131. Another One Joins the Fray

  Onboarded, fed (very well, Serac might grudgingly add), and finally let loose, the outrealmers made a beeline for the Southern Bough. As newly minted members of the Kronvakt, Serac and Zacko could roam about the palace with impunity, at least in theory. Reality, however, would take a little longer to set in. The pair kept a low profile as they cut their way across the Bulb and toward Krongard’s lowest branch.

  Tonight, the moon hung over the canopy as a slivery crescent, the pale-jade blade of a curved sword. It gave the outrealmers the cover of darkness, which might’ve even been relevant in any Realm but the one dominated by ripple-reading Yakshas. Regardless, the outdoor areas were largely empty at this time of night, allowing two souls to sneak about with nary a curious eye nor fluttering scale pointed their way.

  They did, however, walk past a fellow Wayfarer: [Designation: EDDUR LOKKSEN]. He was the barreleye they first saw at the Realmhunt, presently cutting a lonesome figure inside the Bulb’s central fountain. He might’ve been merely meditating, were it not for his standing waist-deep in the bubbling water. Very odd behavior, but Serac wasn’t one to judge without the full story. She was more concerned about unwanted attention, and as far as she could tell, this Eddur Lokksen neither knew nor cared that he had company.

  But it really was hard to tell. The barreleye’s most conspicuous feature was his ‘see-through’ skull. A transparent capsule contained a brain, bundles of nerves and vessels, and even a pair of eyes that pointed directly upward. It was impossible to guess exactly what he was looking at.

  The man himself remained completely motionless as Serac and Zacko passed him by without a greeting. Yet, just when Serac thought they were safe, a chill ran down her spine, forcing her to look back over her shoulder. For just one Ksana, she saw it. A kitchen knife flashed jade-green in the night, as if to reflect its curved-sword cousin up in the sky.

  A disturbing image, but it turned out to be just that. Eddur continued to stand watch over the Hubstation, vertically oriented eyes fixed upon the open ceiling above. The knife too lost its luster along with any threat it might’ve carried, imagined or otherwise.

  Serac wasn’t convinced she’d imagined anything but was nevertheless happy to avoid direct confrontation. As soon as she and Zacko left the Bulb behind, she turned to her partner with an addendum to their plan:

  “We should do some homework before we potentially make enemies of the entire Kronvakt,” she whispered. “Study up on what these Wayfarers are capable of. No sense rushing into anything before we have more information.”

  “Is that your own call or are you repeating that voice in your head?”

  “Excuse you!” Serac raised her outside voice, genuinely offended. “I’m perfectly capable of thinking through problems without Trippy’s help, thanks very much.”

  “Yours then, in which case, I wanna say I agree. But let’s first see who or what we find in the brig. For all we know, we might not have the luxury to take our time.”

  Zacko was right, of course, but that didn’t change what they needed to do tonight. This was the ‘fact-finding’ phase of their mission, which would then dictate the next steps and beyond.

  The Southern Bough was clearly the ‘ugly cousin’ among the palatial districts. Hanging vines and overgrown bush encroached upon winding, bumpy footpaths. Storage, laundry, the brig, that sort of thing. All important to a palace’s day-to-day, but none that needed to be presentable. A far cry from the manicured facilities catered to the Kronvakt.

  Tonight, Krongard’s one detention center was manned by a lone soldier: a middle-aged tuna fish playing solitaire by oil-lamp. He looked up from his deck of cards as the Wayfarers approached, then hastily stood to attention, knocking his rickety table askew.

  “Out—ahem—Wayfarers. Apologies. I was not informed of your visit.”

  “At ease, soldier,” Zacko replied right away, looking quite at ease himself. “Nothing for you to worry about. We were just about to turn in for the night, when we hear our friend Petter Svensen has been locked up over some kind of mix-up. I’m sure it’ll all get sorted out soon, but in the meantime, we just wanted to pop in and say hi, that’s all. Already cleared it with the big guy up top, so if you’ll just show us to Petter’s cell, we’ll take it from there.”

  It took Serac everything not to side-eye Zacko. The outrealmers in fact had no clue which of their friends were held up where. It was, however, a safe bet to assume their poor Stamgardian chef to be among the riffraff thrown into the brig. ‘Petter Svensen’ was also a much safer name to inquire about, compared to, say, a ‘Finless’ or an ‘Inge Bjornsdatter’. But perhaps what most surprised Serac was the fact Zacko had bothered to remember Petter’s surname!

  In any case, the ball was in the tuna man’s court. Predictably enough, he seemed to want no part of it.

  “K—King Tyr himself approved it, did you say? D—do you happen to have that in writing? Not that I’m doubting you, understand, but this”—he nervously scanned the darkness just beyond the lamplight—“is a little late for visiting hours.”

  “Is there a problem?” Zacko again, cool as you like.

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  “N—no problem. It’s just… Queen Loha’s orders were to… that is, er…”

  Now it was Zacko who flicked a glance toward Serac, which the latter reciprocated by reflex. Whatever happened to not exchanging suspicious glances? But she quickly clocked this was part of Zacko’s plan. A silent yet meaningful look between superiors to make an underling more nervous than he already was.

  It worked. The soldier opened his mouth to stammer some more, only to decide this wasn’t his fight. He turned to lead the Wayfarers further down the footpath, but not before offering up one more excuse.

  “Please understand,” he said, having lost the stammer, “that we were only acting on the Queen’s direct orders. Whatever state you find Petter Svensen in, don’t pin that on us.”

  What a strange and ominous thing to say! Serac couldn’t help but check with Zacko again, hoping perhaps for a sly, knowing smile. The Manusya’s eyebrows were completely flat, which only added to Serac’s apprehension.

  The key turned. The door of heavy, petrified wood groaned open. Before Serac could see anything of Petter’s ‘state’, her senses were ambushed by the offensive odor emanating from within.

  Stale filth and palpable desperation. As a former Penitent, Serac immediately recognized and understood what had happened. Whatever soul had occupied this cell had been neglected for days on end, cut off from the outside world and left to rot in his own waste. Oh no. Serac’s mind filled with the darkest thoughts. Are we already too late? Oh, Petey, why didn’t we come for you sooner?

  When she tiptoed into the cell, her worst fears were confirmed. The entire, windowless room was empty, which could only mean its occupant had long faded into Souldust. Serac fell to her knees, uncaring of the squalor on the floor. For a second or two, she could only stare out in shock, mind purged blank now that the dark thoughts had become horrible reality.

  “Is this supposed to look like that?”

  The question, overly calm and pragmatic in the circumstances, issued from Zacko. The Manusya too had stepped into Petter’s filth without hesitation, but he was busy inspecting the wall opposite to the entrance.

  Numerous cracks upon the petrified wood, made visible only by the guard’s oil-lamp. Individually, the cracks were so thin as to be all but negligible. Yet, as a ‘group’, they formed a linear depression upon the wall, starting from the floor and extending about halfway up to the ceiling. Tall enough and perhaps just wide enough to have fit a skinny mackerel man if he turned himself sideways…

  “N—no,” the guard murmured, instantly nervous again and stopping short of entering the cell, “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Zacko, cool as you like, stepped up to the wall and pressed one gauntleted hand into the depression. From where Serac knelt, it didn’t look as though Zacko had applied much pressure at all. And yet, a hand-sized portion of the wall fell away at the Manusya’s touch, revealing a hole that connected directly to the night air!

  Serac gasped. Behind her, the guard dropped his oil-lamp, sending the room into momentary darkness.

  A grunt of effort from Zacko, followed by the sound of something solid crumbling into dust. The guard picked his lamp back up and threw light onto the wall. Sure enough, the linear depression had fallen away in its entirety, leaving a thin opening tall enough and perhaps just wide enough for a skinny mackerel man to squeeze through.

  “But… what does this mean?” Serac demanded, voice thick with emotion. “Is Petey still alive, then? Did… did he escape?”

  “Impossible!” the tuna man exclaimed, stepping freely into the filth now that his job—perhaps even his head—was on the line. “How could that mackerel have done this, let alone in a matter of days? And even if he had, we would’ve…”

  The soldier turned to his Kronvakt superiors, face contorted by terror.

  “Mercy,” he pleaded. “I was only doing what I was told. We all were. We had nothing to do with any of this!”

  Numbed by grief and confusion, Serac didn’t have the heart to be angry. She looked to Zacko, vaguely worried about how the Manusya might react. Complicit as the soldier had been in Petter’s suffering, Serac didn’t feel good punishing someone so low on the ladder.

  Thud!

  A gauntleted fist slammed into what was left of the wall, missing a tuna head by inches. The soldier, still very much alive, let out a barely audible whimper. The room suddenly filled with a new scent: fresh waste mixing with the stale.

  “Here’s how you’re gonna make up for the way you treated our friend,” Zacko spoke calmly, leaning over the soldier’s cowering figure. “First, you’re gonna fill up this hole. Make it look good as new. I expect it’ll be an all-nighter, so you’re gonna have to put your card game on hold. Second, you won’t breathe a word of this to anyone. Go on pretending our friend’s still in his cell, wasting away, for however much longer you sick fucks had planned on ignoring him. Third, pray that Petter’s alive and well, because if not, I might just forget we ever had this conversation. Do we understand each other?”

  The tuna man nodded frantically. He looked so pathetic Serac almost felt bad for him. Almost. She averted her gaze before her feelings could take a turn. Who could say in which direction?

  The outrealmers left the soldier to reckon with his new set of orders.

  Before coming to the brig, Serac had hoped to chat with her mackerel friend. Perhaps even coax out a lead on where Renate might be kept. That hadn’t gone according to plan, and now, she wanted nothing more than to get as far away from Petter’s cell as possible.

  Yet neither disgust nor anger could keep her curiosity at bay for long. As soon as the pair turned a corner and found themselves alone on an overgrown footpath, Serac turned to Zacko with a burning question.

  “I’m not crazy, right?” she spoke in a hushed voice, still not quite daring to believe it herself. “Back there… with the wall… it can only mean one thing, right?”

  “You’re not crazy,” Zacko said, eyebrows flat. “What we saw back there was the site of a transmutation. I can’t tell you the what or the how, but one thing’s for certain. Our man Pete escaped his cell using Wayfaring magic.”

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