Through this swarming mass of people strode Captain Miljin, stomping along with his long scabbard swinging at his side as I followed behind him, my huge pack rattling on my back. I couldn’t see any rhyme nor reason to the movements of the crowds, but somehow the press of flesh always parted for Miljin: the rivers of folk would pause, an arm or two flicking out to hold the rest back; and then came a volley of salutes, the hands of all these strangers rising up to tap their breastbones respectfully as he passed before them. Even the towering cracklers stopped for him, bowing low enough that their chins nearly touched the caps of the people before them.
Miljin, however, took no notice. He just stumped on, yawning occasionally as he discussed the day’s tasks, indifferent to the stares and the salutes. “Almost all the poor bastards your master’s asked us to press today are in the Forward Engineering Quarters,” he said. “Closer to the walls. That’s where they prepare their materials and scaffoldry all year long. Shorter haul to the shore.”
“Exactly how close to the walls, sir?” I asked.
“Not as close as you’re likely worrying. Don’t fret. It’s a dull shithole of a place. Ugly as hell.” He yawned again. “Most of the people we’re to chat with are injured. Got hurt during the breach. Which means it’ll be easy to find them, I guess. Can’t run, or can’t run far. Did you get your immunities?”
“I did, sir,” I said. “I’ve also packed water, a set of knives, flint and steel, a cook kit, and several graft cures for any wounds, or stings or poisonings from any insects or vermin we encounter along the way.”
Miljin stopped, his eye falling upon the pack on my back. “Ahh…did you.”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “I…believe it’s the standard recommendation when entering the Plains of the Path?”
“That may be,” he said. “But we’re going to be sticking to the road. Which ain’t exactly teeming with wild dangers these days. Are you horse friendly, boy?”
“I’ve ridden before, sir.”
“Well, that’s something, at least,” he grunted. “We’ll have to go mounted to get there and back in time.” He nodded forward through the rush of soldiers. “Stables are ahead. Won’t take a moment.”
We were at the eastern edge of the city now, the fernpaper houses clinging to the shallow hills about us like wildflowers. Yet there’d been a change as we’d moved: the fernpaper had grown in quality, shifting from the muddy brown of poor reeds to a luminous white; there was more ornamentation to the buildings—a bronze handle here, an elaborately carved front door there; and there was smoke on the moist air, and steam, and the aroma of oils—a bathing house, or many of them, somewhere nearby. We were in rich country now.
Yet the most striking indication of this area’s wealth were the people on the balconies, looking down at us as we walked by. They were all suffused folk, tall and thin and statuesque, gray-skinned with wide, dark eyes and fine, sculpted faces. Eyes dashed with oysterdust. Lips painted purple, cheeks lined with blue. Many more were obscured to me, faces hidden behind rippling veils wrought of silvery fabric, as if their beauty would be tarnished if one such as I beheld them.
Gentryfolk, I realized. I had never seen a member of the gentry before. I asked Miljin about it.
“Ah,” he said. He grinned wickedly. “These fine folk have come here to make friends.”
“Friends, sir?”
“Yes. It’s all politics. Ancient rules and rites. To be eligible for a seat in the Senate of the Sanctum, you’ve got to serve at least two terms on watch at the sea walls. Can’t manage the Empire if you’ve never faced what it exists to fight.” He waved a hand at the motley throngs of soldiers. “Somewhere among these miserable bastards are future governors and senators and Sanctum knows what else. Tax assessors. Some bullshit like that.”
“And the gentryfolk…”
“Want to get in early. Distribute favor and patronage, spy rising stars and ply them with treats. Better lodgings, armor, horses, food. Maybe the odd suffusion. This neighborhood isn’t even the fanciest bit, they got estates west of the city where the truly nice houses are, owned by the Mishtas, the Kurafs, the Hazas…”
My pace slowed slightly as I heard that last name.
Miljin shot a glare at one of the gentryfolk above. “It’s like a horse race, boy. They’re all here to make their bets. And if they bet right, they can win a lifetime of fortune. Sounds unfair, maybe, but I’m not so sure.” He snorted and spat. “Might be the only way the gentry learns what fear is, to live in the shadow of the sea walls.”
* * *
—
WE RODE EAST as the sun fought to clear the horizon, wearing straw cone hats to protect us from the sun and rain. The road was rumbling with wagons and carts and cohorts of soldiers all moving out to take their stations in the fortifications. I eyed the fields about me, the legendary Plains of the Titan’s Path, aware we now crossed land that was both sacred and profane: for here countless generations of imperials had fought and bled and died to hold back the titans; including the first imperial race, the blessed Khanum, before they had died out.
The way ahead was shrouded with fog, but I kept my sight fixed on the east as we trotted along the muddy path. I wondered what I might spy there, or what I would do if the horizon suddenly lit up with yellow or red flares, warning us of a coming titan. My gaze was only broken when Miljin laughed and swatted my arm.
“You won’t be able to see it, lad,” he said, chiding me.
“See what, sir?” I asked.
“Anything,” he said. “The walls, the dead leviathan. The mist will cling until midmorn. The walls trap it. Sun has to get high for it to burn off. The most dangerous things out here, why…” He nodded toward a ditch. “They’ll be skulking alongside the roads.”
He watched, pleased, as I puzzled over this, before finally explaining, “Mutineers. Deserters. Imperials shook by the breach, who want out. To them, the sight of a young thing like you atop a healthy horse…Well. There’s a reason why we still carry these.” He patted his mechanical sword hilt. “A sword don’t do shit against a titan. But for those who make it harder to fight the titans, why, a blade has many uses.”
We trotted along in silence after that, my own sword feeling heavier at my side—largely because I did not wish to tell the captain my blade was wood and lead.
* * *
—
ON HORSEBACK WE got to the Forward Engineering Quarters within two hours. It was perhaps the ugliest place I’d seen since Daretana, all cranes and ropes and muddy construction yards, or foundries belching vast rivers of smoke into the sky.
Miljin pulled a face as the air filled up with stinking fumes. “Fuck’s sakes,” he growled. “Makes you wonder why the leviathans even want to come ashore here anymore…” He nodded ahead. “There’s the medikkers’ wing. How many are we here to question?”
I’d told him this already, of course, but it seemed wise not to mention that. “Eleven people, sir,” I said.
“Eleven…And they’re all, ah, intimates with the dead?”
“Most are. Or were. Or rather, my master suspects they were, sir.”
“And we’re to wring all the stories out of these folk, and try to line them all up to figure out where the hell our ten dead Engineers went that got their guts all full of dappleglass.”
“Seems to be the shape of it, sir.”
“Best to divvy it up, then. I’ll take the last five, you take the top six. Then we compare notes.”
After we stabled our horses and entered the medikkers’ wing, I gave Miljin his five people to question. He squinted in the light of the lantern at the door, scribbling down the names on a strip of parchment with a length of ashpen. He had me repeat them a few times, then repeat which of the dead people they were associated with. I had never worked directly alongside someone in an investigation before, and Miljin certainly seemed to have a hefty reputation, but the sight of him muttering and shuffling through his papers filled me with unease.
“Are you sure you want to split up the list, sir?” I asked. “Would it be wiser to work together, maybe?”
“I know what I’m doing!” he snapped. Yet another sheaf of parchment slipped out of his hands, and he stooped to grab it. “Or are you suggesting I don’t?”
I watched as he shook the mud off his dropped parchment. “?’Course not, sir.”
“Then let’s get this over with.”
* * *
—