listening carefully, as he did.

By the time the soldier finished and sagged back into his filthy bedding, Rudolfo knew all he needed to know. Taking the note, he scribbled his own code into the letter carefully. He worked the message into each jot and tittle, each smudge and blur of ink. Then, he pulled the next bird from its cage and tied the modified message to its foot with the green thread of peace.

Suddenly, he remembered another bird, over a year past now, under the same color and going to Sethbert at the edge of the Desolation of Windwir. This felt just as much the lie as that message back then. He looked at the other threads scattered across the workbench.

“They should all be red,” he said aloud in a voice that sounded more tired than he thought he should be.

Lifting the bird to the window, he whispered a name and gave his message to the grayness of the sky.

Petronus

Hushed voices met his ears as Petronus’s unseen escort guided him through the streets. Blindfolded and magicked, firm hands kept him on his feet and moving forward though his legs were gone to water and the sound of his heartbeat filled his head.

“You’ll be fine,” Rafe Merrique had told him that morning with a wink. “You may have a few nightmares. Beyond that, you’ll be good as new by morning.”

Petronus had agreed reluctantly, letting the pirate dab the traces of the white powder to his shoulders and feet, forehead and tongue. Then he’d felt his stomach wobble-along with the room-when the magicks took hold.

Now, he and his men were being jostled quickly through what sounded and smelled like a fish market. He listened for any telltale clue that might speak to their location but found, instead, all of his attention went to staying upright and moving forward. He did not know how Grymlis and his men maintained themselves so well, coming late as they did to the powders. And then there were men like Rudolfo’s Gypsy Scouts, bred to the magicks and knives and using both as if made to do so. It awed him.

His stomach knotted into a cramp that caught his breath in his throat, and he staggered. “I’m going to be sick,” he said in a muffled voice.

No one answered, but a hand on his shoulder squeezed in a reassuring way. It took him a moment to get his brain around the tapped message.

We’re nearly there. He had no idea whose hand it was; he didn’t care. Instead, he gave himself to putting one foot in front of the other. He reached into his memory to find one of the hundred Franci meditations he’d used to bring calm and comfort, but none of the muttered words could blot out the drumbeat of his heart, now pounding just out of time with the other hundred heartbeats within earshot. He heard the rasp of breath in and breath out, the jangled cacophony of a thousand other simple actions, all enhanced by the magicks, and he understood why their use had been forbidden by the Articles of Kin-Clave under all but extreme circumstances.

Then, the afternoon light that burned into his scalp vanished and he felt shadows enfold him. He felt solid, stone steps beneath his leather boots. The press of bodies around him moved down like a river that carried him in its current; cool air licked his face and arms.

They turned and turned again, a Whymer Maze of corridors. At some point, he was separated from the others and opened his mouth to protest. But before he could speak, the hand was back to his shoulder. Your host wishes a few minutes alone with you.

Resolved, Petronus allowed himself to be led farther into the maze.

Finally, they stopped and hands went to the back of Petronus’s head. More hands settled him back into a chair. The intensity of light when the blindfold came down stung his eyes and he blinked.

“When I was ten years old,” a voice said from across the room, “I heard you speak in Carthas during the Year of the Falling Moon. Two years later, I mourned your death and swore vengeance upon your assassins with all of the fervor of a twelve-year-old boy.” There was a pause. “When I took my vows to the Order, I did so under your portrait in the Great Library.”

Petronus looked in the direction of the voice. A stocky man with a careless beard and spectacles smiled. “You are still under the magicks,” the man said. “You have my apologies for that, Father. I know they’re. uncomfortable.”

Petronus opened his mouth and found it dry. He licked his lips. “You’re Androfrancine, then?”

“I was.” His smile faded. “I guard another light now.”

Petronus dug through his memory for snippets of code brought by the bird. What was his name? It came to him suddenly. “You’re Esarov the Democrat, then.”

He nodded. “I am.”

Petronus chuckled. “You’ve been busy. How many of the city-states are a part of your congress now?”

“Four as of yesterday.”

He remembered the declaration Esarov and his cronies had posted on the door of the Overseer’s puppet Council of Governors. It had been a bold move on the heels of Sethbert’s unjust attack on Windwir and the war it spurred. With its economy broken and the war lost, that small seed of unrest grew into a choked forest of revolution, with this man-the author of the declaration-at its forefront.