“Hmm? Yes. Of course. You always clarify matters for me.” Dameon forced his charismatic smile, the rueful one that made his ‘elders’ feel warm and proud. “I’m sorry for letting this get to me, but losing such dear friends as Davelos and Evelyn, and then the confrontation on Azurith… it has me rattled.” He gave a shaky laugh. “Ah, life in hell! Always full of surprises.”
“Yes, quite.” Praximar studied him with pensive intensity. “We must not forget ourselves, dear boy. You are a Dread Blaze. Once an Imperator! I have your entry here in my tome. Together we shall rework the hells to our liking. Don’t let this one upstart Red Lister undo your sense of self. We’ll work together. Octavia will have no choice but to help us in this matter. I’ll ask Moira to alert us when your twin companions arrive at the Shoals, and we shall send for them. We’ll weave ourselves a noose that Scorio will willingly use to hang himself.”
“Yes,” said Dameon. “I am, of course, and as always, at your service. Thank you, chancellor.”
“Think nothing of it. It will bring me great pleasure to remove this inflamed little boil from the arse of our community.” Praximar grinned, showing yellowed teeth. “Now. Let’s set events in motion.”
And so saying, he rang the little bell on his desk.
The door opened and Dameon stiffened. The large man who entered the room gazed at him with mild curiosity, but no recognition.
Good.
That would have been… awkward.
“Leonis, yes, I’ve a message for you to run to House Kraken.”
The bearded man stood straight, his House Hydra robes perhaps a little more disheveled than was appropriate, but to Dameon’s surprise the chancellor made no objection.
“Of course, chancellor.” Leonis’s voice was a familiar rumble. An image appeared in Dameon’s mind: this very same man down on one knee in the mud, bellowing in pain and outrage as he was broken, one defeat at a time, by the cheering members of Manticore.
“Here.” Praximar penned a quick missive, rolled it up, then sealed it with hot wax and his signet ring. “Deliver this to Kraken’s seneschal. They’ll know to give it to Autocrator Octavia.”
“Of course.” Leonis stepped up and took the scroll. Again he studied Dameon curiously, then bowed and left the room.
“He doesn’t remember?” asked Dameon once the door closed.
“Of course not.” Praximar smiled and sat back. “And I’ve made sure to tell them both just the right version of events to embed them deeply on our side. Wave treasures and pills in a reborn Great Soul’s face, tell them they’re special and they’ll eat right out of your palm. Don’t you worry, Dameon. We’ve plenty of our own surprises in store for Scorio. Let him come at us. He won’t be able to regret it for long.”
Chapter 59
Scorio pulled his hood down and drew his newly acquired cloak about himself. It was voluminous and stained, torn along the hems and reeking of old gruel, but it allowed him to drift through the streets and get a sense for how the city had changed.
Most prevalent were the patrols. Not Great Souls, but regular House guards in gleaming armor and smart uniforms who strolled about in groups of six as if they owned the place. The crowds parted for them fearfully, worked hard to not draw attention, nor protested when they shoved people over, took wares from food stalls without paying, or accosted people to search them or corner an attractive man or woman.
Scorio forced himself to not intercede. Occasionally a Great Soul flew overhead, scanning the streets, and the easiest way to end their mission would be to get embroiled in a street fight.
So instead, Scorio kept walking, seething with fury, until he reached the first gruel fountain square.
Great iron spikes had burst out from the cobblestones around the fountain, forming a cruel crown upon whose tines the desiccated remains of corpses were impaled.
Scorio had the wit to step aside and out of the flow of traffic to press his back against a shop wall and sink into a crouch.
A dozen spikes, rusted and cruel, each easily four yards tall. Most of the corpses had rotted off their points, but here and there sinews and bones and leathery patches of skin yet hung like grisly ornaments.
The people ignored them with grim resolve. Stood in line and shuffled between the spikes to reach the fountain’s broad basin. There was no chatter, no laughter, none of the usual communal activities that had once filled squares like these.
A patrol wandered through, spoiling for trouble. They shoved their way through the lines, finding the largest men to knock back. Stared openly into faces, seeking any sign of anger, of rebellion.
Nobody looked up.
Scorio shuddered with the effort it took him to not spring forward and knock those monsters down.
Then the patrol stopped as their leader looked back at a family they’d just passed.
“What was that?”
The whole crowd seemed to shudder and recoil.
“What was that you said?” asked the patrol leader, turning back to approach the stern-faced woman who stepped before her three children. “Want to say it nice and loud so we can all hear?”
“I didn’t say anything.” The woman’s voice was low, defeated. As if she knew there was nothing she could say that would avert what was coming.
The guards gathered behind their leader, smirking and watching the rest of the square for any sign of trouble. There had to be several hundred people all told in the immediate area.
Not one of them returned the guard’s gaze.
“You called me ‘filth,’” said the captain. “Me. An upstanding member of House Hydra’s guard.”
“You know I didn’t,” murmured the woman. “Please. I don’t want any trouble.”
“Too late for that,” said the captain. He might have been handsome were it not for his overly small nose; it made his eyes appear too large, his mouth too wide. “Disrespecting the guards is the first sign of rebellion. And we don’t want any of that, do we?”
“Get back,” said the woman to her children. “Bron, take them away. Hurry.”
“No, Ma.” Bron had to be thirteen, his face narrowed by hunger, but he stepped up alongside her, fists clenched. “I’ll—”
“Go!” His mother shoved him back and stepped in front of him. “You’ll—”
The captain struck her. She staggered, caught her balance, hand going to her cheek.
“Don’t interrupt me,” snarled the captain. “You think you can have a chat while I’m—”
“Hey.” Scorio pushed off the wall. His voice carried. The crowd around him stared in wonder and horror and parted as if he were diseased. “Ugly.”
The guards turned as one, several of them grinning, the captain’s face turning pale. “What did you say?”
“I called you ugly. But I wasn’t referencing your crap face.” Scorio walked forward slowly, berating himself as he went. Stupid stupid stupid. This would lead him nowhere good. “I was talking about your mean-spirited soul. You’re a coward, a bully, and I’m going to break your hand for hitting that woman.”
“Are you now?” The captain forced a grin, but his face had gone pale and splotched with fury. “Well, thank you for volunteering. See, lads? A little initiative always flushes out the bad elements.”
The guards fanned out into a semi-circle, smacking their truncheons into the palms of their hands. Their grins grew a trifle uncertain, however; Scorio wasn’t cowering like he should.
Instead, Scorio stopped before the captain. “I’ll give you one blow for free. However you like. But it’s got to be you, rat stain. Or are you too scared?”
The captain blinked. The whole square was watching, rapt. He forced a laugh. “Me? Scared? Of you? As if! One blow is all I’ll need. Scum!”
But his words sounded forced. He was staring at Scorio with growing fascination and fear. The cloak did nothing to disguise Scorio’s physique, his broad shoulders, his obviously impressive frame. But more than that, it was how Scorio simply stared at the man, gaze level, patient, and grimly furious.