“It was nothing much, but feel free to shower me with praise.”
They continued chatting even as they entered a vast chamber, but Lindon was absorbed by the noise and motion of the Arelius family in action. Workers in blue-and-black scurried here and there—some of them carrying brooms, others buckets. Some wore blood-spattered aprons, others carried sacks over their shoulders. A fireplace big enough to burn wagons took up a chunk of one wall, with a chimney carved into the bone. Servants separated piles of trash and tossed pieces into the flames.
Half of that same wall was taken up by a long desk with six smiling people behind it, all wearing Arelius badges on their chests. Workers lined up in front of them, only to be pointed in a certain direction; it must be where they received their assignments.
A collection of maps were tacked against the opposite wall, some freshly painted, others yellowed with age. Workers with white signs painted on their uniforms—Lindon took them to be leaders of some kind—looked at the maps and compared them to lists in their hands.
It all reminded Lindon of the bustle surrounding the construction of the Seven-Year Festival, but on another scale entirely. Instead of a hundred Wei clan members working on a dozen jobs over a huge arena, here were a thousand employees of the Arelius family packed into a single room while carrying out hundreds of tasks. This was what they did every day.
Yerin was gripping the sheath of her sword, not its hilt, and eyeing every person they passed. “Is it always this...noisy in here?”
Cassias heard her and turned, walking backwards and holding a hand on the hilt of his thin saber. He leaned the weapon to the side, moving the sheath out of the way of a passing servant without looking. “The empire prides itself on its appearance, and we are the ones who keep it beautiful. We must stay organized. This is only the seventh largest city in the empire, so there are only four central facilities like this one. In Blackflame City itself, there are a dozen, all bigger and busier than what you see around you.”
They passed out of the bustling room and into the sun again, which glared at them over the head of a pale stone statue that must have been ninety feet tall. It was rounded and smooth with age, but it depicted a figure with wild hair and torn clothes, eyes furious and teeth bared in a snarl. The statue had a dagger raised as though to strike.
It seemed like an odd likeness to carve outside a janitor's headquarters, but before Lindon could say as much, Eithan pointed to it.
“The family's original Patriarch,” he said. “There are legends about him all over the world. Serpent's Grave was one of the first outposts of the Arelius family on this continent. It isn't the headquarters anymore, even in the Blackflame Empire—they've moved to the capital city, to stay close to power—but everyone gathers here once every ten years.”
Cassias sighed. “Though that tradition may also be lost to time.”
Eithan's smile dimmed. “Yes, well...we'll see in four more years, won't we?”
They walked until they reached the base of the spiraling bone tower Lindon had seen in the distance. Cassias abruptly stopped, polishing the silver bracer on his arm with the corner of his sleeve—it was his Goldsign, but the man cared for it like jewelry. He adjusted his collar, brushed dirt from his pants, checked his sword in its silver sheath, and looked at his reflection in the bracer.
“You look almost as good as I do,” Eithan said, waving him on. “Go on. I can handle family business at least as well as you can.”
Cassias gave him a doubtful look, but still hurried into the tower.
“His wife and son are in there,” Eithan said, which fired Lindon’s imagination. Cassias had mentioned his wife half a dozen times over the journey here, calling her the strongest Highgold in the empire, but Lindon had taken that as the praise of a husband.
Now that he knew they rated everything, he wondered if maybe she was the strongest Highgold in the Blackflame Empire. And if that were true, where did Cassias rank?
“…so he will be distracted for at least a day or two,” Eithan continued. “That’s enough about the family business, let’s get to what really matters.”
The doors to the tower swung back open, and Cassias stuck his head out. “I heard that.”
Lindon wondered, not for the first time, if there were some way to get the powers of the Arelius bloodline for himself. Cassias had told him no, he had to be born into the family, but Lindon didn’t stop wondering.
Eithan must have heard Cassias, but he didn’t turn back, guiding their group away from the tower and back toward the main building. “Number one-thirteen,” he said, and a man separated himself from the crowd of blue-clad servants around them, going to his knees before the Underlord.
“I want you to prepare Underground Chamber Number Three for entry. Also, take Fisher Gesha to the Soulsmith quarters.” He ushered Gesha forward, and she scuttled up to join the servant. Her coffin-sized wooden chest was strapped to her back, dwarfing her, but she carried it as though it were hollow.
“Fisher Gesha is an honored guest from the Desolate Wilds,” Eithan said, and the servant glanced up in evident surprise. “However,” Eithan continued, “she is to be treated as a guest from anywhere else.”
Servant One-Thirteen bowed without a word, letting the Underlord and the rest sweep past him. Fisher Gesha nodded to Lindon, and he saluted her back, fists pressed together.
Lindon had every reason to believe his Soulsmithing lessons were to continue, but separating from a friendly face in this strange city still made him nervous.
Eithan glanced up at the sky, held a hand in the air for no reason that Lindon could tell, and then reversed direction. He took them back out to the base of the First Patriarch’s statue, putting one hand on Lindon’s shoulder and one hand on Yerin’s.
“Are we posing for a portrait?” Lindon asked, seeing no other reason why they should arrange themselves in front of a statue while Arelius servants streamed by.
“Not for a portrait, no,” Eithan said, and turned his smile on an old man walking through the crowd.
This man stood tall and straight, though he must have been at least eighty, his white hair flowing down his back. His white robes were intricate and flawless, and like every other set of clothes Lindon had seen since stepping off Sky’s Mercy, they seemed to have never encountered a single stain or speck of dust.
His face was clean-shaven, and he held his hands behind his back as he came to a stop in front of them. The wind snatched at his sleeves and the hem of his robe, but it didn’t touch his hair, which led Lindon to take a closer look.
The pale strands gleamed slightly in the light, and each hair seemed somehow thicker than normal, now that he looked closely. After a second of inspection, he realized what he was seeing: metal wire.