AKI:

The Horned Ale was the kind of place a Root might share a merry drink with a Tripler, though few of either would ever be inclined to suffer such an ordeal. That is to say, the tavern welcomed most of the middle of society, from modestly well-off commoners to royal castaways and ascended Branches. It lay burrowed away from the main coastal streets, a clean yet modest underground establishment whose entrance was half-hidden by a narrow alleyway, a dilapidated door, and a long, dark, steep staircase that took you deep into the belly of the earth.

I felt the matrix as I stepped inside. The chaos of the region, already softened by layers of earth, was entirely left behind at the door, replaced by the aromas of fine ales and roasting meats. Dark woods, thick furs, and bronze accents made up the bulk of the interior. Torches decorated the walls and wooden pillars, both for their warmth and because the proprietor—a retired Branch—preferred their flames to the unnatural glow of matrix lanterns. The early hour had left the place quiet. High sun, otherwise known as noon, was a time for civil negotiations and sustenance in The Horned Ale, the hour too early for drunken tomfoolery and just late enough to have driven off the rabble from the previous night.

Old Roche lingered at the rear, alone, close to the tavern's crackling hearth. He was no longer the familiar Old Roche I once knew; instead, he resembled the version I encountered the previous night, the one I suspected was perhaps the most genuine of the faces I'd so far met.

"Where is Helena?" I asked as I approached.

Old Roche's head snapped in my direction. He stood, a smile blooming on his face. "Aki! My boy! Come." He gestured at a chair across the table from him. "Sit. Let us have a drink."

I sat. Embers reached out to me atop waves of mellow heat. Smoke trailed upwards, the hum of a Zephyr matrix filtering them out of the enclosed space. I'd observed more such matrices evenly spaced on the ceiling.

"So it was him you spoke of that morning I stumbled into the academy," I said.

Old Roche slid a wooden cup to me and poured ale from a jug.

"I'm sorry," he said, "but I cannot recall."

"You warned me against disappointing him."

"Ah, yes. That memory of yours is as impeccable as ever, I see."

"How have you been?"

"Good. Yourself?"

"On the way."

Roche chuckled. A strange sensation burrowed into me with his musical laughter. Subtle, like a sprinkle of salt in a barrel of honey. But I was wise to such tactics. Fuller had made sure of it.

"Please stop," I said.

Old Roche's laughter stopped abruptly. He seemed surprised. Or perhaps confused?

"Ah," he said. The weight of his words, carried by imperceptible lines of sensus, retreated to leave behind merely the sound of his voice. "My apologies. I barely notice when I'm doing it anymore. Habits of my trade, you see."

"What trade requires the constant use of Tunnels?"

"One of persuasion and distraction."

I took a sip of the ale, found it to my liking, and took a second swig before placing it down. Something crossed Roche's expression. I'd have thought it jealousy if it had made any sense.

This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author's work.

"So," I began, hesitating. "Was I the reason you were there?"

"At the academy? Chiefly, I was there to protect his cover."

"As a custodian? A rather unbefitting position for your purposes."

"The custodian was my eyes. He let me roam and observe without protest and, best of all, without notice."

I frowned at him. "You had other personas?"

"Many. However, besides Old Roche, the caretaker, you've only met the headmaster. And now me, of course."

I stared at him, confounded by his revelation. Pakur? He was Headmaster Pakur? The lecher? That fat little toad of a man? Then again, this handsome fellow trained in the Art of Tunnellers had convinced me he was but a humble Root. Only the day before had I found the truth of his deception.

My guard went up. "Do I call you Roche?"

"Relax, I'm a friend," Roche said, noticing my sudden tenseness. And why wouldn't he? Was he not a molder of thoughts? Of emotions?

"By association?"

"A friend of a friend…" He trailed off, finishing his meaning with a wave of his hand.

"By that reasoning, so is Helena."

Roche gave me a goodhearted smile, the sort of grin that was just shy of laughter, as if the sound was bubbling just under the surface of his crescent-framed teeth. "She is a handful, that one, but a good one to have on your side—and she is on your side."

I shook my head, refusing to believe it. "What has brought you to Discipulus?"

Roche gestured at a red-haired barmaid, a youngish woman in her thirties if her sloppy and underdeveloped sensus were to be believed. She approached with a poorly hidden smile, the evasive flutter of her eyes failing at being coy.

"Darling," he said to her, "be a dear and fetch me another cup of water."

"I could bring you a jug of it," she said. Her hamfisted attempt at Tunneling slid off Roche. "That is the fifth you've asked for."

"And miss out on the opportunity to call you to my side? I think not." Roche leaned in towards her, his fine Tunnels caressing her aura. His smile disarmed her, and she giggled as she left.

I nearly gagged.

"Do you not find your liberal use rather unbecoming?" I asked, concerned by his willingness to so casually employ such invasive means.

"Harmless fun is all."

"If you say so," I said. "But we've digressed. Why are you here, and how am I to assist?"

"Bear with me," He said.

The barmaid returned with Roche's water and placed it in front of him, leaning in so he might get a better view of her cleavage, which she had embellished—the lattice loosened and the corset tightened. She placed a wedge of lemon beside his cup.

"A little sweetness goes a long way," she flirted.

My question must've reached deeper than I'd suspected because Roche's Tunnels did not retaliate. He nodded at her brusquely, his smile more polite than suggestive.

"My thanks," he said.

Sensing the subtle change in the air, the barmaid quietly edged away, though not swiftly enough to conceal the rosy flush that blossomed across her cheeks and traced a path down her neck.

Roche dipped into the front pocket of his waistcoat with forefinger and thumb, pulled out a talisman that looked like a large, engraved, silver coin, and placed it on the table. The coin began to glow a dark red. I felt a ball of force expand from its center, its mundanely invisible limits stretching to cover us. The world stilled, motes of dust suspended in the air. Almost all the sounds ceased—nearby conversations, the sizzle of cooking coming from the open door to the kitchens, even the faint flickers of flames from the torches. Only our breaths and heartbeats remained.

"A Zephyr barrier," I said. My words echoed, reflected back to me by walls of force. "You might've asked me."

"Why waste the sensus," Roche said. His voice, too, reverberated. "Now we make speak freely. Af'titalans have infiltrated Evergreen. They mean to kill Grono and Silas."

"How many?"

"We're unsure. Perhaps a handful. Could as likely be hundreds."

"One of them is here? In Discipulus?"

Roche nodded, his expression grave. "Helena and I have come to—"

We did hear them enter. There was no need to. The sight of it sought our attention well enough.

Wood splintered. Stone crumbled. Dust clouds billowed in their wake. The three closest pillars supporting the ceiling erupted into the room, cracking further before halting. Fragments of shattered tables tumbled behind them. Out of the swirling haze of debris, Helena emerged, Pinmoon drawn, her manic smile blazing amidst her crazed expression.

Suddenly, Helena darted low. A spear of darkness shot over her arched back, directly towards us. I jerked back, but the black, light-obsorbing lance cracked against the Zephyr barrier, then dispersed into grey smoke. The talismen shook, creaking like an unoiled hinge, and split in two, its crimson light fading. Then came the screams. The howl of pain and shock. The chaos.

"The time for words has passed," Helena proclaimed. She vaulted through the chaos, gliding like a windswept leaf, then thudded into our table in a crouch. Her eyes met mine, a manic grin twisting her face, daring me to follow her into the storm she'd conjured. "Now is the time for action."

"Fuck!" Roche exclaimed. "You're mad cunt, Helena!"

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.