As the last post for the October Frights Blog Hop we offer you a 1700 word chunk of dark fantasy, a sort of introduction to the city and some of the people of Os Penitens, also know as the Mouth of War. And the “Win a Copy of A Study in Grey if You Really Must” competition closes at midnight… somewhere. We have had a number of entries, so it’s getting competitive! After this, we burst back into our Edwardian Arcane series at full steam, let the lurchers loose, and have more most excellent interviews. It doesn’t get better than this (except in places where it does get better).

A Journey for the Dead

 

Os Penitens was a city too old to remember how old it was.

Expanded, fortified and expanded again, it had collapsed in a thousand places and been rebuilt, in such a manner that whole streets, even districts, lay abandoned beneath the current thoroughfares. Communities had grown as well, some to fit neatly into earlier walls and fortifications, some to wash over the wreckage and build anew. One century’s finest architectural achievements formed the hard-core and foundations of the next. The process never stopped.

No single mind had dominated any of these phases, for while the Imperial Architects had bowed to the whims of various rulers over the millenia, they had also pursued their own inclinations. They had designed for aesthetics, for acclaim, or purely for the sake of seeing if something would stay up. Strange towers with too many doors and no apparent interiors could be found in forgotten courtyards; great sandstone buttresses stood across market squares with nothing to buttress. In Failgate alone there were at least seven buildings which no-one had ever dared enter.

But accommodating large numbers of riders had never been in anyone’s plans. The River Binding was the preferred long-distance route for most travellers, with passenger and goods landings strewn for miles along both banks. During the night, however, the terrible fire of the Misseral’s Claw had ignited flotsam and a number of fishing craft. The main channel of the Binding would be choked until later that day.

And so what should have been a smooth journey in a gens galley had become the jerky progress of more than forty horses trying to press through the morning’s usual traffic, crossing the district of Deuseptis to reach Misseral. Emessa could see that the local patrols were doing their best, but she could also see the rising frustration in Baros, her husband’s brother.

“See, the Red Gates are open and there are militia there,” she said. “Isaine will have been forewarned. We’ll get through Deuseptis without any more delays.”

He hunched in his saddle, riding alongside her, but said nothing.

She was relieved when her prediction came true. The Procurator of Deuseptis had obviously been ordered to act quickly. Certain side roads had been hastily blocked with turned wagons, others were open and sparsely populated, red-badged myrmidons and militia directing travellers away from them. There were many gawpers and excited children. Some cheered, clearly unaware of what was happening. To them it was golden armour and proud horses, something to break the morning’s tedium.

A trot changed to a canter along the stretch called the Buckler’s Edge. The paved road curved south and then east to avoid the heavily-populated hillsides which formed the centre of Deuseptis.

Emessa could see her husband Octavian a length before her, riding with the captain of the heavy militia. He looked martial and in control. The news of his brother’s death had brought the Successor to the fore, not the man. Did he mourn Phoros, or was he privately relieved? Octavian believed in proper action, Phoros had believed in profit and indulgence…

Bright crimson banners rose above the next gate, an Imperial arch which had been maintained in its heavily-carved splendour, and there was Isaine herself, mounted on a pure white mare. The column slowed, Baros muttering to himself, and Octavian gestured Emessa to come forward.

“See to the lord Baros,” she said to the nearest militiaman, a tall, dark-skinned Pareshi who’d been in Emessa’s service since before her marriage. He would understand.

The Mistress of Deuseptis was almost as tall as the Pareshi, a thin woman in her fifties who gave off the feel of complete command. Emessa noticed that her dark red robes were heavily edged with black, a mark of her ambitions no doubt. The Eel, some called her in Pareyl. Very good at swimming upstream.

“Honour to Pavase, and sorrow with it,” she said, reining in her mare to stop it closing with the other horses. “Angevaine, and now Phoros. The God-head will know their virtues. But I know that this is not the time for discussion. My roads have been made to your needs”

“It is appreciated.” Octavian bowed in the saddle. “We give honour to Deuseptis for its kindness.”

“We should talk again. At such time as the Pavase Successor wishes.”

“We will, gracious Isaine.” He bowed again.

She turned to Emessa. “Greetings, honoured lady, and the freedom of my rule. Will you visit, when this sadness is behind you?”

The two women understood each other. If they met again, it would not be for small chatter and the admiration of robes. Influence sought influence.

“I will come gladly,” said Emessa, “But the morning presses…”

Isaine gave a generous wave of her hand. “Go with the God-head’s blessing.”

It was almost an hour before they reached the gates of Misseral, tight closed until a captain of Misseral’s myrmidons gave his orders. Emessa saw streams of traffic diverted from the gates, forced to take the longer road through Frayn district and on to Saylgrave, or wait until such time as free passage was established again.

Servants of the Broken Flame, a sect which had been favoured by Angevaine, awaited them beyond the gates, their bare feet scorching the earth, their eyes rolled up to the sun. Blind, inspired and puissant, they cried out Angevaine’s name. Emessa had never been this close to even one before, and here were great numbers, their flesh burning endlessly with their faith.

“She who was fire is fire!” cried the nearest, his white eyes turned on her. His simple robes were smouldering where they touched his body. She shuddered, and urged her horse on.

Upper Misseral was less clear than their road through Deuseptis, and more local militia joined the escort one by one, helping to guide the procession through the crowds. She could see that none of them were concerned with the issues of her gens. The ruler was dead, the rule in question, and Misseral was in uproar. The death of Phoros Pavase meant nothing.

The thought shocked her. Ten times ten thousand people in Misseral district alone. What was the death of a third son of Pavase to this city? She felt suddenly small, powerless…

And then the Procurator arrived. Iron on stone, a large bay mare bearing a woman in grey, followed by myrmidons who were fresh, with dull lamellar armour and grey helms, only the eye-slits betraying interest. They held long-handled maces, the heads flanged and workmanlike, and their stance was wary, professional. Behind them rode a full troop of mounted guild militia in uniform, with bright cloaks and brighter spearheads. They carried the standards of the Oil-Merchants and the Goldsmiths Guilds.

“I am Malyse, Procurator of Misseral,” said the grey woman, turning her horse across the front of the Pavase column.

Octavian rode forward with his captain.

“We come for the body of our brother, the honoured lord Phoros Ilias Careys Pavase, beloved son of Arcelian.”

“It is within the Procuracy.” This was not said with any great encouragement to proceed.

Emessa could feel the tension in the air, saw the Pavase militia glance at each other, gauntlets closing tighter on their lances.

“Is there a problem?” Octavian asked, trying to asses the situation.

“Our investigation continues,” said the Procurator. “We cannot release the body at this time.”

Emessa urged her mount closer, drawing up by Octavian’s side. Before he could say anything, she bowed her head towards the Procurator.

“There is one with us who is tortured by this news. I beg you speed his progress to his brother.”

She looked into the woman’s face, and read exhaustion, anger, and all manner of things which might be triggered by an incautious word.

“This is not Pareyl,” Emessa said loudly, making sure her own militia could hear. “Misseral gives us solace by caring for our lost brother. And we respect Misseral for that care.” She lowered her voice. “Octavian, perhaps the three of us should proceed with the Procurator?”

He closed his eyes a moment, nodded. “Yes, of course.”

The woman in grey gave Emessa a sharp glance. “Your tolerance is appreciated,” she said, and made some sign to her people. The way was cleared.

The Procuracy itself was set on a slope, with a courtyard flanked by stables. Its frontage was unadorned, though a grey banner bearing two yellow eyes flew above it. To Emessa it was an ugly, functional building which had been given no affection in its design or raising.

“You don’t welcome us,” she said quietly as she dismounted next to the Procurator. Octavian was helping Baros from his horse a few feet away.

The other woman sighed. “You’re a powerful gens, with much influence. I’m a Procurator with no ruler and doubt hiding in every alley. The people surge with uncertainty, and there’ve been riots in Lower Misseral.” She took a deep breath. “The White presses upon me, and now I have a gens of the Black at my door. Would you welcome these things, honoured Pavase?”

Emessa saw the red-rimmed eyes, smelled sweat and disregard. And she heard the tone in that voice, the bitter stress on the word honoured.

She took the Procurator’s hand, surprising the woman. “We too are angry. But there is a murderer, thief, assassin, whatever, who has wounded us. We grieve. See to us as a family, not as a powerful gens.”

“A family.” The Procurator nodded. “Yes, I can understand that. Come with me, then.“

She led the three Pavase into the Procuracy, and up a broad flight of stone stairs. At a pair of heavy doors, guarded by myrmidons, she paused.

“Here. We’ve done our best. And I should tell you, there are bale-hounds in there. They’re unpredictable.”

“You mean they’re dangerous?” Emessa shivered. “What are bale-hounds doing this far from the necropolis?”

“They guard the…” She glanced at Baros. “They guard your brother.”

“We must see him,” said Octavian. He was holding Baros’ arm, guiding his steps. Every mile closer to the Procuracy seemed to have drained Baros a little more. The man was ashen and trembling.

“Come, then,” said Malyse, and the doors were opened.

c. jlg 2016

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And now, for the last time, our two regulars of this particular week:

Competition

This is open until the end of today (why not?), and it’s easy, really. My series Tales of the Last Edwardian features a man called Mr Dry, the Deptford Assassin. He is ruthless, exceptionally effective, and reputed to have killed Jack the Ripper. A whisper that Mr Dry is in town is enough for most folk – but what is his first name?

For a chance to win one of five copies, all you have to do is to e-mail us with Mr Dry’s FIRST NAME and your choice of format – epub or mobi – in the subject line. At the end of the Blog Hop, we’ll select five people at random and send them the book. It’s that simple.

a study in grey competition

How do you find out that name? Search the site, Watson.

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The October Frights Blog Hop

Lots of writers of paranormal and horror fiction involved, so try out some of the links below. More free things, too, and lots to read. Have one last scour while you can…