Blood and Masks: Neva Cora, #1

Preface

I almost didn’t write this book. Some years back, I tried to organize a writing group on Twitter. There are a lot of amateur writers in my social circle and it seemed like a good idea. We decided that we would work on whatever it was we wanted to work on, and once per week, we’d share our progress. One week later, I was the only one that had written anything. The problem was simple: I was looking for an excuse to write something and they weren’t. You see, I’d started writing a story about elven demon hunters years earlier. I wrote a chapter, maybe two, then left it to rot. I wanted to get back to it but never had the motivation. I thought that writing group would give me the motivation I needed. Instead, the group’s failure to materialize was the motivation. It told me to stop making excuses and just write. So I wrote. And here’s my book.

I want to thank Nicole, my girlfriend, for providing me the encouragement and support I needed to keep going. She was willing to both tell me when something was good and when something was awful. There’s value in having someone who will tell you when something is garbage. Assuming they’re constructive, of course, and she was. I couldn’t have asked for a better reader for my first drafts. Nicole also designed the cover of this book, both the base concept and the final execution. If you like it, let her know. If you don’t like it, maybe don’t let her know, because it was done as a favor to me and she might punch you. More likely, she’ll punch me. I don’t want to be punched.

I’d also like to thank my editor, Jennifer Anderson of Clearing Blocks Editing. Letting an editor get their hands on your work for the first time is terrifying. You don’t know them. You wouldn’t leave your precious little baby with a stranger. Unfortunately, I had an ugly baby and something had to be done. Jennifer understood my work, what I wanted from it, and what needed to be done. She untangled my story like one would a string of Christmas lights just out of storage. She talked to me about my characters with genuine excitement long after her work on the project was done. Nothing brightens an author’s day more than seeing their work bring joy to another.

Oh, and I’d like to thank The League of Movable Type for Ostrich Sans, the font used on the cover of this book. Don’t steal fonts, kids. People work hard on those.

If it turns out you enjoy this book, let me know. You can email me (alexziebart@gmail.com) or shoot me a tweet (@AlexZiebart). Let your friends know, too. Tell them how much you loved it all day long until they get so tired of hearing you talk about it that they break down and buy it. If it turns out you don’t enjoy this book, don’t tell anyone. Hopefully I can trick your friends into buying it anyway.

Chapter 1

Do you feel anything?

Give me a minute.

My master and I stood in the shadow of an old housing complex some seven or eight stories high, its walls of orange clay bricks crumbling from disrepair, arched windows threatening to collapse at any moment. Hardly the ideal place to watch the sunrise, but I hadn't been given a choice. We had work to do.

I closed my eyes, focused my senses, and began reaching out to the world around me. My master stood at my side, tangibly impatient.

Do you feel anything? he repeated.

Nothing, I admitted, opening my eyes. Nothing at all. Do you know which apartment it's in? We could get closer. It might just be good at hiding.

He grunted, his way of agreeing with me, and pointed down an adjacent stairwell at a wooden door. This one.

I descended, quiet as I could manage, and laid my hand upon the door’s surface.

Anything? he asked, still standing at the top of the stairs.

I turned, glowering. Tullius, just let me work. I don’t ask you stupid questions when you’re working, do I?

Yes. You do. That’s all you ever do.

Fine, I said. No, I don’t feel anything.

Tullius shook his head, the light of dawn casting shadows over his craggy, wrinkled face. I told you, didn’t I?

No, you told me we had a job. You told me this place was infested.

No, he corrected. You only listened to half of what said. I told you an old woman reported her neighbors cavorting with dark magic. I also told you it was nonsense. Let’s go home.

Hold on, I said. We’re not just leaving, are we? We didn’t look at anything.

Tullius stared down at me, displeased. What do you expect to find? I don’t feel a thing and neither do you.

Do you remember last time? We didn't think there was anything there, either. Then we walked in and found ourselves in demon blood up to our ankles. We're not leaving without looking.

That was different. You wanted to pass on the last one. I wanted to look. You were wrong, as you always are. I was right, as I always am. There's nothing here.

Ignoring him, I turned back to the door and knocked.

What are you doing? Tullius demanded, starting down the stairs. Stop that.

Nobody answered the door, but I wasn’t exactly expecting a response. My knocking told me the door wasn’t very solid, which was all I wanted to know. Before Tullius, an old man with old knees, could catch up with me, I reeled back and kicked the door. It didn’t shatter to splinters, but I gave it a good crack. With a second kick, the door began to buckle inwards. Tullius grabbed my shoulder, but he couldn’t drag me back before I kicked the door right in, leaving it swinging on its hinges. The deed done, Tullius could do nothing but follow, grunting in irritation.

A figure leapt at me from the darkness, yelling senselessly and swinging a knife like a madman. A drunkard, I thought. I casually slapped his knuckles with the flat of my blade and the knife fell from his hand. Tullius stepped past me, sword drawn, and struck the man on the head with its pommel. The drunk dropped to the ground and fell silent.

See? I gestured further into the small apartment. Tully, you can't tell me this isn't strange. Kicking down the door didn’t even wake them. Are they dead?

Five others lay collapsed on the floor, their faces hidden behind a wooden masks emblazoned with an icon of a sun. An overturned teacup lay by each set of hands, contents spilled everywhere. On the floor between them, a teapot.

Tullius grabbed the arm of one man, rolling him over onto his back. They're alive, he said. He released the man and picked up the teapot, wafting the scent of its contents to his nose. Drakeweed, he grumbled. There are no demons here, Varin. They're addicts. This is city guard business.

But there were witnesses, I insisted, reaching down toward one of the wooden masks. The things were odd, that was for sure. Evidence of a crime or not, they had my interest. Let's keep looking. There must be something here.

The old man’s hand struck like a snake, snatching me at the wrist and pulling me from the mask before I could lay a finger on it. There was one witness, he corrected, voice gravelly. An old woman that lives right upstairs. People always cry demon when they don't like their neighbors. If you haven't seen something yourself, don’t believe it.

What about the masks? I asked, grasping for leads. There must be something to that. If not demons, some new cult. When a cult turns to drakeweed, that’s bad news for us.

That's still city guard business.

They’re unconscious, Tully. We can at least look through their belongings, see if there’s anything there, I suggested. His expression darkened. Remember a few years ago? We dealt with something like this. The cult of a new death god or some nonsense. Rituals, drakeweed, and demons pouring out of their asses. We should at least look.

No, boy, he barked. And there weren’t demons coming out of their asses.

I didn’t mean literally, I shot back. We’re here and they’re suspicious. Why can’t we look?

Put it out of your damned mind, he shouted. We're leaving. You can explain to the guard captain why you broke into someone's home and assaulted a man without reason.

They were suspected of consorting with demons. That's all the reason we need.

You suspected them. I didn't. I'm the only one that matters here.

I clenched my jaw, teeth grinding while I built the strength to admit fault. Alright. Fine. I'm sorry. We’ll go.

Don't apologize. Do better.

Tullius turned and left.

Chapter 2

We left the apartment and our misbegotten hunt behind. The lack of results didn't bother me nearly as much as the fact that we'd traveled so far for them. Our city, Neva Cora, had been built in the shape of a six-spoked wheel. Each district was divided by the main roads that formed the wheel’s spokes, and each main road led to the park at the city’s center. From the apartment, we’d been forced to walk north through the district we’d come, around the city’s park, and then still further north to our home in the forum district. The time wasted walking from one end of the city to the other just added insult to injury. Horses would have made the trip easier on our feet, but we didn’t keep any. Paying for lodging would have cost more than the horses’ relative worth.

The southern districts of Neva Cora were places of depressed poverty, filled with structures in grievous disrepair. Refuse littered the cobblestone streets and the homeless lay among it, dirty blankets covering them like improvised funeral shrouds. Despite the rising sun, a palpable shadow loomed.

I’d spent the first half of my life in those streets, and I was glad when we stepped out onto the road that encircled the great park at the city’s center. No developments had been built within the park, no streets, no walkways, no handmade seats or benches, just trees. We only called it a park rather than a forest because it was surrounded on all sides by civilization.

Tullius forced us to stop at a guard post, just like he said he would, and he wouldn't let us leave until I admitted my mistake. So I did. The city guard wasn't pleased with the misunderstanding, but they couldn’t do anything about it. As the city's demon hunters, the minari, we were above the law. Telling them about my error was the full length and breadth of my punishment, and we went on.

After circling the park, sun now high in the sky, we stepped into the forum district, a space dedicated to the public and public affairs. Speaking geographically, the forum, as the northmost district, lay opposite the district we’d just left. Where the south seemed dark and dilapidated, the forum was bright and beautiful, gilded in precious metals and gemstones the likes of which southerners would never lay their hands on. Decorations adorned the many columns of the temples, the bath house, the arena that loomed high in the distance, and every other public building.

With the sun came the crowds, but Tullius and I were old hands at traversing busy streets. We forged our way toward the forum's temple block in good time. No temple in our city resembled any other: each catered to the tastes of their particular gods. First came the Temple of Truscus, god of coin and trade. His temple had been built as a market. Each stall was sold to the highest bidder on an annual basis. Beyond that loomed the Dial of Sun and Moon, an enormous stone dais inscribed with sky charts. Dots, lines, and other markings covered its entire surface, a mess that might drive a man mad should he look upon it without knowledge of its meaning. I didn't understand, so I never looked. Not too hard, anyway.

After that, the Temple Ruins of Khalin, god of war. Not true ruins, of course, but a structure carefully crafted to look as such. We didn’t like him very much, but as one of our major gods, we were obligated to give him space.

Finally, the Temple of Indora, goddess of the hunt, styled after an exaggerated elven hunting lodge. In the wild, a lodge’s outer walls would only reach waist height, the roof supported by pillars. This construction would allow the inhabitants to gaze out at the wilderness from shelter. In contrast, the outer walls of Indora’s temple rose well over a tall man’s head, pillars extending high enough to let the arches between them yawn toward the sky. White marble, all of it. The temple was built upon a hill, giving it prominence above all other gods in our city. One had to climb a towering set of stairs to gain entrance.

And we did, because we called the Temple of Indora home.

Along one wall, a low fire burned in the hearth. The fire had never gone out as long as I'd lived there—not in winter or in summer, a sign to all travelers that they were welcome. Any travelers had spent the night already moved on for the day, however, and the only people who remained were a few of the priestesses who lived alongside us. A full dozen of them called the temple home, but to see more than a few of them together at one time was a rarity during daylight. Even priestesses had better things to do than sit in a temple all day.

Seruwen, High Priestess of Indora, approached us from the altar. She wore one long length of white silk embroidered with stylized green leaves that wrapped from just above her breasts to just below her thighs. A length of ivy tied the cloth in place below her bust. A tail of excess fabric was meant to trail behind her and lay against the backs of her legs, but she always tucked it out of the way. A fierce woman even by the standards of the minari, her presence was electric. I'd expect no less from the physical embodiment of a goddess. Seruwen didn’t speak of a goddess. She spoke to a goddess.

Two other priestesses talked amongst themselves at the altar. Lissanna, tall and light-haired. Marina, short and dark-haired. I knew them, I liked them fine, but we weren’t close. Most of their leisure time was spent together, apart from others.

Seruwen looked to Tullius. You found something after all?

Nothing, I said, crossing the temple to the hearth. A cookpot hung there, our breakfast being kept warm. Oats, like almost every other morning. I took a bowl from the mantle, filled it, and began the breakfast Tully forbade me before our hunt. The old bastard always made me skip breakfast on morning jobs in hopes that we could get back before the markets opened and avoid the crowds.

You were gone a long time for nothing.

The markets opened. The streets were busy. That’s all.

He’s lying, Tullius said. There was nothing, but he kicked in a man’s door and hit him over the head. I made him explain the situation at the guard post.

With a mouthful of oats, I shook my head. That’s just not true. You hit him on the head, not me.

Tully spoke through his teeth. I hit him so he wouldn’t kill you.

He wasn’t going to kill me, I disarmed him. What would he do, vomit on me?

He wasn’t drunk, Varin. He’d taken drakeweed.

That doesn’t change the fact I disarmed him.

Close your mouths. Both of you. Seruwen snapped.

She crossed the room to Tullius, dropping a heavy pouch in his hand. A courier came through. You’ve another job. Eat your meal and go.

That caught my attention. Another hunt? Already?

Tullius opened the pouch, peering inside. His eyes narrowed. What is this?

One of the merchant houses sent for you directly. The courier was insistent that you be paid your due.

And you accepted it?

As a rule, we never accepted payment from victims—just the city. Forcing our clients to pay us caused all sorts of problems. If they were legitimate victims, asking them to pay was morally abhorrent, like paying the city guard out of pocket to help you after you’d been robbed. If they weren't truly victims, their money came in the form of a bribe, hoping to keep their dalliances with demons secret. The city paying for our services as keepers of the peace was a far better, far safer solution.

No, she answered. I turned the courier away, but they left the money and a letter on the steps.

A letter? the old man asked. What did it say?

Seruwen produced a letter sealed with dark green wax and held it out to the old man. I don’t read your letters.

Jaw working in annoyance, Tullius exchanged the coin pouch for the letter, broke its seal, and began to read. He then passed the letter back to her. Varin, we’re going.

I looked up again. What is it?

We’ll find out when we get there. If these people hope to bribe us, we should find out what they’ve involved themselves in.

Can I—

Tullius cut me off with a shout. Yes, because I don’t want to listen to you whine about it all day. Eat. And don’t waste our time with it.

I caught Seruwen looking at me with something that resembled pity. Shrugging, I topped off my bowl and carried it out to the temple steps. Though ravenous, I ate slowly, my small rebellion against Tullius. Over the years, I’d learned to take my small victories when I could.

Despite his outburst, Tullius joined me on the temple steps with a bowl of his own, easing himself down, his knees popping unhappily all the way. He was an old man when I’d met him, and the century that followed did him no favors. We'd been mistaken for father and son on many occasions, but it made little sense to either of us. The only quality we shared was our eyes and they weren’t the eyes of our birth. We had the eyes of demons, granted through our awakening as minari. They varied from minari to minari, but ours most closely resembled a wolf’s amber irises. Otherwise, I wasn’t sure why people thought we were related. His face was broad and wrinkled, mine narrow and unmarred by age. No matter how often he took a blade to his whiskers, coarse salt and pepper remained. I had no hair on my face at all. I kept my dark hair long. He cut his white hair short. My scars were few. His were many. He was not a short man, but neither did his height compare to mine. He'd lost most of one long ear a few decades earlier, leaving an unattractive stump on the right side of his head. I often mocked the old man for his looks, but he took it in stride. In turn, he would accuse me of being far too pretty. Hardly an insult.

While we ate, Tullius asked, Are you still seeing that girl?

Which one?

The one you don't pay for.

You still need to be more specific.

The tavern girl?

Kassandra?

He grunted. Whatever her name is.

Kassandra, I repeated. Sometimes.

Sometimes? You see her sometimes?

Sure. Sometimes.

You're seeing her or you're not.

And sometimes I am, but sometimes I'm not.

The old man shook his head. That isn't how it worked in my day. Either you want a woman to be your wife or you don't.

In your day, you fought with sticks instead of swords.

He paused, eyeing me.

It's a joke, I assured him. If you can make jokes about paying for women, I can make jokes about your age.

It wasn't a joke.

Mine or yours?

Mine.

I shrugged, using my spoon to draw circles in my oats. Fair enough. We only see each other sometimes because I don't want a wife.

Why not? If you're going to waste your time seeing her, you might as well.

I don't think our job lends itself to marriage. Besides, I'm too young for all that.

When you're young is the best time to do it, he said. Wait too long and there's no point to it anymore.

Still, I said, it doesn't make a lot of sense to marry anyone when we spend all day chasing monsters. Hells, Tully, I share a bedroom with you in a glorified cellar. Where would she stay? Under my bed?

Our bounties pay enough. You could afford a house.

As if you'd let me move away from the Temple.

There are places nearby.

Very expensive places.

And you could afford them, he said, if you stopped spending all of your gold on whores.

Don't call them whores. They're very nice people.

It's their profession, he seethed. And eat faster. Stop playing with your food like a child.

I can't eat and talk at the same time.

I seem to manage. He tilted his bowl toward me, half empty. Is doing two things at once too complicated for you?

You're an ass, Tullius. You know that?

It's my job.

Tullius scraped the remainder of his bowl up into one spoonful, rose on popping knees, and strode back into the Temple. If you're not done by the time I get back, I'm dumping your bowl in the street.

Excerpt from the Journals of Odo the Old

On the Empire

The history of the elves is long and vicious. Relative to their lifespan, their unification as one monolithic empire—known only as The Empire—is a very small part of their history. Their society was once based around city-states, many significantly smaller nations that thrived independent of one another. Each of these nations had their own customs and traditions, and their own ideas of beauty, nobility, structure, and strength. Across all nations, however, was one constant: a thirst for glory.

Above all else, these city-states wanted to be remembered, lauded as the greatest civilization the world had ever known. For thousands of years they set their cultures against one another on the battlefield. There are stories told of wars waged over a particular artist growing too influential, over a man too handsome, or a woman too beautiful. All sought to be more successful than their neighbors, but success often meant their inevitable destruction at their neighbors' hands.

It is a common thought that war fuels innovation. When opposing forces clash, each of them pour the whole of their being into finding a way to overcome the other. In a war based on culture, however, far more is lost than is gained. When one of these nations destroyed the other, they aimed for complete annihilation. When your enemy wants nothing more than to be remembered, what greater insult exists than to ensure they’d be forgotten by sunrise? Cities were razed, libraries were set to the torch, and war machines were disassembled, their schemata thrown to the wind. The victor could have kept these things for themselves, but they would become a daily reminder that someone else accomplished what they did not, a reminder that there was a time that their nation was not the greatest. They preferred to squander the knowledge of those they eradicated. Great inventions faded into obscurity, not reappearing again for hundreds or even thousands of years, and were quickly forgotten all over again.

I weep at the thought of how much knowledge was lost over so many millennia, how much the elven people learned, then promptly forgot. Thousands of years of lost progress. Had their history been different, not been so brutal and bloody, I cannot image what sort of world we might live in today. Would we still struggle to get from one place to another? Would we toil so hard simply to feed ourselves on a day-to-day basis? More, I wish I could have seen some of these city-states as they once existed. What language did they speak? What clothes did they wear? What did their temples look like? What grand achievement brought the ire of their neighbors upon them? What did they accomplish? In my mind, I can imagine cities with grand monuments to the gods and roads paved with gold, but I will never see such things. We do not even know the names of these places anymore.

In the end, one of these city-states survived long enough to become something more: the empire that exists today. They formed no alliances to accomplish this, and in any reasonable civilization, that would mean certain doom. However, their enemies also chose to stand alone, unwilling to admit that they required aid. One by one, the growing empire's rivals fell, their knowledge erased from history.

I believe this thirst for glory is at the heart of the empire's current malaise. They no longer direct their wrath at their kinsmen. Instead, it is directed at other peoples of the world such as the ferrous to their west and the humans to their east. The empire attempted to conquer both of them and both attempts failed. As a result, the empire knows they are not the greatest civilization that exists now or will ever exist. At best, they are equal to their neighbors, but that is, perhaps, wishful thinking. The revelation of their perceived inadequacy did not spur them to greatness as it should have. Instead, it has sent them into a collective depression, even if they do not recognize the cause themselves.

It is my belief that if the empire of elves does not see a great cultural upheaval within the next century, they will cease to exist as a relevant influence in our world. Their empire will crumble and they will receive the greatest insult. They will be forgotten.

That is my belief, but it is not my hope. It is a terrible thing to be forgotten. Were it up to me, we would remember the names and deeds of every man and woman that has ever lived or ever will live, but I cannot choose a fate for the elves. They must choose their own. I hope that I remain in this world long enough to see the catalyst that brings the upheaval they so desperately need.

Chapter 3

By the time we reached our destination, we’d lost the entire morning. The merchants who’d asked for us lived at the easternmost edge of the city, hours from our temple.

This is the place?

A vaguely affirming noise rolled from the back of Tullius’s throat.

You’re becoming quite the orator in your old age, Tully.

He made another noise, less pleasant than the first.

We stood in the courtyard of the merchant house Corus. Even though Tullius never told me who we were working for, it didn’t take much effort to figure out who they were once we arrived. When it came to the world of merchants, I knew very little—I’d never sold a thing in my life, paid little attention to politics, and never cared where my meals came from—so long as I could eat it. Despite that, I knew the name of Corus well. Their family was the wealthiest in Neva Cora, if not the Empire. Thanks to their position on one of only two roads through the Everwood Forest, they controlled all trade to and from the east—humanity’s kingdom of Khalino and beyond. Wherever they went, the city watched.

Though larger and more elaborate, their villa was typical of merchant houses. Its courtyard opened to the sky, and the exterior walls’ graceful arches and elegant pillars were painted in lovely, colorful detail. A wide archway that led to the roads beyond stood as the only direct path inside. Entering by any other means required a circuitous route through the villa proper.

Lovely as it was, I couldn’t mistake the fact that it had been built well to serve its purpose as a merchant house. Wide doors and spacious halls provided plenty of clearance for the comings and goings of countless carts of goods, and the floors lacked the intricate engravings you might see in a politician’s villa. The courtyard was nothing but hard-packed earth, deep grooves worn into the soil by wagon wheels. Wooden planks bridged the deepest furrows.

There were nearly a hundred elves there, men and women both. Most looked like slaves—indentured servants, as some preferred to say—muscled by labor and free from ear decoration, but slaves who were well cared for. The appeared well-nourished and strong, their clothing proper for their tasks. The slaves saw to the loading and unloading of goods while freemen in loose, lighter garb acted as overseers and directed the flow of traffic. Crates and barrels were organized into lines, clay jars and vases were stacked around the perimeter, and the fine amphoras were cordoned off into one corner.

Tullius called out to a woman in green silks as she rushed past, Where is the man of the house?

The woman stopped, turning sharply to face him. She carried herself with a matronly allure. Her beauty might have been sharp and striking in her youth, but it had filled in and softened her edges over the years, adding a curve to her hip and a swell to her breast. She had eyes as green as the length of silk wrapped around her body, her hair as red as an apple in autumn. The angry sunburn spread across her nose and cheeks was the only thing detracting from her beauty. She had delicate skin, clearly unaccustomed and unsuited to long hours in the sun.

I am the head of the house, she answered, and started to continue on her way. One look at Tully’s eyes made her pause. She looked to me, then back to him. You are the minari?

Yes, Tullius answered, but you are not the head of the house.

Excuse me? she asked, voice rising. I’m inclined to disagree.

I know the man of the house and have for many years, Tully said. His seal was on that letter.

You must not have known him very well, the woman replied. I'm his wife. He died three years ago. His seal is my seal. His house is my house. He left me many daughters and no sons, so if a woman is to run this house, it may as well be me. Need I defend myself further?

Tullius gave me a sidelong glance, not bothering to hide his irritation. I’m going to look around the property, he said. Speak to her.

You can’t just walk off! she called after him.

I understood her reservations about letting Tully wander around her house unsupervised. To start, nobody ever wants someone they don’t know walking freely around their property. Worse, the minari always make others uneasy. Beyond the obvious issues like having the eyes of demons, we wore black in a society that took pride in the beauty of color, and we wore trousers in a society that saw them as barbaric. When you fight demons for a living, it isn’t good sense to wear a brightly colored silk wrap. Regardless, the populace saw our style of dress as undesirable at best, frightening at worst.

Tullius ignored her protests, and strode off into the villa proper. I called her attention back to me. I’m sorry, Lady Corus. He gets that way sometimes. It’s usually best to just let him work. Why don’t you tell me what’s been happening? Why do you think a demon is targeting your house?

She seemed to struggle for a moment, as though half of her wanted to chase down the old man, and half of her wanted to stay and listen. Reason won, and she nodded. May I know your name first?

Of course. I smiled brightly, bowing my head. I hoped that getting her to talk would at least partially redeem me for the morning’s follies. My name is Calidus Varin, but I don’t mind at all if you call me Varin. Does Lady Corus suit you, or...?

Aelia will do, she said. A pleasure to meet you, Varin. I believe we have a fairy.

A fairy? I tried to hide my surprise. How sure are you?

Follow me, she motioned with a slender hand. I’ll explain as we go.

Nodding my agreement, we set off across the courtyard. I walked behind and slightly to the left of Aelia as was proper when with a woman of her station. While it made active conversation difficult, it gave me an opportunity to better observe her and her people.

Aelia walked with a gentle, graceful gait. She had probably been very thin in her youth, but age had given her too much hip to keep a sway out of her step. If she’d dressed then as she did now—draped in one long, flowing length of green silk—her steps would have been close to imperceptible. It’s a skill many women of high birth possess. Something as simple as their posture set them apart from the rest of the populace.

We’re the sole distributor of Virencine honey in Neva Cora. It’s quite costly for us to acquire, but there’s great demand for the honey among those who can afford it. Unfortunately, our shipments have been spoiling shortly after arrival, which shouldn’t happen.

So you assume demons? A fairy in particular? Have you considered that your supplier might be sending you bad honey?

The way it happens is unnatural. The honey spends a great deal of time on the road before it arrives, so if it were going to spoil, the process would have started by the time it gets to us. Instead, it’s fermenting practically overnight.

We crossed the courtyard to the corner where the amphoras had been stacked in massive, staggered layers. A single house guard stood beside it. He was an older man, clean-shaven with thick, grey hair rather than the wispy white stuff of true old age. He was past his prime, perhaps, but still capable.

Aelia motioned to him. Crutio, would you get one of those down for me?

Of course, he answered, more informal toward the woman of the house than I would have expected, and stepped away to retrieve a ladder. Leaning it against the wall of the villa, he ascended with ease. The man wore the garb one would expect of a house guard: a skirt of layered leather, a formed tunic that left his arms bare, and hardened leather sandals that extended up his shins and calves. The only thing missing was a long, armored cloak to accompany it, but Aelia's house guards didn't seem to bother with them at all. Perhaps they were reasonable enough to know how unpleasant the things were in the heat of summer. I wished Tullius felt the way they did. I wouldn't have to sweat to death in my damned coat.

Crutio lifted one of the amphora from the top of the stack, carrying it down to us, muscles straining with the weight of the thing. He set it down, gripped a cork as large as a closed fist, and worked it free.

See for yourself, Aelia said. This arrived two days ago.

Leaning forward, I peered into the amphora, where the honey had worked itself into a bubbling froth. You said a fairy. Why?

My oldest daughter, she explained, is a very well-read girl. According to her, fairies love honey, but fairy pollen sours honey in a particularly virulent way. One fairy could ruin an entire season’s worth of honey if you let it loose in an apiary.

While I don’t doubt your daughter’s intelligence, has anyone seen this fairy?

None of us have seen it, but it’s the only rational explanation I’ve heard so far. Too much time in open air or too much water can cause honey to spoil. Introducing the wrong sorts of pollen to the batch or even to the bees can cause it. But all of those take time, weeks or months. It couldn’t happen overnight.

It made sense, I supposed. As much as anything to do with demons made sense. Stoppered pottery wouldn’t keep a fairy away from something it wanted, and fairy dust, or fairy pollen, had an unimaginably long list of side effects. Minari had spent lifetimes studying what happened when fairy pollen mixed with other substances, and the effects were rarely good. For that reason, apothecaries of questionable morals loved the stuff.

Alright, you probably have a fairy, then, I agreed. The problem with fairies is that they’re hard to find during the day and even harder to catch. They’re unusual demons—they fit very well into the natural world. They’re like flowers, brighter and stronger during the day. It would be easier to lure it out, catch it, and kill it when the sun’s down.

You can’t do it sooner? Aelia asked, her disappointment obvious.

I could ask Tullius, but I’ve been working with him for a long time. He wants these things done properly, which means he’s likely to give you the same answer.

Aelia sighed. I could see her frustration mounting, the delay serving as one more annoyance set atop a pile of annoyances, each stacked inside one another like the tower of amphoras behind her. Well, if there aren’t any other engagements waiting for you, I’m obliged to offer you a sitting room and a meal until then. You’ll eat well, but I hope you’ll understand that this villa’s feasting days are behind it.

Hard times? Soured honey aside, nothing seemed amiss. If Aelia had something to hide, encouraging her to discuss her hardships might provide some insight.

I just don’t see the sense in it. If I had offended her, she masked it well. There’s no need to overindulge.

I pasted a winning smile on my face and bowed graciously. Reasonable, of course. I’ll simply need to be satisfied with feasting on your beauty.

She looked upon me with pity. Varin, that is the worst attempt at flattery I’ve heard in a very long time. Crutio, show the minari to a guest room. And find the other one. I don’t like him wandering.

Chapter 4

Crutio whisked me out of the courtyard and into the villa proper. We entered through the atrium, past a shallow indoor pool where a number of naked young men and women reclined, talking and laughing. The open arches ensured the halls were bright and bathed with sunlight. A cool breeze flowed almost as well indoors as it had outdoors, a blessing in summer, but likely a curse in winter.

The old guardsman strode toward the pair of sweeping staircases that ascended to the second floor, but I stopped, a mural on the atrium’s back wall catching my attention. Indora was depicted in a copse of trees surrounded by predatory animals: wolves, hawks, and wildcats. It struck me as odd. Why would a merchant house display a mural of the goddess of the hunt? Merchants had their own god in Truscus, and it seemed to me that denying him in favor of another wasn’t the wisest course of action. As a hunter, Indora held meaning for me, and I wore her charm on a thick chain around my neck. What she meant to them, I had no idea. Maybe the Corus family had a boar problem once.

That was a gift from the consul, Crutio explained, noticing that I had fallen behind. Can’t say I like it, but you don’t deny gifts from a man like that.

Why Indora? I asked. What’s the significance?

He shrugged. I’m not sure there is any.

Nodding, we ascended the stairs together.

This fairy business, I began. Aelia said this house was the sole distributor of that honey. Might another house have sent that fairy? Intentionally ruining your product?

It’s possible, but nobody has tried to take that business from us in a long time. If someone wanted it, it’s only a matter of negotiation. I’d think the other houses would have the sense to try words before demons.

You’d be surprised about that. Some people think demons are the solution to all of their problems. You’re sure nobody might have done this intentionally?

He shrugged. All I know is nobody has tried to take the goods from us. If they want it but haven’t said a word about it, what can I tell you?

What about rival products? Your honey is the most popular, so they ruin your business, driving your buyers to their house’s goods. Could that be the case here?

If that’s what they want, they’re doing a damn poor job of it, he said. Virencine honey is a luxury. We sell it for ten times what any other variety sells for in this city. No replacement products have appeared since the spoiling started. It’s been weeks. They’ve had time. There’s a void waiting to be filled. If someone wanted to compete, they’d have filled it, and they’d have filled it the very day we came up empty.

When we reached the top floor, Crutio showed me into one of the many bedrooms. The room looked pleasant enough with a plush bed, a few comfortable chairs, and some low tables for eating, reading, or writing. The back wall