Martin waited in that safe room with Jacques for a few more hours. Jacques praised him for staying cool under pressure and promised a reward from the Faceless God. He said he would need a few days to lay low and have his little birds look into the aftermath of the incident. When asked about the light and the men who had entered the warehouse when they were leaving, Jacques would only mutter, “Inquisitors.” Jacques then closed his eyes to sleep off his injury, leaving Martin with his thoughts.

  The chanting he had heard was clearly some kind of spell. It had sounded to him vaguely like the old tongue used by the priest during mass, but he had never seen any sort of magic come from the service. The way it had pierced through the heavy iron of the gate made him imagine it would make short work of the servant of the Beautiful Goddess. He had seen the Inquisitors around Alderbridge many times, but this was the first time he had seen them in action. Martin hoped it would be the last. An owl hooted somewhere outside the window, bringing Martin’s hand quickly as if to draw his dagger. He peered out the window and saw nothing. The owl flew away, his work of laughing at the Facless Man’s foolishness done.

  When it was nearly light out, Martin made his way out of the house and back home, but not before coercing some extra pocket money from Jacques to make his lie about wounding his hand in a game of dice a bit more believable. Boudica was understandably angry and worried when he got back. However, a night of all-night drinking and dice was not a new episode in Martin’s history, and once she realized he was okay, except for the wound in his hand, and had arrived in time to get out for work and with some extra cash, her anger slowly subsided to disappointment.

  “You had been doing so well, love,” was all she said before leaving for her own work. Martin bathed quickly and then left for the dockyard. He made his way past the usual line of day laborers looking for work and through the employee entrance. Just inside, Victor Harrow was in a heated discussion with a well-dressed merchant. Martin could just catch a hint of their conversation as he walked past.

  “I told you I don’t want grain from that place, but half of the last shipment came from there.”

  “I don’t control where the grain comes from, and keep your voice down,” Harrow responded, looking over at Martin with a face that said keep walking. “Let’s continue this in my office.”

  The merchant glanced over at Martin and, realizing he was potentially making a scene in public, acquiesced. The two made their way over to Harrow’s office.

  “What do you suppose that was about?” Came a voice behind Martin. Martin jumped and spun around to see where the voice had come from. Dillion was standing there, his odd smile on his face. After experiencing the horror of that woman’s smile, Dillion’s didn’t seem nearly so unnatural, but Martin couldn’t help but wonder what had perpetually plastered that smile on Dillion’s face.

  “You alright?” Dillion asked, “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

  “Sorry,” Martin apologized. “Was up all night playing dice, and I guess I’m just a bit jumpy.”

  “Hope you had better luck than the last time we played.”

  “Won a bit of coin, had to work for it though,” Martin said, holding up his bandaged hand. He then looked back at the retreating figures of Harrow and the merchant. “The merchant was talking about some place he got grain from. I wonder if…”

  “Morning, gentleman,” Monika called out. The conversation moved on to basic greetings as the three of them made their way to the locker rooms. Martin continued to turn the merchant’s words over in his mind and could only conclude that he had been referring to Brannloch. Boudica was still awaiting further word from her brother, Connach, but news of the meteor strike had spread throughout the capital. People were already telling stories of unspeakable horrors that had crawled out from that rock, and many unknowingly echoed Jacques’ prophecy of cosmic damnation for the town. With that level of rumour spreading, it made sense for the merchant to be worried about the source of his grain. Bartholomew Crane cared not for the Cosmics and was happy to import anything, but few people were willing to risk contamination by eating possibly corrupted grain. Martin idly wondered how Harrow would talk his way out of that one as they took their positions for the opening of the harbor.

  The morning rushed past as always. He had long since found his comfort in Martin’s shoes and could now easily pass as a stevedore with years of experience. Today, he and his team were unloading boxes of spices from the colony. The sailors on board the ship weren’t part of the imperial navy, but sailed under an Imperial flag and navy discipline. As a result, they paced the deck and gangplank with far more vigilance than most of the sailors Martin had seen.

  “How much do you reckon one of these is worth?” Dillion asked during a slight lull in the unloading.

  “A satchet of four-spice like this is at least three crowns in the market,” Sly responded almost immediately. Two crowns for a tiny satchet like that was a luxury Martin and his team could scarcely afford. Dockworkers in Alderbridge typically made between five and eight pennies a day. A crown was worth twelve pennies, so just one satchet would be nearly a week’s wages. To aid his lie, Martin had relieved Jacques of two crowns to represent a win at dice large enough to result in a bar fight. Monika and Dillion looked at the box of spices with newfound interest. Martin, a supposed veteran of the wars in the colonies, remained more nonchalant.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  “See responses like that are why everyone thinks you’re nicking shipments from the Landing, Sly,” Martin said with a laugh.

  “Let them talk. They can’t prove nothing.”

  The next crate was soon hooked up, and there was little time to talk after that. Boudica had neglected to make a lunch for him, assuming he was off drunk and would not be coming home before heading to work, if he made it to work at all. That left Martin on his own to find lunch. He left the dockyard to find a nearby cart. He scarfed down a cup of bitter coffee and a bowl of stew. He even found a piece of what was promised on the shop sign to be turtle. He could only guess what it actually was. After his meal, Martin found a paperboy and slipped him a penny for today’s newspaper. He found a place to sit near the water and unfolded today’s edition of the Alderbridge Occasional. Flipping through the articles, he finally found one he was looking for.

  Fire at a Warehouse

  Last night, the sound of a small explosion at a warehouse was reported to the local police by a passing lamplighter. When the police arrived at the scene, the warehouse was already on fire. The fire brigade arrived shortly after and was able to extinguish the blaze before it spread to any nearby buildings.

  The warehouse was currently empty, having been previously used by an import company that went under last spring. Inspectors currently believe it was the work of local hooligans, setting off some kind of firework inside the empty warehouse for a laugh.

  Anyone who has any information about the incident is encouraged to come forward to the authorities at their earliest convenience.

  They certainly covered it up well, Martin mused. The explosion of the guncotton, while incredible in its power, was rather contained and hadn’t spread any fire to the surrounding warehouse. Even that holy magic the arriving Inquisitors used seemed to disintegrate rather than ignite whatever it touched. If a fire had started after that, it must have been the Inquisitors who started it in order to cover up the truth. He wondered what had happened to the sword Jacques had left for them. Martin rolled up the newspaper and left it in his locker. He could read through it again with Will next week.

  The rest of the day passed by uneventfully. He begged off drinking with Sly, claiming he was still tired from dice last night. Sly started to ask him who he had been playing with, but luckily Monika interrupted with the latest news about her brother. Making his leave, Martin didn’t go directly home but stopped by the market, wandering through a few shops before finding what he was looking for. The shopkeeper gave him a nasty look as she was just about ready to close for the day, but softened when he explained what it was for. A short time later, he arrived back home.

  He beat Boudica back today, so he settled in to read the rest of the paper he bought that afternoon. Most of the stories were continued debates on the Empire’s role on the world stage. Martin wasn’t particularly interested in the debate, so he skimmed the stories briefly. A story that did catch his eye was coverage of a new invention by Professor Isaac Russel. Russel was one of the few celebrity intellectuals of the day. His work on gravity had first brought him into prominence in the scientific community, and he had since published work in nearly every field of the sciences. Since his reputation had reached such heights, he now published the occasional essay on history or literature, or even the odd commentary on contemporary social issues. These articles were written not just for academics but were published in the papers for the common man to read. Publication of one of these articles invariably led to passionate discourse in homes and public houses across the empire.

  Boudica arrived before Martin could dive into the article proper, something about the professor’s experiments with the flow of water at different temperatures and the possibility of making more primitive water clocks accurate enough to compete with modern mechanical escapement systems.

  “Giving your liver a rest, then, are you?” She said by way of greeting.

  “Maybe just quitting while I’m ahead,” Martin replied, folding up the newspaper. Boudica put a bag of bread and vegetables on the kitchen counter and started to put the rest of her things away. Martin reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small wrapped bundle of newspaper. “I got you something.”

  “Oh,” Boudica looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “That’s unusual. What did you do now?”

  “Nothing,” Martin said, “just thought I’d use the money I won for something good.”

  “Hmm,” Boudica said, reaching out to take the package from her husband. “Nothing too expensive, I hope.”

  “New knitting needles. You mentioned the other day that yours were worn down.”

  “I—I did say that,” Boudica said, unwrapping the package to see the truth of Martin’s words. “They’re the right size, too. That was thoughtful of you, love.”

  Martin gave a slight nod and picked up the newspaper. Boudica stood looking at her husband for a moment before putting the needles with her knitting supplies and getting started on dinner. That night, the two made small talk for the first time since their fight. Boudica’s barbs seemed more subdued than they had been recently. For just a moment, Martin could imagine this happiness continuing forever. As Boudica was clearing away the dishes, however, he remembered Elisia. He must have had happiness just like this before, and someone took it from him. That night, as they lay in bed, Boudica fell asleep quickly for once, but the Faceless Man lay awake, thinking of the power he needed and the long road ahead.