Valmin's office smelled of burnt tea, chalk, and bitter herbs. Valmin was already at his desk when Timha entered. The room was filled with stacks and stacks of books, most of which were unavailable to the general populace. Some were proscribed by Mab, forbidden even to Master Valmin himself, and the fact that these books were currently resting open in front of Valmin was as good a sign as any that the Project was in deep trouble.
The walls and floor of the spacious chamber were surfaced in smooth slate, installed by journeyer Elementalists who no doubt had been annoyed at the task but had done an excellent job nonetheless. Nearly every free bit of space on the walls was filled with arcane sigils, mathematical equations, apothecarian symbols, and diagrams of the dance at the heart of the Project, drawn in white chalk.
During the night, Timha noticed, Valmin had erased some of the equations relating to the stored energy bindings. For a moment Timha's heart rose in hope, but then he realized that Valmin had simply replaced yesterday's unworkable mathematics with those from the day before. Every light they shone on some aspect of the Project seemed to cast some other part more deeply into shadow.
'Good morning, journeyer,' said Valmin, not looking up from his text. This was the Red Book, so called from the color of its binding; books on the Black Art were required to be nameless. Valmin had been spending more and more time studying this particular volume. Was he on to something?
'Anything, master?' said Timha. His voice came out thin and reedy, almost rasping.
Valmin looked up briefly from his book. 'Trust me, Timha, if I have glad tidings in the middle of the night I will drag you out of bed myself.'
Timha suddenly felt like crying. How shameful would it be to burst into tears in front of Master Valmin? The thought of it chilled Timha enough to let the tears subside. But it wasn't fair! It wasn't fair!
The Project simply ought to have yielded up its secrets to them by now. After all the work they'd put in, the long hours poring over the plans, the detailed instructions, the philosophical notes that Hy Pezho had left. Every separate part of the thing made sense, if an esoteric and abstract sense. But when put together in the way described in the plans, the interaction of alchemy, bindings, and the essence of the raw materials, the totality of it became so complex that no one could hope to understand it all. It was simply impossible for a Fae mind to hold together all at once.
Valmin and Timha had been forced to admit that Hy Pezho was a genius, perhaps the greatest thaumaturge of his age, if these plans were to be believed. But there was nothing in Hy Pezho's history that indicated where he might have come across such knowledge. The son of the great Black Artist Pezho, he had spent his early years wandering from city to city, squandering his father's small fortune and giving the world no reason to afford him any regard whatsoever. Then he'd disappeared for several years, and the next thing anyone knew he'd become one of Mab's inner circle. And the next thing anyone knew after that, he was gone, the mention of his name forbidden at court. His only legacy, as far as Timha knew, was the Project. The Einswrath. Citykiller. But what a legacy it was. A thing of such elegance and power, such might.
If only Hy Pezho were here to explain it.
'What can I do?' said Timha, dreading the answer.
Valmin looked up wearily. He waved at a stack of books on the table opposite him. 'The answer is in there somewhere,' he sighed. 'Find it.'
Outside, the portal lock shimmered and choked out two tall, gaunt figures in blue robes. The guards at the lock started at their sudden entrance, reached for their swords, then dropped them when they recognized the robes.
The arch of the lock stood on a lonely rocky promontory connected to the Secret City by a long, narrow bridge of chalky stone. All around was the roiling, slithering sky. Guards for this posting were handpicked for their ability to avoid looking upward.
One of the men had skin as pale as moonlight. The other was so dark that his eyes seemed to glow from an empty void. The guards looked away. It was not permitted to speak to Bel Zheret unless spoken to. And neither of them had even the slightest desire to be spoken to.
The pale-skinned Bel Zheret was named Dog. His partner was Asp. Dog and Asp strode toward the bridge arm in arm. They were in a fine temper. They loved each other.
At the entrance to the city, the sentries likewise lowered their eyes and their weapons to allow Dog and Asp to pass. The Bel Zheret flowed through the entrance, robes sweeping across the stones in a most aesthetically pleasing manner.
As soon as they'd turned the corner past the sentry booth, the sergeant took a message sprite from its jar, gave it careful instructions, and then released it. It flew with an urgency typically unknown among sprites.
Above, at the entrance to the research facility, the head guardsman received the sprite and took its message. His eyes widened. He gave a hand signal to the second-in-command, and she ran.
Bel Zheret were coming.
