Hours before the bright sun rose, Inquisitor Ordren roused himself from bed and left his small home on the north side of Ancris. He hated that he had to wake so early to visit the Hissing Man. He hated that he had to walk there along the dirty streets of Kiln. He hated that he had to pass through the stink of the dragonworks and descend into the catacombs just to meet with the man. More than anything, he hated the Hissing Man himself.
He walked through a rough tunnel, shivering from the cold, holding a cracked glass globe with a wisp inside it to light the way. The wisp was bright and lit the tunnel well, but its glacial blue glow made him feel even colder than he already did. Worse, the closer he came to the crypt, the more his hands trembled and his heart raced. When he’d first reached out to the Chosen years ago, he’d asked if he could just send a note, but the Hissing Man had denied him.
“Nothing written,” he’d hissed. “Ever. When you have information for me, you’ll deliver it in person.”
Ordren had nearly walked away from the arrangement, but it was such easy money. All he had to do was pass along a bit of gossip from the Crag here and there. Plenty of people did it. All throughout Ancris, rumors were passed to the palace, powerful senators, the Church, the Chosen, even the Red Knives—anyone who paid. It was illegal of course. Ordren could lose his job over it. But no one asked many questions about whispers, and even if he was caught, the chances of a formal inquiry were slim. And the goddess knew he wasn’t getting rich chasing down thieves or raiding drug dens.
No, his making an extra stag or two wasn’t hurting anyone, but why, oh why did it have to be underground? The cold made his joints ache, and the tunnels seemed to close in the farther he went. It was even worse in the section where the walls turned square and manmade. It felt unnatural, too perfect, and all the more fragile for it.
Light spilled along the tunnel from a globe in the ceiling of the room ahead. Ordren tucked his wisplight into his coat pocket and passed through an archway adorned with Alra’s eight-pointed star. He paused at the octangular crypt to take a deep breath and try to pull himself together. The stone columns were stout, the domed ceiling smooth and free of cracks, yet it all felt like it was about to come crashing down on Ordren’s head.
The crypt was part of Alra’s Acre, a section of the catacombs set aside for the Church. It had three ornate archways set at right angles that led to more crypts. Between each set of arches was a door that led to a sepulcher that housed the remains of an illustra, a high shepherd, or perhaps even a high priest or priestess.
Gaul, a pudgy-faced eunuch in a black habit, stood at the far end of the crypt. Built like a bloody watchtower, Gaul was a scourge, a member of the Chosen assigned to guard the sepulcher the Hissing Man had claimed as his own. While the common citizen would lose a finger for stepping foot in Alra’s Acre without permission, and those found disturbing a sepulcher would lose a hand or a foot, the Hissing Man was the head of the Chosen, and no one, not even the Church, dared challenge him.
“Heard any good jokes lately?” Ordren said to tongueless Gaul. It was a crude joke, but the man always looked at Ordren as if Ordren were a beggar. When Gaul merely stared, Ordren went on, “Well, open the door, you leaving from a lumber mill. The man and I have things to discuss.”
After another long stare, Gaul blinked languidly and opened the door beside him. He made a few hand gestures to someone inside. Some murmuring followed—too soft to hear—and Gaul bowed his head and stepped aside, leaving the door open. Then, he crossed his arms and stared at the far wall as if Ordren didn’t exist.
Ordren entered the sepulcher and found the Hissing Man sitting at a desk beyond a marble sarcophagus. The area was normally reserved for a plinth with a book that told the tales of the deceased. The plinth and its book were in the corner to make room for the desk, a set of chairs, and a bookshelf.
The Hissing Man wore a black habit like Gaul, but it was curiously threadbare. Its hood was pulled up, making him look more than a little like a hangman. As always, his eyes were all but hidden behind black, gauzy bandages. Some said he wore them in homage to the illustrae, who wore masks that obscured their eyes. Others said it was mockery. To Ordren it had always seemed desperate, as though the Hissing Man felt himself equal to the Church’s leaders. He wasn’t. He was a proxy at best, a glorified servant, an old hunched mastiff that barked or bit depending on the Church’s needs.
This dog pays well, though, Ordren mused as he made his way past the sarcophagus.
The Hissing Man was writing on a scroll but paused when Ordren reached the far side of his desk. “Well?” he breathed, thin and raspy.
For years, Ordren had been convinced his harsh voice was an act, a way to hide his true identity, but time and repeated meetings had eventually convinced him it was real, perhaps the result of disease or injury. Whatever its origin, his voice was surely why he’d adopted the name of the villain from folk tales meant to scare children into obedience.
“You asked me to keep an eye on the shrine renovations,” Ordren told him, “and to tell you anything that might slow its progress.”
The Hissing Man finished writing his letter, blotted it, and rolled it up. “And?”
Ordren sat in the empty chair. “Master Renato has apparently made an almighty push to catch up on the work so he can sneak off for a day or two. He’s arranged a research expedition to Tortoise Peak.”
The Hissing Man looked up at Ordren with his bandaged eyes. “An expedition . . .”
Ordren nodded, shifting in the chair so his piles didn’t hurt so much. “They mean to study it. Examine its alchemycal properties.”
The Hissing Man pursed his lips. “And how did you learn of it?”
“Ash, one of Master Renato’s journeymen, is a friend of Lorelei Aurelius. I overheard him asking her to join him.” Ordren didn’t know the significance of Tortoise Peak, only that the Hissing Man had told him to keep an ear out for anyone looking too deeply into it. Inquisitor Lorelei was young and more like a skittish hare than a proper inquisitor, but she was also sharp. It would likely prove troublesome if she, Master Renato, or any of his assistants spent too much time there.
“Very well,” the Hissing Man said. “Anything else?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. Do you recall Kellen Vesarius?”
“The inquisitor . . . retired inquisitor? Yes. He was assigned to the Mykal Mythros case along with Inquisitor Lorelei, if I remember correctly.”
Ordren nodded. “He was poking about the Crag the other day, asking about that very case.”
The Hissing Man frowned. “Go on . . .”
“He wanted to know if we’d learned anything more about the chalice that went missing from Mykal’s final auction.”
“And have you?”
“No. The case was cold when Kellen retired. It’s still cold.”
“Then why was he asking about it?”
“He didn’t say.”
“He’s nearly a decade into his retirement. Why would he be worried about an old cold case?”
Ordren shrugged. “Kellen always was stubborn.”
“Where does he do his research?”
The question implied the Hissing Man was interested, which meant Kellen was in danger, especially if the old inquisitor had stumbled onto something sensitive. But what was Kellen but a grumpy old goat who’d never shown Ordren an uncia of respect? “He works on the third floor of the library in Old Town. You want me to talk to him?”
“That won’t be necessary.”
Ordren put his hands on the arms of the chair. “Very well. I’ll just see your man about my payment, shall I?”
There was never a time Ordren had come to the catacombs that he didn’t fear the Hissing Man would kill him and leave him in the sewers to rot. That fear arose as the hooded, bandage-eyed man across the desk from him paused and took a long breath. Then he lifted a bell from his desk, rang it, and Gaul ducked his head inside the sepulcher.
“Ten thrones,” the Hissing Man told him.
“Oy,” Ordren said. “I brought you two bits of information. Important information.” His fears hadn’t ebbed, but let a thing like that go, and pretty soon he’d be walking out with tin instead of gold.
The Hissing Man regarded Ordren. By the wisplight, Ordren saw his eyes blink twice. “Twenty.”
Ordren stood, and Gaul reached into a purse at his leather belt and counted out twenty gold thrones. The sum was considerable, equal to two months of pay for his work as an inquisitor. Even so, as Ordren retraced his steps through the cold tunnel toward the dragonworks, he felt like none of it—the sneaking about, the risks, the cursed underground meetings—was worth it.