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\hypertarget{conspiracy-ii}{%
\chapter*{Bonus Chapter: Conspiracy II}\label{conspiracy-ii}}

\addcontentsline{toc}{chapter}{\nameref{conspiracy-ii}} \chaptermark{Bonus Chapter: Conspiracy II}

\epigraph{``They call Ater the City of Gates and then forget to mention how
often those are shut on people's fingers.''}{Dread Empress Regalia II}



Hakram picked up the axe.

Such a simple thing, really. A blade linked to a ring of steel at the
top of a long shaft of wood. It was light, and when he tested the edge
he found it was wickedly sharp. Military-grade steel, which was
restricted. Either a noble had been ignoring the Empress' interdicts or
a weaponsmith in Foramen was making some coin on the side. That wouldn't
last long: either the goblins or the High Lady's men would catch them if
they continued. That grade of weaponry was only allowed to be made in
the Imperial Forges, even if not all the stock went to the Legions.
Their clever Empress now made gold out of the High Lords equipping their
household troops and could gauge their numbers from the orders lodged.
Would these `Catacomb Children' be armed just as well? An hour ago the
orc would have said no, but since then he'd gotten a glimpse at what
went on in the streets of Ater when no one was paying attention. They
were, after all, getting their weapons from civilians.

``This will do,'' Hakram said, idly spinning the axe like it was a
child's toy.

To him it might as well have been. Heavier than a legionary's blade, but
those were light as a feather to orcs. In the first days before the
Conquest some of the Clans had grumbled at using glorified knives
instead of their own favoured broadswords and axes, but the story was
that the Carrion Lord had made his point by pitting twenty legionaries
against twenty chosen warriors. The orcs had been big, hardened killers
with at least twenty raids under their belts. They'd lost anyway. A
hundred warriors would fight in a hundred instances of single combat. A
hundred soldiers fought as a company and won the battle. The warrior
societies had not liked the Black Knight's lesson but they had fallen in
line. After a thousand years of defeats and death, they had smelled the
scent of victory in the air. \emph{We won't fight as soldiers
tonight},\emph{though}, Hakram knew. Urban combat was not something he
had much experience with, but he could take comfort in the fact that his
men would be trained legionaries. The Catacomb Children were just
civilians with too much blood flowing to their heads.

``I will expect prompt payment, Fa'ir,'' the old man said, grinning
toothlessly.

``You'll have the merchandise within a fortnight,'' Ratface replied
flatly.

Humans could be hard to read, sometimes, but from the way the Taghreb
stood he was wary of the smaller old Soninke. The stranger smelled of
spices and refuse, lips cracked and all his teeth missing. He was,
apparently, the man to talk to if you needed weapons quickly inside
Ater. Hakram had expected him to ask for coin but apparently barter was
the way things worked in the streets -- large amounts of gold drew
Imperial attention. The city guard might have been a sordid joke but
whenever Malicia sent the Sentinels away from the Tower they drowned
wherever they were sent in blood. The two humans had spent half an hour
bickering over amount of pounds and purity, so the tall orc suspected
the `merchandise' would be laudanum, the pain-killing brew introduced by
the Miezans so long ago. Whether the Supply Tribune had been robbed or
not during the trade he did not know, but from the grim look on the
olive-skinned man's face he suspected it had been the case.

``Enough blades for a hundred men,'' the old man coughed, spittle flying
as he hit his own chest. ``The usual warehouse by the slaughterhouses.''

The humans spoke a little longer, the Soninke twice offering tea only to
be declined. He did not offer a third time, but Hakram got the
impression he hadn't been supposed to. Another of those unspoken
hospitality rules, he guessed. It was irksome that people expected
greenskins to follow those even though nobody ever bothered to explain
them. He'd picked up on a few through talking to Taghreb cadets in the
College, since the desert people had been the ones to make them in the
first place, but every year he unearthed fresh ones. The two officers of
the Fifteenth left the spice shop through the same back door they'd used
to enter it, coming out into a filth-laden alley where he could see fat
rats gorging on scraps. The orc pressed his hand to his forehead at the
sight of them, giving honour to the Tower -- everybody knew the Empress
could use carrion things as spies if she so wished. His companion smiled
in amusement.

``Ratface,'' he said. ``Those were not iron or bronze. These were goblin
steel. How many weapons like this are floating around the city, that you
can get a hundred in an hour?''

The Taghreb spit to the side, scattering some of the rats.

``More than you'd think,'' he said. ``One of the quickest ways to get
rich in this city is bringing in weapons, even bad ones.''

``The gates are manned by the Sentinels,'' Hakram said. ``Those can't be
bought, and they look at all the carts coming in or out.''

Weapons were forbidden inside the walls, for civilians anyway.
Legionaries were allowed to bring knives but not swords or shields, the
city guard was armed with cudgels and short swords and the noble
retinues could come in armed to the teeth -- if the Empress granted them
permits, which she charged through the nose for. The Sentinels were
armed too, of course, but no one who liked having their head on their
shoulders talked too much about them.

``There's smuggler tunnels under the walls,'' Ratface admitted.

Hakram's hairless brow rose in disbelief. ``Under the city. Where the
giant spiders are.''

``They don't have webs inside all the tunnels,'' Ratface said. ``If
you're lucky and fast, you can even get away with all your limbs.''

The human's fingers twitched towards his hip, though he stopped himself
from touching it. Either that or he had a cramp. The way the former
captain had paid for his tuition at the War College had always been a
subject of speculation among Rat Company. It was common knowledge among
some that he'd stolen enough coin from his father to pay for his first
year, but after that he'd had to pay the bursar himself. He was not on
the Tower's ticket or part of the greenskin contingents, so where had he
gotten the gold? Most thought he stole it, either pawning College
equipment on the sly or by rigging gambling games. Robber had started a
rumour he `sold his body to the night' that had been too juicy not to
spread across their entire year but Hakram thought he might just have
found the answer.

``You've done a run before,'' the orc said.

``Three,'' Ratface said. ``First two set me up and on the third it
became clear I'd only get lucky so many times. Got bit and had to spend
most of the payment on a healer.''

The spiders under the capital were poisonous, it was said. Not a
surprise if they were truly being spawned by the former Dread Emperor
Tenebrous. Everything that came out of the Tower was poisonous in one
way or another.

``And now you handle `merchandise','' Hakram said carefully.

The Taghreb scowled. ``Do you know what would have happened, if I'd been
put out of the College? My body would have been found in an alley the
next morning. Too badly defaced to be recognized.''

``I'm not castigating you, Ratface,'' the orc said calmly. ``I never
knew. Or even suspected.''

The olive-skinned bastard sighed. ``Selling the stuff is legal and most
people don't ask where it comes from. I mostly deal in debt now,
anyway.''

Hakram refrained from pointing out how much of a stereotype that was.
Sitting on most of the gold and silver deposits inside the Empire, the
Taghreb were old hands at usury. Ruling nobles did not dirty their hands
with matters like lending but that just meant lesser relatives handled
the matters. The orc gently bumped his fist against the human's
shoulder, careful not to tip him over.

``Scruples do not feed wolves,'' he spoke in Kharsum, quoting the old
orc proverb. ``Let's join up with the others. Aisha should have found us
men.''

Hopefully, Robber hadn't already baited her into stabbing him.

--

Aisha had never stepped foot into a brothel before.

She didn't particularly approve of them, though she understood they were
a necessity for the lower classes. Taghreb aristocracy did not seek the
company of prostitutes: they kept paramours instead, if they were so
inclined. Many nobles kept an unofficial seraglio even if they did not
share a bed with the people in it -- it was a sign of status and wealth
to be able to keep one, especially if the members were strikingly
good-looking or of good lineage. It was Dread Empress Maleficent, the
Taghreb warlord who'd founded the Empire, who'd spread the practice to
the north of the Empire when she'd made hers an imperial institution.
Hers had been filled with the relatives of allies and talented
individual without the lineage to earn a post in the bureaucracy on
their own, but on occasion it was true the seraglio had been turned into
little more than a highborn brothel. Dread Emperor Nefarious had been
the worst Tyrant in living memory when it came to that, but he'd paid
the price for it when Malicia had poisoned and overthrown him. \emph{As
is only fitting.}

The small antechamber where she stood, staring down her nose at the
`madam', was surprisingly well-lit and clean. She'd always thought of
places like this as sordid dumps where only the desperate worked. Like
in most of Calernia prostitution was legal in the Dread Empire, though
Praes departed from the norm in having brothels regulated by law. No
such establishment could exist without a license from either the Tower
of the local ruler and the illegal brothels that popped up now and then
were harshly dealt with. Everyone involved in one was executed, even the
patrons. This particular place was properly licensed, however, and
frequented by legionaries and city guards. While not luxurious --
legionary pay was good, but not \emph{that} good -- she was reluctantly
impressed by how\ldots{} not seedy the place was. Aisha was
unfortunately too well-bred to tap her foot impatiently so she eyed the
madam instead.

``They are taking too long,'' she said.

``Most Honoured Lady,'' the older woman replied, bowing her head. ``Word
has been given to all your soldiers. Any delay is of their own will, not
mine or that of my hired hands.''

She was correct. How irritating. Aisha wouldn't even be able to chide
the legionaries properly when they emerged from the rooms in the back:
they were off-duty and this was not an assignment that would ever be on
the books. It might never be on anything at all, if Hasan did not manage
to get his hands on actual weapons. She'd done well enough against one
of the assassins with her knife, but when they hunted down the Catacomb
Children in their lair the wretches would have more than knives
themselves. The people of Ater had ignored the dictates of the Tower
that they should remain unarmed for generations, somehow getting their
hands on everything from crossbows to longswords even though weapon
smuggling was punished by flogging unto death. The three men and two
women who'd been indulging themselves shuffled out eventually and paled
when they saw who had been waiting for them. Good, they felt like they'd
been caught out. That meant they were unlikely to question what they
were going to be used for.

After a brief set of orders and a grudgingly polite nod to the madam,
Aisha took the five legionaries to the warehouse Hasan had told them
they could use. It reeked of guts and meat salted so it would not go
bad, and she'd had to refrain from having one of the crates that
cluttered it open more than once. With that last group they'd managed to
assemble a little above eighty of the two hundred legionaries who'd been
on leave in Ater. They'd have to do with this, as the rest could not be
found unless they were going to spend all night on the matter. Five
hundred thousand people lived inside the walls of the Empire's capital,
the city itself one of the largest on the continent. It was still not
fully occupied: perhaps a third of the total grounds were left in ruin,
left to the mercy of beggars and criminals or the occasional petty mage.
Dekaram Quarter was part of that ugly wasteland, and their enemy lay
inside of it. None of the legionaries in the warehouse dared to talk
louder than a murmur, which made it all the more surprising when Robber
popped out behind her.

``Got another five, I see,'' he grinned, crouched on top of a crate to
her side.

There were few lamps inside and he was hidden by shadows, not that it
would have mattered to a goblin.

``This is as much as we'll manage,'' she said, keeping her face blank.

``Probably,'' he shrugged. ``I hear those were in a brothel, though.
That must have been fun for you. Humans and their little quirks, huh?''

Aisha's cheeks flushed with anger. He was being intolerably smug and she
couldn't even throw the failings of his own people back in his face.
Goblins did not have brothels, or relationships the way humans and orcs
had them for that matter. Breeding for the Tribes was a regulated affair
planned by Matrons. Their kind did not have an equivalent of marriage --
the only bloodline that mattered was the mother's and males were chosen
for breeding either for their own physical traits or because of their
relation to another female. For goblins sex had little to do with
romance, and a woman could birth the children of half a dozen males
while considered to be involved with one she'd never shared a bed with.
While goblins as a whole were hard to land a blow on Robber, little
bastard that he was, did have his weaknesses.

``We do have our foibles, I must admit. Speaking of those, how \emph{is}
Senior Sapper Pickler?'' she smiled sweetly, smoothing away the flush
form her face.

The goblin did not flinch, but his pupils contracted to a point. She'd
drawn blood.

``Ratface and Hakram should be here in a moment,'' he said as if he
hadn't heard the question.

He scuttled away after that, to Aisha's satisfaction. Pickler's
disinterest in getting involved with the two greenskins who fancied her
was common knowledge among War College graduates. The Senior Sapper had
the right of it, she felt. Robber was disqualified as a paramour by
legion regulations anyhow, since as a sapper he fell under Pickler's
nominal authority. Legionaries could not become involved with anyone in
their direct chain of command, and even for those who managed that there
were fairly restrictive rules. Pregnancies while in a term of service
were forbidden unless a special permission was obtained and those were
exceedingly rare. Legionaries who got another legionary pregnant or
became pregnant themselves were unceremoniously drummed out of the army.
Should a legionary be made pregnant by a civilian, that civilian's
property would be confiscated in equivalent value for the pay the
legionary would have incurred in their total term of service. Herbs were
provided by company healers to avoid all of this, of course, making both
men and women temporarily infertile. But those were not foolproof
methods and it was a rare legion who did not have its little scandals.
Aisha took the time to mingle with the legionaries before she picked out
her own weapon from the stacks that had been provided.

Curiosity and restlessness were running high. Humans made up perhaps a
third of the force and she concentrated on those, politely stressing
that this entire affair was to be kept under wraps even after it was
done. As Staff Tribune she was responsible for all personnel assignment,
which lent her just enough clout to get away with it. The greenskins she
would leave to Robber and Hakram -- they were respected enough by their
people that the soldiers would fall in line without any trouble. She
would have preferred to have more humans involved, but the list of
people who could be both reached and trusted to keep their mouths shut
was fairly limited. Greenskins were not less intriguing in nature --
goblins in particular -- but their own alternative loyalties would
rarely see them band with enemies of the Fifteenth. Eventually she found
a scimitar in the stack and gracefully slid it into her belt. Their
forces had been gathered, she thought. Now all that was left was the
killing.

As her people said: \emph{Creation was begat of blood, and to blood it
inevitably returns.}

--

Robber had never been part of a raiding party before.

The Tribes had cut down on those since the Conquest and he'd been from a
mining tribe anyway: those were too important to be bothered too much.
The Rock Breakers had been feuding on and off with the Dawnstones for
seventeen generations but there was no real heat to it. Mostly their
Matrons fucked each other over at every opportunity. Most males from the
underground tribes lived and died without ever seeing the surface,
toiling in the tunnels that ran through the upper reaches of the Grey
Eyries. There were better veins deeper, sure, but there was also the
risk of running into dwarvish mines down there. The idea of crawling in
darkness until he died of fumes or a ceiling collapse had been what
drove him to leave his tribe, claiming a one of the seats in the College
they'd been due that year. He hadn't been the only young goblin trying
to get an out: three seats were available but there had been four dozen
males trying to claim a place. His grandmother had been third daughter
to a Matron's daughter, which had seen him put directly into the ten
seriously being considered.

After that he'd had to get his hands bloody.

The first boy he'd drawn into an honour duel and opened his head with a
loose stone. The others had been too wary of him after that for a repeat
performance to occur. Most of them had better blood than him anyhow:
Matron lineages were larger and hardier than other goblins. The second
boy he'd pushed down a mine shaft when no one was looking, and that was
when the rest started seeing him as a real threat. He'd almost died when
the candidate just above him dropped a venomous snake in his bedding but
he'd replied by throwing a sack full of badgers into the alcove where he
lived. The ensuing chaos had seen the entire family shamed in the eyes
of their Matron and their too-clever son immediately disqualified. All
the while the older women of the tribe, the matron-attendants, had
watched his struggles and grinned. Fearless they said, and patted him on
the back. Fearless and vicious as a male should be. \emph{And headed for
an early death}, they did not say. He heard it anyway. Before that it
had never occurred to him that he might be a thing, a petty bauble toyed
with for the amusement of his betters.

That was why instead of continuing to slaughter the opposition he'd
called for them to sit together and talk it out. The others were wary
but he'd earned enough respect through his ruthlessness that they were
willing to listen. None would surrender their claim, so in the end they
settled the matter by playing knuckle bones. Naturally, every single one
of them had tried to cheat. Robber had not won the first round, but he'd
come in second after slipping in a heavier bone so that a better player
would misjudge the throw. The losers withdrew their claims but he'd
almost not gone to the College anyway: the matron-attendants had wanted
blood, to thin out the weakness in the tribe, and to have been denied
this saw them displeased. So Robber sat in front of nine and nine old
crones, the lessers and the highers, and for the first time in his life
he'd grinned back. Because he was \emph{free} now. Because the moment
he'd realized that there was no difference between a death in the dark
tunnels two decades from now or a death at their wrinkled hands just
now, they had lost their leash.

It was the Matron who decided it. She walked into the cave, took one
look at him and spat. \emph{You scheming old witches, can't you see he's
heard the wind?} she'd said. \emph{You're the Tower's now, boy. Go die
in a gutter for the Empress.} And so at seven years old they'd sent him
to Ater and the War College, to learn the trade of war. Which had
somehow led him to this moment, stalking his way up a collapsed wall in
Dekaram Quarter. The Catacomb Children had not posted guards, filthy
amateurs that they were. They'd claimed a mostly standing barracks as
their lair, scrawling a buzzard in rotting old blood next to the
entrance. There was light inside and the sound of people talking. Hakram
had wanted to know numbers before they assaulted the place, so now
Robber and three other goblins were scuttling up the ruined wall to a
rooftop. The alley separating it from the barracks was narrow, jumping
distance for a goblin.

``If they have a mage, there could be an alarm ward surrounding the
place,'' Captain Borer said.

Good ol' Borer the Boring. The Deep Pit boy wouldn't get a sense of
humour even if he was bit by a sarcasm werewolf. Which, if not a thing,
definitely should be. Given the kind of stuff Tyrants got up to in the
Tower, it was only a matter of time anyway.

``We haven't got a mage good enough to disarm one anyway,'' Lieutenant
Rattler murmured.

Robber hissed them into silence, even the lone legionary who hadn't
actually spoken.

``If they were clever enough for a ward they wouldn't have tried to kill
one of us in the first place,'' he said.

Probably true. If it wasn't, he'd have Borer write himself up for poor
advice-giving. Having Aisha deal with those little discipline reports --
which always ended up on her desk, he made sure of that -- was one of
his small pleasures in life. Rising into a crouch the yellow-eyed
tribune broke into a run and leapt over the alley, landing in a roll on
top of the barracks. He paused for a moment, waiting for an alarm to
ring or the gang members to cotton on to his presence. Nothing. He
gestured for the others to follow as he crossed to the other side of the
roof. There was a trapdoor to go inside the barracks proper and a whole
corner of the roof reeked of piss. Leaning over the edge the tribune saw
there was a window allowing a peek into the barracks near ground level,
noise and laughter coming out of it. Definitely more than twenty people
in there, which had been Ratface's lower end estimate for how many
Catacomb Children there could be. The other goblins made the leap one
after the other, joining him at the edge.

``Who will be jumping down to have a look?'' Borer asked.

``Captain,'' Robber asked, deeply offended. ``Jumping? Like an
\emph{animal}? No.~Goblin engineering will provide. Minions, undertake
the great ladder formation.''

There was a heartbeat, then the only goblin not an officer leaned closer
to Rattler.

``I told you he's crazy, ma'am,'' the sapper whispered. ``I heard he
keeps a jar full of eyeballs.''

Rattler cocked her head to the side, ignoring him. ``Ladder, as
in\ldots{}''

Robber grinned. Borer looked like someone had stepped on his foot but he
was too polite to complain about it. Moments later the tribune was
hanging upside down with his head peeking out the window, his feet in
the hands of Rattler, who herself was being held up by the other two.
Stroking his chin thoughtfully, Robber took a look through the ratty
wooden shutters and counted at least three dozen Soninke sitting around
what had once been a common room, drinking and playing cards. There was
a door leading to another room with light and sound also coming out of
it. Tapping Rattler's arm quietly, he signaled for the others to hoist
him back up. Hakram needed his report, and Robber needed to stab
something pretty badly. It had been, like, \emph{weeks}.

--

There was no door, just an ugly red curtain.

It reeked. This whole place did. Not that it would for long: blood was
pungent enough a smell it would cover the worst of it. Hakram strode in
at a swift but steady pace, the twenty or so orcs they'd assembled
following him in as the tip of the spear. It took a good five heartbeats
before anyone even noticed he was inside and cries of alarm rang out in
Mtethwa. Too late for the pretty young man standing with his back to the
orc: the adjutant buried the ax blade in the human's neck, cutting
through the bones and spraying blood everywhere. Casually, he ripped it
out.

``Prisoners,'' he reminded his warriors. ``Anyone who looks important.''

He got howls in answer as the orcs barreled into the room, falling onto
the Children still scrambling for weapons. An older man came for him,
this one scarred ritually across the face and with a golden ring in his
nose. The tall orc huffed out a laugh, catching the man's wrist with his
hand and crushing the bones. The human screamed in pain and dropped the
notched blade he'd been grasping. A kick sent him sprawling to the
ground and the axe opened his throat with a measuring swing. Like
slaughtering cattle. A lot of cattle, however: more Catacomb Children
were pouring into the room from a corridor. His orcs had cleared a
space, though, and now humans and goblins were reinforcing them. Hakram
could see the other greenskins were enjoying themselves, sinking into
the battle-joy, and he howled a warning to keep them focused on the
there and now. They needed answers, and corpses would not give those.
His own head was clear. It always ways, when the blades came out. Oh, he
knew anger now. Catherine had granted him that gift, to know burning in
his veins and the all-consuming desire to crush his enemies and see them
driven before him. But these poor fools were just tools, and there was
no glory in putting them down. It was just work, like raising a palisade
or marching a drill.

Aisha caught up to him, her scimitar bloodied, and took his left. A
moment later Ratface fell onto his right -- his ironically chosen
bastard sword still unmarred. Hakram bared his fangs and the officers of
the Fifteenth strode into the thickest knot of enemies. The Catacomb
Children were untrained but not inexperienced: if anything, they were
probably better at this kind of close quarters fighting than his own
lot. They died anyway. Hakram slapped a big man on the side of the neck,
sending him sprawling to the right where Ratface ran him through. Aisha
ducked under another man's swing and cut through his tendons, allowing
the orc to step on his neck to end that struggle with a sharp crack. On
all fronts the gangers were being pushed back, and with only a handful
of casualties on their side so far. The first real challenge of the
night came when a middle-aged Soninke even taller than Hakram and
morbidly fat stepped up, barbed wire wrapped around his gauntleted
hands. \emph{Fat means he's important,} the orc thought\emph{.} So did
the golden teeth in the man's mouth replacing the ones he'd lost.

``Mine,'' he told his comrades and strode forward, idly dropping his
axe.

The Catacomb Children moved back like a tide, the fighting ebbing away
as all eyes turned on the two of them. Single combat, then. How
traditional of them.

``I am the Great Buzzard,'' the Soninke thundered. ``Fight me and die.''

``You're meat,'' Hakram replied. ``And this ends with you kneeling.''

Shouts from both sides drowned out the room as space was cleared in a
rough circle for them. The Buzzard's eyes turned black and spat out a
mouthful of dark smoke before dashing forward at a speed that put lie to
his size. The orc calmly stepped to the side, letting him pass and
pivoting to continue facing his opponent. The Soninke snarled and took a
swing -- Hakram, harking back to his old lessons, slapped away the wrist
with his open palm. It wasn't enough. The barbed wires drew blood on his
cheek, barely missing his eye. Whatever magery the man was using, it was
making him faster and stronger than was natural.

``You're headed for the catacombs, fanger,'' the Buzzard sneered.
``Creation belongs to the true blood.''

He charged again and Hakram was done with probing. Squaring his stance
he lowered his shoulder to the height of the man's chest as he avoided a
barbed jab, taking the impact with a grunt. His feet were driven back a
few inches but he remained standing. Letting out a howl, the orc flexed
his muscles and flipped the fat man on his back.

``Through tall grass, come winter sun,'' he recited in Kharsum.

The Buzzard screamed, veins popping out and darkening, and vaulted to
his feet. His swings were wild now, though almost blindingly fast.
Hakram gave ground carefully, then took a single step forward. His
closed fist smashed the Soninke's jaw, sending golden teeth flying.

``Stand in our bones, coated in frost,'' he said.

Another scream, this one more animal than man. The Buzzard's eyes looked
more like obsidian than flesh now. The beat of the old hymn was a pace,
an exercise children of the Howling Wolves were taught. The
warrior-poets of olden days had gone into battle weaving verses as
skillfully as they wove death, though the practice was long lost. Now
all that remained was a handful of hymns, the remnant of remnant. The
obese Soninke spat a mouthful of steaming black goo but Hakram kept
circling around him, ducking under the blow that followed and burrowing
his fist in the man's belly.

``Where we were kings, by war undone,'' he sang.

Behind him orcs stamped their feet with the meter, like a thunderclap
following the ancient words. The Buzzard's fist took him in the
shoulder, shredding through his tunic and the flesh beneath, but Hakram
ignored the flaring pain and lunged forward, fangs sinking into the
man's shoulder and ripping out a chunk of flesh. The Soninke let out a
demented laughing scream, tearing him off and throwing him away. The orc
landed in a half crouch, spitting out the flesh. If killing had been his
objective he could have ended the fight there by going for the jugular.

``To behold the world that we have lost,'' he said.

Eighty feet struck the ground in his wake, even goblins and humans
joining in now. The Catacomb Children looked uneasy, perhaps thinking
the hymn was a curse of some kind spoken in a foreign tongue. \emph{Not
so foreign}, Hakram thought. \emph{The Clans knew these lands, once,
when Warlords led us south in great warbands and Creation flinched at
the sight of us.} It was time to finish this. He'd taken the measure of
his opponent, and knew his movements. After that, everything else was
just acting out his mind's intent. For the first time, the orc went on
the offensive. The barbed fist came for his shoulder again but he wove
around and caught the elbow. Steadying his stance, he broke it with a
sharp twist.

``Warmth fades, glory cannot linger,'' he said.

This time, there was only silence. His leg swept the Buzzard's and the
man toppled to his knees. The Soninke opened his mouth but Hakram was
done indulging the madman: he took the man's hair in his fist and rammed
his own knee into the face repeatedly. It took three times until the
Soninke fell into unconsciousness, and his face wasted no time in
swelling as he dropped fully to the ground.

``All that we have left is the \emph{hunger},'' the orc finished in
Kharsum, feeling his blood cool.

He changed back to Mtethwa, gaze sweeping the still-frozen criminals.

``Kneel, Catacomb Children, or be served the sword.''

They knelt. A moment later Robber popped out of the corridor, idly
pocketing what looked like a handful of eyeballs. Behind him a few
goblins were carrying the unconscious body of a half-naked man whose
torso was covered in runic tattoos.

``Good show, everyone,'' the yellow-eyed tribune said. ``That said, we
may have a problem.''

He pointed towards where the red curtain had once hung, now trampled,
and Hakram's eyes followed. Out in the streets a full contingent of the
city guard was surrounding the building.

``Weapons on the ground,'' a woman's voice called out. ``Come out one by
one. All of you are under arrest for murder, conspiracy and illegal
weapon possession.''

There was a pause.

``If you resist, you \emph{will} be put down.''

--

Aisha had just watched a man she thought she knew unleash the single
most brutal putdown she'd ever seen and she shivered at the sight of it.
Hakram was nice, mild-mannered and a bit of a gossip. And he'd
methodically taken apart a giant of man with ritual enhancements while
reciting some sort of orcish poetry. Like he was plucking out a bad
weed. The Taghreb aristocrat was used to seeing strength and fury from
greenskins but \emph{this}? This had been calculated savagery. The other
orcs were looking at him with worship in their eyes. \emph{Gods Below.}
She would never be able to look at him the same again. They had other
problems on their hands now, though. The city guard was out in force,
and Aisha forced her tired mind to unfold the matter. They shouldn't be
here, that much was a fact. The guards did not patrol or police the
ruined part of Ater. This whole sector was considered a pressure valve
for the poor and the destitute, allowed to exist without supervision
until it caused noticeable trouble -- at which point the Sentinels
cleared it out with blades and sorcery.

And yet they were here.

They had been sent, then. By someone with enough influence or wealth to
control at least a commander in the guard, which did not really narrow
down the suspects. Any noble with a semblance of power could put
together enough bribe or blackmail for that. No, the important part was
what these guards were being \emph{used} for. Aisha put the events in
sequence, as her mother had taught her. First a shoddy assassination
attempt was made on Hakram. Then select officers of the Fifteenth,
understanding the necessity of taking care of the issue without Lady
Squire being involved, assembled a force that could be trusted to keep
quiet. They forced the submission of the Catacomb Children, but before
interrogations could be made the city guard found them in possession of
illegal weapons still covered in blood. A set up. A trap carefully
designed to ensnare the very people in the Fifteenth who would
understand how dangerous a scandal in its infancy could be.

And now whoever was behind this had the scandal Aisha had been
struggling to avoid. Lady Squire's own adjutant, two members of the
general staff and a tribune caught breaking one of the Tower's most
harshly enforced interdicts. She'd been so busy trying to avoid the
Squire making an ill-advised move she'd made one herself. If this was
the Heiress' work, then the Taghreb could almost admire how elegantly
crafted the plot had been. What were their options now? If they
surrendered, they'd be in a gaol and the whole city would know before a
bell had passed. Lady Squire \emph{might} have enough authority to get
them out of this alive, but she'd be humiliated in front of the entire
court and likely censured by the Empress herself. Not even Malicia's own
supporters would ever take her seriously after that. If they fought now,
Aisha believed they might be able to win. But there would be noticeable
losses and she would put hand to flame that on their way out of Dekaram
Quarter they'd be running into a larger force of guards waiting for
them. \emph{And then we'll have killed city guards in addition to
everything else.}

Not even the Black Knight's apprentice would be able to save them from
the noose then.

``We can't fight them,'' Hakram said.

Their legionaries were milling uneasily. The Catacomb Children were
still docile for now, but some of them were still holding their weapons
and they were feeling the change in the wind.

``Sure we can,'' Robber said cheerfully. ``No witnesses, no crime.''

``There'll be more guards waiting for us afterwards,'' Hasan said
tiredly. ``That was the whole plan, I think.''

The lovely aristocrat felt a wave of fondness for the man who'd once
been her lover. Hasan had his flaws, but lack of cleverness had never
been one of them.

``Ratface,'' Hakram said. ``Do you know another way out of Dekaram
Quarter? One that doesn't take us through them.''

``They'll take us through the strongholds of other gangs,'' the other
Taghreb said. ``They'll fight us and block our way, either because they
got a bribe or because they don't want anyone going through their
territory.''

And the guards would follow. All that would lead to was fighting a
battle on two fronts and they would not be winning that. Not without
shields and proper legionary gear.

``Are you blanket-wetters really talking \emph{surrender}?'' Robber
sneered.

Hakram turned dark eyes on his friend, face serene. ``Negotiation,'' he
corrected. ``Aisha, if you'll come with me?''

She would really rather not, but who else here had any experience with
this sort of thing? Hasan probably knew his way around a bribe, but this
was no backalley dealing. The commander of those guards was used to
rubbing elbows with the nobles they were under the thumb of. Aisha
handed her scimitar to the closest legionary and got her hair in order,
adjusting her clothes. She followed Hakram out of the abandoned barracks
with her palms up in the air to show she was unarmed. She wasn't, of
course. There was still a knife up her sleeve and she fully intended to
slit the throat of the person she'd be negotiating with if they were
going to seek a violent end to said negotiations. Bisharas did not go
quietly into oblivion. They were immediately surrounded by guards when
they came out, some of them bearing manacles. Calmly, without saying a
word, Aisha stared down the man who wanted her to present her hands. The
Soninke gulped, then took a look at Hakram. The orc was smiling just
enough to show his fangs. The guard backed away in a hurry, though the
men surrounding them all had their cudgels out as they were escorted to
the person in charge. Aisha rose an eyebrow when they finally stopped
walking. The woman in front of them, bearing a guard commander's
insignia on her mail, was pale-skinned. A \emph{Duni,} that high in the
Ater city guard? Surprising, though less unusual since Malicia had
opened the Imperial bureaucracy to all sorts.

``Adjutant Hakram of the Fifteenth Legion,'' her orc companion
introduced himself.

``Staff Tribune Aisha Bishara, of the same,'' she said.

The Duni frowned at them, as if offended by their manners.

``Commander Barsina, Ater city guard. Are you two the leaders of this
band of criminals?''

``We are senior officers in a Legion of Terror raised by the Carrion
Lord's apprentice,'' Aisha replied sharply.

The woman smiled unpleasantly. ``You got a parchment with the Tower's
seal exempting you from the weapon laws, then?''

``It was a case of self-defense,'' Hakram said. ``However\ldots{}
extended the circumstances.''

Aisha watched the ugly gleam of satisfaction in the woman's eyes and
knew then negotiation was a waste of time. Bettering the bribe was not
an option if she was also doing it because she wanted to stick it to the
Legions.

``I'm sure your story will check out,'' Commander Barsina said. ``Until
then, you'll be guests in some of my nicest cells.''

She frowned then, looking at their hands.

``Captain Jarad, why aren't their hands bound?'' she barked.

Aisha let out a breath and considered flicking out her knife to settle
the matter differently. By the way Hakram's footing was shifting, he was
debating the same. What gave her pause was the way the guards on the
outer perimeter were starting to kneel. A lone silhouette passed through
the crowd, armed men and women parting for her with hushed whispers. The
Taghreb had expected Lady Squire or perhaps an envoy of the Empress, but
what she saw was a small woman. Her face was unremarkable, her robes of
passable make and she stood unarmed. Perhaps the most noticeable thing
about her was her ink-stained hands. Aisha stiffened. She'd never met
the woman before, but she knew who she was looking at: the Carrion's
Lord own shadow, one of the most successful spymistresses in living
memory. \emph{The Scribe.}Commander Barsina paled even further and
bowed.

``Lady Scribe,'' she said. ``A pleasant surprise.''

The Named smiled. There was no warmth in it, or anything else. It was
just flesh being moved by muscles.

``Is it, Commander?''

Barsina stood straighter, no doubt remembering she was not without
friends or authority. \emph{Oh, Commander,} Aisha thought. \emph{You're
misreading the people who own you if you think they'll shield you from
the Webweaver's attentions.}

``My lady, I don't know what you think you know but-''

``Everything,'' the Scribe said. ``I know everything there is to know
about you, Barsina. I know the name you had before you disfigured your
sister in Satus for marrying the man you wanted. I know whose horse you
stole to make your way to Ater. I know the amount and provenance of
every bribe you've taken since you began patrolling these streets. I
know what rivals you had beaten and by who to get to the post you hold.
This was allowed, because you served as a counterweight for the two
commanders owned by the Truebloods. It seems, however, that you have
finally folded to the pressure.''

``How \emph{dare} you,'' Barsina said.

``You are of no more use to us,'' Scribe simply said.

She had not raised her voice, or changed her intonation in any way. She
stated it as a fact and the night had never before felt so cold to Aisha
Bishara as it did in that moment.

``Captain Jarad,'' the Webweaver said, ignoring the Duni's spluttering
as her eyes sought out the Soninke who'd been about to be chewed out by
her earlier. ``Congratulations, you are now a commander of the Ater city
guard.''

The young man saluted, hands shaking.

``What is to happen to Com- former Commander Barsina?'' he asked.

Scribe met his eyes.

``I know of no such individual.''

A heartbeat later, an enterprising guard behind the former commander
slipped a knife in the Duni's back. Aisha did not shy away from watching
the woman bleed out on the ground. \emph{Ater,} \emph{o} \emph{Ater},
she thought, remembering the old verse by Sheherazad, \emph{you
capricious old whore}. *Y**ou give and you take and you grow on our
bones.* This was not the first betrayal witnessed by the City of Gates.
Likely it wasn't even the first that night. Commander Jarad, now
composed, bowed to the Scribe.

``The Catacomb Children, my lady? Should I clear out the rabble?''

``Leave them,'' the Webweaver said. ``You are dismissed. And when the
offers come, Commander -- remember tonight.''

The man bowed even lower. Orders were barked and the guards began
withdrawing. The olive-skinned aristocrat found this little comfort as
the Scribe's eyes turned to them.

``Such troublesome children you are,'' she said. ``You take after your
mistress.''

Hakram cleared his throat, to her horror. ``Lady Scribe,'' he began,
``we-''

``Tried to step between Catherine Foundling and Akua Sahelian,'' she
interrupted. ``An area that already promises to be littered with
corpses. Take care you do not enter it so carelessly again.''

The orc had enough sense not to reply at that.

``Most Esteemed Lady,'' Aisha said, bowing. ``Should we begin our
interrogation of the Catacomb Children?''

``We both know they will give you nothing of worth,'' the Webweaver
said, but she was smiling. ``Leave them here. The only redeeming aspect
of tonight is that I'll get to see Assassin's face when I tell him he
botched the job.''

There was something in the woman's eyes that would haunt the Taghreb's
dreams for months to come.

``He's going to be in a \emph{mood},'' she said with delight.

The Scribe graced them with one last look before she turned a clear pair
of heels, leaving as unhurriedly as she'd arrived. Hakram and Aisha
stood there for a long time, as their legionaries slowly began filtering
out of the old barracks.

``Drinks?'' Hakram asked.

Aisha eyed her still-shaking hands. ``Ancestors forgive me, but yes.''

Just another day in the Fifteenth Legion. Gods take pity on them all.