“Are you not Intelligence yourselves?”
Septima frowned. “The Office of Truth did not manage to make us choose their side, but they did force us to keep neutral over the matter. I objected, which is why the three of us were dismissed and are now under watch.”
That was somehow unsurprising to Emere. These people didn’t look like they were following any sort of standard Intelligence operating procedures.
Emere pondered the meaning of it. “So, this is the Office ofTruth using the paranoid senators to take power, and install one of their number at the very top of the Empire.” A single leader with an iron fist at the helm of the Empire that could overrule the Senate and the Commons while ignoring the laws. Such a person could do anything they wanted to the world. He shuddered at the thought. “And this Cain, he uncovered all this?”
Septima nodded. “Yes. But Cain had become trapped while looking into the Circuit of Destiny and now he can’t leave it. We had just barely managed to make contact with him through the Ebrian, and the first thing Cain passed on to us was the Office of Truth’s plan.”
Devadas broke his silence. “Cain said he was able to talk to the outside through those people’s prayers.”
“Ebrians,” said Septima, “are usually just provincials we surveil and keep in line. But there’s no way for us to talk to Cain except through their prayers. Ebrians are suspicious of Imperial attention, so we could not reveal ourselves to them.” Septima let out a short laugh. Clearly, she appreciated the irony of her predicament. She pointed her chin at the dead man. “He was our line to Cain.” Septima bit her lip, perhaps a gesture of regret. “We’d let him think we were worshippers of another god looking for divine messages.” Emere sensed a sliver of regret in her words.
“You said my name came up,” Emere continued, “but you haven’t told me how and why.”
Septima licked her lips. “We don’t know either. Only that Cain is desperate to see you. Which means we must find another Ebrian whom Cain can use, and to do that, we have to leave now.”
Emere sighed. He’d thought by now everything would be explained, which it wasn’t, and the true meaning of his dream inthe square would reveal itself, which it didn’t. Maybe it was going to be like the last twenty years, a glimpse of destiny followed by nothing, or less than nothing. Perhaps he should leave it all to these three and go home, perhaps ask Ludvik for more security. After all, what could he, a former prince of a small province, do that would stop the power game happening at the highest level of the Empire?
Emere shook his head at his own thought. He had to keep faith. There was going to be something at the end of all this, something that would vindicate his whole life. He felt a strength return to his grip. The Nameless God dug into his palm.
He looked up at Septima. “All right. Let’s see what we find.”
Septima smiled. “I had a feeling you would say that. Then—”
“But one last thing,” said Emere, holding up a hand. “I may be an idle councillor from a small province, but I do know how Imperial politics work.”
Septima raised her eyebrows.
“The Office of Truth may be powerful,” he continued, “but to cohere as one for this undertaking, and to get the support of a Senate majority, they would need the authority of at least a Grand Inquisitor. But that position had been occupied only by Lysandros for a hundred years, and he left a vacancy that still hasn’t been filled. And the Commons committee that controls the Office of Truth is in all practicality controlled in turn by Tythonia’s councillor, Ludvik. He is a provincial councillor. Would he stand idly by as an office under his oversight plans a coup to oppress the provinces? So, who would have enough influence to make these machinations possible?”
The stout man grinned. Devadas shook his head.
Septima gave the stout man a look and sighed.
“Councillor, Ludvik is the one who set all that in motion. He’s the one who sent the assassin to kill you. And once the Office of Truth takes power, he is the one the Senate will appoint as the Imperator.”
17
ARIENNE
She had gotten used to the smell of the catacombs. Sidestepping the faint ghosts, she followed the path through the passageways as Noam directed her from her mind. Arienne was now sure the horse seller’s claim about the piece of glass warding off ghosts was a lie—the ghosts continued to repeat their last actions, not caring at all about her glowing orb. But it was also the only thing illuminating this dark underground cemetery, so she was grateful for it nonetheless.
A few times, a ghost would enter the room in her mind, but whether it was because of Noam or because she was on guard, they quickly left without her having to kick them out. But whenever they did so, regaining their form when they entered before melting back into their cold graves, the dead left behind a warm aura of formless memories in her mind, like layers of silently fallen snow. Arienne did not dislike this feeling.
She heard singing in her mind. An unfamiliar scale, and anunfamiliar language. Songs Noam must’ve heard growing up in Ebria. The baby had stopped crying, but Noam continued on.
Still not completely dry from her fall into the river, Arienne tried not to shiver. She did not want to seem fearful in the presence of so many ghosts.
“Although, it’s not like anyone is watching,” she murmured, and came to a stop. Set into the wall next to her was a tall arch about twice her height with two large stone doors. She could tell a hole had been knocked through an old brick wall to make these doors. The arch was made of marble, and above it was the wide-open eye insignia of the Office of Truth and an engraved sign in Imperial.
“‘Power Generator Chamber,’” Arienne read aloud. So, this was where Lysandros had stored the generator he had brought to Mersia. “All right, Fractica. Let’s see what your room looks like.”
Her hand was stopped in midair before it even reached the door. The space in front of the door undulated, runes appearing and then vanishing in the air. Wasting no time, Arienne recited the code of unraveling that Noam had given her earlier. Two years ago, she had done the same thing in the basement of the Imperial Academy, melting away the wards in order to get to Eldred.
When she exhaled, her breath sparkled violet and melted into the rippling aura. The runes vanished, and one of the doors cracked open ever so slightly with a creak so unexpectedly soft that it was comical coming from such an impressive slab of rock.
If Fractica were not functional and had stopped providing Power to this door, this protective layer would not have needed to be unraveled. So, even as it dressed up in trash and wandered theruins of Danras, it was still following its original orders to Power the city.
