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Authors: Susannah Appelbaum
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awful lot of time beneath the ground. Not Malapert—the disgraced Librarian who tossed the flame that consumed all the ancient books in his care, burning the many magical testaments and works of a dying king. Not eventhe horrendous Vidal Verjouce, who wandered the maze of crypts without the need of a torch (for what blind man needs light?).
Perhaps the only beings who knew the nature of the underworld were the Outriders, who inhabited the darkest regions of the catacombs. Yet they would not speak of such things—they could not speak of such things. They were without their tongues.
No, the subrector Snaith had been spending a lot of time beneath the city because it was there—in the hallowed ground of a decrepit crypt—that the weed called scourge bracken grew.
Snaith watched now as the forger Dumbcane returned to his production line with a vessel of Lumpen’s water. Procuring a sample with a long ladle, the scribe scurried to a side workstation. He wore thick leather gloves against the caustic ink, which reached above his elbows, nearly meeting his stained smock. But these he eagerly tore off, shedding them haphazardly at his feet.
In a small series of practiced steps, Dumbcane strained and poured, sniffed and swirled, and admired the blue-black vial. The ink had been so refined, the scourge bracken made so potent, it was no longer a mere liquid. It was thick, gelatinous—sneaky, even. It moved unhurriedly, leaving a trail of slime in its wake within the small tube.
Squinting, he carefully tapped the vial with a chipped andblackened fingernail. He peered in, closer, a beleaguered smile across his cracked lips. There was but one final test. With a shaking hand, he coaxed a single bead into the thinnest of glass pipettes and allowed it to pool at the tip—reflecting a thousandfold the fires that burned behind him. Finally, the droplet oozed into his cupped palm.
The searing pain and resulting acrid smoke were indeed the most welcome events in the scribe’s life. He stifled a cry.
Perfection!
Lumpen’s water had indeed been the missing ingredient. So viscous, it was like liquid shadow. Barely ink any longer, it was fuel for an empire. It was a weapon of tyrannical rule—the ultimate poison. One capable of blotting out the very sun.
Exalted, he raised the vial in the ashen air of the Warming Room—and then, in a moment of temptation, he lowered it, clutching it to his breast secretively, peering about him. The scourge bracken called out to him even now. Wiping his brow with the back of his hand, he contemplated his options. His eyes darted for the arched door. The calligrapher conspired privately—as the scourge bracken ink tore his conscience in two—until a hand gloved in red leather made its acquaintance with his frail shoulder.
There ended any hope Dumbcane had of delivering his personal achievement to the blind Director, for Snaith had arrived to claim the sample, and the credit.
Chapter Twenty
The Message
he blind Director did not take any notice of the shards of icy glass that were all that remained of the diamond-shaped window in his chambers, for buoyed by scourge bracken, the Director was impervious to the cold.
The trestleman writer was not as fortunate.
Axlerod D. Roux lay in his cramped cage, shivering, drifting in and out of consciousness. His prison was beside the shattered opening, and his view was of the distant city below, the twisting cobbled streets and Guild offices, the shuttered shops, the towering wall.
He was vaguely aware of a scarlet-clad visitor—not that turncoat Dumbcane, as usual. He recognized Snaith’s crablike scurrying, his soft slippers scraping against the stone floor. There were murmurings, a few sharp words.
The trestleman took this all in—the delivery of a small ampoule, the intense agitation of the ink monkeys, the shadowy look of triumph upon the stained face of Vidal Verjouce. And then he felt a cloying sleep wash over him, the sleep of one so cold that in
Perhaps the only beings who knew the nature of the underworld were the Outriders, who inhabited the darkest regions of the catacombs. Yet they would not speak of such things—they could not speak of such things. They were without their tongues.
No, the subrector Snaith had been spending a lot of time beneath the city because it was there—in the hallowed ground of a decrepit crypt—that the weed called scourge bracken grew.
Snaith watched now as the forger Dumbcane returned to his production line with a vessel of Lumpen’s water. Procuring a sample with a long ladle, the scribe scurried to a side workstation. He wore thick leather gloves against the caustic ink, which reached above his elbows, nearly meeting his stained smock. But these he eagerly tore off, shedding them haphazardly at his feet.
In a small series of practiced steps, Dumbcane strained and poured, sniffed and swirled, and admired the blue-black vial. The ink had been so refined, the scourge bracken made so potent, it was no longer a mere liquid. It was thick, gelatinous—sneaky, even. It moved unhurriedly, leaving a trail of slime in its wake within the small tube.
Squinting, he carefully tapped the vial with a chipped andblackened fingernail. He peered in, closer, a beleaguered smile across his cracked lips. There was but one final test. With a shaking hand, he coaxed a single bead into the thinnest of glass pipettes and allowed it to pool at the tip—reflecting a thousandfold the fires that burned behind him. Finally, the droplet oozed into his cupped palm.
The searing pain and resulting acrid smoke were indeed the most welcome events in the scribe’s life. He stifled a cry.
Perfection!
Lumpen’s water had indeed been the missing ingredient. So viscous, it was like liquid shadow. Barely ink any longer, it was fuel for an empire. It was a weapon of tyrannical rule—the ultimate poison. One capable of blotting out the very sun.
Exalted, he raised the vial in the ashen air of the Warming Room—and then, in a moment of temptation, he lowered it, clutching it to his breast secretively, peering about him. The scourge bracken called out to him even now. Wiping his brow with the back of his hand, he contemplated his options. His eyes darted for the arched door. The calligrapher conspired privately—as the scourge bracken ink tore his conscience in two—until a hand gloved in red leather made its acquaintance with his frail shoulder.
There ended any hope Dumbcane had of delivering his personal achievement to the blind Director, for Snaith had arrived to claim the sample, and the credit.
Chapter Twenty
The Message
he blind Director did not take any notice of the shards of icy glass that were all that remained of the diamond-shaped window in his chambers, for buoyed by scourge bracken, the Director was impervious to the cold.
The trestleman writer was not as fortunate.
Axlerod D. Roux lay in his cramped cage, shivering, drifting in and out of consciousness. His prison was beside the shattered opening, and his view was of the distant city below, the twisting cobbled streets and Guild offices, the shuttered shops, the towering wall.
He was vaguely aware of a scarlet-clad visitor—not that turncoat Dumbcane, as usual. He recognized Snaith’s crablike scurrying, his soft slippers scraping against the stone floor. There were murmurings, a few sharp words.
The trestleman took this all in—the delivery of a small ampoule, the intense agitation of the ink monkeys, the shadowy look of triumph upon the stained face of Vidal Verjouce. And then he felt a cloying sleep wash over him, the sleep of one so cold that in
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