Without waiting for the others to depart, Ogdon limped the length of the plank and onto the docks. Up close, the city’s resemblance to Pareo all but dissolved. These were not a breed of culture and wealth, but of salt and fish and bitterness. Sailors made the most of them, of the kind he’d only heard tales about, and the rest were western spice peddlers, or else locals bundled in sheep-skins. Their movement was constant; in and out of ships and houses—half-buried cottages save for the frequent taverns rising stories above the steep gable peaks. Only the chimney stacks seemed to reach higher. Beyond them, the eye was consumed by gray smoke and sky, though the squire knew better. Not far to the east along the rocky shore stood the clerics’ retired fortress, Quiet Tower, its crystalline panes a dim beacon amidst the gray.
This won’t take long, thought Sylvertre, that he’d find an eastward vessel and be back with the others before they saw the dawn. He was wrong. On the docks, the crowd ran thick as his broken ankle, and his good leg turned stiff in the cold. Blood burned in his cheeks, none in his nose as he limped, sniffling, a makeshift crutch constructed from the lames of a barrel stuffed hard under his sword arm. He took pride in knowing that: that he was a sworn squire, that he could call it his sword arm, and that these plebeians he passed glared not at him, but at a disguise. They might believe him to be a beggar, as the first few shipmasters did, and turn him away to continue his search. But it’s their loss, he thought, squeezing a heavy purse beneath the folds of his cloak. They’re wrong about me. All of them. Even Gildmane can’t say that he’s faced a brackdragon—and lived! He hastened his pace, suddenly proud of his injury. Then his grin turned grimace as he placed his weight on his swollen foot. All of them but Jael.
An hour later, his task at last done, he wondered despite himself what sort of demon she’d braved. Ogdon charged the captain with giving him those superstitious thoughts. He’d delivered the letters to the first carrier who’d take them, Belaykrov, a Hibernis lumber vessel promised to supply at the ports north of Aestas. There, a contract was drafted and signed at the captain’s insistence. Copies were scribed, and coin was exchanged. It was more than he could have hoped for: records and witnesses to corroborate his evidence—secret copies of Trey’s written confessionals—yet, a strange angst impressed upon him. He’d felt it as soon as he’d boarded the Hibernis ship and would have withdrawn had it not been the last left in the harbor. The crew were entirely foreigners, dark skinned where it showed, unintelligible when they spoke through thick head scarves; and their captain, the only Messaii man aboard, refused to come out into the open air. So they met in the cabin. He was a pale man, this captain, his complexion, hair and eyes white as ivory, underdressed in thin silks, yet unperturbed by the chill.
Hobbling opposite across the dock from the way he came, Sylvertre shivered pondering if it were truly possible for a man to sell his soul—by action if not by agreement. By then, he’d figured the crew to be slaves. The practice had long since been deemed blasphemous, but he’d heard that God’s law was not followed the same in the Enclave as it was in the rest of the country. Nor in the west, nor the north it seemed as Ogdon struggled up the steepening bluff. Beaten road became rocky soil became an ancient bed of pocked, faded mortar. On this rested the Quiet Tower.
The first hundred feet shone bright with new plaster, only the ocean side baring the granite underneath. And to the west buttressed a parish of queer construction, of wooden columns and triangular spires and sheer tiled peaks. Nowhere did Sylvertre see a Messaii cross—not a pane of stained glass, nor an icon of a saint—just stained wood, whitewash, and an eye set inside a trinity. Ogdon stopped a dozen paces before the parish portal to examine the image and rest his swollen leg. At first, he mistook the symbol for the Watcher’s Eye. The Tower was home to clerics, once upon a time; it would be expected he’d find their markings there. But this façade was new, and the clerics had been gone from Quiet Harbor for decades. It seemed odd to him for them to keep it. Maybe it’s just tradition, he reasoned. What else is religion, anyway? Then he limped a leg closer and noticed three names, each carved along one face of the trinity: Patrem, Sol, and Ventus.
The Tower doors creaked, and a pair of tonsured elders greeted him.
“What might you be doing here? The hour of alms is over,” spoke the stout man to the right.
Ogdon lifted his chin to look the elder in the eyes. They were steel, his vestments white, a woolen cowl covering his shoulders—peaking beneath it, another Eye. “I’m with the Saint’s Cross, why?” replied the squire, too much hostility in his voice.
The elder replied in kind, his hand solid as iron as it closed on the throat of Ogdon’s cloak. “Because my job here is to root out the snakes. The Cross is already inside. Lie to me again, boy, and I’ll brain you like a pagan.”
“Come now, Thomas, there’s no need for violence,” interjected the second elder—a man taller and softer. He blanketed his
