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Perhaps I should have listened more closely to Othala Chanavar’s gentle instructions before I’d set out on this reasonably trifling task – to retrieve a spade that one of the rotating sextons had left at the third turning of what the prelates of Ulvanensee called the ‘spiral’ catacomb – but I had not, thinking the directions straightforward enough. 

“Besides,” I reasoned, “If I can find my way from Cemchelarna to the Prince Zhaicava building daily by tram, surely a distance of not more than three-hundred feet will not daunt me.”

Thus I reassured myself as Velhiro Tomasaran, newly created widow and Witness for the Dead, rather than Velhiro Tomasin, wife of a mayoral candidate of a very small town. Somehow, I felt as though this prepared me well enough for the modest limits of a bounded space like Ulvanensee. 

And that, of course, is how I found myself quite lost after the fourth turning of what should have been only three lefts, staring at a rather fragile looking ghoul holding a long, wickedly sharp, and ancient-looking sword. 

I could tell it was a ghoul because of the description that Othala Celehar had given me. The one Celehar had met in the Clestenada cemetery, for example, had had only a mouth with teeth made of bone, and a body clothed in the meat of its victims. This one, having had only a well-kept cemetery to harvest from, seemed particularly weak. It was clad in a strange dusting of bone and ash from its time in the revethmera, and while its bony mouth strained toward me with hunger that was terrifying in its intensity, it seemed uncertain as to how to best assuage that hunger, and rather confused overall.

It took a few staggering steps toward me, seeming to gain confidence in its goal.

Feeling my heart pound and my ears plaster back against my head, I recalled Othala Celehar’s words concerning ghouls: Find their name, he had said. Of course, that meant I had to put myself at risk to touch it. 

We stood at a frozen impasse for a moment while I tried to master my very reasonable desire to go haring off in a random direction as long as it was away from this thing that was so hungry and so dead. Then I remembered that after my experience deep within the Hill of Werewolves, a reasonably weak ghoul should not hold this much sway over my emotions. 

So I took a deep breath, and before the ghoul (clearly just as startled by me as I was by it) could raise its bony and flaking arms to strike with the sword, I reached out and grasped it firmly by the slender wrist.

The ghoul howled and struggled, one weak and snaggle-nailed hand reaching toward my neck. Instead of clawing my skin, however, the nail caught on my carefully kept black silk coat of office, giving it a ragged tear right near the collar. 

I would have committed a very unprelate-like error of language if I was not already deep within the strange whirlwind of its spirit. 

Hunger. So much hunger. The rage that Celehar had described was as nothing compared to its starvation. But within the hollow cage of its ribs, there beat a name. 

“Ashavet Tormalar!” I squeaked, and then cleared my throat. “Ashavet Tormalar, I know your name. I know your death!” 

His death had been relatively peaceful, coming in the midst of a long and fevered sleep. He’d been newly grown to his majority when he was taken by the plague of borlaän that had struck the city some twenty years previously. He’d had his bones articulated and lain in the Tormalada tomb close by, by his family’s custom, but his family fortunes had changed. He’d been overlooked when the rest were transferred into a better part of the catacombs.

And so, the final ritual of interment incomplete, he’d slowly dragged together a body over the years by sucking any marrow left from other people’s articulated bones.

“Ashavet Tormalar,” I said, my voice much more certain. Oh, the poor boy. “You have been wrongly woken from your sleep. You have been wrongly woken from your sleep! Ashavet Tormalar, let the darkness take you!”

The spirit wavered and whimpered, and I showed the spirit the way. 

"There," I said firmly, "Go to the darkness, with all the rest of your family, who are awaiting you. There, be free from hunger, free from pain. Let the darkness take you.” 

With a pained moan, as if that noise had been the very last thing knitting together his bones, he collapsed into a pile of ash and rubble at my feet.

The sword, long and shining and beautiful, glowed amid the bones. 

As little as I wanted to, I stooped and picked it up. It was light in my hand, almost a weight for a woman, I imagined – and perfect for a slender, starving young ghoul. That it should not remain in the catacombs for any other wandering soul to use was evident; how it got there in the first place was not.

I took another deep breath to settle my nerves. Grasping the hilt of the sword firmly, I turned toward the winking light of a distant gas lantern, and unwound myself from the corkscrews of the catacomb.

~

Once I had found my way out, I apprised Othala Anora Chanavar of the ghoul. I told him I had sent his spirit to rest, but that his bones needed to be returned to the rest of his family.

Chanavar clucked in disapproval and dispatched his prelates to return the body to his family.

"You must stay the night, of course, Othalo Tomasaran,” Chanavar said, “In the journeyman's quarters where you have stayed before, if you like. I don't have another journeyman quite yet. Othalo Vidrezhen can lend you a needle and some silk to attend to your coat of office. Are you hurt in any way?"

"Ah, no, not hurt at all." I said, feeling a little miserable now that the excitement from the encounter had passed. "I'd forgotten about the tear." I removed my coat and surveyed the damage. The ghoul’s nails had pulled some threads of the cloth weave quite out of place. I could mend it, but it would never be quite the same, and always carry the stamp of the encounter.

"Don't look quite so put out," Chanavar said. "At least it was simply your coat, and not anything worse!"

"I suppose," I said, "but money for a new coat took most of the rest of my dowry to buy, and it hurts my -- my pride, I suppose, that the first signs of shabbiness are setting in."

"Ah, well," Chanavar said, "It is difficult to keep one's coat tidy. My good wife mends mine, and has a tidy hand if you'd rather not do it yourself."

I protested that I did not mind in the least doing my own mending, but Chanavar was still observing me with a slightly worried expression.

"I do wish that Witnesses for the Dead did not live quite so adventuresomely," Chanavar said. "Prelates as a rule do not."

"I had noticed," I said with some feeling. "It does feel as if Witnesses for the Dead become embroiled in quite a few of the deeds of the living, despite the title. Or...undead, in this case, I suppose."

We both shuddered, and he patted me on the shoulder. “We shall send for Thara. He will know what to do with this sword, or at least point us in a direction. But for now, go and rest!”

~

Later that evening, sitting in the Journeyman's room and stitching the tear into place as tidily as I could, I sighed to see the black drape of silk so marred. Prelates of Ulis did not necessarily take a vow of penury, but they tended toward modesty in income and possessions -- and it was one of the things that I was not looking forward to experiencing as my savings ran out. In part, it was my own pride, but in part, it was for the sake of my son. 

Nemra had had little enough need of me before between nannies and aunts and cousins; but how now could I send him what I felt was his due, as his mother? The Tomasada were providing for him in a much better way that I ever could, but I still wanted to hold my head high when I went to visit next, and at least take him a token of our relationship. I still loved him, after all, no matter that I'd never been overly maternal about it.

The completed mending looked tidy but obvious, and I wondered if a bit of embroidery would be considered immodest – perhaps black on black, and mirrored on the other side of the collar. I resolved to ask Celehar the next day.

~

In the morning, Othala Celehar, Othala Chanavar, and I convened in Chanavar’s workroom and stared down at the sword.

Celehar had made a special trip to Ulvanensee for the occasion. He was currently residing in convalescence at the Sanctuary in Ulzhav’ostro, under the care of Othalo Rasaltezhen the mind-healer.

“Well,” Celehar said, his gravelly voice holding a hint of approval, “It was quick thinking on your part to recognize Ashavet Tormalar as a ghoul, as undernourished as he was. Nicely done, Tomasaran.”

“And at great personal risk to yourself,” Chanavar pointed out, eyeing Celehar.

“Oh, not at all,” I said. “The boy was hardly strong enough to lift this sword, he could not have harmed me.”

“What is it about your calling,” Chanavar said, shaking his head, “that seems to draw the sort of prelates who do not have any regard for their own well-being. You could have run back to us and obtained some assistance, Tomasaran.”

"Well, I was lost," I began.

“At any rate,” Celehar cut in, looking slightly amused – perhaps because he was not bearing the brunt of Chanavar’s concern, this time. “This artifact surely was not an heirloom of the Tormalada family, no matter how much they’ve risen in Amalo’s fortunes. We should bring it directly to Prince Orchenis for safekeeping while we research its provenance.”

“Yes,” Chanavar said, eyeing it with a pursed mouth. “It is a thing far too precious to store here, even in the locked vaults. I regret I cannot accompany thee today, Thara, but if thou dost not mind accompanying Tomasaran when she requests an audience…”

“Of course,” Celehar agreed quickly. “Besides, it will be a welcome respite from all that resting to actually do something for a change.”

I laughed, and they both regarded me for a moment. “What is it?” I asked them.

“Oh, nothing really,” Celehar said. “Just that you seem to have survived your first ghoul rather well.”

~

Considering the clear value of the sword, Othala Chanavar insisted upon hiring us a carriage to take us the distance from Ulvanensee to the center of Amalo, where we would petition and wait upon the grace of Prince Orchenis. 

While the Othalei engaged in their usual banter in which Celehar insisted upon a means of transportation with the least convenience to himself, and Chanavar pointed out that his adherence to personal discomfort was ridiculous, I occupied myself in packaging the sword into the least recognizable shape possible.

Using dressing from Chanavar’s store rooms, I wrapped the blade firmly in layers of corpse wrappings, and then secured the bundle together with sack-cloth and string. It was still rather long and narrow, but at least it was bulkier now, and in the company of prelates it might not immediately signify anything valuable.

We decided that Celehar’s office – no – my office, would be as safe a location to petition and wait as any, and took ourselves there.

The carriage ride was largely silent. Celehar looked tired (as ever) but improved (which was an enormous relief given the manner of his ailment), and he gazed tranquilly out the window as we rode, his ears pointing upward in a more relaxed manner than I'd seen him in a long while. 

This left me to stare out the window in turn and consider whether I really had survived my first ghoul “rather well,” as he’d put it, or not. In all honesty the slender structure of bones I’d encountered had barely even been a ghoul, and I would reserve the title of FIRST ghoul for the next one. Still, I reflected grimly, I knew my fate. One day I would have to put myself between a ghoul and its victims. At least I had proof that the prayers to lay ghouls to rest worked, which was useful.

Then, catching myself thinking of things that even half a year earlier would have been the farthest from my thoughts, I laughed.

Celehar looked up inquiringly.

“I was considering what I would do if my next ghoul was a little more robust than this one. And realized that in all my time as the wife of a mayoral candidate in Eshvano, at no point did I think that I would find such a question relevant.” Really, I had been quite sheltered, it seemed. 

“Ah,” Celehar said. “Well. Practically speaking, you do what you did last time. Only –” he looked mildly embarrassed. “If you have prior warning, which you did not in this case, it is probably best to bring help. I know, I know," He acknowledged my quirked brow, "But Anora really did have a point.”

~

Soon we were following after a white-and-gold-on-black liveried steward along the servant’s hallways toward the receiving rooms of Prince Orchenis. 

Celehar carried the awkward bundled item. He still wore his black frock-coat, meaning that he had not yet repaired his coat of office. I wondered fleetingly if my landladies might be applied to for tailoring if I found some cloth, or altering if I were to find something secondhand. And then I took myself to task sternly – I had my own savings to be concerned about, and should not be taking on the worries of an unrelated person, no matter that worrying about the material concerns of men felt like second nature to me.

The prince was tall, narrow, and finely dressed, this time in a dark blue frock-coat embroidered with a geometric Barizheise design in a lighter blue along the lower hem and buttons. He was standing near a receiving table in the North Wing's Cinnabar Room. We bowed. 

“‘An object of great value and historic import’ you said, Othala?” Prince Orchenis said, eyeing the bulky package.

“It is Othalo Tomasaran’s story to tell,” Celehar said, and proceeded to unbundle the sword onto the table while I related my tale of the frail Tormalada ghoul and his unlikely heirloom.

Both Prince Orchenis and his secretary came close to look upon the sword when it lay before them, unveiled finally from its corpse wrappings and sack-cloth. It lay gleaming and polished, well-loved and well-tended, with its slender blade still perfectly sharp.

“Well,” Prince Orchenis said after a moment. “You might have even undersold its value, Othala Celehar, and we thought we’d accounted for your general tendency toward understatement. You say that aside from being found in the hands of a Tormalada ghoul, you do not know its provenance?”

“We do not, Your Highness,” I said, including all the relevant prelates in my plural. 

“And,” Prince Orchenis followed after a thoughtful moment, “we do not believe at all that the Tormalada owned this. It is the type of family heirloom to be kept under constant guard; of the type that even the Tormalada – rising through the ranks of our landed gentry though they are – do not have the means to secure. No, in fact, the best thing to do would be to lock it in my own treasury along with the principate jewels, and apply to the historians to come to us, this time.”

The furrow between his brows stood out very clearly as he looked toward his secretary, who bowed and immediately left the room.

Then the Prince turned back to us. “Help us recall the name of those scholars of history that assisted us with the Tomb of Hasthemis Brulnemar?”

The past-tense was interesting, I thought. The investigation and recovery of the books and other relics in the tomb by the University of Amalo history department was ongoing, but perhaps enough had happened since, for the Prince, that it seemed tidied away. 

“Aäthis Rohethar and Lisava Ormevar, scholars of the first rank,” I replied. “At least Osmer Ormevar will be able enough to journey here. Osmer Rohethar suffered borlaän as a child -- come to think of it, the same wave that created the Tormalada ghoul -- and might not be able to travel far, although we believe he styles himself the more knowledgeable of the two.”

When we last met with them in their offices at the University of Amalo, they’d seemed an interesting duo – Rohethar was polite to us and genuinely interested in our tale of the revethevar, while Ormevar was initially skeptical that we could offer him anything of historic value. He was soon won over, of course, and was now enthusiastically leading the history department in its documentation of the tomb’s books and artifacts.

Prince Orchenis nodded. “It seems that much was touched by that plague. We remember it well, and were sent out to the country estate for the season to escape it. We see that we were lucky, although we did not feel it at the time. But! Let us see. We shall obtain one of the wheeled chairs from our medical wing for his convenience, and send along a steward to aid in pushing him, and they can both come here as soon as they are able.”

We set a time for reconvening in the afternoon, and in the meanwhile, Celehar and I took ourselves to a tea shop for lunch.

~

The Chrysanthemum was not far by tram, and we were soon installed at a table with a window that overlooked the chill autumnal streets. 

"What has it been like, the healing?" I asked Celehar, watching his expression change to something indefinably comfortable as he sipped on his steaming cup of Isevrin. I was not a great drinker of Isevrin -- I preferred the more peppery Aikanaro that was common in Eshvano, but I had not found the same blend yet in Amalo. 

Celehar did look hale and relaxed, the lines on his face easing away from their normal furrows. The psychological damage from having his mind raked to pieces by the revethavar no longer haunted his expression quite as much as it had, and I was relieved.

"I had not realized quite how much I'd been working lately," Celehar said. "Until I stopped. And knowing that the dead of Amalo were in your hands aided me in quite letting go of the job."

"You are only on sabbatical," I said, laughing, "please don't sound so permanently retired! But you did not answer my question about treatment."

"Ah, well. It is, in a word, unsettling. Every time Othalo Rasaltezhen reconnects some of the strands of ability in my mind, it releases a burst of memory -- mine, and Brunlemar's -- that are really quite...unpleasant." His gravelly voice lingered over what was clearly an understatement.

"It is terrible to hear that it causes pain. But is it helping?"

I stared down at my Isevrin, watching the steam rise from the cup while he considered his answer.

"I don't know," he said finally. "When Othalo Rasaltezhen is in my mind, I can feel the ability returning. But it has not yet persisted after she removes herself from my head. It feels as though I'm at the beginning of a very long process, and I don't know if it will last a day, or the remainder of my life."

"Patience for such a thing must be difficult," I said, thinking that I’d probably feel abandoned by Ulis, if I was faced with the same issue. "Although I suppose I was ordinary for so much of my life that it is still quite a surprise when I touch the dead and they speak."

"Yes," Celehar responded, "It's just as surprising to me when they don't." 

But then the excellently hearty chicken pie arrived, and we fell silent to appreciate it.

~

We reconvened in the Octagonal Room. Osmers Rohethar and Ormevar were already there, Rohethar ensconced in a chair of well-cushioned wood on metal wheels. A liveried servant stood with his hands behind his back, several paces behind the handles at the back of the chair, and Ormevar stood to one side.

"We haven't been to the imperial palace in quite some time," Rohethar was saying as we walked up to them. His face was just a little flushed under his scholar's red-ribboned braids, and he was looking around him with an animated curiosity. "Had we known we'd be asked to the palace today, we would have worn our best waistcoat rather than second-best."

Rohethar’s waistcoat was beautifully embroidered in a pattern that did honor to the current imperial dynasty in a series of winding and stylized silver cats on turquoise silk; even if it wasn’t his best waistcoat, it was a fortuitous choice for the day.

Ormevar, who was carrying Rohethar’s walking sticks, bowed to us as we came up to them. “We should have guessed that you were involved, Othala Celehar,” he said in the deep and resonant voice of someone used to projecting to the very back of a lecture hall.

“Slander,” Celehar replied, the barest twitch of a smile easing his lips upward. “It is Othalo Tomasaran’s fault, this time. We are merely her escort, today.”

“Oooh?” Ormevar replied, drawing out the syllable as he turned toward me. “And you’ve managed to gain the interest of the Prince, no less?”

“You shall see soon enough,” I said, smiling. “We are happy to see you both. How goes the study of the tomb?”

“We have set scribes to working on the transcription of some of the more delicate books,” Rohethar said. “We have not yet been able to see them in person, of course, although Ormevar has – he is kind enough to bring us the pages as they are transcribed each day.”

“We wouldn’t want you feeling entirely left out,” Ormevar said. “Besides, you are the only scholar who can adequately translate the ancient Amalin.”

“And what has this revealed about the sect?” Celehar asked.

Their replies were enthusiastic and detailed, and took up the rest of the time spent waiting before a steward came to lead us to the treasury. 

After a while, my mind wandered a bit from the subject at hand, and I observed them as they spoke. It was clear that the borläan had affected more than just Rohethar’s ability to walk – he seemed easily out of breath, and his color rose with each gesture as he described various parts of the tomb. Still, the excursion seemed to do him some good, and Ormevar took more than a courteous interest in ensuring that Rohethar kept his energy even.

Occasionally, almost absent-mindedly, Ormevar would hand him a drink from a flask that depended from a chain around the waist of his frock coat. Sometimes, when Rohethar’s gestures caused him to lose his breath, Ormevar placed a hand on Rohethar’s shoulder and filled in the conversation until Rohethar caught his breath again. One of Ormevar's ears was perpetually cocked sideways, the better to hear Rohethar, I surmised. Their cordial relationship warmed my heart. 

It also made me feel a pang – I was close to my sister Tanzehio, and admitted to myself that I probably missed her more than I missed my husband. Perhaps I would ask her to visit, now that I had comfortable, if sparsely decorated, rooms of my own. When I’d saved enough money that I could be hospitable.

The Principate Treasury was a windowless room with a high ceiling and guarded, steel doors, lit with lanterns on brackets set about the pale marble walls. A series of shoulder-high locked armoires stood in rows throughout the room, and were labeled by numbers embossed in silver metal on their sides. One of the armoires had its doors open to reveal the contents – a series of five swords of various kinds set carefully in brackets.

Prince Orchenis turned and walked toward us carrying the slender sword recovered from the ghoul in gloved hands.

We all bowed, and Rohethar’s eyebrows shot upward when he spotted it.

“We are pleased to finally meet the scholars who have been instrumental in uncovering the history of the Tomb of Hasthemis Brulnemar,” the prince said, inclining his head in greeting. “However, that is not our current inquiry. Othelo Tomasaran came across this sword in the hands of a ghoul in Ulvanensee, and due to its clear historic origins, we wondered if you might be able to identify it.”

Ormevar drew a pair of white gloves from his coat pocket, and donned them. “A ghoul with a sword in Ulvanensee! We suppose that after a Revethavar in the Hill of Werewolves, anything might happen in our city. Might we bring it closer to our colleague for an examination?” He asked.

The prince handed him the sword, and Ormevar turned to bring it nearer to Rohethar. Together, they bent over it, looking at details on the hilt and blade. It was quite unadorned, but Ormevar uncovered the barest scrap of an imprint on the hilt just above the blade – the seal of the maker.

“Well now,” Rohethar said at last. “This is not exactly our specialty, you will understand, but even we can recognize one when we see it: a flawless example of a sunblade from the period either at or before the life of Edrevenivar the Conqueror, is it not?”

“Indeed,” said Ormevar. “The narrowness of the blade is from slightly before his time, yes. To identify exactly which sword – you say it was in the hands of a ghoul? How curious. Well, we need an expert in the history of this era to see exactly which family might have commissioned this one.”

“And? Does the University of Amalo have such an expert?” Prince Orchenis asked.

“No,” said Rohethar, “But one does live locally. She is an author of books on the period, and has studied now and again in our evening seminars in history, as her time permits.”

The prince waited to see if the name was forthcoming. The two scholars were eyeing each other with some hesitation, as if to see who would, or should, speak first.

“What is the issue? Is she perhaps infirm?” Prince Orchenis asked finally.

“Ah – it is just that we,” plural, “were not sure if she wants her expertise known,” Rohethar admitted. “But in this case, we believe she would not want to pass up the opportunity to view such a sword for herself. The expert is perhaps known to the Othala – it is Othalo Parmorin, a judicial witness vel ama.

“Othalo Parmorin!” Celehar exclaimed. “Now that is unexpected, although she has such a vivid power of recollection that we are not surprised she has turned her mind toward history. She is an unimpeachable witness, and if that can be generalized toward any other subject, she would be a fine expert to call upon indeed.”

“Since you know her, may we impose upon you to convey our summons?” Prince Orchenis asked Celehar, gesturing to his secretary. The thin, impassive elf came near, pulling a stationary kit out of his satchel, and soon had a drafted note of summons ready for the prince’s seal.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Celehar rubbing his ear in a manner that I knew, from experience, indicated exhaustion. I stepped forward and said, “We will attempt it; we also know where she is most likely to be found.”

Celehar looked about to speak, but then closed his mouth with a wry little nod. 

“Very well,” Prince Orchenis said, and deposited the letter into my hand. “We will take great care of this sunblade until we can have further knowledge of its owner, and expect to see Othalo Parmorin in a day’s time.”

~

I bade Celehar farewell at the intersection between the Prince’s private wing and the outwardly facing government offices of the Amal’theileian. 

“Send a message if you need me,” Celehar said, “although I believe you have this one well in hand. If you have any other petitioners, you can delay them until this task is complete. Don’t take on too much, Tomasaran.”

“I’ll heed your words, if not your actions,” I said. “Be well, Celehar.”

I turned my steps toward the Office of the Judiciary, wondering if I’d be lucky enough to encounter Othalo Parmorin without too much waiting. Luck was with me, for she was not fifty paces away from the door of the witness’s waiting room when I spotted her. I picked up my pace, calling her name.

“Yes?” Parmorin said, turning, and then, “Oh! Othalo Tomasaran.”

“I am grateful to have found you, Othalo Parmorin! Prince Orchenis expects to see you tomorrow.” Fishing the sealed note out of my coat pocket, I handed it to her.

Her eyebrows hovered near her hairline, and did not come back down when she examined the seal, broke it, and read the lines within. “Well,” Parmorin said, and again, “Well! I don’t suppose you know more about this ‘object of historic value’?”

“I do, but I’d rather not talk about it here. Would you care for some dinner?”

Parmorin regarded me for a moment, and then nodded, decisively. “But if it’s privacy we need, perhaps you wouldn’t mind coming with me back to my lodging? I have a small kitchen, and can easily provide.”

“Oh, that would be excellent,” I said. “It has been ever so long since I have had food that wasn’t from a teahouse.”

“Happy to, then. It’s not far by tram, and I was only going in to wait for an assignment – I can wait another time.”

~

We took the Vestrano tram in an unexpected direction – toward the Orchen’opera’s tram station, through a bourgeoisie neighborhood of small bungalows and houses of brick and clay. Her “lodgings” were actually the entirety of a small house and yard on a hilled street overlooking Lake Zheimela.

“Climbing this hill daily keeps me in good health,” Parmorin said wryly, catching her breath as she unfastened her door.

I looked about, feeling utterly charmed – it was the first time I had seen a witness vel ama looking well-kept in a warm and inviting space, and I felt a tiny modicum of hope that a slow descent into genteel poverty might not need to be my lot.

“Do come in,” Parmorin said, and I stepped into a tidy, comfortable sitting room. There were several rooms to the bungalow, including a kitchen at the back, a set of stairs downward to a cellar for cold storage, and the sitting room with its well-populated bookshelf, good chair, and  desk with tidily organized papers. There was a locked cabinet along the wall behind the desk, and a door that must have led to the bedchamber.

“What a lovely house,” I said sincerely, and bit back my next words, which were, However did you manage this, on our stipend?

Parmorin, looking at me with eyes that were a little too keen, laughed. “Thank you! I made the purchase after the sale of my third book of history. There was a surprising market for that series of books, especially among the students at the University of Amalo – they said that it was a relief to read something written in the vernacular, instead of in the abstruse manner that scholars often use.”

“Ah,” I said, “so it wasn’t entirely purchased by saving every bit of our stipend.”

“Oh, that barely pays for food,” Parmorin said. “Speaking of – please come into the kitchen, it’s easier that way, I’ll warm some stew, and make some tea, and you can sit at the table and tell me your tale.”

I sat at the old, well-polished wooden table, and told her of the Tormalada ghoul, and the sunblade he held. She listened carefully without interrupting, even when I described the sunblade – although I could tell by the alert set of her ears that she was excited. Pretending I was in a deposition, I also described the meetings with Prince Orchenis, and Osmers Rohethar and Ormevar, and their suggestion that she be applied to for a proper identification of the blade.

“Quite right,” Parmorin said, setting a bowl of steaming herb-scented stew in front of me. It smelled richly of pork and fennel, and I warmed my fingers on the sides of the bowl for a moment. “They were quite right to think of me, and in fact, I believe I might know the provenance already.”

“Even without seeing it in person?” I asked.

“Oh well, I’d want to see it in person anyway,” Parmorin said, pouring out the tea. “But in this case, there are very few blades of such a description still in existence. This will be a treat, to be sure! I shall join you at the time and place appointed tomorrow, gladly.”

I ate quietly for a moment, savoring the meal. I did miss some things about being part of the Tomasada – and one of them was having access to my husband’s household’s well-appointed kitchen. “This is lovely,” I said. “It reminds me to take more advantage of the kitchen at my rooming house. I have missed cooking.”

“It is important to pace yourself, and not give yourself entirely to work the way that some Othala I know tend to,” Parmorin said, and I laughed.

“Whoever could you mean?” I responded. “But you are right, I have fallen into Othala Celehar’s habit of taking nearly every meal at a teashop. But I do love to cook.”

“It is a comfort, isn’t it? I like to make stews in the winter, and salads in the summer, depending upon which vegetables I can coax out of my patch of garden,” Parmorin said. 

What would it be like to have a kitchen of my own? I looked around at Parmorin’s tidy shelves, organized with their jars of grains and preserves, and the bread box with a dark brown loaf tucked into it. There were herbs hanging to dry near the window, which indicated an herb garden in the yard at the back. 

“I admit that I did not enjoy life in a room in a boarding house,” Parmorin said, again observing me a little too keenly. “It took me a while to realize that my occupation did not preclude me from finding other kinds of work to help sustain me, especially after I took one of Osmer Rohethar’s free evening courses in history. I’ll always remember one of the marks he made on an essay — ‘You have a talent for bringing this era of history to life. Why don’t you write books about it?’ I couldn’t admit to him that the talent was fostered by reading those Chevalier novels with the indigo spines.”

I laughed again. “Ah, Othala Celehar has quite the collection of those in our — my, rather — office, they appear to be his guilty pleasure while waiting for petitioners. I’ve been too busy of late to read any of them, but they do look tempting.”

“Oh, they are!” And Othalo Parmorin was off and running on her current favorite, which was a retelling of the kidnapping of Edrevenivar the Conqueror’s second wife’s eldest son, who was the heir to the throne of the Elflands, and the chevaliers who came to his rescue. Sadly the rescue attempt failed, and the son was slain — the chevaliers all throwing themselves to their deaths off the nearest high mountain peak for their failure. But not all was lost, for during the course of the adventure, a natural child of Edrevenivar was found working as a hostler by one of the chevalier’s grooms. This child was restored to the palace, and became the heir in the place of the one who was kidnapped.

By the end of this tale I was eyeing Parmorin from narrowed eyes. “Surely this can’t be the case?” I asked. “Wouldn’t that mean the entire dynasty was the product of a by-blow?”

”Oh, no,” Parmorin said, “Edrevenivar’s heir was deposed nearly as soon as he achieved the throne. His third wife’s eldest daughter’s husband became Emperor instead, and because they were somewhat related — cousins to the second degree, I believe — the blood was considered close enough.”

I shook my head. “Well. That gives one perspective.”

“The second we think our lives are exciting…”

”Indeed. At least we were not born into royalty.”

We were silent for a moment, and I sipped my tea — pleasantly surprised that it was Aikanaro, although a slightly different flavor from Eshvano’s. “Where did you purchase this tea? It is my preferred variety, and I have missed it.”

”The Hanevo Tree sells it by the ounce,” Parmorin said. “You poor dear, it must be disconcerting to entirely change one’s city of residence, after living your whole life elsewhere. I’ve always lived in Amalo, and it is so comforting to know where everything I need is located. Feel free to ask me if you are in any need of directions, or guidance.”

“Thank you. For the most part I have enjoyed it,” I said. “Eshvano was so very small, and my part in the Tomasada was…ornamental. My only complaint about my current situation really comes from my own vanity, and perhaps more materially, from the concern that I shall not be able to live comfortably on my salary.”

“Ah,” Parmorin said. “Well, aside from waiting for petitioners, and following up with those petitions, your afternoons tend to be free?”

”And evenings, too.”

”Do you have any skills that you might be able to turn to, for extra employment?”

I considered. I was not a writer, nor did I really have a passion for history — although, if given the option, I would enjoy going to the free evening classes at the University of Amalo to further my knowledge.

“It is hard to think of myself as a collection of skills, where previously I was simply a wife,” I said. “Aside from hearing the dead, I suppose, I have all of the skills of housekeeping, but I would hate to take on an occupation that requires me to be at a place other than my office.”

Parmorin was looking at the mending on my coat of office. “Your stitches are quite tidy — would you consider taking on sewing? You could even do it in your offices, waiting for petitioners.”

Interesting. “Would I advertise my skill, somehow?”

”I have a friend at a tailor’s shop that I can introduce you to.”

The thought of having access to supplies of fabric and thread was tempting, and the hope of having something — anything — to supplement my income made me feel a dizzying sense of relief.

”Oh, would you? I would be extremely grateful. I hate sounding so mercenary when it is clear that some of our colleagues feel that they are adequately cared for, but…”

”I absolutely understand. Of course,” Parmorin said firmly, and then smiled. “It has been pleasant having another Othalo for tea. Would you consider me a friend? Come and use my kitchen sometime, if you like — it would be a pleasure to eat something that I didn’t cook for myself. Come and sew and chat!”

Touched, I nodded. “I would very much enjoy that. Please, call me Velhiro.”

”And I am Zhodeän.”

~

The next day, most of the same people gathered outside of the treasury. Celehar was absent, but Parmorin walked up briskly, her expression beaming. She greeted Osmer Rohethar effusively, Osmer Ormevar cordially, and bowed to Prince Orchenis.

”We are intrigued that you have a hobby of writing about this era of history,” the Prince said. “Are you pursuing a degree in this field?”

”Our ambitions are not so high, for our position does not enable us to spend quite so much time on scholarship,” Parmorin said with a smile. “We are an amateur author only. Thank you for your interest, Your Highness. We must admit that we are extremely excited to see the sunblade!”

”Indeed,” the Prince said, leading us through the doors. ”It is here.”

The sunblade lay on a table, seeming to gather all of the lamp light of the room onto its edges.

Parmorin did not bother to stifle her intake of breath, and her sigh. She drew on a pair of gloves and approached it almost reverently. “Oh, it is a beauty.”

We all watched her as she examined the blade. She looked it over, gently turning it and staring hard at the maker’s imprint on the pommel. And then she found another small mark on the very top of the pommel, and nodded in satisfaction, putting it down again very carefully.

”We do not know how this blade of the Ceredada family came to Amalo, but we are certain that this one was last seen in the ownership of the daughter of that family — she who is now Empress of the Elflands. The blade must be returned to her! We are not sure why there has not been a hue and cry regarding its loss.”

“Well done, Othalo Parmorin,” Rohethar said with warmth in his voice. “Will you tell us how you recognized it? We don’t know why you insist upon denying your own scholarly expertise, when you are clearly the leading voice in this span of our history.”

Blushing just a bit, Parmorin explained, showing the tiny rune at the top of the pommel – two lines crossed by another – that was the mark of the Ceredada family during the days in which they were the sworn cavaliers of Edrevenivar the Conqueror’s grandfather.  

“Ah, look at that. We thought it was simply a mark of wear,” Rohethar said. “Or a tally of those slain by the sword, scratched by the bearer.”

“Us as well. You have taught the pair of us, today,” Ormevar said. “When you wish to apply for the third-degree scholar exam, please do let us know.”

“We will consider it more seriously,” Parmorin said, her usually unflappable expression flushing the tiniest bit from the praise.

Prince Orchenis examined the mark, and then nodded grimly. “As we feared,” he said. “The ownership of such a sword could not have been anyone less. And now it becomes our duty to adequately explain its presence in our city without angering the Imperial throne. Othalo Tomasaran, we will need all of the information that we can to justify its presence here. Would you investigate the area where you found it more thoroughly, and perhaps provide details regarding how it might have gotten there?”

”We will try,” I said. “Perhaps we will begin by examining the thoughts of the dead who came to the Ulvanensee within the past month. If the sword arrived at the cemetery unbeknownst to the clerics, it would have been hidden from all save the dead who might have borne it.”

”Please remit a report to me as swiftly as possible; we foresee an imperial visit, rather sooner than later,” Prince Orchenis said, rubbing at the lines on his forehead. 

“We will clear our schedule and begin research immediately,” I said, bowing.

~

The next day, I placed a sign upon the door of my office explaining that I was absent on Principate business, and took myself off to Ulvanensee.

Othala Chanavar was weeding the courtyard when I arrived, a seemingly endless task that I also took part in during the afternoons I spent studying the rites of Ulis with his prelates. I explained my task to him, and he immediately went to fetch his record books.

“So your premise is that the sword was smuggled here inside of someone’s corpse wrappings?”

“It sounds far-fetched, I know. My other theory is that someone has been using your catacombs as a repository for stolen goods, and I am not sure which I prefer,” I said, and then I remembered Celehar’s advice to bring help. “At any rate, I … wouldn’t mind some assistance in looking through the turnings of the spiral catacomb where our ghoul found it. Just in case of stumbling upon actual thieves!”

“Let us apply to the vigilant brotherhood,” Chanavar said, “I am sure that at Prince Orchenis’s orders, they will be quite at our service. I will also ask my prelates to assist.”

It took a fair portion of the morning to organize the expedition, but finally Othala Erlenar, Othalo Vidrezhen, Othala Chanavar, and I led two of the Vigilant Brotherhood into the spiral catacombs. The brothers who joined us were two large half-goblin men; Voris Pathar and Zhema Ithar. They were dressed in the dark uniforms of their office and carried lethal looking bats in their hands.

At the fourth left-handed turning, I paused and pointed to the faint residue of ash that marked where the ghoul had fallen – and then pointed behind him, to a doorway into the darkness where he had come from. “Let us look there first.”

“There are no new dead interred here,” Chanavar said. He carried a list of the past month’s deceased and where they were kept – but none of them were this far down in the catacombs. My initial theory was wrong. Sadly, that meant that the theory about smugglers was likely correct.

Pathar went first, taking one of the lanterns on the wall and striding forward into the darkness. The space turned out to be a long corridor, lined on either side by rooms marked with names – the final resting place of the bones of many of the bourgeoisie families of Amalo. I knew, from my brief foray into the spirit of Ashavet Tormalar, that he’d crawled from room to room down this dark corridor, hungry and desperate, looking for any bones that still might have marrow.

“Ah – Othala Chanavar, we might need to tidy some of these rooms. The ghoul was in them. But, later,” I said, remembering.

“I should have remembered. The sword did distract us a bit, didn’t it?”

“The sword…” Something weighed in my memory – perhaps the one bright moment in Tormalar’s tortured wanderings. “I think…I think I can remember where he found the sword,” I said slowly. “Othala, can you lead us to the old Tormalada interment? I will trace his steps from there.”

“A fine idea. It will save us some wandering,” Chanavar said, and stepped next to Pathar to help lead the way. We went back out to the twists of the main spiral corridor and down one more turn. There were no lanterns on the next level, so Ithar went back up and fetched a wall lantern before we went on. 

The strangest part of this level was the air flow. It was unrelievedly dark, but instead of the close, still sensation that I’d been associating with the deeper catacombs, there was the faintest sense of wind.

“Othala Chanavar, does this level lead outward? I can smell something here that isn’t the usual smells of the catacombs,” I said. “Perhaps I feel the faintest breeze on my face.”

“Could be,” Chanavar said, “these catacombs were never fully mapped.”

Soon, he stopped in front of a modest interment room, now empty, with the name plate gone. I took a deep breath and walked forward, letting my memory take me.

He’d awoken, cold and alone. It took years to fit together what body he could, driven by nothing more than the desire to walk, to eat… the bodies of rats sustained him for a while, insects when he could get them. He’d been nothing more than a mouth until he could fit the rest of his bones together. A few decades passed, and he’d fitted enough bones together that he could walk. Then things were easier.

I stepped outside of the door of the chamber, and turned. From room to room he’d dragged himself, sucking marrow when he could find it. Down this corridor, and this turning. And –

“Tomasaran!” Vidrezhen gasped, gripping my arm. I shook myself out of the daze and looked. We’d found it – a nondescript room in a deeply buried corridor, but against the dark walls, lost in the shadows, we saw chests. 

Pathar went forward and opened one, and we all gasped again. It was full of what looked like a cloud – of white, diaphanous silk. Pathar set his lantern down and bent to hold it up, and it revealed itself to be a drapery – some very important person’s bed-drapings, all intricately embroidered in white on white on white. 

“That cannot be – Sharadansho silk,” Chanavar exclaimed, and then he shook his head. “Of course it is. We shall need to bring in Prince Orchenis’s guards to properly tend to this. But – why would it not be identified as missing in the first place? Surely this is too precious to disappear without a trace.”

The chest was full of the draperies, enough to make a complete set for an unspeakably ostentatious room. At the bottom of the chest was a parasol of the same silk, but patterned in leaves, with bits of glass catching the lantern light like sparks of white flame. In all, it was rather overwhelming. So much expensive material all together even felt a touch garish – so much white would surely eclipse everything else in the room, including whoever resided there.

There were six or seven other chests in the room, but none of us wanted to open them.

Tormalar’s memory of the room was suffused with a strange, abstracted wonder. The sword had been set down upon one of the chests hastily. Perhaps because the person who had brought it was in a hurry to get out – because Tormalar himself was there, weak and hidden but exuding his hunger nonetheless. The sword glowed in the lamplight left behind, and Tormalar had stared at the bright, beautiful gleam of the sword’s gold until the light winked out.

“Yes,” Chanavar said decisively. “I’ve marked the location on this map. Perhaps Pathar and Ithar can guard the upper entrance while we send a message to Prince Orchenis?”

They assented, and after one more disbelieving look, we all turned and wound our way back out.

~

Chanavar dispatched his note, and I spent the next two hours quietly weeding the courtyard to settle my thoughts about Tormalar and the treasure before the activity began again.

Prince Orchenis himself entered the courtyard in his carriage, flanked by a set of principate guards on horses. He emerged from the carriage alongside two elves – one of whom I knew. She was Merrem Bechevaran of the cartographer’s guild, clearly assigned the unenviable duty of discovering how the smugglers had gotten into the catacombs.

I waved at Bechevaran, who was looking around her with wide eyes, and we all bowed to Prince Orchenis.

“We have brought Mer Aisava with us, the Imperial Secretary,” the Prince said. “Imagine our surprise when instead of a message, we received a person.”

“Well, we were previously a courier, so it really isn’t that surprising,” Mer Aisava said rather dryly, and turned to look at me. “Othalo Tomasaran, is it? Your story continues to be concerning, and the discovery of a former heirloom of the house of Ceredada, which was supposed to be in the safe possession of the Emperor, alarmed him – and Empress – so much that they dispatched us post-haste.”

“Goodness,” I said, “We are simply grateful to have stumbled across it and returned it to safety.”

“Stumbled? We hear that a ghoul was involved,” Mer Aisava said with a smile. “But we shall talk more in a moment. Othala Chanavar, if you do not mind leading Prince Orchenis’s guards to the room, we hope to bring all of its contents to this courtyard for a full inventory.”

“Othala Erlenar, please lead them? Thank you,” said Chanavar.

“And if you would, Othala,” said Prince Orchenis, “Merrem Bechevaran is a member of the cartographer’s guild. Would you be so kind as to show her any maps that might be relevant? We would like to, shall we say dissuade, any further use of the Ulvanensee catacombs for smugglers or thieves.”

“Of course,” Othala Chanavar said with a bow, and led Bechevaran away toward his study.

~

While we awaited the unearthing of the chests, Mer Aisava pressed me with questions – about the ghoul, about my calling, and about, unexpectedly, Othala Celehar.

“We had heard that Mer Celehar is with a healer at present, for wounds of the mind,” Mer Aisava said.

“We had not known that Othala Celehar’s doings here in Amalo were of concern to the Imperial court,” I said, blushing faintly. Celehar would not be pleased to think his health was the topic of conversations across the Elflands.

“Ah – do not be concerned that the news has spread too far,” Mer Aisava said quietly. “The Emperor has personal concern because he received assistance from Mer Celehar in the event that caused death to his family. They became friends, and the Emperor takes interest in the health of his friends.”

“We were unaware that the Emperor was at all close to Othala Celehar,” I said. “He is not one to boast of such a connection. But in light of this friendship, we will tell you of his treatment, as long as the news does not spread too far.” I relayed what Celehar had told me about his treatment.

“The Emperor will be relieved to hear that Mer Celehar is healing, if slowly,” Mer Aisava said, “And we are as well. We are grateful that such a thing as mind healing exists, and will remember it should we need the information.”

Just then the chests began arriving, and I breathed a small sigh of relief – I did not want to share anything further about that which was not really mine to relay, especially to the Emperor’s secretary.

Mer Aisava’s expression turned from shocked, to grim, to thunderously angry as he looked from chest to chest, and his ears drooped lower and lower. There were seven in all, and they contained a variety of objects from intricate clockwork birds, to gowns woven of cloth-of-gold and silver filigree, to entire jewelry sets from the court of Barizhan. 

“Mer Aisava,” said Prince Orchenis, “What is all of this? From our assessment, it looks to be the contents of an Imperial storehouse.”

“It is,” Mer Aisava said reluctantly, “These are all from the fourth storage unit. We place things in this unit that are highly valuable items the Emperor might not, how shall we put this… might not need to see anywhere near him on a daily or even yearly basis. These are all things we never would have looked for again, and the thieves somehow knew it.”

“Ah, so this is the storehouse for gifts that the Emperor disliked, but was far too politic to refuse,” said the prince with a snort. “We have a somewhat smaller closet for that ourself.”

“Still, it is extremely disconcerting that this theft has taken place at all. We shall have to immediately apply to Captain Orthema for an increase in patrol around the storage units – and we must re-vet all of the staff assigned to storage duties.” Mer Aisava sighed. “And yet, knowing the Emperor, he will say that if he did not want these items anyway, why should we patrol at all?”

Prince Orchenis, who had met the Emperor on more than one occasion, nodded sympathetically. “He has a kind and generous heart. But the sunblade –”

“Now that is a different matter,” Mer Aisava said. “We will hope that it was accidentally put into the wrong storage room after cleaning, for the theft of such a blade is NOT so easily forgiven. The Emperor does dislike putting anyone to death, but would do so for the honor of the Empress.”

“We shall hope it was an honest mistake, then,” Prince Orchenis said grimly. “For our part, we will attempt to complete the map of the Ulvanensee catacombs. We will also lay something of a trap.”

I listened as they planned the details. 

“And then, perhaps, we shall understand the purpose behind this theft,” Prince Orchenis said. “What do they intend to use the money for? The thieves must exist in a far larger group than a few unrelated persons, for they would have had to have connections at court, and with transportation services – perhaps even airships, and here in Amalo…”

Mer Aisava nodded, looking grave. “We sense that this is the very beginning of this investigation,” he said. “We shall assign an Imperial witness for the Empress, if you would assign one for the sunblade itself…”

“Of course. In fact, we shall assign Othalo Parmorin, who was the witness who identified it in the first place.”

Othala Chanavar and Merrem Bechevaran returned then. 

“We have what we need to make a start,” Bechevaran said, clutching a large folder of documents in her arms. “However, we will need assistance navigating through the catacombs, if Othala Chanavar can spare a prelate?”

“We would be glad to assist, as long as it is in the afternoons, and we do not have any petitions,” I said. 

“Lovely. Come when you are able, and we will have our other prelates assist when they can,” Othala Chanavar said. 

~

A week later, I provided my testimony to Zhödean Parmorin over tea and ginger biscuits in her kitchen, and she listened to me with the careful attention of the Witness vel ama for the sunblade. It was nice to give a deposition in a kitchen rather than the usual offices, but Parmorin’s witnessing was as thorough and efficient as usual, and my deposition flowed without a hitch.

“Merrem Bechevaran, a cartographer, and I were perhaps seven-hundred steps westward of the fourth turning of the catacomb, very near the room where we found the treasure – and near the old Tormalada interment. 

“Earlier that week we’d found and recorded one of the entrances to the catacombs, but we had more to map. The entrance we’d found was in a part of the  tunnel that ran straight until a wall blocked any further passage; that wall had been dismantled. Beyond the dismantled portion, many doors led to basements and alleyways – apparently it was used as a sort of unofficial underground road between businesses in that part of the city, for those who knew of it.”

Parmorin nodded, turning her attention to the map I’d brought to help orient my description. I pointed to a place just on the Ulvanensee side of the bricked-off bit of the passage. “The prince’s guard had been stationed here, along with a small garrison of the Vigilant Brotherhood. They came and went as quietly as possible – a few at a time, trickling in and out of their station during their shift change so as to avoid anyone noticing. Merrem Bechevar and I tried to stay out of their way, but we had to be on this side of the catacomb that day to trace a passageway we had noticed leading northward from the back of one of the family interments.”

I paused and drank the Aikanaro gratefully. I’d already followed Parmorin’s advice and purchased some from the Hanevo Tree to have as my morning cup, but more of my favorite tea  was never a bad thing.

“We were tucked into the interment room when we heard the commotion begin. The moment someone – a tall elven man – stepped through the fallen wall, the guards fell on him. I stepped out into the passageway to see if we needed to retreat any further to be out of their way, and that was exactly when they uncovered their lanterns – those poor guards had been sitting in near-blackness for several hours at that point, and I think they had become somewhat light-blind, because he used that moment of confusion to drop what he was carrying – it fell to the floor in a loud clang – and twist himself free.

“The next thing I knew, I saw a shape running toward me, swiftly, his feet pounding the pavement as if he was terrified – well, I suppose he was terrified. I did not want all that waiting in the dark to be in vain, so I did what anyone would do, really. I blew out my lamp, and when his running steps came nearer and nearer to me, I reached out my foot and tripped him.”

Parmorin’s expression was comical for a moment – I could tell she greatly desired to say something, but she was witnessing, and could not. So I forged on.

“He wasn’t expecting it, to be sure. He fell hard over my foot, shrieking the whole way, until his head hit the ground and he lay very silent and still. Merrem Bechevaran came out into the passageway then and sat on his back while I went to fetch her lantern and call for the guards. They’d recovered their sight by then and were probably feeling very foolish, for they all came at once when we called.

“One of them carried what looked like a round shield, wrapped up in an old blanket – it must have been part of the trap that Mer Aisava and Prince Orchenis planned.

“Soon, he was carefully bound up and lifted onto a stretcher – why the Brotherhood had one with them is anyone’s guess, perhaps they anticipated violence – and we all made our way out of the catacombs.

“When we stepped into the light I got my first really good look at him – at Odra Hadromar. His eyes were shut, of course, but he looked like any kind of prosperous elf that you could think of. He was tall and pale, a little portly around the middle as if he ate well. His hair was a rather dishwater grey, and his skin a little blotchy – red patches on his cheeks, and some roughness, as if he still had traces of the pox from borläan. His clothing was very rich-looking though; I remember thinking that a silver waistcoat embroidered in taffeta peacocks was an odd choice for smuggling.

“And, after I gave my statement to Subpraeceptor Azanharad, Hadromar began to wake up – shouting.”

I paused again and ate one of the biscuits. The flavor was sharp and restorative, and I wished for a piece of cheese to eat it with; something rich and creamy, perhaps. I’d bring some, the next time I came to visit.

“Odra Hadromar, former courtier in the Imperial court, said all manner of things in that glass-cutting accent of his – that we were infringing on his rights as a citizen of Amalo, that he was within his remit to be visiting the Ulvanensee catacombs, that the Brotherhood had no cause to detain him. But of course, every time he said anything, he looked so furtive that he was simply solidifying his own guilt in everyone’s eyes. Besides, they had the shield that he had been carrying with him right there.

“The Subpraeceptor finally said, ‘Now that’s enough of that, sir,’ and bundled him off into the back of one of their wagons, with six of the brotherhood with him in case he’d run again. And that is where my part of the story ends, really.”

Parmorin regarded me for a moment longer. “It is strange, is it not, that some stories are never really resolved? I feel that way when I am witnessing, too. Some stories conclude, but some simply unravel. I wonder which this will be.”

“I will be following your case,” I said. “I am quite curious myself.”

~

A month later, I was out shopping for a Winternight present for my son at one of the festively decorated shops along the Abandoned Bridge when I saw the Arbiter’s headline blaring at me from a newspaper stall: 

AMALO SMUGGLING RINGLEADER CAPTURED IN IMPERIAL HEIST!

I bought the paper, of course, and tucked it away for concentrated reading later.

The mending work had been a blessing – steady, and easily accomplished while waiting for petitioners, as well as filling my hours at night. I’d taken to sitting with the proprietress of my boarding house, Rhadeän Nadin, to pool our gas light, both of us sitting and stitching together and chatting about our day. It proved to be an excellent way for me to think through petitioners’ issues; Min Nadin’s gentle questions were the perfect way to tease out details that I had not thought about.

Min Nadin also spotted the mending on my coat of office, and encouraged me to do the embroidery that I had planned. I worked it to her suggestion, and the black-on-black crow never failed to make me smile when I donned my coat each workday.

And of course, I’d been meeting with Zhödean for tea in her bungalow. Our conversations covered history, and the cases she’d witnessed, and the books she’d read; and I contributed with whatever I’d learned most recently about death rituals from my studies with the beneficed prelates of Ulis. 

With two steady sources of income making my life materially more secure, and friends to share my doings with, I felt – happy. Happier, I admitted to myself, than I’d ever felt as a purely ornamental member of the Tomasada.

And I even had enough money after stowing away my savings to invest in a small, gold-painted wooden sword to send to Nemra for Winternight. I decided I’d send him a letter by way of my sister Tanzehio about my involvement with the Empress’s sunblade, and I would clip the article to corroborate the details. Even if the Tomasada kept my own correspondences away from my son, they could not refuse a visit from my sister without the whole of Eshvano hearing of it, and she could relay the gift and the letter to him for me.

Back in the kitchen of my boarding house, I heated some dumplings on a pan in the kitchen, and settled down to read. 

Most of the details of the article were correct, though sensationalized. I’d been characterized as “Othala Celehar’s stalwart apprentice,” which was fair enough, but I laughed at, “Following hard in his adventuresome footsteps.” They described the ghoul as a fair bit larger and more frightening than he was, but I did not mind that Amalo’s papers ascribed to him a little ferocity, if it would allow his memory to live on. 

Min Nadin entered the kitchen then, perhaps drawn by the smell of the dumplings. 

“Those look delightful,” Min Nadin said. “Would you like a little of my beet soup to go with them?”

Min Nadin’s cold and herb-laden beet soup was delicious. “Certainly! Let us share our meal, then.”

“Oh, but I have interrupted your reading,” she said, retrieving the soup from the cold room.

“I was simply catching up on the case of the sunblade. The Arbiter says: ‘Odra Hadromar had been a former courtier in the employ of Uleris Chavar, the Lord Chancellor involved in a plot to depose Edrahasavar VII.’” 

“So this Hadromar must have known the court’s workings to the smallest detail,” Min Nadin said, dishing out the soup into cups.

“Indeed,” I said, “Including the location of that fourth storage unit where little-used and little-appreciated gifts to the Imperial family were kept. Apparently he had decided to browbeat his connections at court – through threat of exposure as aiding in the coup – to slowly, over the course of time, smuggle items out of that storeroom. One of the cleaners stowed the items in a rolling mop bin and took them to an Imperial courier. The courier packed them up in battered boxes and ferried the items to Hadromar’s family business in Amalo, alongside letters from the Imperial court to the prince.” 

“I imagine Prince Orchenis must have been quite chagrined to realize that his very own letters were used as a cover for smuggling,” Min Nadin said, sitting at the table and accepting her plate of dumplings. “But why? I don’t quite understand that part of it all. Surely it would have been difficult to sell those things?”

“The Arbiter says that his goal had simply been to embarrass the Emperor by stealing diplomatic gifts, in revenge for relieving him of his place at court,” I said. I took a sip of the cold soup, enjoying the contrast of the sweetness to the dollop of sour cream Min Nadin added to the top. 

“I suppose this Hadromar had not thought far enough ahead to Where can I sell these objects? ” 

“Indeed. The paper implied that even unscrupulous merchants would shy away from selling items that looked like their provenance could be easily identified. But now, because the sunblade had been a priceless possession beloved by the Empress, Hadromar faces deportation to work in a far northern mine. It might as well be a death sentence.”

At least it wasn’t a literal death sentence. I was still uncertain that death was the best means of enacting justice for anything, including quite a few of the murders I’d witnessed for. 

“It is always difficult to tell whether justice is actually justice, or just a series of increasingly unfortunate consequences of an initial unfortunate event,” Min Nadin said thoughtfully. “Oh, what did you put inside of the dumplings? They are quite tasty.”

~

Later that night I picked up the wooden sword. Humbler by far than the sleek majesty of the sunblade, but much more cheerful, it lay in my hands like a bright memory. I hoped sincerely that my son would like it, as well as the story that went with it. Thinking of the loneliness of Ashavet Tormalar, I gathered together some paper and a fountain pen and ink, and began to write a letter to my son.