“It’s a worthy cause,” said Scorio at last.
“It’s why we’re trained to focus our sights on Imperator.” Leonis sighed. “Though vanishingly few have the motivation, talent, and fortune to get that far. Only they can take the fight to the enemy in their home. Everyone else, from Crimson Earl down, is basically supporting that fight.”
Lianshi spoke with quiet conviction. “I made Charnel Duke once. This time, perhaps I’ll go all the way.”
“Whereas I, apparently, will settle down and open a bakery upon making Pyre Lord again.” Leonis grinned. “It seems my ambitions have been more easily settled than most in the past.”
Lianshi sat up straight. “But first we need to make it to Emberling. Speaking of which, we need to get back. Scorio—see you at dusk?”
“You can count on it.” He rose to his feet, sliding the golden chit into his robe. “Thank you again. You don’t know how much this means to me.”
“Ah, don’t mention it.” Leonis rose heavily. “It’s good to get out and see you. And who doesn’t want to get involved with a little nefarious skullduggery now and again?”
“That’s not quite how I’d put it,” said Lianshi with a quiet smile, “but yes. You’re welcome.”
They stepped out of the restaurant, and back into the early Second Bronze light. The air was rich and muggy, and wisps of cloud were burning off in the sky above them as they curved up toward the bright early afternoon sun-wire.
“Until dusk then,” said Leonis. “Find yourself a hood.”
“I hope this brings you answers,” said Lianshi with a quick hug. “See you soon.”
Scorio watched them go, hand raised, and when they turned the corner and left his line of sight, he stepped over to one side of the courtyard to sit on a plain bench. Taking the golden chit back out, he turned it over and over between his fingers.
What would he find in his locker? Leonis’s talk of averages had provoked a question he’d dared not ask: why had he only been reborn six times? Why had it been over two hundred and thirty-three years since he’d last been reborn?
With a little luck, he’d find out that night.
Chapter 27
Scorio hefted the amphora of dawn apple juice upon his shoulder and marched boldly up to the Academy’s southern side, melding with the flow of foot traffic that even at this late hour was intent on gaining admittance. Second Clay was soon to end, and already dark clouds spiraled around the sun-wire.
He felt fantastic. The Sublime Purification pill had renewed his Heart tremendously, and it felt like a long-standing fever had broken. He felt clear-headed and alert, and drawing on mana had become far easier than it had become of late.
If only he had another ten such pills.
Still, the power of the treasure had been wondrous, and he resolved to find a way to thank Lianshi properly in turn. The gift had meant more to him than she could ever guess.
But that would have to wait. As he drew closer to the blue door, Scorio schooled his features, attempting to appear both intent and bored, an unimportant courier determined to finish his assignment as quickly as possible. The hood hung low over his brow, shadowing his face in the already dim, reddish light of the last cycle. Heart pounding in time to his footsteps, he watched with avid interest as those ahead of him were processed and allowed in.
There was no actual door, it turned out, but rather a large archway whose framing stones were painted a faded blue; broad enough to admit five men walking abreast, it was guarded by two guards in rose and gray with a third reading permits and papers. The sight of them sent a chill through Scorio; for a moment he felt nausea roil his gut and grew light-headed—it seemed like just a moment ago that men just like these had tossed him through the Final Door.
But the process was efficient, and the line moved forward quickly. Scorio straightened, breathed deeply, and watched as those ahead were processed and sent on their way.
Scorio resisted the urge to look up. To take in the intimidating bulk of the Academy with a glance, from its improbably massive domes to its complicated accompanying halls, arcades, towers, and other architectural features he didn’t know the name for. But from a distance, it had seemed familiar, puzzlingly so, until he’d realized how well it resembled its larger, dour brother at the far end of the ruins.
“Cutting it fine, my lad,” said the guard as he extended his gloved hand for Scorio’s papers. “Cutting it fine.”
“Apologies,” was all he said, and handed over the golden chit.
A flicker of surprise passed over his face, and then he handed it back. “Personal delivery? You know where to go?”
“Hall of Golden Reflections,” was all Scorio replied, neither affirming nor denying.
“Right enough. You’ll be making a hard left when you reach the main corridor, away from the kitchens. Follow that through two courtyards, straight as an arrow, then take a left along the next gallery. Down the first set of broad steps, and the guards there’ll tell you where to go next. Clear?”
“Clear,” said Scorio, slipping the chit back into his robes.
“Mind, no wasting time, no wandering, no gaping. We find you anywhere but the straight path between here and your destination, you’ll be whipped. Now move on. Next!”
Scorio bowed his head gratefully, and passed through the blue archway, into the gloom whose darkness was soon dispelled by torches burning in iron brackets along the wall.
Dry swallowing, he turned left when the broad passageway opened into a busy corridor. Servants of all stripes were hurrying in every direction, many carrying packages, others pushing cleaning carts, some chatting rapidly as they went in pairs, others slipping through the crowd like eels.
Adopting his neutral expression once more, Scorio entered the flow and hurried along, doing his best to not stare around avidly and take in all the details. Everywhere he looked he saw signs of elegance and decay, of past glories and faded promise. Footfalls and voices echoed down from the high ceiling in a constant murmur, and every open door afforded him a glimpse of the great kitchens at work, from storerooms to bakeries to massive chambers filled with hundreds laboring over counters, pots, and turning spits.
The first courtyard was dominated by a massive fountain whose centerpiece was a much-eroded statue of a humanoid cat holding aloft a great gourd; from this, four streams poured into separate pools, at whose lips were lined dozens of servants, intent on refilling their buckets and pails.
Back into the body of the Academy, the hallway plunged, the crowd growing thinner as more and more servants branched off in different directions. A bold red stripe was painted along the walls here, and the iron sconces were now bronze. The kitchens were behind him, and he moved past storerooms of all kinds, catching glimpses of folded linens, crates, parcels, and jars through every open door.
A second courtyard opened on his right, visible through an arcade of columns, a large herb garden tended by weary gardeners who pruned and catered to the varied plants as if that were their eternal lot in life, hunched over plants of virulent yellow or blossoms that wept fire, weeding out ivy from between climbing vines of softly glowing vegetables.
What treasures grew within arm’s reach? The courtyard was imposingly large, its contents intimidatingly varied, but then it was gone, and Scorio hurried along an even broader hallway whose side was painted with an endlessly repeating geometric pattern in green and gold.
A gallery opened on the left, and Scorio rushed down it, glancing sidelong at the massive stone sculptures that lay strewn amongst knee-high grass, each a variation on a circular face whose perimeters were notched with regular markings, ornate spires rising from their centers like ceremonial spears.
He saw the broad steps up ahead on the right and hurried down into relative silence; only one other servant preceded him, this one carrying a small case with the utmost reverence. She was allowed past the two guards who stood at ease at the bottom of the steps with a nonchalant nod of their heads, but they glared at him suspiciously as he drew close and moved to stand in his way.