Though grateful credence had been given to the legend, Lucius the Omnipotent was less than pleased with Francisco’s method of verification.
Albeit briefly.
4. A purveyor of top-shelf Itreyan smoke, fine brandy, and the most extensive collection of naughty lithographs in all of Godsgrave.
5. A group had set off into the Whisperwastes some three turns prior, leading a long train of unladen horses. Given the weapons on display, Mia picked them for tomb-raiders, but in fact, they were pilgrims from a fringe-dwelling faction known as Kephians. The group had been convinced by their leader—a man named Emiliano Rostas—that the time of great Keph’s awakening was at hand, that the Earth Goddess would soon rise from her slumber and bring the world to an end. Only those faithful gathered at the Navel of the Goddess (which Emiliano supposed was to be found in the Ashkahi desert) would be saved.
When it was pointed out that the journey might be more hazardous than just sitting around waiting for Keph to show up, Emiliano replied that he and his followers were beloved of the Earth Goddess, and she would allow no harm to befall them.
One can only presume the dust wraiths that devoured their corpses didn’t receive the goddess’s memorandum.
6. The Hearth—a fire, eternally stoked by the goddess Tsana within the belly of the slumbering Earth Goddess, Keph. The blaze attracts the righteous spirits of the dead, and grows brighter and hotter with each soul that enters the afterlife. Itreyans believe the numbers of the dead will one turning be so vast the fire will wake Keph and the world will end.
Wicked souls are denied a place by the Hearth, left to wander in the cold to be consumed by Niah. Sometimes, these wicked souls are sent back to the living world by the goddess to plague the righteous and the just. Called the “Hearthless,” they are common figures in folklore, lurking in abandoned tombs or sites of terrible evil, abducting babies and deflowering virgins and causing unjust and illogical increases to taxation.
7. Distilled from the defense mechanism of deep-sea leviathans, ink is a hallucinogenic sedative. Injection of the drug induces feelings of well-being and loss of muscle control (in the wild, leviathan use their ink to flee predators—a faceful of the stuff usually makes even the hungriest whitedrake cease caring about mornmeal for a time). Long-term users, however, suffer a loss of empathy, and in cases of severe overuse, complete detachment from reality.
Francisco XV, last king of Itreya, was an infamous inkfiend. Under the influence of his addiction even during the uprising that dethroned him, Francisco XV was reportedly thoroughly amused as his personal guard declared him traitor to the people. His queen, Isabella, also an addict, was said to have laughed uproariously as Francisco was hacked to pieces in his own throne room.
Presumably she stopped the gigglefits when the republicans turned their blades on her and her children.
CHAPTER 7
INTRODUCTIONS
Mia pushed open the door to Mercurio’s Curios, a tiny bell above the frame chiming her arrival. The store was dark and dusty, sprawling off in every direction. Shutters were drawn against the sunslight. Mia recalled the sign outside—“Oddities, Rarities & the Fynest Antiquities.” Looking at the shelves, she saw plenty of the former. The latter parts of the equation were up for debate.
Truth be told, the shop looked filled to bursting with junk. Mia could’ve sworn it was also bigger inside than out, though she put that down to her lack of mornmeal. As if to remind her of its neglect, her belly growled a sternly worded complaint.
Mia made her way through the flotsam and jetsam until she arrived at a counter. And there, behind a mahogany desk carved with a twisting spiral pattern that made her eyes hurt to look at, she found the greatest oddity inside Mercurio’s Curios—the proprietor himself.
His face was the kind that seemed born to scowl, set atop with a short shock of light gray hair. Blue eyes were narrowed behind wire-rimmed spectacles that had seen better turns. A statue of an elegant woman with a lion’s head crouched on the desk beside him, an arkemical globe held in its upturned palm. The old man was reading from a book as big as Mia. A cigarillo hung from his mouth, smelling faintly of cloves. It bobbed on his lips when he mumbled.
“Help ya w’somthn?”
“Good turn to you, sir. Almighty Aa bless and keep you—”
The old man tapped the small brass placard on the countertop—a repeat of the warning outside his door. “No time-wasters, rabble or religious sorts welcome.”
“Forgive me, sir. May the Four Daughters—”
The old man tapped the placard more insistently, shifting his scowl to Mia.
The girl fell silent. The old man turned back to his book.
“Help ya w’somthn?” he repeated.
The girl cleared her throat. “I wish to sell you a piece of jewelry, sir.”
“Just wishing about it won’t get it done, girl.”
Mia hovered uncertainly, chewing her lip. The old man began tapping the placard again until she finally got the message, unpinning her brooch and placing it on the wood. The little crow stared back at her with its red amber eyes, as if wounded at the thought she might hock it to such a grumpy old bastard. She shrugged apology.
“Where’d y’steal that?” the old man mumbled.
“I did not steal it, sir.”
Mercurio pulled the cigarillo from his lips, turned his full attention to Mia.
“That’s the sigil of the Familia Corvere.”
“Well spotted, sir.”
“Darius Corvere died a traitor’s death yesterturn by order of the Itreyan Senate. And rumor has it his entire household have been locked in the Philosopher’s Stone.”1
The little girl had no kerchief, so she wiped her nose on her sleeve and said nothing.
“How old are you, sprat?”
“… Ten, sir.”
“You got a name?”
Mia blinked. Who did this old man think he was? She was Mia Corvere, daughter of the justicus of the Luminatii Legion. Marrowborn of a noble familia, one the great twelve houses of the Republic. She’d not be interrogated by a mere shopkeep. Especially when offering a prize worth more than the rest of the junk in this squalid hole put together.
“My name is none of your business, sir.” Mia folded her arms and tried her best to impersonate her mother when dealing with an unruly servant.
“Noneofyourbusiness?” One gray eyebrow rose. “Strange name for a girl, innit?”
“Do you want the brooch or no?”
The old man put his cigarillo back on his lips and turned back to his book.
“No,” he said.
Mia blinked. “It is finest Itreyan silver. Th—”
“Fuck off,” the man said, without looking up. “And take your trouble with you when you off with the fuck, Miss Noneofyourbusiness.”
Mia’s cheeks burned pink with fury. She snatched the brooch up and pinned it back to her dress, tossed her hair over one shoulder and spun on her heel.