“How does pyrocauterizing differ from regular burning?” Patrik asked when sitting beside Wuxen in his carriage. The southerners preferred burning their dead, with gruesome rituals and sayings about mixing the deceased back to the ashes of the burned Watergate: from the ash have you come and to the ash you shall return.

  A servant closed the door to the pedaled carriage. Wuxen studied his neat nails and waited for the cart to move before he answered: “They say that pyrocauterization removes the demonic residual from the dead flesh. Afterwards, the body can be burned safely, without spreading the evil influences. I don’t know the technical details, but it includes acids and a pressurized vessel.”

  “Fascinating,” Patrik said. Cruelty towards the guilty seemed to continue after the death. A pyrocauterizer was involved only when the deceased was believed to carry infectious diseases, either physical or spiritual.

  Lord Wuxen’s carriage looked from the outside the same as the multitude of pedalled carts cruising Giza. It had a lightweight, black cabin with seats for two, and a single driver wearing the almost uniform garb of short trousers and a sleeveless vest, sweating as he pedalled towards the city outskirts.

  From the inside, the cart was clean and comfortable, but unadorned and a stark contrast to Lord Wuxen’s lavish style.

  “My apologies for the ride, but we must travel incognito,” Wuxen said, his shoulder touching Patrik. He didn’t seem genuinely apologetic; if anything, the man enjoyed this little pretence.

  “I understand. A man in your position must choose the public appearances carefully. Having a cart like this must be convenient.”

  “Exactly! That’s what my wife used to say. The first one, or was it the third…one of them anyway. Are you married?”

  “No, my work and permanent relationships seem to be mutually exclusive.” An old pain twinged Patrik’s heart. He had always prioritized his duties, which had prevented meaningful relationships from forming. The women who were looking only for a man with money and a strong standing in society, Patrik skipped. He wanted something real, something that touched his heart, a person to grow old with.

  “Freedom is an amiable companion. I believe people must pursue the things that make them happy. Be wild and free, taste every joy your heart craves, give your life to the arts, or worm shamelessly through libraries, whatever is your fancy. Public judgment is my only enemy.”

  “You truly are an exceptional gentleman.” For a moment, Patrik envied Wuxen. He didn’t know about duties, and state secrets didn’t weigh on him: society’s norms were his only hindrance.

  “Thank you,” Wuxen beamed.

  The cart rolled to the city outskirts and stopped in the yard of a grimy stone building, surrounded by sheds. A faint, sharp smell lingered in the air, reminding Patrik of the metal wells in the North. Discolouring surrounded the vents on the walls, but there was no great furnace or tall chimney pouring oily smoke in sight as Patrik had expected.

  Wuxen walked to a door guarded by a sad-looking statue. It was one of Watergate’s Olds, a man holding a blackened mirror with a water-filled cup between his legs. It was a protective charm set at the door to keep the evil influences away. Patrik could recognize many Olds, but this statue he couldn’t place.

  A plump woman wearing a long-hemmed dress of some heavy fabric opened the door. She tilted her chin to look upwards when a wide grin showed small, yellowed teeth, like pebbles in her mouth. Her brown eyes sparkled with intelligence.

  “Oh, you. Come in, you rascal. You got a new boyfriend?” The woman asked.

  “Just a friend, who is curious to learn about your clients. This good pyrocautizer and an incurable loudmouth is Stina Hampton. Stina, this is trader Merriweather,” Wuxen introduced.

  “Forgive me. I spend my time with things that don’t listen to me,” Stina extended a hand, and Patrik shook it.

  “I assume you are well aware I just got a new customer.” Stina turned to lead them in and continued, smirking all the way: “I understand your interest, I well do. Each case is unique. I trust you are familiar with the protocol, if you care about it. Your friend certainly does not.”

  “We are good citizens here, just a little bit too curious. We take utmost care to use cleansing salts, respirators, and whatnot to prevent the imaginary rays of evil from infusing into our souls,” Wuxen said.

  “You are incurable.” Stina laughed.

  They walked along a plain corridor and passed a shelf full of neatly folded protective equipment: coats, glasses, masks, gloves, and a box of utensils that seemed to deal with the spiritual aspects. Neither Stina nor Wuxen touched them, and Patrik followed their example. He didn’t fear the imaginary evils.

  Stina took them to a room with a blackened floor and large windows opening to the sky. A tall, copper-coloured vessel dominated the space. It was connected to tanks and a boiler with a host of pipes and valves. Fire crackled in the furnace, and something among the machinery hissed like a sleeping monster’s breath.

  Orderly stacked equipment lined the walls. There were labelled canisters, measuring devices, and a stack of official report templates. Among them were more worrisome items, like a saw, a set of metal shovels in different sizes, and a cruel-looking metal syringe. A wicker coffin on a wheeled table stole Patrik’s attention.

  “Be a dear and add coal to the furnace now and then,” Stina said, pointing towards a handcart loaded with black lumps. “The reactor is heating up, you have plenty of time to get familiar with…the atmosphere.”

  “Of course,” Wuxen said, walking closer to the table.

  Patrik heard the door close as Stina left. Wuxen stopped by the wicker coffin the southerners used for their dead, and Patrik looked the man in the eye. He didn’t want to kill Wuxen, but he would do it if he opened the lid. Knife in the throat, Patrik decided, he couldn’t risk shouting.

  This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author's work.

  Wuxen seemed to read something from Patrik’s eyes. “Is this your first time seeing an executed one?”

  Patrik nodded. In truth, he had stopped counting bodies a long time ago. Who cared about southern spies, thugs, and criminals?

  “I see. I fully understand. The emotions can be overwhelming. I’ll excuse myself and let you savor the moment. Just don’t be rude, Stina needs to handle the carcass afterwards.”

  “Thank you for the consideration. I’ll join you shortly.” Relief washed over Patrik; this made things easier.

  “Take your time, but remember to add fuel. I have some business with Stina about a soiree I am planning.“

  Patrik waited for Wuxen to leave before he opened the coffin lid. Hanbriker stared at him from the inside, eyes open, bulging from fear. He was tightly tied, and a sock in his mouth bulged from under the dirty strip of fabric tied to his face, almost suffocating him.

  “What a pleasant surprise,” Patrik said with a flat voice, looking at the man deeply in the eyes as he drew a knife from under his jacket.

  Hanbricker blinked furiously, but he was unable to move as Patrik cut the fabric from his face, purposefully drawing a thin, bloody line to his cheek in the process, but Hanbricker didn’t notice it. Patrik pushed the blade’s tip into the sock to lift it away. Hanbriker smelled of piss and burned hair, and the branding in his forehead had leaked wild streaks of blood and liquids to his face and hair. The man made a weak, horrified sound as Patrik yanked the sock away.

  “Do you have the message?” Patrik asked, leaning close above the coffin.

  “I didn’t mean to do it,” Hanbricker whimpered. Luckily, he couldn’t make loud noises.

  “Deliver it, now.”

  “Wait, you-you are an ash demon. They said I was burned clean. There is nothing you can touch in my soul, go away! Let me drift to the rebirth. I want to be born rich. I can be a girl if needed, just make me rich.” A tiny drop of saliva reached close to Patrik as Hanbricker tried to spit on him. The eyes flashing in the shadows of the coffin were haunted by madness.

  Patrik regarded the man blankly, as Hanbricker mumbled the protective nonsense, naming Olds and muttering their spells. The lack of sleep and all the tricks Patrik had pulled to get Hanbricker out alive after he had failed the simplest task ever boiled over, clouding Patrik’s mind.

  A soft curse in Ainadu's native language left Patrik’s lips as his vision tunneled, and he hit the tied man to the chest, breaking a rib. He held the knife to the man’s face, hissing: “You felt that. Didn’t you? Do you need more demonstration? I can give that.”

  “No!” Hanbricker whispered, staring at the knife. “What…who are you?”

  “I am the worst nightmare you may experience alive, you moron. Give me the message, or I will pyrocauterize you alive. They sent you here as a corpse, and you end as a corpse, if I don’t get that message.”

  “What message?”

  “The message you were to deliver to Sinaah in the Sunken Keg.”

  “...right, that one. You sure you’re not an ash demon? You sound like one.”

  “You are alive. No demons are around.” Patrik gritted his teeth.

  “Um. The message. Yeah. Butterfly flies over waves.”

  “What color of butterfly? It had a color, you imbecile.” Patrik opened his sight, grasping the dragon power to show this idiot what he was dealing with. This time, there were no dead ones’ memories, or his rage burned too bright for them to have any effect.

  “Violet.”

  “There are no violet butterflies! What was the color?” Patrik couldn’t believe Hanbricker’s total lack of competence.

  “Red…no, it was black. Black butterfly.”

  “Are you sure?” Patrik asked slowly, releasing the sight. The room seemed smaller. This was grave news on a political level: the code meant that trade minister Mendes was going to present his dreaded list to the senate. Its approval would mean a trade war and severely limit North’s influence on the Shallow Sea.

  Hanbricker nodded, blinking his eyes. Fresh sweat made new smears among the blood on his forehead.

  Patrik knew Jesrade would disapprove of this. His half-sister would scold him if she heard about this, but Jesrade didn’t need to know. Her responsibilities and realities were different: in Patrik’s world, mercy and fairness didn’t play a part when the North’s safety was concerned.

  He saw the scared man, tied and helpless. Hanbricker had delivered the message. He would run away at the first chance, the brand in his head marking him a traitor among his own; no one would listen to his tale. But he might talk. Patrik couldn’t take the risk.

  He leaned in the coffin and forced Hanbricker’s mouth open to stuff the dirty sock back inside. He pinched the man’s nostrils closed and waited, questioning how his life had come to this.

  “Your soul will fly on eternal wings,” Patrik whispered a funerary blessing in his native language as he watched the man die. It took long minutes until Hanbricker’s wildly flinching eyes stilled and his heart stopped.

  ***

  Patrik walked back to the corridor, forcing himself to play this game until the bitter end. His mind was already listing things to be done, people to be contacted, and items to be ensured to prepare for Mendes’ next move. The soft sounds of discussion led him to a room where Wuxen was focused on a shirtless man lying on a table with long, thin needles protruding from his skin.

  Patrik coughed, hoping Wuxen was not involved in something that would prolong the visit. He was sure the pyrocautizer would notice nothing wrong with the body: Patrik had burned the sock and ties in the furnace. Still, Patrik was prepared to end all questions swiftly and finally, should it be needed.

  “Hello there. You look pale, would you like a drink?” Stina asked. She held a metal ball in her palm and absentmindedly rolled a crank on its top.

  “I’m fine, thank you. Did I interrupt something?”

  “Oh no, Stina has been showing me the basics of needle therapy. You want to try? Or did you perhaps already get your share of new experiences for today?” Wuxen examined Patrik closely, but seemed satisfied with what he saw.

  “Thank you, but I have already tried the needles. It’s a relaxing treatment for aching muscles.”

  Stina smiled at Patrik. The ball in her hands whirred, and she carefully touched a needle to the hole in the ball’s bottom. The man on the table sighed in response, from pain or pleasure, Patrik couldn’t tell.

  “Are you joining the soiree on Saturday, Mister Merriweather? I could take you to demonstrate the practice. I promise it will be pleasant.” Stina asked.

  “At eight in my house. You are very welcome,” Wuxen said.

  “You have been a wonderful host, lord Wuxen, but I must disappoint you. I already have a business appointment for that evening,” Patrik lied.

  “I told you, he is a serious man,” Stina said.

  “Some other time, then. It has been my pleasure to introduce you to new experiences. Come, my friend, let’s leave the good pyrocaustizer at her state-approved business. See you on Friday, honey.”

  Patrik expected uncomfortable questions on the ride back to the city, but none followed. Instead, they talked about the city restaurants. Patrik considered how easy it would be to infiltrate Wuxen’s house and make his death look like a freaky accident, possibly with needles, but he decided to trust the man not to talk to the authorities. The decision was not easy, but his heart was a little lighter when he walked away from Lord Wuxen’s house, knowing his parties would continue spreading life and gossip in Giza’s somber heart.

  Hunting Lady happens between this chapter and the next.