The Pulver Chronicles – 17. The Problem With Deceivers

Cleave. Cleave. Cleave.

The sword went down, for about the hundredth time, with almost exactly the same motion, tracing almost exactly the same curve. Jackson was sweating like a pig, but his muscles were good to go for another hour or so.

Thrust, thrust, thrust.

This was exactly what he needed after what happened: an outlet. Some strenuous exercise to empty his mind. A repetitive set of tasks on which to focus. The sword training proved an effective barrier against the dark thoughts. It worked certainly better than staying in bed for hours, or drinking himself into a stupor.

A few feet away from him, Durnin was replacing his practice sword on the rack. They were the only people in the training room that afternoon; Argyro had some personal business to take care of in town.

“This may be the first time you arrive here before me,” Durnin said, “and leave after.”

“I’m in the zone,” Jackson said.

It wasn’t obvious whether Durnin had understood what that idiom meant, but all the same he nodded, and left the room.

“All right, let’s talk,” Jackson said.

Byron appeared in front of him, the sword cutting right through him, obviously without making a single mark.

“About Otzando?” Byron said.

“What else would we talk about? There are no football games around here.” He raised his sword, then paused. “Actually, do they have sports? Like medieval baseball or whatever?”

“The interrogation went rather well,” the veteran said. “We confirmed what we suspected, and learned a few things.”

“Yeah, you really played that guy like a fiddle.”

“It wasn’t especially difficult. The man has issues.”

“I’ll say. So what did we learn, exactly?”

“That an Archdemon knows you by name, and seems to be after you. They even sent one of their agents to capture you, and almost succeeded.”

“That two-faced asshole Riz,” Jackson said, snarling as he cleaved again.

“Raz. Right.”

“But Otzando doesn’t know which Archdemon it is.”

“No, but I think he has a pretty good idea,” Byron said.

“Which he didn’t share with the class.”

“Not explicitly, but I can take a guess.”

“You can?” Jackson said, laying down his sword. “I mean, I suppose you have a twenty percent chance of getting it right, given that there are only five other Archdemons.”

“This isn’t a random guess. Think about it.” 

Byron went lean against a wall next to the weapons rack. Jackson sometimes wondered why he did things like that, given that he was immaterial. A habit, maybe.

“First of all, there was your attempted kidnapping. Something about it made me wonder: why did Raz stash you in that house? Why didn’t they keep moving after they had you under their spell?”

“Maybe because it was the middle of the day.”

“It wasn’t the middle of the day when they put you to sleep. It was the beginning of the night. Which meant they did leave you in that house for hours.”

“Then maybe… They were waiting for reinforcements?” Jackson suggested, resuming his training.

“That seems more plausible, yes,” Byron said. “But I don’t think Raz was planning to stay in that house for an elongated period of time; that spell was probably just a short-term measure. Which meant the reinforcements they were waiting for were close.”

“Other agents in Atvello?”

“Perhaps. Then there’s the other thing: Otzando wanted to know what had happened to Raz. He tried to play it off, but it was obvious how important this really was to him.”

“Right, because if Raz was still alive, they could have already alerted their master, and Otzando would be screwed.”

“Exactly,” Byron said. “And that, to me, means one thing: he is within reach of Raz’s master.”

“Wait, wait, are you saying…” Jackson put down the sword again. Some sweat dripped in his eye; he wiped it with his wrist. “Holy shit. You mean… The Archdemon that came to visit Atvello…”

Byron nodded sharply. “An interesting coincidence, don’t you think, that this Archdemon would come to visit soon after the Cambion was captured?”

“Holy shit,” Jackson repeated. “But, wait. You actually think they came down here specifically for me?”

The veteran rubbed his chin. “No, I don’t. I think they really are visiting Atvello for diplomatic talks. Or at least, that’s the main reason for their visit. But it wouldn’t be the first time diplomacy and black ops went hand in hand.”

“I guess that makes sense…”

Deciding he had had enough training for the day, Jackson put the training sword away, and got his real sword back. As he tried to slide it in its scabbard, he noticed the upper part of the blade was a bit warped. Grumbling, he realized this was probably because he used it to try to open the Cambion’s cage. He tied the scabbard to his belt, dodging Byron’s “I told you so” look.

“D’you think Nechido would introduce me to them?” Jackson asked.

“Introduce you to the Archdemon? What for?”

“Uh, so you can interrogate them too?”

Byron moved away from the wall. “Bad idea.”

“Why’s that? If they’re after me, we need to know why. And they won’t be in town for long.”

“I agree we need to do something, but a direct confrontation is not the best approach.”

“Hell yeah it is. It’s Occam’s razor: the simplest solution is always the best.”

“That’s not- What?” Byron said, bewildered. Shaking his head, he continued: “No, that’s not the smart move, here.”

“Come on! It worked with Otzando.”

“Otzando was in a position of weakness. Moreover, I already had some information about him; I knew who he was, what kind of person he was, and what to expect when I interrogated him. I know nothing about this Archdemon. Not their name, not their personality, not their past… For crying out loud, I don’t even know their gender!”

Jackson harrumphed.

“Not to mention…. Do you remember when we saw them pass, during the parade?”

“You said you thought they saw you,” Jackson said.

“They did see me,” Byron insisted. “Which… Well, I’m not sure what that means, but it can’t be good.”

“It means they’ve got some magical powers, at least,” Jackson said. “Pretty good ones, too, given that none of the mages we’ve met so far could do that. Not even J-”

The name got stuck in his throat. Closing his eyes, Jackson took a deep breath.

“All right, so we won’t walk up to the Archdemon and ask him questions,” he said. “What do we do, then?”

Byron tapped his foot. “First of all, we need more information. Knowing which Archdemon we’re dealing with would be a good start.”

“Okay. Maybe we can ask Nechido. Or, hey, maybe Marrmad. He’s always up in high society’s business; maybe he’s heard something.”

“Marrmad it is. I still don’t trust Nechido. Let’s go.”

“Now? Can’t we just wait until they come back?”

“And how long will that take? They may not come back tonight at all. The sooner we do this, the better.”

Jackson pursed his lips. “Well, I suppose I could use with some fresh air.”

HQ’s main room was still empty when Jackson went back to it. Indeed, the Children of Nayros had intended to join the festivities of Gold and Azure that day, each in their own way. Durnin, true to form, would spend the day and the evening in his favorite taverns, and the night in a bordello. Enita would go to the Whitewood borough to dance and sing. And Marrmad would be in Goldfoam, attending several feasts with many of the city’s big names, in order to curry favor and get the Children some well-paid work. The Goblin made it quite clear he wouldn’t be available until at least tomorrow, possibly until the end of the festivities. Jackson’s mind went back to Enita, and pictured her dancing. Guess I’m not in that much of a hurry.

Enita had described the Days of Gold and Azure as rowdy. As he went to the market borough, Jackson agreed with her use of that adjective. The festivities were now in full swing, with people singing, drinking, eating, dancing, and running in the city streets. All of Atvello, it seemed, had become loud, raucous, euphoric, and thoroughly drunk. The crowd was much denser due to the influx of visitors, and some places were almost impossible to navigate. Many of the locals wore costumes, usually simple and homemade, depicting what Jackson was told were characters from the theater. Some of the costumed people acted as their characters, reciting rowdy poems, singing shanties, and pulling pranks on unsuspecting passersby.

While roaming the back alleys to avoid the busy streets, Jackson noticed that some couples found themselves… inspired by the atmosphere, no doubt helped by the alcohol flowing freely. More than once, he also had to jump over someone passed out on the ground.

The militia, as Enita said, had no shortage of work. While they disregarded the rowdiest activities, they still made a point to protect the shops, as, predictably, a few thieves had decided to profit from the crowds to do their jobs unnoticed. The militia sometimes also broke up couples trying to have sex inside houses that weren’t theirs, or in several places of worship -although some such places seemed to allow or even encourage it. Some particularly mean-spirited pranks were disallowed as well, such as the attempt by a male Orc to set a monk’s bure on fire after dousing it with booze.

“At this rate,” Jackson heard a soldier say, “the cells will be full before twilight.”

“And the street cleaners will riot,” one of his colleagues said.

Jackson browsed the market borough for over an hour trying to find Enita. He initially assumed that a bald, dark-skinned, heavily tattooed woman wouldn’t be too hard to pick in a crowd, but in practice said crowd was so diversified it was like trying to find a needle in a haystack -or rather, in a stack made out of a large variety of herbs.

With more patience and tenacity than he thought himself capable of, he eventually managed to find her, dancing on a stage. Jackson couldn’t decide whether she was drunk to move around so clumsily, or if she just wasn’t a gifted dancer. Despite this, she was clearly having a lot of fun.

And so was the young man dancing very close to her.

Jackson’s jaw tightened as he stopped dead in his tracks. A sour taste invaded his mouth. He took a deep breath, then continued moving towards Enita, his walk now a stomp. The sour taste had turned rancid by the time he got on the stage. He had no clear idea what he was doing; he vaguely heard Byron’s voice warning him about that, or maybe that was his conscience.

By the time he reached them, Enita and the boy were now laughing together, their hands joined as they went round and round. They seemed engrossed in each other, barely paying attention to people around them; they actually bumped into another couple dancing. Jackson saw their lips move, but couldn’t hear any part of their conversation over the loud music, the cheering, and the clapping. But he didn’t care to hear it. All he cared about was to pull that man away from Enita.

Neither she nor the unknown man saw him approaching. Jackson raised his hand to grab the man’s shoulder and separate them. But, before he could make contact, he felt something grip his wrist like a vice. Startled, he glanced to his right, and saw Byron holding him.

“Whatever you think this is going to accomplish, it won’t,” the veteran said.

“Let me go,” Jackson groaned, trying to shake him off.

Something was wrong. This wasn’t the first time he and Byron had been in physical contact -far from it-, but it felt different. Jackson’s hand wasn’t just restrained by Byron: it couldn’t move at all. It was like the signals going from his brain to his limb were cut off.

“How are you doing this?”

From the expression that flashed on Byron’s face for a second, it was obvious he didn’t know. Undeterred, he said:

“Look, just get out of here and go find Marrmad.”

“You think I’m just gonna let this go?!” Jackson said. Once again, he had inadvertently spoken out loud. Fortunately, no one paid attention.

“Yes, you will,” Byron said emphatically. “All you’re going to get here is trouble. Trouble we don’t need, right now.”

Jackson didn’t stop struggling, although his arm still wouldn’t move.

“She’s cheating on me!” he groaned.

“First of all: hardly. She made it clear that the two of you are nothing more than friends with benefits. She owes you nothing, and you don’t owe her anything. She didn’t hold it against you when you and Jowallan got intimate, did she?”

The young man grumbled.

“Second of all, think this through. There are militiamen all around the place. If you attack this man, they’ll likely throw you in a cell, possibly for days. What if the Archdemon is back in the Hexacracy by the time you get out?”

This got through to him. Byron, once again, was right, much to his chagrin. As soon as all intent to hurt the man dancing with Enita left Jackson, he regained the use of his arm. He didn’t dwell on the whys of that, and just left the stage. Soon, he was back in the streets, heading to the Goldfoam borough.

“I don’t know why I did that,” Jackson said.

“You didn’t actually do it, so it doesn’t matter,” Byron said. His tone made it clear he wanted to push past that discussion.

“I mean… I know we’re not supposed to be exclusive. It makes sense, too. She doesn’t think she’ll be in Atvello forever, and I guess I don’t know that I will be either. And… Hell, I mean, I’m fine with that. Or I thought I was.”

Byron sighed in lieu of comment.

“Guess it’s one thing to agree to it, and another thing to see it,” Jackson concluded.

“Let’s focus on finding Marrmad.”

So they did. Jackson counted no less than three feasts in the Goldfoam borough. Two of them took place in manors, while the third occupied the park at the center of the borough. The mood here was rather more restrained, more proper, as befitted the upper crust attendance. No libation took place in those streets, and hardly a shout was heard. The militia was present here as well, although their ranks were completed by many well-equipped, well-armored, and well-mannered mercenaries.

Jackson started his little investigation at the park. It was a good thing he was wearing his high-end outfit, as he was able to search through the crowd without attracting too much attention. The Goblin, unfortunately, wasn’t here. He moved on to the second feast, hosted in a large, three-story manor, with marble sculptures framing the entrance, their white-pink color turning orange before the setting sun. One of the guards at the entrance blocked his passage as he headed for the door.

“Your invitation, please,” the guard demanded.

“Err, I don’t got one.”

“Then, you’re not coming in, sir.”

“It’s cool, I’m only looking for someone who may be a guest here. Can you just tell me if he’s there?”

The guard considered him, his mouth slantwise. “The list of guests is confidential, sir. I cannot tell you who is or isn’t invited.”

“Well, I just need to talk to him. Could you ask him to come out for a moment?”

“No, sir,” the guard simply said.

Jackson decided to try another tactic. “Will two silver steeds tell me if the guy I’m looking for is here?”

The guard shot a glance at his colleague, who looked somewhat amused. “That it will, sir.”

Jackson handed over the coins, completely unsurprised that guards would be corruptible in a city ruled by money.

“Who are you looking for?”

“Marrmad. He’s, uh-”

“The haughty Gob who dresses like a court jester on the first day of seedings?” the guard interrupted. “Aye, he’s here.”

“Great, so can you go get him?”

“No, sir. Neither of us are supposed to leave our post. I’m afraid you’ll have to come find yourself.”

Both guards smiled at each other again.

“Right. And you’re willing to let me do that for another two steeds, I’m guessing?”

“For entry in one of the most important feasts of the city? Ten steeds, that should be, sir.”

Jackson grumbled as more money was exchanged. He was then let in, the guard giving him a sarcastic little bow as he passed them. Once inside, Jackson decided to keep a low profile, grabbing some food and a drink, and tried his best to move through the crowd unnoticed. As he sought out Marrmad, he eavesdropped on a few conversations.

“There is no question of vassalage, of course,” he heard an old man with a long braided beard say. “But some concessions will be necessary if we require the Eastern Empire to help us against the Hexacracy, should they not respect our neutrality. Possibly some taxation on our trade with their ports.”

“Bah!” a younger, smaller, bald-headed man retorted. “We have no need for the Imperials. There’s no shortage of mercenaries, in the South or in C’fa. And if necessary, the Gilded Council is rich enough to pay off an Archdemon, with all the taxes they have us pay.”

“Not everyone can be bought,” a woman with a large nose intervened and thick lips said. “Whatever is motivating the Archdemons, and whatever is keeping them united, seems to me to be more powerful than money.”

The bald-headed man shrugged with almost theatrical nonchalance. “We’ll buy off the generals then, or the soldiers. Human, Demon, Elf, or elsewise, it makes little difference: money is the lowest common denominator.”

“What of the marquesses?” the old, bearded man said. “A few of our neighbors have been ogling at us for a while now. They could be convinced to bow to the Archdemons in exchange for our lands.”

“They’ll be too busy fighting each other,” the bald man said. “Lord Vellod of Piet, for one, has long vied for the lands of lord valDundiener. All he waits for is an opportunity.”

Their debate went on as Jackson passed them by.

“Interesting,” Byron commented. “They’re now talking of the war as if it’s going to happen in the near future.”

Jackson finally found Marrmad in a corner of the room. He was engaged in a very involved conversation with a rich-looking woman wearing a very fancy, borderline ostentatious pale yellow dress. As he got nearer, Jackson realized that it wasn’t so much a conversation as it was Marrmad going on a tirade, and his interlocutor occasionally offering a brief retort. The Goblin had the typical attitude of a salesman trying to close a deal, while the woman had the no-less typical attitude of an only moderately interested customer. She agitated a fan in front of her face, possibly not only because of the dry heat but also to establish a physical boundary between her and Marrmad. In her other hand was an empty glass.

“… In short, my lady, you would be making a sound financial decision,” Marrmad said, concluding what sounded like a long-winded sentence.

“If finances were a concern of mine,” the woman said, “surely we wouldn’t be having this conversation. You would be currently wooing some other wealthy invitee here.”

The Goblin gave a brief laugh, polite but forced. He then caught sight of Jackson, and his affable expression was temporarily marred by a little frown. He briefly excused himself, and trotted to the young man.

“You’ve not been invited,” Marrmad said, his lips barely moving.

“Really? Guards at the door said otherwise.”

The Goblin rolled his eyes. He didn’t seem surprised at the guards’ corruptibility either.

“Why are you here?”

“I needed to talk to you about something.”

“Couldn’t it have waited?”

“No, it’s kind of time-sensitive. It’s about the Archdemon.”

“The-” Marrmad blinked. “What Archdemon?”

“The one in town, obviously. Do you know anything about them?”

“Marrmad, are you going to introduce us?”

The woman had walked up to them, surprisingly subtle despite the high heeled shoes Jackson could discern beneath her dress. Now that she was closer and that her fan was folded in her hand, Jackson caught a better look of her face. She was likely in her forties, wore a layer of makeup that made her already clear skin look even paler, with a turned up nose and large brown eyes. She wore her light brown hair long, tied in a complex knot, and braided on the sides of her face.

Caught off guard, Marrmad took only a second to recover.

“Ah, certainly, my lady.” With a courteous smile that almost looked genuine, he gestured to Jackson: “May I introduce you to Greenleaf, the newest addition to our company. Greenleaf, it is my great honour to present to you lady Celine Henney, Prince Merchant of the Gilded Council, and one of the city’s wealthiest, most successful traders.”

Jackson didn’t fail to notice how the Goblin’s voice had grown more honeyed when introducing her. Given the difference of status, it made sense.

“Greenleaf,” the lady repeated with amusement.

“Not my real name,” Jackson quickly said.

Marrmad shot him a look he took to mean: “mind your manners; my payday depends on it”. Unwilling to cross the Goblin, especially given that he was hoping for a favor from him, Jackson decided to show some manners. He bowed to Henney, his right fist on his chest, just like he had learned with the Inquisitor a while ago; he had practiced the gesture a little ever since.

“Ah, the imperial salute,” the lady commented. “You haven’t lived in the Southern Marches for long, have you?”

“A few months. Um, my lady,” he said.

“And not used to addressing the upper tier of society, I take it,” Lady Henney said, chuckling. “Maybe the nickname fits.”

“I didn’t choose it, my lady,” Jackson simply said. 

The truth was, he had never been fond of that nickname, and as of recently he had grown sick of it. The other Children had suggested changing it, but only in passing; maybe he would have to come up with a new nickname himself to help that process.

“Anyway, lady Henney,” Marrmad said, clearing his throat, “if I may bring us back to the subject of our conversation… I understand you’ve had some concerns regarding several of your caravans that go south of Vertrisia. This is the sort of work our company has handled in the past. Recently, in fact. We took care of a few bandits who had attacked a caravan in the Edlon forest.”

“That’s right, my lady,” Jackson said. “We took care of the bandits, and recovered the merchandise.”

Marrmad shot Jackson a glance, but didn’t say anything. Jackson had figured that, if he helped Marrmad seal his deal, the Goblin would be more inclined to help him. Tit for tat.

Henney tapped her folded fan against her chin. “I see. Would you care to indulge my curiosity on a particular subject, young man?”

“Depends on the subject, my lady,” Jackson said.

The retort displeased Marrmad, who scowled at him. The lady, however, didn’t mind. In fact, her next sentence came with the same aplomb:

“Why are you interested in Azazel?”

Jackson raised an eyebrow in confusion. Azazel? Wait…

“Is that… the name of the Archdemon that is in town?”

“Indeed.” Henney smiled. “The Archlady Azazel, Archmage of the Occultatum.”

Archmage! That title peaked Jackson’s interest. Such a person would no doubt know a lot about magic, possibly even its most obscure aspects. Like the rare kind of magic used by Cambions… Yes, that Azazel character was starting to sound like a very good suspect.

“So why the interest? I do apologize for eavesdropping,” the lady said, not sounding apologetic in the least, “but I heard you inquiring about her.”

“Well, it’s good gossip, isn’t it?” Jackson said. “Not everyday an Archdemon comes to Atvello.”

“Is that so?” Henney said. “Do you know, I have met with the Archdemon myself. How is that for gossip?”

“You have?”

“Oh, yes.”

The lady clearly appreciated the reaction she had gotten from Jackson, who somewhat regretted not being able to control himself and his reactions like Byron had when interrogating Otzando.

Marrmad cleared his throat as politely as he could. “Lady Henney is indeed one of the most prominent characters of Atvello. As such, she has transactions with all manners of important people. Such transactions require protection, of course, which is why…”

The segue was rather smooth, Jackson found. But Henney raised a hand to interrupt him, and said:

“I’ve heard your offer, my dear Marrmad, and will give it due consideration.” She started fanning herself again. “What do you think, young man? Should I accept?”

A little taken aback, Jackson replied: “Um, yes, my lady. The Children of Nayros are really good at what they do. Whatever you need done, we can do it.”

“Whatever I need done?” Henney repeated.

“Well, for a price,” Jackson said.

The Prince Merchant chuckled. Turning to Marrmad, she said:

“Your companion is quite amusing.”

“Please forgive his lack of manners,” the Goblin hurriedly said, “as you said, he’s not used to-”

“Would you mind if I got to know him better?” she said. “I’ve a feeling he’ll make for more interesting conversation than half of the people here.”

Taken aback for a moment, Marrmad looked alternatively at the Prince Merchant and at Jackson. “Ah, certainly, my lady. Could I just have a few words with him in private?”

Henney agreed with a gesture of her fan, and Marrmad took Jackson aside.

“It seems lady Henney took a liking to you,” the Gobelin said, lowering his voice.

“Look, I’m sorry,” Jackson said. “I was really trying to help. I wasn’t trying to steal your show.”

“Well, if you wish to help, you can make sure lady Henney remains well-disposed towards the Children of Nayros.”

“I…”

“She wants your companionship, it seems. Why that is, I truly don’t know, but if that’s what it takes to obtain her patronage, so be it.”

“Uh, I’m…” the young man mumbled, uncertain whether he liked where this was going.

“So go ahead and keep her company for the evening. Laugh at her jokes, compliment her beauty and her smarts… Make sure that, when the sun rises tomorrow, she remembers the Children of Nayros with a smile.

“In case that wasn’t clear,” Byron said, “he wants to use you as a honey pot to sweeten his deal.”

“Seriously? I’m a whore, now?” Jackson thought-said.

“Some would say it’s not so different from being a mercenary.” 

If Jackson hadn’t known any better, he could have sworn Byron was trying not to laugh.

Jackson glanced at the Prince Merchant. She was no supermodel, and was a few years past her prime, but still she was hardly unattractive, with her full lips, her soft facial features, and her curves. Ah, what the hell, he thought. Guess I’m curious what it’s like to be with an older woman. And obviously Enita won’t mind…

“In addition,” Byron said, “she implied she knows about the Archdemon, that Azazel. Maybe she can tell us what we wanted to find out.”

“You sure she didn’t just say that to get my interest?”

“Not entirely sure, but it’s worth taking the chance.”

Jackson clicked his tongue. I’ll bet. Especially since I’m the one taking the chance.

“Fine,” he told Marrmad. “I’ll do it.”

“Marvelous. Now, if you don’t mind, there’s another Prince Merchant here tonight, and the wise fisherman always casts several lines in the waters.”

“Make sure to ask her about Azazel’s timetable for the next few days,” Byron said.

The young man wished Marrmad good luck, then went back to the lady, who was trading her empty glass for a filled one, which she picked off a waiter’s plate. She smiled at Jackson, then picked up a second drink and offered it to him. Jackson thanked her, and took a sip. It was some sort of white wine, but sweeter and carbonated; it could have been this world’s equivalent of champagne, but Jackson wouldn’t know, having never tried it even in his own world.

“This is very good,” he said.

“Siofon sunwine, imported from C’fa,” Henney explained.

Jackson had another, bigger sip. The wine was smooth, and rich in taste.

“You haven’t answered my question, by the way,” the Prince Merchant said.

“About?”

“Your interest in Azazel.”

“Who wouldn’t be interested?” Jackson said with a shrug. “I’ve never met an Archdemon before.”

Henney smiled and shook her head. Then, she held her arm to Jackson and said:

“Would you accompany me outside? I desperately need some fresh air.”

The temperature wasn’t actually much lower in the mansion’s backyard, but there was at least a fresh wind from the sea. Jackson paced the garden for a few minutes, the lady Henney hanging on to his arm. He felt her running her fingers along his muscles, particularly the biceps. As they strayed further away from the crowd of guests, the lady moved to his chest, palping his abs through the shirt. She sure doesn’t waste any time, he thought. They went along an alley flanked by tall hedges, away from sight. Jackson decided to find out whether two could play this game, and ran a hand down her back. She drank her sunwine, seemingly not paying attention. How many glasses has she had? he wondered.

“So, tell me about the Archdemon,” Jackson said, finishing his own drink.

The request amused her. “You ignore my questions but expect me to answer yours? I’m afraid that’s not how it works.”

“You don’t believe I’m just curious?”

“Not for a second.” After another sip, she said: “You’re not a very good liar. But then, that’s part of what makes you so amusing to me.”

“Is that so?” Jackson said, the corner of his lips contracting.

“Oh yes. Can you conceive what it is like to sit in the Gilded Council? I’m surrounded by liars and deceivers. They always lie, and it’s always for the same reason.”

“Money.”

“More accurately: power, in the form of money.” She sighed dramatically. “That, and pettiness. Sometimes I swear the Prince Merchants are more interested in inconveniencing each other than they are in ruling or trading.”

“Why not quit, then?” Jackson said, a bit brusque. He knew he was supposed to be nice to the woman, but he had a hard time doing so. What is she whining about? She’s one of the richest, most powerful people in this city, and in the Southern Marches.

Henney let out a “hah!” under her breath. “Such a decision would affect many lives, starting with mine.”

No kidding. You ain’t gonna hop off the gravy train just because the ride’s boring.

“But you understand why I welcome this distraction,” she continued. “Every day, I’m surrounded by sycophants hoping for a crumb of bread, servants who dare not speak in anything but obsequiousness, and Prince Merchants who know no other language but honey-coated thorns.”

She placed her now empty glass on a stone bench. “Do I impress you, Greenleaf?”

“Uh…” The first answer that came to his mind was a direct “no”, but he hesitated.

“Are you afraid of me? Do you feel compelled to woo me?”

“Isn’t it kinda my job, tonight?” Jackson said, half-joking.

Henney laughed again. “Oh, nevermind Marrmad’s offer. Of course I’m going to take it. If the Children of Nayros are good enough for that oaf Nechido, then surely they can live up to my standards. Honesty, Greenleaf, that is what I want from you. That, and…” She slid her thumb in his belt and gave it a playful tug.

“The name’s Jackson,” he retorted.

“Very well. So, do I impress you, Jackson?”

“Not really,” he shrugged. “And no, I’m not really afraid of you either.”

She smirked, then leaned into him to whisper in his ear: “Then why did you stop at my back?”

Why indeed, Jackson wondered, returning her smirk. His hand descended to appreciate the size and shape of her hind quarters.

“Better,” she said as she placed a hand on the nape of his neck. The other grasped the belt of his buckle to undo it.

“Not wasting any time, huh?” Jackson commented.

“My time is short and valuable. As such, I take great care to invest it properly. And after all, are we not in the Days of Gold and Azure?” 

She opened the front of his trousers.

“So I’m worth the investment? I’m flattered, lady Henney.”

“Celine,” she corrected, getting his underwear out of the way.

He examined the lady’s dress, looking for an easy way to take it off. It was a rather complex piece of clothing, closed by a lacing knotted on the back and attached by several ribbons around the shoulders and the waist. There were possibly other attachments hidden under the cloth, as well. As his fingers worked said lacing, the lady said:

“Oh, do not bother. It will be even more difficult to put back on than to take off.”

Jackson shrugged, and grabbed the hem of her dress. He lifted it slowly, revealing two high-heeled shoes, and tights-covered legs. How is she not sweating? he wondered for a moment. That thought was dispelled as he arrived at the upper thighs. Lady Henney -Celine- was wearing some sort of long, thin underwear that went from there to the hips. The material was a little see-through, just enough to be suggestive. She helped him roll it down at her knees.

Celine invited him to sit on the bench, having apparently decided that their state of undress was sufficient for the main event. She then sat on his lap, her back turned to him.

“You said she’s an archmage,” Jackson said, wrapping his arm under her chest.

“This is becoming an obsession.” Her hand descended between her legs, then his.

“It’s important to me.”

“Evidently. But why is that?”

She looked down, then guided him inside her. Jackson exhaled. She was quite warm and wet.

“You really don’t give nothing for nothing, do you?” Jackson said.

“I am a trader, boy,” she replied, sighing as her hips moved down. “Boundless altruism is no way to make a living in my world.”

“Maybe I could convince you in another way,” he said, brushing his lips against her ear, then bucking his hips.

She moaned in surprise, then laughed. “Is this for my sole benefit, then? I think not, Jackson.”

“So what? Information for information? What does that even matter to you?”

“Maybe I am simply curious,” she retorted. “Maybe it’ll prove valuable. As you said, it is not every day an Archdemon visits Atvello. And it’s certainly a rare day when a young man of unclear origins and with a queer accent seeks to know about her so badly.”

Celine lowered herself again, and sighed contentedly. The whole experience was rather strange to Jackson. The two of them were having sex in a manner so casual they might as well have been playing cards: just an entertaining activity between two people. It was hardly a chore, but Jackson enjoyed it a lot less than his previous sexual encounters. The fact that they were having a discussion at the same time made it stranger still.

“You are quite gifted,” she said, looking down between her legs.

“Thanks,” Jackson said. 

 “I wouldn’t mind a bit more strength, however,” she added, glancing at his hands.

“Right.”

Even the compliment she had given felt strange. Celine had given it in a polite, rather off-handed manner, like she was commenting on his choice of attire. Jackson made an effort to dispel the strangeness by cupping and massaging the lady’s chest, which she seemed to appreciate. She responded by moving faster and faster, although it was evidently more for her own pleasure than her partner’s. They both remained quiet for a while, until a powerful shudder shook the lady’s body, and she let out a strangled scream before going limp. Jackson held her close, preventing her from falling off his lap. She took a deep breath, then moved aside and sat on the bench.

“Is my lady satisfied?” Jackson said, unable to keep from snarking.

“Hmm, yes,” she sighed.

She fixed her clothing, then pulled out a handkerchief from a hidden pocket, which she used to wipe the sweat off her neck. Jackson pulled up his pants, feeling underwhelmed by how things had concluded.

“You have no plans to kill her, do you?” Celine asked out of the blue.

Seriously, this whole thing could not get any weirder.

“Nope,” Jackson answered.

“What do you wish to do to her, then? Court her?”

“Court her? I don’t even know what she looks like.”

“Me neither.”

Jackson did a double take. “You said you’ve met her.”

“Repeatedly, both in public and in private.”

He remembered the outfit the Archdemon wore when she paraded in the streets of Atvello.

“She was wearing her mask?”

“At all times,” Celine said. “Her gloves, as well.”

“So you never saw her face?”

“No. The most I could tell you about it is the color of her eyes. And… Actually, even that I’m not sure of. Dark brown, I believe?”

Jackson began bucking his hips against hers, eliciting louder moans from Celine.

“Why the mask, though?” he said. “Did you ask her?”

“Are you aware that she leaves Atvello in three days?” she retorted calmly.

Jackson grimaced. She was back to dodging the questions with some of her own, after giving just enough answers to get him hooked.

“Yeah,” he said through gritted teeth.

Although he couldn’t see her face, he just knew she was enjoying this exchange more than she had their tryst. With a groan, he finally explained:

“Apparently, she’s after me.”

“After you? Why?”

“It’s kind of a long story, but the short version is: I’m not sure, and I’d like to find out. Preferably soon.”

Celine’s expression lightened up like she was spectating a suspenseful play. “A young, handsome mercenary from a strange land, hunted by a mysterious Archdemon for reasons unknown. It is a shame that my playwright friend has long since gone blind, or he’d have material for another popular piece.”

“It’s really not that exciting,” Jackson said.

“Ah, but a tragedy is never enthralling from the protagonist’s perspective. It is entirely for the benefit of the audience.”

“Whatever. Look, I told you what you wanted to know. How about some reciprocity, now?”

“Very well,” she said, fanning herself faster, her eyes following the last glimpses of the sun as it disappeared behind the line of houses. “Ask away.”

“Right, so, uh…” He hesitated. “Okay. First of all, where is she staying while she’s in Atvello?”

“The Seacrest Castle, of course. We have several bedrooms for our important guests in the northern section.”

Jackson nodded. “You said she’s an archmage. What does that mean?”

“The same thing it means in the Southern Marches and in the Eastern Empire: that she’s a powerful, knowledgeable magi, privy to many magical secrets.”

The way she had phrased that answer implied that Jackson was supposed to know that.

“Uh-huh,” Jackson said. “And what’s the Occultatum?”

“An assembly of magis, located in a remote part of the Western Mountains. They live in almost complete isolation from the rest of the world, even the Hexacracy. Most of what I could tell about them are rumors, ranging from the fanciful to the paranoid.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“Oh, I’m sure you can imagine. A community of magis living in secrecy… Take the usual rumors surrounding magi societies and multiply them by ten. It is said that they experiment, up there in the seclusion of their mountains. They say that the members of the Occultatum have pushed back the boundaries of what is possible, and maybe even what is conceivable. From what I’ve heard, the Inquisition suspects them of dabbling regularly in the Forbidden Arcanes… But then, they suspect many of the same thing.”

“You mean they’re necromants?”

Celine chuckled. “Oh, I didn’t say that.”

Right, Jackson thought, rolling his eyes, you only implied it. This whole thing was clearly a game to her. He was initially concerned about telling her too much of his business, but now he saw that she was just trading gossip to entertain herself. It was unlikely she would repeat it to anyone. In fact, she might forget about it soon, and move on to another subject of interest.

“Do you know where she will be tomorrow?”

“Meeting with the Gilded Council, and negotiating all day for Atvello to side with the Hexacracy,” Celine said. She didn’t even hesitate before giving that information. It was probably public knowledge, Jackson figured. “Atvello will refuse, of course.”

“Mmh. How about the day after tomorrow?”

“With me,” she said, fanning herself with a hint of pride.

“You?”

“The Archlady Azazel is an interesting person. I always seek the company of interesting people.” She hummed the evening air. “Ocean knows they do not abound in this world.”

“Glad I made the cut,” Jackson said. “So will you two be out all day, or…?”

That question was particularly suspicious -even incriminating-, but Jackson couldn’t find a more subtle way to phrase it. Byron might have been better at this, but he had made himself scarce, as he always did during Jackson’s intimate moments. Fortunately, Celine answered the question, once again without hesitation.

“Why, certainly. There is a lot of my city I wish to show her. Our food, our ships, our music, our temples…” With a strange glint in her eyes, she added: “We might not come back before dusk.”

“Uh…”

“Hopefully the maid assigned to her will have time to clean her room and change her sheets in the morning, while Azazel is still there. No one is allowed in a foreign guest’s room without the guest present. Their privacy is precious to us.”

Jackson did a double take. She’s actually helping me? She hasn’t even asked me why I wanted to know this. This, he found especially abnormal. Surely, Celine had gathered that his intentions toward Azazel weren’t quite noble. Yet she was clearly giving her advice, even offering information unprompted.

“Is this a set-up?” Jackson thought-said, hoping Byron would hear.

He did. “Maybe. But my guess is, this is another way for her to get some fun, bored, rich woman that she is.”

“This is all really just a game to her?”

“For the most part. I suspect this is also a case of “keep your friends close, and your enemies closer”.”

“Talking about me?”

“No, about Azazel. This whole “showing her the city” shtick might be just an excuse for Celine to get to know the Archdemon’s intentions better. And…”

Before he could finish, Celine spoke again: “After all, many of our guests are dignitaries from other countries. Diplomats, nobles, traders… Who knows what secrets they could harbor in their rooms? If we were to steal those, it would bring terrible shame on us. As profitable as those secrets could be, they would be nothing compared to the loss of business that would incur.”

“And there you go,” Byron said.

“She’s making me do what she can’t,” Jackson said, “going through Azazel’s stuff to find out what she’s up to. Are all Prince Merchants such manipulative bastards?”

“Of course not. One of them at least is a manipulative bitch.”

Jackson snorted. Celine noticed, and assumed he was reacting to her little tirade.

“Yes, you see why it is important that no Prince Merchant, and no one connected to a Prince Merchant, is ever caught snooping around in our guest’s rooms.”

“Yeah, that’d be terrible. I’m sure some people would try, though.”

“Sadly, yes. Thankfully, we have guards patrolling the hallways, as well as the gardens outside. Not militia: these are our own guards, taking orders from no one else but the Prince Merchants.”

Jackson nodded. “Uh-huh. Sounds like a good system.”

“Quite. I couldn’t tell you how many issues it has prevented.”

Only the ones you wanted to prevent, I’ll bet. “Okay, well, that’s… Thank you for telling me all of this.”

“Why, certainly,” Celine said. “By the way, my dear, have you ever visited Seacrest Castle?”

“Um, yeah, a couple of times.”

Jackson felt a little insulted by her look of surprise, which she hid immediately. “Of course. Marrmad did mention your work for Nechido. But I doubt he’s shown you anything but the dining room and the kitchen. You should visit again, sometimes. It gets really lively in the Days of Gold and Azure.”

“You’d give me a tour?”

“I’m afraid I’ll be quite busy in the next few days, as I’ve mentioned. But do feel free to visit on your own. My people will let you in. Just make sure to come in through the servants’ door.”

“Right.” Jackson nodded. “Too much passage by the main doors; wouldn’t want to burden people some more.”

“I’m glad you understand,” Celine said with a smile. “Now, then, I suppose I should go back to the feast, less the host thinks I’m snubbing him.” 

The Prince Merchant stood up, and fixed her dress once more. She held out her hand to Jackson, who, reflexively, almost shook it, but Byron suggested he kissed it instead.

“Good evening to you, Jackson, and thank you for entertaining me.”

The pleasure was all yours, he almost retorted. Before he could think of something more appropriate to say, she turned and walked away.

Jackson didn’t stay at the feast much longer. He tried some of the food, grabbed a couple of drinks, then made himself scarce when several guests began inquiring as to who he was and who invited him. Afterwards, he hung out in the streets for some time, joining in with the festive folks and enjoying the atmosphere of joy and profligacy. The sky was dark and starry when he headed back to the headquarters. He took a moment to contemplate the many stars; there were so many more of them than he could see when he lived in the city, more even than when he lived on a farm. None of the constellations were familiar to him, predictably.

Only Argyro and Marrmad were in the headquarters when he made it back. Fatigue overcame him, so he only took off his boots before laying his head down; he fell asleep quickly.

The next day was dedicated to preparing for the castle’s infiltration. On Byron’s instructions, Jackson acquired a lockpick kit. Jackson had very little knowledge of lockpicking, but that particular skill had apparently been part of Byron’s training. The young man inquired whether his knowledge would apply on old locks, but Byron shrugged it off, saying that they would likely be similar enough. Finding the equipment proved rather easy, thanks to Marrmad’s contacts. The Goblin proved well disposed towards Jackson; evidently, Celine wasn’t lying when she said she would agree to his offer.

After a quick lunch, Jackson went to Seacrest Castle to do what Byron called “some good old fashioned reconnaissance”. Firstly, Jackson wandered around the gardens to observe the comings and goings: servants, guards, residents and eventual guests. Secondly, he managed to sweet talk a housemaid into showing which window led to the guest room where the Archdemon was staying; it was on the third floor, meaning escaping through it -in case it proved necessary- would be difficult, but not impossible. Thirdly, he managed to convince a castle guard to take the next day off, and borrowed his outfit. Said castle guard proved harder to bribe than the guards Jackson had met at the feast; mentioning Jackson’s connection to Nechido helped, as the guard decided the whole thing was part of some quarrel between Prince Merchants, and that he wanted nothing to do with it. It appeared that the castle guards were well paid by the Prince Merchants to protect their interests, but not so much so that they would take part in their power plays.

The evening was spent with Byron having Jackson practice the use of the lockpicking kit on various locks in back alleys of Atvello. Most of the locks were of the same model, having likely been built by the same artisans, and they indeed worked similarly to the ones on Earth.

Jackson felt a lot more confident about this infiltration than the previous one. Although he didn’t have his fallen friend’s magical powers, he did have the benefit of experience. More importantly, he was motivated. During the infiltration of Otzando’s manor, he was only tangentially connected to the business at hand. This time, however, he was directly concerned. If this Azazel was Raz’s superior, then she was responsible -if indirectly- for Jowallan’s death.

Two days after his meeting with Celine Henney, Jackson went back to the castle, dressed as a guard. He waited in the gardens until he saw a carriage leave the property; the curtains were drawn on all of the windows, and it was accompanied by at least six militiamen on horses. Without delay, he went to the side door, and knocked. A few seconds later, an old maid, stout and rotund, opened up.

“Hello, miss,” Jackson said. “Lady Henney sends me.”

“Aye, well, come in, quickly,” she said, her voice thick and hurried.

The servants’ door led to a small corridor, at the end of which Jackson could see the kitchen, apparently busy cleaning up after breakfast.

“So, what did lady Henney told-”

Jackson turned to see the maid was gone, probably back to her duties. Okay, then.

The layout of the castle was a bit confusing, but after some searching, Jackson managed to find the stairs, and went up to the second floor. The upper floors were more richly decorated than the lower ones, with paintings and gold-painted candelabras ornating the walls, and beautiful carpets in the common areas. Much like Otzando, the residents cared to flaunt their wealth, but unlike the disgraced merchant, they had taste. 

It took Jackson a few minutes to locate Azazel’s room based on the information the housemaid and the guard had given him. He didn’t try to pick the lock right away, choosing instead to hide for some time and see how regular the patrols were on this floor. There was only one patrol, in fact, consisting of a single guard who came around at irregular intervals.

As soon as said guard turned around the corner, Jackson sprung out from his hideout, lockpicks in hands. The door’s lock proved a tad more complex than the ones he and Byron had trained on, but the latter was certain he could still do it, although it would take more time. Jackson hoped as much as he inserted the tension wrench -or whatever the thing used to apply torque was called-, then the pick.

The young man fumbled a bit. Well, a lot, actually. Confident as he was, he couldn’t help but be a little nervous. Excited, too. How could he not? He was infiltrating a castle to spy on an Archdemon.

The first pin went “click”. Jackson moved the pick further into the lock to push the next pin. He realized the whole thing would probably be easier and quicker if he let Byron in charge once again, but he had decided against that option for several reasons. The first was that he didn’t want to have to rely on Byron for everything; perhaps it was a remnant of his time in the army, but he liked to be able to do what needed to be done himself. The second reason was… Well, as mentioned, he found the whole thing exciting. It would be less so if Byron could claim the lion’s share of the work. And nevermind that the excitement occasionally made his fingers quiver.

As to the third reason, it was a lot more prosaic: he was still not quite comfortable with the idea of someone else using his body, especially as it turned him into a powerless watcher.

The second pin moved to the right position. Come on, come on, Jackson thought as he heard footsteps in the distance, their sound resonating closer with every second. In his hurry, he messed up the third pin a couple of times, before Byron advised him -chided him, really- to take a deep breath to calm himself down. Click. The pin stuck properly, but the lock still wouldn’t give. Jackson grumbled, but continued.

Step, step, step. The young man grew more nervous still as the guard -Jackson knew it was him from the sounds made by his boots- got closer. He doubled down on his efforts to unlock the door, internally praying that the guard would be struck with an imperious need to go relieve himself at this very moment. That particular prayer did not materialize any more than the ones he used to make to avoid PE, but thankfully the fourth pin moved, and this time the lock turned.

The door opened, finally, and Jackson rushed in before he closed it again, as silently as he could. Pressing his ear against it, he listened attentively to the guard passing merely two or three feet away, and waited until he was gone again. He then reported his attention to the room.

The place reminded him of the hotel room in which he stayed for his first night in Atvello; the first night of his new life. It was spacious, tastefully decorated and furnished, with two big windows on the wall opposite the door. Those weren’t just two apertures enclosed with wooden shutters like most houses in the city, they actually had glass panes, something Jackson had realized was a rarity. A large four poster bed occupied a good third of the room, its silky sheets arranged with an almost mathematical precision. There was a desk beneath the westernmost window, entirely clean save for an inkwell. Finally, a big trunk had been placed at the foot of a wall.

Jackson focused on the trunk. It was made out of wood, naturally, and reinforced with black iron. The young man groaned when he found that, inevitably, it was held shut with another lock. He searched the room a bit, but it seemed that the Archdemon had left nothing of importance laying out. The only objects he could find were some items of clothing put away in a commode, and several coins that rolled under the bed. He reported his attention to the trunk, and its lock. At least this time he could go as slow as he wished.

Frustratingly, the trunk’s lock proved trickier than the door’s. Jackson started muttering incoherent swears under his breath as his pick failed to find purchase. His gestures turned more aggressive as he got frustrated.

“You’re going to damage the lock,” Byron warned him.

“It’s fine, I just-” The pin met some resistance, and Jackson accidentally dropped it.

“Let me do it.”

“I got it,” Jackson thought-retorted sharply. Unfortunately, at the same moment, he applied too much strength on his pick, and it bent. “Shit.”

With a sigh, he mentally allowed Byron to take over, with the caveat that they switched back as soon as the lock was opened. Byron immediately went to work; Jackson tried not to notice how easy he made it look. True to his word, Byron released Jackson’s body the moment the trunk’s latch opened. The whole thing had happened so quickly and so smoothly Jackson had barely even noticed losing control.

“I’m kinda surprised,” Jackson said as he lifted the heavy lid.

“Why?”

“Given that she’s an Archdemon, I thought there’d be some kind of magic trap protecting the trunk or something.”

He leaned back as he opened it, still somewhat concerned a giant magic fireball might pop out of it. Nothing of the sort happened. Byron commented:

“That would be too risky. All it would take is one careless maid, and the whole castle would burn down. To say nothing of the diplomatic repercussions.”

Jackson shrugged, half-reassured, half-disappointed he didn’t get to witness more magic. Ever since he had learnt of its existence, he had expected to see it on nearly every street corner. Instead, he had been informed that only a few people held such powers, and tended to be conservative of its use for various reasons, starting with its more than occasional dangerousness.

The trunk contained a variety of things, none particularly valuable at first glance. There were more clothes -three pairs of gloves, several hoods, and a pair of boots-, some books, a small dagger with a decorated scabbard, and a small cubic box. Jackson immediately grabbed the latter. It was very similar to the one he had found in that cave weeks ago, the one that contained that strange orb. It was of identical proportions, and seemed to open with a signet ring. Once again, no way to pry it open, no lock to pick. Clicking his tongue, Jackson put it back, and began rummaging through the contents of the trunk.

Between two books written in some foreign alphabet, the young man found several leather folders containing dozens of sheets of paper each. There were letters, evidently. From the writings, a few had been penned by the Archdemon, and most by two or three different correspondents. Jackson double-checked that he had put on his gloves before handling them; he didn’t want to leave any traces. Many of the letters used the same unknown alphabet, so Jackson skipped them to focus on those using the alphabet he was used to, the one that was in use in Atvello and with which he had gotten familiar.

“Wait,” Byron said, “read those letters again.”

“I can’t read them, they’re…” After giving one of them another look, he muttered: “Oh, right, I can read them.”

He had forgotten about that ability ever since he had discovered it at the shaman’s house. He could speak, read, and understand the Imperial language even though he had never learnt it. The first time he had noticed this strange ability, Jackson had elected to just roll with it. Now that it was resurfacing, he was starting to quietly freak out. Was something wrong with him? Did something happen to him when he arrived in this world? Did the necromancer put some sort of spell on him? Or was it that weird magic fire of his?

“I doubt we’ll find the answer to that today,” Byron said. “Let’s just focus.”

“Right…”

He gave the letters a cursory look, just to get an idea of what they were about. Those penned by the Archdemons were written in a rather convoluted style, with quite a few run-on sentences and a heavy use of adjectives. Jackson initially thought their author wanted to look smart, but Byron opined that it was most likely a smokescreen: diluting important information in a load of nonsense.

Most of the letters written to Azazel, however, were the opposite: short and to the point. They seemed to be reports from some sort of agent or scout. He gave the text a cursory look, until a name caught his full attention.

No more traces can be found of that tribe either. The last trail indicates they moved to the South as well. It seems they’re gathering, which tends to confirm that Shatters-the-Shields is now acting as their leader. It also means she’s gotten smart.

Alizana.

Jackson’s heart jumped as he read the name Shatter-the-Shields, bringing up the very name that had been burned in his brain ever since he had heard it in a vision weeks ago. He read the rest of the reports with undivided attention. Most of their contents pertained to that woman, and to her “people” -referring, seemingly, to those lupine creatures like her. The agent confirmed what Jackson had seen in the orb: they were in open rebellion against the Hexacracy and their armies. Alizana’s people were divided into tribes, which were apparently in the process of rallying against their common enemy.

Reports from another agent were dedicated to the tracking of their whereabouts. It mostly told how difficult the task was, as the tribe had decided to spread out, and several of the people in charge of tracking them had gone quiet -such was the euphemism used in the text. The latest report mentioned the possibility that they were hiding somewhere in the Vertrisian lands. It was, as the letter explained, a mostly wild territory with a profusion of forests, and a small mountain chain.

“That gives us an idea where to look,” Jackson said with a smile.

“That’s good, but this is not why we’re here,” Byron said.

“Right, right.”

The truth was, at that moment, Jackson felt more interested in finding out more about Alizana than he was to discover why this Azazel character seemed so invested in his life. Why? He wasn’t sure. He had dreamt of that strange canid woman regularly ever since the time with the orb. Even though he had only gotten a glimpse of her face, his mind would often go back to it when it was idle. Jackson didn’t want to call it an obsession, but it certainly showed signs of it.

After a bit of browsing, his heart jumped again. He had found several letters that mentioned him by name. His mouth twitched as he read them.

It seems your contact’s information was correct. A man named Jackson Pulver has arrived in Atvello recently. He is now believed to be associated with a local mercenary group known as the Children of Nayros, under the nickname Greenleaf.

“How the fuck…?” he muttered.

What followed was a rather thorough report on his actions in Atvello. Nothing too invasive, much to his relief, but it was clear that the reports’ author had done his homework, and likely had some well-placed contacts. Jackson’s connection to Nechido was mentioned, as was the work he’d done for him. In particular, it made mention of the orb.

The Children of Nayros have recovered the orb from the Redthroats. It is unknown, however, whether they managed to use it, as it is contained in a Ralien’s Box, which opens only with Nechido’s signet ring, as previously mentioned.

Intrigued, Jackson tried to find other mentions of the orb, but there were none. He did, however, find a mention of him in relation to Alizana.

We have no reason to believe Jackson Pulver has made any contact with Shatters-the-Shields. In fact, there is no reason to even assume he’s aware of her existence. News of the insurgents have not traveled as far as Atvello yet. It seems, Your Wisdom, that your concerns are unfounded. As to Shatter-the-Shields herself, it appears she’ll be handled soon.

Concerns? Was Azazel concerned that Jackson would find Alizana? If so, she couldn’t have been the one who procured her the ring and gave her the visions. A slight taste of disappointment tinged Jackson’s tongue.

But why did that possibility concern her? Why did it bother her to the point where she seemingly tried to have him kidnapped? Unless that had been for another reason. Such as…

A worrying thought popped in his mind.

“You think she knows I’m from another world?” he thought-said to Byron.

“I was wondering the same thing,” Byron said. “She’s an archmage; according to Celine, that means she’s very knowledgeable about magic. Maybe she knows how to travel from world to world. At the very least, she may know that it is possible.” He scratched his stubble; Jackson noticed it had not grown even a tenth of an inch since his death. “It’s also possible she knows how to spot someone from another world. Unless, of course, someone simply told her.”

“Who?”

“Someone whom you’ve told, obviously.”

“Hey! I didn’t tell anyone. I mean, I told Jowallan, but I trusted him.”

“You also told that guide who led us to Atvello.”

“I… Oh, yeah, I did.” Jackson blushed a bit. “But she probably thought I was kidding, or nuts. Plus she works for the Inquisition. They’re, like, the sworn enemies of the Archdemons, from what I’ve heard.”

It was true. Word on the street was that the Inquisition’s animosity toward the Archdemons and their Hexacracy made the Empire’s pale in comparison.

“Thus why Archdemons would want to have spies in their ranks,” Byron retorted.

“That’s… Okay, but that’s just speculation. We’re not even sure that Azazel knows I’m from another world, to begin with.”

He thought in silence for a moment. His eyes went back to the letter, and he said: 

“I need to find her.”

“Again with this. Why?”

“Well, for one thing, because Azazel doesn’t want me to.”

“Not a good reason to do anything,” Byron sighed.

“No, but I mean… She doesn’t want me to. There must be a reason for it; I’d like to know what it is. Hell, I have to know: it’s also the reason she’s after me.” His teeth clenched. “It’s the reason Jowallan died.”

The veteran had no reply to that.

“And these people,” Jackson continued, “whoever they are, they’re gonna need help.”

“What do you mean?”

“The war’s coming. You said it yourself: it’s going to happen in the near future. From what we know, Alizana and her folks are already being hunted by the Hexacracy. Apparently, they’re hiding in the South for now. But when the war starts, and the Archdemons roll their armies down south, they’ll have to fight.”

“Probably true, but why is that your problem?”

“Maybe I can help them.”

“You? How?” Before Jackson could answer, Byron added: “Actually, let’s have that conversation later. We need to finish up here and get out.”

“Good idea. Let’s just find something that’ll make Celine happy.”

There was nothing in the pile of letters that pertained to any troop movements or anything of the sort, so Jackson looked for something that could relate to commerce. It took a while, but eventually he found an exchange between Azazel and a C’fan League, discussing the possibility of selling some rare wood, along with the costs and the logistical feasibility of such a trade. According to Byron, Celine could use this information to short-circuit the Archdemon by offering better prizes to the League. Unconvinced, but not particularly concerned, Jackson moved to fold the letters, but Byron stopped him.

“The letters stay; we don’t want to tip her off.”

“What will we show Celine then?”

“I’ll memorize the contents.”

“You think she’ll just take our word for it?”

“She’ll probably have her people double-check, either way,” Byron said with a shrug.

As was becoming his habit, Jackson decided to trust Byron’s experience; he had worked in an intelligence-related field, after all. He placed all of the letters back in their folders, making sure they all looked intact. Byron helped him file them back in the order they had found them; apparently, he had memorized that as well. Jackson took one last look around the room, then headed back to the door.

Leaving the room proved easier than entering. All Jackson had to do was press his ear against the door, wait for the guard to patrol by, then leave. He let Byron lock the door behind him, the transition once again happening smoothly and within a minute. Then, he went back downstairs to find the maid, who helped him leave the castle through the servants’ door. The maid was a little bit more talkative this time, casually informing Jackson that lady Celine Henney often enjoyed staying in the castle garden’s belvedere in the evening. The message seemed so obvious to Jackson he wondered why she didn’t outright tell him to go there tonight. Several people noticed him as he made his way through the gardens, but not one of them seemed to look beyond his disguise.

Jackson changed back into his regular clothes, gave the guard uniform back to its owner, then decided to go ship watching on the docks -one of his favorite activities ever since he had arrived in Atvello. He bought an oven-hot loaf of fish bread on his way.

“I take it you haven’t changed your mind,” Byron said as they both watched a schooner leave port.

“About Alizana? Nope.” He spat in the waters. “Go ahead, give me your lecture on how it’s a stupid idea and whatnot.”

Byron scoffed. “I’ve been in your head for months now. I know how futile it is to argue with you once you get an idea. I also know how obsessed you are about this.”

“I’m not obsessed.”

“What I don’t know,” Byron continued, ignoring him, “is why. All you know about that woman is her name, and you’re all set to rush to her help, wherever she is. Why?”

“Because she needs help,” Jackson thought-said. “What more do I need? Hell, why did you go help the Sakhas?”

“I was ordered to do so.”

“That’s the only reason?” the young man retorted, skeptical. “Sense of duty, nothing else?”

Byron cleared his throat. “Whatever motivated me, I certainly didn’t fly across the world out of the blue to come to their rescue. I knew what I was doing.”

The young man sat on the dock, took off his shoes, then dipped his toes in the water. It was refreshing, especially given that this day was even hotter than the day before. He could feel Byron’s ice-blue eyes piercing his back.

“You’re really going to try and find her,” he said.

“Yup.”

“Do you even know how? All you’ve got is a vague location.”

“Nope.”

“This is insane,” Byron grumbled.

“No arguments here. I mean, I am having a mental conversation with a dead guy, so I probably rank pretty high on the crazy scale.”

“Then why? If you know this is crazy, why?”

Jackson bit his lip. He noticed a seagull had landed about two feet away from him, no doubt drawn by the smell of his bread. The bird was surprisingly quiet; they usually screamed at people, demanding to be fed. Jackson decided to reward that restraint with a few pieces of his loaf.

“Those visions,” he said. “From the orbs.”

“Yes, I kind of saw them later. They’re part of your memories.”

“Yeah, well, maybe you’ve got a glimpse or something, but I actually lived them. I lived them, like I was that person, fighting for her people in that place. I felt every blow she took… every friend she lost. I felt her desperation as she lost that last battle. Fuck, I even felt it when she died!” He looked down at his feet. “I know what it’s like. Hell, I’ve been through this kind of shit too.”

“You have?” Byron said.

“Yeah. Back in the forest? With the zombies? We lost our entire squad -almost. Jesus. When I heard Duval over the radio… And when Lawrence died… Yeah, I get it.”

The seagull had finished gulping down the pieces Jackson threw at it, but didn’t seem satisfied. Jackson took one last bite of his bread, then decided he wasn’t hungry and gave the rest of it to the demanding bird. It immediately grabbed it in its beak and tore it to pieces, which Jackson found impressive given its lack of teeth.

“So yeah,” he said out loud. “I guess that’s why.”

“All right,” Byron said after a moment of silence. “I still think this is a uniquely stupid and reckless idea, but I get where it’s coming from. One thing, though. Are you sure that’s how you’re feeling about it?”

“Huh?” Jackson frowned.

“You said you experienced these memories as if you were that person, you felt everything she felt, sensed everything she sensed. How do you know the way you feel right now is not just an aftereffect of that?”

The young man stuttered a little. “Well, I, I just know, you know? I mean, it’s hard to explain, but I can tell the difference between her feelings and mine. They feel the same, but they… It’s like they have a different flavor. Kinda like your memories and mine.” Pause. “Does that make sense?”

“About as much as you usually do,” Byron said.

They both stayed quiet for a while.

“Will you help me?” Jackson asked.

“Do I have a choice? I will go where you go anyway. And I already feel like I’m on drunk watch 24/7.”

“Yeah, that’s the spirit…”

The seagull finally left, having devoured most of the bread. Jackson decided to leave as well, and join the festivities again. There were only two more Days of Gold and Azure, and he intended to enjoy them to the fullest. Something told him it just might be the last time in a while he could relax and have fun.

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