9. The Mourners Arch #4
The wyrm didn’t roar; it moved with a terrifying, silent purpose. It crested the water in a high arc, its massive jaws opening to reveal rows of bioluminescent teeth. With a splash that sent water spraying halfway up the sea-gate towers, it crashed down upon the cluster of seven dark boats.
Wood shattered. The canvas-wrapped bodies bobbed briefly before the wyrm writhed again, opened its maw, and swallowed them all whole. In seconds, the wyrm rolled and vanished beneath the surface, leaving only rocking waves and splintered wood.
The seven mercenaries were gone .
The crowd on the bridge was murmuring frantically, pointing, some terrified, others awestruck. To have a body claimed by a wyrm so quickly was rare, an omen of powerful finality.
“Well,” Gabriel’s voice trembled slightly. “I suppose the wyrms were hungry.”
Miles stared at the settling water. “Nature is efficient.” It felt right, somehow. A violent end for violent men.
A few minutes later, the water downstream began to glow. Soft, pastel lights drifted against the current, fighting the tide to move upstream.
Veilflowers.
They looked like glowing lotuses, their petals unfolding to reveal hearts of pure, pale luminance. The mourners on the bridge leaned forward, desperate hope on their faces. The flowers drifted toward the muddy banks below the arch, where Viz’s “petal-catchers” waited with long-handled nets.
“Look,” Gabriel pointed.
Dozens of flowers drifted in.
“Will there be flowers for…well, I hesitate to call them ‘ours’ but?” Gabriel asked.
“Yes,” Miles said. “I’ve never known anyone who honors the tradition to be denied their flowers, no matter how foul their life.”
“And who gets the memory?” Gabriel asked, watching the net-men scoop the flowers from the water. “Who relives their lives tonight?”
“No one,” Miles said. “Viz will harvest them. Veilflowers are potent reagents. He’ll sell them to the Guild or paper-makers. That’s how he pays for the boats we just used.”
Gabriel watched the flowers disappear into the nets. “From dust to dust, and profit to profit. I suppose no one would really want to relive lives like those anyway.”
“It covers the cost,” Genna said, turning away from the railing. Her face was sober, the usual cynicism dialed down to a quiet fatigue. “We’re done here. The house is clean. The bodies are gone. I’m going home to Bria.”
She gave them a short, sharp nod. “Don’t get into any more trouble tonight. I’m off the clock until tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Genna,” Miles called after her, but she was already melting into the crowd .
Miles turned to Gabriel. The violet coat was damp with mist, and Gabriel’s hair was plastered to his forehead. He looked exhausted, beautiful, and sad.
“Let’s go back to the Lark,” Miles said, offering his arm. “We have a long day tomorrow.”
Gabriel took his arm, leaning heavily against him.
They turned their backs on the river and the dead, walking in silence toward the Bent.
The warmth of The Mourning Lark should have been a reprieve.
Miles wanted nothing more than to peel off his damp caster’s coat, scrub the scent of river water and dead men from his skin, and sink into a bowl of Master Olba’s stew.
But the moment they pushed through the heavy oak door, the atmosphere in the common room chilled.
Mistress Aura was behind the bar, but she wasn’t wiping down the mahogany. She was staring pointedly at a booth near the hearth.
A man sat there, not drinking. He wore a livery of jade green piped with silver, the colors of House Vellast. He didn’t look like a footman; he looked like a debt collector who enjoyed his work. He stood as they entered.
“Lord Goldmar,” the man said. He didn’t bow. His eyes flicked to Miles and dismissed him as irrelevant furniture. “And Master Beauchamp.”
Gabriel went still beside him. Tension radiated off his partner like heat from a furnace, but Gabriel’s face flattened into a pristine glaze of aristocratic indifference. He lifted his chin, staring down his nose despite being of a height with the man.
“It’s Lord Fairfield now,” Gabriel drawled. “And you are blocking my path to the stairs.”
“I am Kullen. I serve Lord Vellast,” the man said. “He is concerned. The soiree is the day after tomorrow, and we have yet to receive your response. He feared the invitation had gone astray.”
Miles frowned. “There must be a mistake. We sent a courier this morning.”
He looked at Gabriel, expecting backup. They had discussed this. They had agreed that the only way to gauge the threat Vellast posed was to enter the lion’s den and see how sharp the teeth were. Miles had mentally checked the box: Task 4: Accept Invitation. Status: Complete.
Kullen’s lips thinned. “No courier arrived at Halebourne Hall. My instructions were to wait until a confirmation could be obtained personally. ”
Miles turned to Gabriel. “Gabriel? You said you hired a runner before we left for the Bureau.”
Gabriel didn’t look at him. He was studying the cuff of his violet coat, picking at a loose thread with meticulous, infuriating concentration. “Did I? The morning was such a chaos of paperwork, Miles. Perhaps it... slipped.”
Miles studied Gabriel’s careful countenance. There was no courier. There never had been. Just like the summons hidden in the sewing box, Gabriel had simply refused to acknowledge the thing that terrified him, hoping that if he ignored the monster long enough, it might lose interest.
They were being watched, obviously, if Vellast knew where to send letters and runners. He wasn’t going to just lose interest.
Miles fought rising irritation. It wasn’t the fear he minded. Fear was rational. It was the omission. The illusion of partnership while quietly sabotaging the plan. They were supposed to be a united front, strategic and precise, not burying their heads in the sand while the tide came in.
He couldn’t believe they were back here, again.
“It slipped,” Miles repeated, his voice flat. He let the silence hang there, heavy and accusatory.
Kullen stepped closer, invading their personal space. “Lord Vellast is eager to renew old acquaintances. He would be quite distressed if the new Lord of Rookgate were to decline.”
The threat was barely veiled. Refusal wasn’t an option, not if they wanted to survive the week without making powerful enemies they weren’t yet equipped to fight.
Gabriel’s jaw worked.
“We wouldn’t want to cause distress,” Miles said, his tone clipped. He looked at Gabriel. Say it. Take the step.
Gabriel exhaled, a ragged sound. He finally met the messenger’s gaze, his eyes hard and cold as flint. “Tell Lord Vellast I accept. We will attend.”
“Excellent,” Kullen said. He produced a small, sealed card from his doublet and placed it on the nearest table. “Present this at the door. Until the day after tomorrow, my lord.”
The messenger swept past them and out into the night .
Miles didn’t wait. He headed for the stairs, the wood creaking under his boots. He heard Gabriel following, his steps slower, heavier. He was no longer in the mood for stew.