In the Shadow of Lightning

43

Every child in the region could talk at length about the Forge. It had a long and storied tradition as a spiritual place – perhaps haunted, perhaps a shelter for ancient gods, perhaps just preternaturally unlucky. It was said to rain almost every other day at the Forge, violent lightning storms causing the thunder that gave it its name happening on a weekly basis. It might be clear and sunny around the entire region, but clouds would cling to the cliffs like otter pups to their mother. Legend spoke of a succession of noblemen who’d tried to build estates, forts, and even a lighthouse on its rocky heights, only for every single project to get destroyed by lightning.

Despite hearing that distant thunder for almost half of her life, Thessa had never actually been to the Forge. She’d sailed past it once on a journey with Master Kastora, noting its towering heights from a long way off, but that view had been nothing compared to actually walking up onto the damned thing.

Standing on its summit, the wind whipping at her hair, Thessa could see from a scattering of old ruins that the stories were at least partially true. People had tried to build up here. The only completed building – though it had since been partially destroyed – was the lighthouse. The top floor, including the flame and mirrors, was all but gone, while the main living area was still fully intact, if rotted.

The rest of the stories, of course, were hogwash. The Forge was nothing more than a natural formation, jutting out into the ocean and towering hundreds of feet above the surrounding countryside. Scientists had written about it at length over the last couple of decades, describing a phenomenon much like that Professor Volos spoke of in her book – the shape and massive height of the Forge caused warm air to rise off the ocean and mix with cold air from the nearby Halifax Mountains.

And just like that: lightning storms.

Thessa paced the crown of the Forge, looking in the craggy little nooks among the rock formations and examining the blackened scars across the stone that gave testament to the frequent lightning. She climbed to the highest rocks, trying to remember every detail from Professor Volos’s book. Pari and Tirana waited just below, shivering in the frigid wind, still catching their breath from the long, perilous hike up to the heights. Down below – far down below – their carriage waited, loaded down with the crates that contained the lightning rod.

Being this high up, the sun shining in her face, made the darker events of the last couple of weeks feel like a dream. Thessa could barely picture the poor young porter, face down on the book he’d been reading, nor Filur Magna’s charred corpse inside his own illegal furnace. They were distant memories. This high place was the future. It was, she decided, where history would be made and change the world forever.

She wondered if Ekhi would like it up here, or if the savage winds would harm his ability to fly. No sense in even trying to bring him here until his wing had healed.

“This will do nicely!” she shouted to Pari and Tirana. Both of them shook their heads, and Thessa was forced to climb back down to where they waited on the trailhead. “This will do,” she said again, still having to shout to be heard above the wind. “Come on, this way.” She led them up to the very crest of the Forge – a flat piece of rock perhaps twenty yards across. At one end was the foundation of an old ruin, no more than a couple of feet tall and probably hundreds of years old. Sticking right out above the ocean, perched on a perilous drop, were the half remains of the lighthouse.

She turned to her little audience. “According to Professor Volos, lightning strikes are never guaranteed, but they often occur at the highest point in the region. We can either use that rock formation there, or the lighthouse.” She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Let’s use the lighthouse. Put a tarp over the partially destroyed roof and we’ll have someplace out of the wind to work – and the lightning rod will protect us from actual strikes.”

Pari looked around them, clearly nonplussed, but nodded. “I’ll get started.”

“Are you comfortable setting everything up from my drawings?”

“I am.”

“Good. I’ll leave you and two enforcers here to get things going. I should have the project itself finished within a couple of days and will return.” Thessa paced around the lighthouse one last time before nodding at her own decision. “It’s important to remember,” she said, more for her own benefit than for Pari’s, “that this is just a test. It might not work. We might have to start over. But we won’t know until we try.”

“All due respect, Lady Foleer,” Tirana shouted above the wind, “but this is absolute madness.”

“Would you rather I attach the lightning rod to the hotel? Because that’s my backup plan.”

“I’m not objecting, ma’am. Just stating. I’ve only been with the Grappo for a few years but I know enough about them to understand that mad ideas have a long and glorious tradition. You’re fitting right in.”

Thessa felt the corner of her mouth tug upward, and she thought about the kiss she and Demir had shared several nights ago. It was a childish fancy, but an eminently practical one as well. Could there be a matriarchy in her future? “That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

Tirana shook her head and laughed, then slapped Pari on the shoulder. “We’ll be back in a few days. Don’t let my enforcers give you any shit. They’re here to help.” She turned and began walking down the path to their carriage.

Thessa waffled beside Pari for a few moments. “Does this frighten you?” she asked once the master-at-arms was out of earshot.

Pari stiffened, her chin going up, as if the very suggestion was an affront to her honor. She almost instantly deflated. “A little. No one ever asked me to wave a rod in a lightning storm when I was hauling firewood. But the pay is a lot better, and…” She looked down at the hand she’d injured. It was good as new, without even a bend. “Well, the benefits are better too. At least I don’t have to lick any Magna boots.”

Thessa grinned at her. They were so damned close. Just a little more work on constructing the channel and they’d be able to test it. “I’ll be back soon. Stay safe. And, uh, if there is a lightning storm before I get back, I wouldn’t suggest actually touching the rod.”

Kizzie had spent two days reading the Vorcien spymaster report on the Glass Knife.

Spymaster reports were not, as one might imagine, coherent narratives on a particular person or place, but rather loose collections of information that might or might not have to do with the subject in question. The report provided to Kizzie was no exception. It filled three wooden crates and included everything from newspaper clippings and printed pamphlets to copious handwritten notes from dozens of different sources. Since Kizzie was not allowed to take the report off the estate, she holed up in a spare bedroom in a little-used wing of the house, reading until her eyes grew blurry.

She spent far too much of her time thinking of the way Demir used to consume and digest information. Even as a boy, all he had to do was put a piece of witglass in his ear and his eyes would fly across the page, taking in huge amounts of information at once and – most importantly – understanding all of it. It was this last bit that Kizzie was genuinely jealous of, for she spent most of her time with the report just trying to figure out how it all connected.

Kizzie finished her second complete read-through of the file and threw herself down on the bare mattress of the spare bedroom she’d commandeered. It was a damned complicated web. Gorian had only given her a list of names. The Vorcien spymaster report both expanded on that list and tracked the movements and ambitions of every member of the Glass Knife. They were a powerful lot, from a dozen different guild-families and diverse positions within the Ossan government.

It made her wonder why Father Vorcien had never heard of them, if his spymaster kept such good records. But then she remembered that there was likely a file like this on most of the Fulgurist Societies within the city. Still, Gorian’s instincts about them were correct: there were dozens of court cases against members or the Society itself – corruption, bribery, assault, murder, mysterious disappearances. Every single case had been buried in some way and then forgotten. Seeing that trail laid out plain in front of her was eerie.

How much had the spymaster missed? How many more members were scattered across the Ossan guild-families, the branches of the military, and the governing apparatus that spanned the entire world? Were they guilty of these myriad crimes? If so, how had they so effectively covered them up?

Most importantly, what did all that have to do with Adriana Grappo? Why kill her? Why use six people to do it in public? Kizzie felt like she could leap to a conclusion on that first question. Adriana must have discovered something the Glass Knife didn’t want her to. Something other spymasters had not managed to dig up. A plot of some kind? Another high-profile murder? Had she just dug a little too deep and asked the wrong sorts of questions? Was her public death meant to be a warning to anyone who poked at their members too much? Perhaps the Glass Knife was not daring enough to go after one of the mighty guild-families, but felt confident attacking one of the minor ones.

She was missing something in all of this. Either a piece she had not found, or a piece she had misinterpreted. Her assumptions felt right, but she still didn’t feel confident taking them to Demir. Piss, she wouldn’t feel confident returning to Demir until she had found and questioned those last two killers. Then she could lay out the evidence against the Glass Knife, and Demir could wage his war on them.

If Father Vorcien allowed her to tell him.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a gentle knock on the door, after which it immediately opened to reveal Diaguni. The Vorcien majordomo nodded at Kizzie and glanced around the room, taking in the three big crates and all the papers spread out across desks and dressers and the floor. His brow was furrowed, his face pinched as if he was holding in a breath.

Kizzie sat up immediately. “Something wrong?” she asked.

“Kissandra,” Diaguni greeted her, closing the door behind him. “How goes your search?”

He had dodged her question. “Do you know about all this?” Kizzie asked, gesturing to the crates. Of course he did. Diaguni probably knew where more bodies were buried than Father Vorcien himself.

“Your father and I discussed the Glass Knife last night,” Diaguni replied. “Their operation is not unlike some of the other powerful Fulgurist Societies, but if they truly did kill Adriana then they have gone too far.” His voice was soft and calming, but his brow was still furrowed.

“I’m almost certain that they did,” Kizzie told him. “Too many of their members were involved for it to be a coincidence. I still don’t know why. I have two more killers to track down, and I’m hoping one of them tells me.”

“Good, good.” Diaguni came to sit on the edge of the bed. His scowl deepened.

“Diaguni,” Kizzie prompted, “what’s going on?”

“Those letters you brought to your father the other day.”

“Capric’s blackmailing?” Kizzie felt the bottom of her stomach drop out. Did they know she’d sent the missive to the Hyacinth? How could they possibly, unless they had a spy in the hotel? Had Father Vorcien managed to turn Breenen? Even if he had, she’d been very careful to make the envelope untraceable. Her thoughts raced but she was careful to keep her expression neutral.

“Indeed,” Diaguni said. “The military missive Capric was being blackmailed with was evidence that he framed Demir for the sack of Holikan.”

Kizzie eyes grew wide. She didn’t have to fake surprise. She might already know about the missive, but she was shocked Diaguni would tell her about it at all. “Glassdamn,” she whispered.

“Someone – the Glass Knife most likely – sent Demir the missive, and Demir called out Capric in public. They dueled. Both were wounded, but the Cinders arrived and arrested them before the duel could reach its conclusion.”

“Oh.” Kizzie felt her stomach flip around inside of her. Those two sentences felt horribly understated. She’d expected Demir to find out when he returned from the front in a few weeks. Not immediately. She’d expected him to take the whole thing in stride; to destroy Capric slowly over the next decade – not challenge him to a glassdamned duel. She’d miscalculated Demir terribly. Her urge to help her friend find closure might have just started a guild-family war.

More pertinent to her own fortunes, it seemed that Father Vorcien already blamed it on the Glass Knife. At least that was something.

“What do I do?” Kizzie asked. She looked around the room, leaning into her own sudden sense of helplessness. She couldn’t let Diaguni have the faintest clue that she was involved with the missive. “Are we at war? Do I stop looking into all this?”

“Your father wants you to remain on task. At the moment, only Capric has been called out and blamed, and so we will pretend that we are all still friends. Proceed in good faith. The answers Demir wants are answers that your father wants as well. Beyond the task he’s already given you, Father Vorcien wants you to remain uncompromised in Demir’s eyes.”

She raised an eyebrow. How could Demir possibly trust her now? If Demir now saw Capric as his enemy, he would see all Vorcien as enemies. “How the piss am I supposed to do that?” she asked.

“As I said – proceed in good faith. Do what you can to maintain Demir’s trust. Remember what you’ve been promised.” Diaguni stood up suddenly and gave her an almost fatherly smile. “The Glass Knife is attempting to sow discord among the great guild-families. It is even more important that we root them all out. Find answers. Bring your father evidence of their involvement in Adriana’s murder.” Diaguni left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

Kizzie waited until he’d been gone for some time before letting out a little gasp and checking to make sure she hadn’t inadvertently pissed herself. “Damn you, Demir,” she whispered. “You weren’t supposed to attack Capric directly.” Damn Capric, damn Demir, and damn herself.

She paced around the room. Sowing discord indeed. She had done exactly what their enemies would have wanted.

Something prodded at the back of her mind, and she turned her attention back to the spymaster report. Something Diaguni said had grabbed her attention and now she couldn’t tell what. She thought back over the conversation carefully, considering every word, until she realized what it was: discord.

This whole damned thing was organized chaos. The Grent agent was the thrust of it: a fall guy who was meant to be caught so that the murder was pinned on the Grent. War was declared, destabilizing the entire region. But to what end? War was bad for trade; bad for Grent; bad for Ossa. If Adriana’s death was meant to cause all of this, then why?

Kizzie paced around the small bedroom, thinking furiously. The Glass Knife had no doubt planned on Demir returning to conduct the investigation directly. They hadn’t planned on Kizzie. That was their mistake. A mistake that, at some point, they were going to try and rectify. The Tall Man had, she knew, seen her face. She no longer just had to solve this conspiracy to placate Father Vorcien and vindicate Demir. She had to do it to save her own skin before a powerful Ossan Fulgurist Society could put a knife in her back.

A knock on the door nearly made her leap out of her boots, and Kizzie whirled toward the door, stiletto drawn before she even knew what she was doing. She hid the stiletto behind her back and prayed that Diaguni hadn’t returned to poke holes in her earlier excuse. “Come!”

To her relief, it was one of the Vorcien maids. She bowed to Kizzie and held out a note. “This just came for you, ma’am.”

Kizzie waited until she was gone before opening it. She immediately recognized Gorian’s blocky writing. It said,

Kizzie pumped her fist victoriously. Now she was getting somewhere. Find the Tall Man, confirm that either he or his masters were working for the Glass Knife, and then take them all down. She might damn well get out of this whole thing yet!