7

  Rain.

  The finest mockery the gods could gift upon Kripur.

  Varan looked up at the grand reservoir perched on the peak beyond the inner city’s edge, watching rainwater pour through the crack to the earth below. He stood atop the northwest water tower, on the old overlook that had once monitored flow rates and water bances, now just another high pce to watch low things.

  His left knee clicked with a grind. He shifted his stance slightly, easing the pressure, knowing full well it wouldn’t help. The joint had been whimpering like that since dawn — rain always made it worse. Mechanical limbs hated the wet.

  He took the final drag off a cigarette, a tiny, tinged roll in his rge hand.

  Above, the sky bled red into blue. The sun had just begun to rise over the hills of Mahankrmin Pass. Below, madness overran the inner city. It was a different fvor from its usual angst, the comfortable despair the people had grown to love and hate.

  Yesterday’s earthquake was still fresh. The first one since the time memorial of the One Who Slithers, as the preachers of the Faiths were quick to remind, squatting and shouting in every open corner from dusk till dawn.

  Never confuse the Faiths with the Faith, mind you. For one was the full compendium of all things that reign over puny mortals, while the others outright rejected that notion entirely — framing it instead as the ultimate stage of enlightenment that one could attain with a lump sum of gold, bor, and liquor. Which, of course, made them very popur with the people who already had all three.

  Oh, the ascension would happened right after you died, of course.

  “G-Good morning, My Lord. Lord Warden Jao Thaksa-Raga Varan, Sir!”

  Varan crushed the st of the stub between his fingers and turned.

  The nerves had chewed the poor boy up and spit him out entirely — a squiggly wreck of a stick swallowed by an oversized copper-steel alloy breastpte, which cttered against both his vambraces and greaves. “Good morning,” he said. “Where’s your Warden, Cadet?”

  “Warden Thaksa Qarwadon is patrolling the northwest district, sir!”

  “Either is fine.”

  “Sir?”

  “Lord Warden or Jao Thaksa-Raga. Warden or Thaksa. Either is fine.”

  “Ah. Warden Qarwadon is patrolling the southeast district, sir!”

  “And?”

  “Sir?”

  “Why are you here, Cadet?”

  “Ah. To report that Warden Qarwadon is patrolling the southeast district, sir!”

  “Right,” Varan sighed, tapping a signal pte on his colrbone. It flickered to life. He called the warden, asked for an update. A voice replied.

  “The traders are wary, sir. From the quake. And minor floods from the basin runoff. The old engineer is still uncontactable. We suspect he’s in the outer southeast vilge, but that’s Harun’s turf. We are trying to find an angle to get in there, sir. Clear.”

  Varan’s left leg gave out a slow creak. He reached down, tapped it once to let it know he had heard it the first time.

  “And the bald demon? Still curled up in his bck stone?”

  “Yes, sir. No movement from the man himself. But we saw a few of the whites moving between the woods, the vilge, and some of the districts — as high up as the workshops in the north district. Clear.”

  Varan cursed under his breath. “Cadet, state your name.”

  “Suttha, sir!”

  Varan then spoke to the signal pte. “Why do you send Cadet Suttha here? Clear.”

  “Suttha had heard some… details of events from his Accept brother, sir. We don’t really know what to do with the information, so we think it is best for you to hear it directly from the boy. It’s about how the quake happened, sir. Clear.”

  Varan dismissed Qarwadon and closed the line with another sigh.

  He turned, rotating his bad leg with practiced irritation. “Walk with me, Cadet,” he said. “It’s going to be a long day.”

  They descended from the tower.

  The inner city sprawled before them. Smoke curled from food stalls in the mid-districts. Horns bred out from a market broadcaster trying to override rumors with certified nonsense.

  “So, Cadet, let me summarize” Varan spoke as he walked. “Mittha’s been saying the new Execute’s gone rogue. That, on his first day, he broke the shrine, tore the entire cave apart, and kidnapped… a local deity?”

  “Y-yes, sir.”

  “And Mittha saw all this?”

  “Y-yes, sir. He said so.”

  “You know your brother’s a jealous prick, right?”

  “...Yes, sir.”

  “Hm.” Varan didn’t stop walking. “Anything more?”

  “He said… that Kirom lost control — gone insane. Using Power like a drug. That he’s mad with it now.” Suttha swallowed. “He also said the Execute Harun tried to cover it out of the goodness of his heart.”

  Varan snorted.

  “He said Kirom also left Kripur. No care for the Walk of Grace whatsoever” Suttha paused. “Because Kirom hates the Court’s guts and the inner city.”

  Varan chuckled.

  They moved into one of the broader sections. The district buzzed louder here.

  “— The One is displeased!”

  “The snake is crying worms!”

  “We haven’t id enough frogs, brothers and sisters —”

  The Faiths had come out in full force.

  Ribbons dangled from windows and doorposts. Cy figurines of headless serpents coiled at thresholds. Old women in patterned wraps knelt near storm drains, pouring rice wine through grated metal, muttering invocations through cracked teeth.

  “Copper’s coming,” someone hissed. The crowd began to part.

  Varan stepped forward, his copper armor catching the morning light.

  “No gatherings here,” he said in a ft voice. “And no frogs.”

  “But we need frogs!” One voice bellowed, and the people pleaded.

  “Fine,” Varan spoke. “No live frogs.”

  The crowd groaned. Someone tossed a wilted sprig of basil with the air of protest, and a preacher in the back began muttering about symbolic substitutions.

  Suttha started to say something, but Varan was already moving.

  They turned the bend — past the line where the district shifted, not in signage but in silence. The smell of charcoal and fermented broth faded. The shouting gave way to hush. No more oil-cracked food stalls, no string of prayer beads tied to undry lines. Just polished stone steps ahead, cleaned too often, worn too little. The sudden wideness of the road, too symmetrical. Ahead, the path sloped upward with stone stairs leading toward the west district. Up above, the grand reservoir. And in the middle of it, the Court of Grace.

  But before the stairs, a pace in gold stood as a gateway in front.

  The Faith Temple.

  It was gleaming. Someone had painted and cquered the outer walls again, and golden banners rippled under the light rainfall. The Head Monk stood in the inner sanctum, surrounded by elites dressed like they were auditioning for another world. Robes of polished silk. Veils pinned with tiny bells. A sheen of wealth praying loudly.

  The Head Monk in his spotless golden robe smiled when he saw them.

  “Lord Warden,” he called, csping his hands together with a slight bow. “How blessed we are to have your presence today.”

  “Head Monk,” Varan said.

  “Tell me, Lord Warden,” the monk said, his voice smooth as silk. “Have you come to seek ascension and crity for your soul today?”

  “How about a no with crity.”

  The monk ughed. The elites ughed with him.

  “Crity comes through purification,” the monk said, his tone now honeyed with sermon. “And purification — ah — is the path to peace. One must lighten the soul, give freely, love better. You see, this life—” his voice dropped, intimate, “is a gift. And every sacrifice offered to the undeserving only increases its value.”

  The elites murmured in agreement, in reverence. Silks. Umbrels, Jewelry clicking like coins seeking a vault. Each of them dropping offering into a golden basin and smiling for it.

  The monk’s fingers traced the lip of a golden gong by his side. Then, with a deliberate care, he tapped it.

  Tong.

  More murmurs. Heads bowed. A few hands csped in practiced piety.

  “Of course,” the Head Monk added lightly, “the poor know not what they need. But we must give, regardless. For it is not for their enlightenment. It is ours.”

  Suttha blinked up at him, awkward. The monk turned to him with a sudden gentleness.

  “And you, young cadet. Do you pray?”

  Suttha opened his mouth. Closed it. “Uh… when ordered, sir.”

  The monk chuckled. “Obedience is a kind of devotion. Misguided, maybe. But it’s a start.”

  Varan watched him. “You attending the Court?”

  “Ah. No, Warden. The Court debates. We give.”

  “Suits yourself, Head Monk.”

  They continued up the long stone stair that led behind the temple facade, spiraling up onto the west water tower. At the top, they stepped onto an old causeway fnked by two dried-up aqueducts that once carried water into the city, now fed only by the reluctant streams of rain pooling at their base. Suttha stayed just behind Varan, trying not to look like he was struggling to keep pace.

  The rain had thinned into a mist by the time they climbed the st few steps. Ahead, the grand basin unfolded. A vast, drained wound carved into the mountain peak, too immense to take in with a gnce. Walls curved down into a broad, dry crater. Its depth could fit the whole Faith Temple, maybe two. Ahead, a path stretched across the pit at surface level, leading to a pavilion, alone against the emptiness around it.

  Varan paused at the tower and told Suttha to remain at the overlook. Then he continued alone toward the center of the grand reservoir. As he neared the pavilion, the Court of Grace came into full view.

  Eight seats in eight directions. Only two occupied.

  To the north sat the Seat of Governance: President Bhramahiman — round as a barrel, skin flushed red from either exertion or indignation. His uniform strained to contained the bulk of his gut. Each of his breaths struggled like a war between his lungs and the rest of his body. Beside him stood a narrow man in gold embroidery, leaning in to whisper in the President’s ear.

  The the east, the Seat of Welfare: the former Head Nun, Lakhsa. The folds of her worn-out robe clung to a frame thinned by time. Her spine bowed not in reverence, but in endurance. Once, she led the Faith Temple — repced now by a shinier new one, of course — but when the people spoke of hunger, hardship, or grace, they still spoke her name. Her hands rested in her p. Her eyes half-lidded. Her mouth a line of stillness.

  The President greeted them first.

  “Jao Thaksa-Raga!” Bhramahiman’s voice boomed across the parched basin, too loud for the space. “On time, for once, eh?”

  Varan inclined his head slightly, more acknowledgment than bow.

  “Come, come,” the President gestured, as if hosting a banquet rather than an empty meeting. “We were just discussing our honored guest of the Walk.” The whisperer leaned in again. The President grunted. “—Ah yes, Kirom. The boy in grey. Harun’s pet miracle.”

  Varan turned to Lakhsa. He paused for a beat. “Lakhsa-saaya.”

  Her gaze flicked to him. Just a gnce. Then returned to the center of the roundtable.

  Suttha lingered behind as Varan approached. The Court’s roundtable sat atop the central pavilion, a wide circur ptform once used for the city-wide meetings. Back when the reservoir held water, it would have looked like a hall floating on a ke. Now, the ptform rose from the basin’s floor like an isnd on dry nd. Ornate carvings spiraled along the table’s edge — rivers, stars, trees. Symbols that had long outlived their meaning.

  Varan walked to the northwest Seat of Warden and sat.

  Bhramahiman roared. “He’s not here.”

  His eyes darted to Varan. “Your old pal, Harun.” The President’s voice curled with false humor. “Punctuality isn’t something they train into you lot, is it?”

  “Harun is of Advancement,” Varan replied. “Not of Warden.”

  The President smirked, then frowned, then turned to his whisperer for reassurance. The man murmured something. Bhramahiman nodded sagely.

  “Ahem — Right. The Walk. We’ve never had a Walk of Grace in what — three years? Five?”

  “Seven,” Lakhsa said.

  “Seven!” Bhramahiman excimed, startled. “Exactly. Tradition demands it.”

  He cleared his throat.

  “And the city demands it too. They need spectacle. Something unifying. A sign that Advancement and that earthquake haven’t crushed our city, eh?” His eyes flitted toward Varan. “Besides. I’m told the boy’s quite the image.”

  Varan gave a small shrug. “He’s not an image. He’s a bde.”

  The President blinked.

  “Well, bdes are useful too!” He let out a ugh, gncing at the whisperer again. “Very useful. For cutting. Things.”

  Varan looked to Lakhsa. She met his eyes. Her face didn’t move.

  “He’s not ready,” she said simply. “Neither is Kripur.”

  Bhramahiman made a sound of protest. “Not ready? He’s been cleared, hasn’t he? Harun’s signed off.”

  “Harun signs off on what suits Harun,” she said.

  The President’s face flushed further. “This is an official Court. Not a gossip stall.”

  “Then perhaps,” she said gently, “we should wait until all required seats are filled before decring what is and isn’t.”

  Bhramahiman huffed. “And what use are empty seats? Ungrateful bastards, the lot of them. Off praying to frogs in the streets, eh?”

  “Then maybe frogs should sit here,” she said.

  Varan coughed into his hand.

  Footsteps echoed. Precise. Rhythmic. A figure in grey.

  Harun entered the Court.

  “Apologies,” he said. “I was deyed.”

  “Harun, our dearest Execute!” Bhramahiman called across the pavilion. “Graced us at st!”

  “President,” Harun replied.

  “Come, come, none of that. We’re all friends here.” Bhramahiman gestured to the empty air. “Family, even. And family waits. We’ve only been discussing our city’s most sacred event, eh?”

  “Lord Warden. Lady Lakhsa.” Harun walked to the west Seat of Advancement, formerly the Seat of Expedition, beside Varan and sat.

  “Our dearest Execute must be busy, eh?” Bhramahiman beamed. His advisor leaned in to whisper. “Full mornings are the mark of a useful man — is that how they say it, Jao Thaksa-Raga?”

  Varan didn’t blink. “Depends who he’s useful to.”

  “Well!” Bhramahiman waved it off. “Now that our court has gained half its seats,” he nodded at Harun, “perhaps we can begin?”

  “I would prefer to begin with the wider region,” Harun said.

  “Ah. Of course. How very... insightful. Please, enlighten us.”

  The Execute began in the vilges around Mahankrmin Pass: strange lights appeared, herds vanished, fertile soil turned to salt. Further east, terrain twisted unnaturally, compasses failed, and roads looped back on themselves. Harun framed Kripur as the st stable authority in the region. The Department expanded southern patrols, reinforced checkpoints, and rerouted trade away from unstable paths. He spoke of the cave expedition, the search for lost tech and ruins beneath the surface. Yes, it caused the quake. No, not divine. Just progress. He concluded: Kripur and its Court must stand tall, stay visible, remain composed. Project strength. Without it, colpse will follow.

  “My word,” Bhramahiman uttered. “You are busy, our Execute.” He nodded. “All that… instability.” He leaned back to the thin advisor behind him. “Bending roads. Salted fields. You always bring such thoroughness. Gods help us if we ever lost you.”

  Harun scanned the roundtable. “A full report will be avaible to all seated members of the Court — including those not present.” He gestured to the empty chairs. “Which we can hope to remedy soon.”

  “Ah!” Bhramahiman excimed. “Which reminds me — our young miracle. The boy. Yes. Kirom.” He turned toward Harun. “You’ll have him walk sooner, eh? Get the people rallied. Spirits high. We can bring out the elephants too, eh?”

  Harun tilted his head. “The Walk of Grace proceeds next week as scheduled.”

  Bhramahiman nodded too eagerly. “Of course. Of course. Just thought perhaps... the people could use a little preview. A glimpse, eh?”

  “The people will see him,” Harun said. “They will see he ascended the steps. No need to disrupt the cadence of ceremony.”

  “Forgive me,” Lakhsa said. “But I believe there is an order we are ignoring.”

  She gnced at Varan.

  “This Court,” the old woman continued, “is not merely spectacle. Nor is the Walk.”

  Varan picked up the thread without looking at her. “Eight seats. Eight divisions. Eight districts. That is the w. That is what lends weight to the Walk. Without quorum, we perform a show — not governance.”

  “The Walk will honor all eight,” Harun replied. “Whether those seats are warmed by presence or legacy is for the absent to decide.”

  “An empty seat cannot cast legacy into w,” Varan said.

  Bhramahiman blinked. “You mean to say we... wait? Until they crawl out of the cracks?”

  “No, we proceed,” Harun replied. “The Court has the opportunity to demonstrate continuity in the face of colpse. That is not spectacle. That is survival.”

  “You speak of continuity,” Lakhsa said. “Then let the city see its Court. Filled.”

  “You’ll fill them with whom?” Harun asked. “Sympathizers? Disruptors? Spiritual fossils clinging to delusions of the past?”

  “Better delusions than directives and white seedlings and sprouts,” Varan replied.

  “Better than dragging elders from their deathbeds,” Harun spoke.

  “Better than silence,” Lakhsa added. “Or submission disguised as unity.”

  The table stilled.

  “Harun.” Varan’s voice cut clean. “ Where is Kirom?”

  Harun didn’t turn toward him. “Our new Execute is preparing for the Walk.”

  “That an official report?” Varan asked.

  Harun nodded.

  Lakhsa looked at him. “And if the supposed Gracebearer is not preparing?”

  “Then Kripur will fall to rumor,” Harun said.

  “Ah yes, rumors,” Bhramahiman muttered as he listened to his advisor. “Rumors that half the Court is empty and the boy, the bde, the bearer has flown off with some... cave statue.”

  “The Execute is exactly where he is needed.”

  “Oh no,” Bhramahiman said with horror. “I didn’t mean to say he has run away myself. Heaven forbid! I just assumed our Execute would bring his Execute with him.”

  “His preparation demands silence. Reflection. Not spectacle.”

  “And yet,” Lakhsa said, “the Walk is spectacle.”

  “Traditions endure because they adapt,” Harun said.

  “Like you?” she asked, calm.

  Harun met her gaze.

  “The Walk of Grace proceeds in one week,” Harun concluded. “Advance has blessed the Court this schedule. To oppose it is to suggest Kripur cannot govern itself.”

  Silence.

  Then Varan spoke. “Always the threat, never the hand.”

  Harun looked at him. “The hand comes st.”

  “Then we will meet it with all eight. Present. Standing,” Varan stood up.

  The Court of Grace rose with him — not in unity, but in contest.

  Four seats remained.