NOVEL NEXT 186. Cemetery by the River
186. Cemetery by the River
Just like that, Serac had herself a new local guide in the world of ceaseless Daylight. A 'promotion' from Cardinal to Viceroy. But as far as her biased opinion of the two men went, it felt much more like a down- or sidegrade at best.
And in more ways than one. Despite being a figure of greater authority than Travertine, Realgar proved just as stingy about letting Serac's Rakshasa features breathe.
"There's no merit to agitating [the Herd]—at least not until the Butcher business is settled," had been his tired excuse for denying Serac's hopeful request. "I've already briefed the Templars of the Order—all Wayfarers like you or I—so they'll fall in line as needed. As to the Anchored citizens of Dawnwick, you shall remain Deacon Edin for the time being. It's for the best."
Evidently, greater authority did not come hand in hand with a better argument. Serac wasn't happy to bite down on the 'no' that rose to her throat. Nor did she appreciate the way Realgar enunciated 'herd'—as though the word meant something different to him alone.
"Heed your instincts, Serac." Trippy with his first two क in a while. "There's much this Viceroy keeps close to his chest, perhaps even from his own followers. You'd do well to be judicious with your trust."
No argument there. Except now wasn't the right time to raise a stink about it, what with Serac being a lone stranger in a strange land. She was willing to cooperate, if only to bring Flint the Butcher to justice and bank some Karma along the way. At the same time, she'd keep a low threshold for going renegade should the situation call for it.
Before the party could leave the refectory, there was just one more business to take care of. With the prospect of real work in the very near future, Serac could ill afford to be a fussy eater. She got [Chef's Best Friend] back from Travertine, then kept a close eye on her [Satiety] as she drowned herself in bland, lumpy porridge.
On a Day that had started with Frenzy, guts, and spleens, this was somehow worse than all of them. But it was necessary prep. All part of being a responsible REVOLVER wielder, especially with her other resources currently so constrained. All told, she needed five bowls and exactly three extra spoonfuls (and not a nibble more!) to top herself off at [137/137]. She ended the meal with a loud, hearty burp, ignoring the horrified stares of all deer in the vicinity.
Serac felt no shame, especially considering what she'd already put herself through for the sake of said deer people. At the same time, the burp evoked a not-so-distant memory, one scented by overripe peach. Somewhere behind her right ear, she—or the piece of someone she embodied—felt a small prick of satisfaction.
Briefed, fed, and rested (if not reconstituted), it was go time again. The Day was still very young. It only meant the detectives and their outrealmer consultant had plenty of time to prepare for the evil that yet loomed with the impending Dusk.
To go down, first they went up. Further into the busiest part of the city. Instead of doubling back for Travertine's steamboat, the whole party squeezed into a reindeer-drawn carriage chartered for the Viceroy's private use. No small task, given the addition of a burly Cardinal into the mix.
Serac, as the smallest party member, ended up sharing the coachman's seat with one of Realgar's attendants. The Anchored fellow stole more than several glances at Deacon Edin's 'mangy' face, but the latter didn't mind one bit—a healthy reversal from her nervous Morning. Let them stare all they want. I'm not the one who has something to hide.
If anything, the ever eager tourist in Serac relished her new vantage point. She was first tickled by the sight of huffing and puffing reindeer with their ruffed chests and broad antlers. Made all the more endearing by DLEE and ORD trotting beside them like guards of honor. From there, Serac shifted her gaze (not without some reluctance) onto the cityscape at street level.
Well past 20 hours into the Day, the whole of Dawnwick was still up and about. Not only that, but the citizens seemed hell-bent on packing the streets, as if to 'stay at home' was some unforgivable crime.
Antlered heads and robed figures filled the spaces between clay buildings, exchanging one good for another service. If you weren't selling something, you were making something to sell. Not even children were exempt, led around in groups and made to observe or assist—to learn what it meant to be a grown-up Mriga.
Some form of persistent and all-encompassing economy defined the lives of these Day-siders. But in the absence of a palpable driving force like [Hunger], it was hard for Serac the outsider to pin down what made everything 'tick'.
Oaths? Beliefs? Identity and the sense of ownership that comes with it? She wondered as her eyes fell upon one oathkeeper in particular: a glum-faced peddler of pillows and cushions. What's that guy's oath? That he'd find a suitable home for his down cushions, even if it kills him?
Time flew when you philosophized about strange local customs. The reindeer carriage soon reached its destination. The second graveyard of Serac's Day… which was two more than she would've expected.
Except the word 'graveyard' couldn't quite cut it. For unlike the modest garden by the farmlands, this one was massive. It spread over the entirety of a steep bluff that jutted out from the city, its cliffside plunging into a bend in the Sanzu River far below.
Despite being surrounded by countless dead souls, Serac couldn't help but gape in awe and wonder. Scorching sun, rippling grass, rows upon endless rows of gravestones. All overlooking a river of gold and the rolling cityscape beyond its shores.
"The Riverside Necropolis," were the first words out of Realgar as he stepped off the cabin, meeting Serac's wide-eyed astonishment with one of his pasted-on smiles. "Yes. Even though I've lived with it all my life, I too am as taken with this view as you are, Deacon. It's something worth fighting for, isn't it? The peace and sanctity of all who call this city their final resting place."
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"Yeah," Serac murmured weakly, still unable to take her eyes off the scenery. "If this is your view for the rest of the afterlife, maybe dying isn't so bad."
Too much? But she'd only given word to her honest impression. Besides, having now looked upon the shared 'endpoint' of a Dawnwicker's life, she'd begun to understand—at least a little—what made everything tick.
We all want to be remembered after we're gone, but we also want that remembrance to feel earned. Oaths, beliefs, identity. Maybe they're all part of what gives our lives meaning.
And perhaps, in that way, these strange Tidereigners weren't so different from the other souls Serac had met on her Path.
"When you're quite done picking out a plot for yourself"—Realgar leaned in, cold eyes ill matching the wryness of his words—"do follow me to the entrance. Just up ahead; you can't miss it."
Indeed she couldn't. A large mausoleum stood at the very top of the cliff, pillars and walls of polished granite resplendent against the sepia sky. As impressive a sight as it was, Serac had to wonder about the practicalities.
"Is it… structurally sound?" she wondered aloud, somehow managing to imitate Renna for at least one sentence. "Hell of a place to erect a whole building."
"If that looks precarious to you, wait 'til you see what's underground." Realgar said with the slightest hint of genuine cheer. "We're standing atop twenty floors of the Catacombs, starting from this entrance and filling the entire height of the cliff as it extends to the river. I've asked the same question myself, believe me, but what can I say? Our ancestors made some… bold choices in their time. And it falls to us now to protect and honor their legacy."
Serac nodded sagely, remarkably calm for someone about to dive deep into the aforementioned twenty floors. She might've been much less calm about it, were it not for some 'prior experience' with cliffside architecture.
Her second exploration of the Catacombs—Necropolis edition—had more surprises in store. To start with, the entrance led directly into a metallic box with all kinds of machinery: gears, chains, and levers. Looking nothing like its exteriors, the box was nevertheless large enough to comfortably fit the whole party and then some.
"A steam-powered elevator," Realgar explained for the benefit of a gawking outrealmer. "You didn't really think we'd walk all twenty floors, did you?"
If Serac had been amazed by the box's appearance, it was nothing compared to when the whole contraption started moving. Huffing, chuffing, clanking, and grinding its way deeper underground, floor by dimly lit floor.
"Only possible because we're right next to a river," Realgar went on, as if that was the source of Serac's amazement. "The steam exhaust is shunted through the cliff walls. All other waste products flow directly into the Sanzu. Elegant solution to an overwrought problem, don't you think?"
Serac didn't know enough to comment. She did, however, shoot Travertine a dirty look. You could've told me about this before I took a bath in the river!
With the Anchored attendants waiting outside, the party was down to three Wayfarers and two deer. It meant Serac was free to let her hood down. Realgar too perked up noticeably, freed from having to play Mr Scary Viceroy. He promptly showed his more relaxed side… by talking shop.
"The idea hit me as soon as I heard your report," he spoke with authoritative confidence, raising his voice over the elevator's noise. "A shadow that flits across the Day-Night divide, with a surgical hand guiding its entries and exits. No wonder the murderer acted with such reckless temerity—when it always had the means to slip away unseen and untouchable."
The downshift in the ambient light hit Serac with another powerful wave of sleep-lust. The Viceroy's droning certainly didn't help matters. But knowing what she knew now, there was nothing to do other than blink her heavy lids and peel her ears as best she could.
"So," Realgar continued, utterly unfazed by the changing ambience, "what can we do to hinder the Butcher's ready-made egress? Simple—we trap it. Lure it to a place so deep and so isolated there's nothing for its Night-side surgeon to cut into. With no exit point, it'll be stuck on our side of the divide, where we Templars shall mete out its long-belated punishment."
Lower and lower into the Catacombs, Serac was feeling rather claustrophobic herself. But that didn't stop her from frowning skeptically.
"I get the need for a 'trap'." She nearly had to shout to be heard. "But what have the Catacombs got to do with it? We know the Butcher's been inside one of these before, and it got out just fine with the help of its Oathkeeper. What's to stop them from pulling the same—?"
"It's the difference in terrain." Travertine, who'd been awfully quiet since Realgar took charge, finally spoke up. "The Butcher has roamed the Catacombs, yes, but only in the relatively flat parts of Dawnwick. The corridors here have been carved out of a steep bluff, with stark shifts in elevation from its uppermost floor to its lowest. Therefore, assuming Dawnwick's geography more or less maps onto her Night-side counterpart, there will be parts of this structure that are—"
"Completely inaccessible from the other side!" Serac exclaimed, catching on quickly enough. "Because it'll be too far underground for the Oathkeeper to follow!"
"Precisely." Realgar took over again, but not before shooting Travertine a somewhat irritated look. "Now, it's impossible for us to say what all this"—he waved a dainty hand at the air around him—"looks like on the other side. It should hardly matter, however, as long as we lure the Butcher to a deep enough location. The deeper the better, I say. But it does mean we'll have to clear out the Catacombs of some of its prior occupants. To that end…"
When Realgar said 'deep', he really meant it. He led them all the way down to the lowest and deepest portion of the Catacombs: Floor 20 beneath the Riverside Necropolis.
Here, Serac was back among familiar sights and smells. Chilly corridors dimly lit (and pleasantly scented) by myrrh torches. Walls packed from floor to ceiling with heavy stone sarcophagi.
Yet, further into the hallway, the ambience changed again. The air somehow felt frigid and muggy at the same time. Many of the torches had burnt themselves out, leaving the Wayfarers barely any light to work with. The smell too took a dramatic turn, from fragrant resin to oppressive must.
Looking around, Serac saw she wasn't alone in her trepidation. Big Stag ORD trailed the Wayfarers by a fair distance, taking small, hesitant steps unbecoming of his muscular frame. Even Little Doe DLEE moved with deliberate caution, leaf-shaped ears on twitchy swivels.
What awaited at the end of Floor 20 was a circular stone door. Enormous, larger even than the mausoleum atop the cliff edge. Its heavy-duty appearance attested to its function of guarding the ancient dead from would-be intruders.
Or, Serac wondered, very much to herself, is it the other way around?