Song of the Dragoons

When we faltered after crawling out of the grove, Walter took the lead, heading north. I assumed there must be another way out of the district that he was taking us to, and I was thankful, both that we didn't need to see the corpses again, and that we might be able to make our way to the Parapets more quietly.

"So, Walter," Yura said as we walked. "Do you have a second name? I understand that is a custom here in the north."

"Lily said only people with families get those," Walter mumbled.

"A-Ah," said Yura, stumbling over his words and clearly a little mortified. "I suppose those other children must have been your family then?"

Walter shrugged, staring at the ground. "I suppose. Near as matters, now Ms. Prestor's gone."

"Prestor," Grace piped up, "Lily mentioned that name too. Was she your caretaker?"

"She ran the orphanage," said Walter. "Till they went and killed her. I guess that building's empty, now. Now 's just us and the tree."

He said "the tree" with a strange sort of reverence. A look in his eye that was almost worshipful. He must have noticed because he quickly scrubbed the expression from his face.

"'The Grove', 'the Gardeners', 'the Tree'," said Grace. "What's so special about the tree that you formed the whole group around it? Does it give you food?"

Walter now looked distinctly uncomfortable. "Uh, n-no," he stuttered. "Just a tree."

He was an awful liar, and I began to get a terrible sinking feeling in my gut. "Walter," I said slowly, "can I ask you a question?"

"Yes, miss dragon," said Walter.

"Just Belfry is fine," I said, speaking softly for fear of spooking him out of talking. "That's my name. Belfry."

He nodded dutifully, like he was obeying a superior. "Yes, miss Belfry."

"You also don't need to call me 'miss'," I said. "You're making me feel like I'm three times my age. I'm only nineteen, you can just call me 'Belfry'."

Walter nodded, opening his mouth to speak and then rapidly shutting it with wide eyes before he could immediately break the request I had just made.

"I wanted to ask about your magic," I said, nodding towards his hand. "How old are you?"

"Thirteen," Walter mumbled.

"I've never seen someone your age so good at magic, especially without having any blood at hand to burn. Where'd you learn it?"

"Taught m'self," said Walter, his face retreating further into his cloak.

"That's a dangerous road," said Yura. By the look on his face, I guessed he had cottoned on to the same thing I had. "If you're burning your own blood, you could easily hurt yourself if you don't have a teacher. Especially as young as you are."

"Don't need any blood," said Walter. "Not for my kind of magic."

The atmosphere in the alley turned frosty. Grace pinched her arm and put on a pained grimace. "Walter, all magic needs blood to work. If you don't burn any blood, there's no energy to use."

"Not for me," Walter insisted.

"Technically," I said. "There is a way to use magic without blood."

"It's one of the three paths," agreed Yura. "The first two are occultism and evocation, where you burn free blood and the blood in your own veins, respectively. And the last…is warlockry. Wherein energy is channelled from a spirit by means of a pact."

Walter didn't say anything. He just kept marching, shoving his hands into his pockets and making sure his mask was tight over his face.

"Walter, is the tree a spirit?" I asked. "I promise we're not going to turn you in to the chasseurs. You can tell us the truth."

He sniffled, and I realised he was crying hot, frustrated tears. "She's nice," he said shakily. "She helped Ms. Prestor heal us when we were hurt. Then she helped us after Ms. Prestor died. Please, she's not hurting anyone, she's really good, and I-I'm not going to hurt anyone either. I don't want to, really. I promise. Please."

"Hey, hey," I said over his panicked pleading. "I meant what I said. We're not going to report you. I just wanted to know." When he kept marching ahead, I glanced to the others and jerked my head back. We slowed, making sure Walter was out of earshot before talking again.

"I wasn't expecting that," whispered Grace.

"No," agreed Yura. "I was entirely expecting that the vicar's accusations of warlockry were useless fear-mongering, not that they would be validated. But I have to ask, does this change anything?"

"It means he's more dangerous than he seems," said Ingo. "Far more. Channelled magic isn't subject to the same kinds of limitations as blood-burning magic. You won't run out, or pass out from blood loss. He could explode if his 'Tree' isn't paying attention, or has a malicious intent."

"The way he described it made it seem benevolent," I pointed out.

"Right, but he is thirteen," said Grace. "He might just not understand the threat. Or he could be overlooking anything bad that he does know about if the 'Tree' is aiding him and his friends."

"Even if it is a problem, it's not something we can do anything about," I argued. "Even if they're all warlocks, we can't just report them to the guard. They'll all be killed. I'm not going to be responsible for the deaths of children, whether they're warlocks or not."

"What else can we do, other than than leave them here once our business is done?" asked Ingo.

"We could take them to Emrys," said Grace. "He might be able to help them control it well, so they don't hurt themselves or anyone else. Plus, that spirit might make a good ally against the vicar if she's amenable to helping out."

"What, and take them to corrupt the place we sleep?" said Ingo.

"Is that actually true?" I asked. "I've always heard it, but that kind of thing sounds like a lie when it's Barbosa that's saying it."

"I believe it's just superstition," said Yura. "Warlocks definitely do not have this kind of reputation in my home."

Ingo shook his head. "Do you want to take that chance?"

I glanced at where Walter was still scurrying ahead of us. "To keep people alive? Yes. Yes, I do."

Ingo sighed. "Very well, 'captain'."

I squinted at his tone, but decided to let it go for now. Walter had already scampered ahead and was waiting for us by another inner-city wall. I could tell that the Parapets laid on the other side by the acrid scent of sulphur and burning coal that wafted over, and by the wisps of black smoke that were already beginning to fill the air. After all that talking, my throat was starting to feel scratchy.

While this wall did have a gate, it was old and clearly heavily disused. A cascade of coal dust poured from the top rim as Walter struggled to drag it open. I went to help and heaved the door back, revealing an ascending spiral staircase inside the wall.

"Thanks," said Walter. "We should stay quiet from now on."

"What dangers should we watch for?" asked Yura.

"Other than the hunters?" said Walter. "People. Same as anywhere else without many guards, there's muggers and cutpurses. And the League. And…there's rumours of weird groups up there. Cults. Alchemists that do experiments on people. I don't know if it's true, but…better to be safe."

Yura grimaced. "I'm beginning to think I don't like the city very much," he murmured.

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"I've heard a lot of people say that," said Walter.

We headed up the stairs, ascending a surprising distance before a door let us out onto the streets of the Parapets. The Ducal Cross must have been carved into the hillside that the mining district shrouded. Before us lay significantly more open streets that were nonetheless difficult to make out amid the smog that choked the air. Wide cobblestone roads were large enough for heavy carts to be pushed side by side, and there were even cables hanging from the many austere buildings around us, from which were suspended metal carts carrying indistinct lumps of stone and ore this way and that, powered by what looked like a complicated system of pulleys that ran alongside the cables.

People were everywhere here, crowding the roads almost as much as the cargo they helped to ferry. Most were clad in heavy coats, short hats, and loose cloth masks that covered their noses and mouths. A few even had goggles on, or carried too-small bags with the tools of their jobs sticking out: mining picks, wrenches, gauze and medical blades, even a couple alchemical flasks here and there. All of them were caked in soot that ensured that no matter what they wore, their clothes were all stained a shade of black, brown, or grey.

Ingo coughed violently. "I guess we're here," he said. "Now how do we find what we're looking for?"

"Carefully," I answered. "Ideally we could tail some chasseurs to their hiding spot but I doubt we'll even be able to find any in these conditions, much less follow them around the district. So we'll need to hope we can find some clues. Maybe the people here will actually talk to us."

Yura scoffed. "I'd love to see that they do, but I doubt they will."

"What else can we do but try?" I said.

We pushed our way into a single-file line as we manoeuvred through the crowd of workers and supply. My presence did a bit to get them to back off, clearing the way in front of us enough that we could probably get around the Parapets in one day rather than two. I caught a lot of wary glances as we walked.

"Is there a pub here?" I asked Walter. "A bar? Tavern? I bet we could get a worker there to give us information if we gave them a few coins in exchange."

"Probably?" said Walter. "I don't really keep an eye out for those. I reckon the labourers need drinks, though."

"My thoughts, too," I agreed. Unfortunately, with all the passersby clearly busy, and the general reluctance of Yorvingers to talk to outsiders like us, we didn't have much of a direction to follow. The southern part of the district seemed to be housing for the workers, while most of the smoke and dust was rising from the north, where the mines and factories probably were. I still couldn't see anything in that direction, save for a massive clock tower that loomed out of the gloomy fog, its sharp stylings somehow visible with clarity despite the thick air. The tower formed a sort of northern boundary for us, and we kept to its south in hopes of finding a pub.

Eventually, we found it. It was far less homely and inviting than I was hoping—a squat building sandwiched between two overcrowded apartments with a loose sign hanging from the front that read WYMOND'S POISON—but it would do. I pushed the door open to the sound of a little jingling bell that was far too quaint to fit in with this atmosphere.

The place was definitely a bar, not a pub. The counter was long and lined with seats, with only a few separate tables wedged up against the wall to leave the centre of the single-room establishment clear. Decorations were sparse, with only a few carved bones hung from the walls and a couple heavily-wilted plants in pots by the door. It was completely empty except for two men behind the counter, hurriedly polishing glasses and shelving bottles of simple spirits and strong beers behind them. The younger of the two looked up as we entered, pushing his curly hair out of the way.

"Wymond, guests," he muttered to the other man.

As we approached the bar, the second man, Wymond, leaned on the counter and stared down at us. He was tall and imposing, with a wide frame, a thick moustache, and even thicker eyebrows. His arms had several scars and a couple tattoos of whales and large fish that identified him as a sailor, possibly one who plied the icy waters north of the Vale. I wondered what he had done to be banished here, so far from the water.

"Place's closed until noon," said Wymond. "And no loitering."

Outside, the thunderous clanging of a massive bell resounded over the district. With the tense atmosphere, I nearly jumped out of my scales at the sudden sound. The bell struck twelve times before it finally went quiet.

Grace smiled at the barkeep. "Seems like you just opened."

Wymond sighed. "Lucky sods," he muttered. "Alright. What'll it be?"

"Dark ale," said Grace, putting a gold coin on the bar. "And we'd like a short talk to go with it."

I stared at the money, waiting for the Fiend's greed to kick in, but it didn't. I just thought about whether this bribe was worth it, considering what else we could do with that money, and decided that it was. That was all. Again, I felt conflicted at how easy it was.

Wymond also stared at the coin for a long moment before he let out a low chuckle. "Heh. Been a while since someone's tried that trick 'round here. Alright, you want just one ale, or one for each of ya?"

Grace glanced to the rest of us, receiving a nod from Yura, and nothing else. "Two, if that much covers it."

"Sure," said Wymond. He reached back and tapped the other man on the shoulder, repeating our order before turning back around to face us. The brief flash of jollity he showed at being paid vanished in an instant. "So," he rumbled. "I can see you're not from around here?"

"That obvious?" asked Grace.

"Never seen folk so clean in the Parapets," said Wymond. He nodded to me. "And there aren't any of your kind left around here, dragon."

I flinched. The way he said "your kind" turned my stomach, but I grimaced and continued the conversation.

"Right," I said. "We're not. We need to know information about a place."

Wymond scoffed. "A place? You can get any old map marked up with just about every place that matters in the district on the corners of the Bellflower Quarter for a fourthing."

"I doubt this place is on any map," I said. "We heard that the chasseurs have something of a base in the Parapets. We want to know where that might be."

Wymond's already sour face became even more grim. "Chasseurs…" he repeated. He lowered his voice to a whisper. "What in Gideon's name do you want with them?"

"They've been killing people," said Grace.

"They work for Saint Barbosa," said Wymond.

I got the sense that he meant that as a positive. The level of danger of this conversation suddenly skyrocketed. If he found out who we were, or that we were plotting against the vicar, he'd surely call the guards, or maybe even the chasseurs themselves.

"Do they?" I said, deciding to change tack. "Are you sure? Cos that's what they say, but I doubt Saint Barbosa would be ordering the executions of innocent people."

"They said they were here to eradicate the Scourge," said Wymond. "How do you know they're not just dealing with bearers of the curse?"

"Because they said as much," I argued, outright lying at this stage. Hopefully he didn't have the resources to figure out that this was simply false. "Just last night, they butchered an entire house of people in the Bellflower Ward. I could hear their screams from three roads down. We came running to see what the issue was only to see three chasseurs step out of the house. One of them asked the other when they stepped outside about why they had to kill normal people, and the leader just said that 'the commander says so'."

"We just want to find out if those three were really following good orders," Grace jumped in. "If there's a corrupt commander running around, we want to know so we can report them."

Wymond glanced between the two of us a couple times before resting his face in his hands. His partner slid the mugs of ale down the counter, and Wymond pushed one toward Yura while Grace took the other and started draining it far too fast.

"I suppose…" Wymond began, "they are weird strangers. They never come here to drink, but they do come to sit at the tables and take concoctions of their own making that stink like blood and ink. I don't leave here much, but I've heard that they linger around the grounds of Athanor Hall, the alchemists' workshop here in the Parapets. I've never been there, but I suppose it makes sense if they use alchemical concoctions so regularly."

"Have you been able to speak with the chasseurs at all?" asked Grace. "They seem rather aloof, and I was kind of hoping someone might actually be able to give us an idea of what's going on in their heads."

Wymond shook his head. "No. They've never spoken, that I've seen or heard. Apart from what you've claimed about their having a conversation after killing a household, I would have assumed that they were mute, as a rule."

So my lie did have a major flaw. Fortunately, Wymond didn't seem too intent on interrogating that flaw. The chasseurs must have him really nervous, even without what I had said. I wondered if they were like the deacons and cadavers, mindless constructs of flesh crafted by the Church.

Grace slammed her mug back down on the bar, empty. "Well! That's a lot more that we know now than when we walked in. Thank you sir, for your good beer and useful knowledge!"

Wymond sniffed, taking Grace's mug and, and a moment later Yura's too. "Thank you for your patronage," he said. "You should probably get going before the locals catch you here."

I was just slightly concerned by what that implied, and decided not to tempt fate. I gave him a simple nod, and hurried out of the bar, with the rest of the flight and Walter on my tail. It took a minute for us to get our bearings, but thankfully Athanor Hall seemed to be one of the major landmarks here in the district, and rickety metal signs on street corners soon began to point us in the right direction.

"Did that really happen?" asked Walter. "What you said about the hunters and that house?"

"What?" I said. "Oh. No, that was just a lie to get him to talk." I realised what his confusion implied. "Was it that believable? Has that actually happened before?"

"Yeah," said Walter. "Without the talking after. But yeah. They've just cleared out houses before."

"Unbelievable," breathed Grace. "They can't really be from the Church in the capital, right? I don't see why any part of the Church outside Barbosa's vicarage would want to keep murderous killers around."

"Hopefully, we'll be finding out soon," I said. I stopped as the street opened into a large square and pointed ahead. "Look."

The square crossed over a set of rails that divided the district from its westernmost edge. A long train was stopped at the station that made much much of the northern half, the engineman waiting impatiently on the rails of one of the cars while the others were loaded down with goods and materials. The square itself was almost entirely devoid of decoration, with simple stalls set up by opportunistic hawkers being the only things to break up the tide of people that milled about the area.

The hall was stood in the dead centre of the square, rising up like a monument. It looked more like a cathedral than a workshop, with sharp architecture that rose up into a nest of small points above the hall's roof. Stained glass windows were set under eaves between flying buttresses that flowed down the tiers of the roof, the glass the only aspect of the building that weren't stained the same soot-grey as the rest of the district. The only parts that suggested this wasn't a massive religious edifice were the decorated cylinders sticking out from the spikes of the roof, each of them belching a black cloud of smoke and horrible chemicals, and the apertures on the upper levels that connected to the cables that carried supplies and materials around the Parapets. As we watched, a cart was pushed from one of them, sliding rapidly down as it joined the rest of the network and was taken by a crew of exhausted-looking workers.

If Wymond had been right, this was the fortress of the enemy. Now we just needed to find a way inside.