Red Wishes Black Ink

On the island shaped like the world, King Mudt and his champions immediately set out for the south. They had only one destination in mind: the mountain valley where the champions of Infinzel had sequestered themselves. The king of Infinzel had wished for an annihilation of all King Mudt's people—a destruction with a scope that even Mudt could not fathom.

"There is no honor in this," King Mudt told his champions. "They need not even best us. The cowards of Infinzel could spend these six days hiding and still have their way."

King Mudt's own wish—the collapse of the pyramidal city—now seemed petty and small compared to King Hectore's merciless desire. Mudt wished he had thought to be so bold. The preservation of the Orvesian wish mattered little now, and he told his champions as much.

"You will die," King Mudt said. "All of us will die, if it means stopping Infinzel."

After a day's travels, the Orvesians heard howling behind them and knew those sounds belonged to the trolkin. The champion called Grime, he of towering stature and bulk, who had long overseen a conscripted army of trolkin, grinned wide and spread his arms.

"My king, we have allies here," Grime said. "Let us not forget."

But Grime had forgotten the whippings. He had forgotten the brutal ways he kept the trolkin at heel. He had forgotten how he burned their sacred plants and made men choke on the fumes until they turned blue and rabid.

When the trolkin arrived, they tore Grime limb from limb. King Mudt and his other champions massacred the trolkin, in turn, but it was a loss, and it was a delay.

In another day's time, it was the champions of Penchenne and Cruxton who found the Orvesians. Their two cities had long been subjugated by King Mudt's armies, so there existed bitterness aplenty before factoring in the favorable trade arrangements promised by Cizco Firstson-Salvado should these cities of the north exact their revenge upon Orvesis.

And they did, beheading the swordsman Carver, before King Mudt and his assassin Bello forced them into retreat.

"The world!" shouted King Mudt. "The world turns against us!"

Thus, the next day, King Mudt arrived at the slow-moving river that stood in for the ocean already down two champions. The gods had left canoes along the shore for crossing, and the Orvesians made use of one.

"Grime was a fool to rely on trolkin, but he was right about our allies," Bello said. "Ruchet, Endpass, and the Bay. They will see wisdom in an alliance."

The merchants of the bay had taken to the river before the Orvesians. They controlled the water, a feat their navy had long desired. And though Bello thought them pliable and cowed, the merchants remembered how the assassin had once killed every man, woman, and child with the blood of their prestigious Lupezza family. A bill for that was due.

As Bello tried to make his king see the wisdom in alliance, the merchants filled him with arrows. For good measure, they bombarded the boat with fire. King Mudt had no choice but to escape beneath the surface as his last champion sank dead beside him.

And so, King Mudt emerged on the southern half of the island alone, still miles away from the camp of Infinzel's four champions.

--Record of the First Granting and Dawning of the Second Age

Lyus Crodd, Scribe of the Dead Kingdom of Orvesis

Cortland Finiron, Hammer Master of the 12th Renown, Kingdom of Infinzel, returning home

Henry Blacksalve, Watts Stonework, and Rivian Stonespirit, champions of Soldier's Rest, outsiders

Vitt Secondson-Salvado and his nephew Orryn es-Salvado, champions of Infinzel, insiders

King Cizco Salvado, Quill of Infinzel, Kingdom of Infinzel, the man at the top

2 Blossum, 61 AW

The pyramidal city of Infinzel, North Continent

58 days until the next Granting

The pyramidal city loomed large on the southern horizon.

Loomed. Cortland had never thought of Infinzel in such terms. It was his home. But now, as their riverboat sailed briskly down waters swollen from spring, Cortland felt an unbalanced feeling in his stomach. He wasn't prone to motion sickness. Cortland's eyes found the top level of the pyramid, half-shrouded in shadow at this early hour. The source of his uneasiness.

Everyone knew they'd be arriving first thing in the morning, so all of them except for Vitt had risen early for the occasion. No one had bothered to make any coffee. Cortland stood at the front of the boat, much like he often had on the journey north, although there were no chunks of ice here for Cortland to visit his itchy violence upon. An hour past dawn and there were already boats flowing to and from Infinzel, darting into the shadow of the great pyramid where it straddled the river.

"I can see why you avoided card games on the trip," Henry remarked. "Your face gives away everything."

"I avoided card games because Traveon marked every gods damned deck, and then took them all with him," Cortland replied.

Henry chuckled and leaned his forearms against the railing. The wind picked up and brought with it the smell of last night's whiskey. It'd been a long trip with nothing to do, so Cortland figured it was a small miracle that Henry wasn't more pickled. The healer hadn't gotten sober—far from it—but he'd at least found a steady level. He hadn't pissed himself at all.

"Wonder what Bel Guydemion will say when I show up missing one of his champions," Henry said.

"I'd rather your conversation than mine," Cortland replied.

"Suppose that's fair." Henry scratched his neck where he now wore the symbol of the broken wall. Cortland still hadn't entirely adjusted to seeing that mark on his old friend.

"We'll clear those lands and build a canal to the river…"

Cortland turned his head as the snatch of conversation reached him. On the deck above, Henry's fellow champions of Soldier's Rest looked out over the empty plains to the north of Infinzel. Throughout their journey, the dark-haired Rivian Stonespirit had kept mostly to herself. Now, she spoke animatedly, gesturing with the hilt of one of her sashblades. Next to her, the grizzled former bouncer Watts Stonework listened patiently. He noticed Cortland watching and nodded once at the hammer master.

Breathing out through his nose, Cortland turned back to Henry. "Did we do the right thing?"

Henry snorted. "Who knows? Have we ever?" The healer looked at Cortland and frowned, seeing the deep lines etched in his face. "What do you mean, exactly?"

As Cortland considered his words, an irritating scratching noise caught his attention. Behind them, Orryn es-Salvado stood near the raised gangway, like he was determined to be the first one off the ship. While he waited, the beast master worked at the sleeves of his Garrison uniform with a short-haired brush.

"There's not a crease on you, rat!" Cortland snarled. "Enough of that."

Orryn blinked. Sailing back to Infinzel, the younger man had grown accustomed to Cortland's cold shoulder, and so was surprised now even to be snapped at. Carina had made a point of saying how she'd slipped off her perch on the Nortmost accidentally, how Orryn had tried to catch her arm. Cortland knew better. The others already distrusted Orryn, and so it had made for a lonely trip back for the rat. He'd gotten off easy, in Cortland's opinion.

"Sorry," Orryn mumbled. He stowed his brush in his pack.

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"Go down and wake your uncle," Cortland said. "We'll be docked soon."

Orryn did as he was told, at least. As he scurried below, Cortland turned back to Henry. He leaned next to the healer, keeping his voice low.

"Should we have let Carina run off to Beacon?" Cortland asked. "Before that, even. Should we have…?"

"Let her die on the mountain?" Henry said flatly. "No, we should not have. I wouldn't have let it happen, so don't let mercy darken your conscience. If our ambitious logician turns out to be a tyrant, you can blame me for that."

"I've decided it don't much matter to me who sits atop the pyramid," Cortland said. "One's as bad as the next. I just swing the hammer."

"It doesn't have to be that way," Henry replied.

Cortland shot him a look. For a moment, the words of that assassin bitch Laughing Monkey tiptoed through his mind. She had told Cortland that he was one of the most powerful men on the planet. She said that he should exert more influence. Cortland scowled. Manipulation, all of it. She sought to slide her fingernails into Infinzel's every hairline fracture until they widened and split.

"I know you're tired of hearing this, but I've already had the conversation with old Guydemion," Henry continued, misinterpreting Cortland's expression. "I told him that I'll steer his fresh champions through this Granting but, after that, I'm done. I'm taking the wash. Unlike you and the king, he didn't try to convince me otherwise."

"Good for you, Henry."

"You could do the same," Henry said. "No one can claim that you haven't earned retirement."

Cortland cracked his knuckles. "What would I do with retirement?"

"The point is what you won't do," Henry replied. "You won't die on an island so a king can keep himself young."

They fell silent as their ship passed between two stone pillars mounted in the river. Rusted folds of steel were draped against the stone, the gears that would extend the fence into place gummy with algae. It had been decades since Infinzel had last needed to seal the river where it ran through the city, the defenses a remnant of a time that Cortland had never known. Only the eldest amongst them—King Cizco, Bel Guydemion, Cortland's mother—only they remembered the years of siege.

On the deck above, Rivian fell into a coughing fit. She hacked into the elbow of her antique cavalry uniform until Watts handed her a canteen. Cortland squinted at the young woman, but she turned away when she sensed his attention.

Henry nudged him. "Think about it. That's all I'll say on the matter."

"Good," Cortland replied.

"For now."

They docked in the Underbridge, amidst the traders and stalls, beneath the colorful moss mural of the smiling Cizco Salvado. Only then did Vitt Secondson-Salvado emerge from his cabin, his eyes crusty and his hair sticking up. Vitt held Orryn under one arm, squeezing him tight as if keeping his nephew from running off. Cortland half-expected to see Orryn transform into a rat right then and there—he'd yet to see the champion's new ability put to use, but couldn't imagine a more appropriate and debasing talent.

Vitt looked up at the mural of his father and winced. "Right. Who's going to report to the king?"

"I will," Cortland said.

"He'll want to see all of us, won't he?" Orryn asked, his eyes flitting about.

"Nephew, when the hammerhead offers to stand in front of you, fucking let him." Vitt leaned his weight against Orryn. "I've been too long on rivers and rocks. We have two months until the Granting?"

"Fifty-eight days," Cortland said.

"I intend to spend most of that time in a whorehouse," Vitt said. "If father has need of me, let him send me a message in Ink. I'll hope to see it splashed against flesh or flagon."

Cortland eyed the hunter. If this was some act of rebellion from Vitt, it wasn't for Cortland to stand in his way.

"Fine," Cortland said.

"You'll accompany me, nephew," Vitt continued. He ran his hand over the front of Orryn's uniform, wrinkling and tweaking the fabric. "Why are you dressed for work? You're a champion now. Act like one."

As usual, Cortland took the stairs.

The air had turned warm since the last time he ascended Infinzel at his dogged, short-legged jog. The stones radiated a natural coolness that prickled against the pleasant sweat breaking across his forehead and neck. Another mountain to climb, though Cortland didn't mind. In spite of all that had happened, Cortland realized that he was happy to be home. He'd been sucked down into the stones of Infinzel when Carina had set her ambush for him, and he'd been pulled down into the untamed rocks of Nortmost by the stone walkers—and yet the walls of Infinzel still gave him comfort. He could feel the vibrations from the forge as he passed that floor and, further up, heard raised voices as citizens gathered for breakfast in the food hall. A place worth preserving, he thought. A place worth protecting.

By the time he reached the second highest floor, where the champions lived beneath only the king, Cortland's legs ached and his shirt was soaked through. The air smelled musty and still. After the events of Solstice, all the champions had left in a hurry. Henry hadn't yet packed his things so that Orryn could move in to his apartment. Cortland scowled at the thought of having a rat for a neighbor.

Pausing to catch his breath, Cortland ran a hand through his beard, unkempt in these weeks away, and then across the thinning stubble atop his head. He considered cleaning up a bit before going to see Cizco, but the king had never been much for formality. Let him have a look at how his champion sweated.

Cortland turned the corner to ascend the final staircase to Cizco's apartment—and bumped into Issa Firstdot-Tuarez on her way down.

"Uncle Cortland," Issa said, color rising to her cheeks. She quickly ran a hand through her loose, tousled black hair. "You're back."

"Issa," Cortland grunted. Seeing her so unexpectedly put the hammer master on his back foot. He had not yet decided how much to tell Issa, her younger brother, or her widowed mother, about the death of Ben Tuarez. Cortland had gotten his answers on the Nortmost, but the truth had clarified little.

"The king had requested a report on the Garrison's patrols," Issa said, brushing by him. "Let's catch up later, yes?"

"Yes," Cortland replied, dumbly, only now noticing how the back of Issa's dress had two buttons left unclasped. The fact that she wore a dress at all—a sleeveless thing meant for spring, that showed off her muscled arms and slit down the sides—and not her Garrison uniform induced a new nausea in Cortland. He let Issa hurry away to the lift, heat rising up his own neck.

Then, Cortland continued up the stairs, footfalls heavy enough to break bones.

He found the king stretched across one of the loungers in his salon, a robe loosely cinched around his waist, his light brown hair looped into a messy topknot. Cizco paused with a cup of tea poised before his lips.

"Gods, Finiron, look at you," he said. "Did you run all the way back from Nortmost?"

Cortland pointed behind him. "What was that?"

Cizco raised an eyebrow. "What was—a young woman? Is that what you mean?"

"A young woman," Cortland repeated, ignoring the tremor in his hand. "Gods, Cizco, what would Ben think of that?"

"What would Ben…?" Cortland felt his face going hotter at the blank look on Cizco's face. "I'm sure he wouldn't maintain some prudish control over every niece given the honor—"

"Daughter," Cortland interrupted. "Issa is his daughter."

"Oh? I could have sworn…" Cizco shrugged. "Relax, Finiron. Just a bit of fun. I'm not seeking a wife. I spilled on her belly, so her prospects won't be dimmed."

Cortland's hand dropped to his hammer. Cizco sat up, setting aside his mug of tea.

"Whatever you're thinking," Cizco said, quietly, "I would put it aside."

"You won't do that again," Cortland said, "is what I'm thinking."

Cortland could see how the king's eyes hardened, like old, blackened pits. He stared back steadily.

"You're right," Cizco said, after a moment. "It was insensitive of me and ungentlemanly, to speak of her so. I apologize. I know you don't enjoy ribald talk."

Cortland let his hand fall loosely at his side, though he sensed the king's apology was more than half insult. Once again, he thought of Laughing Money, and how she'd encouraged him to use his hammer. He took a short breath and kept his words blunt and to the point.

"We've returned with your two youngest champions each having gained a level of renown. Vitt has taken Orryn into the districts for a bit of recreation. Carina, with my permission, has gone on to Beacon to conduct research."

"Research?"

"She wants to ease your burdens," Cortland said. "So that Infinzel won't demand such sacrifices of its king, and that its wishes might be cast for the betterment of all."

While Cortland spoke, Cizco held out his cupped hands. His golden inkwell appeared there, and he raised it up-and-down, testing the weight. His brow had knitted together, darkening his expression.

"Oh, I see," Cizco said. "And here I thought we would be making a new champion."

"Luckily, no," Cortland said.

"Did you get the answers you sought, Finiron?"

"I did," Cortland replied. "I am satisfied."

"Are you?" Cizco pursed his lips. "Since we're considering the opinions of the dead, I wonder what Ben would think of that."

"He would know better than to cast aside a champion chosen by the gods."

"Superstitious faff," Cizco said with a snarl. "What a story it makes, to say the Orvesians doomed themselves by killing Kayenna Vezz. But I knew the woman. The gods sought to punish her, and to humiliate Mudt. Most of all, they chose her because it was amusing. I was the one who doomed the Orvesians. Me. And now, all these decades later, the gods have decided that I should dance for them again."

"You told a different story last year, when Carina arrived," Cortland said.

"Because I could not yet see how poisonous the logician would become," Cizco replied. "Look at Infinzel now. Riven by discord. Its own champions doubting their king, disregarding his wishes. Ben Tuarez would have seen my will done."

"Ben's dead," Cortland said.

"Yes," Cizco replied. "And I am stuck with his underachieving apprentice."

Cortland took a look around. The king's opulent furnishings and antique baubles, all bathed in the early morning light. The windows were thrown open, the sky a vivid blue, the breeze cool and refreshing. At last, Cortland returned his gaze to Cizco and the inkwell still sitting in his hands.

"Maybe it's like you say, king. The gods sit atop the world and make amusements of us. And you sit atop Infinzel and do the same."

"What—?"

With [Bull Rush], Cortland was across the room before Cizco could finish his sentence. He closed his hands over Cizco's, squeezing tightly, feeling the king's fragile bones pressed against the unbreakable gold of the inkwell. Cortland knew he could not take the Quill from Cizco—it could only be given willingly or reassigned by the gods upon a quill's death. Even so, he tightened his grip until he heard Cizco's breath catch.

"How many years have I given you, old man?" Cortland said to the king who looked ten years his junior. "Be grateful I don't ask for them back."

"Release me, Finiron," Cizco whispered. "You are tired from a long journey. You overstep."

"And you're tired from a long time on top," Cortland replied, but he did release Cizco. He stood over the king. "I extracted a pledge of honesty from Carina and now I will have the same from you. Together, we will work to better the lives of all who live in the pyramidal city, and those in its shadow. There will be no more bullshit skullduggery. No more games."

Cizco snorted. "She will betray us. A pledge from her means nothing."

"When that happens, I'll give you the new champion you want," Cortland said. "But if you continue these machinations of yours, Cizco, Infinzel will have a new Quill. You don't have enough offspring in this pyramid to keep me from making it so."

Cortland stood unflinching beneath the king's stare. He could see the calculations taking place behind Cizco's eyes. He needed Cortland. A champion of the twelfth renown would take years to replace. And in that time, Infinzel would be vulnerable.

Finally, Cizco pulled his robe tighter around him and waved Cortland away. "I have misjudged you, hammer master."

"Yes."

"Your way, then," Cizco said. "And when the day comes that you learn my rightness, I will not hold this lapse against you."

"You are generous, my king," Cortland said, and left Cizco's chamber. He felt very much in need of a bath.