Trumpets and flutes had been blaring since 4:00 A.M. Being off the beaten path, the Cynder Block escaped most of the din of December 21. A loud crescendo of brass startled Laura awake around 4:45, but otherwise the festivities remained a distant echo. Now, in the midst of the party at 10:30 A.M., the noise was deafening.
The Tiber Circuit held twice as many people as usual—spilling into the road, as cars had been banned from this street today. The drab, muted colors of everyday fashion had morphed into blazing hues in fanciful form. A woman nearby cavorted in a ragged dress of red and purple, gold bells stitched along patched sleeves and jangling at her ankles so she created a racket of her own with every movement. Underyear being a time of strange and vivid fashion, no one gave her a second glance.
Cheryl had bells, though not as many. Hers were sewn onto the fabric belt around her waist, a bright green matching the rest of her dress so she looked like a little forest spirit. That dress was one of Morgan’s labors of love many years ago; Laura had worn it when she was little, too. Now she and Morgan wore dresses in shimmering gold fabric, with multicolored patterns down the front in mimicry of stained-glass windows. Laura’s dress smelled of mothballs, and the stitched back bunched weirdly; these were given to her mother and Morgan before Cheryl was even born, and Morgan dug them out for every Underyear celebration.
Gold décor draped from the buildings along the Tiber Circuit, mingling with red ribbons and electric candles above the heads of vendor stalls, which stood flush against the buildings with room between them left only for the doors of businesses. The vendors sold candles, charms, celebratory figures, and knickknacks, but mostly food. The smell of fried and baked delicacies wafted in the air above them, and Laura mentally counted through the contents of her coin purse. She planned to drop money on the ever-popular kinral on a stick.
“Cheryl, stay close,” Morgan chided, reeling her daughter in. “Let’s look at all of it before you buy something. Maybe there’s something better up ahead!”
“And we’re supposed to meet Okane,” Laura reminded them. She’d arranged to meet Okane by the stand with the shooting game, but while she saw a gaggle of preteens squealing over mock rifles up ahead, she didn’t see him. “He should be around here somewhere.”
“Maybe he’s looking for a signal?” Morgan suggested. “It’s hard to pick out anyone like this.”
That was true. Laura couldn’t see over the heads of the crowd, which put a bit of a damper on her vision.
“I should’ve been more specific,” she muttered.
Morgan leaned down, using both hands now to grab Cheryl’s arm. “Honey, didn’t I just say not to run off?”
“But he’s right there!” Cheryl pointed.
Okane was in the clock shop just to the side of the game stall. The shop’s windows, normally huge and bright with Seeley’s Sellers of Clocks, Watches, and Timekeepers painted across the panes, were mostly obscured by a vendor’s banners. Through a gap between stall and banner, Laura spotted her coworker turning over a small clock in his hands, glancing up every so often to check the outside. She waved furiously. To her relief this caught his attention. He left the shop and made his way to them. The whole way he recoiled from the raucous crowd. He had no Underyear garb of his own save for a thick sash belted around his waist, bearing a multitude of coin decorations that clanged as he walked; otherwise he wore his everyday clothes, even if he sported the brightest of his kin-treated vests.
“Happy Underyear,” said Laura.
“Happy Underyear to - - -, too.” He glanced around furtively. “Is it always so crowded?”
Laura laughed. “The fact that you even have to ask … Underyear’s one of the biggest holidays in Orien. They call it the sleepless season. It’s eternally crowded.”
“You don’t know about Underyear?” Cheryl leaned forward in Morgan’s grip, eyes wide.
“He’s been excessively sheltered,” Laura offered wryly. “Have you done anything yet?”
“No,” he admitted. “I was more under the impression that this would be a solemn holiday, what with - - -r stories about the candles. What I’ve seen so far is … uniquely irreverent.”
“That’s the spirit of Underyear,” Morgan chuckled. “What you can’t do normally, you can do this week.”
“Like eat dessert first,” said Cheryl.
“Not that,” said Morgan.
“I’ll explain on the way,” said Laura, hooking their elbows and leading Okane down the street. This gave her an opportunity to lean a little closer, hopefully so Morgan couldn’t catch her words; Okane got easily flustered over his lack of knowledge, so the last thing she wanted was her aunt making a big deal of it.
“Should I be expecting mob attitudes from everyone on the street?” said Okane.
“No,” Laura scoffed. “We say ‘anything goes,’ but Amicae’s still made up of stuffy traditionalists. On the main streets you’ll get ‘scandalous’ fashion trends, lawful things happening in not-so-lawful places, and a hell of a lot of noise.”
“And how does that tie into candles?”
“Underyear doesn’t have a single origin story. It’s a hodgepodge of five different holidays. They all had similar themes, so one way or another they ended up merging into the same week. The basic trend is that we’re waking up spring and breaking out of winter. Some people do that solemnly, through praying, but that’s not the popular method. These days it’s just the loudest, brightest party you can manage. Lots of music, lots of light, and anything fun you can legally accomplish.”
“Hence the candles,” said Okane, eyeing the nearby vendors; wax dripped from almost every tabletop.
“It’s the sleepless season because the noise and the light has to keep going for the full week,” Laura continued. “The parties go on for days. You celebrate until you drop, take a nap, and come right back as soon as you wake up. You can probably tell it’s Cheryl’s favorite time of year: no school, and no bedtime.”
“And no one takes advantage of it?” Okane marveled.
Laura winced. “If you look harder, you can see darker things happening behind the scenes, but all sorts of work and regulations fall apart during the holiday. I’d be surprised if there are even three policemen on duty in this Quarter today.”
“Should we expect mobsters in the open? Like the Silver King - - - came across before?”
“Even they don’t fight during Underyear.”
“That’s what - - - said about Sundown Hills.”
True enough. Still, Laura tried to give him a confident smile. “Just stay where the light’s brightest. Mobs won’t touch you any easier than an infestation would.”
A deafening crack echoed ahead of them, accompanied by a sparkling red flare that danced over the décor and sent a shudder through Laura’s amulets. Okane startled so hard his elbow jabbed Laura’s ribs, and she winced. Cheryl gave a delighted shriek, lost in the cheering of the crowd. In reply a salvo of colors showered after it, amulet-powered blues and greens that threatened to catch the streamers. Even farther along, someone whooped and fired a distress flare. An ugly white cloud arced over them.
Morgan clicked her tongue. “Light is one thing, but I’m not sticking around for them to set the street on fire. There’s a concert near the old courthouse. How about we go there?”
“I was actually hoping to take Okane to one of the churches,” said Laura.
“But that’s boring,” said Cheryl.
“We wanted to light more candles,” said Laura.
Cheryl made to argue more, but Morgan thankfully caught her.
“You can join us again after the service,” she said, already leading Cheryl toward a side street. “First one to find Lady Spring wins. Oh, and light a candle for Charlie, won’t you? His uncle passed away this year.”
Laura made a face. “Charlie can light his own candles.”
“That’s not very Underyear of you,” Morgan scolded. “See you later!”
Okane eyed Laura skeptically. “Lady Spring?”
“There are about three hundred of them,” said Laura, rolling her eyes. “Underyear is meant to wake up spring, right? So we have symbols of spring. They usually lead the parades, but kids like to track them down. It’s like a game.”
“And - - -r family is fine with - - - not participating?”
“I told you, it goes all week. I’ll find Lady Spring and catch another concert later on. They go almost constantly.”
He didn’t look satisfied with this answer, but he hadn’t seemed entirely comfortable at all today. “- - - don’t have to lead me around. I may not be familiar with the holiday, but I’m not entirely ignorant. I don’t want to spoil it for - - -.”
“What would you be doing otherwise?” said Laura. “Sitting at home and waiting out the week?”
She’d wondered before what he’d do, and could only picture him sitting in the dark with that one blue candle. Quiet. Alone. The very idea drained her excitement, and judging by his silence now, she’d hit the nail on the head.
“Spiritualist churches are the ones who uphold candles,” she said. “It’s calm in there. Crowded, sure, but you might feel more at home. Morgan catered to one of them last year, it’s got fantastic architecture. Let’s head over there, and we can get some food on the way. Honestly, the food’s my favorite part of Underyear.”
They wormed through a particularly large group of people, who shrieked about upcoming fireworks, orchestral concerts, and holiday drama series in the Second Quarter. A radio had been pulled out and balanced on a vendor table, where it blasted still more music over the roar of the crowd. A fiddler nearby competed with this for attention and clarity, and the furious movements of his bow threatened to injure passersby. More lights popped and crackled overhead, mingling with the cheers from game booths. They passed one of the Battle Queen squares, where people climbed the usually sacred plinth and equestrian statue; a shirtless man had seated himself behind the bronze queen, and now drunkenly waved sparklers while his fellows cheered. Okane gawked at this so long Laura had to practically drag him away. Shortly after, they found food vendors, and Laura finally got her kinral on a stick.
“Meals don’t really happen at Underyear,” she said, as they stopped again; on this side street, their progress had stalled due to an unorganized dance blocking the entire road. “It’s sort of like the parties. Eat what you can at vendors and get right back to partying. I’ve heard it’s different in upper Quarters, though.”
“I wouldn’t know,” said Okane. He’d made short work of his baked potato, and held the last of it protectively. “Sullivan never stayed in the house around this time of year. He had other parties to go to, and never threw his own.”
“Is that why you didn’t know about Underyear?” said Laura.
“It explains why the other servants didn’t come in,” said Okane. “It wasn’t bad, though. That first year, it was the only time I could be with my mother without someone yelling at us. We had the run of the house.” His expression softened, his voice still quieter with the memory. “It was fun. I … I jumped on Frank Sullivan’s bed, because even his son was never allowed to do that. She laughed at me.”
A smile tugged at Laura’s mouth. “Your mother sounds like she was a lot of fun.”
“She was.” He watched the dancers as if in a daze before coming back to the present. “What about - - -r mother? She wasn’t with Morgan. Didn’t - - - say she and - - -r father were on break now?”
“They’ve been on break for weeks, but I haven’t seen them yet,” said Laura. “They do that.”
“Wouldn’t they want to visit their daughter?”
Laura shrugged. “I don’t really feel like their daughter. I think they only had me because they felt obligated to have a child after marriage, but they never had time for me, and never had the drive to take an interest. If they saw me right now, they wouldn’t recognize me.” She caught sight of his expression and snorted. “Don’t make that face. I’m more than used to it. Morgan and Cheryl are all I need.”
“Still—”
The dancers had been hopping along to the tune of a tuba, and either the performer got spooked by something or just wanted to keep them on their toes; an extra long, extra loud note roared over them, and what little organization the dancers had fell into chaos. A woman tripped straight into Okane. She giggled and tottered back into the dance, but she’d managed to knock the potato out of his hands. The devastated look on his face made Laura burst into laughter.
“Don’t worry,” she wheezed. “There’s more than enough vendors between us and the church!”
“Church or temple?” A mobile vendor had appeared behind them, laden with marionettes and ribbons. “If you’re going to the temple, they’re giving out free ribbons. Want one?”
“Sure,” said Laura.
The vendor beamed, pulling two ribbons from the bunch. “You can tie them onto any of the statues you please. I’m sure the Immortals will grant you their favor.”
That done, the vendor moved off. Laura blinked down at the ribbons—one orange, one pink—and held them wordlessly out to Okane. After some consideration he took the pink one and scrutinized it.
“Temple means Immortalists, right? Like the place we practiced at, back when Clae was alive?”
“That’s right. We’re actually right in that area.” Laura hadn’t realized how far they’d detoured to avoid the concerts, and was struck with a sudden wave of nostalgia. The temple couldn’t be more than a few blocks away. “Do you want to visit? It should be another quiet place.”
“It would be nice to go there again,” said Okane. “Without an infestation, it should be calm. I’d like to see that place as it’s meant to be seen.”
“Calm,” however, was out of the question for Underyear. They found the temple’s street packed with people, the stone canir by the door decked out like parade horses, and extra banners on the outer walls. More vendors handed out ribbons, directing curious passersby inside.
“That’s a much bigger crowd than I was anticipating.” Laura squinted at the doorway, where a throng gathered. She didn’t remember this temple being very spacious; how were they fitting so many people? “Do you want to come back later? We do have the whole week.”
“More people might come by that time.” He wrapped the pink ribbon around his fingers only to unravel it and loop it differently over the digits. “Besides, I said I wanted to see it as it’s meant to be. This might be it.”
The entry hall of the temple echoed even when no one was around, so the clamor as they entered was almost deafening. The streamers overhead swayed with the air currents, but Laura ignored that as they emerged into the main room with its wide staircase and statue-filled alcoves. The stairs had no railing, so the pair kept to the walls as best they could. Laura focused so hard on navigation that she almost passed their destination entirely. Okane had to tug lightly on her sleeve to stop her. They stopped in front of the alcove with its familiar statue, where three months ago an infected amulet had been hidden. The idol had lost its old wreath and some of its ribbons, though the fruit offerings and horse statuettes at its feet had been replenished. No one else had stopped here, too busy with what must be more important statues.
“This is a sight for sore eyes,” she joked.
“It’s been a while,” Okane agreed. He reached out to touch one of the horses.
“Kind of bizarre to see it again.”
He held up the ribbon, unraveling it one last time. “Do we just tie these on?”
“I think so.”
Laura dug out her own ribbon, and they leaned into the alcove to tie these around the statue’s arms. The scraps of fabric blended in with the rest of the décor, but Laura felt a small amount of pride at the sight. The statue remained static and pale, faintly smiling like their amulets.
Okane’s head swiveled around sharply. The speed made infestation spring to mind, and before it even properly registered Laura tensed, alert for any threat. Was this another attack by the mobs? Here of all places, now of all times? But no disturbance could be seen. No one looked so much as perplexed. Okane’s focus rested on a specific person, who leaned against the wall between this alcove and the next.
The stranger was a young man, perhaps an inch taller than Okane. His dark hair hung in long bangs over his face, the rest falling back over his shoulders in a loose ponytail; thin braids and red beads could be glimpsed intermingled there, the red matching his simple robe perfectly. The overall look was reminiscent of native fashions, though not nearly as complex. A silver pendant in the shape of a cross potent lay on his exposed collarbone.
The man noticed their attention and gave a crooked smile. “Hello.”
“Hello,” said Okane.
When it came to strangers, Okane typically let Laura do the talking first. Even with the MacDanels, Laura tended to lead conversations unless he had a specific point. He’d fixed on this man now—obviously a point had to be made—but there was no urgency in his posture. Just … interest.
“Happy Underyear, sir,” said Laura.
The man’s smile widened by a fraction and he agreed, “A happy Underyear it is.”
It looked like he’d say more, but he had to press further against the wall as more people shuffled past on the walkway. The same gaggle forced Laura and Okane closer to the alcove, so they almost knocked elbows with the statue. The crowd came to a standstill there, trapping the Sweepers. The man came to this conclusion as well.
“Seems we’ll be stuck here awhile. May as well get to know each other. I’m Theron. And…?”
“I—” Okane piped up immediately, but seemed to realize his own odd behavior and stopped short. After a moment he continued, softer, “I’m Okane. This is my friend, Laura.”
“A pleasure,” said Theron. “And how is Okane and Laura’s day going?”
Strange phrasing, but Laura shrugged it off. “Bright, of course.”
“It’s my first Underyear celebration,” Okane supplied, and immediately winced.
Theron’s eyes widened. “Oh?”
Okane obviously regretted having mentioned it, and forced out, “I’ve been … apart from society around this time. Excessively sheltered.”
Despite Okane’s attitude, Theron continued smiling. Nothing about him hinted at anything dangerous—his posture stayed lax, and surely Okane would’ve recognized another mob negotiator—but he’d locked on to Okane the exact same way Okane had done to him. Full interest. Laura didn’t trust it.
“What a shame!” he said. “Then it may be a first trip to the temple as well?”
“We’ve been here before, just … not with it so crowded,” said Okane.
Theron hummed a note of appreciation, sliding to get a better look at the alcove they stood in front of. “Is this statue special, then?”
“It has memories for us.”
“What kind?”
Okane glanced at Laura. His interest was colored by unease, as if even he had no idea why he was being so forthcoming. She replied for him, “Our old boss had an attachment to it, and he died recently.”
“My condolences.” Theron inclined his head, right hand brushing against his sternum in what must be a sympathetic gesture. He glanced at the alcove again. “Are Okane and Laura familiar with this Immortal?”
“Not really.” Laura shrugged. “The priest said something about a light in the dark, that was all.”
“A light in the dark, and gatherer of the lost.” Theron ran a finger over a ceramic horse’s mane. “Aster rides into the dark and soothes those he finds. Niveus is his sacred stone, so he’s associated with the calm and mental healing it brings. He is the stars, immovable and unshakable in every season. One would think he’d be the focus of Immortalist Underyear, but he tends to only be popular in certain sects.”
“Most of our visitors don’t even know his name,” chuckled a passing priest. “I respect your knowledge, stranger.”
A templegoer the priest didn’t recognize? That coupled with his odd speech made Laura ask, before she realized it could be offensive, “Are you not from here? Oh! Sorry, I mean—”
“It’s fine.” Theron waved it off. “It’s true, I’m not from Amicae. I’m from the north. Navis area, practically Ruhaile. It’s much warmer down here. Great place for winters.”
“Are - - - a traveler?” said Okane.
“A courier.”
Okane’s head tilted. “- - - carry things? Don’t trains do that?”
“I’m a special courier. I don’t travel by rail. I’m not as fast, but I’m more reliable. Besides, not everything can travel by train.”
“Like what?”
“Secrets.” He put a finger to his lips. “Valuable things.”
Laura didn’t like the sound of it. “Valuable things” sounded like illegal, dangerous things to her. She glanced around for a distraction or even an escape, but Theron seemed satisfied to leave them at that.
“I’ll have to be going now.” He reached one hand into his robe and pulled out a coin embossed with the same cross he wore. This he set at the statue’s feet. “Happy Underyear, and best wishes. I appreciate this meeting.”
“It was nice meeting - - -.”
Theron gave one last smile before pushing back into the crowd. They tracked his red robe until it became obscured. Okane leaned to the side, trying to get another glimpse of him.
“Have you met him before?” said Laura. “You were pretty talkative.”
“I was, wasn’t I?” Okane shook his head. “I don’t understand it myself. I just felt as if I could trust him. Like he was familiar.”
Laura looked back at the crowd, puzzling over how that could be possible, and came to an absurd conclusion.
“You don’t think he was a Magi, do you? All the strange ways he was phrasing things, it would’ve been so much easier for him just to say ‘you.’ Unless he couldn’t.”
“He can’t have been,” said Okane. “Magi don’t involve themselves with cities.”
“Clae’s grandmother did,” said Laura.
“She was an exception.”
“Maybe Theron is, too.”
“No. No, if he was…” Okane pressed a hand to his chest. His vest crinkled, as if paper hid beneath it. The last time Laura had seen him store pages that way—
“Are you still carrying Clae’s letter?” she whispered, aghast.
“It mentioned things,” he said vaguely. “Laura, believe me, Magi would not come here. Maybe once, but not now. Maybe never again.”
“I don’t understand,” said Laura.
“Trust me,” he said, and he sounded pained. “If we see a Magi here, it’s not a Magi. It’s something bad. If we see Theron again, we go the opposite way.”
If he was this urgent about it she wanted to know details, but Laura swallowed down her questions. Okane didn’t keep secrets from her. Once he’d had space to breathe, space to feel safe, he’d tell her everything.
“I trust you,” she said, and he relaxed immediately. “Tell you what, let’s go to that church. This wasn’t the peaceful stop I thought it would be.”
It took some time to exit the temple, but from there they moved freely along the streets. Evening closed in, but every light on the street glowed; the only darkness visible hung high overhead, suspended from them by amulets and electric determination. More light shone from the houses on either side, windows open to the winter chill as parties raged inside and more candles guttered at the sills. Drums pounded on the next street, followed by hissing steam; the parades had begun.
“You’ll know the church when you see it,” said Laura. “Most churches these days are built simple, almost like houses. This one’s old.”
And it was. The curving road finally straightened, and a gap became visible in the buildings ahead. The Three Child Church rose from a gated compound, stone spires soaring to dwarf the neighborhood while the building rooted itself in a halo of grass. The black metal fence looked foreboding, but people went to great lengths to protect vegetation in the lower Quarters, and Laura didn’t blame them. For the time being, Underyear banners flapped along the bars, and all the church’s lights glimmered. The effect was almost as entrancing as Gustave’s Moon in Puer. The only problem was—
“The gates are closed,” said Okane.
“That can’t be right,” said Laura.
She hurried her pace. The gates had indeed been pulled shut. A man inside the compound threw chains around the close, pulling it tighter while locks lay waiting at his feet. A wispy white overcoat draped over his black clothes, marking him a priest, but he was also Ralurian and several inches shorter than Laura. He looked up at them, yellowish eyes extra stark against dark skin.
“We’re closed,” he said shortly.
“Why?” said Laura. “It’s Underyear.”
“Confidential,” said the priest.
He looked ready to throw the locks at them if they tried coming closer, and that made Laura pause. Ralurian culture prided itself not only on terrible jokes (potato peels included), but also on daredevil attitudes. Maybe it was coincidence, maybe it was bias, but the priest’s fear only compounded with Okane’s unease in Laura’s head. She snapped into business mode.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Confidential,” he repeated. “Nothing for you to worry about. Return to the celebrations.”
Laura dug in her coin purse and pulled out her ID. She flashed the multiple stars there and said, “My name’s Laura Kramer, and I’m a Sweeper. My coworker and I work closely with the police department. Please tell us—” She glanced back at Okane to indicate his involvement, only to find that he’d stopped several feet behind her to stare at the church. “Tell us if there’s anything we can help with, or if there’s anything we need to get the police involved with.”
The priest’s hands stilled. “A Sweeper.”
“Yes.”
He stared at her ID a while longer before finally looking at her face. “Something’s wrong in the church. I don’t know what it is, I don’t know where it came from or where it went, but I won’t expose any more of my parishioners to danger.”
“What makes you think something’s wrong? Are there any—”
Laura broke off as Okane caught her arm. She turned to scold him, only to pause at his expression.
“It’s an infestation,” said Okane. “There’s a massive infestation inside.”