Pathfinder Tales: The Redemption Engine

Number XX of Pathfinder Tales

James L. Sutter

Paizo Publishing, LLC (2014)

Rating: ★★★★★

When murdered sinners fail to show up in Hell, it's up to Salim Ghadafar, an atheist warrior forced to solve problems for the goddess of death, to track down the missing souls. In order to do so, Salim will need to descend into the anarchic city of Kaer Maga, following a trail that ranges from Hell's iron cities to the gates of Heaven itself. Along the way, he'll be aided by a host of otherworldly creatures, a streetwise teenager, and two warriors of the mysterious Iridian Fold. But when the missing souls are the scum of the earth, and the victims devils themselves, can anyone really be trusted? From acclaimed author James L. Sutter comes the sequel to Death's Heretic, the novel ranked #3 on Barnes & Noble's Best Fantasy Releases of 2011!

**

At last the leader shrugged. He turned to Salim.

"Sorry, gov." There seemed to be a note of real apology in his voice. "But Aurochs don't talk much, so we like to accommodate him as best we can when he does. Off with the sword."

Salim said nothing. Instead, he drew, letting the blade hang point-down in the air between him and the thugs, giving them a better look. Beneath the metallic glob of the melted basket, channels perfectly molded to his fingers gripped his hand. He squeezed, and the brass echoed his own pulse back at him, beating in time with his heart.

Three knives came up. All apology and deference vanished as the thugs spread out, the half-elf and the shaven-headed strongman circling professionally around Salim to either side.

"Now now, Father," said the leader, waving his dagger in admonishment. "Don't go making this more than it needs to be."

"Sorry," Salim said, "but I'm afraid we're a bit beyond that now."

The attack came in a blur of movement, the leader feinting to attract Salim's attention while the bruiser and the addict came together like crashing waves...

The Pathfinder Tales Library

Novels

Prince of Wolves by Dave Gross
Winter Witch by Elaine Cunningham
Plague of Shadows by Howard Andrew Jones
The Worldwound Gambit by Robin D. Laws
Master of Devils by Dave Gross
Death's Heretic by James L. Sutter
Song of the Serpent by Hugh Mattews
City of the Fallen Sky by Tim Pratt
Nightglass by Liane Merciel
Blood of the City by Robin D. Laws
Queen of Thorns by Dave Gross
Called to Darkness by Richard Lee Byers
Liar's Blade by Tim Pratt
King of Chaos by Dave Gross
Stalking the Beast by Howard Andrew Jones
The Dagger of Trust by Chris Willrich
Skinwalkers by Wendy N. Wagner
The Redemption Engine by James L. Sutter
The Crusader Road by Michael A. Stackpole

Journals

The Compass Stone: The Collected Journals of Eando Kline edited by James L. Sutter
Hell's Pawns by Dave Gross
Dark Tapestry by Elaine Cunnningham
Prodigal Sons edited by James L. Sutter
Plague of Light by Robin D. Laws
Guilty Blood by F. Wesley Schneider
Husks by Dave Gross
The Treasure of Far Thallai by Robin D. Laws
Light of a Distant Star by Bill Ward

Short Stories

"The Lost Pathfinder" by Dave Gross
"Certainty" by Liane Merciel
"The Swamp Warden" by Amber E. Scott
"Noble Sacrifice" by Richard Ford
"Blood Crimes" by J. C. Hay
"The Secret of the Rose and Glove by Kevin Andrew Murphy
"Lord of Penance" by Richard Lee Byers
"Guns of Alkenstar" by Ed Greenwod
"The Ghosts of Broken Blades" by Monte Cook
"The Walkers from the Crypt" by Howard Andrew Jones
"A Lesson in Taxonomy" by Dave Gross
"The Illusionist" by Elaine Cunningham
"Two Pieces of Tarnished Silver by Erik Mona
"The Ironroot Deception" by Robin D. Laws
"Plow and Sword" by Robert E. Vardeman
"A Passage to Absalom" by Dave Gross
"The Seventh Execution" by Amber E. Scott
"The Box" by Bill Ward
"Blood and Money by Steven Savile
"Faithful Servants" by James L. Sutter
"Fingers of Death—No, Doom!" by Lucien Soulban
"The Perfumer's Apprentice" by Kevin Andrew Murphy
"Krunzle the Quick" by Hugh Matthews
"Mother Bears" by Wendy N. Wagner
"Hell or High Water" by Ari Marmell
"A Tomb of Winter's Plunder" by Tim Pratt
"Misery's Mirror" by Liane Merciel
"The Twelve-Hour Statue" by Michael Kortes
"In the Event of My Untimely Demise" by Robin D. Laws
"Shattered Steel" by F. Wesley Schneider
"Proper Villains" by Erik Scott de Bie
"Killing Time" by Dave Gross
"Thieves Vinegar" by Kevin Andrew Murphy
"In Red Rune Canyon" by Richard Lee Byers
"The Fate of Falling Stars" by Andrew Penn Romine
"Bastard, Sword" by Tim Pratt
"The Irregulars" by Neal F. Litherland

The Redemption Engine © 2014 Paizo Publishing, LLC. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or conveyed via the Internet or a website without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles and reviews.

Paizo, Paizo Publishing, LLC, the Paizo golem logo, Pathfinder, the Pathfinder logo, and Pathfinder Society are registered trademarks of Paizo Publishing, LLC; Pathfinder Accessories, Pathfinder Adventure Card Game, Pathfinder Adventure Path, Pathfinder Campaign Setting, Pathfinder Cards, Pathfinder Flip-Mat, Pathfinder Map Pack, Pathfinder Module, Pathfinder Pawns, Pathfinder Player Companion, Pathfinder Roleplaying Game, Pathfinder Tales, and Rise of the Runelords are trademarks of Paizo Publishing, LLC.

Cover art by Craig J Spearing.
Cover design by Emily Crowell.
Map by Robert Lazzaretti.

Paizo Publishing, LLC
7120 185th Ave NE, Ste 120
Redmond, WA 98052
paizo.com

ISBN 978-1-60125-618-8 (mass market paperback)
ISBN 978-1-60125-619-5 (ebook)

Publisher’s Cataloging-In-Publication Data
(Prepared by The Donohue Group, Inc.)

Sutter, James L.
The redemption engine / James L. Sutter

p. : ill., map ; cm. -- (Pathfinder tales)

Set in the world of the role-playing game, Pathfinder.
Issued also as an ebook.
ISBN: 978-1-60125-618-8

1. Monsters--Fiction. 2. Magic--Fiction. 3. Hell--Fiction. 4. Good and evil--Fiction. 5. Pathfinder (Game)--Fiction. 6. Fantasy fiction. 7. Adventure stories. I. Title. II. Series: Pathfinder tales library.

PS3619.U884 R44 2014
813/.6

First printing April 2014.

Printed in the United States of America.

For Margo,
for all the reasons.

paizo.com #3236236, Corry Douglas <corrydouglas@gmail.com>, Aug 10, 2014

Chapter One

Not That Kind of Priest

Give us the purse, gov."

The leader of the little band of cutthroats was tall and lanky, with greasy black hair slicked back from an even greasier face. To his right, a shorter man bore pointed ears indicating elven blood, the bloodshot whites around his human irises turned egg-yolk yellow by one addiction or another. The final man, broader across the shoulders than the other two combined, had a face and arm ravaged by pox, with purple pustules trailing all the way down to his blade hand. All three carried their knives flat against their forearms, making them less visible to passersby while still displaying them prominently for Salim's benefit.

Not that anyone was looking. Around them, the river of bodies continued its flow in and out of the city, parting around the little island of hostility as naturally as water around a stone. This particular robbery didn't concern them, and they were happy to let it stay that way.

Keeping has hands well away from his sword, Salim reached up to the leather cord around his neck and slowly drew the amulet out from within the folds of his black robes, letting it fall against his chest.

The three would-be footpads studied the little black stone with interest, their eyes following the iridescent spiral engraved on its surface. Yet rather than backing away, the leader smiled with genuine humor.

"A priest, eh?" His free hand came up, first two fingers extended, and drew a similar spiral in the air between them. "All due respect to the Gray Lady, gov, but even the death goddess knows that thieves as us gots to eat, same as anybody." He gave the dagger in his other hand a spin, sending it somersaulting flashily over the backs of his knuckles before slapping back into his palm.

The other men were smiling now, too. The half-elf bowed his head in mock respect. "If'n the Lady wants us not to rob you, she'll let us know—but don't go thinking about calling down no miracles of your own, now." He waved his blade toward Salim's chest. "That's cheating, that is."

The other two nodded. With the casual air of a friend collecting on a bet, the leader stepped forward and held out an open hand. "Enough talk. The purse."

Salim glanced around. To either side of the street's narrow channel, shacks and shanties rose up in a vertical avalanche, a trash-walled slum eight stories high, teetering over the street on wooden scaffolding. Children ran riot across unsecured planks, and drunks leaned on rickety railings, their sour vomit dropping dozens of feet into the swirling, swearing crowd. Yet nowhere was there anything close to a uniform, or even anyone willing to look in the direction of Salim's private misfortune.

Fewer than a hundred paces into the city, and he was already being robbed. A poor omen indeed.

Six eyes watched hungrily as Salim reached into his robe once more, deeper this time, and drew out a leather purse, its drawstring pulled tight. Salim weighed it in his hand, feeling the few coins still clicking together inside. Most of the money he'd carried had already gone to the Duskwardens for passage up the cliff, and he'd need to requisition more from the local temple anyway. The handful of copper still left wasn't worth spilling blood over, even blood as cheap as that of these three. He considered flinging the purse over the men's heads and continuing on his way while they scrabbled for it, but settled for lobbing it to the greasy one.

The thief caught it easily, and made an appreciative little half-bow. "A thousand gratitudes, Your Grace. We hope you find your stay in our city as rewarding as we have." He gave a cheery whistle, and both he and the half-elf turned.

"Wait."

It was the first time the poxy one had spoken. The other two stopped and turned back, surprised. Forehead furrowed in concentration, the bruiser raised a hand like a rotting ham hock and pointed. "His sword."

Salim's hand went reflexively to the blade's hilt. The sword was long and narrow, the scabbard a soldier's simple leather, weathered and nicked by years in the elements. Only the hilt was remarkable, and not in a particularly attractive way—the brass basket hilt appeared to have been melted in some great fire, its shape warped and distorted like a lump of baker's dough.

"Don't look like much," the half-elf opined, scratching at an elbow studded with pinprick scars and fresh bruises.

"We could melt it down." The big man continued to squint, as if even this simple thought was a tremendous strain.

The other two looked at each other, and at last the leader shrugged. He turned to Salim.

"Sorry, gov." There seemed to be a note of real apology in his voice. "But Aurochs don't talk much, so we like to accommodate him as best we can when he does. Off with the sword."

Salim said nothing. Instead, he drew, letting the blade hang point-down in the air between him and the thugs, giving them a better look. Beneath the metallic glob of the melted basket, channels perfectly molded to his fingers gripped his hand. He squeezed, and the brass echoed his own pulse back at him, beating in time with his heart.

Three knives came up. All apology and deference vanished as the thugs spread out, the half-elf and the shaven-headed strongman circling professionally around Salim to either side.

"Now now, Father," said the leader, waving his dagger in admonishment. "Don't go making this more than it needs to be."

"Sorry," Salim said, "but I'm afraid we're a bit beyond that now."

The attack came in a blur of movement, the leader feinting to attract Salim's attention while the bruiser and the addict came together like crashing waves.

The addict was faster, and Salim stepped in close to meet him. Clearly used to prey that ran rather than fought, the half-elf barely had time to get his knife up to guard his face. Salim put a boot to the side of the thug's forward knee, kicking out hard. There was a soft pop, and the half-elf's face went white. Both hands dropped reflexively toward the joint that no longer supported his weight, and Salim took the opportunity to wrap his free hand in the man's dirty, corn-blond hair. He pulled, tugging the other man off balance. The half-elf stumbled, and as his face came down, Salim's knee came up. The two met with a crunch of cartilage and bone, and the addict slumped to the street without a sound.

The exchange took only heartbeats, but it was almost too long. Salim spun, and the bruiser's knife slashed through the air where his shoulder had been. The big man recovered quickly for his size, holding the foot-long blade as lightly as a needle. He grinned, showing gums stained black by rot. He beckoned with the knife, motioning for Salim to come to him.

The leader. Where was the leader? On a hunch, Salim launched a foot backward, kicking like a mule. He connected with something soft, and heard the whoosh of air as it left the greasy knifeman's lungs.

Ignoring the man behind him, Salim ran straight at the pox-ridden enforcer. As expected, the big man's knife came up and down in a simple arc, stabbing with the force of a falling pickaxe. Had Salim continued his trajectory, the thick blade might have punched straight through him, cutting through ribs like wicker.

At the last moment, Salim darted sideways, coming in on the knife side, staying safely away from the big man's open hand. Grabbing the knife arm to keep it outstretched, Salim brought his sword up in a cross-body punch. Metal hilt slammed into pustulant cheek. Blood flew and teeth snapped.

With surprising speed, the big man twisted, his elbow coming up under Salim's chin in a sharp burst of light and pain. Salim staggered back, waving his sword wildly in front of him. When his vision cleared, both the leader and the bruiser were grinning once more, the latter through a mask of blood.

Salim became aware of a sound, like the roar of the surf. Though the circle of empty space around the men had grown as pedestrians fled for the shelter of the surrounding buildings, the upper stories were not so discreet. From the precarious balconies and railless planks swanning out over the thoroughfare, children and old men shouted encouragement. Salim couldn't make out the words, but he didn't need to. The locals might favor their own, but the cheering wasn't for one side or the other. It was for blood, and blood alone.

The stick-up men didn't seem to mind. Having moved beyond the usual business of robbery, they were clearly enjoying a little break in the monotony of separating travelers from their purses. Arms extended like triumphant gladiators, they welcomed the howl of the crowd. Then they turned back to Salim.

Salim rubbed his jaw, feeling the swelling bruise.

Enough. These men had their chance, and he had places to be.

They came on in a rush. This time Salim didn't dance to the side or kick out for knees and insteps. Instead, he planted his feet, one slightly in front of the other, and let everything but the two men drain away.

The leader never saw it coming. One moment he was running, knife held blade-down for a punching slash, and the next his fingers were limp, nerveless, the tendons in his wrist sliced cleanly through. Salim's sword continued its trajectory, sailing into position against the bruiser's chest.

The man's reach was long, but Salim's was longer—he never even had to thrust, just let the man's momentum carry him forward, from this life into the next. The blade seemed to sigh as it slid into the attacker's chest, and by the time the man's knife was close enough to matter, there was already a foot of steel protruding from his back. The brute had a moment of genuine puzzlement—a dog confused by the sudden disappearance of a bone—and then his eyes rolled back in his head.

Before the big man could collapse and take the sword with him, Salim shoved hard, sending the body backward and freeing his sword at the same time. He turned the motion into an arcing, backhand slice. Blood fountained, and the leader, who'd been gaping at the sudden death of his lackey, now gaped twice—once from the mouth, and once from the throat. Bodies hit the dirt.

For a moment, the street was silent, the whole city seeming to hesitate. Watching him.

Then there was a cough, and the creak of a wagon axle. As if nothing had happened, the city flowed back into life, giving the bodies just enough space to keep from getting blood on hems or boots. Several street children lingered, no doubt ready to rush in and empty the thieves' purses as soon as Salim moved on. It was the way of things.

"Father."

The sound wasn't so much a word as a burbling. Salim looked down and saw the group's leader reaching a weak hand toward him, not even bothering to cover the whistling waterfall of his throat.

"Father," the man said again, sending a fresh shower down into the sopping mess of his tunic collar. His eyes were wide, pleading.

Feeling awkward, Salim bent closer, careful to keep his robes out of the spreading mess. "Yes?"

"P-prayer..." The man wheezed, then licked his lips and tried again. "Last rites. Please."

"Ah." Salim reached down and wiped his sword clean on the man's shirt, then sheathed it. He took the thief's hand, then placed his free hand on the man's chest. He rummaged around in the dying thief's shirt for a moment, then found what he wanted.

Salim withdrew his own purse from the thief's clothes and tucked it safely back into a pocket in his robes. He squeezed the man's hand once, then stood. The would-be highwayman stared up uncomprehendingly.

"Sorry," Salim said. "I'm not that kind of priest."

Then he turned and walked on into the city.

paizo.com #3236236, Corry Douglas <corrydouglas@gmail.com>, Aug 10, 2014

Chapter Two

City of Strangers

The city went by many names: The Asylum Stone. The City of Strangers. The City on the Cliff. Yet to most, it was simply Kaer Maga—a settlement as old as recorded history, and perhaps a little more. Salim had found plenty of time to read about it on the long ship ride to this cold northern shore, and even more on the passage up the river to the foot of the Storval Rise, the great cliff on which the city stood.

Perhaps "squatted" would be a more accurate term. Despite their majestic perch atop a thousand-foot-tall expanse of sheer stone, Kaer Maga's white walls lacked even basic artistry. While windows had been carved for the convenience of the residents—what good was a cliff if you couldn't empty your waste over it?—the hundreds of randomly spaced openings did little to ameliorate the walls' stark lines. Kaer Maga's face was perpetually blank, its walls concealing and, in that aspect, perfectly describing its residents.

Yet the real oddity of Kaer Maga's walls wasn't in their lack of adornment, but rather their thickness. Supposedly already standing when the first explorers arrived, established by unknown builders for even less known purposes, Kaer Maga's walls were hundreds of feet thick, joining seamlessly to create a hexagonal stone ring two thirds of a mile across. Inside that blocky monument, chambers ran every which way, in places riddling the ring as thoroughly as an ant's burrow, in others opening up into huge caverns almost as wide and tall as the walls themselves. Though some who came to the city preferred the open sky of the ring's center, around the little lake that made life in the city possible, most residents took fuller advantage of the situation and crammed into the hollows inside the walls, carving new corridors and building whole neighborhoods in the larger vaults.

To say that the city was settled would be an overstatement. Rather, the population accreted, growing over centuries like mold on bread. There was no mayor, no governor-general, no distant king that the people swore fealty to. Rather, Kaer Maga had always been a squatter's town, a rough-and-tumble hidey-hole where those who needed to disappear could do so easily. The people came in ones and twos: escaped slaves, convicts on the lam, exiled scions of noble houses. They came to Kaer Maga to start over, to remake themselves or lose themselves entirely.

More often than not, it worked. And in this sanctuaried nature, a refuge for the weirdest and the worst, the hodgepodge and warring residents of Kaer Maga found a common sense of pride. In the famed City of Strangers, your business was your own, and no trade or lifestyle was too taboo to find a berth within its walls. Commerce ruled, and while various gangs and guilds balanced each other out with knives and treaties, formal government was an abomination the city refused to tolerate. According to Salim's books, the few times would-be lords or nations attempted to conquer or annex the city, they found that the inhabitants fought like the cornered rats they were, retreating into their tunnels and digging in tight. Every army that broke on the walls of the Asylum Stone quickly learned a basic truth: that the thief with nothing left to lose will outlast a paid soldier every time.

Independent, anarchic, simultaneously a hellhole and a shining refuge, Kaer Maga had stood for thousands of years as a beacon of hope to outcasts everywhere, its legend stretching even across the Inner Sea to the land of Salim's birth.

It also stank. Despite the space Salim's sword and bearing accorded him, throngs of people packed the narrow streets like cattle in a chute, and the smell was remarkably similar. Salim was relieved when at last the slum-lined main road widened and spilled out into the open-air districts at the city's center.

Tents and stalls collided with each other in a riot of color. A vast patch of mud and grass cut through by stone walkways, the market seemed to cater exclusively to temporary structures, ranging from hawkers carrying their wares in huge backpacks to well-to-do merchants with full wagons and fold-out awnings. Packed between them were men and women selling from sledges, wheelbarrows, dog carts, or directly out of their horses' saddlebags.

It was chaos, but a chaos Salim understood. Keeping his hand visibly on his sword's twisted hilt, he got his bearings off the only obvious landmark—a cluster of stone towers that rose like a bundle of arrows from the market's far end—and stepped forward into the crowd.

And what a crowd it was. Salim was no stranger to the bazaar, or even to the bizarre—he had been a child of the streets, and seen more in his years than most people on Golarion ever dreamed of. Yet the residents of Kaer Maga were hardly your average market-goers.

They were mostly human, yes, but of every color and shape, from the coal-skinned Mwangi of the deep southern jungles to the flax-bearded northmen and the almond-eyed Tians. Mixed in were representatives of other civilized races: haughty, long-lived elves and hard-drinking dwarves, and halflings who flitted beneath and between the larger races like children. Once Salim saw a green-haired gnome, as manic and indecipherable as all her kind, dancing wildly atop a wagon that appeared to sell nothing but dried fish and elaborate hats.

Yet even these were not surprising. Cosmopolitan, to be sure—as eclectic a group as any city could boast, save perhaps for great Absalom at the center of the Inner Sea—but nothing Salim hadn't seen before.

It was the stranger faces that caught Salim's attention. As he passed the filthy cages of a slave market, Salim was astonished to note a group of orcs—not merely the hulking half-breeds, but actual orcs, their gray faces painted with tribal markings and skin pierced with the tusks of warriors they'd slain in combat. Instead of raping and pillaging, these were haggling with the auctioneer, who seemed completely unafraid of being hacked apart and devoured.

A sedan chair came shoving its way through the crowd, its sides hung with thick canvas that didn't quite manage to hide the reptilian tail poking out beneath its bottom edge. Salim stepped aside to let it pass—

—and almost ran directly into a looming mass of green-skinned muscle.

The beast was easily twelve feet tall, with tusks as long as Salim's hand protruding from its porcine muzzle. It wore a toga of white linen, the cloth torn and spattered with blood.

A troll. Even injured, the thing might well take apart half the market before someone put it down. Salim's grip tightened on his sword, and he prepared to spring sideways, perhaps pulling down the nearest tent in hopes of tangling the beast's legs, giving him time to reposition himself.

The troll ignored him, shoving past without a backward glance.

"Fortune," it rumbled, in a voice like the hooves of a cavalry charge. "Portents. Auguries. That which may be, and which, in the seeing, may yet be prevented."

The crowd afforded the hulking shape a respectful space, but without fear. Even as Salim watched, a well-dressed man with a thick gold chain around his neck stepped into the troll's path, inclining his head and holding up a leather purse. The two spoke together for a moment, the troll's voice dropping to a bass murmur. At last the beast nodded.

Without warning, the troll reached down with one massive, claw-tipped hand and tore open its stomach, spilling its entrails into the street. It followed them down, squatting to examine the mess, and the man did likewise. The troll prodded with thick fingers at loops of steaming intestine, still speaking in its slow, stentorian cadences. The merchant's head bobbed enthusiastically. At last the troll stood and scooped up its bloody, dust-covered viscera, packing it roughly back inside its gaping wound. It accepted the proffered purse, pushed it inside its torn stomach as well, and moved on down the street, leaving the smiling customer to carry on about his business.

Salim realized that he hadn't moved—was, in fact, staring like a poleaxed cow—and that every passing second marked him further as a stranger, someone for the local pickpockets and barkers to take notice of. Grimacing, he turned, put the handful of towers on his right once more, and continued on.

After a few streets, the crashing surf of colored tents gave way to more substantial structures of wood and stone. Though they still crowded close together, jostling for every tiny patch of open space, these buildings rose several stories high, tall and narrow. The actual stone walls of the city still towered above them at the district's edge, but at least the building's owners could look out a window and catch a glimpse of sky.

It didn't take long for Salim to locate the place he needed. Five stories tall, the inn had long, sloping eaves that cascaded down each other in a shower of sharp angles. In contrast to the dark wood of the walls, each roof edge boasted a wide board painted brilliant yellow, outlining the mass of gables and giving the whole thing a gilded look.

At ground level, the front face of the building was curiously blank, without the windows or screened porches common to inns in Salim's warmer homeland. Instead, there was only a wide set of double doors, their faces bound in whirls of metal that shone like real gold. Above it rested an even larger inlay, ornate and finely made, showing three birds perched on a branch, their tails twining together and then extending in a wide arc to become the very branch upon which they sat.

The inn's gaudy affluence was matched only by that of its clientele. Though the sun was barely past midday, the queue of people waiting to enter stretched all the way down one side of the building and around the corner. Those who stood wore the clothes and anxious looks of those unused to waiting in line—women in fine dresses and hairdos their slaves must have started on at sunrise, dripping from the arms of men with bright silks and brighter rings. A few folks bucked the trend—a small knot of hard-looking women with swords, or two black-clad men wearing the inverted pentagrams of Asmodeus. Yet all were clean, and most wore what were undoubtedly their best outfits.

Salim made directly for the head of the line, ignoring the angry stares of those he passed. Where one would normally expect to see a bouncer—most often a burly half-orc with more fingers than words in his vocabulary—there was instead only a slight, dark-skinned man perched on a wooden stool. At Salim's approach, he broke off speaking with an obese, clearly irritated merchant and stood, smiling broadly.

"What's this I see?" the man asked. "A fellow man of the south, here in the land of northern barbarians?" He put out his hand.

"Indeed." Salim grasped the man's forearm and squeezed it. He combined the man's skin and accent and made an educated guess. "Zenj?"

"Just so!" The man laughed easily and widely, showing teeth. "From Kibwe originally, though I confess that it's been many long years since I've seen the jungle city. And you have the look of the desert written all over you."

Salim nodded. Now that he was closer, the man's heritage was clearly more complicated than he'd first guessed. His skin was a rich black, far darker than Salim's own sun-baked brown, and shone like polished ebony. Where Salim wore the black robes of his profession, this man wore a blousy shirt of brilliant yellow to match the inn. Both it and his dark pants were finely made, but clearly found no need to scream their pedigree the way the folks in line did. Yet Salim's eye snagged on the pointed ears that sprang up to either side of the close-shorn, wiry hair.

The doorman caught his gaze and gestured to his ears. "A gift from my father. One of the few I'm left with, I'm afraid." He clapped his hands. "But I forget my manners! Alaeh A'kaan, owner and humble proprietor of Canary House."

"Salim Ghadafar." Salim inclined his head politely. "Water for you and your family."

"And yours, Father." A'kaan nodded to the spiral pendant still hanging openly against Salim's chest.

Salim let the appellation pass without comment. When it was clear that no blessing was forthcoming, A'kaan pressed on. "You're a long way from home, Salim."

"So are you."

A'kaan smiled and spread his hands. "This is Kaer Maga, cousin. Everyone here is home." He let his arms drop. "But as much as it pleases me to see another man of Garund, even one with the goatish beard of the north coast, I fear that my pleasure is not the reason you've sought me out."

"I need to get inside." Salim's words were flat, without hesitation.

A'kaan's shoulders slumped slightly, as if he'd expected such a thing but was disappointed anyway. He seated himself on his stool once more. "I'm honored that you would patronize my establishment, Father, yet I fear that it takes more than dark eyes and a whisper of home to jump the line. Not that the other customers wouldn't allow it, of course." He turned to the fat man at the head of the queue—a dyer, by the stained fingernails—and twitched his head. "Go," he said. "You can try again tomorrow."

"But—" The cloth-merchant puffed up his gold-brocaded chest and seemed ready to say something, but his bejeweled consort hissed and jerked hard on his arm. Without another word, the two left the line and disappeared into the crowd moving along the street. A'kaan turned back to Salim, smiling mischievously.

"As you can see, none of them dare question my decisions. But at the same time, the greatest power is the one least exercised. I'm sure you understand."

"Of course," Salim said, but made no move to leave. "But I'm here to meet someone."

"So are most people," A'kaan said evenly.

"The name's Ceyanan."

Dark eyebrows rose. "Now why couldn't you have told me that earlier, before I'd shamed myself by treating you like a common guest?"

"My apologies," Salim said.

A'kaan flicked the words away. "To these uncultured northmen, we are brothers. Let us act as them." He stood and turned to the doorway. "Karus!"

A half-orc of the sort Salim had originally expected appeared in the door. He wore a vest of brilliant yellow, its arm holes cut wide but still straining to accommodate the bulging gray-green shoulders. A thatch of unruly hair had been slicked incongruously sideways above the sloping brow, and one tusk was made entirely of gold.

"Take the door," A'kaan said. "I'll be escorting Master Ghadafar in personally."

The half-orc grunted and nodded, settling his vast bulk precariously on the wooden stool. The next people in line blanched a bit under the weight of his frown, but held their ground.

"Come," A'kaan said, and led Salim inside.

The ground floor of Canary House was large and open, its layout more appropriate for a theater or cabaret than a simple common room. Avian-themed mosaics and inlays like the one above the door hung thick on the walls, and feathers from birds that would shame a peacock sprouted from vases or stretched upward and outward from the cornices. To one side, a long bar jutted out into the room like an isthmus, curving back around the bartender and surrounding him with two lines of drinkers and rows of clean, fluted glasses dangling from long racks above it in a crystal curtain. A freestanding spiral staircase led to the upper floors and provided several young ladies with a banister to lean over seductively. The rest of the room was filled with a swirl of polished wooden tables where guests sat and drank. The place was busy, and just packed enough to imply both excitement and exclusivity.

Most of the patrons weren't talking to each other, however. Instead, they had their heads tilted back, listening to the music. Salim followed their gazes.

Golden cages dangled from the high ceiling, interspersed with hanging arcs of yellow silk. Inside each cage, a beautiful girl wearing still more of the saffron silk—albeit not much of it—sat on a short trapeze, swinging lazily back and forth.

And the music. Salim felt his breath catch in his chest. There were easily a dozen cages, the girls ranging from A'kaan's black to skin so pale that Salim imagined he could see the blue tracery of veins. From each throat came a different note. The song shifted and danced, rising and falling, yet every note was not simply a note but an incredibly complex chord, a wall of music that struck like a fist covered in goose down.

A'kaan smiled. "I see you like my Songbirds."

Salim made no effort to hide his reaction. "They're amazing."

"I train them myself," A'kaan said, his pride obvious. "Purchased as children, mostly, and raised to the song from the time they can speak. It takes years to teach them to weave such harmonies."

Now Salim noted the slim golden chain dangling from each girl's ankle. "Slaves?"

"Of course. What other child would have the patience? And I can hardly let years of investment go wandering off, or get knocked up by the first carter's son who makes eyes at her."

Salim said nothing, but A'kaan must have seen something in his face. He shrugged. "You would prefer they were whores? There are worse ways for a slave to spend her day." He turned. "Come, I'll take you to your friend."

Salim followed A'kaan through the maze of tables. As they went, he studied Canary House's clientele.

Inside, the patrons were even more eclectic than the line outside suggested. There were still many of the richly dressed merchants and would-be nobles, laughing loudly and sometimes falsely with others of their ilk, yet they were far from the majority. One of the trolls Salim had seen earlier sat in an oversized booth with its eyes closed, ears pointed like a horse's toward the singing girls. At another table, two bearded men in robes sat talking with a woman bearing the many pockets and pouches of a wizard, with what appeared to be a tiny dragon curled around her neck and puffing jets of warm air into her curly blonde hair. A longer booth held three men in the rumpled gray-and-brown uniforms of the Duskwardens, the rangers who had earlier that day led Salim safely up the cliff to the city through a series of tunnels.

The residents of the bar were just as diverse. At one end, a centaur stood drinking, not bothering to squeeze in between the human-sized tables. At the other, a short man swathed entirely in gray fabric save for his eyes sat arguing with the halfling bartender, who stood on a ledge running along the inside of the bar like the catwalk on a rampart, bringing him up to eye level with the customers. A chain ran from an iron collar around the veiled man's neck to the belt of the man next to him, a behemoth encased in richly lacquered armor.

"Quite a menagerie you have here," Salim noted.

A'kaan waved. "What else could I do? Allow no one but the rich merchants and family heads? Feh. They're boring even to themselves. It's the mix that's important—keeps things interesting." He smiled. "Those hopefuls outside know their worth, but they also know I don't care. Salt is valuable, yet too much spoils the meal. Gold is the same. Ah, here we are!"

They were at the far end of the room now, beyond the tables and up a short staircase to a balcony from which several doors branched. A'kaan pointed to the one on the left.

"Your friends await you inside."

"I thank you," Salim said formally. "You honor me with your hospitality."

Again, A'kaan shook away his words. "If you're half as interesting as the company you keep, then it's I who am honored." Without further farewells, he turned and moved back down the stairs, into the crowd of guests.

Salim turned back to the door and took a breath. Squaring his shoulders, he pushed it open.

Inside, the room was pitch-black. Even the light from the inn's common room seemed to stop at the door. Salim did the same, hesitating on the threshold.

"Well?" said an unfamiliar voice. "Are you coming in, or aren't you?"

Salim paused, searching for the correct reply.

"Oh, right," the voice said. "The light. My apologies."

A brilliant flame winked to life in the middle of the room. It momentarily dazzled Salim, who had been straining his eyes to peer into the darkness.

The room was nothing special—a square, wooden box with a few long paper wall scrolls bearing A'kaan's now-familiar bird motif. The flickering flame hung unsupported in the air, casting a light that somehow didn't touch the room's shadowed corners. The only other furnishings were four chairs and a long, polished wooden table, its surface bare.

At that table sat a devil. He turned to Salim and smiled, horns shining in the candlelight.

"Now that everyone's here," he asked, "can we begin?"

paizo.com #3236236, Corry Douglas <corrydouglas@gmail.com>, Aug 10, 2014

Chapter Three

The Devil's Due

Salim realized he was gripping his sword hilt. The devil looked pointedly at it, then shifted his gaze to the corner hidden behind the door. "Not much for etiquette, is he?"

"Please, Salim," said another voice, this one all too familiar. "Come in and close the door."

Gritting his teeth, Salim let go of his sword and moved inside. As he let the door swing closed behind him, he tasted iron and felt the familiar warm trickle as blood ran from his nose, catching in his short black beard.

The devil looked at Salim with something between fascination and disgust, then past him over his shoulder. "He's leaking."

"Just a little reminder from the Lady," said the other voice, now behind Salim. "It's a little game we play. Isn't that right, Salim?"

Salim turned.

The angelic creature hung motionless in the air, its toes several inches above the floor. Beneath black hair, the face was too perfect to be human, its smooth features more like a sketch by a master artist than anything nature designed. Its flesh was the alien, hairless white of marble or maggot, and the sheer gray fabric that wrapped its torso was more shroud than toga. If there was gender beneath that garment, Salim had never seen it. Great black wings rose from behind the creature's shoulders, oily feathers melding with the shadows to seem at once comfortable and far too big for the room. They stretched lazily, swirling the shadow into little eddies and currents.

"Hello, Salim."

"Ceyanan." The word was a curse. Salim made no effort to wipe his face. Blood from his nose made its way across the well-trimmed lawn of his beard and dripped onto the wooden floor with a quiet plip.

"Really, Ceyanan," said the devil. "I'm not one to tell others how to housebreak their pets, but this hardly seems suitable for our conversation."

"Of course," Ceyanan said, in its maddening, genderless voice. "My apologies."

There was a sudden touch of wind on Salim's face, stale and cold as the breeze from a long-sealed tomb, and then the blood was gone. Salim refused to react.

"Please," Ceyanan said, raising a hand toward the chairs around the table. "Be seated."

Salim contemplated his options. Normally, he would stand just to spite the angel, but such pettiness might seem a sign of weakness to the devil. With a hard look at the placid apparition, he moved to the table and took a seat, pushing his chair back against the wall so that he could see both of the room's residents.

Ceyanan drifted over, neither walking nor flapping, but rather pulling the shadowy wings along in its wake like streamers that grew and stretched as it moved. It stopped on the other side of the table. An alabaster hand indicated the devil.

"Salim, allow me to introduce Hezechor."

The devil smiled, showing perfect teeth only slightly too pointed for a human. He inclined his head.

Salim had met devils, of course. It was impossible not to in his line of work. This one was a classic breed, with features reminiscent of Asmodeus himself. A crown of short horns sat above a red-skinned and ruggedly handsome face with dark eyes and a small, pointed beard. His robes were a matching red, emblazoned with infernal symbols in black and gold, and left his muscular chest bare.

There, however, the devil's similarities to the Archfiend of minstrels' stories stopped. From the creature's back sprouted a clutch of huge black horns, twisted and ridged like a ram's. They curved out and around him like the tentacles of some tide pool anemone, threatening to cage him in. From several hung scrolls of parchment and papyrus, as well as one that looked suspiciously like human skin, all covered in dense, crabbed sigils that were nauseating to look upon.

"You're a contract devil," Salim said.

"A phistophilus, yes." Hezechor smiled broader this time, and Salim had to suppress a shiver. The devil's eyes seemed to bore through him, even as the rest of the face invited trust. Salim had known confidence men before, and master merchants who could convince you to trade everything you owned for a handful of tin. This creature was in another class entirely. "You're familiar with us?"

"Not personally, no." Salim shook off the devil's uncanny charm like a dog shakes off water. He gave Ceyanan a look. "I'm afraid I strike my infernal bargains elsewhere."

"Pity," said Hezechor, and looked to Ceyanan as well. "Shall we begin, then?"

"Certainly." Ceyanan paused to make sure Salim was paying attention, then spread its hands.

The air between them filled with rows of tiny faces. The illusions swung side to side, giving Salim a full view of the disembodied heads. Out of habit, Salim began memorizing them, breaking them into smaller groups by race and gender and noting scars, tattoos, and other distinguishing features. Most of the faces were human or half-elven, but there was a gnome in there as well, the little man's hair a bloody red too bright for a human's. None of the faces looked particularly friendly.

"Over the last several months, Kaer Maga has suffered a rash of unexplained murders," Ceyanan said. "Dozens of bodies have washed up in the aqueducts and back-alley trash heaps of the city's southern districts, or spattered across the stones at the foot of the cliff."

Salim said nothing. Considering his own welcome, Kaer Maga gave every appearance of being a hard town. He would be astonished if there weren't a dozen murders here in any given month. Or week.

Ceyanan noted his silence and nodded slightly. "Of particular significance is the fact that, of the identified victims, all have been singularly unsavory individuals. Slavers, rapists, murderers, and the like. Despite a great variety of wounds, all were ultimately dispatched by a neat stiletto puncture through the back." This time Ceyanan let the pause stretch.

Always the showman, Salim thought. He sighed and accepted his cue. "So? Why does the Gray Lady care? Let Hell have them."

"Precisely," said Hezechor. The devil was no longer smiling.

Ceyanan looked at Salim. "As Hezechor implies, the issue is not what happened, but rather what failed to happen. Of the fifty-some individuals who have been slain, none have appeared at the Spire for judgment."

Salim sat back in his chair and let out a breath.

Fifty souls. And from the same city, at that. It was a mind-boggling number. Across the various nations and worlds of the Material Plane—the realm of existence where mortals lived—there were few constants. In fact, despite the old sayings, even tides and taxes were avoidable, depending on where you were. But death—death was the great equalizer.

No matter who you were, or what you were, if you lived, one day you would cease living. On that day, your spirit would leave your body on the Material Plane and join the River of Souls, the great procession of recently deceased spirits that flowed all the way to Pharasma's Spire, the huge pillar of stone that was the heart of the Outer Planes—what mortals thought of as the afterlife. Once you reached the Boneyard, Pharasma and her minions—psychopomps like Ceyanan—would divide you up according to how you lived and what you believed, and send you on to whatever plane or deity was most appropriate. If you were a particularly contentious case, there might even be a trial of sorts. But regardless of how exactly it happened, there was no getting around it: if you died, you were judged. Pharasma's servants were meticulous record-keepers, and since the Gray Lady was the goddess of fate and prophecy as well as birth and death, she already kept tabs on every sentient creature in the multiverse. Trying to avoid her notice was like hiding from the passage of time.

Not that people didn't try. They ran, or hid their souls, or transformed themselves into undead monstrosities. Some destroyed the souls of their enemies, or managed to bottle them up before they could reach the Spire. That was where Salim came in.

But still—even one soul unaccounted for was an anomaly. Fifty...

"I presume this is limited to the murders?" Salim asked. "Other folk who die in Kaer Maga are reaching the Spire as normal?"

Ceyanan nodded. "It's not simply a matter of murder, either. A great number of people are killed in Kaer Maga on a regular basis. Most of these continue to arrive and be judged as normal. Of the ones who haven't, the only link is that all appear to have died violently via the stiletto, and lived in a manner that even Kaer Magans would find abhorrent."

"Isn't it obvious?" Hezechor snapped. The contract devil's red skin seemed to glow faintly with irritation. "We're being robbed."

Salim gave him a level look, then turned back to Ceyanan. "Is that true? Were all the souls destined for Hell?"

"No," Ceyanan said. "Some were too chaotic to be useful to the devils, and better suited to the Abyss. A few were nihilists, and the daemons of Abaddon would have gotten those. But it's true that they were all evil, and the majority would have gone to the devils."

Hezechor looked mildly affronted at having his grand statement amended, but he bobbed his horns in acknowledgment and sat back in his chair.

Now Salim turned to address the devil. "So where are your demonic and daemonic counterparts?"

Hezechor snorted. "You ever see a demonic accountant?"

"I suppose not."

"Of course you haven't. The children of chaos aren't big on records, and the daemons pretty much eat anyone that shows up on Abaddon." He gestured at one of the scrolls draped from his horns. "Hell, on the other hand, never forgets."

Salim nodded and chewed mentally. "Hags?" he asked. "Have you checked the markets on Axis?"

"Naturally," Ceyanan said. "None of the souls in question have shown up in any of the usual places."

That wasn't terribly surprising. There were creatures—most notably the nightmare witches called hags—that enjoyed trapping souls and bottling them up, selling them to unsavory spellcasters who used them in magical rituals. Then there were the creatures that fed on souls—things like the daemons Hezechor had mentioned—which didn't care whether they'd been judged yet or not. Those were always a problem.

Yet neither of those would bother restricting themselves to evil souls. What sort of creature was simultaneously crazy enough to incur the wrath of the Lady of Graves by disrupting a soul's natural cycle, yet conscientious enough to worry about their prey's morality? Salim supposed it could be some sort of crusader—perhaps a paladin with a sword that ate souls—yet the magic required to destroy or capture a soul was itself taboo in most cultures, and there was little incentive. An evil soul sent to Pharasma's judgment was bound to face punishment harsher than whatever a mortal vigilante could mete out.

Salim looked back to Hezechor. "So you're here to figure out who's cutting off your supply."

The devil smiled. "My dear boy, I'm doing nothing of the sort. I'm afraid this is entirely your mess."

"He's correct," Ceyanan said, emotionless as ever. "Hezechor expressed an interest in meeting you, but that's as far as Hell's involvement goes. The procession and judgment of souls is Pharasma's domain, and any discrepancies are our responsibility to correct."

Salim felt the familiar, stomach-warming anger that characterized all his interactions with Ceyanan. "You mean my responsibility."

"Of course."

"Of course," Salim mimicked, and crossed his arms. "Because it's not enough to make me wade waste-deep through human filth chasing down packs of sewer ghouls. Or staking little girls who happen to be vampires. Or getting my arm charred to the bone by some delusional fire wizard trying to bring back his dead parents." He flexed his right arm, though of course the priests had long since healed that particular injury. "Now you want me to do your accounting for you, too."

Ceyanan smiled. "At least there won't be rivers of sewage. Probably."

Salim shot back an exaggerated rictus grin. "As you wish." Still seated, he bent at the waist and swept out the repaired arm. "The Grave Bitch commands, and I obey."

"And we thank you for your service," Ceyanan said, as polite as if Salim's bow had been real.

"Fascinating." Hezechor watched the exchange with interest, bearded chin in one hand, tone equal parts scorn and amusement. "And your mistress allows this sort of insubordination?"

"Salim's something of a special case."

Salim flashed the devil the fake smile as well. "I get the best treatment a slave could hope for."

"I see," said Hezechor. "Well, as educational as this has been, I believe my involvement here is at an end. My superiors look forward to seeing the matter resolved in short order." He reached out two black nailed fingers and pulled a narrow scroll from where it draped over a horn just above his right shoulder. He glanced at it, then looked over it at Salim.

"Please don't take this the wrong way," the devil said, "but I suspect we'll be meeting again."

The paper between his fingers ignited, a brilliant flash that left Salim dazzled for the second time that day. When his vision cleared, Hezechor was gone, leaving behind only the slight scent of brimstone and a faintest wisp of smoke drifting up from his chair.

Salim looked at Ceyanan. The angel-shaped psychopomp hung in the air, unflappable as always.

"So," Salim said. "Alone together at last."

Ceyanan tilted its head. "Not quite. Maedora?"

At the far end of the room, something moved.

At first it was like a breeze, a faint stirring of dust motes—but of course there was no wind in the windowless room. As Salim watched, the shadows in the corner seemed to reach forth, spinning out into long threads that tangled and wove together, splitting and multiplying as they stretched toward him. The shadows paled from black to gray, then began to shimmer as they formed an outline, interlacing like the straw of a wicker man. The web became a cocoon, then bulged obscenely.

A woman stepped through. She was undeniably beautiful, with long black hair that trailed behind her in the nonexistent breeze. She was also at least eight feet tall. The iridescent threads that painted her naked body were the silken patterns of orb-weaver spiders, and every bit as clingy. They wrapped her from head to toe and fanned out behind her, spreading into gray wings that were more bat than bird. Even her face was covered, the webs thickening into a flared mask that hid her eyes and left only her pale mouth and nose exposed. All together, the effect was that of a recently mummified corpse.

The trailing shadow-strings snapped and faded away as she strode over to stand next to Ceyanan. She turned her head to evaluate Salim, and he didn't need to see her eyes to feel the weight of that stare.

"Nice outfit," he said.

The web woman remained silent.

"Salim," Ceyanan said, and for a moment Salim thought the angel sounded almost anxious. "This is Maedora."

"A pleasure to meet you, Maedora," Salim said. "Do you always make such an entrance, or am I especially privileged?"

Still the woman said nothing.

"Maedora is another psychopomp," Ceyanan said tightly. "A morrigna."

The angel said it like it should mean something. Salim shrugged. "Sorry. You all look the same to me."

Which wasn't true, of course. Salim had worked with a number of psychopomps over the years—those agents of the death goddess that mortals often called spirit guides, angels, or reapers. Yet with the exception of Ceyanan, those had mostly been birdlike things that guarded the River of Souls from creatures looking to prey on the defenseless petitioners. Nothing like this woman.

Maedora walked around the table toward Salim. Though the body underneath the shroud was flawless, her hips had no seductive roll, and her feet made no sound on the floorboards. As she drew near, the physical size of her grew more and more imposing, and the shifting patches of shadow that moved across her wrappings resolved themselves into thousands of tiny black spiders that rippled and flowed in precise movements. She loomed over his chair.

"You really should be more polite," Ceyanan noted. "After all, you and Maedora are in the same line of work."

"Oh?" Salim asked.

"Hunting." The voice that emerged from beneath that mask was soft, arch, and as cold as the grave.

"She's an inquisitor," Ceyanan explained. "Like all her kind. They gather evidence to aid in judgments, and hunt down and destroy would-be immortals and those who trade in stolen souls."

"And atheists." Maedora placed a single finger on Salim's neck. Cold raced across his skin, raising gooseflesh all down his side. "The faithless can't be allowed to corrupt the Inner Court."

Salim crooked a smile at her. "Of course."

"Maedora will be investigating the murders as well."

Salim gave Ceyanan a sharp look. "I don't need a partner."

"And you're not getting one," the angel replied coolly. "I'm afraid the situation is more complicated than that. You see, while I've been given charge of this investigation, there are certain factions within the Inner Court that have a different point of view."

"Fifty-three souls," Maedora said. "Their return is too important to trust to a mortal."

"Spare my feelings, why don't you?" Salim looked to Ceyanan. "So you're running both of us against each other?"

The angel shook its head. "Not against. Merely in parallel. You both work best alone, so you'll work alone. I trust you won't interfere with each other, and will share information as benefits the aims of the Boneyard. It's simple division of labor. For instance, in light of the Lamasaran debacle, Maedora will be handling all interactions with the local Pharasmin congregation."

"Excuse me?" Salim asked. "As I recall, I successfully retrieved the kidnapped soul and rooted out corruption in the church."

"By nearly burning it down," Maedora pointed out. "Several of the faithful were injured defending the cathedral."

"And promptly healed each other up, good as new," Salim countered.

"Nevertheless," Ceyanan said, "the Kaer Magan cathedral will not be subject to your special breed of etiquette. Maedora will be the Boneyard's liaison in this matter."

"Fine." Salim had no desire to deal with a bunch of stiff-necked priests anyway. "Then where do you want me to start?"

"Wherever you can," Ceyanan said.

"You know, for spirit guides, both of you interpret the ‘guide' part pretty loosely."

The web-wrapped thing called Maedora moved closer—very close. She hunkered down so that her face was just above Salim's, forcing him to tilt his head back to meet the blank, gauzy expanse that hid her eyes.

Salim wondered how many eyes that mask actually hid.

"Listen well, Salim Ghadafar," Maedora whispered. The web wings spread out behind her to block the light, casting them both in shadow. "Your service has been noted, but your insolence as well. Ceyanan may tolerate such things, but I will not. Stay out of my way, and find your own leads as best you can. If you interfere with my investigation, you will be removed. Permanently."

Despite the shivers tracing lightning arcs up and down his spine, Salim had to smile. "Are you threatening to fire me?" he asked. "Because if so, I'm not sure you did your homework."

"There are worse fates than death, Salim," Maedora hissed. "You of all people should know that."

"Believe me, I do." Bending sideways so that he could see past the shield of gray wings, Salim said, "I see why you wanted her involved, Ceyanan. She's clearly a people person." He straightened and stood, moving the chair back so he could look the stooping psychopomp in the eye.

"With all due respect to your charming personality," he said, "I think you might want to find a cloak or something. This whole ‘winged mummy' bit might not put your informants at ease."

Maedora's lips quirked up in a smirk, and she drew back. "The dead are rarely so squeamish. But you have a point."

She raised a hand, and the spiders that had been congregating in little pockets around her body converged on it, covering it in a writhing glove. She whispered something, and the spiders rolled down her arm and over her body in a seething tide, expanding out over her wings, devouring the webbing as they went. When the swarm reached the fingers of her other hand, it disappeared.

The psychopomp was gone. In her place stood a human woman in her early thirties, with pale skin and a stern face. She wore fitted pants and a shirt of a military cut, as well as high boots, all of them black. A gray cape hung from broad, straight shoulders, secured by a clasp in the shape of a spiral. Only the long black hair remained unchanged.

She crossed her arms. "Better?"

Her new shape was attractive, in a no-nonsense sort of way, and wouldn't draw any attention beyond the usual. Yet there was still a blankness in the eyes. A dead thing, wearing the shape of a woman.

Salim nodded.

"Remember what I said." The new Maedora's voice was the same as the winged giant's. "I'll be seeing you."

Then she turned and walked out the door.

Salim watched the door shut, trying to get a grasp on how his day had suddenly become so complicated. Eventually he turned back to Ceyanan. "Nice company you're keeping these days."

"Whatever serves the Lady."

"Yeah, I know. So what's the point?"

"What do you mean?" the angel asked innocently.

Salim hooked a thumb at the door. "Why am I here, if you've got spider-lady on the job?"

"It's complicated." For the first time in their long acquaintance, Salim thought the angel sounded tired.

"Everything's complicated," Salim observed.

Ceyanan spread its hands. "The Lady has many servants. I represent one division, Maedora another. Sometimes we disagree on how best to proceed. When that happens, the Lady often sees fit to let us sort things out among ourselves."

"So I'm just a game piece," Salim said.

"When has it ever been otherwise?"

The angel never failed to get under Salim's skin. "So what if your horse decides not to run?"

"I'm afraid that would go very poorly for the horse," Ceyanan replied. "Horses that refuse to run end up at the knacker's. But you don't have to worry about that."

Salim waited expectantly.

"Your pride, Salim. The same thing that led you to us in the first place. The pride that led you to try to handle the Lamasaran situation on your own, in order to impress that noble girl, and nearly cost you both your lives. What was her name? Neila?"

The word was like a stone in Salim's chest. "You leave her out of this."

Ceyanan waved the issue aside. "It doesn't matter. You'll run because Maedora said you weren't good enough, and thus your desire to spite her is momentarily greater than your desire to spite me."

Salim started to respond, then realized it was true. As much as he resented Ceyanan, the goddess, and everything about his joke of an existence, part of him did want to solve the mystery—all because Maedora had told him he couldn't. Perhaps she was a better inquisitor than he'd thought.

Besides, his real problem was with the goddess herself, and both Maedora and Ceyanan were part of her coterie. Which toe he stepped on was irrelevant.

Ceyanan nodded as if Salim had replied. "I've left the necessary funds with Canary House's owner. I suspect you'll need them, unless those thieves earlier were kind enough to refill your purse."

Salim frowned. "So you were watching that."

"Always."

That spark of anger again. "I could have been killed."

"No," Ceyanan said. "You couldn't. I believe we've already proved that point."

Trust the angel to find a way to work that in. "Go to hell, Ceyanan."

The psychopomp smiled.

"But Salim, that's what I have you for."

paizo.com #3236236, Corry Douglas <corrydouglas@gmail.com>, Aug 10, 2014

Chapter Four

The Twice-Born

Salim stepped out the front door of Canary House, a newly heavy purse weighting down the inner pocket of his robe. Outside, the bustle of the street seemed louder than it had before, a sharp contrast to the songs of the caged girls inside.

A'kaan had been busy entertaining several of his guests—a woman with purple hair and sleek leather armor, and a man so fat he seemed ready to burst out of both his skin and his straining robes—and thus Salim had approached the halfling bartender instead. The diminutive man was dressed even better than his employer in a formal black vest and gray trousers, with several tasteful silver chains running between the pockets. His feet, bare in the tradition of his people and covered in curly brown hair, tapped lightly on his catwalk as he dried a glass with a swatch of silk. He introduced himself as Moggan.

"Salim," Salim said. "I believe you have something waiting for me."

The halfling didn't even blink, simply reached under the bar as if he'd been waiting for precisely this moment and lobbed over the purse. Salim caught it, grunting in approval at its weight. He tucked it away.

"Will you be needing a room, sir?" Moggan replaced the glass in the hanging rack above him and draped the cloth over one shoulder. "A'kaan said you might be staying for some time."

"He's correct." Salim hadn't actually thought that far ahead, but no doubt Ceyanan had. As much as it galled him to follow the angel's plan, stated or otherwise, he had to admit that there were far worse lodgings than Canary House. He pulled a number out of the air. "Perhaps a week."

"Very good, sir." The bartender stepped backward off the ledge and disappeared, his three-foot-tall frame swallowed by the chest-high mahogany bar. Salim leaned over the counter just in time to see the little man swing himself deftly back onto the catwalk, a lemon-yellow key in his hand. He held it out. "Third floor, room seven. Just pull the bell if you need anything."

Salim accepted the key and reached for his recently acquired pouch, but Moggan caught the motion and shook his head. "No need for that, sir. Master A'kaan has already made arrangements with your church to cover your stay, and whatever else you may require."

Better and better. Salim thanked him and turned to go.

"And your friends, sir? Will they be needing rooms as well?"

For a second, Salim had no idea what the barman was talking about. His closest friends were oceans away. Worlds. Lifetimes.

Then it clicked. "Ah, no. Or at least, I don't think so. The dark-haired woman, perhaps. I'm not sure what her plans are. But the others won't be returning."

Moggan just nodded, as if making room arrangements for angels and devils were something he did every day. Salim had to admire the man's poise.

They wouldn't be back, though. Of that, Salim was sure. It wasn't Ceyanan's way to stick around and help. The angel simply delivered the jobs; after that, Salim was on his own, up to his elbows in whatever mess the angel had dropped him into this time. When it was all over, and the tears and blood had dried, the angel would be back with a wry joke and a condescending pat on the head, reminding Salim that it was all in a day's work as a servant of Pharasma. And then it would send him somewhere else.

Salim felt the fire building in him again, and turned away before the halfling accidentally caught it. "Thanks," he said over his shoulder, and this time the barman let him go.

Now he was outside, breathing in the dung, sweat, and smoke that was the flavor of cities everywhere. Salim paused on the doorstep, getting his bearings, and saw several people in the line of potential guests looking at him with a mixture of jealousy and anticipation, clearly hoping that his departure meant there was a newly open space for them inside. He stepped out of the way, and the half-orc doorman nodded to him amiably. Apparently anyone A'kaan allowed inside was worthy of the bouncer's respect.

"Anyone I can call for you, sir?" The doorman spoke in a surprisingly cultured bass. "A porter? Guide? Sedan chair?"

"A guide would be perfect," Salim said. "Thank you."

The half-orc bobbed his head, then pursed lips around protruding tusks and blew a whistle blast that nearly deafened Salim.

A figure dispatched itself from the crowd and ran up. It was a boy, perhaps fifteen, with bare feet so dirty and road-hardened that they might have been leather moccasins. His clothes weren't much better, just shreds and patchwork, but beneath them his back was as straight as any noble scion.

"Ah, Karus, you handsome scholar—your dulcet tones have summoned me like a sailor to a siren. What might this humble prince of the groundlings offer you today?"

The half-orc snorted, but the sound was clearly affectionate. He hooked a thumb at Salim. "This gentleman is in need of a guide."

"Of course, of course." The boy turned to Salim and bowed low, tugging one sandy lock of hair out of its bird's nest and pulling on it respectfully. "The name's Gav, my lord, and whatever you may have heard about me, I assure you it is both absolutely true and a crass understatement. What you need, I can find, and what I find, you may find you need. Many claim to know this city, but to me, she's like my own wife." He looked up and winked. "And for a handful of copper, gov, she's yours for the night."

Karus laughed for real this time and kicked at the boy, who danced easily out of reach. "Enough of your filth, boy. Can't you see he's a holy man?"

"A priest who can't take a joke is no priest at all," the boy opined. "For what is life but a joke, and a cruel one at that?"

"You make a fine point," Salim broke in, "but I'm afraid I'm in the market for a guide, not a philosopher."

"And you've found one!" Gav's narrow chest puffed out like a pigeon's. "The best street-runner the Warren's ever produced. And today only, because you're a servant of the blessed Gray Lady and obviously respected by my good associate Karus here, I'll throw the philosophy in for free, though it steals bread from the mouths of my yet-unfathered children."

Karus rolled his eyes. "He's telling the truth, sir. If you can stand his chatter, he's a fine guide, and more honest than most in this city."

"Good enough." Salim flipped a small coin to the half-orc. The doorman caught it without looking and turned back to scrutinizing his line. "Come," Salim said to the boy, then picked a direction at random and began walking.

The boy materialized at his side, keeping pace with an easy lope. "A man of action, neh? I like that in a client—straight to the point, without a lot of jawing. Commendable."

Salim said nothing. Inside, he was still gathering his thoughts, combing through what little Ceyanan and the devil had given him to work with.

"Quiet, too. That says a lot about a man, it does. They say that a man who keeps his opinions to himself is right most of the time. Most people open their mouths and all their brains fall out."

Salim began to wonder if he'd made a mistake. The boy opened his own mouth to continue chattering, and Salim snatched at the first thing to come to mind.

"Corpses."

The boy paused, then glanced sideways at Salim. "Beg pardon, sire?

"Corpses," Salim said again, and even as he said it, an idea began to take shape in his mind. "Dead people. Where do they end up?" It wasn't much to go on, but when dealing with a murder, best start by going where the bodies were.

"Of course," Gav said easily, as if it were a request he got all the time. "Corpses. Right. Well, that depends a lot on the nature of your particular stiff. If'n a family has money, then the dearly departed are usually taken to your people down at the Godsmouth Cathedral." He gestured at the amulet hanging on Salim's chest, the silver spiral of Pharasma catching the sun. "The priests there do 'em up proper and take 'em down the cliff to the ossuary. If money's tight, though—and really, when isn't it?—most folks end up smoked at Heaven's Ladder, down in Cavalcade."

"Smoked?"

The boy pointed south, and Salim noticed a greasy black pillar of smoke drifting up and out past the city's walls, where the updraft off the cliff caught it and tugged it high into the sky.

"Ah." No point bothering with either of those, then—ash wouldn't tell him anything, and the Pharasmin cathedral was Maedora's turf. "And what about those with no family? No money?"

"Some of those still end up climbing the ladder," Gav said, nodding toward the smoke. "The gnome who runs the place is a charitable sort, if a bit eccentric—but then, aren't they all, neh? The rest end up washed over the cliff, or sold to the necros up in Ankar-Te."

"Necromancers?" Salim had heard rumors that dark spellcasters worked in the city, some of them even conducting their trade openly, but he'd presumed most of that was hyperbole, especially considering the presence of a Pharasmin church in the city.

"Who else?" Gav eyed Salim sidelong. "Not that people don't honor the Lady of Graves, but life's tough, and the necros pay hard coin for cold bodies. Most folk don't like the idea of their dead sister walking around or turning tricks at the White Lady, but money is money. And there's always a few coppers to be made fishing folks what met a bad end out of the rivers down in the Bottoms."

The rivers. Ceyanan had mentioned something about that. "Take me to the necromancers."

"Can do, gov." The boy stopped abruptly, and Salim was several feet beyond him by the time he turned.

"All apologies," the boy said, grinning, "but you're going the wrong way." He pointed north, back the way they had come.

Salim spread his hands and bowed, mimicking Gav's own overwrought gestures. "In that case, I cede command of this expedition to its more experienced member." He straightened. "Lead the way."

∗ ∗ ∗

The two headed north, not precisely back to Canary House, but through a web of narrow alleys winding between buildings of similar function, if not quality. Inns of wood and brick leaned against brothels and shops like drunken soldiers using each other to remain upright, and colored lanterns littered eaves and porches, waiting for dusk. Prostitutes, male and female and anywhere in between, leaned out of windows or lounged against railings. Most were the run-of-the-mill catamites and doxies found in any city, but a few were something else entirely. On one balcony, a tattooed harpy perched in a birdlike squat, wings spread and all-too-human physiology clearly visible. Beneath an awning farther down, a centaur mare wearing a low-cut blouse preened and postured, her enormous equine hindquarters displayed prominently. Though Salim had worked with plenty of horses in his lifetime, including mares in heat or ready to drop foals, he'd never before thought of a horse in this particular context, and quickly looked away.

Several of the harlots waved to Gav, their manner friendly rather than professionally seductive, and he waved back cheerily. Clearly the boy hadn't been lying about his connections. Still, Salim found himself breathing easier once the press of brothels gave way to more conventional inns, the sort of hostels more suited to traveling merchants and other less adventurous itinerants.

"So, Father—" Gav began.

"Don't call me that," Salim said.

"Sorry, Your Holiness, I—"

"Not that either. Salim is fine."

"Certainly," the boy said, and was silent.

Salim got the sense that he'd offended the child. He'd long since grown to accept the black Pharasmin robes as a necessary evil—lay people didn't question a death priest, and it made interactions with church officials easier. But some days the costume was more trouble than it was worth.

He sighed. "My apologies, Gav. I'm not exactly as I appear."

"What man is?" Gav's grin reappeared. "So what are you really? A fugitive in disguise? A confidence man? One of the fairy kings of the First World, come to offer me my heart's desire at a terrible price?"

Salim ignored his patter. "Have you ever heard of the Rahadoumi?"

The boy's smile dropped into a slack-jawed gape. "You're one of the Godless?"

Salim let his silence speak for him.

Gav closed his mouth and frowned. "Then if you don't mind me asking, gov, why in Baalzebul's frozen ass are you wandering around in all black with a Pharasmin holy symbol?"

"It's a long story."

The boy was quiet for a moment, digesting that bit. Then: "So how exactly does that work?"

"How does what work?"

"Being Rahadoumi. Being a ...what's the word? Apiarist."

"Atheist."

"Yeah, that. I mean, I can take you to half a dozen real priests who'll show you magic, both the healing kind and the kind'll scare the beard right off your face. If you've got the coin, they'll even sing down the spirits and let you ask questions of the gods yourself."

"I've known priests, boy."

"No disrespect intended, gov. A man like you, a traveler—I'm sure you've seen things a cityborn street kid like me hasn't dreamed of. Which is why I'm wondering how you can not believe in gods."

Salim sighed again. A crowded street wasn't his first choice of venues for a theological debate, nor the boy his first choice of opponents, but he couldn't quite resist the chance to correct the child's all-too-common misconception.

"The gods are real," Salim said.

"But I thought—"

"Do you believe in the Ruby Prince? The Pharaoh of Osirion?"

"I don't see—"

"How about Her Infernal Majestrix, Queen Abrogail of Cheliax?"

"Of course."

"Would you fear her?"

"No." The boy's eyes flashed defiance.

Salim smiled. He'd been such a boy himself once, barefoot and ready to take on the world.

"Fair enough. But would you show respect?"

"Sure," Gav replied. "Pissing off a queen is stupid and dangerous. Any fool knows that."

"Very true. And if she offered you gold and power to serve her, would you do it?"

"Maybe," Gav said reluctantly. Then, "Okay, probably."

"So you'd do as she asked. Because she's very powerful, and can reward you handsomely or punish you as she sees fit. You might well become her paid servant. But would you worship her? Would you give her your eternal soul, and become her slave?"

"Of course not!"

"Then you see my point. Queen Abrogail has power—as far as folks like you and I are concerned, she can do anything. We might serve her, out of fear or greed. But we don't worship her.

"Gods are the same way. They exist—there's no denying that. And they're powerful. They shelter and fund those who pledge their souls to them—but make no mistake, they're getting the better end of the deal. A few coins and spells is nothing to a god, but the soul is the most precious thing a man has to offer. In the end, it's the only thing he has. And a soul lives on long after spells have faded and silver has tarnished."

Gav frowned. "I thought only devils tried to get you to sign away your souls."

"Ha!" Salim couldn't quite contain the bitter laugh. "No, boy. Every god wants the same thing. Asmodeus and his minions are just the most honest about it. For good or ill, when you pledge yourself to a god, you give him or her total authority over you—a power that lasts long, long after you've grown old and turned to dust."

The boy mulled this over, and they took the brief break in the conversation to dodge around a gnome with a cart of what appeared to be fruits and vegetables grown into the shapes of faces.

"Still," Gav said, sounding unsure. "A god's protection is worth a lot, neh?"

"Certainly," Salim said. "So, when we're done here, will you be setting out for Cheliax to pledge your fealty to the devil queen?"

Gav opened his mouth—then shut it. He glared at Salim. "I'm Kaer Magan, sire. Native-born, not some gawk or dropjaw from the lowlands. I'm no one's vassal."

"Spoken like a true Rahadoumi." Salim felt another brief burst of paternal affection. Oh, to be so young and certain again...

Ahead of them, the white stone wall of the city's ring rose up, blocking out the sky. Buildings nestled right up against its foot, and a great number of these seemed to be three-walled structures, using the stone as a convenient fourth. Two arches with decorative voussoirs and keystones carved with the faces of puff-cheeked cherubs stood in the wall, each ten feet tall and large enough to accommodate the flood of foot traffic passing through them. Gav led them through the leftmost one.

Then they were inside. Since arriving in Kaer Maga, Salim had only seen the open-air districts locals called the Core, but he knew from the stories that the scene before him was more indicative of how Kaer Magans truly lived. In front and to either side, the shops and streets of the city continued uninterrupted, spreading out in a web of narrow alleys and disparate architectural styles. Yet above him, the sky was replaced by a stone ceiling that rose and fell seemingly at random, in places no more than twenty feet high, in others at least sixty or seventy, perhaps as tall as the ring-wall itself. In areas where the ceiling was lower, the sea of rooftops was periodically interrupted by great columns or sections of wall holding up the rest of the giant stone structure. Likewise, several stone ramps and stairways led up from the floor to holes in the ceiling, presumably feeding into tunnels higher up.

Gav watched Salim's face. "It's something, neh?"

"It's amazing," Salim said, with total honesty.

The boy swelled with pride. "Some outsiders don't get it. They come in here and see it as cramped and smoky, too loud and close. They don't understand that we like it that way. It's cozy inside the Ring, and you're never without a warm tunnel to crawl into or a wall to put your back to. Try saying that about one of those sprawling lowlander cities! I've head that in Korvosa, poor folk who can't afford a roof die of cold when it snows. Can you imagine that? Snow coming down, and you with nowhere to go?"

"I can," Salim said solemnly.

"And they call us uncivilized."

But Salim wasn't paying attention. "What's that?" He pointed off into the distance, to where a huge structure rose up out of sight behind a lower section of ceiling. It looked like a ziggurat, one of the stepped pyramids you sometimes saw in the jungles of the south. Salim had never encountered one this far north before.

"That's the Palace of the Child-Goddess," Gav said easily. "You'll likely see her people soon, but they're not part of our present concern. And speaking of which: as you're paying by the hour, I'm certainly not averse to spending a little time sightseeing—I'm a veritable font of local color, I am—but if you're in a hurry to finish your business..."

"By all means," Salim said, motioning Gav forward.

They began making their way down one of the narrower streets. Now that Salim looked closer, the buildings here were not only an architectural hodgepodge, but most of them were foreign to this continent, and certainly to this particular region. He saw pagodas and torii gates of the far east, plus buildings that did their best to ape the desert mud-brick of his own southern homeland, or modeled themselves off the palaces of the Empire of Kelesh. Along with this physical incongruity came a similar cacophony of scents: incense and curry and urine and cinnamon, wet dog and fresh blood and smells he couldn't begin to put a name on, all spinning together into a miasma both mouth-watering and repulsive.

"Are we in the foreign quarter?" he asked.

"More or less," Gav replied. "Though as you'll see, that doesn't really mean a lot in Kaer Maga. As far as we're concerned, we're all foreigners here, which means none of us are—but yeah, some of the more foreign foreigners, the switches and new arrivals, they tend to settle here."

They kept walking, Salim trying to move as if he belonged, rather than as the tourist he was.

"I think I understand," Gav said abruptly.

"Oh?"

"The Rahadoumi choose independence over safety. I can get behind that. But it still doesn't explain why you're dressed like a priest."

Salim frowned. "Let's just say that even a Rahadoumi can make poor decisions. Now, let's concentrate on—get behind me!"

Before the warning was halfway out of his mouth, Salim had his sword drawn and the boy shoved roughly back on his off side, giving him room to move. As before, the crowd flowed apart at the sight of naked steel, leaving the center of the street open.

Four zombies shambled forward through the crowd with their distinctive, puppetlike gait. The two who still had hair had it incongruously slicked down or braided. One had its cheeks rotted straight through, displaying the tendons and teeth that Salim knew from personal experience were still more than able to take bleeding chunks out of living flesh.

There were too many people around, too many potential victims. But there was nothing to be done about it. The best he could hope for was to take them down quickly, and keep their attention on him. Salim tensed, ready to spring.

"Stop!" Gav shouted. "Cailean's sotted balls, you want to get us killed?"

"I can take them." Salim held the sword lightly in front of him, ready to move any direction without warning. "I've done it before."

"And what about their owner? You got enough gold in that robe of yours to buy your way out of a feud? Blood and tits, gov, look at the scarves!"

Now that the boy mentioned it, the zombies were dressed strangely. Most of the walking dead Salim had killed—and he'd killed many over the years—had been half-rotted things fresh from the grave, or else mummified husks still coated in the dust of the tomb. They wore molding rags swarming with maggots, or else time-eaten garments that crumbled like burnt parchment. If they were the intelligent sort, they might drape themselves in the raiment of their former lives, ancient armor or jeweled bracelets that rattled around bony wrists.

These clothes looked freshly washed, perhaps even pressed with steam and a hot iron. The creatures inside them were undoubtedly dead—there was no mistaking the pallor of their skin, and one had bone showing bloodlessly through a fleshless elbow joint—but all were relatively well preserved. They continued to walk down the street on a course only tangential to Salim's, blank eyes fixed straight ahead, heedless of the dark-robed man with the ready blade. Around each of their necks, Salim saw what the boy had indicated—scarves dyed brilliant chartreuse, a blood-red sigil in the center covering their breathless throats.

Gav tugged urgently on Salim's robe. Still uneasy, Salim straightened from his fighting stance and sheathed his sword. As soon as the hilt clicked home against the scabbard, the crowd filled back into the street as if nothing had happened. The zombies moved past, and were gone.

"What the hell was that?" Salim asked.

"The Twice-Born." Gav's relief was palpable. "You almost carved up four of somebody's servants. And let me tell you, gov, the dead are not cheap."

"You use zombies as servitors?" Salim tried and failed to keep the disgust out of his voice.

"Not everywhere," Gav said. "Just in Ankar-Te—which, incidentally, is where we are now. Since we passed through that archway."

Salim looked around at the crowd. "You have a whole district of necromancers?"

Gav shook his head. "Not at all, and thank the gods for that—those bone-sorters give me the chills. But Ankar-Te is their safe ground, where they don't have to worry about people causing problems for them or their creations. You're not the only newcomer who draws first and asks questions later."

"I see." Salim deliberately moved his hand away from his sword hilt. "And the Church of Pharasma allows this?"

"The crows?" Gav shrugged. "They don't like it, but they know better than to try to purge it—Kaer Maga doesn't take kindly to folks who deal in absolutes, and the necros' potions heal as well as any, and cheaper than some. They've got an agreement: the Pharasmins don't try to shut the necros down, and in exchange the necromancers stay mostly to Ankar-Te, and maintain total control over the Twice-Born—every undead thing you see walking around is obeying somebody's orders. They're not really people as much as puppets."

Salim grimaced. "And the intelligent dead? The vampires and ghouls?"

"Forbidden. Everybody's in agreement on that one."

Salim doubted that. He'd yet to meet a necromancer who didn't insist on constantly pushing boundaries. It was what led them to their profession, and often to their own graves when experiments went sour. But Kaer Maga had already surprised him several times today.

He got back to business. "You said that the necromancers sometimes purchase bodies. I'm trying to track down some specific corpses."

Gav half-smiled in sympathy. "Friends of yours?"

Salim thought of what Ceyanan had told him about the souls who'd disappeared and shook his head.

"Strictly professional, then. Well, we've got some choices. I could ask around, but what kind of condition were they in? Fresh? Preserved? Beat-up?"

"They'd been hauled from rivers and trash heaps," Salim said. "And likely weren't in the best shape when they went in."

"Perfect!" Gav motioned Salim left onto a new avenue. "That limits our choices significantly—most folk around here won't bother with spoiled corpses. If you want your undead cheap, with only the flimsiest of guarantees, that'd be Mubb up at the north end."

As they passed through the crowd, Salim noted that, despite all he'd heard, there were still relatively few of the so-called Twice-Born. Most of the people standing at stalls were human—or close enough—with clothing and skin that proclaimed a wide variety of ancestral homelands. A few times he caught the bleached white of a skull bobbing through the crowd, but the animated corpses never passed close enough again for a good look.

Only once did the crowd part, this time for four oiled men in brilliant ceremonial robes of orange and gold. All four had shaved heads, and bore on their shoulders something that was not quite a palanquin. Supported by long poles, the box they carried was easily six feet long and four high, and appeared to be made entirely of welded steel, with no window or obvious latch. As the men passed, several onlookers dropped to the ground and bowed their heads, while others tucked coins into the poles' dangling tithe-bags.

"What's that?" Salim asked.

"Church of the Child-Goddess," Gav said. "They make the rounds a few times a day."

Salim frowned. "I've never heard of her."

"It's a local thing." Gav's brow furrowed. "Or maybe a very foreign thing—I think they came from the Impossible Kingdoms originally. Anyway, they bring the goddess around in her box, and people pay for her blessing."

Salim nodded. It wasn't the first time he'd seen a sham god. As full as the world was with priests and authentic miracle-workers, there were always charlatans willing to work cheaper and leave out the miracle part. In Salim's mind, the only thing sadder than a man who sold his soul for power was one who sold his soul for nothing. "Do you ever get to see her?"

"Never. Maybe inside the temple they let her out, but out here, the Child-Goddess stays in her palanquin."

A hollow boom shook the air. In the street, the men with the palanquin did their best to maintain stoic expressions while wrestling with their poles. Between them, the metal box shook from side to side and boomed again, as if something inside were flinging itself against the walls. Abandoning their slow procession, the bearers began double-timing it down the street, back toward the ziggurat.

Inside the box, something roared.

Then they were gone. With the motion that was already becoming familiar to Salim, the people on the street went back about their business.

"Interesting," Salim said. He'd had the box pegged for some sort of reliquary, if it held anything at all.

"That's pretty much the watchword in my city." Gav replied. "In any case, we're here." He pointed across the street.

The building was low and stone, a squat thing with windows that had been bricked up. The effect was that of a mausoleum, and not a particularly respectable one. A simple wooden sign over the door bore a picture of a skull and the word Reanimations.

"That's Gerik Mubb's place," Gav said. "Not exactly the most popular spot in town, but he gets the job done, if'n you're not picky about where things come from. If anybody's going to buy a bubbler pulled from the streams, it's him. If you don't mind, gov, I'll just wait for you out here."

"Of course." Hand on his sword once more, Salim walked across the street, pulled open the heavy wooden door, and stepped inside.

paizo.com #3236236, Corry Douglas <corrydouglas@gmail.com>, Aug 10, 2014

Chapter Five

Reanimations

The shop stank of camphor, and beneath it the heavy copper tang of old blood. While the outside looked like a tomb, inside the place had clearly been a butcher shop in a previous life. A long counter along the right wall cordoned off the entrance to a hallway and a stained worktable, its heavy wood scarred deeply by countless cleaver blows. The shop would have been familiar anywhere, if it weren't for the eyes.

The eyes. All around the edges of the room, corpses in various states of decomposition hung from meat hooks threaded through the bones of their shoulders. Most were stiff, their half-decayed forms as lifeless as a man swinging from the gallows. Yet a few eyelids flicked open as Salim stepped in, settling on him. One body—a woman in a dressing gown several sizes too big for her, with doll-like circles of red paint on her sunken cheeks—let out a soft, unintelligible moan.

It took all Salim's self-control to let go of his sword. As he shut the door behind him, a cascade of knuckle bones strung up like a wind chime rattled against the wood.

"Coming!" a voice yelled from a back room. "One moment!"

A man emerged from the hallway. He was short, and thin except for a potbelly straining against the bloodstained butcher's apron. His hair was oily and sparse, slicked straight back across the white egg of his scalp. Around his neck hung at least a dozen heavy amulets, clinking and clattering against each other. He looked down as he walked, wiping his hands on his stomach, an oozing, servile smile plastered across rounded features. As he looked up and took in Salim's clothing, the smile dropped, replaced by naked irritation.

"What do you want?" he demanded.

Salim glanced around pointedly, taking in the collection of corpses. He noted several with mismatched limbs, an arm or leg that had clearly been sourced from some other individual and was significantly shorter than it ought to be. Sloppy black stitching held the disparate pieces together, or closed up wounds that had no doubt been the cause of death. "Nice place you've got here."

The shopkeeper snorted. "You want fresh ones, you can talk to Horus at Last Rites. That perfumed ponce won't buy anything without a respectable family tree, or dead more than a few hours. You want something affordable, you come to me."

"You're Mubb?"

"Aye." The man's already piggish eyes narrowed into slits. "And you have exactly one minute to explain why you're in my shop. You crows aren't welcome in Ankar-Te, and especially not in my place."

"Crows?"

Gerik Mubb looked Salim up and down, then came out from behind the counter and plucked at the sleeve of Salim's black Pharasmin robes. "Crows."

Salim nodded. "I see. I'm not from around here."

Gerik looked skeptical. "Well then, let me explain something. We've got a truce here. As long as we don't make no smart undead—nothing that thinks on its own—we're safe. Protected. And that truce is also the only thing that keeps us from bringing that pretty cathedral of yours down around your ears. Understand?" He crossed his arms. "Your minute's almost up."

"I'm not here to fight," Salim said. "I'm looking for some corpses. Specific corpses."

Gerik didn't change position. "Keep talking."

"I've been told that lately folks have been pulling bodies from the streams in the southern districts—people nobody cares much about. I heard you might have some of them."

"Might be." Gerik waited expectantly.

Salim dug into the folds of his robe and produced a coin. He flipped it at the necromancer, who uncrossed his arms long enough to catch it and take in the color of the gold before making it vanish. "It's true that I've bought a fair crop of bubblers recently. Poor shape—skin all loose. Took a bit of work. But they all sold."

"To who?" Salim withdrew another coin.

Gerik shook his head. "That's not how this works. I won't have you harassing my customers."

"What about the seller, then? Who pulled them from the river?"

The necromancer's lip curled, somewhere between a sneer and a smile. "I'm afraid that's private, too."

The man was baiting him, and enjoying it. Salim felt his hand drifting toward his sword hilt once more.

Gerik saw it too. "Uh-uh," he said, as if talking to a child. One hand came up to stroke a bone and brass talisman around his neck. On the back wall, a big zombie covered in tattoos levered himself off his hooks and thumped heavily to his feet. One hand was missing, but a misshapen mass of blades had replaced it. "Remember the truce, Master Crow. Nobody draws steel in my shop. Though if you still want to try, I won't stop you—my inventory's down, and your southlander skin might fetch a premium. Maybe I'll make your church buy you back."

"It's not my church," Salim said. "But thank you all the same. This simplifies things."

The necromancer never saw it coming. Despite his posturing, Gerik Mubb was a merchant at heart, and didn't really expect a fight. One moment he was standing there, arms still crossed, confident in his position and power. The next Salim's fist was slamming into his cheekbone, crunching bone and cartilage as it slid sideways and broke the nose. Blood bubbled and spattered, and the necromancer's feet gave way, dropping him onto his ass.

It felt wonderful. After the morning's frustration with Ceyanan and his cronies, it was a relief to be in control of a situation again. Salim had dealt with pompous little casters like Gerik Mubb a thousand times, and while he and Pharasma's angel didn't see eye to eye on many issues, the turning of innocent corpses into mindless slaves was one of them.

The wide-eyed necromancer reached for his talismans, but Salim got there first, snatching up the whole mess and twisting the cords tight around the spellcaster's neck. He lifted the choking man to his feet.

Cold shot up his arm, plus a tingling like the pins and needles after a limb's fallen asleep. A faint blue glow leaked out from between his closed fingers.

Around the two men, there was a sudden shuffle of movement, the slap of flesh and click of bone on stone as corpses dropped free of their display hooks. The woman in the doll dress moaned again, and several others joined her. As one, dead eyes turned to Salim, waiting.

Salim smiled. Well, why not?

With a savage yank, Salim snapped the cheap cords and chains that held the amulets, drawing blood as they dug into Mubb's soft flesh before giving way. He shoved, and the necromancer went sprawling.

He looked around at the expectant dead. They ignored the man on the floor, focusing instead on Salim—or rather, the amulets. Salim raised the charms to eye level.

"Pick him up," he said, gesturing at Mubb with his chin. "Hang him on the wall. Gently."

The zombies moved, and Salim felt a momentary twist of guilt. It was so easy to slip into the role of puppet master. How many men had he killed for doing the same?

But it wasn't the same. Salim would give these bodies their rest. First, though...

The necromancer screamed as the shambling corpses converged. He stretched out a hand and began to cast a spell, but it was too late. A dozen hands, skeletal and missing fingers, closed on his limbs, bearing him up into the air and over to the stone wall opposite the counter. Steel hooks tore through robes, and despite Salim's instructions, at least one emerged wet with blood. The necromancer's screaming grew shriller still. His former minions stood in a semicircle around him, watching.

There came a shuffling from the hallway. Two taxidermic dogs, one brown, one white, came limping past the counter. The brown one balanced awkwardly on two legs, one fore and one aft, while the white maneuvered in a skittering jumble, two extra brown legs sewn to the sides of its ribcage. Gray tongues lolled from smiling muzzles.

Behind them came a little girl. Her hair was blonde and long, her skin a bloodless porcelain white. While the other corpses were ragged, missing pieces here and there, this one was perfect and unblemished, save for the line of black thread stitching shut a vertical incision that started just below her throat and disappeared beneath the neckline of her blue dress. She couldn't have been more than nine.

All three newcomers joined the crowd of watchers. As Gerik saw them, his panic took on a new aspect. He almost looked hurt. Betrayed.

Salim parted the crowd of zombies with a word and stood in front of the necromancer.

"Children?" he asked. "Animals?"

Gerik blinked hard and thrust out his jaw. "Ain't hurtin' no one. A man's got a right to a family. The truce—your church will—"

"They're not my church," Salim said. "Thus not my truce. Understand?"

"But—" the necromancer began, then clearly thought better of it. He swallowed hard and nodded.

Family. Salim didn't think too hard about that. There was work to be done. "The corpses, Mubb. The ones from the streams. I need to talk to them."

Gerik raised a shaking finger and pointed. "A ledger. In the back room. It's got all the records—I keep track of who buys what. But talking to them won't work. They're Twice-Born now."

Salim cursed. "All of them?"

The necromancer nodded. "I don't hold stock. They go bad too quick."

So much for that plan. If the corpses were still corpses—in the usual, non-moving sense—there were spells that would let him talk to them, find an echo of the departed soul. It wasn't something he enjoyed, but sometimes the memories left in a corpse were the only clues as to how they'd died. If they'd already been reanimated, those magics were useless. No soul would return to a body corrupted by undeath. "And you didn't ask them anything yourself? About how they died?"

Gerik shrugged as best he could while hanging from his own robes. "Why would I? Knowing that's just asking for trouble."

"Fine." Salim thought about it a moment. "What about the supplier? Who'd you buy them from?"

"Dunno."

"You don't know? Somehow I find that hard to believe."

Gerik scowled. "I don't care what you believe! It's true. Lots of folks want to do deals anonymously. I accommodate them. Keeps prices down. I don't ask a lot of questions."

It was a sound policy. It was also clearly a lie. Salim had been lied to too many times to miss the signs. Dilated pupils. A rise in vocal pitch. An inability to meet Salim's eyes. Everything about the man screamed his deceit.

Gerik cringed, as if expecting another blow. A bubble of blood and snot blew from his rapidly swelling nose.

Instead, Salim stepped back, clasping his hands behind him. "Now, Gerik, I realize we haven't gotten off to the best start, but we're going to need to trust each other in order for this to end well. I'm going to give you one more chance to tell me the truth."

Gerik glared. "I already told you what I know. I don't care a furry fig for those corpses, and I didn't have anything to do with how they got that way. I'm just a shopkeeper, alright? I sell things people need."

"Of course," Salim said. "Which is why you're going to sell me what I need—information. In exchange, I'm prepared to offer you something exceptionally valuable."

"Oh?" Even through the haze of pain and fear, the glint of greed rose in Gerik's eyes.

Merchants. They were the same everywhere. Salim stepped close and took one of Gerik's hands, raising it in front of the necromancer's face. Delicately, the cluster of amulets still held tight in his right fist, he took the necromancer's index finger in both of his hands.

"Your fingers, Gerik." Salim bent the finger until the joint locked, then applied the slightest touch of pressure. "What could be more useful to a spellcaster like yourself?"

All color drained from the necromancer's already pale face. He started to sputter, but Salim held the captured finger to the man's lips.

"I know, I know. You could heal yourself as easily as you resurrected these poor people. A few broken digits is nothing to a brave man like you. But let me ask you, Gerik..." Salim let go with one hand and drew the dagger from his belt. With its tip, he gently tapped each of the necromancer's knuckles. "How much harder would it be to fix broken fingers if you had to find them first?"

It was enough. Salim stepped back and sheathed his blade as the man began blubbering.

Spellcasters were always easy to break. Lifetimes of bending the universe to their wills made them soft and arrogant. Scratch their sense of invulnerability just slightly, and they shattered like crystal goblets.

"It's kids," Gerik said. "Street kids, from down in Cavalcade and the Bottoms. A bunch of 'em. They bring me the corpses from the streams and the trash piles, me and other folks. Standing arrangement." He smiled hopefully through his tears. "Just trying to protect the children. Don't want nothin' bad to happen to them. Can't fault me for that, right?"

"Right," Salim said. "And who do the street kids work for?"

"No one," Gerik said, too quickly. "Just themselves."

Amazing. Despite his fear—and that, at least, was completely genuine—the man was still lying. Something about this business scared him worse than Salim. Worse than the idea of losing his fingers.

Well, Salim could fix that. He stepped over to one of the zombies, a bare-chested, emaciated man with the look of a junkie who'd died from one last ride on whatever poison he preferred. Salim tutted and shook his head.

"Gerik, Gerik...How are you ever going to sell these if you don't keep them in better condition?" He reached out a hand, felt the papery flesh covering protruding ribs. "You clearly haven't been feeding them enough."

The necromancer stared at him, uncomprehending. Then his eyes widened as he suddenly understood.

Almost there...Salim took a step forward until his cheek was almost touching Gerik's own tear-stained jowl. He raised the glowing amulets and stroked the man's face.

"Let's see if we can't fatten them up a little, shall we?"

"I'll tell!" The words were a teakettle shriek. "I'll tell, I'll tell! Oh gods. Urgathoa, Pallid Princess, Mistress of the Eternal Hunger, protect me in my..."

"No!" Salim grabbed the man's jaw and squeezed, twisting so that the necromancer was looking him in the eyes. "No prayers. This is between us, Gerik. No gods. Just men." He paused to let the words sink in, then let go of the necromancer's jaw.

"Now, Gerik," he said softly. "Who's got you so scared?"

The necromancer's bloody nose had slowed to a trickle, but his lips were still red with blood and tears. Unexpectedly, his mouth curved up in a rueful half-smile.

"You know how they say there's no intelligent undead in Kaer Maga? Well, that's not entirely accurate."

paizo.com #3236236, Corry Douglas <corrydouglas@gmail.com>, Aug 10, 2014

Chapter Six

The Last Vampire

I can't say I'm particularly pleased to meet you," the man said. "But I suppose it was only a matter of time."

Lord Victae Cobaru leaned against a wrought-iron railing, its delicate latticework holding him above the bustling city. Below the narrow widow's walk, more balconies and the flat roofs of lower stories terraced the tower, patios and tables half hidden by gazebos and retractable canvas awnings. Past these outcroppings, the tower plunged straight down for easily a hundred feet, finally meeting the earth among the tents and stalls Salim had come through earlier, now lit by a sea of colorful lanterns in preparation for the encroaching night. Looking north, half of the city's stone ring was visible, catching the last rays of the setting sun and casting long shadows onto the plains of the Storval Plateau.

The tower's owner spared little attention for the view, or for Salim himself. Instead he leaned farther out over the railing, closing his eyes. This high, the evening wind was fierce and cold, whipping up around their precarious perch. It tugged at Cobaru's long black coat and shoulder-length black hair, blending them with the shadow of his backlit tower. The man looked about thirty, with a neat black beard, and cut a fine figure in his tailored clothes.

Eyes still closed, he spoke again. "I know who you are, Salim." When he got no response, he cracked one eye open and aimed it Salim's way. "Does that surprise you?"

"Not particularly." Salim had been in the city less than twenty-four hours, but he knew how quickly word could spread, especially where he was concerned. Cobaru's secretary had made him wait two hours for a meeting, no doubt to buy his people time to make the necessary inquiries.

Cobaru smiled. "Good. Then you haven't underestimated me. That's a fine place to start." He waved a hand. "Do you know what these towers represent, Salim?"

Salim followed his gesture. The thin spire they stood on was one of perhaps two dozen, which the locals referred to as Highside Stacks—the same pillars of wood and stone Salim had used as a landmark earlier. No two were alike. Where Cobaru's sported the gothic steeples of mist-haunted Ustalav, others bore minarets or slate roofs, crenelations and domes. Many supported the green blotches of rooftop gardens, and gold and silver plating gleamed red in the dying sunset. Beneath the opulent penthouses with their fanciful eaves, smaller balconies and windows studded and spiraled around the towers' long shafts, all aglow with lamplight, growing smaller and closer together as they reached the densely packed roofs at the towers' feet.

"Power," Salim said simply. "Wealth."

"One and the same," Cobaru agreed. "Mating displays. Rich men thrusting phalluses at the sky. But they give us something else as well. Distance. Perspective." He lifted his bearded chin and took in the nearest of the structures, a cylindrical tower whose top ended in a complicated mess of alpine eaves. "Do you know there are many of us up here who never leave our aeries? We do all our business through servants, who employ servants of their own, and so on down the line. Some of my neighbors haven't touched soil in years, and take it as a point of pride that none of the groundlings ever see their faces. It's a common affectation."

"And a convenient way to hide," Salim noted.

"Just so." Cobaru smiled. It was an honest smile, rakish and self-aware, marred only slightly by two long, white fangs. He turned away from the vista and gestured back through the archway. "Shall we sit?"

Inside, the tower was as decadent as a caliph's seraglio. Cushions covered most surfaces, and in lieu of couches, a waist-deep pit like the pool in a public bath sat recessed into the floor, holding another multitude of cushions and three of the most beautiful women Salim had ever seen. All three wore silk dressing gowns, though none showed any particular indication to finish dressing. The young women lounged at one end of the pit, smoking from a crystalline hookah. As soon as Cobaru entered, they dropped their mouthpieces and sat up.

"Out," Cobaru said, though not unkindly. "Out, my darlings. I need to speak with our visitor."

Without protest, the women stood and moved through one of the archways leading into the rest of the penthouse. As they passed, ignoring Salim completely, he could easily see the bruising and tiny paired wounds on their necks—among other places.

Cobaru settled himself into the cushioned pit with a contented sigh, taking a place on the bench that ran the circumference. He leaned back against the ledge, arms spread. "Please, join me."

Salim did so. The cushions smelled like perfume. His sword proved awkward, and he settled for laying it across his lap, where it would be easy to draw.

Cobaru didn't seem to mind. "So Mubb sold me out, eh? You must have scared him terribly. The little corpse-rat knows his life is forfeit now. We had an understanding." He sighed again, this time with decidedly less pleasure. "Very few people in this city know my true nature. That Gerik Mubb is one of them was an unfortunate accident, and one I should have remedied a long time ago. But the man is occasionally useful."

"If it's any consolation," Salim said, "I can be quite persuasive."

"It's not, and I'm sure you can." Cobaru stretched, and Salim could sense the muscles beneath those black clothes, leaner and faster than any human man's. "And so, Salim, what do what you plan to do with the information?"

Such confidence. This was no down-on-his-luck necromancer to be bullied. Salim chose his words carefully. "You said you know who I am. So I presume you know what I do."

"You presume correctly." Cobaru flashed another fanged smile. "Salim Ghadafar, sometimes called ‘the priest who's not a priest,' and other, less complimentary titles. You work for the Lady of Graves, yet despite your robes are not yourself part of the church hierarchy." He raised one eyebrow. "You make people there nervous, you know."

Salim smiled back. "I know."

Cobaru went on. "A hunter with a direct mandate from the Spire, tracking down undead and those who otherwise seek to pervert or avoid the cycle of souls. Soul-stealers, ghoul-raisers, would-be immortals—the whole lot. Does that about fit?"

"As well as it ever has."

"And now here you are." Cobaru raised his hands from the lip of the pool, gesturing at their surroundings. "In the secret lair of the only vampire in Kaer Maga." His smile faded, and Salim found himself staring into eyes as cold and hard as polished stone.

"Tell me, Salim: Do you normally make appointments with people you plan to kill? Contact their secretaries and wait patiently while arrangements are made? It seems a rather poor strategy. Or are you so confident in your abilities that you feel it makes things more sporting?"

Salim said nothing. Cobaru watched him for the space of a few breaths, then continued. "I could have had you killed the moment I found out who you were, or even before that, simply for asking about me. Yet here you sit. Why is that, do you suppose?"

This time Salim answered. "Because you're smart enough not to underestimate me, either. You knew I'm attached to the church, and that unless I was terminally stupid I'd likely left your secret with someone else, ready to bring the whole of Pharasma's wrath down on your head if I failed to reappear. Which of course I have."

"Could be, could be." Cobaru bobbed his head and stroked his beard thoughtfully. "But have you considered the fact that I'm perhaps not such a bad person?"

Salim smirked. "No one with a manor this opulent has a clean conscience, Your Grace."

"Ha! True enough. But I make no claims to altruism, or to piety. Only that my soul is no darker than anyone else's in this hardscrabble city. I have my fingers in many concerns, both criminal and otherwise, and I make a fine living from both breeds. Yet I'm no monster. If not for prejudice against my race, I'd have no need to hide at all."

"Your restraint does you credit," Salim said, then indicated the doors the women had left through. "Yet I wonder how the parents of your playthings feel."

Cobaru frowned. "For your information, Master Salim, my companions are all here of their own volition. I fancy that I'm not such a hard man to look upon, but I'm not fool enough to believe it's my shining personality and talent between the sheets that keeps them. They're here for the money, Salim, same as any girl who ever made eyes at a merchant. Here they sleep on silk sheets, eat the finest food, attend the best parties, and never need worry about what rough hands might reach out from a dark alleyway. How do you think that compares with the writhing anthill they come from?" He pointed to the doorway leading out to the catwalk.

Salim found himself believing the man, but pressed on anyway. "And when you grow tired of them, or they grow tired of you?"

"Then they go their own way," Cobaru snapped, "with however much gold it takes to buy their discretion. I don't tolerate blackmailers, Salim, but I'm not a miser. What trades I make with my friends—and yes, I consider them my friends—are fair enough, in their way."

"And you're never tempted to turn them? To make them into something like you?"

"Of course I am!" Cobaru roared.

Instantly, the women were back in the room, loaded crossbows set to slender shoulders.

Cobaru breathed hard for a moment, nostrils flared and pupils stretched vertically like a cat's. Salim tensed, ready to throw himself sideways, but as quickly as it came, the moment passed. Cobaru waved away the girls, and they left reluctantly, staring hard at Salim. He had no doubt that any of them would have happily filled him with crossbow quarrels if he so much as reached a hand toward their self-styled lord.

"Of course I am," Cobaru said again. This time his voice was smooth. "You think it's comfortable, living as long as I have, watching your friends come and go? For a while I associated primarily with elves, people who could understand how the people down there"—a gesture at the floor—"bloom and wither like flowers to me. But the fair folk have little love for this city, and too many long-lived friends are a liability. Do you understand"

"Better than you might imagine," Salim replied.

"This place is a cage." Cobaru said, waving a hand at his lavish surroundings. "Gilded, to be sure. But still a cage." He stared around for a moment, lost in his own thoughts, then breathed out hard and seemed to let it go, refocusing on Salim.

"So now that we've revealed ourselves," the vampire said, polite as ever, "perhaps you'll be so kind as to tell me why you're here."

It was the opening Salim had been waiting for.

"Corpses," he said.

"Corpses?"

"Corpses." Salim smiled. "Particularly those pulled from rivers or trash piles on the south side of the city."

Cobaru stared at him for a moment. Then he threw back his head and laughed, full-throated.

"Amazing!" he shouted. "After all this—revealing my secret, nearly forcing me to open your veins in self-defense, threatening to disrupt the whole delicate balance of power in this city—you want to know about the street children I pay to dredge bodies from the river, at coppers a corpse."

"I need to know anything you can tell me about their origins," Salim said. "Who they were. Why they were killed."

"I see. And in exchange, you offer what?"

"Your secret." Salim leaned forward. "You seem decent enough, Cobaru. For what you are."

"Undead." Cobaru's bared teeth were a challenge.

"Rich," Salim countered, and smiled. "Understand: if I were here under other circumstances, my hands would be tied. As it is, regardless of what the Pharasmins preach about the natural way of the multiverse, I don't give a rat's ass about undeath except so far is it hurts other people. Before I came here, I asked around. I watched your servants on the way up. None of them were mind-controlled. None of them were scared. You use people, but you pay your debts. Which is more than can be said for most men in your position." He sat back against the edge of the pillow pit. "There are vampires in every city, Cobaru. If you happen to drink blood as well, it's none of my business. This time."

Cobaru clapped his hands. "Well said! Shall we drink on it?"

Once again, a silk-robed servant appeared in the doorway, as suddenly as if she'd been waiting just around the corner. This one was a coffee-skinned beauty with short henna-reddened hair twisted up into a golden hairpiece shaped like a two-headed serpent. A silver serving tray balanced on one round hip held two clear glasses of dark red liquid which swayed as she made her way across the room.

Cobaru accepted the glasses and held one out to Salim.

"Ah..." Salim said, then reluctantly reached out to take the glass.

Cobaru chuckled. "Relax. It's only wine." He took a sip and made an appreciative noise. "Blood is a meal, not a drink. And besides, who wants to drink blood out of a glass?" He looked up at his servant, standing over him at the edge of the pit. She smiled with genuine warmth and stretched out one long leg, robe falling open to mid-thigh. Cobaru took her calf and kissed it, eyes locked on hers, before waving her out of the room once more.

"Now then," Cobaru said. "As far as the corpses go, I'm—"

"My apologies, Cobaru," Salim broke in. "But I'm afraid that, as honorable as you may be, I can't simply accept your word. Not for a matter of such importance. Will you allow me to be so gauche as to cast a spell?"

Cobaru's eyes glinted dangerously. "You overstep yourself, Salim. I won't be bound like some common ghoul."

"Nor would I presume to try," Salim said. "The spell will affect only me, allowing me to hear any...misremembered details in your story."

Cobaru glared. One finger slowly swirled a drop of crimson wine around the edge of its glass. At last he said, "Do what you need to. Quickly, before I tire of this conversation."

"Thank you." Salim bowed his head. Then, softer, "For what it's worth, I like it even less than you."

Salim's hand rose to the amulet around his neck, feeling the cold of Pharasma's spiral inscribed on the black stone. He closed his eyes.

Truth. Such an ironic thing to ask for. The Lady of Graves might be the goddess of fate, yet when had she ever given anyone a straight answer, least of all Salim? The Lady told him only what he needed to know to do her bidding—and even then, usually only if he asked the right questions. The arrogance of it—of all the gods and their churches—stuck in Salim's throat. Yet he'd given up his right to refuse long ago.

Instead, he spoke a word and opened himself, thumb tracing the outer edge of the amulet's spiral. Like a sluice gate being opened, he could feel the taint of the goddess's magic running through him, cold and dark, flooding his veins. His head ached, his ears going numb as the essence of the grave filled him up with soil and worms.

Worst was the knowledge that the gate was only open a crack. Beyond that fragile dam, Salim felt the press of the goddess's power, the tide of filth waiting for the smallest invitation to rush through and carry him away.

He let his hand drop. Behind his eyes, the gate closed again, cutting off the flow of Pharasma's endless, grave-dark sea. He almost smiled.

A tiny victory, to be sure. But tiny victories were all Salim had left.

He opened his eyes. Cobaru was watching him with naked curiosity.

"You cast the spell as if it pains you."

"More than you'll ever know," Salim replied honestly.

Cobaru shrugged. "Personally, I prefer the studied magics. Wizardry has an element of control that appeals to me. But that's not why you're here. Are you prepared?"

Though the flow of magic had ceased, Salim's ears still felt numb and muffled. In the space between Cobaru's mouth and Salim's ear, there now seemed to be an invisible gap in which each statement was overlaid with another, softer sound. These ghostly riders were somewhere between words and the ringing of far-off church bells.

True, the voices whispered. True. True.

Salim was an excellent reader of people. His work—both his original calling, and this new half-existence under Pharasma's yoke—demanded it. Yet for all his niceties and apparent youth, Cobaru was a vampire, which meant that he was very old, and practiced in his deceptions. The spell would catch any lies Salim missed.

"Yes," Salim said. "I'm ready."

"Very well," Cobaru said. "I'm afraid that, despite your kind offer of allowing me to continue my existence, I don't have much to give in return. The children who watch the rivers and collect corpses for me are simply one of my many business concerns, and not a particularly profitable one at that. My people arrange for them to sell to Mubb and his ilk. They negotiate a better price than the children would get on their own, then take a percentage. The necromancers get cheap materials, the children eat, and the city's waterways stay clean."

"And all those children grow up beholden to you," Salim said. "A vast network of tiny ears."

"Just so." Cobaru tipped his glass in a salute.

True, the bell-voices whispered. All true.

"But you know nothing of the murders themselves? Who the victims are, or how they came to be in the rivers in the first place?"

Cobaru shrugged. "People die here every day, often by each others' hands. Unless it pertains to one of my business concerns, I have no interest in such things."

True.

Well, that wasn't surprising. "Still," Salim said, "you have the aforementioned network, and probably several more besides. You certainly learned about me quickly enough."

Cobaru smiled. "Some matters are more important than others."

"Of course," Salim said. "And since we're such good friends now, keeping each other's secrets and all, perhaps you'd be interested in following up on those murders for me. Finding out who's killing these people, and why."

A nod. "Fair enough. It's a small favor, all things considered. I'll set my people to work, though I can't guarantee an answer."

False. The word was sudden and sharp, as if one of the tiny bells had cracked.

Salim clucked his tongue and shook his head. "Cobaru," he said. "We were doing so well. And as you say, it's a small request."

Cobaru looked genuinely surprised. "What?"

Salim tapped the side of his head. "The spell, Cobaru. I can tell you're lying to me."

"What?" The vampire seemed honestly affronted. "I said I'd help, and I meant it. I'll send out word tonight, have my people ask around."

True.

Salim frowned. "So you did." Something wasn't adding up. "What was the other thing you said?"

"That it's a small favor?"

True.

"No, after that."

Cobaru shrugged and lifted his hands. "Only that I can't guarantee an answer."

False.

Curious. "The spell thinks otherwise."

"Then perhaps you cast it wrong," the vampire snapped. "I don't know what you're talking about."

True.

"That's not how the goddess's magic works." Salim made a placating gesture, but inside his mind raced. As much as he hated the Gray Lady, her magic hadn't lied to him yet. Somehow, the vampire could guarantee an answer. But as far as the spell and Salim's own people-reading abilities could tell, the vampire honestly had no idea what it was.

"Is there anything else you can think of," Salim said slowly, "that might be able to shed light on this situation? Anything you might have heard recently but not realized was connected? Any alternative ways of gathering information, beyond your network of eyes and ears?"

"I can't think—" Cobaru began. Then he stopped. Dark eyes widened. "No."

"No?"

"No." Throughout their little game of veiled threats, Cobaru had remained cool and fearless, a master manipulator secure in his own abilities. Now he looked like a caged animal.

"I won't do it," he said. "Out of the question."

"Do what?" Salim asked.

"I won't ask them." Manicured nails gripped a pillow so tightly that they tore through the satin, releasing furrows of goose down. The vampire tensed, ready to run.

This was getting out of hand. Salim stood and glowered down at Cobaru.

"Cobaru!" he barked, in a voice drawn from a parade ground long ago. "You will calm down and explain yourself. Now."

The vampire lord looked shocked. Clearly, it had been a long time since anyone had spoken to him in such a manner. He frowned, but the wide, panicked eyes gradually narrowed to indignant slits. He held Salim's gaze for a long moment, then waved for Salim to retake his seat.

Salim did so. He put on his most patient, expectant expression, and waited for the vampire to speak.

When he finally did, Cobaru's voice was weaker, but calm. "You know not what you ask for, priest."

"Then why don't you explain it to me?"

"Because you've already put me in danger once by learning my secret," Cobaru replied. "And now you're asking me to double down."

Salim held up his hands. "This isn't a market stall. We're not haggling fishwives. Either we trust each other, or we don't. As long as we do, you don't need to worry about the Church of Pharasma sharpening their stakes and blessing their water." He let his hands drop. "I'm not threatening. Merely stating that if you can trust me with one secret, you can trust me with two."

"Even if the second frightens me more than all your priests and their pointed sticks?" Cobaru's voice was bitter, but even as he asked the question he seemed to make a decision. He let out a long breath and leaned back against the cushions. "How much do you know about this city's history, Salim?"

"Almost nothing," Salim admitted.

"Then you're in the majority. Most Kaer Magans don't know anything about this place except that it's old, and they don't even really know how old. It's not a place that encourages questions." He paused. "Did you come by the river road, or up the Halflight Path, through the cliff face?"

"The path," Salim said. "The Duskwardens led me up."

Cobaru nodded. "Then you've already got more of an idea than most people. You saw those tunnels. What were they like?"

Salim thought for a minute. "Old," he said at last. "Some of them looked recently repaired, but others looked like they'd been there since the world began. There were places we passed that seemed to have been inhabited at one point—one chamber had a bunch of doors and columns carved out of the rock. All of them were blocked off, though."

Again Cobaru nodded. "That's the Duskwardens' real job. This city may seem like a warren, but it's just the tip of the iceberg. Beneath it are a thousand tunnels and caverns honeycombing the cliff, and beyond down into the earth. Once upon a time, things would come up out of them—creatures no one had ever seen, and didn't know how to deal with. That's why the city formed the Duskwardens: to keep all the entrances to the Undercity blocked off, and make sure that everything born below stayed below."

He went silent. After a moment, Salim asked, "And you think these murders might have something to do with the things that live below the city?"

Cobaru shook his head. "Unlikely. It's rare that anything from the Undercity escapes. When they do, they usually cause a scene right away, go on a rampage and get put down."

"And when they don't?"

Cobaru showed his fangs. "Then they work their way up until they've got a nice little tower apartment overlooking the city."

paizo.com #3236236, Corry Douglas <corrydouglas@gmail.com>, Aug 10, 2014

Chapter Seven

Thought and Memory

Cobaru reclaimed his glass, which had been forgotten on the seating-pit's ledge. He took a long drink, then continued.

"There's a place," he said, "far below what most people think of as the Undercity—the tombs, the dungeons, the twilit caverns and fungus-rifts. A city that was purposefully forgotten, and that not even the Duskwardens remember. The City Beneath."

He glanced at Salim for any sign of recognition. Finding none, he continued.

"Kaer Maga has always been inhabited, you know. Long before Azlant and the fall of the Starstone, before the Age of Darkness and the emergence of orcs and dwarves, before the elves left and returned again, this great ring of stone stood here. Who built it and why is anyone's guess, but when the first humans stumbled upon it, there were already things living in its hollowed walls. Creatures both like and unlike humans. Gaunt things, with two mouths and no eyes.

"The first humans to encounter them named them the Caulborn, for the hoods of blank skin that covered the tops of their faces. They came from—elsewhere. Somewhere in the Outer Planes, I think. They were scholars, but more than that—they were mnemovores. Thought-eaters. They collected knowledge, hoarding it like bees making honey, but they couldn't actually create it themselves. They needed their information predigested by other conscious entities. Why they were here all alone, I don't know. Perhaps they were waiting.

"When the first human empire rose here, ancient Thassilon, the Caulborn were happy enough to share what they knew and work for the empire's runelords. All they asked in exchange was the chance to feed—to drink in the new thoughts and memories that younger races were so quick to form. In time the monument became a prison colony, and the Caulborn its wardens.

"You already know how that story ends, though. When the Starstone fell, shattering empires and kicking up a cloud that blotted out the sun, the Caulborn saw the chaos that was coming. They retreated beneath the city—deep, deep beneath—caving in and blocking off the tunnels behind them so that no desperate tide of refugees could follow. They went down as far as they dared, and in one of the deepest caverns they built a new city: Xavorax, City of Silence. Yet they knew they couldn't live entirely alone—they still needed the influx of processed ideas. And so they searched out and fostered a breed of people to take with them as servants. Ones that might live as long as they did, and prove as easy to feed."

"Vampires," Salim said.

"Precisely." Cobaru finished off his wine and set the glass back on the stone. "It's beautifully simple, really: the Caulborn feed on the vampires' thoughts, and the vampires drink the Caulborn's blood. It's a closed loop—perfect symbiosis. A system that's lasted for thousands of years, so long that everyone on the surface has forgotten it even exists. Everyone gets what they need."

"Except not everyone."

Cobaru smiled joylessly.

"An elegant system is not the same as a pleasant one. As I said, Kaer Maga was a prison city under the Caulborn, and the vampires that live in the Deep City are prisoners still. They live to read, and think, and watch the scrying spells that tell them of the outside world, so that the Caulborn can fatten their grotesque brain-sacs on the servants' thoughts. Half the vampires while away their time in petty political posturing, while the other half stone themselves into ‘enlightening trances' via hallucinogenic magic, or sport with the exotic slaves the Caulborn sometimes bring back from their planar walkabouts, along with books. Always more books."

"Sounds like the nobility anywhere," Salim noted.

The vampire's lip curled. "Don't mock me, priest. Have you ever been a slave?"

Salim said nothing, but something in his posture must have given him away. Cobaru's gaze lost some of its violence.

"Then you understand," he said. "It's not what we're forced to do, but rather that we're forced to do it."

Salim wondered if the vampire realized he'd begun saying we rather than they. "So why don't they escape?"

Cobaru snorted. "Most vampires born to Xavorax never chafe at their servitude—they think of the outside world as something made for their entertainment, via the scrying spells. They would be terrified to travel beyond the deep caverns. And even if they wanted to, the ancient magic that originally bound the vampires to their prison still holds. A vampire of Xavorax may never travel beyond the bounds of Kaer Maga's walls—not north, south, east, or west." He gritted his teeth. "The pain is...singular in its intensity."

Salim grasped the implications immediately. "But vertically..."

Cobaru nodded. "Exactly. We can never move beyond the ring—but we can go as far above or below it as we like. The magic which allows us to live in Xavorax also allows us to live in Kaer Maga, as it did millennia ago.

"The Caulborn know this. Every so often they send a scout to the surface, to acquire something they need from the City Above, or to manipulate events there. The vampires chosen for such tasks are considered heroes by some, insane daredevils by others. Yet the Caulborn are careful in their preparations and magical bindings, and the scouts always return."

"Except you," Salim said.

Cobaru bared his teeth again, this time with pride. "Oh, I returned. I played the good servant and did precisely as I was asked, learned everything I needed to know about their methods. But I had seen the outside. After that, it was simply a matter of waiting. For twenty years I made no move, showed no interest in returning. I let them believe I was content. And then, when they had all but forgotten about me, I stole what magic I needed and left them."

Despite his professional detachment, Salim found himself getting drawn into the vampire's story. "They came after you?"

"Naturally. Yet the same tactics they'd taught me for avoiding detection hid me from them as well. Unwilling to expose themselves, they're restricted to a few agents here and there, plus their constant scrying spells. For a hundred and fifty years, we've fought a shadow war against each other. So far, they haven't found me."

"And in the meantime, you've built a tidy little empire for yourself."

Cobaru waved at the walls. "The people who live in these towers value their privacy. They don't ask a lot of questions, and their servants ask even fewer." For a moment, his eyes grew distant, and his voice soft. "And it's as far away from the city as I can get."

"Fascinating," Salim said honestly. Most of the tales he heard from undead creatures—usually in the moments before he was forced to silence them forever—were nowhere near as grand, and the tiny bells in the distance pealed out confirmation of each new claim. "Yet we've strayed from our original course. You believe the Caulborn might be involved in this soul-stealing business?"

"Soul-stealing?" Cobaru echoed, surprised, and Salim realized he'd said more than he intended. He was getting sloppy.

"No," the vampire said, "murder isn't their way, and soul-stealing makes even less sense. Memory-stealing, perhaps, and even slave-taking, but I can't see them bothering with souls. No, I don't think they're involved—but you must understand, their scrying spells are everywhere. The Caulborn are master scholars, capable of logical leaps and deductions you and I can barely understand. And they never, ever forget. If anyone can give you the answers you're looking for, it's them."

"I see," said Salim. "And you can tell me how to contact them."

"Absolutely not." The vampire's tone was flat, matter-of-fact. "Not a chance in hell."

"Cobaru," Salim said, "I thought we were finally beginning to—"

"Beginning to what?" The vampire leapt from the cushioned pit and began pacing back and forth across the tiled floor. "A hundred and fifty years, Salim. And you ask me to compromise my position as if it's nothing!"

"Not nothing," Salim said calmly. "The price of retaining your cover. And I swear to you by whatever oaths you wish that I won't reveal your secret."

"Idiot! You don't have to reveal my secret. They eat thoughts. Just knowing it makes you a liability. If they get inside your head, it's all over."

Salim stood as well, hand on sword hilt. "Calm yourself, Cobaru. I won't ask again."

"Oh you won't, will you?" The vampire turned toward him, fingers flexing. His face was dangerously blank.

"Do I need to remind you that the eyes of the Spire are watching all of this?" Salim said. "If anything happens to me, they'll know who and what you are. And they're decidedly less lenient than I am with creatures of your kind."

Cobaru growled, a shockingly bestial sound, but after a moment his hands relaxed, and his posture returned to normal. He began pacing again, this time more thoughtfully and less like a caged wolf.

Salim didn't push him. At last the vampire stopped and gave Salim a thoughtful look.

"There might be a way," he said. "But you're not going to like it."

"That's nothing new."

Cobaru ignored him. "You understand that I can't let you interact with the Caulborn while knowing my identity. It would be suicide."

"So you say."

"So it is. I've no doubt you're a man of your word, Salim, but I've seen creatures you can't even imagine give up their deepest secrets to these things like a maiden on her wedding night. It's not something honor can protect you against. The only defense is not knowing." He smiled. "So you need to not know."

Salim frowned. "I don't follow."

"There's a spell—one that occasionally comes in handy when a deal goes wrong, or someone finds out something they're better off not knowing." Cobaru shook his head. "I really should have used it on Mubb—but never mind. The point is, its magic can erase a memory, or change it."

Salim didn't like where this was going.

"If you meet with the Caulborn or their agents, they'll assume you learned about them from me. But if I can erase your memory of my identity—maybe lay a false trail saying that you met me in Absalom, after I somehow found a way to break the magic binding me to the city—then there's no risk. It might even work to my advantage."

Now it was Salim's turn to go dangerously still. "You want to lobotomize me. To root around inside my brain."

The vampire held up his hands. "It won't hurt at all, I promise. And I won't touch anything except the memories related to me and my nature." Another smile. "And like you say, we both need to trust each other."

True, the spell chimed. Salim could have sworn the little bells were laughing at him.

"Fine," he said. "Presuming we follow your plan, how am I supposed to make contact with these Caulborn?"

"With this." Cobaru reached inside his long jacket and withdrew something from an inner pocket. He held it out toward Salim.

It was a stone, perhaps six inches long, in the wide-bottomed trapezoidal shape common to gold bars. It was dark gray and perfectly smooth, save for an unfamiliar sigil carved in the center of its top face.

"A lintel stone?" Salim asked.

Cobaru seemed to deflate slightly. "You've seen one before."

"Once or twice." Yet if anything, Salim was more impressed. Lintel stones were keys—portable gateways to anywhere. On the Outer Planes, those strange realms where gods dwelled and souls started new lives after death, the wealthy and powerful sometimes used them to step between planes or from one location to another across literally infinite distances. As it turned out, Salim had his own means of moving between the planes—the amulet hanging around his neck—but that didn't make Cobaru's treasure any less valuable.

"It's how I escaped," Cobaru went on, clearly warming to the chance to tell his story. "The Caulborn have all sorts of artifacts, but I learned of this one during my service as a scout. When the time came, I stole it and used it to transport myself to the surface."

"And you never tried to use it to go somewhere else? With the magic in that stone, you could have stepped straight to Geb and joined their undead nobility."

Cobaru shook his head. "I've tried to leave the city before. As I said, the old magics still hold. The repercussions are...unpleasant."

Salim nodded. "So how do you propose we proceed?"

Cobaru waved the stone. "Simple enough. I wipe you of any incriminating memories, then you use the stone to step through to the City Below."

"Step through? Into the middle of a city of vampires and thought-eaters? Why not arrange something on neutral ground?"

But Cobaru was already shaking his head. "It has to be there. The city is where they store their memories. And if you think I'm about to let you call one of them or their agents up here for your little parley, you're out of your mind. This is already too close for comfort. No, you step through with the stone, and then my part's done." He paused, then added, "Once you return and I'm confident you're no longer being watched, my people will retrieve the stone. I'm not in the practice of tithing."

"Certainly," Salim said, more confidently than he felt. "So, when do we do this?"

Cobaru gave him a significant look.

"Now?" Salim tried and failed to keep his voice level. "I'm hardly provisioned for a subterranean expedition."

"If this turns into an expedition, you're already screwed. Without the lintel stone, all the prayers and goddess-granted luck in the world won't get you back to the surface through those tunnels. There are things down there that even the City of Silence fears. And it's a long way down. No, you'll be back in less than a day, or you won't be coming back at all."

"How comforting."

"Furthermore," the vampire continued, as if Salim hadn't spoken. "If you think I'm letting you walk out of here with all my secrets and my lintel stone, to have some time to think it over and perhaps lose your nerve or decide that you don't really need to bargain with some undead monstrosity, then you're clearly not as good a judge of character as you appear."

The vampire had a point. Salim nodded.

"Excellent," Cobaru said. "In that case..."

In a fluid, startlingly quick motion, the vampire swept up his empty wineglass and flung it sidearm into the stone wall. The crystal goblet exploded in a shower of musical shards.

Once more one of Cobaru's women ran into the room, crossbow raised. This time it was a flame-haired beauty, freckles scattered across the creamy expanse of her exposed shoulders. Her finger tightened on the trigger.

Cobaru raised a hand. "At ease, Dhaya. The good priest and I have come to an arrangement. I need you to fetch something from my study—a scroll. It should be in a lead tube approximately an inch in diameter, sealed with metal foil and an impression of a dragon chasing an imp. On the third shelf of the western case, I believe. The study's keyword today is ‘tarragon.'" The woman started to leave, and Cobaru stopped her with a slight elevation of one finger. "Oh, and Dhaya—touch nothing else. I'd hate to lose you so soon."

The woman's light skin paled slightly, and she completed her exit. Cobaru turned back to Salim, grinning.

That smile was starting to irritate Salim. "I'm not a priest."

"And I'm not a monster. But we are what we're perceived to be, no?" Smiling wider, Cobaru tapped the floor three times and clucked his tongue, as if to goad a reluctant horse.

The shards of wineglass shook and swirled, time seeming to reverse as glass dust spiraled up in a coalescing cloud. In a heartbeat, the goblet was whole once more. It snapped back into Cobaru's hand as if pulled by an invisible string. He eyed it cursorily and then placed it back on the ledge.

"Was that really necessary?" Salim asked.

Cobaru shrugged. "I like to keep them on their toes. Novelty keeps them fresh, helps them last longer up here in our padded prison. Ah, there we are!"

The woman had returned, this time bearing a tube about a foot long. Cobaru accepted it with a smile and a kiss on the consort's hand before allowing her to retire to whatever post she and the others held outside the doorway. Once she was gone, Cobaru broke the specified foil seal with his thumb and withdrew a tightly rolled sheet of parchment and a small green gemstone. He tapped the paper against his lips and looked around the room, considering.

"There," he said at last, gesturing with the scroll. The arch he indicated led into an alcove holding a mother-of-pearl sculpture of a tree whose branches were snakes. Much like the doorway the women kept entering and leaving through, this one had a thick border of decorative stone limning it, creating a lip several inches wide. Cobaru walked over to it and balanced the lintel stone atop it. Salim followed.

"When you're ready to return," Cobaru said, "simply place the stone over any doorway-shaped opening and think hard about where you want to go. Then grab the stone and walk through." Dark eyes bored into Salim's. "Do not return to my apartments."

Salim nodded. His veins were beginning to buzz with adrenaline. "Is there anything else I should know about the city? Or its residents?"

"Don't underestimate them," Cobaru said. "And don't expect your normal tactics to carry you through. The Caulborn aren't a normal society—they're like a single person with a thousand bodies. And that one person is older than anything you've ever encountered. Their logic is perfect every time, and they never forget anything they've learned. Ever."

"And the vampires?"

Cobaru gave a rueful little half-smile. "I'd like to say I'm the most capable of them, but I think I'm actually just the most imaginative. They're powerful in their own right, Salim, and very old. You may be used to fighting undead, but if you want to get out of there alive, your best bet is to go in as an emissary of something greater. The outside world scares them, but if they think you're on your own, and in their domain..."

"I understand."

"Good. Now hold still."

The vampire reached up and touched the lintel stone. He closed his eyes, and as he did so a veil of light cascaded from the top of the archway like a waterfall, a curtain of brilliant golden energy. The back of the alcove disappeared behind the blank, electric sheen of magic. Cobaru opened his eyes, then grabbed Salim's shoulders and positioned him directly in front of the portal, facing away from it. The vampire squared up with him and unrolled the scroll. Parchment in one hand, gem in the other, he began to read.

The words were unfamiliar, sizzling briefly on Salim's ears before disappearing, like raindrops on a hot skillet. He knew enough about magic not to bother trying to catch any of the arcane syllables, but in their wake came other things, more disorienting—brief flashes of memory, of places and things long thought forgotten. The sting of desert sand against exposed cheeks. The feel of leather against his palm. The smell of cinnamon. And through it all, a sensation of falling.

Salim took a deep breath. He closed his eyes, but that only made the flood of half-remembered images worse. He opened them again and fixed his gaze on Cobaru, on the vampire's moving lips, on anything other than the tide that threatened to overwhelm him.

Cobaru stopped speaking. He raised two fingers and made a series of plucking motions, as if drawing invisible threads from a tapestry.

Disorientation. Salim felt the overwhelming need to say something—anything—to assert some control over the situation. "Thank you, Cobaru," he managed. "I won't forget this."

"Yes, you will," Cobaru said, not looking from the scroll. "That's kind of the point."

Then he spoke a final syllable, and fog slammed down behind Salim's eyes like a portcullis. The world wrapped itself in cotton, and he swayed like a man on a three-day bender.

Cobaru stroked his beard and studied Salim.

"What—" Salim began.

Cobaru nodded. "Perfect."

Then he raised one foot and kicked Salim in the chest, knocking him backward through the glowing door.

paizo.com #3236236, Corry Douglas <corrydouglas@gmail.com>, Aug 10, 2014

Chapter Eight

Tower of Night

Salim stumbled and fell hard onto rough stone, landing on his ass. A series of clatterings followed as the lintel stone bounced and slid to a stop somewhere near his right hip.

He was blind. No matter which direction he looked, the darkness was perfect, enfolding, without so much as a distant star. Salim felt a brief moment of panic, then shook it off long enough to let the goddess touch him, just barely. He groped for his dagger and let the magic flow through him into the weapon's hilt, making it glow cold and bright, then covered it with his hand to let his eyes adjust.

He was in a tunnel. Beneath him, the floor was uneven and dusty. The ceiling was perhaps six feet high, expanding upward as the tunnel stretched forward and curved around a corner. Behind him, it dropped dramatically, sloping down until it met the floor.

Salim didn't rise. Instead, he stared at the lines of light escaping from between his fingers and concentrated on the air moving in and out of his lungs. With each breath, the cobwebs in his head cleared a little more.

He was underground. He had gone to see Cobaru, the incongruously handsome corpse-merchant that Mubb had pointed him to, who ultimately turned out to be a dead end. He had just returned to Canary House when Ceyanan had appeared with the lintel stone and a story of a second city deep below Kaer Maga. He needed to meet with some creatures called the Caulborn, and their vampire minions, in order to find out what they could tell him about the murders and the missing souls.

As he reviewed the facts, they seemed to settle deeper into place in his mind, his body losing its unexplained tension and wooziness. Feeling slightly foolish, he stood, gathered up the lintel stone, and brushed off his robes.

Vampires. Well, that was something he understood, at least. Touching the spiral of Pharasma that hung around his neck, he let another sliver of the goddess pierce his internal shield. He brought three fingers up to his forehead, then moved them down, as if drawing a veil. His skin tingled as the droplet of her power spread out over his skin and disappeared.

It would be enough. Salim didn't need to avoid discovery forever—just long enough to get his bearings. Lintel stone safely in an inner pocket, he lifted the light-dagger over his head and moved forward around the bend in the tunnel.

And into a dream.

The cavern was enormous—larger than any he had ever seen. Huge stalagmites and stalactites thrust up from the floor and hung ponderously from the ceiling, slicing through the great open space. The tunnel Salim had emerged from was one of many tiny cracks and seams in the walls, more doubtlessly hidden among the field of boulders and rock formations that curled along the cavern's twisting outer edge. Yet for all its size, the cavern wasn't what took Salim's breath away.

In the center stood the city, its towers and arches stretching almost to the ceiling. Lights flickered or shone steady red in dozens of windows, and faint blue-green phosphorescence limned other structures in faerie fire. Bridges soared unsupported between buildings whose shapes twisted Salim's eye, the angles seemingly simple yet somehow wrong.

Even the brightest section of the city was little more than dusk and half-light. Salim realized that if not for the spell hiding him from vampires and other undead creatures, his own little dagger would stand out like a signal fire.

Well, why not? Meeting people was what he was here for. He set the dagger down on the cavern floor and stepped away.

The response was immediate. From his right came a muffled exclamation and a clatter of stones.

Outside of the circle of light, the nearby terrain was a painting of black shapes at night. Cursing softly, Salim slipped into the forest of stones, trying to force his pupils to open wider. His outstretched hands found the rough overhang of a boulder and he crouched at its base, back to the stone.

He didn't have long to wait. As his eyes finally grew accustomed to the slight variations in shadow, he saw two shapes approach the dagger. They were humanoid, but moved with an eerie grace, alternately flowing and skittering. As they came they whispered back and forth to each other in what sounded like an argument, though too quietly for Salim to hear their words. Upon reaching the dagger they picked it up, sniffing it and turning it over in their hands. Then they split up and moved out into the surrounding boulder field.

One disappeared as it approached a pillar of stone, discorporating into a puff of smoke with a soft pop. A moment later, it coalesced into a humanoid shape once more, perched atop the rock.

So they were vampires after all. Well enough. Straightening, Salim moved back out into the open space where he'd stood before.

Neither of the shapes paid him any attention. One seemed to look right at him, then kept scanning the area. Salim felt a grim satisfaction, and briefly considered sneaking into the city and doing further reconnaissance. But he wasn't here to spy—he was here to make contact. Better to do it with two, where he could dispatch them and employ the goddess's veil again if necessary, rather than in the city where he might be overwhelmed by sheer numbers.

He let the spell drop.

The vampires hissed and whirled, the one on the rock going to all fours.

A chill ran up Salim's spine. For all that vampires like Cobaru might play at being human, it was only an act. These vampires were truer to their nature, and moved with feral grace, all crouches and sudden leaps. Their eyes caught the dagger's light as they bounded toward him and circled, wolves around a campfire.

Salim tensed, but kept his hand away from his sword.

"Hello," he offered. "I've come to speak with your masters."

One of them hissed something unintelligible. There was an expectant pause.

Of course—no one living underground for millennia would still speak Taldane. In all probability, there hadn't been a Taldane when their ancestors forsook the surface. He felt a flash of disgust at how many times he'd already been forced to lean on the goddess's crutch this trip, but there was no helping it. He reached out and let the power fill his mouth with the taste of moist earth, his ears aching as it trickled into them. Then he repeated his greeting.

The vampires rose from their hunting crouches and stepped closer. One was male, the other female. Both were pale—not the blue-veined fairness of a northerner, but the worm-belly pallor of something that never saw the sun, and was never meant to. The man's hair was black and long, and seemed to flow into his black and gray jacket and trousers. The woman wore similar clothes, but her hair was boyishly short and nearly as white as her skin. Their garments were fitted and strangely baroque, with elaborate pockets and buttons, and diagonal slashes that seemed to serve no purpose but fashion. Their delicate, high-cheekboned faces might have been beautiful if not for the eyes, which studied him as a butcher studies meat.

Salim remained unperturbed. He knew how to deal with predators. He was one himself.

The woman hissed again, and this time her words were as clear as if Salim had grown up speaking them. "Who is your master?"

"I don't have one." Not exactly true, but best to take things slow. His connection to Pharasma might intimidate, but it certainly wouldn't make him any friends.

"Don't lie to us," the man snapped. Where the woman's expression was neutral, detached, his lips seemed made to frown.

"Which tower do you serve in?" the woman asked. She took in his clothing, doing a clear double-take at the sword on his hip.

The man scoffed. "He's from the pens, no doubt. Trying to escape into the tunnels."

Still they circled. Salim spun slowly with them, refusing to let either get behind them. The rotation had the strangely measured quality of a dance.

"I'm not from your city," Salim said. "I'm from elsewhere, here to speak with your masters, the Caulborn." A term tugged at his memory. "From the City Above."

"More lies!" The man looked ready to say more, but the woman cut him off.

"He has a sword, Lorilen."

"Also a dagger," Salim noted, gesturing to the glowing weapon in the woman's hands.

"Stolen," the man—Lorilen—said, but he sounded uncertain. That uncertainty seemed to make him angrier. "If the Caulborn brought him here, he'd be in the city, not skulking about on the edge of civilization. The only reason we even do these ridiculous patrols is to find runaways, and now we have." He addressed Salim again. "This is your last chance to tell us who owns you. We can take you back and see you get a whipping. Or I can drink you dry right here." Black eyes glittered.

"I'm neither slave nor guest," Salim said, feeling his own temper rise. "I'm an emissary. If you're too stupid to understand that, perhaps your friend can take me to someone who isn't."

Even as the words rang in the air, the vampire was moving, surging forward with inhuman speed. Fingers elongated to clawed talons swept toward Salim's throat.

Salim, however, was no stranger to this particular dance. As the blow came in, wild and scything, he drew smoothly and held up his blade.

He didn't swing, or dodge—that wasn't necessary. He simply raised his blade and let the vampire's own momentum send enchanted steel through dead flesh, slicing through tendons and slamming home against bone with a palpable click.

The vampire howled, then evaporated in another puff of mist. This time Salim was close enough to see the cloud's green-gray hue as it recoiled, then streamed away toward the city as if caught in a gale.

Salim ignored it and turned to the woman. Despite hands curled into claws, she made no move to attack. Salim lowered his sword.

"And you?" he asked.

"Lorilen is an idiot," she said, without emotion. "If you're really what you say you are, we should take you to the city. And if you're actually an escaped slave, or one of their guests, then we should still take you back to the city." She watched Salim expectantly.

"Good." He sheathed his sword. "May I have my dagger back?"

She handed it over without protest, then turned away. "Come."

They picked their way through the boulder field toward the softly glimmering light of the city. From a perch on one of the higher rocks, Salim could see that this rough and cluttered section of the cavern was only the thinnest of rings around its edges, with the city itself taking up the rest of the space. In no time at all they were out of the broken land and onto a cavern floor that undulated in low waves before crashing against the first of the great towers.

"What's your name?" Salim asked.

"Kian."

Salim waited, but she didn't ask for his. He was on the verge of trying another question when she asked, "Is it true that skyfire burns you in the City Above?"

Salim was momentarily nonplussed. Then he understood. "The sun. Yes, vampires burn in sunlight. You'd have to hide and wait for night."

Kian nodded. They left the unworked stone behind and stepped onto streets that were tile mosaics or patterns etched into the stone. The buildings to either side of them rose up shimmering and pearlescent, their stone ranging from polished onyx to bright marble.

Kian led him to the foot of a stairway that swept up wavelike from the ground, and they began to climb. The steps were wide enough for them to travel abreast, and they did so, though Kian paid Salim little attention. It seemed that single question had satisfied her curiosity about who he was and where he came from.

The steps shallowed out and elongated as they rose, becoming as much a bridge hanging in space as an actual staircase. From here Salim could see more of the city. It was small and dense, which he supposed made sense in a cavern, even one as large as this one. Between the twisted and sometimes leaning towers spun more staircase bridges, gossamer threads that connected different buildings, often at different stories. A few platforms and plazas seemed to float free of anything, simply hanging motionless in the air.

Below, the cavern floor was a mass of domed and columned buildings, some of which had terraced gardens of huge, softly glowing mushrooms and shelf fungi. In addition to these, the city was lit with tiny, steady balls of mage-light hanging in glass lanterns. Yet despite the way the city had shimmered from the tunnel where Salim entered, it was now clear that lights were in fact spread quite thin, with most of the streets left to shadow.

Shapes moved in those shadows—little blots of darkness coursing through the city's black veins, or moving along distant bridges like beads on a string. Another staircase crossed near theirs, and Salim caught a brief glimpse of something that was not a vampire drifting along it in long robes, a massive tome clutched to its chest.

For all that his eyes told him the city was alive, Salim's ears refused to believe it. Where were the barking merchants? The cries and laughter? The creak of wagon wheels and brays of livestock? The whole city was hushed, its residents making no more than a soft susurrus like the whisper of cloth across stone. Even Salim's own steps on the marble rang less than they ought to, as if he walked in a dream. Clearly, Xavorax had earned its title as the City of Silence.

Salim paused, frowning. Had Ceyanan used that name?

A few steps ahead, Kian stopped and looked back at him expectantly. Salim shook his head, clearing it. "Where are you taking me?"

"To the Tower of Night," she said. "To wait for the Caulborn."

Not the most inviting name, but Salim supposed this was a city of vampires. He began walking again. The bridge they traveled on—now almost entirely bereft of stairs—split into three, and they took the leftmost fork, beginning a long, graceful curve.

A thought occurred to him. "Why do you call it the Tower of Night?"

She shrugged. "Because that's its name."

"But you don't have days down here." Salim gestured toward the darkened reaches of the cavern ceiling. "Right? For you, it's always night."

"Then the name fits."

Salim was beginning to wonder if perhaps living in a literal hole in the ground had stunted the vampires' intelligence when Kian said, "We know about you."

"What?"

"About surface-dwellers. Night and day, the humanoid peoples, the City Above—the watchers see it, and the scholars tell us of it, or share it with us. We know that you've forgotten us, but we haven't forgotten you."

"I see." Salim looked for some way to prolong this sudden loquacity. "And are you one of these...watchers?"

She made an unreadable gesture. "Everyone watches. The windows must always be monitored, yet some enjoy it more than others. There are those who do nothing but observe, and servants bring them what they need to live. Others prefer the books, or the sharing."

"And you?"

Her eyes met his. "I prefer to work."

Salim was planning his next question when she pointed past him. "There."

It was huge. Or rather, they were huge—an enormous stalagmite rising up from the darkness of the cavern floor, its twin descending from the half-seen reaches of the ceiling, mirror reflections that tapered as they neared each other. Black brick bridged the space between them in a cylindrical tower, turning the stone spikes into a single wasp-waisted edifice, like an enormous hourglass. Dark staircases spiraled their way up around both brick and natural stone, augmented with jutting balconies and sharp-edged buttresses. Low red light shone from narrow, arched windows.

"The Tower of Night," Kian said. Her hand touched Salim's elbow. "Come."

Their bridge continued to curve, bringing them ever closer to the black pillar. Where it met the stone, near the top of the stalagmite and the beginning of the tower proper, it split in two and became staircases once more, climbing sharply to either side and switching back until they met again in front of a huge archway in the brickwork, its sides carved with vines and leering gargoyles.

Salim stopped at the base of the stairs, looking up. As impressive as his brief glimpse of the rest of the city had been, it was clear that this structure was anything but normal. "What is this place?"

"The home of the vampires," Kian said. "Now there are many, but this was the first, and so remains the center. Come." She tugged at his arm again, more forcefully this time, and they ascended the steep stair to the gate. Salim had just enough time to notice that the archway had no doors or portcullis, and then they were through.

It was dark inside, and warm. The low red light he'd seen from a distance was everywhere, turning everything the color of fire through closed eyelids. Salim had the sensation of being inside something alive, and the back of his neck prickled.

Kian stopped them just past the doorway. Her skin and hair were blood red, her body a shadow. She looked up and whistled, a rising half-step.

The ceiling was high—very high—and as lost in darkness as everything else in this subterranean oubliette, but Salim's straining eyes caught the flicker of motion. Above them, something huge detached from the stone and dropped, spreading leathery wings like the sails of a skiff.

Salim gripped hard at his sword, and only Kian's unconcerned posture kept him from drawing.

The massive bat, larger than a human, arrested its dive. Warm air tugged at Salim's hair and robes as membranous wings scooped it in lazy beats, each flap the dull crack of someone beating out a carpet. The creature hovered above them, waiting.

"Get the Eyeless," Kian said. "Tell them they have a visitor. From Above."

The bat gave a high-pitched scream that cut at Salim's ears, then banked and slid effortlessly out the door, disappearing into the twilight.

Salim forced himself to let go of his sword. "Now what?"

"Now we wait." Kian pulled him forward through another doorway. "The Caulborn have their own quarters, and keep to their own schedules."

Salim would have asked why they didn't go straight there, but by then they were emerging into a great hall, one whose ceiling was supported by freestanding stone pillars in the shapes of men and women. The giants held the vault across their shoulders, heads bowed and arms stretched to either side like water-carriers—or people who'd been crucified. Their blank eyes stared down at the floor sixty feet below. Beneath them, doorways and balconied hallway landings riddled the walls, leading into the rest of the tower.

There were people here. They wore the same dark finery as Kian, though no two outfits were precisely alike. They stood in quiet clusters or lounged on stairs and banisters, conversing or reading from leather-bound tomes. The room, which had already been quiet, fell silent as the newcomers entered.

That prickling feeling intensified, like spiders crawling across the back of Salim's neck. He'd seen hives before—clusters of vampires and their spawn—but never anything on this scale. Even a few of the undead were enough to drink half a city dry.

And there were more than a few here. In twos and threes, they began to drift toward Salim and Kian, spreading out and circling in an unconscious mimicry of their hunting patterns.

At least, Salim hoped it was unconscious.

"And who have you brought us, Kian?" The speaker was an older-looking man, tall and straight, with a coat whose long tails brushed the floor. Kian looked at Salim expectantly.

"My name is Salim Ghadafar," he said, and was relieved to hear his voice emerge flat and calm. "I come as an emissary to your masters, from the City Above." He took another look around at the reflective eyes, the pale skin seeming to float in the wine-dark light, and decided to gamble. "I represent the Boneyard and the Spire, upon the order of Pharasma herself."

There was a general murmur at that, and the swirling crowd retreated a few steps.

"The Lady of Graves," the elder vampire said. "Interesting..."

"It's true!" A lanky teenage boy—or something that looked like one—split the crowd and moved close, peering up at Salim through an incongruous pair of spectacles. His hair was an untidy brown mop, and except for the fangs, he looked like an apprentice scribe. He turned toward the crowd.

"I saw him! In the window, coming out of Canary House! He really is from the City Above!" The youth beamed, then seemed to realize exactly how close he was to the stranger. He pulled back into the crowd.

"The Palace will want to speak with him," Kian said. "Until it does, no one is to interfere."

There was further muttering, but the crowd drew farther away, many of the vampires breaking off to return to whatever they had been doing. Yet eyes remained on Salim and Kian.

"You're a fairy tale," Kian observed.

"Someone from the outside world?"

The vampire shook her head. "A Pharasmin. Everyone knows about the outsiders—we have the windows. But the Lady of Graves is a bogeyman, the one who comes with stakes and fire."

Salim nodded. "But surely the church doesn't know about this place."

She looked at him levelly. "It does now."

Salim was processing the ramifications of that when a commotion erupted behind him. He turned to see half a dozen figures striding purposefully through the main doorway of the tower. The leader pointed an accusatory finger at Salim.

"That's him!" Lorilen shouted. "The slave that attacked me!"

The vampires with him fanned out to either side, creating yet another wide circle around Salim and Kian. Salim supposed that such predictability was inevitable in a closed environment.

Kian spoke first. "You're wrong twice, Lorilen. He's not a slave, and he didn't attack you." She looked at the other vampires with him. "Are you eager to make it three times?"

Lorilen growled, an inhuman rasping sound. "Do you mean to put yourself between us, Kian?"

Kian looked at Lorilen, then at Salim, then back at Lorilen. At last she moved casually aside, breaking through the closing circle and standing against the far wall, watching.

"Thanks a lot," Salim said.

Kian shrugged.

Lorilen refused to be ignored. "You know what the penalty is for striking your betters, slave."

"Actually, I don't," Salim said. "But I can guess."

Then they were on him like a pack of wild dogs, feinting and snapping.

Salim's sword left its scabbard with a smooth hiss, carving a bright arc through black cloth and gray-white flesh. Vampires howled and leapt back as they learned that, unlike most swords, the Melted Blade could actually hurt them—a fact Lorilen had clearly neglected to mention.

Yet they recovered their courage quickly, and there were too many of them. The wild dogs analogy was accurate—there was no series of single combats here. They lunged in twos and threes, from opposing sides, lashing out and then darting away with bloodied claws, seeking to wear him down.

Salim moved fluidly, a perfect economy of motion. Blade met talons, shearing fingers and cutting at eyes, unable to spend time angling for death blows. He hooked legs and drug them out from under their owners, his free hand turning aside grasping claws even as his blade followed them back to their sources. He whirled like a dervish, dark robes spinning out to break up his outline.

It wasn't enough. Even a single vampire could outlast a man in a contest of stamina. Stalling was only delaying the inevitable.

One clawed hand came in high, and Salim ducked under it, driving hard into its owner and stabbing repeatedly in an attempt to break the circle. The vampire screamed like a slaughtered pig as the Melted Blade savaged organs long since atrophied by death. The victim clutched at the blade as he fell, twisting the blood-slick hilt out of Salim's grasp.

The pack converged. Only the rush of all of them charging at once kept Salim from being immediately disemboweled. In the confusion, they settled for slashing and kicking, unsure precisely which black-clad shape in the fracas was the target—or perhaps simply enjoying the pleasure of an old-fashioned beating.

Head tucked, forced down to his knees, Salim struggled to keep moving, pushing with his legs while using his arms to protect the back of his neck. His sword was gone, and with it his last hope of getting out of this particular goddess-given mess.

Or maybe not his last one.

If there was a spell that might have helped, Salim didn't know it. Through the haze of pain and confusion, he doubted he could have cast it anyway. Instead, he reached down, into the recesses of his soul, and found the careful dam he'd built against the goddess's presence, the bulwark that held back the polluted sea of her power.

And he pulled it down.

The flood coursed through him, consuming him, carving his veins into channels. His mouth opened in a scream of rage as the icy current roiled in his flesh, filling him with her essence.

His was not the only scream. Even as he made himself a conduit, a lightning rod, the power spilled out of Salim, pouring forth in an invisible torrent. The tidal wave caught the vampires and threw them backward, searing undead flesh that was an affront to everything Pharasma stood for.

Undeath might be a mockery of life, but it was also a mockery of death. And the Lady of Graves did not appreciate being mocked.

Forcing himself down into the rushing current that poured through him, Salim found the break in his barrier and pressed his will against it. Slowly—too slowly—the flow ebbed, then ceased. He panted with exhaustion and triumph. His body felt scoured out from the inside, then coated with a thick layer of rancid oil.

Around him, the vampires sprawled, moaning and steaming from the rush of energy—the power of a universe that abhorred them.

Yet they weren't finished. As he watched, Lorilen and two others staggered to hands and knees, then looked at him. Gone was the childish malice of their previous violence, replaced by something far more dangerous: a rage born of fear.

They rose and moved forward.

<Stop.>

The word rang inside Salim's skull, at once quiet and all-consuming, a chorus of overlapping echoes that made it impossible to tell precisely where the word started or stopped. He looked up.

A creature stood in the doorway. It was humanoid, and deep crimson robes covered a cadaverously thin frame. Yet its face was all wrong. A hood of blank, featureless skin covered the top of its head, creating a flat expanse where its eyes should be. It had no ears or nose, and beneath a disturbingly normal mouth, its chin split into a huge pair of toothed mandibles that opened sideways as well as down.

The Caulborn.

Lorilen rounded on the newcomer. Furious, he took a step toward it. "But—"

<Stop.>

This time the word was not gentle waves lapping against Salim's skull, but a tsunami, pushing out all other thoughts. He struggled to keep control of himself, to not be swept away in that sea.

Lorilen staggered.

<Bow.>

The word was soft once more, but there was no mistaking its command. The standing vampires fell to their knees facing the Caulborn. As one, they bowed until their heads touched the stone.

Perhaps I'll get my meeting after all, Salim thought.

Exhausted, he lowered his own cheek to the blood-warm tiles.

paizo.com #3236236, Corry Douglas <corrydouglas@gmail.com>, Aug 10, 2014

Chapter Nine

The Quivering Palace

The Caulborn let them stay like that for several long moments, then spoke again.

<Lorilen> it said. <You have displeased us.>

The vampire raised his head, sputtering. "The slave attacked me!"

<Now you lie to us by lying to yourself.>

What blood might have remained in the vampire's cheeks drained away. "My—my apologies, lord. I thought he was a slave, and that—"

<Enough.>

The vampire's jaw snapped shut.

<Your pride is injured. We will remedy this.>

The Caulborn stepped forward and raised a hand, and Salim saw that the first two fingers on it were hideously elongated, with several joints too many. It extended these toward the vampire.

Still kneeling, Lorilen leaned back reflexively, then caught himself. Slowly, shaking, he leaned forward until his forehead touched the outstretched digits.

Where the fingers touched ashen flesh, Salim thought he saw something swirl, a stirring in the air that clung to the fingertips. Lorilen's body tensed, his left arm twitching.

<The memory pains you. We will remove it.>

The Caulborn brought its fingers to its lower mouth, the split jaws spreading wide like arms, welcoming something barely visible. On the floor, Lorilen slumped, breathing hard.

<Be at peace, friend Lorilen.> It motioned for the vampire to rise.

Lorilen did. Though his legs shook, he appeared otherwise unharmed. As he turned to leave, his eyes passed over Salim. He lifted one eyebrow in mild curiosity, then promptly disregarded him. He moved off into one of the various corridors, his cronies quickly following suit, dispersing into the gathered crowd.

<Come.>

The word had a new flavor, a sense of immediacy and focus, and there was no question in Salim's mind that the command was meant for him. He pushed himself up from the ground and was relieved to see that, despite their enthusiasm, the vampires had done little true damage, mostly lacerating his robes and skin. He wiped his sword on the hem of one sleeve and sheathed it.

The Caulborn had already moved out of the hall. As Salim followed, Kian gave him a small, lopsided smile.

Out on the staircase, the twilight cavern seemed cheerful after the ruddy shadows of the Tower of Night. Up close, the Caulborn's strange skin wasn't smooth, as it had appeared before, but rather congealed into cracked, plate-like growths—an armor of flat calluses. It faced out toward the city, not turning its eyeless gaze toward Salim as he came to stand at its side.

<You come from her. The Gray Lady.>

It was still the rush of slightly overlapping words, rippling like the surface of a pond, but they seemed more...solid. Directed. Words spoken to a person, not shouted at a crowd.

"Yes. I've come—"

<To learn about the missing souls.>

Salim stopped short. His mind stuttered momentarily, then went to the psychopomp, Maedora. "You've already been contacted."

Something in Salim's head fluttered like loose ribbon. Amusement.

<No. We hear your thoughts, Salim.>

Oh. Right. Ceyanan had been explicit about that part—the Caulborn's ability to sense his surface thoughts. Salim attempted to think about something else, to submerge anything related to his mission, and was suddenly reminded of the impossibility of trying to not think about something as his brain began ticking off points he might want to conceal from the Caulborn. Another amusement-wave rewarded him.

"Fine," he said, struggling to keep irritation out of his voice—and thoughts. "In that case, you already know why I'm here, and who sent me. Can you provide the information I seek?"

<Yes. Not here.>

The Caulborn began descending the staircase, its marionette-thin body bizarrely graceful in its sweeping red robes. Salim followed, and they moved out across the bridge, turning onto a span that proceeded farther into the city.

To keep from thinking anything potentially counterproductive, Salim focused his attention on the city and the Caulborn next to him, filling his thoughts with questions. For instance, did the creature next to him have a name?

<You call us the Caulborn.>

The reply came as quickly as the question arose, and Salim fought back a mental shiver. Sharing his thoughts was going to take some getting used to. But still, he'd intended to ask whether this particular Caulborn had—

<We are the Caulborn.>

This wasn't going to work. Even as he struggled to maintain his composure, Salim could feel the Caulborn lurking just inside his skull, sifting through his thoughts. Tasting them.

Furious with himself for having not prepared for precisely this situation, Salim called on Pharasma once again, this time letting the invisible energy flow across his skin. As it closed over his head, he felt the presence inside his mind vanish.

The Caulborn stumbled, catching itself. It stopped and turned toward Salim, blank face cocked to the side. It leaned in, and Salim stood his ground, meeting the eyeless gaze.

<You are there and not there.> The words still had their uncanny chorus in Salim's head, but now there were new notes to them. Curiosity. Confusion. <You are...separate.>

"That's right." Salim let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Amazing how simply retaining the privacy of his own head made him feel in control of the situation once more. "And it's going to stay that way. The Lady doesn't take kindly to mind-readers." Actually, Salim doubted that was true—Pharasma judged all beings according to their natures. But it made him feel better to say it.

The Caulborn considered this for a moment, then straightened and resumed walking.

Salim decided to press his advantage. "Where are you taking me?"

<The Quivering Palace.>

Not the most inviting name. But a palace implied leadership, and an audience with those in charge seemed like a good sign. "Is the palace where your leader lives?"

<Yes/No.>

The simultaneous affirmation and negation rang like a dissonant chord. Rather than ambiguity or uncertainty, it seemed to imply something else altogether.

They passed an intersection with another bridge, and two more Caulborn swept gracefully off it, falling wordlessly into line behind Salim and his escort. Save for different-colored robes—one gray, one midnight blue—the newcomers were indistinguishable from the first. Neither made any move toward him, only followed a few feet behind them.

"Who are they?" Salim asked his guide.

<We are the Caulborn.>

Salim was on the verge of clarifying when his ears answered the question for him. Salim's own boots rang loudly on the stone in this quiet place, and the Caulborn's padding feet, hidden and muffled by their robes, provided a soft counterpoint.

But only one. The creatures stepped in unison, and as Salim glanced back and forth between them, he saw that their arms swung in the same lazy arcs as they walked. Not the similarity of three creatures with similar heights and builds—the mirror-perfect mimicry of three puppets on the same string.

Realization came crashing in. Like a single person with a thousand bodies—hadn't Ceyanan said that? "You're the same," he said, still reflexively speaking to the first Caulborn. "You're all one creature."

<We are the Caulborn.> This time the words seemed an affirmation.

It wasn't an entirely alien idea. Hive minds occurred occasionally—Salim knew some of the insect people of Axis had near-perfect telepathy, allowing them to synchronize their work. Yet even those still had some sense of the individual. Unless he was missing something, this was a single consciousness spread out into different bodies. But if that were true...

"Why are we going to the palace?" he asked. "If you're all the same, why can't you answer my questions right now?"

<Not all the same> the voice clarified. <Some know more. We take you to Anamnesis, the One That Watches.>

Better and better. Salim decided to set questions aside for a time, and the procession continued on in silence.

Several times as they walked, other groups of Caulborn emerged from buildings or branchings of the bridge and joined them, filing into the back of the line. Once or twice, Salim caught glimpses of more recognizable shapes, or things whose forms weren't humanoid at all, but all of these quickly removed themselves from the elevated roadway and slipped into the shadows before he could identify them. By the time their makeshift parade curved onto a long ramp and descended to the floor of the cavern, the procession had grown to thirty of the eyeless creatures.

They slowed and stopped. Before them, a colonnaded building of white stone glowed in a soft light that seemed to radiate from everywhere and nowhere, showing its details without casting shadows. In contrast to the rest of the darkened city, it seemed almost absurdly bright. Though nowhere near as tall as the Tower of Night, the place's thick pillars still stretched high to a triangular lintel dozens of feet overhead, their sides smooth and unadorned.

<The Quivering Palace.>

Salim couldn't see any obvious signs of quivering. To him, the thing looked utterly solid, and old as time—its stark walls and hard lines made it seem more temple than palace. But he wasn't about to question the naming conventions of a race with no names themselves.

Sensing that something was required of him, he nodded. "I'm ready."

The Caulborn resumed their lockstep procession, and he moved with them, up the steps and between the titanic columns.

The columns were deceptive—not a row but a forest, carefully offset and spaced so that anyone looking from the outside would be unable to get a clear line of sight to the interior. Salim's escort wound through two rows, then three, then a fourth and a fifth before emerging into the building's heart.

It was a single immense chamber. Three sides were enclosed by the grove of pillars, with only the far wall showing solid stone broken by human-sized archways.

In the center sat a mound of flesh, a wet and bulging sac rising almost to the ceiling. In many ways it was like a grub or larva, yet without even those grotesque creatures' simple structures. It was boneless and featureless, thousands of pounds of green, curdled whorls floating in fluid, its currents visible through thin membranes or the pulsing of tumorous protuberances. A cross between a giant's brain and some horrific afterbirth.

The monstrosity shuddered, a ripple passing smoothly across its surface in a gelatinous wave, and Salim suddenly understood the temple's name.

Around the flesh-mountain buzzed a cloud of Caulborn attendants. Some had buckets and rags on long poles, which they used to moisten the twitching creature. Others held vials to different parts of its shapeless body or rubbed gray paste into its folds. A few stood still with their faces pressed flat against it. None paused in their motions or otherwise acknowledged the approaching party.

Salim's procession closed half the distance and then stopped. Again, Salim took what he presumed to be his cue and stepped forward several paces, close enough that the organ-thing loomed over him, its membranes looking ready to burst at any moment and carry him away in an amniotic flood. For lack of anything better to say, he stated the obvious.

"You're Anamnesis. The One That Watches."

<I am we and they are I. Welcome, Salim.>

The words hit Salim like a hammer, and he staggered half a step before regaining his balance. It wasn't that they were loud, precisely. But where the words of the Caulborn had shifted and overlapped, echoing in his head, Anamnesis was a stentorian choir speaking in unison. His head rang like a church at high hymns.

The flesh closest to Salim shifted color, becoming a sunburst of red that swept backward in a shock wave before disappearing. Salim felt the touch of the brain-sac's amusement.

<You have closed your mind to us.>

Salim shook his head, half in negation, half to clear the ringing out of his mental ears. "Not well enough, apparently."

<We hear only what you speak/think. A thread. Such selfishness.>

"Yeah, well." He struggled to get his thoughts together. "Anamnesis, are you the lord of Xavorax?"

Again the brilliant red laugh-burst.

<Lord is not a worthy concept. I/we am the chrestomath, the memory of Xavorax. All are contained within the womb of our memory, and all serve it.>

The words came with a barrage of images, brief flashes of scenes. He saw vampires kneeling before Caulborn as Lorilen had, the eyeless creatures using their long fingers to draw forth thin, opalescent threads from their servants' bowed heads. Interspersed with these were rougher scenes—screaming slaves with their heads cradled in the Caulborn's split jaws, gossamer torrents rushing from their eyes and mouths. Again and again, he saw these same Caulborn in the Quivering Palace, faces pressed to Anamnesis's sides in silent communion, regurgitating what they had stolen.

Salim felt sick. "You eat thoughts."

<No.> The negation was iron-hard. <Consumption implies destruction/entropy. The loss of knowledge is antithesis. What memories and concepts we gather sustain us by adding to the collective knowledge. We live to retain.>

"Small comfort to those you steal them from," Salim shot back.

<Harm is not necessary. Those who consent may also retain. This is good. Knowledge is good. Only those impaired by memory are altered.>

The image of the screaming slave continued to play behind Salim's eyes. He gritted his teeth. "Do you know why I'm here?"

<Information is every goal. Every path.>

"Sure, fine. I come on the business of the Lady of Graves herself. I've been told that you can help me discover who's stealing souls in Kaer Maga—the City Above."

There was a slight pause, a pensive blue shift to the brain-thing's flesh. It didn't ripple so much as mottle and cloud.

<We contain this knowledge.>

Despite the horror of the situation, Salim felt his spirits lift. "How?"

In response, he was flooded with another series of images. In the blood-red light of the Tower of Night, vampires reclined in orderly rows of cupped chair-beds. Tubes of dark fluid ran to their mouths, and smoked goggles shaded their eyes. Above them, directly in their fields of vision, hung square, shimmering portals a few feet across. Where the rest of the room was red and black, these blazed with white light—daylight. Through the portals, Salim could just make out images of a city: busy streets, people fighting or conducting business, a couple making love in a sunlit parlor. Every scene was different, yet each vampire watched only the one directly in front of it. Behind the beds, in the shadows, stood the gaunt shapes of Caulborn.

Something Kian had said earlier tickled Salim's memory. "The windows. You use magic to scry on Kaer Maga."

<Our knowledge is not limited to the City Above.>

"Of course. But you'll tell me what you know of the soul-stealing?"

<No.>

Where the last negation had been like a door slamming, this one was softer—an invitation. Salim could feel the weight of Anamnesis just beyond his perception, waiting for something.

He squared his shoulders. "On behalf of Pharasma, Goddess of Death and Mistress of the Spire, I—"

<Words are noise. Even a raven may speak, but it is no different than a barking dog.>

Salim paused, thoughts whirling. His hand went to the amulet around his neck, the black stone engraved with Pharasma's spiral. "I have—"

<You hide from us, ask for trust while showing none. Disappointing/unsatisfying/insufficient.>

The last words overlapped, coming at him from all angles. In a way he could never articulate, Salim felt them like tentacles slapping against a clear plane of glass, fetching up hard against the barrier of his mind-shielding spell. The thought of letting this thing run loose in his head was bowel-loosening.

Yet what choice did he have? He might be able to take on several of Anamnesis's servants at once, maybe even take the brain-thing hostage, but could he trust the information of a prisoner? Would the threat of death even scare them? For all he knew, the Caulborn might have no particular attachment to a given body, their shared mind distributed among them, surviving as long as any remained.

"If I release my spell—"

<We will see only the surface> Anamnesis agreed. <We will not dive deeper without consent—provided you are what you say. We would not draw the wrath of the Endmaker.>

Endmaker. Salim had heard Pharasma called many things, but that was a new one. At least it implied that there was something the subterranean monstrosities feared.

It would have to be enough. Taking a deep breath, Salim concentrated and broke the weave, letting the shroud of the goddess's magic drop away.

Anamnesis's flesh flared sunflower yellow in—pleasure? Interest? The emotion that washed over Salim was difficult to pin down. He felt those tentacles sliding across the surface of his mind, exploring, probing. Yet for all that, they were gentle.

Salim closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. This was not a violation, he reminded himself. Violation required some level of ownership, of personal sovereignty. He'd given both away long ago.

After a time that could have been seconds or half an hour, the illusory tentacles seemed to withdraw. There was a wash of pleasant emotion like a cerebral breeze.

<The stolen lintel stone> Anamnesis said. <Interesting.>

"Ceyanan said that you might ask for it back, but that its service is regretfully still required by the Boneyard." Ceyanan had been firm on that point. Salim tried to remember exactly what the angel had said, but found he couldn't bring the words to mind.

<The stone will return in its own time.>

"Thank you for understanding," Salim said. "Now that you've seen who I am and why I'm here—will you tell me what I need to know?"

<No.> The red burst of amusement.

Salim felt himself changing color as well, cheeks flushing. "I let you—"

<Telling is one-sided> Anamnesis interrupted. <Information flowing away. This is unforgivable. Knowledge demands trade.>

"Fine." Salim's mood, admittedly rarely cheerful at the best of times, was rapidly darkening. If finishing his mission meant trading this brain-sac some of the Spire's secrets, he'd be more than happy to oblige. "What do you want?"

<You.>

The word stuck in Salim's head, quivering like an arrow. He scrabbled for a response.

<We have seen the shape of you, Salim Ghadafar. Why you were called the priest-hunter, and wear the Melted Blade. What you lost, and how you sold yourself to the goddess you hate. We feel the sadness inside you, round and heavy. But these are the outlines only. We would have the rest.>

The anger that had been building inside Salim flared, breaking through any attempt to contain it. "Keep dreaming, you voyeuristic bastard."

<We shall, and are.> Anamnesis's mental voice was calm, amused. <But this is our price. You are unique among your kind.>

"Lucky me." Every muscle in Salim's body cried out for him to draw steel, to spin and slash among the Caulborn attendants until the brain-thing was surrounded by a tide of viscera and severed limbs, then puncture membrane after membrane until it told him what he wanted to know. Barring that, he imagined grabbing his amulet and shifting away to somewhere else, or pulling the lintel stone from his pocket and running for the archways at the far end of the chamber. If he could get there first, he could shift back to Kaer Maga, and then—

<Then what?> Anamnesis asked. Salim remembered with horror that the thing was still watching his thoughts.

New images sprang unbidden into his mind. Maedora the psychopomp, looming over him. Ceyanan's smile, as mocking as always. The angel's words: Your pride, Salim.

<Failure goes against your nature.>

Salim let go of his sword, both hands going to his head. "Get out!"

<That goes against our own. But we will make the trade: your memories for the information you seek. Copies only—the originals will not be harmed.>

The worst part was that the thing was right. Even as he pressed at his temples, vainly hoping to force out the all-encompassing voice, Salim could see the truth of it in the image of Ceyanan's smile. He would not leave this place empty-handed. Not after what he'd already been through.

Besides, what good had his own memories ever done him? Hadn't he spent years hoping to forget?

But he'd been offered that option before, and he'd passed it up. His past was his burden, and he would carry it for as long as the Lady demanded.

To hell with it.

"Fine," he said again. "But I don't want you removing anything the way you did with Lorilen. Swear it."

<Swearing is a meaningless concept. We have stated the bargain.>

"Swear it!" This time Salim did draw his sword. "Swear, you bloated pile of curd, or I swear by all the stars in the heavens that I'll bleed you till this room is awash in your fluids."

Amusement. Red rings pulsing back in wave upon wave. <Very well. We swear on knowledge, and its containing. We swear by the hive and the host, and that which is held within. We are Anamnesis, and Xavorax, and all things gathered since the beginning. We will do as we say.>

Salim's sword still stood out to his side, reflecting the light of the creature's emotions. "Now tell me what I need to know."

Anamnesis was silent for a moment, just long enough for Salim to wonder if he was being goaded. He raised his sword—

<Slaves.>

"What?"

<The escaped slaves in the southern district. They are the ones you seek. Many of their buildings are warded, but we have seen those whose trail you follow taken into one of their structures, and their bodies thrown in the river later.>

"Who?" Salim pressed. "Why?"

<Unclear.>

Images flashed in Salim's head: night views of a large brick house with a tall garden wall. Judging by the contrast with its dingy surroundings, it must be brand new. Though the scenes didn't center on it, from the corner of his mental eye Salim saw a series of bound figures carried through the wall's gates. Then the scene shifted to a river, and a flashing series of hard-looking men and women rolling corpses into a stream. Though it was hard to identify them all from the brief snippets, Salim caught glimpses of several familiar tattoos, and the same shock of unnaturally red gnome hair he'd seen on one of the prisoners.

<This is all we know.>

It wasn't much—a group, a neighborhood, a house. But it was a place to start. Salim sheathed his sword.

<Are you ready to complete the trade?>

Cold sweat broke out beneath Salim's arms, between his toes. But he said only, "Let's get this over with."

Anamnesis itself didn't move, but the amused red changed to a deep satisfied purple that spread like a bruise until it tinged every sac and curd. In eerie unison, five of its Caulborn attendants stopped what they were doing. Arms fell to their sides, and they glided toward Salim as smoothly as ghosts. They took up positions in a circle around him, an arm's length away, and it was all he could do to keep from spinning wildly, animal instincts screaming for him not to let the misshapen creatures get behind him.

<You will not be damaged> Anamnesis soothed. <However, you may experience some discomfort.>

Salim jaw tightened. "That's the story of my life."

<So we will see.>

A flicker of color—was the thing making a joke?

<Though you value them differently, all your memories are equally precious. Too precious to be housed in such a fragile body. Within us, they will endure far beyond your knowing. Through us, you will live forever.>

All of Salim's mounting tension let go at once, releasing in a bitter laugh.

"And that's a selling point, is it?" He rolled his head on his shoulders, cracking his neck as if preparing for a fight. "Exactly what I need." He crossed his arms and stared the Caulborn in front of him directly in its eyeless, scabrous face.

"If you're going to do it, do it. I'm a busy man."

<As you wish.>

The Caulborn around Salim lifted their arms. Overlong index fingers unfurled, their tips brushing his cheek, the back of his head.

<Show us who you are, Salim.>

The fingers began to glow, ghost-pale, wisps of something ephemeral wrapping like smoke around them.

Inside Salim's head, there was a sudden wrenching, as of something tearing open. Then the horrible sensation of things draining, emptying like a blister, a river jumping its banks and threatening to carry him away.

In the torrent of conflicting thoughts and emotions rushing through him, one briefly surfaced above the others. A sense of vindication; the feeling that he—or maybe someone else?—had been correct about something. But he couldn't for the life of him remember what.

Salim realized he was screaming.

<Fascinating> Anamnesis said.

paizo.com #3236236, Corry Douglas <corrydouglas@gmail.com>, Aug 10, 2014

Chapter Ten

Old Wounds

But if they didn't have any eyes," Gav asked, "how did they see?"

Salim dodged an old man selling plums, then stepped to the side of the cramped avenue to make way for a donkey cart loaded high with rolled carpets. A dark-haired dyer holding swatches of bright cloth started toward him, then caught a glimpse of his expression and quickly turned her attention elsewhere.

"I told you, it was magic."

"Surely it was, gov, but to hear you tell it, none of them had eyes—not the little ones, not the big brainy thing. Even if they all share a whatsit—a mind hive—it stands to reason that some of them must have eyes, or they'd all be bumping into everything. A bunch of beggars pooling their money still ain't got nothing, if'n you catch my meaning."

Salim bit back his first reply, clinging to the last shreds of his temper. "A hive mind," he corrected quietly.

"Either way. And that ‘hive' thing doesn't really make a lot of sense, either—ever seen an anthill, Your Honor? Drop a rock on it, those little buggers run every whichaway—they aren't so single-minded as all that. All I'm saying is that if you want people to believe—"

"I'm not paying you to say," Salim snapped. "Or to believe."

The boy's eyes widened. Slowly, his face hardened into a mask.

"As you say, gov."

Salim immediately regretted the outburst. It wasn't Gav he was really angry at.

After the interminable period of the ritual—the seemingly endless stream of images and emotions that swirled through him like stormwater through a floodgate, siphoned out by the silent Caulborn—he had regained his wits enough to stagger to one of the arches and use the lintel stone, almost falling through into the alley behind Canary House. Gav, waiting near the inn for his return, had found him half senseless in the midden—miraculously not yet rolled by the thieves who preyed on drunkards—and helped him into the inn and up to his rooms. In the haze of exhaustion, Salim had said more than he should have to the boy before passing out. When he had woken, Gav was asleep on the floor beside the bed, close at hand in case his employer should need something.

He was, in short, a better companion than Salim could have ever hoped to find in a city of derelicts and exiles.

The excursion beneath the city had rattled Salim. Not the Caulborn—letting the alien things rifle through his memories was far from pleasant, but even that violation wasn't enough to account for his current mood. Nor was it simply frustration at being shoved about like a game piece by Ceyanan and, through him, Pharasma herself, goaded and lured like an obstinate camel.

No, the one Salim was really angry with was himself. He'd only been in the city two days, and already he'd called on the Gray Lady's power repeatedly. Despite his half-life as Ceyanan's cat's-paw, Salim normally still held that tainted magic at arm's length, refusing to let it inside him long after others might consider it necessary. And yet here he'd used it multiple times a day, as casually as a real priest.

This is how it happens, Salim thought. Each time, a little bit easier, until one day you wake up and don't recognize yourself.

"I'm sorry," Salim said, the words dry and unfamiliar in his mouth. "It's not your fault. Since coming here I've...done some things I'm not proud of."

The boy's stiff posture relaxed immediately. "This is the city, gov—point me out someone who hasn't. We'll charge folks a copper a peep to look at 'em and both get rich." He hesitated, then clearly decided to push his advantage. "So what'd you do?"

Salim considered ignoring the question, but the boy'd earned some answers. "Magic. Priest magic."

Gav frowned. "When we met, you said you weren't a priest."

"I'm not. I just...handle things for the goddess. She offers me some of the same magic as her priests in order to help me carry out my functions, but only because she knows I don't want it. I'm a Rahadoumi, remember?"

"So let me get this straight," Gav said. "You've got the Lady of Graves standing by to answer your prayers, and you're snapping like a whipped dog—no disrespect intended—because it goes against your values?"

Salim was starting to regret his apology. "A man's values aren't something to be laughed at, boy. They're all any of us has."

Gav chuckled. He looked Salim in the eye. "You know what I value, gov? Bread in my mouth. A shirt on my back. Maybe a girl down on Box Street who likes my patter. Those are values, lord, and I know why they're called that—because they're worth what you pay for them. No more, no less." He gave Salim a pitying smile. "You asked before if I'd bow to a queen, and I said no. But I'd sure as hell take her coin if she was handing out alms. Principle's slippery, sire—try to stand on it too long, you wind up lying in the dirt. Me, I take care of myself."

Salim stared. This street child could give the philosophers of Azir a fair match in the garden forums. "And is that all there is, then?" he asked. "Taking care of ourselves? Is there nothing worth fighting for—worth dying for?"

Gav snorted. "If there were anything worth dying for, gov, we'd all be dead by now." He drew breath to continue—then stopped short, looking over Salim's shoulder. "Crows," he said. "Lots of 'em."

Salim turned and saw a half-dozen men and women in dark robes similar to his own striding purposefully toward them. At their head was a familiar mane of black hair and a gray cloak.

"Friends of yours?" Gav asked hopefully.

"Not exactly," Salim said. "And if you value your employment or your skin, you'll let me do the talking. All of it. Understand?"

"Not a word," Gav agreed, watching the approaching priests with decidedly less than his usual gamecock bravado.

Once again, the citizens of Kaer Maga showed their almost supernatural ability to melt away from potential trouble, spaces automatically opening up in the crowded lane in front of the advancing priests, then closing again behind them.

Salim folded his arms and let them approach.

For a second, Salim had the impression that Maedora might simply march straight over the top of him. When she was less than an arm's length away, she finally stopped, back parade-ground straight. The rest of the Pharasmin priests fanned out in a rough V behind her, looking grim even for them.

"Salim." The psychopomp's voice sounded human, but carried a cold weight a battlefield commander would have envied.

"Maedora. How lovely to see you again."

Her glare was even colder. "I warned you not to interfere with my investigation."

"And so politely, too," Salim noted. "As you can see, I haven't."

"Oh? And did it not occur to you that nearly starting a war between this city's faithful and the necromancers of Ankar-Te might complicate matters?"

"Mubb?" Salim was genuinely surprised. "That little worm? I didn't even touch him. At least, not much."

One of the Pharasmins—a rosy-cheeked dowager with hair cut in a rough bowl—stepped forward and spoke around Maedora's shoulder. "That ‘worm' is one of the best-known necromancers in the city. Your rash actions nearly cost us our truce, and now we'll have to make even more concessions!"

Salim turned hard eyes on the woman. It was one thing to be reprimanded by a psychopomp who'd traveled the planes. Priests were another matter.

"Perhaps," he said quietly, "your mistake was in making peace with your enemies in the first place."

The priestess blanched, clearly unused to being talked back to.

"But you know all about that, don't you, Salim?" Maedora stepped even closer, blocking the priests and filling Salim's vision. She was only slightly shorter than Salim himself, and though she was close enough to wrap in his arms now, Salim felt no thrill. Where he should have been able to feel the warmth of her skin or breath, there was nothing.

"Oh yes, Salim," the morrigna continued. "I know your story. Or do you think that a Rahadoumi priest-hunter in the Lady's service goes unnoticed, especially one as problematic as yourself?"

Behind Maedora, the priests shifted and murmured to each other. One sketched Pharasma's spiral in the air.

"If you know who I am," Salim said, "then you know I'm the best at what I do."

For the briefest instant, Maedora's pupils flashed white, crisscrossed with threads of webbing.

"And what is that, exactly? As Pure Legion officer, you spent a lifetime tracking down and persecuting believers. Then as soon as you needed the goddess's help, you forsook all your godless convictions, selling out both yourself and the wife who resented you for it. You killed your best friends and ran away in shame, then tried to renege on your deal with Pharasma herself. You're an honorless man, Salim. You've betrayed everyone and everything you've ever cared about, and you make a show of hating the goddess only because it's easier than hating yourself."

Salim felt each word like a lash. He tasted blood and realized he'd bitten the inside of his cheek.

"Leave," he said.

Maedora smiled, a wax mask stretching. "You're a flawed tool, Salim. And when you break, I'll be there to pick you up and return you to Ceyanan."

"Leave," Salim said again. There must have been something in his voice, because Maedora glanced down and saw his hand, white and bloodless where it gripped his sword hilt. Her smile faltered, replaced by her normal flat affect. She looked back toward her followers and jerked her head, then led them on down the street toward Ankar-Te, the priests giving Salim a wide berth.

Salim continued to stand in the street for several long moments after they were gone, staring at nothing. At last he unclenched his hand and moved it away from his sword. He let out a breath and looked over at Gav, half-surprised to see the boy still there.

"They don't seem to like you much," Gav ventured.

"Me either," Salim said, and gave the guide a weary smile. "Come on, let's go."

paizo.com #3236236, Corry Douglas <corrydouglas@gmail.com>, Aug 10, 2014

Chapter Eleven

The Common House

Think this'll work for you, gov?"

The sprawling structure was less an inn than a stationary circus. Twice the size of a normal inn and only half-finished, with exposed scaffolding off to one side, the wooden structure had clearly been designed by several different architects who hadn't thought much of each other's aesthetics. Gables and arches clashed with rough-hewn columns and porticoes. Despite it being only early afternoon, the open windows disgorged laughter and music, as well as the occasional inebriated tenant. One such long-haired vagabond was currently doing some disgorging of his own against the side of a muraled wall, while a leather-clad elven woman laughed and another woman covered in red silks and blue tattoos looked on in disgust.

"It's perfect," Salim said. "And this is where the escaped slaves congregate?"

"More than that," Gav said. "It's their city hall. Everyone knows the Common House—it's where Halman Wright and the rest of the Freemen's leaders do their arguing and speechifying. But most folks just come here to drink and have a good time."

It was as good a place to start as any. Salim had considered simply walking through the district, which Gav called the Bottoms, looking for the walled house he'd seen in Anamnesis's vision, but one look at the maze of streets had quickly convinced him of the foolishness of that plan. Unlike Ankar-Te, the Bottoms wasn't all roofed over with the multiple floors of stone that turned that district and others in Kaer Maga into the masonry equivalent of an insect-rotted log. Here, the ring's high ceiling had partially collapsed, letting warm sunlight down onto a wide swath of city. Yet if anything, this had only increased the district's density, with narrow lanes winding between shops and workhouses and tenements. Salim had the feeling he could walk those alleys for a year and never see all of it.

That wasn't his only reason for coming here, though. Salim had taken time to cool on their walk south across the city, and discovered that, along with her personal comments, Maedora had said something that rang true. Salim had been sloppy with Mubb. He could have gotten the information he needed out of the necromancer any number of ways, yet he'd let his distaste for the man get in the way. He'd been throwing himself at the problem like a blunt instrument. It was time to start looking before he leapt.

"What do you know about these Freemen?" he asked.

Gav's brow furrowed. "As much as anyone else. They've been around for most of my life, but they're still pretty new as far as the city's concerned. About a dozen years ago, orcs brought in a big string of slaves, mostly ex-military, and thought they had 'em broken for sale. Turned out they were wrong. The slaves strangled the orcs with their own chains and ran down here to the Bottoms and dug in. When they realized that nobody in the city cared enough to clap 'em back in irons, they started building homes and gathering other runaways. These days, probably half the Bottoms folk are ex-slaves. If you were a slave catcher or bounty hunter, this place would be solid gold, but every time Halman and the others free somebody new, they teach 'em how to fight. Nobody messes with the Freemen."

Salim frowned, thinking of Akaan's singing slave girls at Canary House. "And the rest of the city allows this? Surely every slave in the city would make a run for freedom."

Gav shrugged. "It's complicated. In the beginning, the Freemen got greedy and tried to free all the slaves in the city, but the other gangs got together and slapped them down. Now there's a truce—no slavers allowed in the Bottoms, but Halman and Black Marin and the rest don't go around stealing slaves and setting them free. Or at least that's how it's supposed to go. Everybody knows that some of the Freemen still raid the other districts, but publicly the line is that all new recruits are refugees from outside the city. And in the meantime, the Freemen also buy slaves in the markets in order to set them free, so the slavers get theirs, too. It all works out."

"Another truce." Kaer Maga seemed built on such agreements. "Alright, then. Once we're inside, we split up. You find out what you can about the house I described, and I'll see what I can pick up on my own."

"You sure that's wise, gov? Folk here aren't exactly the trusting sort."

"But they're clearly not entirely closed to outsiders if they're taking in runaways," Salim countered. "And you can probably get into conversations where I'd be a liability. Besides, I have my own methods."

And with that, Salim realized he couldn't put it off any longer. So be it—given the way he was feeling, one more dip in the cesspool didn't matter.

Turning away from Gav, Salim grabbed hold of the spiral pendant around his neck and brought it to his lips. To the other people on the street, it probably looked like he was kissing it. He smiled slightly. Working his tongue around his mouth, he conjured up a drop of spit and blew it onto the holy symbol, rubbing it into the stone. Beneath his circling thumb, the stone grew cold.

"Come on, then," Salim said under his breath. "You're not the only one who can play voyeur."

The rush hit him immediately, the icy slick of grave worms wriggling through his veins. Yet with the disgust came a heightened sense of awareness. He looked to the crowd passing by. Where a second before they'd simply been a mass of city-dwellers, now each person seemed distinct, body language clearly conveying thoughts and intent. A hunched shoulder betrayed a thief as clearly as if he'd held the stolen pouch aloft. An uneasy shift in a woman's weight declared that she was waiting for someone, not merely examining a fruit stand.

There was more, though. In addition to the real sounds of the street, Salim's mental ear now picked up a second broadcast—a murmur laid over the top of the others. He looked out toward the crowd, and though his eyes told him nothing had changed, he could sense the sources of the new sounds. In his imagination, he could almost see them—transparent beige bubbles encapsulating each person's head.

"Gov?"

Salim shook his head, and the image faded. He looked back to Gav, who was staring at him with a troubled expression.

"I'm fine, Gav." Salim put a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Let's see what we can dig up." Together, they crossed the crowded street and made their way up the two steps to the porch and through the inn's door.

Inside, the Common House was a study in contrasts, both well loved and well abused. Sawdust covered the floorboards, and the several bar tops were nicked and battered, yet surprisingly clean. Tables crowded the floor, which rose and dipped seemingly at random, and the tables themselves were crowded with folk of every shape and color, most with the dirty clothes and thick arms of laborers. Off to one side, a table raised above the others held several older men with the look of mercenaries, arguing and gesturing to the sheets of paper that joined mugs of ale on the tabletop. At the other side of the room, a lutist and a tambourine player plucked and shook for all they were worth, while men and women took turns doing a high-kicking dance in front of the stage, with great enthusiasm and varying degrees of success.

A group of younger folk called Gav's name. The boy waved to them, then looked to his employer. Salim nodded, and Gav immediately began weaving his way through the tables.

Salim watched him go, then moved out of the entryway, taking a seat at the bar closest to the door. Scanning the crowd, he let his eyes unfocus, loosening his hold on the magic running through him.

The bubbles returned. It was like every person in the barroom was wearing an inflated animal bladder as a helmet, a transparent apparition that was both there and not. Salim chose a table halfway across the room and focused.

One by one, the bubbles began to pop.

—I'll get the job yet, just you see if I don't, and she won't be able to resist me once she sees—

—always money with him. If only he'd listen once in a—

—Oh Ana, if you were here to see how these people live, you'd—

—more beer. Bring more beer. Look this direction, and bring me more beer—

Nothing useful. Salim shifted his focus to a new table.

—the Augurs say it'll work out, but—

—thinks he's better than me, does he? Just because he casts spells while someone else takes the lumps—

—surely the differentiations between the schools can't be as simple as that. Otherwise any hedge wizard would—

Still nothing. Even setting aside his disdain for the goddess's magic, Salim wasn't a fan of sifting thoughts—not because he was above invading someone's privacy, but because it turned out that even interesting people spent most of their time thinking boring, inconsequential thoughts. Still, it was worth a shot—someone in the bar had to know something about what was going on. He focused on a new table.

"Help you, Father?"

Salim turned back to the bar to find a tall, broad-shouldered woman standing behind it, wavy brown hair tied back in a ponytail. She wore a humble homespun brown shirt and a bar rag over one shoulder.

"Ale," he said.

"Sure thing," the bartender replied, but she didn't move. Instead, she set her elbows on the bar and leaned in, studying him. "First time in the city."

It wasn't a question. Salim smiled at the woman's brazenness. "What gave me away?"

The woman matched his smile, but her gaze didn't waver. "Oh, this and that. Partially your accent. But more that you clearly don't know well enough not to get caught staring. Folks who stare don't last long here."

Her tone remained easy, but Salim could hear the bed of steel beneath it. Strangers might be welcome in the Common House, but they were also dangerous.

Which was just fine. Salim hadn't expected to try to pass as a local, not in a group as tight-knit as this one. Paranoia was standard issue for escaped slaves. His cover story was far simpler, and his eyes lit on the battered tin tankard hanging from the woman's belt. "You're a priest as well," he said. "A follower of the Drunken God."

The woman smiled. "Most folk around here view Cayden Cailean more as the god of freedom, but obviously we don't mind a drink or six. You don't miss much, do you, Father?" She stuck out a hand. "Vera Barrenou."

"Salim Ghadafar." He took the proffered handshake, her callused palm as large as his own. "And is this your place, Vera?"

The bartender laughed. "Hardly. The Common House belongs to the Freemen as a whole. Several of us take turns tending bar in exchange for free drinks." She nodded to the symbol of Pharasma around his neck. "Healers drink free as well, provided you do some good works for the customers."

A friendly enough offer, yet Salim felt its edge.

"I gather not many Pharasmins take you up on it."

"No." Vera's smile dropped. "I'll be honest, Salim. Most crows in this city don't care two shits about the Freemen or what we're trying to do down here. Far as most of us can tell, the Gray Lady only cares about people after they're dead, and her priests are an equally stiff-necked lot. So I'll ask you straight out: why are you here? Because I don't think it's just for a drink."

Salim smiled. "You're right. But I'm not like the Pharasmins you've met."

"Oh?"

The best cover stories were true ones. "Are you familiar with the Rahadoumi?"

Both eyebrows shot up. "The Godless?" She looked him over again, taking in his dark skin and hair. "I guess you could be, at that. So you're from Rahadoum, then."

"I was."

Understanding dawned. "And they chased you out for your faith."

Close enough. "Let's just say I know a little something about being a slave and a runaway."

Vera smiled, and this time it wasn't quite as guarded. She held up a hand and let the sleeve of her shirt fall back, revealing a thick band of scar tissue running around her wrist—the mark of a manacle. "You and me both," she said. "And most the folk in here, for that matter."

Salim looked at the old wound. He hadn't lied, exactly—what was he if not a slave to the goddess?—but his bondage had never been quite so literal.

She caught his expression. "Around here, we wear our scars with pride."

Salim nodded in approval. To stay scarred for philosophical reasons rather than running to a god for healing—it was almost Rahadoumi.

Vera was still looking him over, this time with a new thoughtfulness. "Thanks to the city's reputation, we get runaways from all over, but still—I don't think I've ever met one of the Godless before, let alone one who's found religion. Hold on." She turned around and whistled at someone on the opposite side of the room.

Salim took the moment of distraction to concentrate on the spell still buzzing in the back of his head. It was dangerous to work such magic while in conversation—split your attention too far, and your preoccupation became obvious to those you were trying to read. Plus, as a cleric, Vera might notice the magic at work, and that would be very bad indeed. He didn't want to fight a good woman just because she'd noticed his eavesdropping.

The beige cloud of thoughts around Vera's head became visible, and he touched it lightly but quickly, searching for anything that seemed related. A cleric of Cayden Cailean would be an important member of this community—she must have heard something. In the quick-running stream of her surface thoughts, he sensed that he'd overcome her initial suspicions. Yet there was still something else there...a tension...

Vera grabbed someone's hand and turned back to him. Salim quickly shifted his attention back to the physical world—and fought to keep his face neutral.

"Salim, meet Xulaine."

The woman standing next to Vera was perhaps in her late twenties, and quite pretty, with almond eyes and deep black hair tied up in an elaborate bun that spilled half of it back down her shoulders. She was dressed in clothes only slightly finer than Vera's own, but they accented her slimness well. Her light brown skin was smooth and unblemished.

Also, her mouth had been sewn shut. Once Salim got past the initial shock, he realized that the wound was old—very old. Though thick black threads pierced both sides of the lips, creating a tight weave, it was clear that the skin beneath them had long since grown together, lips fusing until there was no longer truly a mouth at all. Only in the center was there a break in the stitching. There the lips remained parted in a tiny opening, pursed as if for a kiss.

The woman reached out a graceful hand and Salim took it. "Salim," he said politely.

Despite his effort to control his face, Vera must have noticed something. Rather than being offended, she smiled apologetically.

"Right—you're new. Xulaine's probably the first Sweettalker you've met, I suspect?"

"I'm afraid so."

Vera's grin broadened. "Well, go ahead and ask, then."

Salim turned toward Xulaine and searched for the right words, then simply settled for, "Why?"

The woman trilled a high, fluting whistle, ending in a series of clicks. Vera laughed and responded in kind, then returned her attention to Salim.

"Xulaine's a Sweettalker," she explained. "They believe that speech is a gift from their god, and that to use it for anything less than the god's name is blasphemy. At the same time, none of them believe themselves worthy of speaking that name. So they sew their lips shut."

"That's...dedicated," Salim said.

"You're telling me!" Vera agreed. "All Cayden asks of us is to make up our own minds about things and get drunk now and again. All things considered, I prefer our way. But there's a fairly large Sweettalker community up in Oriat—they all immigrated together, generations ago."

"From where?" Salim asked. "What god do they follow?"

Xulaine whistled again, a succession of notes so rapid that Salim quickly lost track. He looked to Vera, who shrugged.

"Your guess is as good as mine. But I'm pretty sure it's nowhere I've heard of, and that the god's not one of ours." She slid an arm around Xulaine's waist and drew her close. "We communicate well enough about most things, but theology isn't one of them."

"I see." Salim would have loved to learn more, but this wasn't getting him any closer to the information he needed. He decided to risk some direct digging. Splitting off a splinter of his attention, he let the thoughts fade into view around the two women's heads once more.

He moved closer to the bar, lowering his voice. "Vera, you seem like a good sort, so I'll be honest with you. You said earlier that Pharasmins don't usually care overmuch about the living, and you're right. They don't. But I'm not like most of them."

Sudden wariness from both women, but also interest. Good.

"I hunt men," he said. "Evil men."

Alarm. He felt it radiating from their thoughts like the heat of a forge, read it in the tensing of their limbs.

"We don't truck with bounty hunters," Vera said cautiously. "God-fearing or no. Too many of our folk have prices on their heads. Everybody starts over in the Freemen."

"I'm no slave catcher," Salim said. "Runaways and escapees aren't my concern. I hunt the real evil—men who can't be redeemed, who can't be sent to their judgment fast enough."

Xulaine clicked something, and Vera nodded. "So what do you want with us?"

"I was hunting one such man," Salim said. "True filth. He's what brought me to the city. But when I tracked him down, I discovered that someone else had already taken him. Which is fine—I'm not in this for money." Salim took a breath and focused—this was the gamble. "But I started looking deeper, and began hearing about somebody else cleaning out the city's gutters."

Confusion. Conflict. Excitement. Both women's thoughts whirled as they attempted to decide what to do with this new information.

And there it was—a name in both their minds. Caramine.

Salim decided to double down. "I know about Caramine," he said. "I want to help."

The storm of thoughts doubled in strength, and the two women put their heads together, whistling rapidly to each other like excited birds. Then the storm calmed. A decision had been made.

"We're not involved," Vera said. "But most folks around here know that something's going on, even if they don't know what. Caramine's selective about who she brings in."

Jackpot. "Who is she?"

"A bloatmage." At Salim's confused look, Vera added, "A hemotheurge. Bloodcaster. Anyway, she's lived in the Bottoms for a while, used to keep to herself. About nine months ago, she started building this big house down in the south end, all walled like a fortress. And she started recruiting. Nobody really knew what she was recruiting for—all very discreet—but in the last month or two, word in the barroom is that her crew has started cleaning up the city—taking the worst of the scum into that compound. Rapists. Murderers. Most of all slavers. And once they go in, they don't come out."

"And what do the rest of the Freemen think about this?" Salim asked.

Vera shook her head. "It's all pretty quiet. Halman and the others have to know, but they're not a part of it. My bet is, they don't want to be—Caramine's doing some good, but it won't last. Sooner or later, they're going to bite off more than they can chew, take someone they shouldn't, and when they get slapped down, the Freemen's hands will still be clean."

Xulaine whistled something short, and Vera looked surprised.

"What?" Salim asked.

Vera shrugged. "Bloatmages are a little crazy at the best of times—they have to be, I guess, to do that to themselves. But they say that Carmine got the idea from an angel."

"An angel?"

Vera gave a dismissive wave. "So she claims—or so the street claims she claims. You know how stories like this grow."

Salim did, in fact. But he also knew that most rumors had a kernel of truth in them somewhere, however distorted. "Where can I find Caramine?"

"She rarely leaves that house anymore. Straight south of here, then east at Kites and Crows." Vera looked at Salim with concern. "Be careful, Salim. They aren't likely to meet with an outsider, and they're probably pretty paranoid by this point. I would be."

Salim smiled. "Don't worry. Meeting people who'd rather not meet me is a specialty of mine."

There was a tug on Salim's sleeve, and he looked down to find Gav. The boy smiled up at the two women.

"Afternoon, Miss Vera. Miss Xulaine."

Vera returned the smile, reaching out to rustle the boy's hair. "Gav, you scamp. How's the leg?"

"Good as it's ever been." Gav pulled up one leg of his trousers to reveal a skinny but otherwise unremarkable calf.

"Excellent," Vera said. "Next time, try waiting until their backs are turned before hitting 'em, neh? Cayden appreciates bravery, but that doesn't mean you have to be stupid about it."

"A lesson well and truly learned, ma'am." Gav looked up at Salim. "Ready to continue your tour of the fabulous Bottoms, gov?" He winked. "And I don't mean those present."

Vera reached out and clipped the urchin casually on the back of the head. "With a tongue like that, boy, you'll end up back here in no time."

Salim extended his hand. "Thank you both, ladies. I appreciate the information."

"Good luck," Vera said, and Xulaine trilled agreement.

"Let's hope I won't need it."

∗ ∗ ∗

Back out on the street, Gav led Salim south down a broad avenue, just as the bartender had said. Surrounded by the near-crushing weight of the crowd, Salim let the mind-reading magic lapse, this time for good. He sighed in relief as the bubbles around passersby faded and the goddess's power left him, the polluted stream inside him finally running clear. Gav looked up at him questioningly.

"So what did you find out?" Salim asked.

"There's definitely something going on," Gav said, "but nobody I talked to was quite sure what. Some say there's a new group taking out slavers, others that they're trying to clean up the streets, and still others that they're harvesting folks for some sort of experiments. Regardless, they haven't taken anyone somebody would miss, and the woman in charge contributes a lot to the Freemen's cause, so folks are pretty positive." His nose wrinkled in disgust. "Even if she is a bloatmage."

"And is that woman named Caramine?"

Gav raised an eyebrow. "You work fast, don't you, gov? Yeah, regardless of which rumor you believe, they all point at Freewoman Caramine."

"What's a bloatmage?"

Gav looked surprised. "You've never seen a bloatmage?"

"I'm not from around here, remember?"

"That's for certain," Gav said enthusiastically. "Well, you know how sorcerers are always claiming that magic runs in the blood, which is why they're all special and don't have to spend their time studying like wizards?

"Yes."

"Well, bloatmages believe that too, except they try to rig the game. The way they figure it, if magic's in the blood, more blood must equal more power, right? So they use magic to beef up their heart and make more blood—more blood, more power, see?"

"Interesting," Salim said. "Does it work?"

Gav shrugged. "It must, or there wouldn't be so many of them—it's not exactly the most appealing condition. You'll understand once you see them. Their whole bodies bloat up like sausages—guess that'd be blood sausages, wouldn't it? Anyway, some of them have to use leeches to keep from getting so much blood that they pop or go crazy."

"Lovely," Salim said. First trolls and zombies in the streets, then the Sweettalker, and now bloatmages. Was no one in this city normal? "What else did you hear? Anything about an angel?"

Gav gave Salim a look. "No offense, gov, but if you keep scooping my information, you're liable to make a chap feel redundant."

"Humor me," Salim said. "What do you know?"

"Not much more than that. Folk say that before Caramine shut herself up in that fancy new house and quit letting anybody in except for the folks she's recruited, she had some sort of revelation—an angel that came down and told her how it was her holy duty to redeem the city." He snorted. "As if we need it. Bloatmages are a crazy lot, sire. All that blood pounding in their head gets to them." He paused, then looked up at Salim. "You don't think she actually saw an angel, do you?"

"No," Salim said. "But I wouldn't be surprised if she saw something." While an angel didn't seem likely, there were plenty of things that might have taken such a form by magic in order to better influence this Caramine woman. Obviously, the idea of cleaning up Kaer Maga's streets was just a cover. You didn't need to steal souls in order to do that—it was actually counterproductive, given that you'd normally want evil souls to go to judgment and their well-deserved tortures in the afterlife.

Keeping a soul from reaching Pharasma's Boneyard was extremely difficult. Assassins sometimes did it, using powerful magic to ensure their targets were never resurrected or contacted by the living. More often, though, it was about profit—a trapped or bottled soul could fetch a high price in the extraplanar markets, or anywhere with magic-users of sufficiently high power and low moral fiber. Witchlike hags from the Outer Planes were notorious for haunting mortal dreams, then trapping the dreamers' souls and selling them in the bazaars of Hell. Daemons and the twisted death-spirits called devourers were happy to pay for such treasures. Even mortal spellcasters sometimes found use for souls in their rituals.

Ever since the briefing, Salim had presumed he'd find one of the usual suspects behind the thefts. When the Caulborn's visions had pointed him to a group of abolitionists, of all things, he'd been surprised. But with the addition of this "angel," things began to make more sense. The Freemen weren't the masterminds—just the suppliers.

Gav tugged at Salim's arm, pulling them both sideways off the street and into an alley. "There it is, gov."

It was just as he'd seen in the Caulborn's vision: a huge manor house of reddish-brown brick, stretching far back from the street. From where Gav and Salim stood, only the topmost floor and peaked roofs were visible, the rest surrounded by a ten-foot-tall wall of mortared stone, blank and imposing. The closed front gate was wooden, wrapped with iron bands, and two men with swords lounged casually in front of it.

"Look over there." Gav kept his hand close to his body as he pointed, so the gesture wouldn't be noticed from across the street.

A covered cart had pulled up in the narrow alley running along the side wall of the compound. The two men driving it, both armed, leapt down, while a third emerged from an alcove in the wall and opened a smaller side gate. The drivers reached in and dragged out a much larger man with a burlap sack over his head. Though clad in lacquered armor, the warrior's exposed hands were bruised and bloody, and chains bound his ankles and wrists, forcing him to bend nearly double.

"Weird to see the Freemen putting someone in chains, no?" Gav asked.

"Maybe he was a slaver," Salim said, but something about the armor looked familiar...

Then he had it. "He was in the bar. Canary House. He had another man with him—a collared slave."

"Ah," Gav said. "Well, good riddance to him, then. Slaving's a filthy way to make a coin."

The gate guard and one of the men from the cart led the prisoner through the door and shut it behind them. The remaining man hopped up onto the seat and drove the cart back out of the alley and onto the street. Salim and Gav pulled back into the shadows as he passed.

When he was out of sight, Gav leaned casually back out of their alley, eying the guards warily. "You're not thinking of trying to talk your way in there, are you, gov?"

Salim shook his head, and Gav relaxed visibly.

"No," Salim said, "I'm pretty sure there won't be any talking involved."

paizo.com #3236236, Corry Douglas <corrydouglas@gmail.com>, Aug 10, 2014

Chapter Twelve

The Redemption Engine

Salim crouched in the alley, now little more than a dark crack in the starlit night. A few people still passed by on the street, but these were different from those of the daytime—they moved with caution and purpose, either eager to get to their destinations or hoping to find an easy mark. Night was not a safe time to be out and about in Kaer Maga.

None of them looked in Salim's direction. Though he'd rejected the idea of blackening his face with soot—too conspicuous while crossing the street—his dark robes hid him nearly as well in the unlit side streets. He'd been watching the manor house for at least twenty minutes, looking for any changes in the guards or shapes moving in its several lit windows. If anyone had so much as glanced in his direction, there'd been no sign of it.

Gav had been more than happy to sit out this part of the job. While clearly concerned for Salim's safety—"You're not a bad sort, gov, and I'd hate to find you stitched up and cleaning ditches for the necros"—Gav had stayed true to his earlier assertion that continued existence was at the top of his priority list, with everything else a distant second. Salim was fine with that. He worked best alone, and doubted the boy could have shut up long enough to survive an infiltration anyway.

The guards at the front gate were different than those who had been there earlier, but they seemed just as nonchalant, chatting quietly together. That was good.

Not that he'd be going in through the front door. Without bothering to pull up his cloak's hood—after all, nobody here knew who he was or that he was coming—he stepped from his alley and walked across the broad avenue to the smaller alley running between the compound and the houses to the right of it, where he and Gav had watched the cart pull up and deposit its prisoner. During the day, that gate had only had one guard. With any luck, that would be true of the evening shift as well.

No one challenged him as he walked down the deserted alley, staying on the side opposite the compound. As he drew even with the side-gate's alcove, however, he found it empty.

No, not just empty. Moonlight crept through the crack where the wooden door hung ajar.

Salim moved quickly across the cobbles and into the alcove's shadows. Hand on sword hilt, he pushed the door open. It swung perhaps two feet, then hit something and stopped. Through the gap, Salim could see more of the manor's narrow grounds, a mixture of stone paths and raised garden beds.

At his feet was an arm. It lay unmoving on the stone, peeking out from behind the door.

Salim turned sideways and slipped inside.

The guard lay in a crumpled heap. He had been a big man, bald and tattooed, but that hadn't helped him here. The sword lying next to him was still clean. Three neat round holes the size of coins punched through his chest, and a fourth burrowed through his throat. Now that he was looking, Salim could make out the darker streaks on the stone where the body had been dragged inside.

Salim looked up just in time to see a shadow detach itself from the manor's wall and swing in through an open window on the third and highest floor, flashing gray in the lamplight before it moved out of view.

Maedora? As quickly as the thought came, Salim dismissed it. He didn't know much about the morrigna, but this didn't feel like her style. Sneaking seemed beneath her. Which meant that someone else had a problem with Caramine's operation—someone who didn't mind killing a guard in cold blood. Interesting.

Salim left the body and moved quickly into the shadow of the manor itself. There was a door nearby, this one closed, but as Salim considered it, he found himself drawn to the window ledge overhead.

Whoever the other intruder was, he had style. Going in from the top would take the residents by surprise that much more, and if an alarm were raised, everyone would look to the ground floor entrances, never suspecting that the danger was already among them, working its way down from the top.

Rather than make his own way in, thus doubling their chances of discovery, Salim pushed up his sleeves and faced the wall. While the window was twenty feet straight up, the brickwork was sloppy, with inconsistencies in the mortar and the size of the bricks. Combined with the protrusion of several external chimneys, it was practically a ladder for thieves.

Salim took the same route as the gray figure, positioning himself in the ninety-degree angle where a chimney met the wall. Fingers stiffened into claws found gaps in the mortar and pulled him up quickly, one booted foot braced against the wall and the other against the chimney. In no time at all he was level with the open window, a few feet below the slanting roof. The shutters looked too weak to grab, but a convenient overhanging gutter made a far better handhold than simple brickwork. Salim got both hands over the stone lip and swung out into space, then twisted and flung himself feet-first through the open window. He landed softly on the floor in a crouch, hands going to sword and scabbard, ready to draw.

The room was empty. A single lamp burned on a side table, illuminating a low couch and a table with several chairs. A stack of blank paper and a pen and inkwell lay untouched on the table.

Some sort of study. Salim didn't bother investigating, but instead moved cautiously through the open door and out into a long, lantern-lit hallway.

Nothing moved. Elsewhere in the house, several voices were talking in conversational tones. Clearly the dead guard hadn't been noticed yet.

To Salim's left, the hall proceeded past two more doors before ending in a small window and an end table supporting a potted plant. To his right, it continued for significantly longer before turning a corner. Salim opted to follow the hall, concentrating on keeping his footsteps silent. Fortunately, the construction was new enough that the boards didn't creak. Yet as he concentrated, Salim found that there was another noise beneath the distant voices, so low as to be almost imperceptible: a deep, bass hum, buzzing up through the floor and coming to rest in Salim's bones.

Salim reached the corner. Several of the voices that had been distant before were louder now. Slowly, he peeked his head around.

The hallway traveled straight again for a good distance before ending in a set of stairs leading down through the middle of the floor. Around them, a waist-high railing sectioned off the rest of the landing, allowing residents to skirt around the stairs and access the rooms on either side.

Two men leaned against the railing, both tall and broad. The swords at their waists seemed at odds with their simple, inexpensive clothing. They stood with thick arms crossed, deep in conversation.

Perhaps there was another way down, but if so, Salim hadn't seen it. Judging by the men's posture, the conversation had been going on for some time. So how had Salim's gray-cloaked predecessor made it past them?

Blood exploded from the men in arcing gouts. Both stumbled and staggered, clutching at the sudden holes punched through their chests and arms by glowing missiles.

Above them on the room's high ceiling, a gray-wrapped shape appeared where none had been a moment before—a figure on all fours, clinging to the ceiling like an insect. Dagger drawn, it let go and dropped down on top of the two men, driving them to the floor.

The first man never had a chance. Already gasping the characteristic gurgle of a punctured lung, he barely had time to clear his scabbard before the man in gray untangled himself enough to drag the dagger across the guard's staining throat, putting him out of his misery a few minutes early.

The other man, however, reacted with the reflexes of a soldier, or at least a veteran brawler. Ignoring the wounds that left one arm dangling, he slammed forward into his much smaller attacker, chopping the stiffened edge of his hand axelike across the infiltrator's wrist. With a squawk of pain, the attacker dropped his blade, then ceased making noise altogether as the guard wrapped his good arm around the intruder's neck, closing off his windpipe. Pressed together like lovers, chest to back, the bigger man choked the smaller one, heedless of the hands that slapped and scratched frantically at his head and face, their movements growing steadily weaker and more erratic.

All of this in a space of a few heartbeats. Salim watched, taking it in. He owed nothing to either side. For all he knew, the little man was a slaver out for vengeance for profits lost, or a necromancer here to steal the stolen souls—certainly he'd killed easily enough, from hiding and with magic. Yet he'd led Salim well so far...

Salim drew his sword and stepped out from around the corner, moving unhurriedly toward the struggling figures. The guard looked up, and there was just time to see the confusion in his eyes before Salim brought his sword's sturdy basket hilt down on the back of the man's head. Eyes showed white, and the man slumped bonelessly to the floor.

The man in gray ripped the arm from around his neck and scrabbled away, gasping in huge ragged lungfuls of air. He stopped a few stairs down, his back against the wall, staring wild-eyed at Salim.

And the eyes were all there was to see. While Salim could tell that the man was small and slim, his entire body was wrapped in close-fitting gray shirt and pants, his head covered with a hood and nose and mouth veiled with taut cloth, leaving only ice-blue eyes and a strip of pale skin exposed.

Salim was surprised to find that he recognized him. "What are you doing here?"

The man's throat bobbed as he tested it. "Partner," he croaked. Then, firmer, "They took my partner."

"The big man," Salim agreed. "The one they took earlier today. I saw you with him at Canary House."

The man leaned to the side and coughed, pulling his veil aside to spit on the floor, then turned back. "They thought I was his slave."

Salim nodded, though of course he'd thought the same thing.

Outside, someone started shouting.

"They've found the body," Salim said. He grabbed the man by one arm and hauled him to his feet. "Do you know where you're going?"

The little man shook his head, then leaned down to recover his crescent-bladed dagger, tucking it into his belt.

"All the more reason to move quickly." Not bothering to sheathe his sword, Salim turned and loped down the stairs, into another long hallway. Halfway down it, the veiled man caught up, making remarkably little noise as he ran. The spellcaster knew how to move.

The buzzing was significantly louder on the second floor, resolving into a distinct hum combined with the groans of something mechanical, like a pump or waterwheel. By unspoken agreement, both men turned toward the noise, ignoring the closed doors and branching hallways leading other directions, as well as the stairways down to the first floor, where voices now shouted back and forth to each other.

Three figures ran out of a nearby room, nearly colliding with Salim and his mysterious companion. Two of the newcomers, both male, held naked swords and wore cuirasses of boiled leather protecting their chests. The third, a slim woman whose armor was a complex series of leather straps, bore a dagger in each hand.

There wasn't time for anything fancy. Salim barreled into the group, their shouts of surprise turning to grunts as they bounced off each other and the walls. Salim spun left, punching with his off hand, only to have his opponent twist away, the blow glancing off the armor's shoulder strap.

Three enemies. Salim scrambled sideways to keep the woman and one of the men from flanking him. He'd have to trust his new companion to handle the third. His sword came up.

These are not bad people. The thought came unwelcome and unbidden, yet Salim felt the weight of its truth. Vera had said that Caramine's group had so far taken only the scum of the city. Maybe they were in on the soul-stealing scheme, but maybe they were just trying to make their home a little bit safer. Did they deserve to die for it?

Fine, Salim thought. We'll do it the hard way.

The man facing him clearly had no such reservations. With a yell, he brought his longsword down in a powerful overhead swing. Powerful—but undisciplined. Salim easily parried it, blade angled to send it shearing off to the side rather than taking the full force. At the same time, he stepped forward past the man and brought a knee up hard into the swordsman's groin.

The woman. Reflex made Salim spin, and he leaned sideways as one of the woman's daggers whizzed past his ear. He countered with a wide, low slash that forced her back out of range.

The swordsman straightened, roaring, his sword coming up in a backswing. This time he was smarter, and shifted his weight to change direction, jerking the blade into a horizontal slash that might have cleaved Salim in two if he'd been an instant slower. Instead, Salim rocked back out of the way, then charged in close before the man could check the momentum of his swing. The basket hilt of Salim's sword, long ago melted to conform to his hand as smoothly as a set of brass knuckles, slammed up into the man's chin, snapping his head back and dropping him to the floor.

Salim kicked backward, foot connecting with the knife-woman's chest and propelling her into the hallway's far wall. She hit with a thud, but didn't stay put. Pushing off the wall, she launched herself back at him, arms up like a boxer, one knife pointed toward him, the other reversed so the blade lay flat against her arm.

She expected a slash, so Salim gave it to her, feinting right with his blade. The reversed knife came down to block just as she stepped forward past his blade and punched with the other dagger. The movement was smooth as silk, and had Salim committed to his own attack, it would have taken him high in the chest.

Instead, he moved as well, spinning around the outside of her extended arm, grabbing, twisting, and snapping the elbow over one shoulder in a single fluid motion. Bone broke and the woman screamed as the knife fell from nerveless fingers. Before she could bring the other knife around, Salim stepped forward and grabbed her face, slamming her head back into the wall with a crack. She followed her comrade to the floor.

Two down. Breathing hard, he whirled again, only to find the third guard's sword already raised to strike. Salim lurched backward, lifting his sword, knowing he wouldn't be fast enough.

The man burst into flame. A solid sheet of horizontal fire filled the wide hallway, stopping just in front of Salim. The guard in front of him burned, flesh popping and crackling, falling backward with a hissing scream.

The flames ceased, cut off as if they had never been, their only evidence the smoking corpse on the floor and charcoal blackening of the walls. Salim looked across the hall to find the little man in gray crouched against the wall, hands extended, faint tendrils of smoke rising from his fingers. He quirked an eyebrow at Salim.

Salim tried to ignore the smell of charred meat. "Mine will live," he growled.

"Mine won't," the man said. "They took Bors."

Salim didn't answer, instead stepping quickly over the groaning figures of the two soldiers he'd put down. He didn't look back. Soon enough, the veiled man was at his side again.

The humming continued to grow louder with every foot they traveled. At last the hallway ended in a closed door, the sound clearly coming from behind it. Salim looked to the little man, who met his eyes and nodded. Then he opened the door.

They were on a balcony, ten feet above the floor of a grand hall. Pillars spaced around the room ran all the way to a thirty-foot-tall ceiling frescoed with images of righteous angels, their burning swords raised high. Most of the tiled floor was empty of furniture, yet Salim could easily imagine the several dining tables meant to go there. At the far end, a short flight of steps climbed to a raised dais, the sort that in any other grand house might have held the high table for the lord and lady and their guests.

Instead, it held a machine. Hulking and metallic, the thing squatted on the stone stage like a clockwork beast, a whirring mass of spinning wheels and bubbling alembics that protruded from its sides like glass buboes.

Strapped spread-eagled to the front was a naked man, his wrists and ankles clasped to the machine by steel manacles. Facing outward, the terrified man struggled and shouted, yet none of the dozen men or women gathered on the floor in front of the dais paid him any heed. Their attention was focused on the other figure, seated on a steel throne next to the machine.

Freewoman Caramine was impossible to mistake for anyone else. Despite Gav's explanation, Salim hadn't really stopped to imagine what it meant to increase the amount of blood in one's body. From the neck up, Caramine was a relatively handsome red-haired woman, with a round face and rosy cheeks. Beneath that, however, it was as if a pleasantly plump body had ballooned outward, stretching her skin tight. Loose purple robes hid much of her, yet her exposed arms were a caravan map of livid veins and splotchy bruises. Even from this distance, Salim could tell that the woman's bulk wasn't fat—it moved and hung wrong. She was bloated, her body an overfilled bladder ready to burst.

She was also part of the machine. From the distended flesh of Caramine's arms sprouted several thin tubes that ran from the throne back into the humming machine, twitching and pulsing in a steady beat.

"Despite this man's sins, we offer him the greatest gift." Caramine spoke in a smooth contralto that carried easily over the sounds of the machine. "By the holy sacrament of the Redemption Engine, his sins will be washed clean. He will be absolved of his wickedness, and join the armies of the righteous in Heaven, that they may help us in redeeming our own flawed world."

The assembly on the floor bowed their heads. The machine's whine grew louder.

The bound man began to scream, shaking and thrashing back and forth. As Salim watched, a bead of red appeared on his sternum, trickling and then rushing as a long, bloody needle pushed its way through, growing to a tapered metal spike. Purple lightning arced and snapped around its point, then shot out toward each of the manacles binding the man in place. There was a flash, so bright Salim had to blink away tears, and in the afterimage Salim could see a second figure on top of the man—a transparent copy slightly out of phase with the original. Then the ghostly image broke apart, seeming to follow the lightning down into the glowing manacles. The machine's hum grew to a triumphant crescendo, then quieted as the lightning cut off. The man slumped in his restraints, chin resting on his punctured, unmoving chest.

Salim tore his eyes from the sacrifice and looked quickly around the rest of the room. Several of the pillars held men, sitting on the floor with their arms tied around the columns behind them. Two were unfamiliar, but one was the big man in the lamellar armor, his hood removed and battered face exposed. Salim turned to say as much to his compatriot.

The little man was gone. Salim scanned the room, finding nothing until he thought to look up. The gray-robed spellcaster was already halfway across the ceiling, clinging like a spider to the great mural as he made for the pillar that restrained his partner.

On the floor, someone shouted, and Salim looked back down to find several of Caramine's Freemen pointing his direction.

Time to move. Putting one hand on the balcony's railing, Salim vaulted up and over. There was a moment of weightlessness, and then he hit the floor, collapsing and turning the motion into a shoulder roll to spread out the momentum. Then he was back on his feet, sword out.

Which way to run? Clearly, this bizarre machine was what he'd been looking for—that last overlaid image of the cult's victim couldn't have been anything but his soul, sucked from his body and somehow stored inside the machine. But for all his goddess-granted abilities, Salim was no wizard. On his own, he'd have to resort to slashing at the thing with his sword and hoping he broke something important—which, in turn, would require either killing everyone in the building or somehow immobilizing them first.

He turned and ran toward the pillar where the veiled man's partner sat tied, reaching it just as the spellcaster began his eerie headfirst scurry down the pillar. Through bruised eyes, the big man watched impassively as Salim slashed through the rope binding him in place, enchanted blade ringing on stone.

"Bors!" the veiled man yelled, flipping over and dropping the last few feet to land in front of the prisoner.

Finally the big man registered an emotion. He smiled broadly, stony countenance softening. "Roshad! You took your time."

"And you clearly got so much done in my absence," the little man snapped, ripping aside his veil to reveal a narrow, smooth-shaven face. He grabbed the armored man's chin in both hands and pulled it upward, kissing him fiercely.

Salim left them to their moment. Recovered from their shock, half of the Freemen had drawn weapons and were bearing down on the intruders, even as the others formed a protective line between them and the machine.

Salim stepped forward to meet them, shielding the reunited lovers with his body. He half-crouched, sword extended, and the advancing Freemen slowed, sensing something in his movements that kept any of them from wanting to be the first.

"Roshad," Salim asked over his shoulder, "can you destroy that machine with your fire spell?"

"Are you crazy?" Roshad asked. "Can't you see how much magic's in that thing? It could blow this place to splinters."

Salim had no particular desire to explode. Besides, he had no way of knowing if the missing souls were somehow stored inside the machine. If it came down to it, he'd sacrifice them in order to shut down the operation, but it would hardly be the sort of victory to rub in Ceyanan's face.

Behind him, Bors lumbered to his feet. He and Roshad took up a position to Salim's left, squaring off against the circling Freemen.

"We need to get out of here," Roshad said. "There are more of these people outside."

Salim ignored him, focusing past their enemies on the machine and Freewoman Caramine, who still sat in the middle of her nimbus of tubes, watching the proceedings with a frown. Salim wondered briefly if his suspicions had been wrong—if in fact Caramine was the mastermind after all, and was somehow using the souls as a power source.

No—that was backward. What was it Gav had said about bloatmages? Their power was in their blood.

"Can you two handle this lot?" Salim asked.

"Two on six?" Roshad asked, then gave a dark chuckle. Bors just cracked his massive knuckles.

"Do it," Salim said, and took off running.

The Freemen shouted and closed. Unfortunately for them, they'd circled around the intruders, hoping for an advantage, which left only two within striking range as Salim made for Caramine's throne. The first, another bald man with a dragon tattooed over one ear, cut high with a cutlass, and Salim blocked it, kicking out as he ran past and being rewarded with a scream as the man's knee bent inward at the wrong angle.

The second warrior, a woman in chainmail with a heavy two-handed sword, swung it in a wide arc. Unable to avoid it or angle his blade properly, Salim was forced to block it straight-on, the shock of the blow nearly making him drop his weapon. Before she could bring it back around, however, he was already past her, darting toward the steps.

Behind him, a shout rang out, and Salim glanced back just in time to see several of the attackers engulfed in a cloud of what looked like gold dust, its particles catching the lantern light in a blinding fog. The men inside the cloud screamed and scratched at their eyes, weapons forgotten, even as Bors launched himself at the remaining Freemen, one huge fist lashing out like a battering ram to slam into an axe-man's jaw. Roshad moved with him as he went, slipping in and out of the cover of the big man's armored form as he slashed at arms and calves with his dagger. A man swung a sword toward Bors's back, and Roshad thrust out a hand, freezing the man in place like a flesh statue. The two were so perfectly synchronized in their movements that it might have been a dance.

Then there was no time to look back. In front of Salim, the remaining six guards stood in front of the stairs, weapons out.

So be it. At the last possible moment, Salim jerked sideways and swept his blade low, sending a spurt of blood pattering to the floor as the hamstrung man screamed and fell. The guard next to him thrust for Salim's head, and Salim ducked underneath it, drawing his blade across her exposed forearm. He drove hard between them, trying to sow confusion, stabbing through boots and elbowing faces.

A staff cracked down on the back of his shoulders, and he staggered. Spinning, he grabbed the weapon with his free hand and pulled, yanking its owner off balance and slamming his sword's bloodied pommel into her cheek.

Then he was through, dashing up the rest of the stairs toward the throne. Caramine's mouth opened in surprise as his blade came up and around in a whirling arc, severing two of the conduits connecting her to the machine. Blood sprayed hot in his face, coating the floor as he grabbed the throne and spun around it, laying his sword across her bulging throat.

"Hold!" he shouted. "Hold or she dies!"

The chaos of the room slowed and halted. At the foot of the stairs, the crowd he'd just passed through froze in the act of leaping up after him, teetering uncertainly. Back with Roshad and Bors, the men caught in the cloud of shimmering dust blinked away blindness as the golden particles disappeared. Roshad stood back to back with Bors, who now gripped a salvaged axe, its owner's blood still staining its haft. All looked toward the dais.

Caramine didn't move. Beside her chair, the flow of blood from the tubes slowed, then ceased. The machine's humming quieted to the drone of a fly.

"He told me that someone like you might come." Caramine's voice was calm, steady—she wasn't even breathing hard. "You're a Pharasmin, aren't you?"

"The Lady of Graves wants to know what the hell you think you're doing."

Incredibly, Caramine's lips twisted up into a smile. "An interesting choice of words." She raised a finger and touched the blade at her throat. "Please. This isn't necessary."

Salim wasn't sure he agreed with that, but he came around the side to where he could see the woman's face more easily, while still keeping an eye on the rest of the room. He removed his blade from her throat, instead positioning its tip over her ponderous left breast, ready to end things quickly if she started casting a spell. "The church knows about your soul-stealing."

Caramine's smile broadened. "Stealing? From whom? Asmodeus and his devils? We're no more thieves than any priest. We save souls."

Salim jerked his head toward the corpse that still hung suspended on the machine. "Like you saved him?"

"Yes." Caramine didn't even blink. "He was a bad man, and would have come to a bad end eventually. But by the grace of the angel's miraculous engine, he's been shriven. Even now, his soul sprouts wings and bears a burning sword in the armies of Heaven."

Salim stared hard into her blue eyes. He'd spent a lifetime determining whether someone was lying. "You really believe that."

"Of course." She gestured toward the rest of the room. "We all do."

Salim looked out at the assembled guards once more and saw that she was right. Though limping and red-faced with rage, the Freemen who followed Caramine didn't carry themselves like thieves or thugs. They stood tall, proud, ready to throw themselves at him as soon his sword moved far enough from their leader.

In response, Salim pressed the point closer, letting it dent the cloth of her robes. "You can't prevent a soul from reaching its judgment. If these men were as bad as you say, their souls belong to the evil planes."

"Why?" Carmine's face flushed, her voice growing louder. "Why should we follow the dictates of devils and demons? With our machine, we can save the souls of even the unrepentant, turning mortal evil into absolute good. We take the filth of our kind, the living embodiments of human waste, and transform them into angelic soldiers. Heaven's armies are bolstered. An evil soul is turned to the light. And the Prince of Darkness has one less devil to do his bidding."

"No one deserves slavery," one of the men on the stairs growled. Shirtless, his well-muscled body was covered with the striped scars of the lash. "Death, sure. Maybe even a bad death. But never slavery."

"The Freemen are happy to assist me in our cause," Caramine said. "The pure-hearted ones, at least. Asmodeus is the god of slavery. My warriors are proud to die if it means denying him souls."

Salim could see how that logic would appeal to the abolitionists. "Tell me about the angel."

Caramine's face brightened into the sort of beatific radiance one normally found on statues of martyrs.

"I was working in my shop," she said, "when he appeared to me. He was huge, nearly touching the ceiling, and beautiful—so beautiful." A tear welled up and trickled down her cheek. "His wings were bound with chains, representing the evils of slavery, and he wept tears of blood for the sins of mortals. I fell to my knees before him, but he raised me up and told me I was chosen, that I could lead the Freemen in redeeming our fallen brothers and sisters. It was he who showed me the plans for the engine, and made me the sacrament by which the evil might be purified."

To Salim's practiced eye, it was obvious she was speaking the truth, as least as she understood it. "And what did these plans look like?"

"Diagrams," she said, eyes distant. "A collection of blessed pages. The words were in an angelic script I didn't recognize, but as I watched they shifted, allowing me to read them. The angel gave the pages to me one by one, and explained that it was my duty to memorize them while he watched, so that I might build the machine."

"So you don't still have them?"

"No. The angel took it with him."

Damn. "And has he made contact since? Does he ever come to inspect the machine or collect the souls?"

"No," Caramine said. "He doesn't have to. I told you—the souls are redeemed. They go straight to Heaven."

By all rights, what she claimed should be impossible. The River of Souls pulled all deceased souls on toward the Boneyard for judgment, and only the most powerful magic could prevent it. But if an angel really were involved...

"Why you?" he asked. "Why here?"

Surprisingly, Caramine shrugged. "I don't know. The sacrament requires power and blood as the catalyst. I have both. And Kaer Maga has plenty of evil souls that no one will miss. But as for why it's me, and not another hemotheurge..." She trailed off.

She seemed so calm, so sure in her faith. Salim bristled. "How do you know your angel's not really a devil in disguise? You could be feeding souls straight to Hell."

Another shrug. "So? They were headed there anyway. At least they're not hurting anyone else."

Salim again considered breaking the machine, perhaps slicing up the rest of Caramine's grotesque tubes. Regardless of Roshad's warning, anything so complicated must surely be easy to disable. But he couldn't know what would happen to the souls if he did, and unless he killed Caramine, she and her followers would simply build it again. As easy as it would be to simply push forward, letting his sword slide into the bloatmage's chest like a knife into overripe fruit, Salim was no murderer. Pharasma may have taken most of who he once was, but she couldn't make him execute this woman who only wanted to make the world a better place. That much, at least, was still his.

"Roshad," he called. "Bors. Come up here."

The two men looked at each other, then walked toward the dais. At the bottom of the stairs, the remaining guards parted resentfully only when Salim cleared his throat and gestured with his sword.

Once they were with him, Salim whispered, "Roshad, how many times can you cast that spell you were using above the stairway? Not the climbing one."

Roshad's brow furrowed, then his eyebrows shot up. "Ah! That one. Yes, there's enough for all of us."

Salim nodded. "Good. Use it when I tell you." Then he turned back toward Caramine. "Freewoman Caramine, you're walking a dangerous path. No matter how good your intentions, no one can circumvent the judgment of Pharasma's Court. The church will see this as a declaration of war."

Caramine snorted. Two fingers pinched the tip of Salim's blade. "And what do you call this?"

Salim fought the urge to puncture some of that easy confidence. "The next time you see me, I may not be able to show leniency."

The bloatmage blinked in surprise. "You're not going to kill me?"

Now it was Salim's turn to smile, even if he didn't feel it. "Why would I? If you're actually working for an angel, you'd go to Heaven. And if you're not, you're just another victim yourself."

He turned and nodded to Roshad. The little man returned it, then spoke a few low phrases and vanished as if he'd never been. A moment later, Bors winked out of existence as well. Salim turned back to Caramine.

"Just remember," he said, "be careful who you trust. Heaven has its own interests, and the angels can always find new prophets."

Then a cold hand touched the back of his neck, and the chamber exploded into shouts.

paizo.com #3236236, Corry Douglas <corrydouglas@gmail.com>, Aug 10, 2014

Chapter Thirteen

The Iridian Fold

And you just walked out of there?" Gav eyed them all with well-honed teenage skepticism.

"More or less," Roshad said. The tight veil across his nose and mouth did nothing to hide the grin in his eyes.

In fact, they had. Roshad's invisibility spells had allowed them to slip out of the manor unnoticed in the resulting uproar, and by the time the magic wore off, they were many streets away. They'd kept to the shadows all the way back to Canary House, where Salim had greeted Gav's questions with a raised hand and instructions to keep his eyes peeled for Freemen, then dropped into bed.

The next morning, Salim had been surprised to find Roshad and Bors waiting for him in the inn's common room, their table the closest to the stairs in order to ensure that Salim couldn't miss them. As soon as he and Gav emerged, they waved him over.

Bors still looked worse for wear. Both his eyes—so dark that the irises were almost black—were ringed with deep purple bruises, and a long scab from a shallow cut marred one stubbled cheek. Still, beneath his short black hair his face was so blocky and stoic that the injuries seemed like scratches on stone. The scales of his dark-lacquered armor, on the other hand, had been polished to mirror brightness, and a long straight-bladed sword protruded over his right shoulder. The chain that had run from Roshad's metal collar the first time Salim had seen the pair now ran from a ring on the big man's belt to a delicate bracelet on Roshad's wrist.

"I see you traded up from that axe," Salim noted.

"Those bastards who took him left it for me," Roshad said, jerking a thumb at Bors's sword. Roshad himself carried no weapon besides his dagger, and Salim had him pegged as a sorcerer rather than a wizard, as he'd yet to see a spellbook. "Probably thought it would help me protect my new ‘freedom.' Or maybe they just expected me to hock it. Regardless, it was lucky."

"Lucky," Bors agreed. His voice was a rich, melodic bass.

"How did you end up with the Freemen in the first place?" Salim asked.

Roshad reached out and grasped Bors's hand. "We were stupid. We had heard that there were a number of Iridian Fold men here, so we presumed folk would be familiar with us. We made the mistake of walking through the Bottoms at night." He snorted. "The crew that jumped us thought they were freeing me, but the first one to take a swing at Bors missed, and his cudgel caught me in the head. I woke up the next morning in a cheap flophouse with Bors's sword, a few coppers, and a message from the innkeeper that I was ‘free' now." He hocked, ready to spit to show his opinion of such things, then noticed his fine surroundings and swallowed it. Bors laughed and kissed the top of his head.

"So if you're not a slave," Salim said, "why the chains?"

Gav hissed and yanked at Salim's sleeve.

"What?" Salim asked.

Roshad chuckled. "The boy's right. The Iridian Fold doesn't appreciate outsiders prying into our affairs. But you've earned your question."

"We're szerik," Bors said. The two men paused expectantly.

"Are either of those terms supposed to mean something to me?" Salim asked.

Roshad sighed. "You seem well-traveled—we thought you might be slightly more cultured than the rest of this city's savages."

"Hey!" Gav said, but Roshad waved him to silence.

"We come from the east," he said. "Across the continent of Casmaron, south of the great Castrovin Sea, in a region called Karazh. Even there, however, the Iridian Fold is not a common calling. Many men become lovers, as everywhere, yet fewer than two out of a thousand feel the pull to become szerik. Bors and I took the chains many years ago, but we still have a long way to go." He squeezed the big man's hand.

"So the chains are like a wedding ring?" Gav asked, excited.

Bors shook his head, but it was Roshad who spoke. "The chains are a symbol, yes, and a constant reminder. But szerik are much more than spouses, or even brothers in arms. In your language, the philosophy would translate to roughly, ‘shared mind, shared heart.' Total communication and integration. When two szerik truly achieve their goal and gain a complete understanding of the Iridian Fold, they cease to be two beings, but rather a single being in two bodies."

Salim nodded. "I've heard marriage vows with that sentiment."

"No!" Roshad's hand slapped against the table with a crack. The few other people gathered in the bar at this early hour looked over, then quickly looked away. Roshad and Bors's expressions of disapproval were mirror images, and it was eerie to see the same frown on different faces.

"You think such things a metaphor," Roshad said hotly. "This is why the Iridian Fold rarely comes this far—you westerners think everything is a symbol. The men of the Iridian Fold aren't making a statement—it's literal truth. Shared mind. Shared heart. Completely."

"Like telepathy?" Salim asked. "Magic?"

Roshad nodded and settled back in his chair, the outburst apparently already forgotten. "There are spells like that, yes, and some use them. But most of our brothers would see that as weakness. When two men come to truly embody szerik and the Iridian Fold, they don't need magic to know what the other is thinking, to move together as one."

"Interesting." Some days, Salim felt like there was nothing in the world he hadn't seen—yet despite his travels, he'd never heard of this particular philosophy. Looking at Bors and Roshad, seeing the way their movements unconsciously mimicked and complemented each other, he could believe there was substance to their claim.

The thought brought with it an unpleasant twinge. Salim had learned long ago that close friends were a liability, and one way or another, he'd left all those he loved behind. It was safer for everyone that way. Yet to have a partner who knew you that well...

He forced the thought down and turned to Gav. "So how do you know about the Iridian Fold, then? I've traveled all over the Inner Sea and never heard of them."

Gav opened his mouth, but Roshad answered for him. "Several of our brethren have made the pilgrimage to Kaer Maga."

"Pilgrimage? What's so special about this city to draw you across half the world?"

"Stories," Bors grunted, and Roshad nodded.

"Achieving the fullness of szerik is not easily done," the little man explained. "Journeys and trials often help greatly in bringing two men together. Many of us embark on quests, following stories of those races that live in something close to szerik. The City of Strangers is one of many—our brothers come here in hopes of finding the fabled Second City hidden within it, where everyone lives as one, in perfect communication."

Gav gasped. "The mind hive!"

Roshad looked at him in surprise.

"I...think I know the place you speak of," Salim said, thinking of Xavorax and its grotesque Caulborn. "But it may not be quite what you imagine."

"Truly?" Roshad's eyebrows shot up and disappeared beneath the fitted fabric of his hood. "We will speak more of this."

"Of course," Salim said, but something in the men's story bothered him. "But you keep talking about your brothers—are there no women in the Iridian Fold?"

Roshad's eyes went wider still. Bors laughed once, loud and sharp.

"A woman could never be szerik." Roshad sounded awkward, as if embarrassed to be explaining such a basic fact of life to a grown man. "Every woman is born with a thousand souls inside her—a thousand voices. Some of those voices become children, but the rest remain with her. A man is born with only his own voice. Two soul-voices blending to achieve szerikis difficult, but possible. A woman's voices are constantly weaving in and out of harmony with each other, thus the cycle of blood." He paused, stroking his veil thoughtfully. "I suppose a woman who cut out her womb might have only one voice. But then, what difference would there be between her and a man?"

"I can think of a few," Gav noted.

"Bah!" Roshad waved a hand. "Bits of flesh. We're speaking of souls, boy."

Which reminded Salim of why he was actually here. During their walk back to the inn the previous night, he'd explained the outlines of his mission to the two Iridian Fold men, out of appreciation for their help and as a chance to get his own thoughts straight. But now that he'd had more time to think, the next step was clear. "I'm going to Heaven," he said.

All conversation at the table stopped as three faces turned toward him.

"Sure, gov," Gav said slowly. "You seem like an alright sort. Though I thought you Rahadoumi didn't want to go there?"

Salim shook his head. "Not when I die. Today. For the investigation. None of this seems like Heaven's style, and Caramine's angel is probably something else in disguise, but if I want to rule it out completely, I need to check at the source."

"So you'll go to Heaven," Gav said, drawing the words out. "Just like that."

"Just like that." Salim drew the amulet with Pharasma's engraved spiral out from beneath his robes and let it lie on his chest. Now that he was thinking about it, its weight seemed to grow, pressing back against his sternum. "The goddess is a stingy old bitch, but I wouldn't be much good to her if I was stuck on the Material Plane all the time. The amulet fixes that."

Roshad frowned. "You can't leave now! You haven't told us about the Second City."

"Ask Gav." Salim tilted his head toward the boy. "For better or worse, he already knows the whole story."

"Hey!" Gav said. "You can't leave me behind—I want to see Heaven!"

Salim turned toward the urchin, not bothering to hide his smile. "Oh? And do you think the angels will judge you favorably, then?"

"Of course!" he said, then paused. "Probably." Another pause. "I'll stay here."

"Good lad."

Bors reached across the table, wrapping Salim's forearm in a grip like a manacle. "We're coming with you."

Salim didn't try to pull away, just shook his head. "Sorry, I work alone."

Bors expression didn't change—jaw set, dark eyes serious. "We have to. We're machorei."

"Bors," Roshad said uncertainly. "I don't think—"

"He saved your life, Rabbit." Bors glowered down at the smaller man. "Then he helped save mine. Which means he's saved us both twice now. Our debt is wide."

"I said—" Salim began, but stopped as he realized no one was listening. On the other side of the table, the two Iridian Fold men locked eyes. After a moment, Roshad sighed and turned back to Salim.

"Bors is right. This is not a matter for discussion. You are machoreiwith us. Our brother."

Salim felt himself flush. "Roshad, Bors...I'm honored, but I don't...I mean—"

Roshad barked a laugh. "All westerners think like dogs in heat! Not brothers like szerik, Salim. Machorei. Blood brothers. You've saved our lives, and opened a debt. We must stay with you until we've adequately returned the service. To do otherwise would be an incredible dishonor."

"Ah." Salim's awkwardness lessened, but didn't abate entirely. On the one hand, he hadn't been lying when he said that he worked alone. It had been that way for more years than he cared to count, and the few exceptions he'd made were now old, familiar lumps of scar tissue in his memory. At the same time, however, he was heading into territory potentially far more dangerous than a simple city slum. Bors's obvious strength could be a valuable asset, and Roshad's magic would complement his own nicely—or, better yet, absolve Salim of the need to call on the goddess at all. That was a pleasant thought.

Gav interrupted his musings. "Look out, gov. Your friends are back."

Salim turned and saw a small, dark-haired form pushing her way through the door, knocking Karus the half-orc out of her path with a straight-armed shove that sent the hulking bouncer stumbling sideways. Behind her came four of her black-robed Pharasmins. Maedora locked eyes on Salim's table and began making her way over.

Salim turned to Gav. "Time to make yourself scare, Gav."

"Me?" Gav asked. "What about you?"

"I can handle myself. Hide in the back somewhere and watch, if you like. Then get out. Check back with Karus every day to see if I've returned. I doubt the Pharasmins have noticed you yet, and it's best to keep it that way."

Gav wavered, uncertain. "You're sure you'll be alright?"

Salim smiled wryly. "What happened to the street tough who only looked out for himself? I'll be fine—Maedora talks mean, but she can't touch me." Or at least, that had seemed true so far. "The same isn't true of my friends. Go."

"Aye, gov." Gav turned and slipped between the tight-packed tables and through a servants' door.

Salim turned back toward the approaching party and caught Roshad and Bors staring at him.

"We don't understand," Roshad said. "Didn't you say you also worship the Lady of Graves?"

"Not worship," Salim corrected. "Work for, and not by choice. I'll explain later. For now, just follow my lead and don't speak unless you have to."

Maedora came to a halt in front of Salim's table. The glowering priests behind her carried themselves like enforcers, chests puffed out and arms crossed.

"You were warned," the psychopomp said. "If your actions endanger this investigation, not even Ceyanan will be able to protect you."

"I heard you the first time," Salim said. "When you so kindly stopped me in the street. To what do I owe this visit?"

Dark eyes regarded him icily. "You know what. The streets are full of rumors about the Pharasmin who attacked a houseful of Freemen in the Bottoms last night."

"Oh, that. So?"

"So?" Maedora leaned forward, hands on the table, and placed her face next to his. "Every time you disgrace yourself and create a disturbance like this, you undermine the church's authority in the city. You attract attention to our work and make my investigation more difficult."

Salim leaned forward himself, until their faces almost touched. "Only because you rely on that authority." He craned his neck to look past her. "Do you really think that these cloistered crows are going to do your work for you?"

Maedora jerked upright. The porcelain mask of her face cracked into a scowl. "You tread on thin ice, Salim," she whispered. "How you've managed to survive this long in the Lady's service is beyond comprehension."

"Because I get things done," Salim said, and smiled. "Any other mysteries you need me to solve for you today?"

It seemed to Salim that the sound reached him first—a sharp cracking noise. Then pain blossomed across his cheek, Maedora's backhand twisting him halfway around in his seat.

Chairs scraped as Bors and Roshad jumped to their feet, but Salim flung out a hand. "No! Leave it. I'm fine."

The two men slowly took their seats once more, eyes never leaving the psychopomp and her Pharasmins.

"You think you win a victory by baiting me," Maedora said. "That by making me lose my temper, you score a point. But there's only one scorekeeper, Salim, and she doesn't care what pain you experience so long as you can still serve your function. Remember that."

"Trust me," Salim said, wiping the trickle of blood from his lip, "I know that better than you can possibly imagine." He laughed bitterly. "That's part of the problem, isn't it? You can't imagine. You think you're some grand inquisitor, a shepherd of souls, but all your knowledge of mortals comes from the outside. You can take us apart, but you can't relate. So you have to rely on others."

Maedora glowered at him. "I rely on others to gather information—something you clearly don't seem to value. Since the necromancer filth turned out to be a dead end—a dead end that cost the church much, thanks to you—I've had agents and informants infiltrating every cult, every criminal organization, every wizard's circle in this city looking for the soul thieves. And then you come along and kill several of the Freemen—an abolitionist group! Perhaps the one other organization in this entire city whose ethos would prevent it from enslaving souls and selling them."

Salim shook his head. "That's where you go wrong, Maedora—you and all psychopomps. You're manifestations of an ideology, and so you view things in absolutes. You can interrogate others, but you can't question yourselves or go against your nature. But mortals—we do it all the time. We work against our own interests, reinterpret our beliefs—or, as you so kindly reminded me yesterday, betray them through weakness. You're a judge at heart, just like the Lady herself, and so you divide people into groups, and make assumptions based on their characters and intentions. But there's more to it than that." He leaned back in his chair. "The Freemen are the ones harvesting souls, Maedora."

"What?" The psychopomp's eyes went wide, and even her honor guard looked shocked.

"That business in the Bottoms," Salim said. "They have some sort of mechanical engine that siphons out soul energy. They think they're doing good work, freeing souls from Hell's slavery and putting one over on all the evil planes. Go check for yourself, if you like—a bloatmage named Freewoman Caramine can tell you everything. I'm sure she'll be suitably impressed by your less conventional form. Send a report to Ceyanan as well, if you want. But the Freemen are just a front—I'm going to go ahead and find out who's actually behind it." He turned to Bors and Roshad and held out his hand. "Coming?"

The two men glanced at each other, then grabbed his wrist. Salim brought his free hand up to the amulet.

"Where are you going?" Maedora demanded.

Salim gave her a split-lipped smile. "Heaven, of course."

Salim hadn't been sure a psychopomp could look flabbergasted, but Maedora managed. "What? That doesn't make any sense. Why—"

Then her words cut off as the world disappeared.

paizo.com #3236236, Corry Douglas <corrydouglas@gmail.com>, Aug 10, 2014

Chapter Fourteen

Heathen Shore

Between.

It was always like this. No matter how many times Salim used the amulet, he never got entirely used to it. By all accounts, the transition was instantaneous to outside observers, but Salim knew better than most how subjective time could be. It seemed to slow, spinning with the rest of the world as it swirled down into the amulet's spiral, leaving a vast nothing in its wake. His skin alternately burned and froze as desperate nerves sought to make sense of the sudden absence of sensation, his ears ringing with the deafening silence. Then there was a sharp tug, as if all of Salim's internal organs had been pulled sideways, dragging the surrounding flesh with them.

They were standing in a forest. In every direction, titanic evergreens stretched up and up, their branches beginning thirty feet above and spreading out in a fractal array of blue-green needles. Despite the trees' immense size, buttery sunlight still burned down through the canopy in bright shafts, warming the scene and casting radiant spotlights on the ground. The forest floor, for its part, was completely devoid of underbrush. Instead, a thick, rolling carpet of white mist obscured everything below Salim's knees, its wispy curls strangely unaffected by the bolts of brilliant light. The air was warm and silent.

Or at least, mostly silent. To Salim's right, Roshad groaned. The little man leaned over, one hand on his knee, the other poised to rip away his veil if the contents of his stomach decided to spontaneously eject. Beside him, Bors rested a meaty hand on his partner's back, but looked a little green around the gills himself.

"Hell of a way to travel," Roshad said at last, pushing himself upright. "I feel like I spent five days on a boat, but all at once."

"The amulet can be disconcerting," Salim said. "But don't worry—it doesn't get any better with practice."

Bors squinted upward, his head craning back as he tried to find the tops of the sunlit trees. Salim smiled.

"Don't bother," he told the warrior. "You'll just keep looking up forever. These trees don't have tops, at least not as far as I know."

"Where are we?" Roshad reached a hand into one of the shafts of sunlight. The air sparkled and glowed around his intruding fingers.

"Heaven," Salim said. "Or at least its outskirts."

Roshad goggled at him—one of the few expressions not hindered by his veil. "You were serious."

Salim smiled. "Of course."

Bors kicked at the mist flowing around his feet, sending up an eddy that arced and then splashed back down again. Salim thought it might have been shaped like a dolphin. "So it's true what they say about Heaven being built on a cloud," the big man mused.

"Not really," Salim said. "If you reach down, there's still dirt under there, at least in most places. But I can see how someone catching just a glimpse would think that." He tucked the amulet back into the front of his robes, then turned and began to walk. "Come on."

"How do you know where you're going?" Roshad turned in a circle, looking at the seemingly endless sea of mist and tree trunks. "Everything looks the same here. There's no path."

"That's easy." Salim pointed toward one of the shafts slanting down out of the canopy, then resumed walking in the direction it came from. "Just go toward the light."

∗ ∗ ∗

The forest ended abruptly an indeterminable time later. One moment the three men were kicking their way through the mists, Roshad grumbling his distrust of any fog that made shapes, and the next they were out of the trees, standing in a waist-high field of perfect golden grass.

Before them rose a mountain. Stretching from horizon to horizon beneath a sunless silver sky, the overall shape was that of a flat-topped volcanic cone, yet banded with lines of cloud and subtle changes in color that suggested seven horizontal layers, like a tiered cake. Even as Salim looked, however, his eyes seemed to zoom in, picking out forests and cities and great cliffs whose shapes should have broken up the mountain's smooth lines, yet were somehow still contained within the monumental edifice of the mountain itself. A familiar wave of vertigo washed over him, and he looked away.

"It's so beautiful," Roshad whispered, his normally brash tones softened by awe. "Why is it so hard for me to look at it?"

"Because your eyes aren't actually seeing it," Salim said.

Roshad frowned. "What?"

"It's a plane," Salim explained. "Each of the Outer Planes—what some folks think of as the realms of the afterlife—is infinite. Yet they also all have their own shapes, shared borders with other planes, and so on. If you imagine the multiverse as a fruit, then the Inner Sphere—that's the Material Plane where we come from, plus things like the Elemental Planes—is the pit at the center. The Outer Sphere is like the skin, except all the various planes that make it up are on the inside of that skin, facing in at us. Well, and the Ethereal Plane is probably more like the fruit and juice that holds everything together, but that's not really..."

He saw the sorcerer's eyes begin to glaze over.

"Anyway, ignore that part. The point is, humans can't really visualize infinity—your brain would pop like a squeezed grape under its weight. So instead the plane projects an image you're able to comprehend. The Mountain of Heaven is limitless, yet it's also a mountain, so wherever you stand within its borders, you'll see it as a mountain. You could go halfway up it, perch on a tower in Andoletta's realm, and the mountain would still look just as big. It's a concept as much as a place."

Roshad shook his head, as if trying to clear it. "If I wanted to spend my time wrapping my head around paradoxes, I would have been a priest."

Bors spoke up. "So it's a metaphysical construct, but we're physical beings, so it's manifesting physically for our sake. It changes based on the observer."

Salim looked at him in surprise.

"What?" the warrior rumbled. "Big guys can't read?" He pointed off to the side. "What's that?"

To their right, a thin line of figures snaked from the forest's edge toward a long, shimmering wall that skirted the mountain's foot. In the distance, dozens more such lines radiated out from the mountain's base like spokes on a wheel.

"Petitioners," Salim said. "And they're close. Perfect. Let's go."

Distance was strangely distorted on the breeze-rippled plain, and in no time at all the three men were only a hundred apparent feet from the twisting line of figures. Standing quietly, single-file, the people were mostly humanoid, yet not entirely. Mixed in among the obvious humans and elves, dwarves and halflings were stranger creatures: Lizardfolk, dressed in their swamp-tribal finery. An eagle-winged lion with the face of a sagacious king. A brilliantly colored serpent with a woman's head and tiny spectacles resting on her nose. Up ahead, a huge mass of golden scales shifted and rose into the form of a majestic dragon, which took one earth-gouging step forward as the line slowly shuffled, then lowered itself back down once more. Regardless of shape and size, all the creatures seemed wispy and ephemeral, their faintly transparent bodies glowing with a lesser version of the sky's own radiance.

"Who are they?" Roshad's voice was soft, almost reverent.

"Petitioners," Salim said again. "Dead souls waiting to get into Heaven."

"All of them?" Roshad looked incredulously at the mass of people, and Salim understood his confusion. Some of those waiting in line looked exactly like you'd expect—straight-backed paladins in their shining armor, priests in flowing robes, hardworking field hands and pious merchants. Yet there were others mixed in with them: Dirty, hardscrabble mercenaries. Several obvious prostitutes. A shifty-looking woman with a long sword and a tattoo of a blazing comet trailing down her arm, who turned and spat contemplatively into the grass, her spectral spittle disappearing before it hit the ground.

"Not everyone wears their true nature on their sleeve," Salim said. "And as much as priests may try to convince you otherwise, faith is not a requirement to get into Heaven. Souls are judged based on what's in their hearts, not just which god they pay lip service to. Whatever they may look like to us, these are all virtuous souls."

Roshad harrumphed thoughtfully, watching several soldiers troop past as the line shifted again.

"Why are they all waiting in line?" Bors asked. "Is Heaven that small?"

Salim smirked. "Not quite, though I imagine it's smaller than some. These aren't just good souls, though. They're also lawful—that's what Heaven's all about. Standing in line to get in is just one more way they show it."

Roshad and Bors looked at him blankly. Once again, Salim was struck by the disconcerting similarity there, as if the same expression were stretched over two very different faces.

Salim leaned over and picked two of the long grain stalks from the ground at his feet, their stems breaking with a sound like tiny chimes. He held them up in a cross pattern, one vertical, one horizontal.

"The multiverse is arranged along two axes. One is good and evil—most people get that. But there's another axis as well, and that's law versus chaos. Order versus entropy. Make sense?"

Both men nodded.

"Most folks don't worry about the precise divisions unless they're particularly devout. To them, if you're good, you go to Heaven. If you're bad, you go to Hell. But things are actually more complicated than that, due to the pulls of law and chaos. Take devils and demons, for instance. Both are evil, but devils also represent law. That's why people can make contracts with them, why a nation like Cheliax can ally with them—they follow systems and obey authority. Demons, on the other hand, are evil and chaotic—everything's a free-for-all for them, and contracts only last as long as you've got the power to enforce them. They exist to overrun and destroy. It's organization versus anarchy."

"So the same's true with Heaven," Bors said, catching on.

"Right. Heaven represents not just goodness, but organized goodness. People who obey laws, who respect authority, who believe in systems and governments and following rules. There are other types of good souls, though. If you're someone who bucks the system, who doesn't worry overmuch about breaking laws or reneging on promises, but you're still basically a good person, you'll likely end up in Elysium, with all the other anarchists and rebels and artists. And if you're somewhere in the middle, trying to balance law and chaos, you might end up in Nirvana with the enlightened mystics."

"So what you're saying," Roshad said slowly, "is that these people are standing in line because it's in their nature to stand in line."

"Right," Salim said. "As long as someone with moral authority tells them they should."

Roshad pondered that. Bors looked back toward where the line disappeared into the forest. "Do we have to stand in line as well?" he asked.

"That depends. How much do you value authority?"

The men paused. Then Bors broke out into a wide grin. Though he couldn't see it, Salim could only presume that, underneath his veil, Roshad matched it.

"In that case," Salim said. "Let's go cut in line."

∗ ∗ ∗

The three men got some strange looks as they trekked along parallel to the line, but no one bothered to stop them. Most were too enraptured by their surroundings, or focused on the mountain itself.

As they walked, Salim peered past their line of petitioners at some of the other lines stretching out from Heaven's walls, distant enough to be just barely visible. To the right, the line seemed to be made up primarily of quadrupeds many times larger than elephants, with writhing tentacles that sprang from their backs and reached far up into the sky. To the left, many of those waiting in line appeared to be actively on fire, or perhaps made out of it.

That was one of the strangest things about the Outer Planes, and their roles as mortals' homes after death. Heaven and the other realms didn't cater just to Golarion and its various races, but to every mortal being on every planet of the Material Plane. How they could accommodate so many different races without being totally incomprehensible to any given one was just another aspect of the planes' bizarre malleability, their ability to change to reflect the creatures that came to them. Not for the first time, Salim wondered whether the reason he always appeared near the line of petitioners from his own world was part of the magic of the amulet, or the plane itself sensing his nature and rearranging things accordingly. The latter was distinctly discomfiting.

At last they reached the head of the line. To either side, the great crystalline walls known as the Prime Vallation rose up in a bulwark of diamond and mother-of-pearl, their shimmering tops seemingly thirty feet high, though Salim suspected that anyone attempting to scale or fly over them would find them much higher. Straight ahead, two golden gates hung open, their huge bars connected by filigree so delicate that the metal strands seemed to flutter in the breeze, forming winged shapes that flitted across their surfaces.

An angel guarded the gates. Though no taller than Salim, her presence seemed to fill the portal entirely. Both skin and close-cropped hair were as white as the snowy wings that rose up behind her shoulders, and even her eyes were blank white, without pupil or iris. She stood with a long golden trumpet in one hand and a five-foot-long greatsword in the other, watching over the line of souls with a maternal smile as a dozen orbs of radiant light danced a welcome around them. As Salim and his two comrades approached, however, her smile vanished.

"You do not belong here."

The words were quiet, spoken without rancor, yet Salim felt the force of them like a giant fist squeezing his lungs. Instinct screamed at him to turn and run, to stand aside, to fall on his knees and beg forgiveness from such a perfect being. As she spoke, the globes of light flew back to array themselves in a halo around her head, their colors shifting to menacing reds and oranges.

Yet it was not the first time Salim had been in the presence of one of Heaven's archons, and he managed to keep his feet, swallowing hard. When he spoke, his voice was steady.

"We come as envoys of the Boneyard, on the business of the Lady of Graves herself. You cannot deny us aid."

The angel raised one pale, almost invisible eyebrow. "I see. And what do you seek?"

Salim hadn't really thought this far ahead—if it weren't for Maedora and his sense of dramatic timing, he probably would have waited until he'd come up with a concrete plan. But improvisation had always been one of his strong points. "We seek an angel—a specific one. But we don't know his name, only a description."

The angel's flat expression soured further. "We find little amusement in riddles. But you've already held up the line long enough." She clapped her hands, and the little floating lanterns returned to their bobbing and weaving among the new arrivals. Then she turned her head and, in a voice too loud for her apparent size, boomed, "Attend me."

Two more winged forms emerged from behind the gates. Both were taller than the archon—close to eight feet—with the same sweeping wings. Both wore white linen wrappings around their chests and waists, and enormous glowing warhammers hung from baldrics over their shoulders. They knelt before the archon, each with one hand and one knee on the mist-shrouded ground, bowing their heads.

"Take these visitors to the Shore," the gatekeeper said. "Faralan will help them."

"Yes, Commander." The two angels spoke in such perfect unison that it was difficult to tell their voices apart. Salim heard Roshad grunt in approval. The gatekeeper waved Salim and his friends forward, then turned back to the line of entrants.

The angels assigned to them appeared to be twins, if such a thing existed in a celestial race like angels. Though their slim bodies and stark, perfect features were androgynous by human standards, the wrappings of the one on the left hid small curves suggesting breasts and hips. Their hair was long and silver-white, with the female's pulled back in a tight braid, and their bronze skin seemed to glow from inside—not the metaphorical glow poets ascribe to beautiful people, but an actual faint emission of light.

Other than how they wore their hair, the biggest difference between the two was in their eyes. While the male's were as stern as the gatekeeper's, the female's seemed soft and sad, as if on the edge of tears. A strange expression to see on someone whose glowing weapon was as tall as Salim himself.

Salim introduced himself and his companions, bowing slightly.

"I am Nemeniah," the female angel said. "And this is Malchion. We will escort you. Please, follow us."

"Our thanks," Salim said, but Nemeniah had already turned and begun walking. Salim and the others followed, while Malchion hung back to bring up the rear.

That was unsurprising. Salim hadn't spent much time in Heaven, but while they might call the angels escorts or guides, he knew a guard detail when he saw one. Ambassadors or not, the angels were none too keen on having a bunch of impure mortals walking around their perfect realm. Salim suspected that if they knew who he was, they'd be even less pleased.

Still, as long as they were acting like guides..."Perhaps you can help me," he said. "I'm looking for a specific angel. One whose wings are chained. Does that sound like anyone you recognize?"

If Salim hadn't been watching, he might have missed the slight hitch in the lead angel's gait.

"Faralan will undoubtedly be able to help you find the one you seek," Malchion said from the back.

That wasn't a denial. Interesting—perhaps there was more to Caramine's story than Salim had assumed. He filed the information away and let the subject drop.

Beneath them, the mists and grain gave way to innumerable meandering walkways as they reached the mountain proper, the fitted stones winding through pastoral greenery. All around their little party, souls like the ones they'd seen at the gates sang in choirs, or swam in fountains, or sat chatting beneath vine-draped trellises. Many of those who looked more suited to a rough-and-tumble life practiced swordplay beneath the approving eyes of the angels, or hammered at steel in picturesque forges where every blow sounded like a church bell.

Nemeniah's path led the group directly beneath a twisted apple tree in which a wispy elf sat reading a picture book to transparent children of a dozen different races, while more of the floating light-globes bobbed around them. Salim looked back and found both Bors and Roshad staring up at the scene.

"They're so happy," Roshad murmured. "All of them."

"Of course they are," Malchion said, tone indulgent. "This is Heaven."

The sorcerer barely seemed to hear him. "I just want to run out and join them."

Salim laughed. "Ask Malchion here what he'd do if you tried."

The angels stiffened. Roshad looked questioningly at Malchion, who sounded vaguely apologetic. "Outsiders must not be allowed to interact with the Pure."

"That's why we're being escorted to the Shore," Salim said.

"The Shore?" Bors asked.

"Heathen Shore," Salim explained. "Heaven's international district. Most of Heaven is off-limits except to those who've been judged and found worthy, but even the angels occasionally find use for the rest of us. The Shore is where those with weaker moral fiber can trade, petition for aid, and otherwise cut deals favorable to the Heavenly host."

"Ah," Roshad said. "Quarantined at the docks, eh?"

"It's not meant as discouragement," Nemeniah said, looking back over her shoulder. "You should welcome the gift of inspiration. It's never too late to cleanse yourselves and join the ranks of the righteous. You may yet be judged favorably."

"Lucky us," Roshad said.

They walked on in silence, their path cutting through sylvan groves and across delicate stone bridges over creeks that cascaded with the sound of distant laughter. Though their path split several times, sending off branches that climbed toward the golden towers and cities visible higher on the mountain's slopes, each time the angels guided them along the lower fork, keeping to the mountain's base. Above, flights of armored angels wheeled and dove in complex formations, their burning weapons trailing fire.

Salim had never had much to do with Heaven's angels. They were too straight-laced, too self-righteous in their causes, embodying all of the paternalistic and authoritarian elements he hated about religion. Yet that didn't mean they were wrong—quite the contrary. Looking up at those burning legions taking wing away from the mountain, knowing that they were bound for battle against tides of demons, the iron-shod armies of Hell, or the chaos of the Maelstrom, it was hard not to be inspired. Heaven's chosen weren't the only heroes—there were other realms, and other ways of living. But they were heroes nonetheless. Pharasma didn't make mistakes, and no one came to rest on Heaven's mount without earning it.

Which was why Caramine had to be wrong. Salim had suspected before, but just being here made it blindingly obvious. Righteousness was a way of life in Heaven—the only way. The thought of any angels opening their doors to the worst criminals in Kaer Maga just to put a thumb in Asmodeus's eye was absurd. It wasn't enough for Heaven to simply win a conflict—it had to win while retaining the moral high ground. That was what Heaven was, figuratively and literally. Perfect law and perfect morality.

Still, wasn't that sort of black-and-white thinking what he'd just taunted Maedora about? If Pharasma's own servants were capable of schisms in their doctrine, such as Ceyanan and Maedora's obvious disagreement over the use of Salim himself, then perhaps the angels were as well.

Salim looked out at the fields of innocents, the clusters of martyrs and heroes, and tried to imagine the missing murderers among them. Caramine claimed that her machine cleansed the soul even as it took a victim's life, but did absolution in such a situation mean anything? Just because you leashed a dog didn't mean it wasn't vicious. Or, perhaps more appropriately, was a brigand who took a blow to the head and forgot his crimes still responsible for them? Or was he as guiltless as a newborn, a truly different person who just happened to inhabit the body of a criminal? Was it right to punish someone for choices he or she didn't remember? And was Pharasma's judgment even about reward and punishment, or simply about sending souls to those afterlives that best matched their characters?

Salim frowned. None of this should matter to him. These sorts of moral quandaries were the domain of psychopomps like Ceyanan and Maedora, creatures created to pass judgment on others. Salim was just a tool, carrying out his orders. The subservience rankled, but at least these chains were of his own making. If he started thinking like them, started taking their tasks to heart, then he was giving them more than he'd promised.

Being a tool kept him free. And if taking pride in his slavery was the only shred of defiance left to him, he'd keep it.

The path curved over a rise set with twin lines of gray stone obelisks, and suddenly the group was looking out over a valley. Flowing between two arms of the mountain like glistening surf, stone towers and columned forums rose up the basin's sides and cascaded over long, terraced plazas, their steep steps winding past fountains and monuments.

"Heaven's Shore," Nemeniah proclaimed, smiling at the way Bors and Roshad stared at the glimmering apparition.

Roshad turned to Salim. "I thought you called it—"

"There's its polite name," Salim said, "and then there's its real name. Come on."

The party started down the tiered slope toward the city, the angels content to let Salim lead the way now that they were safely contained. Salim had only been to Heathen Shore a handful of times, but it wasn't a sight one forgot easily. At each landing of the stone steps, perfectly manicured parks stretched out to either side, their sculpted hedges and flower gardens alive with the cheerful drone of insects. Fountains in the shape of armored angels redeeming troubled souls or pouring liquid fury onto the faces of dying demons were countered by tile mosaics of ordinary men and women tending the sick or feeding the hungry. At one particular switchback, a shrine no more than two feet tall displayed a simple unpainted statue of a woman rocking a child to sleep, and Salim found himself hurrying past, an unexpected lump in his throat.

Halfway down, the steps passed through a tall pergola, its golden wood shining out from between the broad leaves of climbing vines. Though the arbor itself looked delicate, with no walls to either side, there was no question in Salim's mind that this was as much a gate as the golden doors of Heaven itself—perhaps because of its guardian.

Nine feet tall, the green-skinned angel didn't bother with armor, only a tremendous two-handed sword that it held upright before it. Four lavender wings sprang up behind its back, spreading out and blocking passage through the garden gate. Both its face and its body were genderless, its head as smoothly bald as a river-washed stone, and a halo of golden runes floated like a coronet of light just above it.

The party stopped before the angel, Nemeniah nodding respectfully. Blank white eyes stared back, unblinking. Then it stepped aside.

Despite the knowledge that an angel would never strike another creature without cause, Salim's skin still crawled as he passed through the shadow of its massive wings. Ahead of him, Bors and Roshad clearly also struggled to maintain their casual pace, holding each other's hands tightly. When the creature moved back into place behind them, it was with the finality of a cell door closing.

Here, however, they at last began to encounter the residents of the Shore. On the terraced parks and plazas below them, a strange menagerie of figures walked the paths or lounged in lily-spotted pools. Many spoke with angels resembling Nemeniah and Malchion, yet others talked among themselves or simply took in the sights. Salim spotted a group of axiomites, their elven features dissipating into clouds of glowing symbols and equations as they gestured, only to immediately reform again. Near one of the pools, a termite-like humanoid whose black shell was embossed with glowing sigils sat in silent communion with three of the floating lanterns. At one point, Salim and the others were forced to stop as a ten-foot-tall blue-skinned man with a vertical column of extra eyes crossed their path, appraising them briefly before moving on, his silk-draped body guarded by no fewer than four cloaked figures bearing black swords.

"Who are they all?" Roshad asked.

Salim shrugged. "People. The residents of other planes. Mostly traders, I suspect—Heaven may not be willing to sully its holiest places with the presence of outsiders, but even the Empyreal Lords know that there are things other creatures and planes are more adept at, and the coffers of the faithful rarely run dry. People also come here to request aid, sometimes, or to try and cut deals for salvation."

Roshad raised an eyebrow. "You can do that?"

"Not really. But that doesn't stop folks from trying."

They reached the bottom of the steps, the stone path they'd been following widening into a semicircular courtyard that spawned half a dozen streets, all spaced equidistantly like the rays of the sun. Nemeniah led them across the shining stones and onto one of the avenues.

Here the smattering of residents became a true city. Creatures like mechanical, winged centaurs clopped along the stones, while a blazing avian apparition perched phoenix-like on a roof's edge, glaring down at passersby. Three giant nephilim, the misbegotten children of demigods and mortals, lounged in a doorway, each trying to convince an amused djinni that he was most worthy of her attention.

"There are no beggars," Roshad said in wonder. In front of him, Nemeniah laughed, a warm and indulgent sound.

They emerged into another broad square, this one studded with massive oaks that grew straight out of the pavement itself, their roots blending with the stone. Across the plaza, a cupolaed building with the air of a government seat stretched long arms halfway around the square, gathering it in.

"The Hall of Others," Nemeniah proclaimed. "Home of the Council of Oversight, the administrators of Heaven's Shore. They're best suited to assist you in the Lady's work."

"Thank you," Salim said. Nemeniah led them beneath the sprawling trees and up the broad steps to the building's columned central arcade. They crossed the shaded porch full of angels and passed between thick golden doors, into a grand chamber.

Beneath the domed ceiling, the austere room was four stories high and blindingly white. Long balconies ran the perimeter at each level, reached by means of delicate, sweeping marble staircases that swirled up from the floor's center like the stamens a flower, sometimes curling back on themselves before arching over to their balconies. At every story, the walls were devoted to row upon row of identical wooden doors, all closed. The only color in the room came from its lights, dozens of the dancing globes they'd seen earlier, all clustered together near the dome's apex.

As Salim and the others entered, one of the lanterns dropped from the ceiling, coming to rest at eye level in front of him.

"Welcome," the light said, in an airy female voice that echoed off the stone walls. "How may I guide you on a righteous path?"

paizo.com #3236236, Corry Douglas <corrydouglas@gmail.com>, Aug 10, 2014

Chapter Fifteen

Heaven's Hound

Roshad and Bors blinked, taken aback.

The glowing ball pulsed, and there was a chime of laughter. "What, did you think we were just decoration?"

"Loriavus is an archon," Nemeniah explained. "An accomplished warrior in the armies of the exalted."

"Not everyone remains attached to their mortal form after transitioning," the archon said primly.

"Our apologies," Bors said, and both men bowed.

"Accepted." Loriavus flashed a burst of golden approval. "Now, why are you here?"

Salim took control. "We've come on business from Pharasma's Court, tracking several missing souls. I was told at the gate that someone named Faralan could help me."

"Of course," Loriavus said. "Please follow me."

The archon floated across the open floor and up one of the great staircases. Salim followed, then the others, with Nemeniah and Malchion last. At the third balcony, the archon moved five doors down and then hung in the air in front of the sixth.

"Commander Faralan's office."

Above his veil, Roshad arched an eyebrow. "That was easy."

Ripples of brilliant green pulsed across Loriavus's globe. "The Council of Oversight is too busy to waste time with long hallways," it said. The door swung open. "Please, enter."

Inside, the office was every bit as spare as the main hall, its white walls blank save for another door to the left. The only furniture was an enormous desk of dark, polished wood, its surface strewn with papers and maps. An equally massive two-handed sword hung point-down on the wall behind it.

A man sat at the desk. Wingless, he wore a military uniform of pure white, contrasting with the rich black of his skin. Golden buttons climbed in a line to the jacket's stiff, high collar, and golden epaulets in the shape of feathers adorned his shoulders.

He also had a dog's head. Bent over the stacks of papers, the face above that elegant collar was that of a short-haired attack hound, sleek and regal. Dangerous.

The archon looked up. Old instincts made Salim stiffen, his body wanting nothing more than to snap to attention. Hound-headed or not, the authority in those glowing yellow eyes was something any soldier would recognize. From behind him, Salim heard shuffling as the others gave in to their own unconscious responses.

Commander Faralan studied them for a moment, then spoke, his voice a quiet rumble. "Yes?"

"An embassy from the Boneyard, Commander." Malchion spoke without stepping forward.

"Oh?" One bushy canine eyebrow rose as his attention came to rest on Salim.

Salim bowed slightly. "I am Salim Ghadafar, an agent of Pharasma. These are my companions, Bors and Roshad. I'm here because a number of souls have gone missing, and I've been sent to track them down."

"Runaways, eh?" The archon chuckled. "Well, it wouldn't be the first time a soul's tried to seek asylum in Heaven after what it felt was an unfair judgment. It's not an easy journey, given the sorts of places they're usually escaping from, but a few make it. You can rest assured, however, that they'll find no shelter here. Even the stiffest necks in Heaven bow to the Lady's wisdom, and no one crosses our borders without us knowing."

Salim was mildly taken aback by the archon's informality. His directness was a comfortingly familiar reflection of some of the better military officers he'd known.

"I'm afraid the matter's a bit more complicated," he said. "The souls in question never made it to the Boneyard for judgment in the first place."

Faralan's expression darkened. "The soul trade, is it? Stealing from the River of Souls goes against every law in the multiverse. I would have thought your people would have that handled, but if you require the swords of Heaven, you'll have them. Who is it you believe responsible? Daemons? Hags? Those gods-damned protean worms?"

"Actually, sir, the evidence points to angels."

Silence settled over the room. When the commander spoke again, his voice was low and flat. "That's a serious accusation, son."

"I know," Salim said. "Which is why I've come to you. We've already found those responsible for collecting the souls—a group of mortals who claim to have been set on their path by an angel. Whether or not the instigator is actually an angel, or merely another creature in disguise, has yet to be determined." He paused, then added, "They're good men and women, Commander. They believe they're doing Heaven's work."

The commander shook his long muzzle, sighing. "Don't they always? The things that get done in our name...But if the only lead you have is a supposed angel, then I understand your desire to follow it. You're welcome to conduct your investigation in the Shore. Even if your thief is taking the form of an angel, I can't imagine it would be stupid enough to try to sell its bottled souls right underneath Heaven's nose, but stranger things have happened. And there are enough questionable folk in the Shore that it might be able to find a buyer or make a rendezvous." Faralan's attention began to drift back to his papers.

"Commander, if what the mortals have been told is accurate, then the souls aren't being sold at all."

"Oh?" The archon picked up a pen and a fresh sheet of paper.

"The mortals claim to be using magic to redeem evil souls against their will, sending them straight to Heaven's armies without passing through the Boneyard."

"What?" The archon's head snapped back up, eyes burning ochre as he stared at Salim.

"Just as I've said. They claim a victory for Heaven."

"Heresy!" Faralan's lips pulled back in a canine snarl. He stood, neck muscles bunching beneath the uniform's collar. "As if the armies of Heaven would stoop to such methods! The mortals are mistaken. Redemption is Heaven's right, but it is always a choice—without repentance, there can be no salvation. Heaven's host is no mortal army, conscripting soldiers or commuting prison sentences in exchange for service."

Salim said nothing. After a moment, the archon shook his head and continued in a calmer voice, one that brooked no argument. "We're always happy to help the Lady, but I'm afraid you've been lied to. Heaven doesn't make mistakes."

And there it was: The root of Salim's problem with Heaven—or with any church, really. That blinding confidence. The trust in authority, and inability to admit fault. It grated like a knife scraping down Salim's spine.

"I'm afraid the Lady will have to be the judge of that," Salim said, showing his own teeth. "And I'm sure that, given your complete confidence in Heaven's innocence, you'll have no problem assisting my investigation in whatever ways I require."

Faralan growled softly. The rest of the group watched as the two divine representatives stared across the room at each other.

The hound broke first, taking a deep breath and seating himself once more. "You're wasting your time. If someone's stealing souls, then they're doing it for some other reason—probably selling them on the black market. But yes, of course we'll help."

Inwardly, Salim smiled—and then immediately felt ashamed. Did he really have to stare down everyone in the Great Beyond? Baiting Heaven's faithful was pointless, and Faralan wasn't actually a bad sort. The angels were self-righteous, but at least they stood for something. Unlike Salim himself, they kept their word.

"Do you have a name for this supposed traitor?" Faralan asked.

Salim shook his head. "Only a description. He appears somewhat like a common angel," he gestured back at Nemeniah and Malchion, "yet his wings are bound in chains." He stopped short, noticing the sudden perking up of Faralan's pointed ears. "You recognize him."

The commander shook his head. "Not specifically, but...you know about fallen angels? Hell's Whore Queens? Ardad Lili?"

Salim felt a rush of excitement. Despite going through the motions, he hadn't really expected Heaven to be of much help. "I'm familiar. You think the humans were working for one of the Fallen?"

"Possibly," Faralan said. "Hell's leaders are endlessly cunning. But that's not what I'm referring to."

Malchion spoke up. "The Redeemed?"

Faralan nodded. "If you know about the Fallen," he said to Salim, "then you should know that it can work the other way as well. It's not common, but occasionally a devil sees the error of its ways and truly repents, seeking forgiveness in Heaven's ranks. They become angels in their own right, yet they still bear the mark of penance. For some, that's chains on their wings."

While Salim was well acquainted with stories of fallen angels, it had never occurred to him that things might work in reverse. "So these redeemed devils are kept in chains?"

Faralan shook his head. "Not in the way you mean. They aren't prisoners—they're angels, serving the will of Heaven. The chains are a manifestation, no different from my hound's head, there to mark them. Over time, they fall away."

"And do you have a registry of these Redeemed?"

"Of course we do," Faralan said. "In the Great Library. But Heaven is as vast as all time and creation. Even given how rare they are, and their restrictions, you'd still be several lifetimes tracking them all down."

Salim had feared as much, but it was a place to start. He glanced back toward Nemeniah and Malchion. "I presume we'll need an escort to visit the library?"

Faralan frowned. "It's better if outsiders don't leave the Shore. I could put in a request to have those lists copied and brought to you here—"

"Commander—" Salim objected.

"—but of course you won't allow that," the archon finished, nodding. He eyed Salim knowingly. "You're not the first representative of the Gray Lady I've met, boy. As always, the only rules that matter to you are your own. Honestly, you're as bad as the anarchist azatas."

Was that a glimmer of amusement in the archon's eye? Salim inclined his head in acknowledgment.

"Still," Faralan continued, "your duty is just, and necessary." He looked to Nemeniah and Malchion. "Are you two familiar with the Great Library?"

"Yes, Commander," Nemeniah said.

"Then these two will continue to act as your guides," Faralan said to Salim. "They'll take you to the archivists and see that you have Heaven's full support in this matter." Salim didn't need to read the archon's tone to know that "guides" still meant "chaperons."

He also knew a dismissal when he heard one. "Thank you," he said. He turned toward the door—then stopped, remembering a detail he'd forgotten.

"What about bleeding eyes?" he asked, turning back. "The mortals involved reported the angel having that as well—‘tears of blood for the sins of mortals.' Is that part of being one of the Redeemed?"

Faralan froze in the act of picking up one of the pages on his desk. Slowly, he set it back down, then closed his eyes and used two fingers to massage the top of his lowered muzzle, where the bridge of his nose would be if he were human. "Oh, Arathuziel..."

"You know him?" Salim asked.

"Arathuziel the Chained." Nemeniah spoke from behind Salim, tone apologetic. "I thought of him as soon as you mentioned the chains, but of course it would be wrong to accuse him simply because he's one of the Redeemed. Still..."

"The description matches," Faralan said, looking up. His voice was firm again. "In more ways than just physical, I'm afraid. Arathuziel's heart is in the right place, but his methods can be...unconventional. I had hoped he would have learned our ways by now, but the plan you describe has the ring of something he might propose. After all, he was an evil soul himself, once." He sighed. "I fear that perhaps your investigation isn't as warrantless as I'd originally hoped."

"Can you take us to him?" Salim asked.

"Certainly," the archon said. "Malchion and Nemeniah know the way."

"It's not far," Nemeniah said. "Arathuziel lives close to Heaven's Shore."

"In that case," Salim said, "we'll go at once."

"Good," Faralan said. "I wish you the best of luck in your investigation. I have high hopes for Arathuziel, but heresy of the sort you describe cannot be tolerated. If he turns out to be responsible, I ask only that you carry out the sentence swiftly and without rancor."

"Of course," Salim said.

"You're going to let the human pass judgment, Commander?" Nemeniah sounded shocked. "You don't want us to bring him in?"

Faralan shook his head. "No, child—in this case the Lady's grievance is greater than our own, and thus takes precedence. Your witness will be enough." A pause, and his lip curled up slightly. "And in my experience, the Lady's operatives aren't much for proper channels anyway."

Salim smiled back. "I see you really have dealt with us before."

"Go, then," Faralan said with a wave. "Grant mercy if you can, but solve the problem. The gods are kind, but some sickness can't be healed, only cut away."

Salim and the angles turned to leave, but Roshad and Bors didn't move.

"Why don't the gods do something about it?" the sorcerer asked.

Faralan looked at him. "What?"

"The gods." Roshad pointed at the ceiling with his unchained hand. "This is their home, right? Some of them, anyway. They're all-powerful and all-seeing. So if some of their servants are corrupted, why are they letting that go on right under their noses?"

Faralan's smiled again, broader this time. He looked at Salim. "I always forget how many questions you people have." Then he turned back to Roshad. "How many missing souls are we talking about here? Fifty? A hundred?"

Roshad shrugged.

The archon chuckled. "It could be ten thousand, and that would still be nothing compared to the waves of souls washing up at Heaven's gates every day. The Lady of Graves," he nodded at Salim, "may be something of an accountant, and I suspect that Abadar the Banker-God is just as particular. But the rest are more concerned with the big picture. They've got people to deal with these matters." He hooked a thumb at his own chest. "People like us, or your friend Salim. Just because someone's omniscient doesn't mean they need to handle every little detail themselves."

Salim frowned. "Stealing souls is a little detail? From what I understand, Hell is fuming. There could be war."

Faralan spread his hands. "There have been wars before, and there will be wars again. It's all a matter of perspective."

Roshad nodded slowly. "I hope I never have that level of perspective."

"You and me both, son," the archon agreed.

Behind them, the twin angels shifted awkwardly. Judging by their expressions, even talking about such sins made Malchion angry and Nemeniah queasy.

"Thank you for your help," Salim said.

"You're welcome," Faralan said, "and all of Heaven's blessings upon you and your mission." He turned back to his charts. "Now get out of my office before I have you all mucking out the celestial kennels, and the Lady of Graves be damned."

paizo.com #3236236, Corry Douglas <corrydouglas@gmail.com>, Aug 10, 2014

Chapter Sixteen

House of the Redeemed

Nemeniah and Malchion led the group up a different flight of stairs than the one they'd used to enter. Behind them, Heaven's Shore began to twinkle with lanterns both living and mundane as twilight stole over the district—and only the district. Up where the traveler's stood, it was still as bright as noonday, the sky its same radiant silver.

Bors and Roshad stopped on one of the path's many landings, staring down at the long shadows spilling like ink through the district's streets.

"It's a courtesy," Nemeniah explained. "Not every race that visits Heaven is comfortable in the light. Of course, for those who make the mountain their home, there are other places—cavern systems, cities suspended beneath overhangs or deep within the freezing tarns. But for the visitors, it's convenient to maintain the illusion of night and day."

"Whereas out here there's no decent way to tell time at all." Salim gestured to the blank sky. "Time is a construct the gods employ or ignore at will. Speaking of which..." He turned to Nemeniah, who was proving the more talkative of the angelic pair. "You say we're close to this Arathuziel's residence?"

Nemeniah nodded, silver hair catching the sky's light in a perfect reflection. "Extremely. We'll be there in a few minutes, even without the mountain's help."

"Help?" Roshad asked.

"The mountain moves with us." Unlike Nemeniah, Malchion spoke in a crisp and businesslike fashion, with no air of affectionate indulgence. "It can stretch or shorten distances, as it sees fit. Otherwise travel would take forever."

"Literally," Salim added, then refused to be sidetracked. "This Arathuziel—you recognized him as soon as I described him."

"Oh yes," Nemeniah said, waving them forward as they began to climb the massive staircase once more. "I imagine many angels stationed near the Shore would. He's quite outspoken."

"Outspoken about what?"

Nemeniah didn't respond immediately, and Salim saw in her posture that she was afraid she'd said too much.

Fortunately, Malchion had no such compunctions. "He doesn't like following orders. He resents the fact that Redeemed are restricted, and challenges the authority of his superiors—the Triad of Choirs, even the Empyreal Lords themselves."

"Restricted how?" Salim asked.

"In where they can go," Nemeniah said. "Who they can talk to. For instance, they're not allowed to leave Heaven without permission."

"And of course they aren't allowed to converse with the recent arrivals," Malchion added. "It wouldn't be prudent."

"Why?" That was Roshad. Both angels turned to look at him. Above his veil, blue eyes blazed a challenge. "They're angels now, right? Why restrict them at all?"

Nemeniah put a hand on the man's shoulder. "To show that they're different."

But Roshad had a good point. "So they're on parole," Salim said. "They're prisoners allowed to work in exchange for good behavior."

"Of course not!" Nemeniah looked aghast. "They're angels!"

"Then why set them apart?" Salim pressed.

"Because they were devils," Malchion snapped, anger clouding his perfect features. "They've been redeemed, by Heaven's grace, but that doesn't make them the same as those who were created pure. They need to be marked so that other angels can keep an eye on them. It's for everyone's good, including theirs."

"Virtue must be recognized," Nemeniah said, in a more conciliatory tone. "But that doesn't mean Heaven can afford close-eyed optimism. The Redeemed were devils once. If they can change once, it's possible they could change again. Heaven's integrity must be protected at all costs. The Redeemed know this as well as we do, and agree. Or at least, most do."

"Of course," Salim said. "They're perfect, but not as perfect. No wonder you wouldn't want them interacting with your flock. Why, that might be as bad as letting souls talk to mortals like us."

"Yes," Malchion agreed.

"Salim." Bors had his hand on his partner's shoulder, and Salim could hear the warning in the big man's voice.

He was right, of course. Salim doubted they could make the angels angry enough to place him and his friends in any real danger, but that didn't mean it was wise to antagonize them further. In truth, they weren't even doing anything wrong—as far as they were concerned, protecting Heaven and its souls was more important than existence itself. Obedience and service were everything to an angel. Likely either of these would fall on their swords—or in this case, their enormous warhammers—in a heartbeat if their commanders told them to. To them, simple restrictions such as who one could talk to were nothing.

Salim was no stranger to caste systems. He'd lived in numerous nations with striated societies. So why did his blood boil now, hearing the angels speak the same sentiments? Maybe it was because he'd naively hoped for better from creatures supposed to be physical manifestations of order and goodness—however one chose to define those. Or maybe it was simply that he identified with anyone held down by a god. Even an angel.

On the heels of those thoughts came the realization that such a reaction was no doubt perfectly in tune with the beliefs of Kaer Maga's Freemen. If you were an angel chafing under Heaven's yoke, what better group of mortals to approach?

Pondering such things kept him busy for the rest of the walk, only barely noticing the heart-burstingly gorgeous hills and glens, their short green grass begging him to lie down and fall asleep. In the distance, a herd of centaurs thundered across a vale and through a series of waterfalls descending from a cliff high above, hooves spraying water out behind them in crystalline clouds.

At last they crested a final rise and found themselves confronting a glass dome the size of a large manor house. A twelve-foot-tall wall of unblemished silver formed the dome's base, and from this ring sprouted four identical spurs that rose into obelisks as tall as the dome itself. A stream laughed and burbled its way under one side of the dome, only to emerge again on the other.

Roshad whistled. "This is what angels live in?"

Nemeniah frowned. "Arathuziel is a bit...eccentric. Even for one of the Redeemed."

Salim studied the structure. The path led up to the dome's foot, yet there was no sign of a door, and the metallic foundation prevented him from seeing inside. The glass above showed only empty space within.

"Do you think he's home?" Roshad asked.

Salim stepped forward. "Only one way to find out."

The group moved down the final leg of the walkway, Nemeniah and Malchion overtaking Salim to walk slightly ahead of him on either side. At the edge of the dome, Salim raised his hand to knock, but Nemeniah stopped him with a gesture.

"Arathuziel," Malchion called, his voice the blast of a hunting horn, "stand forth!"

For several moments, nothing happened. The pastoral field rang with the echo of Malchion's words, then fell quiet. The creek continued to gurgle, and a faint breeze swept over the grass, rippling it like a sea.

A dot of light appeared on the metal wall in front of them, a single thumb-sized hole at Salim's eye level. It irised larger, the silver folding back on itself like dough rolled by an invisible hand. The opening stretched, becoming a squared doorway almost as tall as the metal wall itself, wide enough for either of their angelic escorts to walk through with arms outstretched.

In the opening stood an angel, but one unlike any Salim had ever seen. Though still androgynous by human standards, he was undeniably male. He stood even taller than Nemeniah and Malchion, a full ten feet, with a lean but muscular build hidden only by loose wrappings around his waist. He was as pale as the other two, with long white-gold hair.

There, however, any resemblance stopped. The dove-white wings which rose from behind his shoulders were a mass of thick black chains set with crude padlocks, wrapping and crisscrossing the bright feathers in a net of iron, their weight palpable just by looking at them. More, they pierced the wings, running through them or stretching the skin around their heavy links, the wounds healed over like a hole for an earring. The eyes in his chiseled face had no pupils, only a single shining field of black in each socket, from which thick trails of vermilion blood ran down white cheeks.

Yet the real difference between this angel and the group's escorts was in the way he stood. Nemeniah and Malchion were powerful, impressive—yet there was something deferential in them as well, as if they were constantly waiting to take orders from a higher authority. This angel projected no such humility. He was strong, unbowed by the chains, as unyielding as a stone on a cliff—and, Salim suspected, as uncaring toward any who got in his way. That presence radiated out from him like heat.

"Yes?" the angel asked, his smooth baritone surprisingly normal.

"Arathuziel the Chained," Malchion said formally. Though Salim could see that they didn't like it, both Malchion and Nemeniah bowed their heads to the Redeemed. "These are Salim, Bors, and Roshad—mortals come on business from Pharasma's Court. Commander Faralan orders you to speak with them."

Eyes like cut obsidian gazed down at Salim, then at Bors and Roshad.

"Very well," Arathuziel said. "I will speak with them inside."

The two guides straightened and moved to enter, but Arathuziel's raised hand blocked them. "Alone."

Anger flashed across Malchion's face. "But Commander Faralan—"

"—has no power over my home," Arathuziel said firmly. "I can guard three mortals as well as you can, especially within the dome of my own house. When we're finished, I will return them to you." He looked toward Salim. "Follow." Then he turned and entered the shining doorway.

Salim and his companions did as instructed. As soon as they were inside, the portal behind them flowed shut, the metal sealing without a visible seam. Salim's last sight of their angelic guards was Malchion staring at him, face flushed with anger and embarrassment, while Nemeniah touched his shoulder and whispered into his ear.

Inside, the dome was a single vast room, completely devoid of furniture. Above, the glass of the dome was so perfect as to be almost invisible, making a roof of the sky. Looking up at its endless expanse made Salim feel at once inspired and inexplicably lonely, as if he were standing alone in an open field.

The floor of the space was white tile, large squares that fit together without mortar. In the middle of the room it dropped away into a winding and asymmetric canyon several feet deep. Through this flowed the stream they'd seen outside, taking what must have been its natural course before the dome was built. It cascaded down into the channel at one side of the room, ran between low shores accessible by recessed steps, then flowed back up and out on the other. Roshad and Bors stared wide-eyed at its gravity-defying waterfall.

Salim, however, was distracted by the pictures. While from the outside the foot of the dome had been blank silver, inside the metallic ring was intricately muraled, leaving only the area that had been their door unpainted. The murals were incredibly detailed, the work of a master, and squeezed tight to get the most out of every square inch. A few were clearly in the process of being painted over, obscured by patches of gesso and the sketches of new scenes.

The paintings were of Hell. The landscapes alone made that clear—the volcanic badlands of Avernus, the ice floes of Cocytus, the smoking forests of Malebolge, all cut through by the winding snake of the River Styx. Yet the vistas were far from empty. In the river, souls wept for lives they could no longer remember, or were fished out of the current by devils with long hooks. In the forges of Phlegethon, souls were torn apart and melted down, recast into the shapes of the very devils that tormented them. Everywhere, forms both human and otherwise hung impaled on spikes, wallowed in viscera, or were subject to degradations beyond describing. And every lash, every wound, was rendered in exacting detail.

"They're mine."

Salim looked up and saw Arathuziel watching him, expressionless.

"The paintings," the angel clarified. "They're mine. I make them."

Salim took a step away from the wall. "Why?"

"To remember," Arathuziel said, and turned. "Come."

The angel led the three visitors to the center of the room, where the cleft for the stream was widest. In addition to the rivulet, the recessed portion of the floor contained a small tiled beach, with built-in benches. Several sets of steps led down to the area, and the angel gestured for the men to sit. The angel himself sat on the lip of the depression, his feet still almost touching the floor five feet below. His chains clanked against the tile.

There was a long moment as angel and humans regarded each other. Then Arathuziel spoke.

"Well?" he asked. "Do we have business, or are you here for the story?"

paizo.com #3236236, Corry Douglas <corrydouglas@gmail.com>, Aug 10, 2014

Chapter Seventeen

Arathuziel the Chained

Story?" Salim asked.

The angel gave a little half-smile. "The story of my redemption. The only reason anyone in this place ever talks to me, at least willingly."

It seemed as good a place to start as any. "Please," Salim said. "If you don't mind."

"Not anymore." Arathuziel leaned back on his hands and closed his eyes. It was strange to see those blank black pools disappear beneath normal eyelids, their power occluded by a thin layer of pale skin.

"I was a deimavigga, if you know what that is. An apostate devil, created to challenge the faith of mortals and make them abandon religion, in hopes that renouncing divine morality would send them sliding into Hell's hands. My body was a monument to that severing: black armor that writhed, blades fanning from my fingers, my face a floating mask. And I was powerful, so powerful. Within the walls of Dis, and even on the other layers of Hell, I was known and feared for my work. My greatest achievements were always in the mortal world, but other devils still followed my every command, drawn to my service like flies to a corpse.

"I was on Avernus, the first layer of Hell, when it happened. I and my retinue were observing the lines of new souls queued for processing, their cries echoing harshly in that volcanic wasteland, when suddenly there was a glowing split in the sky and a flight of angels came soaring through. They tore into the souls' minders, singing their hosannas and elegies as flaming weapons returned devil after devil to the dust of the plain.

"It was not a rescue mission—that's not Heaven's way. Every mortal soul on that battlefield was there by Pharasma's judgment, and it's not in an angel's nature to question such authority. Souls fell as easily as devils beneath the onslaught, and no tears were shed for them that hadn't already been shed for their falls from grace. No, this was solely a battle of aggression, the making of a point: a reminder that we were an abomination, and that Heaven and the other celestial planes would never rest so long as Hell's gates remained open.

"It was also a suicide mission. You could see that in their eyes, and in the way the portal sealed behind them. Every angel in that flight knew what the eventual outcome must be—but of course, for an angel, dying on a devil's spear is simply another act of devotion. They sang as they died, prayers through bloody lips.

"I was content to watch. As I've said, I was high among the devils, and though I could have done much, simple combat always seemed a waste of my abilities. That's what we have servants for. Yet one of the angels saw me watching from my ledge overlooking the battleground, and came for me.

"She was beautiful, all dark skin and shadowed wings, her burning sword leaving a comet's tail behind her. She came, her squad close behind, and my retainers rushed to meet them. Blood and chitin flew as the two sides lit into each other. Yet though her greatsword swept left and right, her eyes never left mine.

"At last she reached me, as I think we both knew she would. I whispered the poison for which I was known, yet her faith was so strong that the words were nothing to her. Her sword came down, and I caught it in my claws, sparks flying from their meeting. And then there was no time to speak.

"The end was predetermined. I was the stronger, and we both knew it—knew it before she ever took flight toward my ledge. But she fought on anyway, bolstered by something I couldn't understand. And still her eyes refused to leave mine.

"Finally, I ripped the sword from her hands, casting it down among the twitching corpses of our fallen retinues. Though weaponless, she still showed no hint of fear—not even when my claws lanced through her neck, lifting her from the ground like meat on a skewer. Instead, she smiled. And as the bubbling froth of her lifeblood poured from her ruined throat, she spoke.

"And she forgave me."

Arathuziel took a deep breath, holding it for a moment before letting it out. He opened his eyes again, looking to each member of his audience.

"That was the beginning. Though I left her there on that ledge, smile frozen in the mask of death, her words followed me. Leaving my surviving minions to feast upon the raiders' bodies, I made my way back to my tower within the iron city of Dis, and there I brooded. Alone.

"You need to understand: All my existence, I had been driven by the need to tear down the faith of others. That loss of direction, that questioning, that fear—those were who I was. And yet I had seen something in her that I had never seen in the faces of religious zealots. She was a Sarenite, it's true—yet that confidence came from more than just love of the sun goddess. It was the knowledge that she was dying for something even greater.

"All creatures in Hell serve Asmodeus, for that is how he created it, in the time before time. Even my cultivation of apostasy and atheism, the rejection of gods by mortals, plays into his plan, as he would happily lose worshipers of his own in order to cost other gods theirs, and those who fall from grace often drift into his grasp anyway.

"As a devil, I cherished that law, that order—a perfect system, with everything in its place. The austere beauty of it is something you cannot comprehend. Even the stately motion of the stars in your night sky is anarchy compared to the Archfiend's crystalline vision.

"Yet for all that beauty, I now saw that the order of Hell was pointless. It was elegant, and smooth—but what purpose did it serve? Asmodeus's whims. All laws sprang from him, and he ruled absolutely, yet what laws bound him in turn? None. Despite his vision, he was ultimately as petulant as any of the gods I despised, ruled by emotion and his own bitterness toward a multiverse that refused to acknowledge his supremacy.

"The angels, though...they, too, sought order. Heaven's drive toward law and structure was as strong as my own. Yet their goal was something greater: not a single entity, but a system of ideals. Love. Justice. Redemption. A perfect order that did not serve their deities, but rather bound them as tightly as the weakest angel. Their power was not an end, but a tool—a means toward something greater.

"In spite of everything I had been taught about the strength of cruelty, the necessity of evil in maintaining order, I had seen love. And it had proven stronger.

"And so, in one of the greatest ironies the multiverse has ever seen, I lost my own faith.

"The change was slow at first. I locked myself in my tower, brooding on the meaning of what I'd witnessed, of the uncomfortable new ideas swirling inside me. I don't know how long I'd been there, walking the barren stone halls of my keep, when I looked down and saw that the blades had fallen from my hands. In their place were only stubs—weak, fleshy tentacles.

"Fingers.

"I raced to the mirror and watched in horrified awe as my black armor cracked and sloughed away, revealing the wet flesh underneath. Skin flowed back and down from behind my mask, forming a head and neck where one had never been needed before. It was only when the great wings tore free from my back and spread their dripping pinions that I understood. The angel's sacrifice hadn't just changed me inside—it was changing me outside as well. In my admiration, I was taking on a form like her own.

"That was when I knew. I had seen the weakness of Hell, the inherent pettiness of its cruelties. It was time for me to go.

"My first flight was awkward, painful. I threw myself from the tower's edge, barely keeping myself from being impaled on the spikes below, choosing a direction at random, knowing only that I needed to get away from the city.

"I flew for longer than you can imagine. Epochs passed as I fled across Hell's barren landscapes, slaying those that sought to halt my progress, but never losing sight of my true goal. You have heard that the Outer Planes are infinite, and that is true, in a sense—yet they still have borders. In time, I reached the edges of Hell, and passed beyond. And at last, after time beyond mortal understanding, I came to the gates of Heaven. There, fully transformed into the form you see now, I knelt in the shifting mists and pledged myself—not to a god or master, but to Heaven itself. To its perfect law, and the love that guides it."

There was a long silence. Salim realized he was breathing shallowly, not daring anything that might disrupt the story. When at last it became clear that no more was forthcoming, he spoke. "And Heaven accepted you."

The angel gave a wry smile. "More or less."

"More or less?" Roshad asked.

In response, Arathuziel raised his wings, spreading them wide to better display the web of chains piercing his flesh. As he did, Salim noticed something he'd missed before: each of the giant padlocks holding the chains shut was a solid mass of black iron, without any apparent keyhole.

"How can they do that to you?" Salim asked, feeling a sudden surge of anger.

"For the same reasons they restrict who I can talk to," Arathuziel replied evenly. "The same reasons they keep me mostly on the mountain, rather than letting me travel to the Material Plane, or fight alongside the others in the wars against evil and chaos. They don't trust me yet."

"How long have you been here?" Roshad asked.

Arathuziel smiled. "Time is different in Heaven. Any answer I could give would be meaningless to you. But it's not the angels that bind me like this—it's Heaven itself. The angels make the rules and restrictions, but my chains are a part of me, until such time as I've proven myself in Heaven's eyes." He looked to Bors and Roshad's chain and raised an eyebrow. "And yours?"

"Our bonds are a reminder," Bors said, taking Roshad's chained wrist and holding it up. "A tool to teach us."

"I'm sure Heaven would say the same about mine," the angel replied.

"You speak of Heaven like it's a conscious entity," Salim said. "Like it's watching you."

"That's because it is—at least in a sense." Arathuziel made shapes with his hands, trying to elaborate. "Every angel is at some level a manifestation of the plane, and thus our forms are its prerogative. When I first arrived, I had more chains than you see now. But as I prove myself, the locks open, and chains drop away."

"How do you prove yourself?" Roshad asked.

Arathuziel laughed. "If I knew that, I would have shed them long ago. Heaven's tests are never the same twice, and sometimes totally inscrutable. Yet they seem to be tied to displays of virtue, and of dedication." He laughed again, this time with a harder edge. "Fortunately, the tests appear to be personal. Heaven doesn't seem to care how well I get along with the other angels."

Salim nodded. "You resent them."

Arathuziel grimaced. "It's not their fault. Not really. Trueborn angels have loyalty in their nature—it's part of who they are. As such, it's hard for them to accept a traitor, even one that's defected to their side. Every time they look at me, they have to decide whether morality trumps loyalty." He gave Salim a pointed look. "But I suspect you know all about such things. You have the skin and speech of a Rahadoumi, yet you serve the Lady of Graves."

Salim's surprise must have showed in his face, because Arathuziel laughed again, this time with genuine amusement. "Consider my origins, Salim. Spreading atheism was part of my portfolio. Did you really think I wouldn't recognize one of the Godless?" He smiled. "Clearly you know something about prejudice—and maybe betrayal as well. Did you grow up hiding your faith from the priest-hunters? Or did you convert later in life?"

Salim gritted his teeth. "I didn't come to the Lady by choice. What I did, I did to save someone else. Someone important."

The angel's smile faded, and he nodded. "That's what the other angels can never understand—the concept of change. Of transformation. They're already pure, so for them, any change seems like a defilement."

In my case, it was, Salim thought. Yet he was surprised at how closely the angel's words mirrored his own condemnation of Maedora.

"Mortals are creatures of turmoil," Arathuziel continued. "They're constantly in motion, both inside and out. At any moment, they can make choices that define or redefine their nature, whereas creatures like angels—and devils, for that matter—make choices in accordance with their nature. Our free will is constrained.

"That constantly shifting sense of self makes mortals vulnerable, but also powerful. As a devil, I guided them down dark paths, but I knew that at any moment they could change their minds and slip from my grasp. That was the challenge.

"The other angels—the trueborn ones, the spirits of pure and unbridled virtue—they don't understand the power of choice. They praise the mortals who choose righteousness and walk the narrow path, but they fail to see that the choice is more important than the results. They hold up those who have never strayed, never fallen or doubted, and say ‘be as this one, clean and unsullied.'" He turned to Bors and leaned forward, hands on knees. "If I show you a man who's perfect in every way, how do you feel?"

The big man thought for a moment. "Awed."

"And then?"

Bors frowned, thick brows bending down over his dark eyes. "Inferior."

"Precisely." The angel straightened, crossing his arms. "Born-again sinners are always more persuasive than saints, because you can relate to them. They've been in your shoes. They've coveted and lusted and lied and killed and found salvation anyway. Perfection intimidates, inspires fear and jealousy. If you want to convert the heathens, send a converted heathen."

"Like you," Salim said.

Arathuziel spread his arms. "Why not? No mortal ever born is as stained and sullied as I was, and yet here I am. Purified. Rags to riches. If I can change, then they can, too.

"That's what the other angels don't understand. They look at my origin and it scares them. They don't realize it makes me the best evangelist they've got."

"Isn't that a little arrogant?" Salim asked.

Arathuziel smiled. "Fortunately, arrogance is one sin that Heaven has no problem with. Or hadn't you noticed?"

Salim smiled back. "Perhaps."

Arathuziel raised his hands toward the ceiling. "Praise the gods—a visitor who understands!" He lowered them again, folding them in his lap. "But as much as I appreciate having an audience for my rants, that's not why you're here." He fixed Salim with a suddenly businesslike gaze. "So why are you?"

Salim felt the weight of those eyes as he spoke. "It's about some souls—souls bound for Hell and the other evil planes. They've gone missing."

Salim watched Arathuziel carefully for any twitch, as well as any practiced lack of a twitch. An attempt to hide a reaction would be itself revealing. Yet the angel gave him nothing.

"So?" Arathuziel asked. "Hell's problems ceased to be mine a long time ago."

"That's the thing," Salim said. "The mortals harvesting these souls claim that they're converting them at the moment of death, magically absolving the victims of their sins even as they're slain. A free pass to join Heaven's ranks, without standing for the Lady's judgment—whether the victims want it or not."

Arathuziel's face hardened, mouth turning to a flat line. "I see. If it's true, then that's troubling indeed. Yet I'm still not clear on why Faralan sent you to me. As I explained, due to my restrictions, I can do little to help you with anything related to the mortal plane."

The moment of truth. Salim took a breath. "The mortals claim they were set on their path by an angel. One with chained wings and tears of blood."

For a second, the angel's face went slack, blank eyes wide and mouth open in surprise. Then the jaw shut once more, snapping closed with a bear-trap click, and the pale face colored, beautiful features twisting in anger.

"Of course," Arathuziel growled, half to himself. "I shouldn't be surprised. After all, who better to pin it on? The more I argue with the commanders, the less angelic I seem, and the more angels recognize me."

"So you claim to know nothing of the theft?"

Arathuziel shot Salim an irritated look. "Were you even listening to my story? I'm the last person who'd do something like this. My entire crusade is about the value of choice, and struggle for virtue against one's nature—absolution without reformation would only cheapen that." He snapped his wings down against the floor, making their chains and locks ring loud against the stones. "Do you think I endure this indignity because I enjoy it? I was a lord in Hell, and I gave it up to follow Heaven's light, only to be looked down upon by untested whelps like your friends outside, who've never had to question their beliefs."

He had a point. Even more important were the emotions streaming across his face—anger, betrayal, resentment. If they were false, then the angel was a fabulous actor. But then, he had been a devil...

"So you think someone's framing you," Salim said.

"Isn't it obvious?" Arathuziel almost shouted. With an effort, he breathed deep and collected himself. When he spoke again, it was still tense, but measured. "Between the enemies I left behind in Hell and the angels who resent a redeemed devil challenging convention, there are plenty who would like to drag me down. Though if the souls really are going to Heaven, I can't see a devil being responsible. They're spiteful, but I doubt they'd give up souls just to smear a traitor's reputation."

"Another angel, then," Salim said.

Arathuziel nodded. "It would make the most sense. Forcing a soul into redemption would be heresy—the spiritual equivalent of rape. It goes against every law in the multiverse, and my own philosophy in particular. But I can see how quietly draining Hell's coffers to feed Heaven's would appeal to some, if they could do it without being caught." He frowned. "And if they had someone to pin it on."

"But you just said you're all about choice," Salim said. "Encouraging mortals to find Heaven for themselves. Why would someone try to pin this on you?"

"Because it's only a contradiction if you listen to me," Arathuziel spat. "I can preach all I want about the nature of morality, but how many angels do you see lined up outside my dome? There's a reason I live so close to Heathen Shore." He blinked rapidly, and the tears of blood, now spilling off the chiseled edges of his chin, rimmed his lashes in rings of bright crimson. "Pinning it on me makes perfect sense if you already distrust the Redeemed. Maybe a few know me well enough to listen to what I have to say—Faralan among them, possibly. But to the others...well, it just proves what they already suspect, doesn't it? Redeemed are too dangerous to be given a voice." He covered his face with his hands, red blood sliding between long white fingers.

Salim wasn't given to responding to others' emotions—that innate human empathy had been buried long ago by the needs of his profession. The guilty cried just as easily as the innocent. Yet having seen the naked pain in the angel's face, he found himself believing it. Why would the angel risk everything he'd struggled for just to rob others of that same choice? It didn't add up.

Which made what he had to do next even harder.

"I think you're lying."

The room froze. Next to him, Bors and Roshad stopped breathing, caught completely off guard.

Slowly, Arathuziel raised his blood-smeared face from his hands.

"What did you say?"

Salim stood. His head was still well below that of the seated angel's, but he tried his best to look down at him anyway. "I said it's a nice story, but I'm not buying it. You were a devil, Arathuziel. A fugitive from Hell who found asylum in Heaven. Now other souls are making the same switch, whether they want to or not. Doesn't that strike you as a bit coincidental?"

Beneath the blood, Arathuziel's cheeks darkened. "I told you—"

"You said a lot of things," Salim said. "But for all your talk of choice, I know devils. And they like to win at any cost. You may have switched teams, Arathuziel, but that doesn't change who you are."

"Salim—" Roshad began.

Salim cut him off with a chopping motion, then stepped in front of the two men, positioning himself between them and the angel.

On the other side of the tiled depression, Arathuziel stood, unfolding himself slowly and deliberately, wings stretching out above his head. Anger massed like storm clouds on his face, white skin deepening to grayish red and on into livid purple-black.

"You're wrong." The angel's words rang from every point of the dome. "You know nothing of what I've suffered."

Below, in the angel's long shadow, Salim drew his sword, letting it hang loosely at his side.

"So what are you going to do about it?"

Black eyes as flat as glass glared down at him. There was a burst of light, and suddenly Arathuziel's clenched fist held a blazing sword as long as Salim was tall, the wind off its flickering flames slamming against Salim in a wave of heat.

"There it is, then," Salim said. "Once a devil, always a devil." He raised his sword into the guard position, ready to dodge, to open himself to the goddess's black flow.

Arathuziel was an image out of a crusader's fantasy. He towered over the humans, corded muscles tense and quivering, sword ablaze and face a mask of death. A divine executioner.

The flaming blade vanished.

"No," Arathuziel said. Folding his wings, the angel took a step back. "Not anymore."

There were soft sounds from behind Salim as Bors and Roshad relaxed, but Salim couldn't do the same. Not yet. "Do you admit your guilt, then?"

The angel shook his head. Though his eyes were still hard, he was calm again, hands folded. "I respect Heaven's authority. Take me to Commander Faralan. We'll see what he says."

Almost there.

"I'm sorry," Salim said, "but Faralan invested me with the authority to pass judgment." He raised his sword higher. "The penalty for soul theft is the same in Heaven as on Pharasma's Spire."

"Salim!" Roshad and Bors made as if to grab his arm, but Salim's glare froze them in place. The two men looked on, faces dark with disapproval.

Arathuziel looked stricken. "But...I'm innocent!"

"By the laws of Heaven, which you claim to obey, I am the rightful arbiter of this matter. And I've made my decision." Salim pointed at the ground in front of the angel.

Arathuziel stared. Fear and anger flickered across that porcelain face, but greater than both of them was a deep, abiding sadness. Slowly, the angel knelt, his huge knees damming the babbling creek and sending it rushing off in new directions. Hands clasped to his chest as if in prayer, he bent at the waist, bowing his head until it touched the tiles, neck outstretched. He closed his eyes.

"I submit to Heaven's will," he whispered.

There was a moment of silence, then the slide of steel on leather as Salim sheathed his sword. He touched the top of the angel's head, feeling the thick, silken strands of his hair.

"Rise, Arathuziel."

For a moment, the angel didn't move. Then he stood, awkward and bewildered.

"I'm sorry for that," Salim said. "Truly sorry. But I had to know that you were honest in your dedication."

Confusion solidified into anger. "You were testing me?"

"I had no other choice," Salim said. "Your reasoning made perfect sense, but in my line of work it pays to be certain. If you could be goaded into starting a fight with a representative of Heaven, even in self-defense, then I would have to accept the possibility that you were lying as well." He stepped forward and proffered his hand. "As your gods' priests are so fond of saying—forgive me?"

The angel stared down at the hand for a moment. Then he threw back his head and gave a roar of laughter.

"You're a bastard, Salim." The angel took his hand. "A self-righteous prick with no concern for the feelings of others. You'd fit in well here."

Salim smiled back, trying not to show the tide of relief flooding through him.

"Out of curiosity," Arathuziel said, "what would you have done if I'd given in and decided to fight you?"

"Died, probably." Perhaps the goddess's magic could have protected him, but in such close quarters, on his opponent's home turf, Salim wouldn't want to bet on his chances against a ten-foot-tall angel with a burning sword.

"Then it was as much a test for you as for me," Arathuziel said.

Salim opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted by a quiet snick, followed by a shivering rattle as one of the chains on Arathuziel's right wing came loose, dropping to coil in snarled loops on the tile.

Arathuziel grunted. "Apparently you're not the only one who thought your test was worthwhile." He reached down and fished among the links, then came up with the blank-faced lock, its shackle now hanging open. He handed it to Salim. "Here. Take this."

Salim accepted it. The lock was as big as his palm, and exactly as heavy as it looked. He turned it over in his hands. What use was a lock with no keyhole? Still... "Thank you."

Arathuziel smiled. "It's not a gift, Salim. Or at least, not a gift to you." He picked up the chain off the floor, running it through his hands. "These were a part of my body for longer than your world's nations have had names. In a way, they're still a part of me. Even though they've come free, I can still feel them, if they're close enough. Sense them."

Salim stopped fondling the lock. "I don't understand."

Arathuziel reached out and wrapped Salim's fingers around the metal. "Keep it with you. When you find the person responsible for the heresy—the one who's been framing me—hold it in your hand and call to me." Black glass eyes flashed cold again. "I want to be there."

"Sounds fair." Salim pulled his coin pouch from beneath his robe, dropped in the lock, then tucked it back out of sight, feeling the unfamiliar weight pressed against his side.

"So what now?" Roshad asked. Both the little man and his partner—his szerik, Salim reminded himself—had their arms crossed, though they no longer looked angry. "If the description you've got is deliberately misleading, then you're right back where you started."

They were right. Salim mulled the problem over. Even supposing Arathuziel was correct and the culprit was another angel, that still left a roughly infinite number of suspects. Presumably only a tiny subset would be willing to risk heresy, and an even smaller one would be familiar enough with Arathuziel to frame him. Clearly whoever was impersonating the angel wanted to point blame toward the Redeemed, so that made it unlikely that another Redeemed was responsible. He could ask around about other angels who'd been outspoken in their criticism of Heaven's methods, but whoever was responsible seemed too smart for that. He needed a different angle.

"The machine," Salim said. "The thing Caramine calls the Redemption Engine. Without it, there's no way they could do what they're doing."

Bors frowned. "Can't lots of things steal souls? I've read about swords that drink souls, or the guillotines in Galt that trap the souls of the condemned. And some assassins have ways of destroying souls, to make sure they never come back."

Roshad squeezed the big man's forearm. "You and your books."

Bors shrugged. "Not everyone can sleep till noon every day."

Salim shook his head. "This isn't just theft. Ordinary magic can bottle up souls or destroy them—but the moment a bottled soul is released, it rejoins the River of Souls, flowing to Pharasma's Boneyard for judgment. The souls we're looking for are supposedly bypassing that altogether, becoming new angels immediately. That shouldn't be possible."

"If they're becoming angels," Roshad asked, "can't we just gather up the newest arrivals and question them?"

"Infinite plane," Bors reminded him gently. "Think about how many people die every minute. You'd be looking for individual drops in a waterfall."

"The machine has to be the key." Salim turned to Arathuziel. "Any idea where an angel could get the design for a machine that sucks out souls?"

Arathuziel answered without hesitation. "The Great Library."

Salim was momentarily taken aback. "The Great Library of Harmonious Scripture? They would have something like that?"

Arathuziel chuckled darkly. "There's more in Heaven's vaults than you might realize. If anyone here has the information you seek, it'll be the librarians."

"The library it is, then." Salim bowed to Arathuziel, lower than he had to anyone in a long time. "Thank you for your help."

"My pleasure," Arathuziel said, returning the bow. Then he put a hand on Salim's shoulder. "I think perhaps we're similar, you and I. Rebellious servants, both."

"Perhaps." Salim said. Then, unable to help himself: "Except that you serve by choice. You can walk away any time you like."

Arathuziel shook his head. "That's where you're wrong, Salim. Choice binds us tighter than any chain."

Salim frowned. "Believe me, I know that better than anyone."

"Do you?" The angel moved over to a small ledge in the wall and picked up a paintbrush.

Salim smothered a spark of anger at the angel's tone. "I made a deal. A promise to serve."

The angel dipped the brush in a tiny pot of pigment. "And that's why you do what you do?"

"Of course."

"And if you stopped, you'd be killed?"

Salim laughed. "Hardly. That particular exit was denied to me a long time ago."

"Your loved ones, then. Or perhaps you'd be tortured?"

"No. That's not how Pharasma works."

"So what do you have to lose by refusing?"

Salim opened his mouth—and found that he had no response. A long moment passed, and then he said, "Honor. I gave my word. The goddess took everything else from me, but she can't take my honor."

The angel snorted. "She doesn't have to if you give it to her."

The rebel spark rekindled and shot into Salim's throat, burning like bile. "What—"

"Honor is an excuse, Salim. Every moment is a new choice. Gods can rage, worlds can break, but free will means your path is your own." He smiled, beatific as a plaster saint. "So walk it."

Then he turned his back on the mortals and began painting another memory of Hell.

paizo.com #3236236, Corry Douglas <corrydouglas@gmail.com>, Aug 10, 2014

Chapter Eighteen

The Path of Knowledge

You let him go?"

"He made some good points."

Reunited with Malchion and Nemeniah once more, Salim's expedition made its way up the mountain on another of the stone paths, this one running along the spine of a rocky outcropping. Behind them, Arathuziel's crystal dome grew small, a sparkling diamond stud on a cushion of green felt.

"But the description..." Malchion pressed.

"Could have come from anyone who'd even heard of him," Salim said firmly. "Which, from what I gather, is most everyone."

Malchion radiated disapproval. "He's still the most likely culprit. And now you've played your hand and given him time to ready his defenses. The next time your investigation leads you to him, I fear you'll find him better prepared."

"You seem awfully sure he's responsible."

The angel grimaced, and Nemeniah broke in.

"You're of course right to reserve judgment until you've finished collecting evidence," she said soothingly. "My brother simply fears that you'll face great difficulty in taking Arathuziel if he's forewarned. The Redeemed are powerful, and if he's indeed flouted Heaven's law..."

"He submitted this time," Salim reminded them. "Knelt on the stone and presented his neck for the blade. If he's willing to commit heresy, why would he hand himself over for execution?"

"Perhaps he believes that strongly in his cause," Malchion said. "If you'd killed him without further interrogation, any associates he might have would remain free to continue his work."

"Or it was simply a ruse," Nemeniah noted. "Your sword might never have completed its stroke."

"Perhaps," Salim acknowledged. But he didn't think so. He'd seen the angel's eyes as he'd knelt. They'd showed hurt, and betrayal, and a deep anger—yet also resignation. Arathuziel had believed himself about to die over a mistake—worse, over outright prejudice—and he'd gone to the gallows anyway, to prove a point. Anything else would have marked him as the traitor the others all thought him to be. He'd been willing to die rather than forsake his hard-won place in Heaven's celestial order.

Malchion and Nemeniah still looked displeased, yet they didn't press the point. They continued up, leading the group on toward the Great Library as Salim had instructed. Salim himself slowed until he was at the rear of their procession, and this time the siblings let him, trusting to the dramatic cliff face to his left and perilous drop-off to his right to keep him on the path.

Arathuziel hadn't been exaggerating the angels' prejudice—that was clear enough. Faralan had seemed more moderate, but if Nemeniah and Malchion were typical examples of the reception the Redeemed faced in Heaven, then it was small wonder the Chained chose to live near Heathen Shore. At least there, the second-class citizens could all be discriminated against together.

The worst part was the fact that, from a certain point of view, angels like Nemeniah and Malchion were absolutely correct. Constant vigilance was part of their mandate. Never mind that redemption was just as crucial to their faith—they couldn't afford to make mistakes that might endanger Heaven, and their focus on the greater good was all-consuming. From their perspective, Arathuziel should accept his lower status gladly, understanding that his personal frustration was necessary to protect the whole. Heaven was fundamentally collectivist like that. If a good soul valued freedom over order, it didn't go to Heaven, but rather to freewheeling Elysium, the plane of artists and rebels and other iconoclasts.

Regardless, the angels' prejudice wasn't Salim's problem—just whoever was using it as a cover. Without a convenient description to go off of, all he could do was hope that the library had something on the machine, and that it led him somewhere useful.

Ahead, a flight of things that looked like winged helmets swooped low, dipping their wings as they passed in front of Nemeniah and Malchion. The twins saluted as the cascade of empty helms flapped and climbed for altitude once more.

Caught up in the sight, Roshad stumbled, one foot slipping off the edge of the path. Without looking, Bors put a hand out, grasping the smaller man's shoulder and setting him right. The two continued on as if nothing had happened, their footfalls synced so perfectly that they sounded like one man.

Salim felt an unexpected surge of loneliness. What was it the men had said about their philosophy? Shared mind and shared heart. Every move the two made was complementary. They spoke for each other, watched each other's backs, and loved each other with a fierceness that was unmistakable.

Even the angels had a lesser version of that. Nemeniah and Malchion moved with the unconscious precision of soldiers trained by the same commanders, unthinking in their support of each other. Even if they weren't brother and sister in a literal sense—a facet of angel physiology Salim still wasn't sure about—they had become such through service. Siblings bound by blood shed, if not blood shared.

How long since Salim had experienced either of those? The first woman he had loved had died generations ago—died twice, thanks to him. He'd betrayed his comrades, killing those he'd held closest. In the decades since, he'd learned better, keeping those that might have filled that space at arm's length. But sometimes...

The path widened, and Bors and Roshad interrupted his melancholia by dropping back to walk beside him, Roshad in the middle.

"We've been wondering," Roshad said. "Explain to us why this is so important."

"What?" Salim asked. "The soul-stealing?"

Bors nodded.

"Everyone here goes to great pains to explain how vast Heaven is," Roshad said. "So what do a couple of souls from Kaer Maga matter?"

"It's the principle," Salim said, but Bors was already shaking his head.

"You're clearly burning diplomatic goodwill by being here," Roshad said. "Gods or otherwise, governments don't call in favors like that over principle."

Now it was Salim's turn to shake his head. "You don't understand. The Outer Planes are realms defined by principle. Heaven, Hell, Axis and the Maelstrom—all these places are the manifestation of ideas. Ideology made physical. Even a small upset can have huge ramifications. A few souls circumventing the system is nothing—but if it were allowed to continue, the idea could spread like cancer through Heaven's host, and maybe the fabric of the planes themselves. The whole house of cards could come crashing down."

The Iridian Fold men still looked unconvinced. "So?" Roshad asked. "We're not particularly religious men. We appreciate the idea of a pleasant afterlife waiting for us when we make our last ride, but the idea of dying on its behalf seems a bit counterproductive. If Heaven and the rest can't take care of themselves..."

"Oh, they can," Salim said grimly. "The question is: where are they going to do it?"

Roshad tugged at his veil. "I don't follow."

"Say you know you're going to get into a fight," Salim said. "A man challenges you to a duel, and you can't refuse him. Where do you fight him—out in the street, or in your living room?"

"I don't—" Roshad began, but Bors cut him off.

"Neutral ground," he said. "You don't want to risk your family or your possessions in the battle."

"Exactly," Salim said. "If the stalemate between Heaven and Hell heats up into a full-fledged war, do you think it's going to happen on those planes? Of course not—they're both too well defended. It'll start in the border regions, the areas that are already most contested.

Roshad's eyes widened in understanding. "The mortal world."

Salim touched his nose, then pointed at the sorcerer. "Exactly. Even if the angels and devils keep to the Outer Planes, fighting out in the chaos of the Maelstrom or making raids against each other's fortifications, do you think their mortal worshipers will stand by passively while their masters launch a crusade? Imagine what would happen if every devil-binder in Cheliax and every Sarenite dervish in Qadira got it into their heads to exterminate each other completely, rather than the little skirmishes they have now. Or worse—what if all the paladins guarding the Worldwound decided that keeping demons from overrunning the Inner Sea was less important than striking back at the devils of Hell, and abandoned their posts?"

Roshad nodded slowly. "Chaos. Total war across Golarion. There'd be nowhere that wasn't touched."

"As above, so below," Salim said. "Balance is everything. And that's what Pharasma does: maintains the equilibrium. Judging souls is just a facet of that, a means of keeping control. The Gray Lady seems like she doesn't care, but that's an oversimplification—she's simply not on anyone's side. If the scale tips in any direction, everything falls apart."

He stopped, realizing that the men were looking at him, Bors half-smiling. "What?"

"You said you weren't a real Pharasmin," Bors said.

"I'm not. The Grave Bitch is my owner, not my god."

Bors shrugged, but his smirk remained. Between them, Roshad gave a quiet laugh.

Salim threw up his hands. "Dead gods, is everyone a philosopher today?"

Fortunately, at that moment the path rounded a last bend in the cliff, and all other thoughts fell by the wayside.

The Great Library of Harmonious Scripture rose up in a cluster of nine majestic towers, no two the same height or shape, and each paying only a modicum of respect to conventional physics. Though seemingly composed of brilliant white stone interlaced with ribbons of crystal, the towers thickened and thinned at whatever intervals their architects saw fit. A tower that was narrow at the bottom could twist and grow like the spout of a tornado, projecting huge buttressed balconies as it ascended. Another tower might suddenly open to the sky for several stories, the vast bulk of its upper levels supported on slim pillars. Staircases wound in and out of the towers, wrapping them like vines creeping up a tree—and indeed, the stairs on one of the towers were a lattice of green and brown, broad leaves waving in the wind. From the towers' feet spread long buildings and plazas that filled the space between them, combining the whole assembly into a single structure. Winged forms flitted between towers, landing on balconies or diving down to disappear among the rooftop fountains and pyramidal glass skylights of the compound.

The path Salim's party followed led them not to one of the towers, but rather to one of the long rococo facades that connected them. Perhaps twenty yards out, the trail descended a wide set of steps into a stone courtyard curiously devoid of ornamentation, which ran the length of the wall like a moat. Across the space, two grand double doors—bright wood banded with silver—stood flush with the blank wall a good thirty feet above the ground, without any apparent means of reaching them.

As soon as Salim set foot on the stairs, the ambient light began to dim. Beside him, Bors and Roshad murmured as they experienced the same uncanny sensation. Having grown used to Heaven's ever-present, omniradiant light, it was a shock to suddenly find one's self in shadow again. The light continued to weaken as they descended. Above, the sky still burned with its usual luminance, yet the light seemed to stop at the level of the stairs, shadows closing over the party's heads like the surface of a pond. By the time they reached the bottom, they were encased in twilight.

But not for long. Salim was the first to touch the stone of the courtyard, and as he did, the flagstone lit up, a golden sigil appearing beneath his boot. The next step produced another, and then they were shooting away from him in a line, a glowing road of angelic script. Halfway across the plaza, they began to ascend into the air, climbing unsupported until they reached the doors. As the others came to stand beside him, their own paths emerged, joining together like rivers to create a single scroll of light leading up to the entrance.

"So does knowledge lead us out of darkness," Nemeniah intoned.

Salim barked a laugh, and the angels frowned. Roshad and Bors gave him inquisitive looks.

"Sorry," he said. "It's just...a little over the top, don't you think?"

Bors cheek twitched upward. "I think we might have passed some gilded lilies on the way up."

Roshad snickered, and Nemeniah's frown deepened. "Symbols are key to maintaining faith, Salim."

"I'm sure they are," Salim said. "By all means, let's continue."

He led them across the plaza and up the glowing cascade. As long as he didn't look down, it was no different from climbing a normal staircase, the translucent letters firm beneath his feet. At the top, the doors swung open of their own accord, the floor beyond them thankfully simple stone again.

They were in yet another antechamber, this one with a wooden reception desk. Behind it, several tall arches stood covered by purple curtains.

Floating above the wood, glowing with its own light, was what appeared to be an orrery, its thin network of golden wires allowing tiny gemlike balls to rotate around the burning sphere at its center. Remembering the floating lanterns in the Hall of Others, Salim stepped forward and nodded to the orrery as if it were nothing out of the ordinary. "Hello."

The tiny worlds spun faster. "Greetings, scholar." It twisted in the air, its orbits and glowing sun suddenly reminding Salim of an eye as it focused over his shoulder on the others stepping up behind him. "Nemeniah! Malchion! May the gods smile upon you."

"Hello, Baya," Nemeniah said. "This is Salim, and his companions Bors and Roshad. They come on the business of Pharasma's Court, and Faralan's assigned us to guide them."

"Of course!" The orrery—whose feminine voice was almost absurdly chipper—shifted to focus on Salim once more. "We are happy to assist. The scholars of the Great Library are particularly inclined toward the Gray Lady in her role as goddess of prophecy. What can we aid you in finding? Records of fallen heroes? Forgotten revelations and their evaluated accuracy? Perhaps hymns for the noble dead?"

Salim couldn't help but smile. The archon—for surely that's what it was—sounded so eager, so earnest. If it were possible to call a thing of wire and light "cute," he thought Baya might qualify.

"Maybe later. Right now, I need to know where an angel might have gotten access to forbidden magic. Heretical texts."

Baya's central globe of light shifted suddenly from soft yellow to an angry red. Her loops of wire spun faster, and with a sharp whisk of metal on metal, blades extended from each of the tiny planetoids. The room filled with a sawmill whine.

Salim took an involuntary step back as the archon floated toward him.

"Access to those documents has been restricted for your safety," the pleasant voice said. "Your request has been logged. Further requests will not be permitted."

paizo.com #3236236, Corry Douglas <corrydouglas@gmail.com>, Aug 10, 2014

Chapter Nineteen

The Great Library

The blades continued to whir.

Nemeniah held up a hand. "Peace, Baya. Commander Faralan has authorized us to show them whatever they wish. Including the Vault of Correction."

"Oh!" Baya's blades snicked back into their hidden slots, her orbits slowing their frenetic pace. "In that case, Malchion and Nemeniah can show you the way." A pause, then in more hopeful tones: "You're sure I can't interest you in a forgotten language? Or perhaps the funerary rites of the strix in their native Arcadia?"

Salim had no idea what a strix was. "Perhaps later."

"I hope so. The library can be a dangerous place for mortals, and the Vault..." With a sigh, Baya floated to one side, and the curtain directly behind the desk followed her, drawn back by invisible hands.

"Knowledge is always dangerous," Salim said. "We'll be careful." He looked to Nemeniah and Malchion. "After you."

The party moved through the curtain, Nemeniah leading and Malchion following. The room beyond was filled with row upon row of desks like Baya's. At each sat a single figure—some classic angels or archons similar to Nemeniah and Malchion, others with stranger forms. Of the latter, the most common were shaped like beautiful winged women from the waist up and giant snakes below, their serpentine tails coiled beneath the wooden desks. Every surface was piled high with scrolls, folios, and stacks of loose paper, the room's occupants intently reading or copying their contents. A few glanced up at the new arrivals, but most ignored them.

"Archiving the knowledge of Heaven is no small task," Nemeniah said as they passed through the ranks. Though the room's far wall was only thirty or so desks away from where they had entered, to left and right the rows stretched on into seeming eternity, the tiny seated figures dwindling out of sight. Magic? Or simply another instance of Heaven's malleable distance?

They passed gratefully through another arch and into a chamber that, while huge, was at least finite in its dimensions. This one was long and tall—the nave of a vast cathedral, with high stained-glass windows spilling tinted light across the empty space where pews would normally stand. Unlike a standard cathedral, however, this one didn't have a single pulpit or altar, but rather dozens spaced equidistantly around the great room. On each, someone was singing—sometimes a single angel, sometimes an entire choir of them, attended by audiences of appreciative angels and mortal souls.

The result should have been a cacophony, yet from where Salim walked down the middle of the cathedral—a path clearly delineated by a deep purple runner—the voices were no more than a faint buzz.

Experimentally, he stepped sideways off the rug. Immediately, the medley of voices quieted, replaced by that of the nearest performer. He was a thin man—a mortal soul, glowing and transparent—with a bald head and long beard. The song he sang was in a language Salim didn't recognize, filled with strange resonances and ululations, yet his deep bass was so smooth and euphoric that Salim felt his spirits lift in spite of himself.

A hand touched his shoulder—Nemeniah. Salim realized that he'd stopped, and that the rest of the group was looking at him.

"The Song Halls are a glory unto the highest," she said. "A favorite of mine as well. Yet where we're going, it's vital that you stay on the paths. Not everywhere within the Library is this pleasant."

"Right. Sorry." Salim moved back onto the carpet, the man's song fading behind him.

Near the middle of the cathedral, they hit a junction and turned, passing through several small square chambers, each blank stone with archways in all four walls. Salim counted their turns—right, then right, then right again—yet while his mental map said they should be emerging into the Song Halls once more, he found himself in a new chamber.

Instead of a church, this seemed to be a palace ballroom. While a few angels sat in chairs along the walls, addressing small audiences, the vast majority of the creatures simply mingled and chatted, small groups knotting and then disbanding.

"A party?" Roshad asked.

"Almost," Nemeniah said. "Oral traditions are just as important as books and scrolls, and the Library keeps them in the form they were intended."

Then they were through the crowd and into a chamber with yet more rows of desks. Beneath their feet, the floor was covered in a carpet of deep green moss. The air hung thick with incense, and each desk bore its own burner and a pile of sticks. Rather than reading, the angels at each table were bent low over their open documents, eyes closed and hands clasped in an attitude of prayer, filling the air with muttered chants.

"Blessing new additions to the collection?" Salim ventured.

"Verifying," Nemeniah said. "Most of the books the collections take in start out suspect, the work of mortals or other unreliable sources. The Veracity Choir uses magic to determine the truth of questionable passages. If their own abilities fall short, they consult the deities directly."

"They ask the gods?" Even given Salim's refusal to place any deity on a pedestal, the idea of petitioning such a powerful being over a book was ridiculous. "And the gods answer?"

"Of course." Nemeniah looked surprised. "Why wouldn't they? We're doing their work."

Salim's stomach clenched with the old familiar anger. He wanted to explain to the angel that most people who tried to talk to the gods never got a response—that, in fact, children starved and believers died on the rack without ever hearing a word from their supposed saviors. The idea of a god settling quibbles between scholars while his mortal worshipers lived in squalor or disemboweled each other over splits in doctrine made him physically ill. Yet all he said was, "Your library is significantly different from those I'm used to."

Nemeniah stopped before a door—one of the first they'd seen inside the building, made of dark metal etched to resemble wood. She smiled. "Oh, we're only beginning."

Then she opened the door.

They stood on a narrow balcony. Salim immediately registered the waist-high railing around the edge as the type that wasn't high enough to actually save you if you tripped, only ensure that you tumbled ass-over-teakettle as you fell.

Beyond that railing lay a chamber so vast that the only visible wall was the one they'd just emerged from. Behind them, that flat plane of gray stone stretched out in every direction, disappearing into darkness save for those scattered points where identical balconies thrust forth, illuminated by faint, sourceless glows. Ahead was only a vast black nothing, with no way to tell how far it extended out, or up or down. And in that space...

Bookshelves. Thousands upon thousands of bookshelves, of every size and shape. They floated unsupported in the air, each disconnected from the others and seeming to bob slightly in an unseen current. Most were wooden, though Salim saw a few more impressive ones carved from stone. Each was lit with a small, glowing lantern that hung out over its face like the deep-sea fish that Aziri sailors sometimes pulled up in their nets. Farther out, the darkness swallowed the cases, leaving only the lanterns to indicate their presence.

A dark sea studded with stars, ready to pull Salim down into its embrace.

"Welcome to the Stacks," Nemeniah said.

As they watched, lights moved out in the night—angels bearing lanterns or glowing with their own inner radiance, swooping and diving between the various shelves.

"It's beautiful," Salim said honestly.

"It's absurd."

The group turned to stare at Roshad. The little man crossed his arms. "So it floats—big deal. That doesn't make it useful. How are you supposed to find anything out there?"

Nemeniah's chuckle sounded forced. "A fair point. And this is just one of the collections—the Great Library's holdings are uncountable, and growing every day. Yet there is still a system: subjects grouped together, vast catalogs and magical research assistants. There are angels who spend eternity among the shelves, learning their webs of information and guiding others to what they need." She shot Salim a smug look. "But the best way to find what you need is through faith."

Roshad scoffed, but Salim understood. "She means literally, Roshad."

The angel nodded. "Just as the Verifiers use prayer to determine the truth of works, divine magic guides the Librarians and helps them locate the works they need."

For a moment, Salim wondered if she was baiting him, intentionally showing off how angels squandered the gods' attention while mortals went without. But no—as far as the angels were concerned, Salim was a priest of Pharasma, as pious in his own way as they were. It would never occur to them that someone might chafe under that yoke.

Besides, the angels didn't need to bait him. Heaven took care of that on its own.

"So the information we need is in here somewhere?" he asked.

"Not quite," Nemeniah said. She and Malchion held out their arms.

It took the Iridian Fold men a moment to get the point. Once they did, Roshad barked a laugh. The two men took long, pointed steps back toward the wall.

Salim knew how they felt, but he wasn't about to show weakness in front of the angels. "Come on," he said, and moved forward into Nemeniah's embrace.

It was strange being close to a female body so much larger than his own. She had none of the smells of a human woman—no sweat or cloth or old food, nor even perfume. She turned him out so that they were looking the same direction, his back pressed to her stomach, and wrapped him firmly around the chest with arms as tight and secure as leather straps.

Next to them, Malchion took Bors and Roshad under one arm each, letting their chain run around his back beneath his wings and hoisting the two men like piglets brought to market. Roshad muttered as much, but Bors seemed amused.

Then Nemeniah stepped forward over the railing, and they were falling.

Not flying—falling. Neither of the angels bothered to open their wings. Instead, they fell headfirst down the shaft of the great well, bookcases streaking past them, with only the smallest twists of the angels' limbs keeping them from slamming into one of the floating stacks. The wind of their passage tugged tears from Salim's eyes, and he fought to keep them open, despite every instinct in his body crying out for him to close them so he wouldn't have to see the ground in the seconds before they hit.

With simultaneous cracks like sailcloth catching wind, the angels' wings opened. Salim's innards jerked downward again as their freefall dive became a swoop, their descent shallowing out. As the animal terror of weightlessness subsided, Salim realized that Nemeniah and Malchion were singing, their voices chasing each other over and under the melody in a game of musical cat-and-mouse.

Angels. Salim shook his head and concentrated on not vomiting.

Time seemed to stretch in that dark field, yet soon enough the void beneath them began to move, seeming to ripple in a flat plane.

Water. They skimmed low over the lake, and Salim realized that the seeming eternity of lights was in fact an illusion, the still waters reflecting the artificial stars above. As they flew, the water began to lighten, its depths glowing with points of blue-green radiance.

There were bookshelves here, too, floating on the surface on narrow pontoons, bobbing slightly in the wake of the party's passage.

"Isn't that dangerous?" Salim asked. "Keeping the books so near the water?"

Nemeniah laughed. "Just wait."

Ahead, a structure resolved—a floating platform made of wood. Here the angels alighted, setting the three mortals back on their feet. Salim forced himself to stand up straight, not moving while he regained his bearings. Roshad staggered about, still muttering curses and imprecation against "winged terrors." Bors put a hand on his shoulder.

"This way." Nemeniah gestured to a row of gondolas tied up along the dock's edge. The boats were long and narrow, with curved prows at the bow and stern for hanging lanterns. One had its lanterns already lit.

"They look like they belong on the River Styx," Salim noted.

Nemeniah's brow furrowed. "Evil forever mocks the form of righteousness."

And vice versa, Salim thought. He followed her onto the boat, its narrow hull rocking alarmingly.

"First wings, now boats," Roshad groused. He placed one foot tentatively over the gunwale, only to have Bors pick him up and carry him the rest of the way, earning a squawk of reproach.

When everyone was aboard—the mortals seated, Malchion standing at the bow and Nemeniah at the stern—the boat began to move away from the dock, cutting smoothly across the rippled surface.

Roshad leaned over the side, his initial hesitation forgotten as he peered backward at the wake left by their silent passage. "Everything here is enchanted."

"Angels aren't above creature comforts," Salim said. "Deprivation is reserved for those who haven't proved themselves yet—isn't that right, Nemeniah?"

The angel flashed a radiant but not altogether pleasant smile. "Breathe deep."

"What—" Roshad began.

Water crashed over the bow, rushing backward in a wall as the gondola tipped up at the stern and thrust its nose down into the pool's surface. Salim reflexively tried to leap sideways out of the sinking vessel, but found himself unable to rise from the gondola's bench, pinned there by some unknown force. There was only the briefest moment to remember Nemeniah's warning and suck in as much air as he could. Then the water was over him, surrounding him, flooding his nostrils and stinging his eyes.

The boat dove. Above, the surface glimmered with refracted light, a ceiling of sapphires. Still glued to the bench, Salim thrashed, feeling the breath already clawing at his throat. Behind him, Bors and Roshad displayed the same wide-eyed panic, cheeks bulging. Desperate to escape, Roshad pointed at the deck between him and Salim and shouted something, expending his precious air. A blast of flame leapt from his fingertips and crashed against the wood—and just as swiftly was extinguished, swallowed up in a blinding cloud of bubbles and a wave of heated water. When the bubbles cleared, Salim saw Bors with Roshad's face in his hands, the veil torn aside. Ignoring the smaller man's flailing blows, Bors pressed their lips together, breathing out, forcing Roshad to accept the bubbling gift of the warrior's last breath.

Over the top of this scene, Salim caught sight of Nemeniah's face. Unconcerned with their submersion, the angel watched this final, selfless display of love with a little half-smile.

Of course. Angels didn't need to breathe—they were creatures of pure spirit. Yet they had to know that the mortals would die without air. Had this all been some elaborate setup? But if the angels had wanted to kill them, they could have done so at any point. Why lead them down into the depths of the Great Library just to...

Oh.

Faith.

Closing his eyes, Salim breathed out.

Water surged in to replace the lost air, snaking down his throat like a spear of ice, settling in his lungs. His body gave a single convulsive cough as his lungs accepted the weight of their new occupant—and then it was as if things had never been any other way. His chest moved in and out as easily as before, only now there were no bubbles.

He opened his eyes. Both Bors and Roshad were making gasping motions, every reflex screaming that they needed to replace that water with air immediately. Yet both were still alive.

"It's okay." Salim's words were muted, the sound strangely rounded by the water. "It's more magic."

"You bastards!" Roshad stood and spun to face Nemeniah, the magic of the boat now allowing him to rise from his seat, but still keeping him from floating free. "You think this is funny?"

"Not at all," Nemeniah said. "I think it's beautiful. A baptism is an important occasion, and you acquitted yourselves well."

"Baptism?" The sorcerer's eyes bulged. He realized that his veil was hanging askew and yanked it back into place. "We didn't ask to join your godsdamned religion."

Nemeniah smiled. "I assure you, our faith is anything but. But that's not what this was about. No one gets into the Vault of Correction without passing through the Font."

"So this is some sort of security measure," Salim said.

Nemeniah inclined her head. "More of a test of character. The enchantments on the gondola which allow you to breathe wouldn't function for someone with evil in their heart, and the water itself has been blessed—a fundamentally evil being like a demon or devil would be instantly consumed, as would anything undead."

Salim had seen what a single flask of holy water could do to a ghoul or demon, burning it like acid. A whole lake of it... "That's quite a moat."

"You ask to see things kept locked away from even most angels," Nemeniah said. "This is a mere formality compared to the Vault's more powerful guardians."

Roshad was still standing, fists balled at his side. "And if your boat had judged us unworthy," he said slowly, "you would have stood there and watched us drown."

"Of course not." Nemeniah touched the shining warhammer strapped across her back. "If the gondola had found you evil, I would have slain you myself. And then I would have reported myself and Malchion to Commander Faralan for failing to identify the threat sooner."

Roshad raised a fist, one finger extended, but Salim stopped him with a touch. "They're only doing their job, Roshad."

For a second, Roshad didn't move. Then, with deliberate care, he turned his back on the angel and sat once more, taking Bors's hand.

The boat continued downward at a steep angle, the water coursing past them. Now that he wasn't distracted by drowning, Salim was surprised to discover that the library stacks continued beneath the surface as well. The shelves here weren't made of wood or stone, but rather grown from great pieces of coral, or the shells of unlikely mollusks. They floated with neutral buoyancy in the water, lit by schools of tiny fish that darted around them in flickering dances. Larger creatures moved among them as well—enormous fish and eels, one of whom seemed to have a pair of spectacles perched on its nose. Humanoid figures kicked and dove in the aquamarine stretches between the shelves, and something with tentacles retreated behind a shelf as their gondola cruised past.

"Doesn't the water ruin the books?" Salim asked.

"Only books crafted on land," Nemeniah replied. "There are as many aquatic cultures as terrestrial ones, and we store their knowledge as well, be it on whaleskin scrolls or in shells that whisper their secrets."

Salim hadn't really considered that angle, and now felt foolish for not having done so sooner. He was promptly distracted, however, by a huge shape that slid out from between two shelves, directly into the gondola's path.

The woman seemed drawn in black and white, the pigmentation swirling across her body in liquid shapes, leaving most of her front white and her back black. Even her flowing hair was two-tone, yet this was the least of her distinguishing characteristics, for from the waist down she elongated and stretched into a flat, whalelike tail. She kicked once, and the powerful flukes sent her corkscrewing up and around the boat, giving her a look at the newcomers from all sides. As she swept past, her eyes met Salim's, and he was struck by the incredible weight and wisdom there, a sense of presence that dwarfed even her massive body. Then she kicked once more and was gone.

"Fire and dust," Roshad swore. "What was that?"

"A cetaceal agathion," Nemeniah said mildly. "One of the guardians of the celestial seas."

"That's an angel?" Roshad shook himself. "When she looked at me, I felt like she could have read my mind and snapped it with a thought."

"As well she could have," Malchion said sternly. "As Nemeniah said, you have yet to see the least of Heaven's defenses."

"He makes a good point, though," Salim noted. "Agathions aren't angels, or even native to Heaven—they're the guardians of Nirvana and the philosopher spirits. So what's one doing here?"

Malchion turned an irritated look on Salim. "The power of knowledge is universal. The agathions may not recognize Heaven's dominion, but their hearts are still pure, and they have much to offer as scholars. Despite what you may think about us, we're not above sharing and working together." His frown deepened. "With those worthy of it."

"How positively heartwarming," Salim said.

Roshad's finger shot out, pointing past the bow of the boat. "What's that?"

Ahead, an upright ring of gray stone hung perfectly still in the water. Inside it, the calm water disappeared, replaced by an ominous red glow that roiled in a vertical sheet. A swarm of tiny jellyfish, their translucent bodies catching the light and turning blood red against the prevailing turquoise of their surroundings, pulsed away from it as the boat approached.

"The entrance to the Vault of Correction," Nemeniah said. "One of the secret hearts of the library."

"It looks more like a doorway to Hell," Roshad observed.

"A reminder that knowledge can corrupt as easily as it can elevate."

Salim turned to Malchion. "So this is where they keep the dangerous bits. The sort of information your superiors don't even trust most angels with." Before them, the ring began to expand outward, its ember-red maw reaching for the boat. "What does that lack of faith say about them?"

Malchion only smiled. "Perhaps someday you'll understand. Welcome to the Burn Room."

Then the light swept out and gathered them in.

paizo.com #3236236, Corry Douglas <corrydouglas@gmail.com>, Aug 10, 2014

Chapter Twenty

Cinders and Censors

Flames painted the cavern in flickering shades of red and gold. High above, the stalactites were carved in the forms of battle-ready archons, their trumpets raised to sound the charge. Beneath their stony gazes, the smooth floor was a maze of tall stone bookshelves, every inch crammed tight with tomes and scrolls and pamphlets, clay tablets and shimmering cubes embossed with glowing runes. The collection stretched off into the distance and through tall archways in the cavern walls.

Between the shelves and along the walls stood dozens of furnaces—huge, open-mouthed things, the heat of their flames radiating outward in a searing wave. Each kiln's stone mouth was as wide as a horse trough, its body a twenty-foot-tall potbellied thing that tapered toward the top, yet bore neither chimney nor—apparently—smoke. To either side of a stove's opening, the stone bulged outward into the figures of two massive angels, their arms outstretched toward each other, hands clasped as if begging for forgiveness. Tears of liquid fire ran from their eyes in rivulets, dripping into the conflagration within.

"The Heresy Ovens," Malchion intoned. "Where impure ideas are put to rest at last."

Salim stepped dripping from the boat, which now sat neatly arranged among others in dry trenches in the stone floor, with no sign of the underwater gate they'd passed through. The rest of the group followed, their clothes already steaming dry in the heat.

Salim found himself nodding. As a young man, he'd been trained at Shepherd's Rock, the mountain stronghold of Rahadoum's Pure Legion, charged with keeping the nation free of religion and its adherents. As part of his training as a priest-hunter, he'd been taken below the fortress to the secret vault where confiscated religious texts were carefully studied, the better to track down their adherents. This chamber had the same feeling.

There were creatures here as well: angels in black robes and mourning veils that made them seem like shadows in the firelight, their wings draped in long streamers of black fabric. They worked in silent pairs, arranging texts on shelves or positioning them in neat stacks in the cleared spaces around the furnaces. Many held books and pens, taking notes. As Salim watched, the angels at the nearest oven used a long golden paddle to slowly feed a book into the flames, their movements as solemn and reverent as if performing a king's cremation.

To the side and above them, a huge shape flashed into existence. Salim startled, hand going to his sword, but Nemeniah stopped him with a gesture.

It was an angel, but like none Salim had ever seen. Twenty feet tall, its skin a pure charcoal black, it wore a white toga that hung from one shoulder and spread out around it in a mountainous cone, its folds alive with runes of golden light. Behind it rose great wings of flickering flame. Yet the most unsettling thing was its face: beneath eyes that glowed pupilless red, there was only the suggestion of a nose, followed by a flat, unbroken expanse of dark flesh where the mouth should have been.

The huge celestial swept past them without looking, its brilliant robes swirling weightless as mist, curling to keep from touching the newcomers. It didn't seem to walk so much as glide across the floor, its feet lost beneath the cloth. At the closest oven, it stopped, and angels in dark robes scurried to meet it. Next to the giant, they looked like children vying for a parent's attention.

The newcomer made no move to acknowledge them. Instead, it held out a book, scaled for humans and looking like a toy in the giant's immense palm. It passed the tome down to the attendants, then straightened, wrapped its blazing pinions around itself like a bat, and vanished in another flash of light.

"Sarenrae's burning bush," Roshad breathed. "What was that?"

"An Exscinder." Nemeniah shot Roshad a disapproving glance. "One of the holiest callings. All celestials strive to foster right thinking, but the Cinders are truth's burning sword. They track down heretical texts and bring them back here to be purified or destroyed."

"Why don't they have any mouths?" Bors asked.

"I suspect so that they can't speak of what they've read or heard," Salim said. He remembered Xulaine the Sweettalker and her stitched lips.

Nemeniah dipped her head in acknowledgment. "The gods give us forms suited to our duties. The Cinders are free of the burden of speech."

"I'm sure they see it the same way," Salim said.

Lights flashed farther down the huge hall as more of the angelic hunters burst into existence. In each instance, they stayed only long enough to deposit whatever forsaken text they'd tracked down, then vanished once more. One of the nearer ones appeared slick and wet, its white robes stained dark with fresh blood, but was gone before Salim could study it further.

Three smaller angels in a spearhead formation moved toward the humans. The two on the flanks had their faces covered with dark veils, but the one in the lead wore none, his face gleaming green beneath the cowl of his robe. He was not smiling.

"Here comes the welcome wagon," Salim murmured to Roshad and Bors. "Say nothing."

"What is the meaning of this?"

The lead angel halted a few feet from Salim. Up close, he was larger than Salim had initially estimated, standing a head taller than either of his escorting angels and half again as tall as Salim himself. His skin was bright emerald, his eyes a flat, milky white. The face and scalp beneath the hood were completely hairless, and the shrouded wings that rose up behind him were not one set but two, arranged in an X like a dragonfly's. He ignored the humans, focusing his glower on Nemeniah and Malchion.

"Emissaries from Pharasma's Court," Nemeniah said smoothly. "The death goddess seeks your assistance, Head Censor."

"Oh?" The angel's frown didn't change. He turned to Salim, one hairless eyebrow raised.

"My name is Salim. I'm investigating the disappearance of a number of souls, and believe your office may be of help."

"I see." The Head Censor turned back to Nemeniah and Malchion. "And who authorized you to bring them to the Vault of Correction?"

"Commander Faralan, Your Grace."

"Faralan." The head angel snorted. "The hound places too much faith in steel, and not enough in letters. Otherwise he would understand how dangerous it is to allow mortals into the Vault. But..." He sighed and turned his attention to Salim, replacing the frown with a slightly more neutral expression—Salim presumed it was meant to be a smile. "Welcome to the Vault, Salim. My name is Garinas—I hold the honor of Head Censor for the current shift. I will of course be happy to assist you as much as I'm able." He placed particular emphasis on the last clause. "The nature of our work here is extremely sensitive."

"Of course," Salim said. "Tell me, Garinas—where do the texts here come from?"

"Everywhere." The Head Censor spread his hands. "Anywhere creatures are intelligent enough to record their ideas, those ideas will bear shades of good or evil. Most are harmless enough, but those that represent serious threats are monitored. Some are brought in by the Exscinders," he waved toward one of the burning angels, "others by celestials of other orders, or occasionally by right-minded mortals who seek to cleanse their worlds of their own initiative."

"I see," Salim said. "And you destroy these items?"

"Sometimes. Some texts are too dangerous to exist. Those are burned in the Heresy Ovens, whose holy flames can destroy even the most sinister magic. Others contain only dangerous passages, or subversive hints that might steer the unwary toward evil. If a given tome might otherwise have merit, then the dangerous portions are carefully redacted, leaving no trace of their existence, and the purified texts then returned to their original societies."

"And who makes those decisions?"

The angel's eyes narrowed. "We do. The Censors are chosen from among Heaven's most accomplished angelic scholars, with a mandate to keep the power of the written word safe for mortal use." He smiled thinly. "You're welcome, by the way."

"So these texts you gather—they're too dangerous for mortals to read. Our puny minds would break under the weight of their heresy."

Garinas angled his cowled head, as if to say your words, not mine.

"And what about when reading all these heretical texts corrupts one of your Censors?"

Garinas's sickly smile vanished. "Impossible."

Salim affected a look of shock. "So you have no safeguards in place?"

"Of course we do!"

"Then it's not impossible."

The Head Censor's smile returned, but this time it could have cut glass. "You're of course correct, Master Emissary. What I meant is that our safety measures are so secure as to make the risk of corruption exceedingly low. Even if one of our Censors could be turned by a text—and I'll remind you that angels are by their very nature creatures of righteousness, infinitely more resilient than the unpurified mortal souls that spawn them—we would catch them. Our Censors always work in pairs, with only one member examining a given text, while the other logs the examination and watches for any sign of contamination. We also work in shifts, to limit overall exposure to the unclean works." He lifted his chin toward Nemeniah and Malchion. "These two, for instance, won't have their next shift for several days yet."

Salim turned to look at their angelic escort. "You work here?"

Nemeniah nodded. "Many angels aspire to. It's a great honor to be judged worthy."

"Indeed it is." Garinas's voice had lost any polite cushioning. "And as such, Master Emissary, the presence of mortals here is both disrespectful and inappropriate. Please state your business so that we may return to ours."

"I thought you'd never ask," Salim said. "A mysterious text has surfaced on the Material Plane. It concerns the construction of a magical machine with which souls can be stripped from a body and prevented from reaching Pharasma's judgment, instead flowing directly to a target plane, to be incarnated as one of that plane's inhabitants."

Garinas nodded grimly. "A grave crime indeed. I see your mistress's concern. Well, as I said, many texts pass through us on their way to the ovens—perhaps we have information that can assist you. Do you know which fiends are responsible? Demons? Daemons?"

Salim forced himself to keep his face blank. "Actually, we have reason to believe the culprit may be an angel."

Garinas's reaction was everything Salim could have hoped for. The officious angel jerked backward as if slapped, eyes bugging out slightly in his green-skinned face. His wings snapped up behind him with an audible rush of air.

"Impossible!" he said again—then clenched his jaw as he saw Salim's hint of a smile. "I'll remind you, all angels are judged fit by your goddess, long before they pass through Heaven's gates. From there, their purity only increases. And even if one fell from grace, access to the Vault of Correction is highly restricted, with the strict protocols I outlined, and—"

Salim raised a hand. "It's only a theory, Garinas. But we need to know whether your operation was involved. Do you catalog everything that passes through here?"

"Of course we—yes, I see." A sizable crowd of angels had managed to drift closer to the conversation, and now Garinas rounded on them, singling out one figure at random. "You! Bring forth the Book of Lies."

The chosen angel bobbed its head and scurried off, the rest of the listeners also breaking away in embarrassment as they realized their eavesdropping had been noticed. When Garinas turned back, his face was serene once more.

"I apologize for my reaction, Master Emissary. As you can see, we take the disposal of heresy very seriously. Even such an unlikely possibility as a corrupted angel must of course be investigated."

"No offense taken." Salim had to hand it to Garinas—angels might be righteous bastards, but they were also disturbingly good at turning over a new leaf when they found themselves on the wrong side of their own ethics or customs. Penance and forgiveness came easily to their kind.

"Ah, here we are," Garinas said.

From a passage between stacks, a podium floated into view, held aloft by four of the glowing ball archons. The podium was a thin column of fluted stone, wide at the top and narrowing toward the middle before flaring out again into a conical base.

Atop it sat the largest book Salim had ever seen. As wide as an artist's canvas, it was also thick—Salim could have set his elbow on the podium next to it and his fingers would still only barely have brushed the top of the spine. The whole thing was bound in gleaming silver, its cover embossed in the shape of a feathered wing.

"Thank you," Garinas said. The archons set it down and retreated. The Head Censor took hold of the massive cover and swung the book open, then looked up at Salim.

"Your text," he said. "Tell me everything you know about it."

Salim felt a flush of embarrassment. "I'm afraid I've told you everything we know. I didn't get much of a description, but she described it as a collection of loose pages—blueprints and notes."

Garinas frowned. "Language?"

"Unknown—she said the letters shifted when she saw them, becoming readable."

"Ah." Garinas placed his hand flat in the air above the book, palm down. "Unbound monograph: schematics and diagrams. Glyphs malleable, perhaps universal. Arcane or profane functionality. Subject: bypassing the River of Souls, transmutation of soul energy into new entities without Pharasma's judgment. End query."

With a whirring like the wings of startled birds, the pages of the book began to flip rapidly, edges flickering past beneath Garinas's palm. After a second, they came to rest, lying open somewhere near the book's middle. One perfect emerald finger as long as Salim's whole hand came down on the page, and Garinas peered at the lines written there.

"A match," he said, sounding slightly surprised. "It appears such a text did come through, several of your years ago. Origin unknown. Discovered bricked up in the wall of a ruined monastery of Irori, presumably to keep it out of less judicious hands." He sighed. "Amateurs."

Salim's pulse quickened. "What happened to it?"

"Incinerated." Garinas's tone held a touch of pride. "Evaluated and found to be without significant merit. It was fed to the ovens after only a few hours of evaluation." He looked up. "I'm sorry, Salim. But I'm afraid that wherever your angelic impersonator got the document, it wasn't from our holdings."

Salim's heart sank. Without a lead on the text, the cold trail was that much colder.

Unless... "What about the angels who put it to the torch? Who were they?"

Garinas's expression hardened again. "I've told you, our Censors—"

"—are just as corruptible as any other angel," Salim snapped. "Don't act like angels never fall, Garinas. I've met them. Besides, maybe it wasn't of their own volition—if someone here has been compromised, it could have been magic within the book itself that was responsible. Or maybe they were controlled by an outside force, dominated magically and sent in to steal it. Regardless, I need to interview whoever saw that book last."

Garinas's eyes flashed, but he nodded. "Fair points." He looked back down at the page. "It looks like the team was..." He turned the page, then flipped back. "Now that's odd."

"What?"

"It's not here."

This time Salim's pulse didn't just quicken—it pounded. "What's not there?"

"The log." Garinas's emerald brow furrowed. "Every team signs and countersigns its notes in the catalog. It's standard procedure. Yet this one is blank." He spun the stone podium around as easily as if it were a child's top. "Here. See for yourself."

The pages were a luxurious cream color, the ink a rich black that seemed to sparkle with the faintest of blue outlines. The script that crawled across the page was in several different hands, each beautiful in its own way, yet all crossed the unlined paper in horizontal rows as neat and perfect as a builder's drawings. Without magic, Salim had no idea what the intricate angelic glyphs meant, but he could tell a ledger when he saw one. Each entry ended in a box with precisely two glyphs, each in a different hand.

Except for the box beneath Garinas's pointing finger. That one was empty.

"Why would there be a description but no signature?" Salim asked.

"I have no idea." Garinas was clearly disturbed. "The description makes sense—all reports are created separately and then magically copied into the book. If a description hadn't been submitted, the oversight teams would have caught it immediately. But they should have caught the lack of a signature, too. And even if they didn't, the book should have noticed."

"The book should have?" Roshad asked. "It's alive?"

Salim shot him a look, but Garinas only nodded. "After a fashion. It does its own part to keep things secure. Everything here is interconnected." He frowned. "This should have been caught."

"Perhaps the signatures were erased after the fact," Salim suggested.

Garinas's frown deepened. "But then why leave the description?"

"Perhaps to keep there from being an obvious hole in the text that might be noticed by someone flipping past." Salim paused. "Or as a boast."

Garinas straightened, shaking his head. "You're right—something is wrong here. Something that may be beyond our power to decipher on our own." He smiled, this time with real satisfaction. "Fortunately, we aren't on our own."

"I don't follow you."

The Head Censor's smile widened. "We're angels, gentlemen. We're never alone." He stepped back. "Observe."

The angel raised his arms out to his sides and tilted his head back. Pupilless eyes closed in a face turned suddenly innocent and adoring.

"Holy Andoletta," the angel intoned. "Wise grandmother, keeper of knowledge for all your children, please bless us with an answer: Can you tell us which angels last examined the text we seek?"

Roshad sidled up to Salim. "Who's Andoletta?" he whispered.

Apparently keeping quiet was beyond the sorcerer's ability. "An Empyreal Lord," Salim whispered back. "A minor deity of the angels."

"No." The voice was an old woman's, thin and raspy, yet it carried the force and weight of a rockslide. It spoke out of the air directly in front of Garinas.

The angel frowned. "You can't?"

"No."

"But—was one of our own indeed corrupted by the text?"

"Unclear."

If anything, this answer seemed to disturb Garinas more than the denials or refusals. Less confident now, the angel asked, "But we should continue to seek out whoever it was?"

"Yes."

"I understand. Thank you, Grandmother."

The angel lowered his hands and looked at Salim, clearly shaken. "This is a larger issue than I thought, if Grandmother Crow herself cannot see the answer."

"Indeed," Salim said. Privately, it pleased him to see the cocky angel shut down so completely by one of his masters. Show him the sort of ambiguity the gods' mortal followers faced on a daily basis. "So do you believe now that one of your own was involved?"

Tiny lines wrinkled the perfect skin of the Censor's forehead. "Perhaps. Grandmother's answer was...unusual."

Salim nodded. "Some magic is powerful enough to hide itself from even the gods' sight. If that's the case, then it seems more likely than ever that one or more of your Censors was compromised, does it not?"

"You make good points," Garinas admitted, thoughtful. "And regardless, we must clearly devote ourselves to tracking down those responsible. Grandmother was clear on that much."

"Excellent." Salim had forced the angels to take him seriously—now it was time to extend the olive branch. "Between us, I'm confident we can get to the bottom of this in short order. We'll want to start by interviewing those angels who worked here at the time the text was last seen. I'll also need to see more of how your operation is conducted, to try and spot any weaknesses that might have been exploited."

"No."

Salim stopped short. "I beg your pardon?"

Garinas drew himself up straight and spread his wings. Salim was suddenly reminded just how large the Head Censor was.

"Heaven appreciates your efforts," Garinas said coolly, "but I cannot allow a mortal any deeper into the Vault of Correction. Now that we're aware of the problem, we will begin an internal investigation immediately."

"But Faralan—"

"Commander Faralan has no authority here," Garinas snapped. "The Censors are well outside of his purview, and his suggestions are heeded as a courtesy only." The angel's lips twisted in a tight moue of disapproval. "If the hound wants to let a mortal run wild in the Vault, he can run his request up the chain and back down again. Until then, the Great Library will continue to follow the strictures that have served it since before your ancestors mastered fire." Pinions flexed and stretched, throwing Salim and his companions into shadow. "Do I make myself clear?"

"Quite," Salim said. "Yet you're not the only one following orders here, Garinas. Do you want to be the one to tell the Lady of Graves that a document capable of circumventing her judgment is outside her jurisdiction?"

The angel looked slightly less confident as he considered the implications of that, yet he didn't move. "The Lady will of course be immediately informed of anything we uncover."

"And in the meantime, her chosen agent sits on his hands in some Heavenly waiting room." Salim shook his head. "Those responsible already outfoxed your security once, Garinas. What makes you think you'll do better this time?"

It was the wrong thing to say. Any uncertainty that had crept into the angel's face instantly gave way to disgust. "You know nothing of Heaven's workings, mortal. Your kind doesn't live long enough to even begin to understand. You are children, Salim."

"You might be surprised. At least children are capable of appreciating new ideas, rather than being hamstrung by routine." Salim stopped himself and took a deep breath. Now wasn't the time. "Listen to me, Garinas. You know I can't continue my investigation without access to the Vault. Even if the culprit is long gone, what about the text itself? Can you be sure there isn't another copy somewhere in your collection?"

"There isn't," Garinas said.

That was one nice thing about angels: they might be arrogant, but they were still inherently righteous creatures, formed out of pure-hearted souls and infused with Heaven's divine values. Honesty was built into their very bones.

Which made them terrible liars. Salim doubted Garinas would lie to him outright, yet even the greenest inquisitor could have told that the Head Censor was hiding something from the way his gaze flicked away as he spoke, his body language closing up defensively.

Salim wished he'd thought to call upon the goddess's mind-reading spell before he'd started this conversation, but it hadn't seemed necessary, and casting it now would undoubtedly draw attention. Besides, Garinas was a prick, but he clearly wasn't corrupt himself—if he could lie that well, he wouldn't be so awkward and obvious now. But he was unsure about something, and didn't want to show it to Salim.

It was time to change strategies.

"Very well." Salim stepped back and bowed. "I understand your decision. I'll check in with Faralan periodically for the results of your investigation, and in the meantime will return to interviewing the mortals involved, to see if I can gain anything more. Please let me know as soon as you find anything."

Garinas's white eyes widened slightly, then his wings folded again and he resumed his stately, officious posture, arms folded into his robes. "We will. And please let your mistress know that Heaven has every intention of cooperating fully."

That was the other nice thing about angels. They were so obedient themselves that they automatically expected and accepted it from others.

"I will." Salim turned around. "Come on, we'll return to the more conventional portions of the Great Library. Perhaps the Librarians can help us research other aspects of this case."

Nemeniah and Malchion turned as well, but Roshad and Bors were both staring at Salim in surprise. As he moved toward them, he reached up to adjust his robes, crooking his hand into two quick gestures—signs common enough among street thieves around the Inner Sea. Distraction. Big. Both men were foreign, but perhaps...

Roshad's wide eyes crinkled into a veiled grin, and he turned to the Head Censor. "Excuse me, Master Garinas," he asked, "but without intending any disrespect, I think you could run this place a lot more efficiently."

"Oh?" The Head Censor closed up the Book of Lies, his tone one of strained patience.

"Yeah," Roshad said. "Why bother with those ovens, when you could just do this?"

Roshad reached out a hand, and a blast of flame shot forth to engulf a stack of manuscripts.

paizo.com #3236236, Corry Douglas <corrydouglas@gmail.com>, Aug 10, 2014

Chapter Twenty-One

The Lower Collection

The Vault exploded into chaos. Garinas screamed and leapt for the burning books even as Nemeniah and Malchion grabbed Roshad by the arms, shouting. Bors shoved himself into the scrum, while other veiled figures came sprinting from the stacks.

All of which left Salim alone for one crucial moment. Moving quickly, he slipped between the nearest shelves, pulling his own dark cowl up over his head. He was far from a ten-foot-tall angel, but perhaps there were other types of creatures working among them. Either way, he didn't plan to be seen. Leaving the rising commotion behind him, he followed the narrow aisle away from the heat and glow of the ovens, ducking from one set of bookcases to another, moving through one of the giant arches in the cavern walls and deeper into the collection.

After the first few turns, when he could no longer see the Vault's entrance, he straightened and slowed, snatching up a book at random and carrying it flat against his chest. Confidence and a sense of purpose were always the best disguise. That should hold especially true in the trusting, authoritarian environment of Heaven, where subterfuge was seen as a problem for lesser races.

Salim considered his options. Unfortunately, it didn't take long. After all that had happened, what did he really know? That the entity he was looking for—angel or otherwise—had appeared to Caramine in the guise of Arathuziel or a similar "probationary" angel. That it had shown her a forbidden text from the Vault of Correction, and that someone had tampered with the library's records, which seemed to indicate an inside job. Garinas clearly didn't know who was responsible—but he was covering up something regarding the book.

That was good enough for Salim. He had no illusions regarding his progress on this job—this was about as careful an investigation as a dog chasing a flock of chickens. But anything the Head Censor didn't want him to know was worth following up on.

How long would Bors and Roshad keep the angels occupied? Three minutes? Five? He doubted it would be even that long. And as soon as someone realized that Salim had slipped away, the chase would begin. He needed answers now.

Which meant that he couldn't afford to take chances. A confident step was one thing, but...

Taking a deep breath, Salim closed his eyes and unbarred the gates inside his soul, letting the pale worms of the Lady of Graves wriggle inside. At his direction, they split open, liquefying into a thin film that spread out and over his skin and clothes.

There was a soft pop, like a bottle being opened, and then he could see once more, staring out through eyelids made suddenly transparent. A wave of disorientation rolled over him, but he breathed slowly and opened his eyes—a motion now accomplished solely via muscle memory. He waved a hand in front of his face and felt the wind, yet saw nothing. Concentrating, he stared hard at where instinct told him his hand must be. Slowly it faded back into view, albeit still wispy and transparent, as the spell and his mind learned to work together.

Good. Invisibility magic wasn't perfect—he suspected some of the more powerful angels would see right through his amateur efforts—but it would be better than nothing, especially if they also couldn't hear him coming. Drawing up more of the goddess's filth, he cast it around himself, visualizing it as a sort of mist. All sound abruptly ceased, muffled by an invisible, intangible cloud.

It would have to be enough. Now he just needed a target.

From all across the vault, concerned angels were moving quickly toward the commotion at the front. Salim found a spot where a main avenue met a smaller aisle that branched off into a mazelike tangle of shelves and alcoves. Thrusting out an arm, he silently swept a precarious pile of unbound pages off a shelf and onto a floor in the larger pathway, then hid around the corner.

Within moments, six veiled Censors—these wingless and even taller than Salim's guides, though not as tall as the Exscinders—came hurrying down the corridor. One of them spotted the fallen manuscripts and stopped to reshelve them, waving the others on.

Salim smiled. Librarians were the same everywhere.

As soon as the other angels were far enough ahead, Salim slipped out from his hiding place and drew his sword. He took several running steps, then launched himself onto the kneeling Censor's back, wrapping himself around the giant like a child riding piggyback.

The angel jerked in surprise, no doubt shouting an alarm, but the spell that silenced Salim muffled the angel as well. Allowing himself to become visible once more, Salim reached around and placed his blade against the angel's throat.

That got the Censor's attention. It froze, and Salim swung awkwardly down off its back, drawing its cowled head down with him. Unwilling to risk releasing the silencing spell, he settled for tugging on the angel's head, directing it to crawl after him into the narrower offshoot aisle. After several turns in the maze of shelves, he stopped in a dead-end aisle that seemed unlikely to see any traffic.

Salim signaled for the Censor to lie on its back on the floor, then crouched beside it and pulled back its hood and veil, revealing a long-faced man with deep bronze skin.

Or was it a man? Salim blinked, and this time the set of the cheekbones and softness of the jaw suggested a woman.

Whatever. Angelic androgyny was none of his business. The important part was that it had a mouth, which meant it could speak.

Salim let the aura of silence drop, but as he did so he visualized scooping up a handful of the goddess's magic and plastering it over the angel's mouth. The Censor's eyes went wide as sound rushed back into its ears. It opened its mouth to shout, but only a whisper emerged.

"Nope." Salim pressed harder with his sword, heading off any further protests. "No loud noises. I'm going to ask you some questions, and you're going to answer. You make any other move, speak any word that sounds like a spell, and I'll end your scholarship right now. If you understand, say ‘yes.'"

The Censor's muscles tensed, bunching admirably beneath the dark cloth, but all it said was, ‘Yes.'"

"Good." Salim didn't bother with the thought-reading spell—the time for subtlety was long past. Instead, he let more of Pharasma's magic scrabble like a roach up his throat and fill his mouth, then spoke with a voice that was both his own and something else. "Do you know anything about schematics for a machine that circumvents the River of Souls?"

During his life in the Pure Legion, Salim had led his share of interrogations. Most of the time, he could break a man without ever touching him. Humans, like any other pack animals, responded to dominance. All you needed was absolute control.

This was different. Backed by the goddess's magic, the question became a fist, smashing into the Censor's defenses. The angel flinched beneath the blow, then spat out a strangled, "No."

Well, that had been a long shot. Time for another. "Which Censors would you suspect of corruption?"

"None of them!" This time the whispered words came quickly, of their own volition. "They're Censors, fiend—you won't turn any of them, nor leave this place alive."

"I'm no devil," Salim said. "I'm actually on your side." But there wasn't time for explanations. Salim did what he could to widen the pipe inside him, letting the magic flow faster. "When I asked Garinas if there was a copy of the text I'm looking for in the library, he said no, but he was hiding something. What isn't he telling me?"

The Censor held out with the fortitude of a saint—which, come to think of it, maybe it was. It arched its back, neck tendons standing out as it fought the pressure of the spell, before finally gasping out, "The Lower Collection! We don't like to talk about it."

"So talk anyway."

The angel's mouth twisted in distaste. "We have an...arrangement with the Fallen Fastness in Hell. We don't raid their libraries, and they don't raid ours. Sometimes we confer with their scholars or exchange books. Inter-library loans."

"Loans?" This time the words carried none of the goddess's weight, only Salim's own surprise. "You share with Hell?"

"The devils are abominations, but they keep their bargains," the angel snapped. "Knowledge benefits us all. We purify those books we can, but we dare not risk sending the Exscinders into the Fastness and starting a war. Sometimes the best way to fight something is to understand it—even heresy. In the interest of continued cooperation, both Heaven and Hell sometimes make use of specific books held by the other. Garinas spoke the truth—we don't have a copy of the blasphemy you seek. But if anyone does, it will be the Lower Collection."

"Angels and devils working together," Salim muttered. "I'll be damned."

"You will," the Censor agreed.

Salim rose from his crouch, the point of his sword still at the angel's throat. "The Lady of Graves thanks you for your assistance."

Now to make his exit. Siphoning up the last of the quickly receding pool of darkness inside him, he threw it all into one final command. "Now don't move."

Salim withdrew his sword. When the angel made no motion to rise, he spun on his heel and sprinted back out of the alcove, taking several quick turns as soon as he was out of the frozen angel's sight, trying to angle toward the front of the vault again without retracing his steps. He knew from experience that this particular magic wouldn't last long—either because he was an imperfect vessel for Pharasma's will, or because the cranky old bitch liked to see him squirm. Probably both.

He came out in a larger aisle leading back toward the ovens. He slowed and brought up his hood, then grabbed another book, once more adopting the confident stride of someone with legitimate business.

Now to collect Bors and Roshad and get out of here. He wasn't sure what his bronze-skinned angel—or archon, or azata, or whatever it was—specialized in, but he was sure that it would be highly unpleasant to meet that particular celestial again. At least he now had something new to go on. The Lower Collection. It was a thin lead, but—

"You!"

Salim whirled left and found Garinas barreling down on him, followed by Nemeniah, Malchion, and a half-dozen Censors. Bors and Roshad moved between the twin angels, almost sprinting to keep up with the celestials' long legs. Salim stood still and let the angry mob surround him.

"How dare you?" Garinas's blank white eyes blazed with actual bursts of light as he circled predatorily around Salim. "You overreach, human. You may be your goddess's servant, but the Gray Lady has no direct authority here. We should kill you right now and send your spirit back to her, to explain what you've done."

Salim smiled. "I needed some information, Garinas. This is still a library, isn't it?"

The Head Censor growled and grabbed Salim with both hands, lifting him off his feet. For one horrible second, those huge hands squeezed his chest, and Salim was certain Garinas was going to take his own advice and simply rip Salim in half.

With a snarl, the Head Censor threw him back down, sending him sprawling into Roshad and Bors.

Perfect. Salim smiled again, wider this time, and looped his arms through the two men's, locking elbows. With his right hand, he dug inside his robes and grasped the spiral amulet.

"Thank you again, Garinas," he said. "You and your staff have been wonderfully helpful. I'm sure I'll have more questions for you once I return from the Lower Collection."

"The Lower Collection?" Garinas's jaw dropped. "But how—"

"Hold tight, boys." Salim focused on the spiral in the stone. "Things are about to get a whole lot hotter."

And then they were somewhere else entirely.

paizo.com #3236236, Corry Douglas <corrydouglas@gmail.com>, Aug 10, 2014

Chapter Twenty-Two

The Iron City

They landed in a heap, arms still tangled. Bors and Roshad scrambled to their feet, putting their backs together defensively. Salim lay where he'd fallen, ribs aching where the Head Censor had gripped him.

"Where are we?" Roshad's voice was tight, anxious.

Above, the sky was black. Not the black of night, star-studded or lantern-washed, but a pure, oppressive black that hung low like cloth. Despite the lack of a sun, the ground was still lit with an eerie, directionless light that cast no shadows. The hardpan beneath Salim was cracked and parched, the color and texture of an old scab. Wind tugged at his robes, carrying with it icy grit and the faint sounds of distant screams.

Salim reached up and tucked the amulet back into his robes. "Anyone ever tell you boys to go to hell?"

Roshad's eyes bulged. "We're in Hell?" Next to him, Bors calmly surveyed the sea of low hills and sickly scrub, all dark thorns and weeping sores.

"Part of it," Salim said. "Hell has nine layers, ruled by the nine archdevils. We should be on Dis right now, the domain of the First King."

"Not much of a kingdom," Roshad observed, attempting to regain his usual bluster. He almost succeeded.

"We're still in the Outlands," Salim said. "Even the devils don't have much use for this place, except to train their armies. Let's hope we don't meet any of those."

Slowly, feeling like an old man, Salim hauled himself to his feet and began walking. Bors and Roshad flanked him.

"How do you know where we're going?" Roshad looked around at the maze of broken hills. "There's nothing here but wind."

"We're heading toward the screams," Bors rumbled.

Salim nodded. "We're lucky. The Iron City is close."

"So we're just going to walk into a city of demons?" Roshad demanded. "And you call that lucky?"

"Devils," Salim corrected. "Walk into a city of demons, you're likely to be torn apart before you can get a word in edgewise. Devils are organized. They make laws and obey them. We'll be safe enough in Dis as long as we have legitimate business." They crested a ridge and he pointed. "Look."

Perhaps two miles ahead, the horizon made a right angle, rising up in a wall hundreds of feet high. It stretched away out of view to the left and right, the line of watch fires along its parapets shrinking to pinpricks before vanishing into the distance. Beneath the wall's spiked top, where tiny figures patrolled, the vertical face was a mixture of gray stone, glistening iron, and masses of what looked like brown and pink flesh. As they watched, a section of the wall's foot bulged outward, pulling the fortification with it like an advancing slug.

Behind the wall, an immense tower like a needle-thin cathedral climbed into the darkness, its metal thorns piercing the sky. The roar of a million voices followed it up and out, spilling over the ramparts and echoing across the wastes.

"Gods of light," Roshad breathed. "We're going there?"

"Eventually." Salim switched his attention from the wall to the scattered lights spreading out from it, a sprawling network of dirt-walled slums. He nodded toward the closest one, a single hovel positioned away from the others, near a copse at the bottom of the next hill. A sickly candle wavered in the hut's open window. "First, we rest. Let's see if anyone's home."

The other men followed him down the hill. Roshad's muttered grumbling cut off as they drew close and saw what the stand of stunted, leafless trees had concealed.

A woman hung from one of the trees. She was naked, of middle years, and so emaciated that bones seemed ready to burst through the pale parchment of her skin. Her dark hair hung in wild, dirty strands around her face.

She was also transparent, the rough bark of the tree visible through the misty wisps of her body. She hung face-out from several large thorns driven bloodlessly through her wrists and shoulders, her toes pointed and dangling several feet above the ground.

Between the trees and the hovel lay a long wooden banquet table. Arranged artfully along its blood-red runner were roast pheasants, bowls of steamed vegetables, fruit-studded confections, and more, permeating the air with incongruously delicious aromas. Salim's stomach rumbled.

The woman saw them. Her blank face twisted into a mask of rage, and she opened her mouth to reveal bloody, toothless gums.

"Mine!" she shrieked. "All mine! You can't have any!"

Salim ignored her and walked over to the table. He selected a drumstick and tore it off its chicken. It felt reassuringly solid in his hand. Behind him, the crucified woman screamed in rage.

"Should...should we get her down?" Despite the question, Roshad looked as if approaching the ghostly woman was the last thing he wanted to do.

Salim shook his head. "Don't bother. She'll either be caught and put back, or else appear there again as soon as we leave. And she'd likely attack us anyway. We're in the Ghetto of Outcasts—the punishment for those who were privileged in life, and used that power to take advantage of others. Now they get to steep in their envy for eternity, the things they desire held always out of reach. This table has probably been taunting her for a hundred years."

Roshad relaxed visibly. "So she deserved it."

"I didn't say that." Salim's voice came out sharp, and he softened it. "Who knows? Probably she does. But the gods are fickle, and their doctrines conflict. I trust my own judgment."

"And in your judgment," Bors asked, "it's safe to eat the food of Hell?" He nodded toward Salim's drumstick.

"It wouldn't be much of a taunt if the food were tainted." But the big man had a point. Drawing on the goddess's power once more—just a trickle, this time—Salim guided the energy into the food, then let it flow back into himself. In his mind's eye, a stream of dark water ran clear and cold.

"It's clean," he said. "Eat up."

The Iridian Fold men selected their own meals, though they picked at the fare more gingerly than Salim. Behind them, the covetous soul continued screaming.

When they were finished, Salim turned toward the hovel. In contrast to the fine banquet table, its mud walls enclosed nothing but a single dirt-floored room. The candle burning in the shutterless window did so without seeming to melt its sickly yellow tallow.

"We rest here," he said. "One of you should take the first watch."

"Here?" The trepidation had returned to Roshad's voice. "What if whatever lives here comes home?"

"Let's hope it doesn't."

Bors pulled gently on his end of the chain, drawing Roshad close against his side. "Roshad is right. Shouldn't we keep moving?"

Salim let out a long breath. "We're about to head into the greatest city in Hell, and I'm completely wrung-out. You may have magic in your blood, Roshad, but mine comes from Pharasma, and the crone takes her price. Would you rather sleep here, where it's reasonably remote, or somewhere closer in, where we can barter with a devil for lodging?"

Bors grunted. "I'll take first watch."

"Good man." Salim sat, putting his back to the hut's wall and wrapping his robes around himself. His last image was of Bors and Roshad standing in the open doorway, hand in hand, staring out over the broken landscape. Then his eyelids drooped, and he slept.

∗ ∗ ∗

When Salim woke, Bors was asleep against the opposite wall, Roshad crouched in the doorway facing outward. They'd switched their chain sometime in the night, likely to give themselves more room to stretch out, and it now hung between Bors's outflung left wrist and Roshad's right. The big warrior's eyes snapped open as Salim stirred, and he sat up without any apparent grogginess.

"Better?" he asked.

"Much." Salim stretched, feeling the tendons pop in his shoulders, chilled blood sluggishly making its rounds. His dreams had been less than pleasant—a common feature of Hell—but that was nothing new. "Lets get moving. Or are you hungry?"

Bors shook his head. "The table replenished itself maybe an hour after you fell asleep. One moment it was as we left it, the next it was as we first found it." He frowned. "I don't trust anything in this place."

"Wise." Salim stood, shifting his sword belt back from where it had twisted as he slept. "A devil can be trusted to match the letter of an agreement—but also to find some way to twist it against you. If you ever think you've won here, you're probably deeper in their nets than you realize." He stepped out the door, the Iridian Fold men following. Above, the sky had brightened to an ominous red, though there was still no visible source of light.

Two hills away, their path met a road, a perfectly manicured track of dirt leading arrow-straight toward the city. Figures moved back and forth along it, passing each other in orderly lines.

"They look like people," Roshad noted.

"They are people," said Salim. "Not everyone in Hell is a devil. At least, not right away."

"So what are they?" Bors asked.

"Petitioners, mostly—souls like that last one we saw, sent here after they died."

"They seem to be getting a better deal," Roshad said.

Salim shrugged. "Maybe they're closer to becoming devils themselves. Or maybe they come from cultures that find traveling like this demeaning." He lifted his chin toward a line of carts being drawn by tall, skeletally thin oxen. "Probably a few cultists and traders mixed in there as well."

Roshad laughed and shook his head. "Trading with Hell. I've met some merchants who would sell you their own legs if the margin was right, but this..."

"Some things are universal," Salim agreed. "Where there's a profit to be made, someone will make it."

They moved down the hill and onto the road, taking up a position well away from other knots of travelers in the winding line. The figures that passed them, wrapped in robes or rags or nothing at all, watched them with expressions ranging from hatred to hunger, yet none disturbed them. Overhead, dark shapes silhouetted against the sunless sky swooped up and down the road, patrolling.

The slums to either side of the track grew denser, fetid shacks leaning against one another for support even as their humanoid occupants—their skin dribbling pus or fused into terrible scales and spikes—eyed one another with suspicion. A few crept from their doorways toward the caravans and were driven back with stares or gestures toward the guardian devils above.

The city's wall was more than just visible now—it loomed over the road, huge and predatory. From its direction, a new sound rose. Part howl, part moan, it wormed its way into Salim's marrow and settled there, scratching dirty fingernails against the insides of his bones.

Roshad winced. "What is that?"

"The city's welcome," Salim said. "Look closer."

The road surmounted a final hill and ended at a gate. Nearly as tall as the wall itself, the iron doors could have let a dozen elephants walk through abreast without touching, yet at the moment they were only cracked open wide enough for a few carts. Bearded, red-skinned devils encased in black spiked armor stood to either side holding huge glaives, while above them fluttering imps clung to bladed protrusions in the gates' embossment.

"Gods," Roshad breathed. He wasn't looking at the gates or the devils, but at the walls themselves. Even from a distance, it had been clear that the walls were more than just stone and iron, yet this close, their organic nature was revealed in all its infernal glory.

Pressed between stones like mortar, or pierced through by sharpened plates, souls reached and wept, their half-corporeal bodies distorted into barely recognizable shapes. Arms shot through with reinforcing nails stretched ten feet or more to cradle massive stones, while heads crushed to a finger's width by the weight above them still managed to blink weeping eyes. In many places, multiple souls were swirled and squished together into a mercifully blank expanse of flesh that expanded and contracted with jerky aspiration, yet always there were a few recognizable features: a patch of hair, a single nipple, a chap-lipped mouth. It was from these last that the walls' terrible song emanated, the moaning of the great city of the damned.

Roshad turned away, closing his eyes. "I don't care what they did," he whispered, half to himself. "No one deserves that."

"You might be surprised," Salim said. "But now you know one of the fundamental truths of Hell: no matter how bad you think something is, there's always something worse."

"Next!"

The line advanced, and a fiendish guard gestured at Salim. Up close, Salim could see that the tendrils trailing down the creature's armored chest were less like hair and more like tentacles, their barbed tips writhing.

"State your business."

"We seek the Fastness," Salim said, "as emissaries from the Boneyard. We're expected."

"You are, are you?" The creature looked the three up and down dubiously, then waved them through. "Go."

They passed through the gates, Roshad averting his eyes from the great muscle fibers webbing the sides of the wall's thick, arching passageway.

"So that's it?" the sorcerer asked. "They let us through, just like that?"

"We have legitimate business," Salim said.

"But he doesn't know that."

They emerged from between the gates at the other side of the killing field, and Salim stopped to get his bearings. "That doesn't matter. Hell is an authoritarian society—maybe the original authoritarian society. If we were lying and he killed us, he'd just be doing his job—no special rewards. But if we were telling the truth, and he delayed us in any way, he might have pissed off the devils we're here to meet. If said devils were high enough in the hierarchy, they could have him ground into mortar for the walls, and no one would bat an eye."

"So we're safe?" Bors asked.

"No one is safe here." Salim finished triangulating their position and pointed. "The Fallen Fastness is that way."

Creatures of all sizes and shapes clogged the streets. Most were devils of various sorts—some blatantly monstrous, others denoted only by hooves or horns on otherwise humanoid frames. Mixed among these were all manner of planar traders, their carts hauled by bound creatures or zombie servants, as well as robed and branded cultists of a dozen humanoid races. A few of the folk they passed looked like perfectly normal humans, and Salim pulled Roshad and Bors out of these last individuals' way. "Watch out for those particularly."

Roshad turned to look at the woman disappearing into the crowd. "Her? Why?"

Salim indicated a horned behemoth stomping past, a spiked chain dangling from its claws. "That thing? It's a product of this place. It's big and scary-looking, and nobody's going to mess with it." He nodded back in the direction the woman had gone. "Now imagine you're her. What sort of person walks through the Oppidian Maze of Dis as if she's at the Sunday market, without so much as a visible weapon?"

"A crazy one," Roshad said.

But Bors was nodding. "One who knows she's more dangerous than anything she might encounter."

"Exactly." Salim got them moving again.

The streets of Dis were themselves an expression of Hell's perfect order, each avenue and alley spotlessly clean and turning at angles so sharp that the buildings' edges could draw blood. They were also, Salim knew, an outgrowth of the devils' megalomania: shaped like a wheel, the city centered on its lord, Dispater, with all major streets eventually making their way to the city's heart. To either side of their current boulevard, towers rose up in onyx monoliths and golden minarets, a thousand different architectural styles crammed together in precise grids. Not all of them touched the ground—in places the streets passed beneath foundations floating unsupported in the air, or under the arching bridges connecting buildings in complex webs.

Salim's party emerged into a square sporting huge stone fountains in the shapes of tortured humanoids, their red-tinged waters leaking from eyes and wounds. Salim led the Iridian Fold men across the square, toward a street marked by a fountain of an old man wrapped in tight coils of razor-studded wire.

"How do you know where you're going?" Roshad asked, as they turned yet another corner. Above them, the sky was a narrow band between the oppressive towers. "I lost track of our direction three turns out from the gate."

"That's why they call this part of the city the Oppidian Maze," Salim said. "There's an order to it—to everything in Hell—it's just too complex for most mortals to understand."

"But you understand it."

Salim shook his head. "No. But that's not really how the city works. You can't actually walk across Dis—the scale here is different from anything you've seen on Golarion. I have business with the Fastness, so I'm trusting the city to guide us there."

"So it's alive? Like Heaven?"

Salim smiled. "I doubt many residents of either plane would appreciate the comparison, but yes. More or less."

"So we're wandering and trusting a city of devils to give us what we need." The sorcerer harrumphed. "Great plan."

"And yet it's working. Look."

The urban canyon opened up, revealing a system of short bridges arching over two intersecting canals. One was filled with dark water, the other with brilliant red and yellow flames. Rather than canceling out into steam, the two met and flowed through each other without so much as disrupting their currents.

Salim led his companions up to the top of the tallest bridge's arc. From there, the city spread out in rings around them, its spires the thousand teeth of a great lamprey.

"We're near the Iron Heart now," Salim said. "The center of the city. You could have walked your whole life and never made it here." He pointed to the cathedral-spire they'd seen from outside the walls, its bulk dwarfing the other buildings and a second set of city walls that encircled it. "That's the Iron Scepter, home of Dispater's court."

"And we have to go there?" Roshad asked.

Salim chuckled. "If we do, we're in trouble. The Lord of the First City is a god in his own right, or close enough. He has no fear of the Lady of Graves. But the Scepter is the center of Dis, which makes it an easy landmark." He pointed left, toward a blackened structure like an anthill that floated above another open square. "That's the Tower of Pitch and Tongues, and its walls are made of precisely what you'd expect. At its top is the Market of Breaths, where hooded merchants buy and sell years of mortal lives." He leaned on the rail and pointed the other direction, toward a distended mound of flesh. At the apex of its blistered dome, a massive bloodshot eyeball twitched and rolled in its fleshy socket. "That's the Demagogue, the museum where the souls of the worst mortal tyrants sit on display, bound into the walls themselves."

"What's the eye for?" Roshad asked.

"Nobody knows. It opened millennia ago, without any explanation. They say that once a century, it sheds a single bloody tear."

He turned and found Roshad and Bors staring at him, expressions unreadable. "What?"

Roshad waved a hand toward the city. "We're in the middle of Hell, about to make demands of a bunch of devils, and you're giving us a walking tour."

Salim straightened and crossed his arms. "You asked how I knew where we were, and I told you."

"Of course." Roshad made an after you motion. "Please, lead on."

Salim did so. At the end of the bridge, instead of following the main avenue toward the Iron Scepter, he turned right through a stretch of parkland. Leafless trees clawed the sky with skeletal, calligraphic fingers, and thorn vines writhed across black grass and up chalk-white stones. The paths here were as geometrical as everything else in Hell, the plants seemingly afraid to even lean over their borders. Halfway through, the men passed a small stone amphitheater where two twelve-foot-tall devils like blue-gray mantises stood in conference, drawing in a flat plane of sand with ice-crusted spears. Multifaceted eyes looked up, evaluating the mortals with cold, insectile intelligence, then returned to their strategizing.

At last they came to the end of the park. Before them, steps bordered by arch-connected pillars ascended at a steep angle, terminating in a set of tall iron doors. Above, the tower's featureless gray stone tapered to a knife point hundreds of feet tall, yet at the building's foot the normally precise lines of Hell seemed to break down. Instead of a foundation, the walls of the tower extended unbroken down into the ground, the pavement around it buckling and tearing, giving the impression of a splinter jabbing into the flesh of the city itself.

"The Fallen Fastness," Salim said, starting up the staircase. "Where the sins of all men are cataloged."

"All men?" Roshad tried to look casual and failed. He and Bors lagged a few steps behind.

Salim smiled. "Curious what they have on you two? I'm sure the devils would be happy to show you." He reached the landing at the stairs' top and pounded on the doors. "Let's see who's home, shall we?"

paizo.com #3236236, Corry Douglas <corrydouglas@gmail.com>, Aug 10, 2014

Chapter Twenty-Three

The Fallen Fastness

The boom of Salim's fist on the metal echoed against the stone pillars. Then the huge doors swung silently open.

The creature that met them filled the doorway. Easily ten feet tall, she was equally wide, and floated another five feet above the floor in a vast throne of welded iron skulls. Where Caramine the bloatmage had been an attractive woman swollen by the strange demands of her magic, this thing was stretched beyond all human proportions. Breasts like tan slugs draped over waves of rolling flesh that drooped out over the edges of the chair and down past elephantine knees, dripping clear slime. Beady black eyes peered through a narrow slit in her folds of face-fat, and hands turned to worthless clubs of meat waggled like maggots, directing the floating scrolls and tomes that orbited slowly around her chair. As she looked down at Salim, her chins stretched in what must have been a grin.

"You're no petitioners." The voice was a wet, genderless wheeze. "Have you come to record your sins in person, then? How thoughtful."

"We come on behalf of Pharasma's Court," Salim said, "and on the authority of Heaven's Vault of Correction. We invoke your treaty with them, and ask to examine your collection."

A hairless inchworm of an eyebrow arched its back. "I see." The huge throne floated silently to one side. "Enter."

Inside, the entryway was just as blank as the building's fortresslike facade. Though it was wide enough to accommodate several of the grotesque librarians, and tall enough that even the great Exscinders from the Vault of Correction wouldn't have to duck, there was no particular artistry, just dark stone and shadows cast by flickering torches in wall sconces.

The doors thundered closed behind them, and Salim turned to face the librarian. "I'm afraid we won't be telling you our names."

"Naturally," the librarian said. "Nevertheless, you may call me Apulminas, of the third tier of ayngavhauls."

"What's an ayngavhaul?" Roshad asked.

"Heresy devils," Salim answered. "Blasphemy specialists. The great scholars of Hell."

"Indeed," Apulminas replied. "We seek the truths that weaker races turn from. Yet you didn't come all the way down here to speak of us. What do you seek, Emissary? And what do you offer?"

"We offer nothing." Salim strove to make his voice a guillotine, sharp and final. "We're not here to bargain. You've already made your arrangements with Heaven, and we call upon that standing agreement."

A stubby arm twitched, and droplets of slime pattered to the floor. "Fairly struck. The initial question stands: what does Heaven want so badly?"

"Diagrams," Salim said. "Schematics for a magical machine capable of sending mortal souls directly to a specific plane for metamorphosis, circumventing Pharasma's judgment."

The books floating around Apulminas's chair paused in their orbits, then began whizzing faster. The devil chuckled. "Oh, that is good. And the angels think we're stealing souls, do they?"

"Actually, there's some evidence that the thief may be a rogue angel."

A stunned silence. Then Apulminas exploded into laughter, her vast bulk jiggling with each heaving gasp. The floating throne wavered, threatening to spill her out.

"Even if we didn't have a bargain," she said when her spasms had subsided, "that would be enough to buy you entrance." She floated past Salim and the others, waving for them to follow. "Come. We'll see what we see."

At the end of the hall, the corridor split into five more, each of equal size and with a glowing rune on the floor before it. Apulminas chose the leftmost one, which led them on into another branching, then down a long, wide stairwell that circled a central shaft, her throne gliding effortlessly across the uneven surface. More metal doors studded the hallways, each emblazoned with infernal script declaring its contents. A few stood open, revealing towering columns of freestanding bookshelves, the walls around them hung with tapestries and manuscripts. Others showed recessed pits like amphitheaters with bookshelves lining each tier.

They were not alone in these passages. Other ayngavhauls, their thrones identical to Apulminas's, passed them in the halls, distinguishable only by the different documents circling them and the rune-embroidered wrappings some wore across their brows or draped across their loins. Against his will, Salim saw enough of one to verify that there were males among the group, but the sagging flesh of their chests made the genders look startling similar.

Other devils traversed the library as well, each accompanied by a librarian. Down one corridor, a leech-bodied devil many times larger than a man slithered along in conference with its ayngavhaul, its three humanoid heads bent to study a document floating before it. Through another door, Salim glimpsed half a dozen devils combining the bodies of black flies with the plump heads and torsos of cherubic infants. The fly-children buzzed around a librarian at a writing desk, chittering maniacally as the librarian took notes.

At last they came to a hall that dead-ended at a single door. Apulminas gestured, and the portal opened. "Here we are."

The grand room beyond had a polished stone floor and a domed ceiling frescoed with an image of Asmodeus, god of all devils, seated on his throne and gazing down into the room as if about to pronounce judgment. Friezes around the upper edge of the walls showed him creating Hell and imposing his iron law upon the varied residents of the multiverse.

A single figure stood in the chamber's center. He turned as Salim and the others entered, hands clasped behind his back.

"Hezechor?" Salim asked, startled.

The contract devil smiled. "I was curious how long it would take you to make your way down here." He turned to the librarian. "Thank you, Apulminas. You may go."

The librarian bobbed her head in obeisance and drifted back out the door, closing it behind her.

"I don't understand," Salim said, walking over to where Hezechor waited, his draped contracts spilling down to touch the floor. "If you knew the Fastness had a copy of the document, why didn't you tell me?"

"As it happens, we don't." Hezechor reached up and stroked his pointed beard, unintentionally striking the same pose as the painted Asmodeus above—or perhaps not so unintentionally. "We would be happy to hold on to it for you when you find it, of course. Our defenses are much stronger than those of the angels' little archive. But that's rather beside the point. How goes your investigation?"

"Slowly," Salim admitted. "Freewoman Caramine's description turned out to be a false lead, but the Great Library's security indeed showed a breach, suggesting either an inside job or an extremely skilled infiltrator. When I learned of the Lower Collection, I came to see what I could learn." He frowned. "Which doesn't explain why you're here, or why Apulminas brought us to you instead of the archives. If you want to aid the investigation, I suggest..."

Salim trailed off. The devil was watching him, a little half-smile on his narrow face. Seeing that smug confidence, Salim was seized by a sudden, undeniable hunch. "You already know who did it, don't you?"

Hezechor laughed, revealing rows of tiny shark teeth lined up like soldiers behind his perfect human ones. His laughter was a friendly sound, as if he'd told a joke and Salim was just now grasping the punch line.

"Of course we know." He winked at Salim. "And you do, too, don't you? Why else would you have kept them with you the whole time?"

"Us?" Roshad and Bors stepped backward, hands raised. "We don't know anything about this stupid book!" the sorcerer snapped. "We killed those bastards with the machine! We didn't even know they existed until they took Bors!" The big warrior nodded and reached back over his shoulder to put a hand on his sword hilt.

But Salim wasn't looking at them; he wasn't looking at anything. Inside his head, things were unfolding and coming together. "Nemeniah and Malchion."

Hezechor began to clap, the slow slaps of his hands echoing in the grandiose chamber. His satyr's grin grew broader. "Come on—don't tell me you really didn't know."

Salim shook his head, less in answer than to try and clear it. "It's too much of a coincidence." Yet the words rang hollow in his mouth. He was an indentured servant of the goddess of death, birth, and fate—he knew as well as anyone that the fabric of history was built on coincidences, seemingly implausible occurrences that would get a bard or storyteller booed out of town.

"The devil's messing with your mind." Roshad gripped Salim's arm. "He's trying to turn you against your allies."

"Oh really?" Hezechor asked. "And I have what to gain from that, exactly? Remember, I was the one who brought him into this. Pharasma may be Salim's paymaster, but Hell's the client here." He looked to Salim. "They were waiting for you, or someone like you. It wasn't a coincidence. It was a plan."

Salim's mind raced, sifting through facts, trying to line them up and see which ones fit together.

The angels had worked in the Vault of Correction—they'd said that much themselves. If there were two of them—two angels bound closely by sibling love, or whatever passed for it between angels—then perhaps they were allowed to work together in the stacks, as a two-person team. And maybe if one of them got corrupted by the book, that loyalty would prevent the other from reporting it long enough for both of them to be infected.

The angels had met them at the gates—but if you were afraid that someone was going to come snooping, wouldn't you want to be the one to meet them? To guide their investigation and keep an eye on it, so you wouldn't be surprised? And how hard was it to predict where Salim would arrive? After all, the soul-harvesting operation—at least the one Salim knew about—was on Golarion, and Salim had arrived by way of the gate for souls from that world.

But then, there was more to their guidance than just wanting to watch what he did, wasn't there? When Salim had asked about the chained angel, the pair had recognized the description instantly, and taken him to an archon who would recognize it as well. Rare as Arathuziel's kind was, Heaven was still infinite, or close enough to it—statistically speaking, there must be dozens of other redeemed devils whose physical forms mirrored Arathuziel's. The fact that the same angel had jumped to mind for all of them was another significant coincidence—unless they'd planned to frame him the whole time, and were just waiting for someone to ask. Who better to pin a crime on than someone who was already mistrusted by the community? Hadn't Arathuziel already known and resented the siblings for their prejudice toward him?

And more importantly—hadn't the angels seemed happy to lead Salim to Arathuziel's dome, but edgy and anxious ever since he'd let the chained angel go?

You seem awfully sure he's responsible. His own words, spoken to Nemeniah and Malchion. How had he missed it?

But even as the question rose, Salim knew the truth. His investigation had been piss-poor at every step of the way, and not because he wasn't capable of better. The old Salim—the priest-hunter, or the man who'd tracked down souls and undead for close on a century at this point—would never have been gulled this easily. But he'd been preoccupied—too caught up in guilt over his increasing reliance on the goddess's magic, and too eager to put a thumb in Maedora's eye. If he'd been thinking straight, he would have...

"You staked them out." It wasn't a question. "You hid someone near the gate and waited until you saw one of your evil souls—maybe even someone you'd sent to Kaer Maga as bait—show up in the line. And then you watched what happened to them." Salim felt a flood of anger, directed primarily at himself. "They'd be waiting at the gate anyway—not just for me, but to collect any ‘converted' souls who showed up there and whisk them away before they had a chance to mingle and raise suspicions. They gave you the whole thing right there."

"Yes." Hezechor's eyes were curious, penetrating. "The question is why you didn't do the same."

Salim shook his head once, hard. "No. The question is why you got me involved at all. You already had the answer. Why didn't you take care of it?"

Hezechor laughed again. "Because it's not my job, Salim! If somebody steals from you—well, okay, maybe not you, but a shopkeeper, say—do you take matters into your own hands, or do you call the city watch? The Lady of Graves is the Outer Sphere's constable, and you're her deputy. Hell is the victim here. We can't be expected to exert ourselves righting the wrong."

Salim narrowed his eyes. "And you couldn't tell us who was responsible because...?"

Hezechor spread his hands. "Would you have believed us? We're devils. If we accused some angels, you'd expect a trick. Besides, your kind always wants to figure everything out for yourselves."

"Plus, you thought it would be fun to watch us dance like puppets on your behalf."

"That, too." Hezechor winked. "Give a devil his due, Salim. I spend eternity negotiating contracts with mortals who always want the same things: money, power, a chance to bugger their neighbor's spouse. Entertainment is in short supply."

"So let's say I believe you." In truth, though Salim would never be stupid enough to take a devil's words at face value, the facts were lining up surprisingly well. And more importantly, his gut said it was right. "I go back to Heaven and find proof of your claim. We locate your lost souls and give them back. What then? Hell uses it as an excuse to invade part of Heaven? Just cause, and all that?"

"Goodness, no!" Hezechor's face was a mask of shock—a mask that cracked as he winked again. "Why would we? I suspect your employer will be plenty furious on our behalf. Why would we risk our own troops when we can sit back and throw peanuts from the bleachers while your goddess passes judgment on Heaven's incompetent government? No, I don't think you'll be seeing any further action from Hell—or Abaddon or the Abyss, for that matter. This is solely a ‘watch your enemies tear each other apart' sort of satisfaction." Another smile. "It's a personal favorite of mine. Well worth the admission price of a few inconsequential souls."

"I see." It made sense—but then, devils always did. That was what made them so much more dangerous than demons or daemons. "Seems like this all works out rather well for you after all. I don't suppose you were the one who drew up the schematics in the first place? Designed the machine that makes it all possible, then planted it in their archives?"

"Ha! If only!" Hezechor shook his head. "As much as I'd love to take credit, Salim, there's no trap so great as that which the righteous man lays for himself. I have no idea where the design came from originally, though I'm sure our scholars would love to find out. As I said, I think the angels have proven they can't be trusted with such a dangerous document, and that the Gray Lady should give it to our librarians rather than those idiot Censors. Hell understands security. But to answer your question: no, the angels did this one all on their own."

"Thank you." Salim considered what he'd learned—or rather, what he suspected. He turned to Roshad and Bors. "I think we have what we need here."

"Actually..." Hezechor drew the word out. "While you're here, Salim, I was hoping we could talk about something else."

"Oh?" Salim raised an eyebrow, but only one—he'd been half-expecting such a response. With devils, there was always a catch. "And that would be...?"

"You." The devil's eyes grew no larger, but now they seemed like dark pools, luminous in the sickly torchlight. "I've been watching you for a while, you know. I requested you specifically."

"What a comforting thought. And your interest in me is what, exactly?"

Hezechor chuckled. "Come now, Salim—why is anyone interested in you? Because you're interesting! An atheist—a Rahadoumi priest-hunter, at that—who works for one of the deities he hates. How is that not fascinating?"

"I'm flattered, I'm sure. What's your point?"

Hezechor spread his hands. "No point. Nothing so crass as that. I was just curious why you continue to serve Pharasma. Have you come to worship her after all?"

"No." Salim almost spat. "The Grave Bitch may command my obedience, but she doesn't own my thoughts."

"But why give her even that much? Surely breaking your oath is a small enough sin, compared to some of the other things you've done. And haven't you paid your debt?"

"It's not that simple," Salim growled. "My honor is all I've got left at this point."

"But was it honorable for Ceyanan to target you in the first place?" Hezechor's voice was soft, penetrating. "Put a sword to a man's throat, and he'll promise you anything in the world—but can you really expect him to hold to it, once he's out of danger?"

"Isn't that what your kind does?"

Hezechor looked offended. "Only the weakest devils make contracts under duress. Once you've been around a few millennia, you realize that the true challenge—and true reward—comes from contracts made completely of free will. I let my clients come to me."

"It doesn't matter," Salim said. "It was free will. My wife was dying. I asked for someone—a god, anything—to step in and save her. I brought it on myself."

"Did you?" Hezechor gave him a flat stare. "And has it never occurred to you that perhaps the goddess put you in that position? That Pharasma—the goddess of fate and death—might have set up that situation, knowing what you'd do, just to earn your fealty? That, in all probability, it was Pharasma who killed your wife?"

"Of course it has!" Except that it hadn't. Not really. Salim's mind spun, his stomach rebelling.

He'd hated Pharasma for enabling his weakness. That was why he served her: not fear for what she might do to him—a laughable thought, after what he'd been through—but as penance for what he'd done, the covenant he'd broken with himself and his wife when he'd bargained away their ideals to save her. Yet that was the thing about being Rahadoumi—you got used to thinking of the gods as other people's problems. When bad things happened, you blamed random chance. Gods were like vampires—unable to enter your home unless you invited them in.

Except that Salim knew better, now. As the Lady of Graves, Pharasma was everywhere.

Death and fate. Pharasma was the spider at the center of existence's web. But how much of her fate and death aspects involved watching and arbitrating, and how much was under her control? He knew she could take an interest in individuals when she wanted to, twisting those strands.

Had Pharasma murdered his wife?

Salim clamped down hard on that thought. Now was not the time. "What's it to you?"

Hezechor shrugged. "Nothing, really. I just hate to see someone tricked into tossing away their free will. It's all you mortals have, really."

"That's not a sentiment I'd expect to hear from a contract devil."

Hezechor grinned. "No, I suppose it isn't, is it?"

And he changed.

There was a rippling in the air, like a rock dropped in a pond, the wavelets spreading out only as far as the edges of the contract devil's body. Where they passed, the flesh shifted and melted, puffing away to nothingness or turning hard and dark. The overly familiar smile disappeared.

In Hezechor's place stood a creature a full head taller than Salim, formed from overlapping plates of dark, stylized armor. Hands like fans of blades flexed and curled, while the spiked edges of a high, ornate collar and pauldrons waved like living things, anemone fronds of glistening steel. Where Hezechor's neck had been, there was now only empty space. Unsupported by any head, a thin, skull-like mask of metal floated in the air, its humanoid features stretching below the nostrils to become two long fangs. As Salim watched, the mask's surface shifted and merged, flowing into new configurations like oil in water. Points of light glowed in its empty eye sockets.

Salim's grip on his sword tightened. "Who are you?"

"I'm Hezechor," the apparition said—and indeed, it was the contract devil's voice that emerged from that jawless half-mask. "Though I'm afraid I'm not actually a phistophilus, as I've lead you to believe."

"Then what are you?" Roshad shot back. The sorcerer and Bors had spread out to Salim's left, chain loose between them, the big man's sword drawn and a curl of flame winding around Roshad's clenched fist.

"A deimavigga," Salim said slowly. "An apostate devil, like Arathuziel used to be."

The mask swiveled to look at Roshad, then back at Salim, its movements sharp and precise. "Ah, Arathuziel. How appropriate that he'd be tied up in all this. Of course, I'm sure his new friends gave him every benefit of the doubt." One mess of blades turned upward, its palm a rough sea of razors. "Did he explain the deimaviggas' mission to you? Surely at least you, Salim, can see the value we provide. Isn't a world better off when more people throw off the shackles of religion?"

But Salim wasn't interested in talking philosophy. "What do you want, Hezechor?"

"To give you back your freedom."

Salim laughed. "So I can be a true Rahadoumi again? Spread the good word and argue people out of their cages?"

"You're a powerful man, with a powerful story." The devil's voice rose, smooth and confident, filling the gloomy chamber. "A man who defied the gods, was captured by them, and broke free again. You could do much to serve the cause."

"With ‘serve' being the operative word." Salim shook his head. "You may have all the arguments memorized, Hezechor, and I've no doubt you're one hell of a debater—no pun intended. But you can't help but think in terms of service and contracts. You're just trading people one set of shackles for another."

"Then show me up," the devil crooned. "Show people the true meaning of atheism. Teach them to make their own decisions. Defy the gods! We can keep you safe from Pharasma's retribution."

"You think you're the first one to make me that offer?" Salim turned to Roshad and Bors. "We're leaving."

"So you'll go back to her." Hezechor's voice turned withering. Underlying it was a new sound: the scrape of a blade on a whetstone. "For all your talk of defiance, all your posturing and resentment, you've indeed become her servant. When offered freedom, you still go running back to the goddess who killed your wife, who robbed you of your ideals, who won't even let you die, as is every mortal's birthright."

This time Salim didn't laugh. "There you go again. The freedom I want can't be given, Hezechor. Not by you. Not by anyone." He took Bors and Roshad's hands.

"So you'll lock yourself back inside your prison." The devil's voice lost any pretense of humanity. In its dark recesses lived the scream of shearing metal.

Salim looked back over his shoulder. The tiny points of light in Hezechor's mask blazed an angry red.

"Sorry, Hezechor. Better the devil you know..."

Then he squeezed the amulet and let Hell fall away behind him.

paizo.com #3236236, Corry Douglas <corrydouglas@gmail.com>, Aug 10, 2014

Chapter Twenty-Four

Showdowns

They arrived back in Heaven with the mists curling around their feet, the trees of the forest a green blanket behind them and the pearlescent walls of the Prime Vallation already in sight. The line of petitioners snaking through the grass nearest them appeared to once more be from Golarion. Salim put a hand over his eyes and massaged his temples.

"You really like doing that, don't you?"

He turned to look at Roshad. "What?"

The sorcerer pointed at Salim's amulet. "What just happened. Finding a good taunt or exit line, then jumping away with your amulet before anyone can spoil it."

Salim frowned and touched the spiraled stone. "I got the information I needed and left."

"Uh huh. Just like you did with Maedora in the bar, or the angels in the Vault."

Salim stiffened. "If you have a problem with the way I work, I'll be happy to drop you off back on the Material Plane."

Roshad shook his head. "Not going to happen. Like we said before, we're with you until our debt is paid. Just thought I'd point it out."

"Thanks. In the future, feel free to keep your notes to yourself."

Bors's bass rumble broke in. "Why are you so important, anyway?"

"Pardon?"

"The devil. Hezechor." The big man hooked a thumb over his shoulder, as if pointing back into the past. "He went to a lot of effort to win you over, and you implied that he wasn't the first. Why?"

Salim sighed, glad to be back on familiar ground once more. "I'm not special. But gods and devils are like people—tell them they can't have something, and suddenly it's all they can think about, regardless of how insignificant it might be."

Bors nodded. "I can see that."

"Hey," Roshad said, "remember how you got the last word with your friend Maedora?"

"Yes?" Salim didn't bother to hide his irritation.

"I think she's looking to change that."

Salim turned.

A hundred feet away and closing fast, Maedora marched toward them. The psychopomp still wore her human guise, in the black military uniform with the billowing gray cloak. If her face had been stern before, it was furious now.

She stopped in front of Salim, arms folded across her chest. "You."

"Me," Salim said.

"Technically, us," Roshad offered.

Both Salim and Maedora glared at the sorcerer, then returned their attention to each other.

"Commander Faralan tells me that you managed to anger the Great Library's Censors as well," Maedora said. "They say you destroyed priceless documents."

"Which were about to be destroyed anyway," Salim said. "I see you were able to follow me as far as Faralan, then."

"You leave a wide trail. Too wide. Bruising egos among the clergy is one thing, but you're costing the Boneyard valuable goodwill with Heaven."

"Investigating heresy was always going to ruffle some angelic feathers," Salim said. "If you think you can do better, you're welcome to try."

Maedora smiled, a predator's grin. "As it happens, I've already spoken with my superiors, and with Ceyanan. As of this moment, all branches of this investigation are officially under my command."

Salim was surprised at how much the words stung. Ceyanan had given him up? Salim and his psychopomp handler had a long history of mutual disdain, but Ceyanan knew better than anyone that Salim got results.

At least there was some satisfaction still to be had. He forced himself to match Maedora's smile. "You're welcome to it. Would you like me to tell you who's responsible?"

The psychopomp's smile dropped. "You know?" Her expression hardened again. "Tell me everything."

Salim did, laying out what facts he had, the things he'd learned from the Great Library, and the conclusions he'd drawn with Hezechor. Maedora took it all in with a tight frown. When he was finished, she nodded.

"Thin," she said. "But enough to interrogate them and get the truth." She turned and began walking back toward Heaven's gates.

"Hey!" Hating himself for showing weakness, Salim jogged to reach her side. "You can't just leave me behind!"

"Empirically false."

Salim ground his teeth and moved in front of her, hands up and blocking her way. "Fine, okay. You're in charge. Just let us see this through with you, alright? We can watch your back. You owe me that much."

Maedora studied him. Salim did his best to look subservient—something he doubted he did well. After a long moment, she nodded again. "Very well. If you disobey my orders, I'll break you and your companions myself."

Without waiting for a response, she began walking again, Salim and his companions falling in behind her.

An angel Salim didn't recognize met them at the gates—a lean, human-sized being with purple wings and a flaming greatsword. It watched them with dark, impassive eyes as they identified themselves.

"The angels Nemeniah and Malchion," Maedora said crisply. "Where are they?"

The angel looked to another guard, this one almost identical save for the sky-blue shade of its plumage. "Have you seen Nemeniah and Malchion?" Its voice was soft and melodious, at odds with its severe features.

"I think they said they were going to the Forum of Tears," the second angel said. He—for Salim couldn't help but think of such a sharp-featured creature as anything but male—turned back to the investigators. "I can take you there."

"The Boneyard thanks you." Maedora gestured for the angel to lead on.

"Wait a second," Salim said. "Shouldn't we inform the local authorities? Get a squad of archons to go with us as backup?"

Maedora gave him a prim smile. "I believe I'm quite capable of handling two rogue angels."

Salim knew that feeling. He'd likely worn a similar smirk himself, plenty of times. In truth, the final confrontation was the part of this job that he loved the most—had loved the most even when he was hunting priests in Rahadoum. But he'd learned the hard way how easily that sort of confidence could get you killed. His mind went back to a job in Thuvia, not so long ago, where the same arrogance in dealing with a corrupt priest had landed him in a magic-proof cell. If it hadn't been for his companion, a woman named Neila, he might have rotted there indefinitely.

"Please," he said. "Just let me send a message."

Maedora sighed. "Quickly."

Salim turned back to the first gate guard they'd spoken to. "Take a message to Commander Faralan," he began—then stopped. Could he trust anyone that his guides had led him to? "Scratch that—take the message to Head Censor Garinas, at the Great Library. Tell him that the culprits are Nemeniah and Malchion, and that we're going to confront them at the Forum of Tears." He thought about adding Arathuziel to the list of people to inform, but the redeemed devil's involvement at this phase might just complicate matters. "Tell him to bring some friends. Big ones."

The angel saluted, fist over heart, and took to the sky, great wings blowing back the long grass.

Maedora and the others followed the second angel, who remained on foot as a courtesy. Behind them, the walls of the Prime Vallation slowly fell away.

"What's the Forum of Tears?" Salim asked, as they trudged up the idyllic slope of a low ridge. Ahead, a waist-high aqueduct of emerald glass marked the barrier between the lowest of Heaven's legendary seven realms. Inside, a rushing stream carried fish the likes of which Salim had never seen before, some of them changing color at will, others breaking the surfaces long enough to sing pure, ascending notes that warmed the skin.

"It's in the Plaza of Martyrs," the angel responded. "One of our many monuments to the great heroes who've given their lives for the cause."

"Aren't there rather a lot of martyrs in Heaven?" Roshad asked.

The angel nodded. "That's why we usually honor them as a group, rather than individuals. Most angels don't remember their mortal lives, so in a way, the monuments are dedicated to all of us." He looked down at Roshad and smiled. "They could be dedicated to you someday, too."

"We'll pass," Roshad said. "But thanks...I think."

The plaza was impossible to mistake: an arrangement of stone squares shot through and separated with neat lines of grass, like a complex game board. Rising up at the squares' intersections were plinths bearing marble statues. Each depicted a different larger-than-life humanoid in the act of being martyred—pierced by arrows, mauled by lions, and so on. Regardless of their individual situations, all of the figures held their heads in the same posture, eyes toward the sky. The heads were smooth, abstract, devoid of hair or facial features which might distinguish them.

"Charming," Roshad said.

"Yes," the angel said, sincerely. "The forum is just over here."

They crossed through the garden of torments and over to a partial ring of columns not unlike those guarding the steps to the Fallen Fastness, though these pillars and their arched tops were of perfect, toothy white. Salim wondered if the similarity of Hell's architecture—the columns, the statues—was meant to be mocking, or if it simply represented how creatures from these planes of law and order thought. Beyond the columns, the ground fell away into an amphitheater, wide paved terraces where angels and archons could stand and watch whoever spoke on the floor below.

No one was currently using the forum to pontificate, but there were still perhaps two dozen angels laughing and chatting in small clusters. Salim spotted Nemeniah and Malchion on the forum's floor. He pointed for Maedora's benefit. "That's them."

"Excellent." Maedora bared her teeth and moved past their guide, leading them all down the steps to the forum floor. Several conversations stopped as angels turned toward the newcomers, watching with naked curiosity.

That was good. Maedora might be certain she could take the two angels handily, but Salim was less confident. It would be better to have an audience, at least until the Censors arrived. If the rogue angels incriminated themselves by fighting back, the other angels would have no choice but to join in and help the Pharasmins take them down. Heaven's honor would allow nothing less.

The group reached the bottom of the stairs. Nemeniah and Malchion turned toward them, expressions stern.

"Hello, Salim." Nemeniah's voice dripped maternal disappointment. "I hope what you learned in the Great Library was worth the disruption you caused. The librarians are far from pleased." She turned to Maedora. "Who's your friend?"

"My name's Maedora," the psychopomp announced loudly. "And I'm the one who'll be bringing you to justice."

From above them came murmurs as more angels on higher tiers turned to see what was going on. Maedora's wolfish smile broadened.

"Nemeniah and Malchion, you stand accused of corruption and crimes against both Heaven and the natural order. I ask you now, before an audience of your peers: did you knowingly give mortals plans for a dangerously heretical artifact?"

Maedora's voice grew to fill the amphitheater. Salim could feel the magic inherent in the question.

Nemeniah said nothing, but her body shook as every fiber of it screamed with a need to answer truthfully. Still, she managed to keep her jaw clenched tight.

"Stop this at once!" Malchion stepped forward menacingly.

Maedora lost her smile. She pointed two fingers at Malchion. "Halt."

The male angel faltered as Maedora's spell blocked his progress, but the psychopomp was already turning her glare back on Nemeniah. Salim sensed the magical pressure increase. "Answer!"

"Yes."

The word was quiet, yet it seemed to ring against the stones, filling the forum. Nemeniah's gasp of relief followed on its heels as the pain and compulsion wracking her body suddenly dissipated. She hunched over, clutching her arms, and glared at Maedora. "You have no idea what you're doing," she hissed.

"Condemned by your own admission." Maedora's smile returned. "By your own laws and those of the Boneyard, I—"

Salim felt the heat a second before he saw it, the flaming blade sweeping around to hover horizontally in front of his throat. He froze.

"That's enough." A powerful hand came down on Salim's shoulder, and he looked back to see the dark-eyed angel who'd guided them here. Beneath Salim's chin, the angel's sword hissed and popped, its flames so bright that he had to blink back tears.

Maedora whirled. "You, too?"

Salim's captor turned him slowly, so that he could see the rest of the forum. Above, every angel stood watching, faces hard.

"No," Maedora breathed, half to herself. "Not possible."

Salim felt a suddenly, sinking certainty. "The souls," he said. "The ones that were taken. You're them."

"Not all of them." Nemeniah stood tall again, her saint's smile back in place. "Some of them we simply convinced." She gestured, and three of the nearest angels—two with burning swords and one with a hammer like hers—moved forward to surround Maedora. The psychopomp raised her hands, and they stopped just out of reach, but the way she twisted to try and keep them all in view reminded Salim of a cornered animal.

"You mean corrupted." He turned back to Nemeniah. "You corrupted them the same way the manuscript corrupted you, when you found it in the library."

He glanced back and saw Roshad and Bors watching him, waiting for the signal to move. An angel stood behind them, not even bothering to restrain them. Salim shook his head slightly, saw Roshad nod almost imperceptibly in return.

That was a relief, at least. Anything the two men tried would only get them all killed. The best thing he could do was try to keep the angels talking until the Censors arrived with reinforcements.

"Corruption presumes that one started out correct and fell away," Nemeniah answered.

"You don't have to do this," Salim pressed. "The things you've set in motion—they're not your fault. It's just the book's magic possessing you, making you do things no angel would do. We can go to the authorities and get you healed. You won't be punished." Salim had no idea whether that was true or not, but it sounded good.

Malchion laughed. "Possessed?" Free from Maedora's spell now, he stalked over to Salim and bent down, looking into his eyes. "Do I look possessed to you?"

Salim wasn't sure how to answer that. Malchion shook his head. "We aren't possessed, Salim. The manuscript didn't corrupt us—it convinced us. We saw its potential, and how it could be used to further Heaven's goals."

"But it's heresy." Salim stood tall and pressed back against his captor, trying to put a little more distance between his throat and the flaming sword. "It was in the Vault of Corrections. It goes against every law of Heaven."

Malchion straightened. "And do you follow all the laws of your world, Salim? Even the ones that contradict each other?"

"This is different," Maedora snapped. "Heaven's laws are set by the gods."

"And yet here we are." Malchion spread his arms. "Have we been struck down for heresy?" He looked up at the rest of the congregation. "Have the gods of justice and light turned their faces from us?"

"Laws change, Salim." Nemeniah moved forward now, bending low as well in order to address him on his level. She looked eager, her inhumanly perfect face lit with hope. "The gods understand that. Times change, and the rules need to change with them. Progress and innovation always require things that the conventional order consider wrong or distasteful." She smiled as if confessing a secret. "Humans aren't the only ones who grow complacent and fear change. That's the real corruption in Heaven—getting locked into outdated policies and ways of doing things, and losing sight of the original goals."

"If we thought we could trust you, we'd ask you to use your magic to test our spirits," Malchion said. "You'd see for yourself that none of us here are evil, or lying. Regardless of what you may think, our motives are pure—perhaps purer than anyone else's."

"Of course," Salim said dryly. "Letting murderers and rapists into Heaven is such a righteous move."

Malchion sneered. "You understand nothing. We saved these souls. Took evil men and women and made them virtuous."

"With the emphasis on made," Salim pressed. "You forced them with magic. Without any free will, or redemption. You brainwashed them."

"And does that make them any less effective? If they'd gone to bolster Hell's armies instead, how exactly would that help Heaven's cause? Heaven is at war, Salim—a holy war to spread love and justice across the multiverse; to weed out the endless stream of corruption brought into the world by creatures like devils and demons. Or by mortal weakness." He gave Salim a pointed look. "Yet the current leaders of Heaven would have us sit quietly by and wait for mortals to do our recruiting—imperfect vessels trying to convince other imperfect vessels to choose the path of light."

"So you make the choice for them."

Nemeniah broke in, gesturing at the surrounding angels. "It's bigger than that, Salim. This is just a start—a test to make sure the machine really works. Once we've proven our model, Heaven's hierarchy will have no choice but to acknowledge its effectiveness. Policies will change. Imagine how wonderful your home world will be when all the evil souls are siphoned off, converted into warriors for truth and justice. And that's just the first phase."

"Then what?" Maedora demanded.

Nemeniah straightened and smiled sweetly at her. "Then we choke out Hell."

For a long moment, no one spoke. Then Salim began to laugh.

"You're going to start a full-scale invasion of Hell? Do you have any idea the horror and suffering that would cause?" He shook his head, careful of the burning blade at his throat. "You'll tear the planes in half. Even at twice their size, Heaven's armies will beat themselves to death against Hell's defenses. They've been preparing for an assault since the literal beginning of time."

Nemeniah shook her head. "We know better than that. Which is why we're not going to Hell. We're going to the Boneyard."

"What?!" Maedora shrieked.

Salim grasped it immediately. "Pharasma's court. You're going to try to cut them off at the source."

Nemeniah beamed. "Now you understand. We don't need enough warriors to assault Hell—just enough to hold the portal through which damned souls flow after judgment. Between our machines redeeming mortals and our people keeping judged souls from reaching Hell, we can halt the plane's growth. Without a fresh supply of devils, Hell will wither. Even if we ultimately fail, every moment we hold out starves Hell and makes Heaven stronger by comparison."

"You're insane," Maedora said. "You're not just going to fight Hell—you'll be fighting Pharasma's servants, and every other plane. You'll be crushed instantly."

"Not if the other celestial planes see our plans and join us!" Nemeniah was growing heated now. "The gods of light and justice are on our side—if they weren't, wouldn't they have already stopped us? They're omniscient and omnipotent—clearly, they want this to happen. Heaven has grown lazy and complacent, and we're going to turn things around. Make us all the holy warriors we were born to be, not merely celestial bureaucrats."

A murmur of assent swept through the surrounding angels.

Malchion drew his warhammer and raised it over his head, turning to address the surrounding angels. "Look at us! Were we created to sit back and let mortals do our work for us? Was I given this"—he shook his hammer—"to argue with beings less capable of grasping the gods' wisdom? Or were we designed to fight for what we know is right? To build by force the perfect order the gods demand?"

The gathered angels roared their approval.

Malchion lowered his hammer and his voice. "The gods watch what we do here. It's up to us to prove that we're worthy of their love. That we can take initiative, not constantly wait for instruction."

Nemeniah looked down at Salim and his friends with sad eyes. "One day soon, we'll reveal our plans, and everyone in Heaven will understand. But we can't afford to be exposed prematurely. I'm so sorry." She raised a hand.

"Wait!" Salim shouted. "You're already too late—killing us will solve nothing. We already sent a messenger to the authorities. They're on their way as we speak."

Nemeniah smiled gently. "You mean this messenger?" She pointed, and Salim followed it to the violet-winged angel stepping out from behind a column at the top of the forum. "We always have people at the gates, watching for our...special souls. They were also watching for you, to make sure you didn't try to contact Faralan on your own."

So the hound wasn't involved after all. Salim filed that away for later reference and groped desperately for some other argument. "But—"

"Now," Nemeniah said.

Something hard and cold closed tight around Salim's throat, locking with a quiet snick. As it did, he felt a second sensation inside his chest—a sharp snapping, like a bowstring being cut. In its wake, he felt...smaller. Hollow.

Maedora screamed. Salim looked over and saw the psychopomp struggling in the grip of her own captors, tearing at a palm-wide bronze collar locked around her throat. Her back arched, and her clothes exploded into clinging spider webs as she grew several feet, back into the masked and eyeless giant he first met. Yet even as she changed, the collar changed with her, expanding to keep from beheading her, remaining just as tight around her new throat.

Maedora put her head back and howled, a sound of pure, furious loss.

Nemeniah advanced on Bors and Roshad. The larger man went for his sword, only to have an angelic hand close around his wrist, stopping him as easily as if he were a child reaching for a hot stove. Another angel pinned Roshad's arms behind his back, a blade hovering at the sorcerer's throat.

"You going to do us too, then?" Roshad challenged. "We're not afraid of you."

"No." Nemeniah smiled, then reached out a hand and cupped the man's veiled chin. "There's no need. You two are innocents."

Roshad's eyes widened. He turned to Bors. "Did you hear that? She called us innocents." He sounded offended.

Nemeniah looked to Bors as well. "In the Library, when the boat submerged—you gave what you believed to be your last breath to Roshad, without a second thought. Your love, your dedication, your willingness to sacrifice—these are things that will purify your hearts and make you worthy of Heaven's glory."

Roshad laughed. "I heard you'd lowered the entry requirements. But if you and your brother are what count as angels these days, I think we'll pass."

Nemeniah's smile faded. She looked to the men's captors. "Take them home."

"We're not—" Roshad began, and then both the Iridian Fold men and their attendant angels disappeared.

Salim ground his teeth. Just like that, their strength had been cut in half. Roshad and Bors might have been out of their league here, but some help was better than none.

Then again, if he didn't have to worry about keeping them alive...

He slammed his head backward, catching the angel behind him in the nose with a satisfying crunch. His captor shouted in surprise and pain, and before the creature could react further, Salim dropped, his face blistering as it grazed the edge of the flaming sword.

Then he was loose, spinning to keep all the angels in view, his sword sliding free of its scabbard.

To his right, Maedora followed suit, slamming a now formidable elbow back into her captor's stomach, then grabbing his flaming blade with both hands, heedless of the way her webbing blackened and smoked, and slamming it down into the angel's thigh. He screamed and fell backward, and she moved to put herself back to back with Salim.

Around them, angels drew shimmering weapons and advanced.

There was no way he and Maedora could take them on their own. Salim's sword, the Melted Blade, was enchanted to damage even something as powerful as an angel, but he was still only one man. Maybe if they could cut their way through, they could run far enough to attract the attention of someone unrelated to Maedora and Nemeniah's scheme. Would the twins kill another angel to protect their secret?

There was no time for squeamishness. Salim reached out to the Lady of Graves—

And found nothing. Pharasma's taint, that dark pool that was always there inside him, waiting to be drawn up into his veins, was gone.

Not good.

"Don't kill them here!" Nemeniah shouted. "She'll know if you kill them here!"

She? It took Salim a moment to realize they must mean Pharasma. Of course—how better to alert the goddess of death to something than by killing her servants?

Still, that meant the angels weren't fighting to kill, while Salim and Maedora had no such compunctions.

"Go," he said, and launched himself forward.

This time, the angels were ready for them. Salim didn't try for Nemeniah and Malchion—there'd be time for them later, if he managed to escape. Instead, he chose the shortest two angels, creatures both roughly the size of humans. The Melted Blade flashed out—once, twice—and was met each time by the angels' flaming swords. He spun, bringing his sword up just in time to catch the wrist of a third angel bringing her pommel down on his skull. Bright celestial blood sprayed as she fell back.

Nearby, Maedora continued to howl her fury. She held no weapon, yet her fists were far larger than Salim's own now, and at least one of her angelic attackers caught a blow to the chin that sent him reeling backward. Out of the corner of his eye, Salim saw the spider-silk wrappings that made up her garment writhe and split, forming long, thin tentacles that flailed around her like whips, slashing at eyes and wrists.

Something hit Salim in the side of the head. He spun, catching the second blow of a huge angel's hammer-haft on his blade's basket hilt. The force of it knocked his arm wide, numbing his hand. A foot shot out and caught him on the inside of his ankle, and he stumbled.

That was enough. A split-second break in his guard, and then they were on him—hands everywhere, bearing him facedown onto the ground.

One such hand wormed its way under his chest, into his robes. There was a sharp jerk on his neck, and then the leather cord he wore snapped. His amulet.

Another hand found the lump of the lintel stone in his pocket and drew it out. "Look at this—he's got a lintel stone as well!"

"So you're adding armed robbery to your list of sins now?" Salim asked. "How angelic."

He couldn't lift his head to see them, but it sounded like Nemeniah standing over him. "We're not thieves, Salim. We're only confiscating what's necessary to keep you from interfering further."

"You could have fooled me."

Malchion's voice broke in, cold and disgusted. "We're wasting time. Get them out of here."

The ground vanished.

paizo.com #3236236, Corry Douglas <corrydouglas@gmail.com>, Aug 10, 2014

Chapter Twenty-Five

The Desert of Nothing

There was a flash of cold and darkness, and then the sun-warmed stone beneath Salim's cheek was replaced by what felt like smooth glass. The hands that held him down disappeared, along with the rustle of feathers and the sounds of angels in motion. He took a moment, listening to the silence, then sat up and looked around.

There was nothing. Not the nothingness of blindness, nor the freezing void of empty space, but something else. He was in a place almost entirely devoid of features, like a landscape an artist had begun to rough in but never completed. Far away in every direction, a horizon line stretched perfectly flat, unbroken by any obstacle. Overhead, the sky was the same silver as Heaven or the Boneyard, but the color rippled and pulsed, as if great amorphous shapes moved behind a silk curtain. No angels or other creatures flapped against that empty expanse. The land beneath it was a matte yellow-brown dotted here and there with protrusions suggestive of stones, none more than a few feet high.

Salim examined the ground next to him. That ochre color wasn't completely uniform—there were slight swirls and gradients—yet his hand slid smoothly over its surface, picking up no dirt or dust. There weren't even any pebbles. It was as if an entire desert had been fused into a single, perfect sheet of glass.

A low gasping to his left made him turn. Maedora, still in her masked and giant natural form, stood clutching at her throat, fingers scrabbling at the collar's edges.

"Gone." Her voice was brittle, panicked. "She's gone." Her words heaved and hitched with another of those strangled sounds, and Salim realized the psychopomp was crying.

He thought of how he'd tried to reach for Pharasma's magic in the plaza, only to find it missing. "You can't touch her either, can you? The Lady of Graves."

Maedora whirled on him. "I can't feel her. I've always been able to feel her, no matter where I was, and now I can't feel her." She stretched out a hand and made a fist, pale knuckles turning white with the force of it. "My magic won't work."

Salim nodded. "It's the priest collar."

"What?" Maedora's eyeless mask stared at him.

"The collar." Salim ran his fingers over the metal around his own neck, feeling how perfectly it conformed to his throat, neither pinching nor offering the slightest gap. "It's called a priest collar. I saw them a couple of times in Rahadoum, when the Pure Legion had to take a particularly powerful priest without killing him." He closed his eyes and explored the mysterious absence of Pharasma's weight inside him. "It cuts you off from the divine, keeping you from contacting your goddess or calling on her magic. As far as the gods are concerned, you cease to exist."

Maedora's expression faded from rage to horror. With a howl, she began scrabbling at the collar again, fingernails tearing long furrows across the smooth skin of her throat.

Salim stood and took a prudent step backward, watching the display with a mixture of pity and disgust. Poor Maedora. Salim had never wanted the goddess inside him, had actively resisted the touch of her magic, yet even he felt suddenly naked without that familiar presence. Grotesque as it was, Pharasma's magic was useful. Without it, he was an ordinary man again. But Maedora was a psychopomp—a creature born of the Boneyard, created specifically to serve the goddess. Her magic was as much a part of her as Salim's hands were to him. To have it suddenly ripped away...

Just an ordinary man. Salim let out a chuckle.

Maedora's head snapped up to focus on him again. "You."

Suddenly she was looming over him. Salim hadn't even realized the angels had let him keep his sword until he found it between them, its slanted blade seeming a very thin wall between him and the furious giant.

"You think this is funny?" she growled.

Salim kept his face blank. "I've spent my entire life trying to escape the gods. Now that I have, I find myself wishing I could undo it. How is that not funny?"

Maedora glowered down at him for a long moment, then stepped back. "Where are we?"

"I was hoping you knew." Salim kept his tone light, but in truth, the issue was troubling him as well. He spun in a slow circle, taking in the strange pseudo-landscape. "I thought I had at least a passing knowledge of all the planes, but this..."

"It looks unfinished," Maedora said.

The description was so similar to Salim's own thoughts that it made him shiver. "Wherever we are, I'll bet it's a long way from anything. I think that was the angels' plan—to throw us away in some backwater." He touched the raw patch above his collar where the leather cord had been ripped away. "That's why they stole my amulet, and hobbled our magic. They wanted to make sure we couldn't shift away or contact anyone."

"Why not kill us?"

Salim shook his head. "Think it through. Pharasma's the goddess of death—if they killed us, she'd know."

Maedora brightened. "Of course!" Her spider-silk wrappings unraveled into tentacles once more, stretching toward Salim. "I'll make it quick."

"Whoah—what?" Salim took an involuntary step backward, yanking his sword up to keep the psychopomp at bay.

Maedora gave him an irritated look, but she stopped advancing. "Don't be a child, Salim. It's the obvious solution. We kill you, and your spirit flies straight back to the Spire to tell Pharasma what happened. Maybe I can even follow you."

"You want me to kill myself, so that maybe you can follow me home?"

"It's a calculated risk." She smiled. "I'm willing to take the chance."

Salim laughed. "Of course you are. And when exactly did we decide that I should be the one to die?"

Maedora snorted. "I'm a psychopomp, Salim—I'm already a spirit, more or less. If I die, I simply cease to exist. You're the only choice." She moved forward.

Salim took another step backward and held up a hand. "Just wait a second, alright? We don't know exactly how these collars work. If they hide us from Pharasma, they might lock down my soul as well. I could end up stuck in this exact spot for eternity. She might not even notice I'm dead." He sobered. "And actually, even without the collar, I'm not sure it would work. I...well, as far as I can tell, I'm not allowed to die."

Maedora's head quirked sideways. "Not allowed?"

Salim shrugged, embarrassed. "I kind of tried the suicide route back when Ceyanan first recruited me. Trying to get out of the deal. The goddess wasn't too pleased with that." He pointed to the collar. "I'm not sure if it would hold true when the old crone can't see me, but if past experience is any indication, I can suffer absurdly large amounts of pain, but not actually die."

"You tried to kill yourself to spite the death goddess." Maedora studied him for another long moment. "You're an exceedingly strange human, Salim."

"Tell me something I don't know."

∗ ∗ ∗

In the blank, sunless landscape, it was impossible to tell time, short of counting breaths or heartbeats. They spent the first interminable period trying everything they could think of to remove the collars, which turned out to be remarkably little. Salim was no stranger to manacles and restraints, but even a rank novice could see that these were magical in nature. The collar around Maedora's neck constantly resized itself to cling to her skin, regardless of whether she flexed her muscles or shifted her shape. The bronze itself was a seamless, gleaming solid with no sign of joint or lock, as if it had been cast in place. Salim supposed there was probably a magical command that would open it again, but without something to go off of, the possibilities were infinite. When he gave up in disgust, Maedora studied his in turn, coming to the same conclusion.

After that, they moved to more extreme measures. Holding the Melted Blade carefully, Salim scratched at Maedora's collar, yet his efforts refused to do more than score faint lines which disappeared after a few moments. At Maedora's urgings, he pushed harder, throwing his shoulder into it, yet after the third time the sword's point slid off and drew blood from Maedora's neck, he refused to continue. The last thing he needed was to accidentally slit the throat of his only companion.

They began to walk—not because it was a strategic decision, but because there was nothing else to do. The blank horizon offered no obvious destination, so they simply did their best to move in a straight line. After the first few miles, the unceasing homogeneity of the desert-glass began to wear on Salim, and he took to dragging his sword point-first behind him, gouging a faint line to show where they'd been. It squealed as it scraped across the ground.

"Is that really necessary?" Maedora asked. "Or are you just looking for new ways to annoy me?"

"Don't flatter yourself," Salim said. "Unless you want to unspool some of that webbing behind us to make sure we're not curving and crossing our own tracks, this is the best we've got."

"You'd like that, would you?" Threads of her wrappings began to spring free and wave in the air, revealing flashes of the nude body beneath. "That's what you mortals are good at, isn't it? Mating and fighting?"

"Sorry, but seven-foot-tall manifestations of death aren't my type." Still, Salim avoided looking directly at her until her webbing coalesced again. "And now that you mention it—why are you female, anyway? It's not like your kind reproduces, right?"

Maedora shrugged. "Why do angels have wings? Why do proteans look like giant snakes? They just do."

Salim smiled. "You don't question much, do you?"

"And you do nothing but question."

It felt good to banter—anything to break the eerie silence of the desert. At least on the Material Plane, there was always some sort of sound: a gust of wind, a distant bird. Whenever they stopped here, however, only the sound of Salim's own breathing and the blood pounding in his ears let him know he wasn't entirely deaf.

"This is pointless," Maedora said at last. "We could be anywhere—for all we know, this is some discarded demiplane, a self-contained bubble in the Maelstrom, and we're just walking around the inside surface of its shell. Or maybe we're in the wastelands on the border between two planes, so far from anything that matters that the gods got bored and abandoned it. Even if this does connect to something, there's no telling how long it could take us to walk that far. It could be a hundred years. A thousand."

"Three days," Salim countered.

Maedora stopped and turned, staring at him with her blank mask. "What?"

"If we're going to walk out of here, it'll take three days."

The psychopomp crossed her arms. "And how do you know that?"

"Are you thirsty, Maedora?"

She frowned. "I don't have physical needs."

"Well I do," Salim said. "Which means we have roughly three to five days to get out of this half-assed sketch of a landscape and find some water. Otherwise we won't be walking anywhere. You'll be on your own, and we'll find out for sure what happens when someone dies wearing one of these collars."

Maedora looked down at him for a long moment. Then she turned and began walking again. "Best pick up the pace, then."

∗ ∗ ∗

When Salim was too tired to walk any farther, they made camp, which consisted of Salim sitting down and going through the contents of his pockets. True to their word, the angels had taken only the plane-shifting amulet and the lintel stone. With his normal traveling gear still sitting in the inn back in Kaer Maga, that left him with his robes, a purse full of coins from various nations, the Melted Blade and a more utilitarian dagger, and—

"Arathuziel's lock!" Salim pulled the heavy lock out of the interior pocket where he'd stuck it. "I forgot all about it."

Maedora squatted down to study it. "What is it?"

"A talisman," Salim said. "From the angel Nemeniah and Malchion tried to pin things on. He said I could use it to call him, as long as I was within range."

Maedora looked around dubiously. "Is this within range?"

"Only one way to find out." Salim held the lock in both hands and closed his eyes. "Arathuziel—if you can hear me, we know who framed you, but we really need your help."

Time passed. After a minute or so, Salim opened his eyes.

"Well?" Maedora asked.

"It was worth a shot. We must be too far away." He stuck the lock back in his pocket, then lay down and pulled his robes up over his head to get a bit of shade. Maedora stood over him while he slept, seemingly content to stare off silently at the horizon.

The next day was harder. As they walked, Salim fished a small silver coin out of his pouch and stuck it in his mouth. The disk tasted of metal and a thousand grimy hands, yet sucking on it helped his mouth stay moist. Still, he could feel himself weakening, the dry air rasping against his throat even as he tried to breathe exclusively though his nose.

Aside from the occasional bout of bickering, he and Maedora walked in silence. Salim supposed that small talk wasn't something psychopomps were particularly well trained in, especially ones specializing in interrogation. Then again, much the same could be said about him.

Instead, Salim let his thoughts wander. As always when he let them slip the leash, they went scurrying down the same rabbit holes. His life as a priest-hunter in Rahadoum's Pure Legion. His wife, Jannat, who'd died been brought back to life through his ill-considered bargain with the goddess. Neila, the girl he'd met in Thuvia, who'd offered to join him in his isolation—a gift he couldn't bring himself to accept.

All leading to this—an unmarked grave in an endless desert. But hadn't that been exactly what he'd wanted? When he'd cut his own throat that night in a Thuvian inn in an admittedly short-sighted effort to escape his bargain with Pharasma, he hadn't expected an afterlife. No paradise or just rewards. He was a Rahadoumi atheist, and that meant that when he died, he'd defy the gods in death as he did in life. His spirit would go to the great graveyard outside of Pharasma's Court and stay there, peaceful in the dirt, waiting for the end of eternity.

Now here he was, in a place even more solitary. Hidden from all the gods and monsters that hoarded souls like misers counted coins. He could finish the job he'd begun that night a century ago. Simply sit down and wait for thirst to take him, or slit his wrists with the Melted Blade and wet his dry mouth with his own blood. Maedora would walk on, eventually finding her way to somewhere new. She had the time. Either way, Salim would finally be free.

He closed his eyes and breathed deep, pulling the idea in. Testing it.

He breathed out again and opened his eyes.

No. Maybe once that freedom would have been enough, but if so, that time was gone. Maybe it had never been enough at all. Salim wanted freedom, but more than that, he wanted to win. To beat the angels who thought they could take away the one choice mortals really had. To show Maedora and the rest of the psychopomps what a mortal was capable of. Most of all, he wanted to remain as a living reminder to Pharasma and all the other gods that while she might own his service, she didn't own his soul.

Dying would be quitting. And Salim didn't quit.

"You're laughing again," Maedora said.

Salim hadn't noticed. "So I am," he croaked.

"What's funny now?"

"Just appreciating how neatly I've been played when the best revenge I can come up with against the Lady is to keep doing my job."

∗ ∗ ∗

On the third day, Salim fell.

He didn't notice it happening. One moment he was stumbling forward, trying not to think about his swollen tongue and the way his cracked throat screamed for water. The second he was lying facedown on the ground, his nose slowly leaking what little moisture he had into a puddle beneath him.

Maedora paused and looked back at him. "Aren't you going to get up?"

Salim attempted to sit up, then realized that he no longer had the strength. "I don't think I can." He touched the blood from his nose, then licked it off his hand. It made his mouth sticky.

The psychopomp watched for a long moment, then sighed and walked back over. She bent down.

"What are you doing?" Salim asked.

"Demeaning myself," she replied, then rolled him over. She put one arm under his back, the other behind his thighs, and lifted. Salim rolled against her chest, and she cradled him like a parent carrying a child to bed. Then she began to walk again.

Salim's last thought before he lost consciousness was of how startlingly soft her webbing was.

∗ ∗ ∗

"Salim. Wake up."

Salim stirred. His head pounded, and he felt withered, his blood like thick sludge in his veins. He had no idea how long he'd been asleep. "What?"

"Something's different."

He opened his eyes and managed to flip himself over in Maedora's giant arms so that he was facing outward.

The ground was no longer a blank expanse. Here and there, little patches of black grass sprang up like ink drawings, narrow lines fanning out from clustered bases. The sky had changed as well. The shapes that passed like storm clouds behind its wall were more vigorous now, the shadows they cast darker. They pulsed and squirmed, and where they were thickest the sky seemed to bulge down toward the ground, its silver belly distorting into new colors—metallic reds and golds and greens

"Put me down."

Maedora did, and Salim stumbled to the nearest clump of grass. It was no taller than the length of his hand, and its pointed leaves had the same sort of unreal, half-finished look as the rest of the landscape. Salim broke off one of the stalks, and was disappointed to find that the break produced no moisture. Grabbing a fistful, he tugged upward. The clump came loose easily. Its roots were stubby, rudimentary things that bored into the glass, more anchors than siphons. Salim tossed it aside and began chipping frantically at the empty root tunnels with his dagger, cracking away chips of the strange earth. Yet even when he'd dug deeper than the roots ever had, there was still no sign of water. He fell back, exhausted.

Maedora studied the grass. "Can you eat this?"

Without bothering to look, Salim shoved a clump in his mouth. It was dry, like chewing on paper, and cut his blistered tongue savagely. He spat it out. "Apparently not."

"Still," Maedora said. "It's a good sign."

Salim was too weak to do anything but nod.

They continued on, heading toward the brightest and most active regions of sky, and several hours later were rewarded with their first glimpse of movement on the ground.

It was large, perhaps the size of a horse, and quadrupedal. Saying much more about it, however, was difficult—like everything else in this godsforsaken backwater, its shape was more suggestive than detailed. A box-like lump of a head. A broad, partially translucent body, with vague shadows inside that were presumably organs. It had no visible eyes or ears, only a wide mouth that opened like the lid on a traveler's trunk as it leaned down to graze on the unnatural grass.

"If I kill it," Maedora asked. "Can you eat it?"

"Kill it?" Salim coughed a laugh. "You clearly didn't grow up in a desert. Don't kill it unless you absolutely have to—just bring it over here."

Maedora muttered something about bossy mortals, then laid Salim down on the ground with surprising gentleness. Head swimming, he leaned over to watch her work.

Now that she had a purpose, Maedora's steady plodding pace vanished. Without bothering to sneak—for what could she hope to hide behind?—she sprinted forward, her enormous body moving faster and more gracefully than Salim could have imagined. She leapt.

The strange beast looked up from its mouthful of black grass just as Maedora hit it at the shoulder, knocking it sideways. Instantly, thick ropes of webbing shot out from her wrappings, encircling the creature and holding it tight as it kicked and shook, its mouth open in a silent scream. Maedora lay atop it, pinning it to the ground until it ceased struggling. Then she stood and allowed it to do the same, leading it back toward Salim on a spider-silk halter.

"That was impressive," Salim said.

"I was made to combat more than half-formed cattle," Maedora snapped, but Salim thought she sounded pleased. "If you're not going to eat it, what's it for?"

"That depends on if we're lucky," Salim said. "Hold it still."

When Maedora had it securely in a headlock, Salim drew his dagger and made a two-inch-long incision along the beast's opaque shoulder. It shook once, violently, then seemed to accept its fate.

Out of the cut welled faintly pink liquid.

Salim put his mouth to the wound and drank, sucking greedily. The blood was mild, tasting vaguely of iron and some sort of bland starch, but it was wet, and that was what mattered. Salim didn't bother to consider whether or not it was poisonous—at this point, anything that didn't kill him outright was worth it.

When he'd gulped several mouthfuls, he made himself stop and back away. The cut on the beast's shoulder healed quickly, the flesh knitting to a faint scar.

"So you're a vampire now?" Maedora asked.

Salim wiped pink blood from his lips. "Old nomad trick. If you're starving in the desert and kill your horse, you can eat some of it, but the rest will go bad, and then you have no horse. If you cut it, though, you can drink the blood and still keep the horse." He nodded to the creature. "I don't know how it gets its water, but I'm betting that as long as this thing has grass, it'll keep making blood. Which means that we just bought ourselves a lot more time."

"Does this mean I won't have to carry you anymore?"

Salim smiled. "Eventually." Then he sat back on the glassy ground and closed his eyes.

paizo.com #3236236, Corry Douglas <corrydouglas@gmail.com>, Aug 10, 2014

Chapter Twenty-Six

The Antipode

Three days later, they came to the tower.

At first it was just a faint vertical line bisecting the lower half of the sky, bright white save for a dark nub where it met the horizon. Salim had grown used to the now thoroughly chaotic movement of the sky's colors, the suggestion of shapes beyond its edges, and it was a shock to see the blazing line standing arrow-straight against it, piercing its flesh and disappearing from view.

That wasn't a metaphor: the line really did seem to pierce the sky, wounding its heavy belly and sending tendrils of color leaking down around the line like funnel clouds. They twitched and writhed, clearly attracted to yet never quite touching the white line, becoming dancing pillars between land and sky.

"Well, that's something, at least." Salim was sprawled across the back of the weird, half-formed quadruped that he'd come to think of as the Clay Horse. It wasn't the most elegant way to ride, but the creature was too wide to sit comfortably, and he had nothing but his robes to use as a saddle. Either way, it beat walking. "The next question is: what is it?"

"I don't know," Maedora said. She sounded troubled.

"Anything is better than nothing," Salim said. Though they'd begun to see more of the clay horses and larger clumps of dark grass, even the occasional scraggly line-art tree, there was still precious little to relieve the landscape's boredom. "Without proper landmarks, I can't estimate distance worth a damn, but it feels big to me."

"It's not just you."

They adjusted their course to head toward the line, Clay Horse plodding along slightly faster now as Salim dug his toes into its weirdly flexible hide.

Salim turned to Maedora. "Do you think—"

Something shot through the air ten feet above them. Salim shouted and ducked, and Maedora followed suit. It was gone in an eyeblink, retreating into the distance with the speed of a crossbow bolt, invisible save for a faint rippling of color in the air behind it.

"Now what the hell was that?" Salim demanded.

Maedora stared after it. "It's headed toward the line."

Sure enough, the trail of iridescence was already dissipating, yet Salim could see that its course was as Maedora had said.

They continued. As the hours passed, they began to spot the strange ripples with increasing frequency. Though none came quite so close, several shot past near enough for Salim to get a good look at them. He realized that his original impression of something barely visible—his sense of a presence without actually being able to see just what had buzzed past them—was more accurate than he realized. Each flying object was totally translucent, a silver-blue distortion in the air that trailed half-visible ripples of shifting color like a comet's tail. Each disturbance was egg-shaped, and their sizes varied from that of his thumb to some that must have dwarfed elephants. Each sped directly toward the line in the distance, leaving only their strange wakes.

Slowly, the object on the horizon resolved. What had been a shimmering line grew whiter and brighter, until Salim had to shade his eyes. It stood like a bolt of lightning that refused to complete its strike, wavering slightly but never breaking its connection between the ground and the point where it lanced through the sky above, disappearing into somewhere Salim's eyes could no longer follow.

The dark spot at its bottom grew as well, stretching and lengthening into a tower of monolithic proportions. Its base had to be at least as wide as Kaer Maga, and it rose in a thin cone, twisting and coiling around itself like thread around a spindle. The whole thing seemed made of stone so dark gray that Salim would have said it was black, if not for the darker shadows that gave its spiral ridges definition, and it shimmered like abalone shell.

They moved closer, passing well clear of two enormous funnel clouds that screamed and kicked up clouds of color several miles off to either side, shaking like feral beasts chained to invisible stakes. At the tower's base, the air rippled violently, like a clear but rushing stream.

It took a moment for Salim's eyes to recognize what he was seeing: thousands of those comet-things plunging toward the tower from all directions, but especially from the bases of the pseudo-tornados, creating a frothing, frantic mass in the air. They swirled and followed the tower's spirals up, growing less chaotic as the ridges and canyons of the tower's near-vertical surface channeled them into a complex weave. They surged up the sides of the mountain-spire until they reached the needle's tip and fired up into the sky as the line of blazing light.

Beneath and between the canyons guiding the river of energy diagonally up the tower's flanks, archways and windows gaped like dark maws, or shone with their own dim lights. New shapes, figures with apparent substance and purpose, moved about inside them, or floated with a censer-bearer's grace through the translucent tumult at the tower's foot.

A trio of these figures broke off from different points of the tower and flew toward Salim and Maedora, growing from distant dots to more discernible forms as they converged.

They were like nothing Salim had ever encountered. On the left, a swirling mass of blue-gray smoke formed an orb that looked disturbingly like a giant eye, but one that sprouted four arms and its own comet tail. On the right, a jagged crystalline mass like the heart of a geode unfurled four arms, each of these splitting at the elbow into two sets of forearms and three-fingered hands. Between them floated something like a giant's hooded cloak, yet beneath that dark cowl was nothing but inky blackness shot through with points of light like the night sky. As Salim watched, he felt a sudden, gut-twisting shift in perspective, as if that central figure were a cloak-shaped hole in the world, and he was being drawn into it, down into a vast sea of night where—

Next to him, Maedora gasped. "Aeons."

Salim shook his head to clear it. "What?"

"They're aeons. The Balancers. The one on the left is an akhana—I saw one once before, on the Spire. But no one ever sees more than one at a time." A note of awe crept into her voice. "There are so many...."

Salim was familiar with most major residents of the planes, but even so, before this moment he would have called aeons little more than myths. According to scholars and mystics, aeons were primal forces of balance, created to maintain equilibrium in the multiverse—without morality, without emotion, and generally without logic decipherable by other races. If you took it as a given that things like archons or devils were extensions of their home planes, manifestations of universal ideals, then aeons were extensions of the multiverse as a whole. They acted as reality's guardians—or, if you wanted to get really philosophical, as its hands—keeping the clockwork humming along smoothly. They bowed to no god, honored no creeds. More importantly, they didn't grub for souls like most other planar races, which was why they were so rarely encountered.

"So what are they doing here?" Salim asked.

"I think they're about to ask us the same question."

The trio floated closer, stopping ten feet away and hovering effortlessly a few feet above the ground. The ones on the left and right were roughly the same size as Salim, but the one in the middle—the cloak-shaped hole—was even taller than Maedora, its dark mass finite but still somehow giving the impression of continuously unfurling at the edges. There was a long pause as the creatures regarded the trespassers.

Salim's head exploded.

At least, that was what it felt like. When Anamnesis had touched his mind in Xavorax, it had been like a dozen fists hitting him at once, the words accompanied by a dizzying array of images. Yet if those images were a flurry of snow, this was a whirlwind. Pictures slashed and tore at him from inside his head, blown this way and that, with never the same subject twice. Newborns wet and screaming, still tied to their mothers, gave way to soldiers coughing up blood on the battlefield or sailors drowning at sea. Oracles delivering prophecies and slaves struck from their chains, or cowering beneath a master's lash. Worlds born new from swirling motes of light, and suns expanding outward to consume their fragile children.

The tempest ended. Salim realized he was on his knees. "What..." He couldn't finish.

"I think..." Maedora sounded rattled herself. Salim looked over and saw the psychopomp still standing, but reeling slightly. "I think they just introduced themselves."

"They what?" Salim pushed himself shakily back to his feet. "Those were their names?"

"They don't have names." Maedora extended an arm, pointing at the one on the left. "They're not individuals. Each of them represents a dichotomy, a balance that must be maintained. That one is an akhana, the balancer of birth and death." Her arm moved to the one on the right. "That's a theletos—it balances freedom and fate." She dropped her arm. "The one in the middle is a pleroma—the bridge between creation and destruction."

The way she said the last one made Salim's skin crawl. He'd seen a surprising amount of emotion from Maedora over their brief acquaintance, but this was the first time he'd ever seen her nervous.

Still, at this point, Salim would take what he could get. He took a step forward. "I am Salim Ghadafar, a human of Golarion, on the Material Plane. This is Maedora the psychopomp, from Pharasma's Spire. We both act as agents of the Lady of Graves, but we're in need of assistance."

None of the creatures moved.

Salim tried again. "These collars," he pointed to his own, "they keep us from contacting the Lady and doing our jobs. We were sent here by our enemies, and only found you by chance. If you can help us, both we and the goddess herself would owe you a great debt."

Still the creatures said nothing, nor gave any hint that they had even been spoken to.

Salim felt his anger rising. He turned to Maedora. "What's with these guys?"

The psychopomp shook her head. "From what I've heard, the ways of aeons are beyond the understanding of even the gods. They might save a man's life one day and slit his children's throats the next, without ever explaining. More often they do nothing."

"Well, that's just great." Salim looked back to the tower, with its jagged spire and line of searing energy stretching up into the sky. "Clearly they're doing something here. Something that they care about enough to get a thousand of them in the same place." He turned to the central figure. "So what is it? What are you doing here?"

There was a pause, as if the creatures were silently deliberating, and then another series of images flooded Salim's brain. Lightning strikes. Salt crystals growing. Pearls. A blue, eyeless humanoid painting on a canvas. A cliff collapsing. A riot. A fish with vestigial legs being attacked by its legless kin.

"Stop!" Salim put a hand to his temple, pressing as the images faded. He turned to Maedora again. "Did that make any sense to you?"

"No." She frowned. "Although that presumes it was meant to. Aeons aren't necessarily logical beings—to be so would place them on the side of law rather than chaos, which would ruin their impartiality."

Salim's irritation grew. Here they'd finally found someone who could help them—someone powerful, by the look of it—and they turned out to be totally incomprehensible, unwilling to take any action unless it served to protect some great metaphysical—

Balance. Of course.

Salim addressed the central aeon again, doing his best to sound calm and collected. "Your Graces, Maedora tells me that you're creatures of balance. Yet so are we. As agents of Pharasma, we exist to maintain the balance of power between the planes, between life and death. Even now we're on a mission of vital importance to maintaining that equilibrium. By helping us, you further your own goals."

The response was another flutter of images, battering bird wings against the inside of his skull. He saw a bridge falling down. A child wearing a blanket cape and waving a stick like a scepter. A woman confronting an unfaithful lover, and an apprentice glassblower as his glowing-hot bottle shattered. Most of all, there were faces—a thousand different ones, not all human, but all bearing distinct looks of distrust and uncertainty. Of doubt.

This time, the message was all too clear.

Salim's temper broke. "You don't believe us. You don't think we're capable of fixing things, or keeping that balance."

Maedora's hand fell on his shoulder. "Salim—"

He shoved it away. "No, Maedora—you saw what they think of us. Children playing at our jobs. Unfaithful. Untrustworthy." He focused on the cloak-thing once more. "If you can put images in my mind, can you see things as well? Because if you can, I suggest you take a good, long look. I've devoted my life—a life longer than any man should be forced to live—to upholding Pharasma's balance. It's what I am, every bit as much as you."

This time there was only a single image, one pulled from Salim's own memory. He saw himself back in the inn the night Ceyanan had first come to call in his debt. Saw the blood spill from his throat.

"I never claimed I didn't fight it," Salim snapped. "But those days are over. Now the job is all I have. And you know what? I'm good at it. Damn good." He was surprised to find how right the words felt. He looked to the misty eyeball with the four arms. "You're in charge of birth and death? Well, I hunt down those who'd break the system." He whirled on the eight-handed crystal. "You're freedom and fate? I spent a whole lifetime fighting for freedom from the gods, freedom to break out of the chains of fate, and a century since then keeping folks imprisoned—how's that for a dichotomy?"

Finally he turned to center aeon, advancing until its dark bulk filled his vision. Inside its depths, a spray of stars spiraled and scintillated. "And you—I may not be much on creation, but I promise you this: if you don't help us, there will be such unbalanced destruction as you cannot imagine. Starting with you and me, right here."

Behind him, Maedora swore softly. As if breaking a spell, the epithet cut the strings on Salim's rage, letting it drop away. In its place came the realization that he'd just threatened a tangible embodiment of the concept of destruction. In front of its friends, no less.

Salim forced himself not to blink as he stared up into the hollow shadow beneath the thing's hood.

Slowly, one night-black hand moved forward, stretching out until ephemeral fingers wrapped around Salim's throat, as smooth and cold as the breeze from a glacier's shadow. They tightened.

The collar fell away.

Salim choked as Pharasma's taint flooded back into him, a mudslide into a crystal clear pond. Yet never had that foulness been so welcome.

The dark aeon reached past Salim and touched Maedora's collar as well. The bronze loop split in two and fell away. At the same time, the psychopomp's severe, eyeless face split into a broad, surprisingly warm smile. She held her hands palm up before her, as if cradling something. "She's back." Then she flung back her head and shouted, "She's back!"

Salim turned to her. "Now that the collar's gone, can you get us back to the Material Plane?"

The psychopomp's smile faded. "No. That magic is beyond me."

"You're kidding." Salim stared. "The Lady of Graves creates a whole race of creatures to help her keep order on the planes, and she doesn't even give you the means to move between them?"

Maedora bristled. "I had a talisman, same as you. The angels took it from me."

"Yet why make you rely on an item that could be stolen, rather than just giving you the ability along with all your other magic?" He laughed, short and sharp. "The gods hamstring us, Maedora. Maybe it makes us more interesting to watch."

"I'm sure the Lady had her reasons."

"I'm sure she did." Salim turned back to the aeons, bowing. "Thank you for your assistance. I'm afraid I must ask another favor. Our means of transportation were stolen, and we have no magic to travel between the planes ourselves. Can you help us?"

Their response was another jumble of seemingly random images.

This was hopeless. Just trying to hold all of their images in his mind was impossible, let alone trying to decipher the pattern.

Unless...

Salim's position in Pharasma's stable required him to talk to a staggering array of creatures, in more languages than he could learn in a dozen lifetimes. As such, he'd often relied on the goddess's magic to interpret for him. Always before there had been actual words to translate, but perhaps...

He reached for the dark, newly replenished pool inside him and drew its cool magic up into his mind, oil-slick and clinging. Instead of filling his ears and mouth as usual, he painted it across the walls of his skull.

"Can you understand me better now?" he asked the aeons.

A faint tremor of surprise, and then another barrage of images, still as jumbled as ever. This time, however, the images came with a surge of affirmation that set his bones humming.

His brain immediately began filling with questions, but he asked the only one that mattered.

"Can you get us home? To Golarion, on the Material Plane?"

The tide of affirmation ebbed, but didn't retreat entirely. In his mind's eye, he saw two images of himself—one nodding, the other shaking his head.

He frowned. "What does that mean? Can you send us back or not.

The central aeon swirled and pointed a half-real arm at the tower.

"That thing can?"

The honeybee buzz of agreement.

"Okay," Salim said slowly. "So what does it do?"

The response contained more creation and destruction symbolism, children's teeter-totters, plus pictures of the shaped lodestones that pushed and pulled each other with invisible forces. Yet one repeated image was instantly recognizable: a twisted spire of rock, impossibly tall, broadening near its flat top to support an endless graveyard, a shining river flowing through the air toward its center.

"Pharasma's Spire," Salim said. "The seat of judgment. This thing balances out the Boneyard?"

Silent applause.

He looked sideways at Maedora. "Do you understand what that means? How do you balance the cycle of souls?"

Maedora looked troubled. "Pharasma is balance. Soul energy comes from Creation's Forge and takes shape as mortals on the Material Plane, then passes on to Pharasma's Court, where it's divided among the Outer Planes. In a sense, the whole of the Outer Sphere is made of that soul energy. And Pharasma keeps the balance."

The images in Salim's mind shifted: Endless precise rows of crops. Grids of identical buildings. Insectile creatures and mechanical men working in perfect, synchronized lockstep.

Salim suddenly understood. "It's the order."

"What?"

"What Pharasma does—the distribution of souls—maintains balance between the Outer Planes, but it does so by imposing order. There's structure, and deliberation, and precision."

The psychopomp frowned. "That's what I just said."

"Exactly. The aeons need the multiverse to be balanced in all ways, which means it needs to be unbalanced as well—both ordered and chaotic. On their own, mortal souls as a group are neither chaotic nor organized—they just are. That's why the Material Plane is the way it is. But once they die, things become neat and orderly. The aeons can't allow that."

Maedora's frown deepened, and she turned on the aeons. "So what—this tower is supposed to interfere with the cycle of souls, like those damn angels? If so, it's failed so far."

The wave of images inside Salim's head rose into a tsunami—perhaps the aeon's equivalent of raising its voice. Lightning hitting a flat primordial sea, stirring up steam and bubbles. A pearl forming around a single grain of sand. An anthill kicked over, sending insects scurrying every direction. New growth poking up through the ashes of a wildfire.

"I don't think that's it," Salim said slowly. He turned to the aeon and pointed to the frantic, pulsing shapes swirling behind the sky, bleeding down from the hole pierced by the tower. "That's the Maelstrom, isn't it? The sea of chaos beyond the edges of the other planes?"

Teachers patting children on the head. A runner nearing the finish line.

"You're harvesting it. The chaos. That's what those shimmering blobs are—bits of primordial chaos energy. Your tower gathers it in and then sends it...where? The Material Plane?"

A cheering crowd. A wizard perfecting a new spell.

Maedora grabbed Salim's shoulder and spun him around. "Explain."

"This tower—it's like an irrigation canal, but for chaos." Salim waved his hand at it. "The Spire draws energy from the Material Plane in the form of souls and organizes it. This thing is its opposite. It injects pure chaos energy back into the Material Plane, to keep things stirred up."

"Why?" Maedora's eyes narrowed. "It sounds like a protean plot. The chaos snakes will do anything to spread their madness."

Salim shrugged. "If a pond stays stagnant long enough, the fish die. Without an irritant like a grain of sand to start with, an oyster can't make a pearl. Maybe the multiverse is like that as well, or at least the Material Plane—if we don't get shaken up, we solidify and stop working."

"Chaos." Maedora still sounded dubious.

Images again, this time of artists painting, bards singing, a sculptor studying stone.

"Maybe it's not just chaos," Salim interpreted. "Maybe they don't just transfer the chaos but refine it, like beach-dwellers harvesting salt from the sea." He pointed to the line of energy blasting its way through the roiling sky. "That could be a pillar of pure creativity." A sudden inspiration struck him. "That must be why the area we arrived in was so barren and bland. The tower must have already harvested all the chaos out of it, maybe before it ever really got a chance to become anything. That's why the sky seems so strange, too: it's not really a sky. More like we're in a soap bubble, and that's the ceiling."

"Fine. Whatever." Maedora clearly still wasn't pleased at the idea of anything opposing Pharasma's work, even in the name of balance. "They said this thing can get us back to your plane. Ask them how."

Salim was surprised that she let him play translator, but perhaps it made sense. As a mortal—more or less—he came with all the inherent dichotomies and cognitive dissonance that entailed. Did that make him naturally better at interpreting the aeons' waves of abstract concepts and images? Even with the goddess's magic inside him, it was still closer to trying to make sense of a dream than any real language.

"How can the tower get us home?" he asked.

This time the flashes were all of the tower itself, the streams of chaotic energy swirling up and around its sides before firing off into the tempest above. He saw a flash of himself stepping into it, a sensation of being swept along in its current.

"Um." Salim was momentarily at a loss for words.

"Well?" Maedora demanded.

"I think we have to ride it. Submerge ourselves and let it carry us along."

For a moment she just stared at him. Then: "Do they think we're stupid? Look at it!" She pointed to the crackling currents climbing the tower. "Your metaphor was wrong. That's not a canal or a stream. That's lightning made out of pure chaos. We'll be torn apart!"

Salim smiled, more confidently than he felt. "Well, now that the goddess knows where we are again, that just means we're back to your original plan, right?"

Maedora paused, considering. "I suppose."

Salim bowed deeply to the aeons. "On behalf of myself, my companion, and the ruling powers of several planes, I thank you for your assistance."

The three creatures stood still for a moment, with only the prickling on the back of Salim's neck to suggest that they were studying him. Then they turned in unison and sailed off in separate directions.

"Not much for social graces, are they?" he observed.

"Etiquette is a construct of weak and idle races." Maedora began walking purposefully toward the nearest tributary, forcing Salim to hustle to keep up.

They reached the edge of a chaos stream and stopped. Up close, it was even stranger than before—a transparent current that rippled like water from a fountain. It surged along a dozen feet tall and several feet off the ground. Inside it flowed a rainbow of colors and half-suggested shapes that never quite resolved: faces and flames and mountains and jellyfish and symbols and flavors and concepts and...

Vertigo seized Salim, and he turned his head away from the shimmering, flexing serpent of energy. "Don't look too closely. It's...unsettling."

Maedora smirked. "I thought your kind were supposed to have an easier time dealing with chaos and uncertainty than us psychopomps?"

"We do," Salim said. "This is just...brewed a little stronger than I'm used to, is all." He shivered. "I don't know what'll happen to us when we touch it."

"Only the Lady knows all." Maedora spoke the maxim with perfect conviction. Then, more hesitantly, she reached over and put a hand on Salim's shoulder. "If it helps you...the Lady must have known this would happen. Even if this destroys us and we never make it back to the Material Plane or the Boneyard—we know that Pharasma foresaw this. One way or another, we all serve the threads of fate."

Salim grimaced. "You know, for someone who shepherds the dead, your comforting platitudes could really use some work." Still, the gesture was surprisingly touching. He reached up and took the psychopomp's massive hand in his own. The silk wrappings were smoother and softer than the finest glove.

"So we don't get separated," he said.

Maedora looked down at their joined hands dubiously. "You think this will help?"

"Probably not," Salim admitted. "But at least it'll keep you from backing out and leaving me to be blasted into little fleshy nuggets all on my own. If we're doing this, we're doing it together."

"Together," the psychopomp agreed.

"Alright then." Salim took a deep breath. "On three?"

Maedora cocked her head sideways, like an eyeless bird of prey. "Why would we wait?"

"It's a mortal thing." Salim felt suddenly foolish. "For luck."

"There is no luck," Maedora said. "Only chance and fate. But have it your way. On three."

"Okay." Salim turned back to the stream of energy barreling past them faster than a galloping horse. "Here we—"

"Three." Maedora stepped forward into the stream, yanking Salim with her.

Time changed. The edges of Salim's vision, bound all his life by eye sockets that now seemed terribly cramped and constrained, blew outward in a cascade of rushing color. Impossible sounds filled his ears, his throat, coating his tongue with the flavor of screams or piercing his eyes with the smell of purple. His body stretched, thinning out along the current like a trail of dye, permeating and dispersing, yet at the same time he could still feel Maedora's fingers in his own twig-thin digits, holding to him with more than flesh.

They picked up speed, rushing with the river, crackling with the lightning, crashing against the sides of the first channel and then swirling up it, faster, like a cataract in reverse. Thoughts were torn away as fast as they came, and it was all Salim could do to retain a fragile sense of I, an even lesser grasp on we. He was a thing, an idea, a concept blasting through each curve of the canyon, always rising, splashing on and through other ideas and bits of things and nothings and banking high as they raced through turn after turn, picking up speed, and now the mountain was shrinking, the bends coming tighter, and then there was the spire's tip and the joining of the rivers and they came together and—

Salim fell upward through a hole in the sky.

paizo.com #3236236, Corry Douglas <corrydouglas@gmail.com>, Aug 10, 2014

Chapter Twenty-Seven

In Light of Recent Developments

Salim woke in agony, his entire body suffused with the pins-and-needles feeling of a limb gone to sleep—his tongue, his eyelids, his lungs. He coughed and lurched into a sitting position, trying to keep control of his convulsing muscles.

He was in a bed. Clean white sheets covered him to the waist. Beneath them, he was naked, the linen smooth against his flesh. What he could see of his skin was unharmed, and there were no telltale blooms of red on the sheets to suggest it was any different below them.

"Welcome back, gov."

Salim turned.

Gav sat in a wooden chair next to the bed, smiling broadly. He held out a bundle of dark clothing, and Salim was relieved to see the Melted Blade on top of it. "We were worried you might just keep sleeping."

Salim threw back the sheets and stepped onto a warm hardwood floor. Other than the large bed and chair, the room was empty. The opposite wall held a wooden door, and on the others hung needlework depictions of humanoids in a variety of compromising positions.

He shook out his robes and pulled them on, then cinched his sword belt tight around his waist. "How long was I out?"

"Two days, Your Honor. We tried to wake you, but you were down deep. We feared that if we shook you any harder, you'd pass the rest of the way and stay on the other side for good."

"Who's we?" Salim bent to lace his sandals.

"Bors and Roshad. After you three jumped away to Heaven—neat little trick there, by the by—I kept my ear to the cobbles. When they popped back up, I found them and got the whole story." His eyes narrowed. "Did you really call out a couple of angels?"

"Yes."

The boy's grin broadened. "I knew it. ‘I'm not surprised,' I told 'em. ‘My employer's got a pair like an aurochs.' Still, maybe not the wisest of moves, neh?"

"Tell me about it." Salim straightened. "So where are we?"

As if in response, the door opened, and a corpse stepped through.

She had been human, once, and lovely. Dark cinnamon skin lay smooth and bare under the film of veils she wore, and her dark hair was tied up tightly in an elaborate braided bun. In the center of her chest, however, the veils parted to reveal the ragged, fist-sized hole just left of her sternum, the white shards of broken ribs visible in the gelid mass of congealed blood. Dead eyes regarded the room's occupants blankly as she stepped forward and reached for them.

Salim moved between her and Gav, shoving the boy backward hard enough to tip the chair over. The Melted Blade sang free of its scabbard. "Stay behind me!"

"Not again!" Gav scrambled to his feet and grabbed Salim's sword arm. "We've been through this before, remember? You don't have enough coin in that purse of yours to start getting blade-happy." Still hanging off of Salim's elbow, he addressed the corpse. "We're fine for now, Alyra, thank you. Please let the others know he's awake."

The zombie woman lowered her arms and nodded, then turned and shamble-swayed out of the room, closing the door behind her.

Gav breathed a sigh of relief and released Salim's arm. "You've got a hell of a way of making friends, gov."

"Where are we?" Salim demanded again.

"At the White Lady—the cathouse I told you about back when we first met. The one where they get a bit more creative with the staff, remember?"

Salim remembered it, as well as the walking dead servants of the necromancer district. He remembered greasy little Gerik Mubb, and what he'd done to the man and his "wares." It felt like a lifetime ago. "You brought me to an undead brothel."

"Brought you?" Gav looked offended. "You think I'd set you up in a bed this pricey when you're not even awake to use it proper? Give me a little credit, sire—thrift is part of the Gav Nahli package. You spend a little on me, save a lot everywhere else." He shook his head. "This is where we found you. You just showed up on the floor of one of the rooms, dropping out of thin air and scaring hell out of everyone." He paused. "Well, those that still get scared."

"I see." The last thing Salim remembered was riding the chaos current, screaming and stretching as he shot up into the roiling sky. Not only had he survived, he'd apparently appeared in precisely the city he'd needed to get to, in a brothel full of the same undead he was sworn to hunt down and destroy as an agent of the death goddess.

Someone clearly had a sense of humor. But who? The aeons seemed unlikely. Pharasma, maybe? Or perhaps the multiverse itself? The latter would certainly fit with the rest of his life experience.

The door opened again, this time producing familiar figures.

"Bors! Roshad!" Salim stepped forward and clasped wrists with each man in turn. Both returned his grip with interest, Bors's enthusiastic squeeze making Salim's bones creak.

"Cayden's bile, but it's good to see you up and around," Roshad said. "When you wouldn't wake up, we thought the angels might have—well, we didn't really know, honestly." He stepped back and looked Salim up and down. "So what the hell happened to you?"

"You first," Salim said. "Where did the angels take you?"

Roshad spread his hands. "Home. It seems they didn't consider us much of a threat." He frowned. "We aim to prove them wrong, now that you're back."

Salim nodded. "Fair enough. Getting back to Heaven is going to be a problem without my amulet, though."

"Oh, I don't think we'll need to go that far," Roshad said grimly.

"What?"

"If you honored gentlemen wouldn't mind," Gav broke in, "I suggest we continue this conversation outside, somewhere we aren't paying for by the half-hour. Master Salim's purse is looking unhealthily thin, and every coin saved is one that can be spent on tips for a worthy guide and companion."

"Fine." Salim gestured to the door. "After you."

Gav led the way, taking them down a long hallway full of doors. From behind several came the usual squeals and grunts of a house of prostitution, yet from others came more disturbing sounds: crunching and sawing, or the slither of many otherwise silent bodies moving against each other. Salim's grip tightened on his sword.

Then they were down a staircase and out into the common room, where various patrons lounged in chaises and chairs with a variety of pretty somethings of both genders. Some of the staff were perfectly normal humanoids, albeit powdered pale or made up with dark kohl around the eyes to give them a severe and bloodless look. Yet others were the real thing—walking corpses like the one that had greeted him and Gav, standing perfectly still or caressing themselves mechanically. Dead flesh on display.

At last they made it to the front doors and onto the crowded street, moving through the press toward the inner wall of the district.

Something was different. The streets here had been crowded before, but now they were even more packed—normal people squeezing shoulder to shoulder with undead servants, orc slavers, and other undesirables as they wound their way through the lanes. A tension that hadn't been there before pulsed in people's voices and movements, and Salim knew it all too well. This wasn't just a crowd out for market day. These people were one thrown stone away from a mob.

"What's happening here?" Salim asked.

They passed through one of the smaller tunnel-arches at the edge of the district and into the open-air core of the city. As they emerged into sunlight, Roshad pointed.

Great inky columns of smoke twisted up from the southern edge of the city, escaping through breaks in the district's stone ceiling.

"Caramine's back at it again," Roshad explained. "Only this time she and her crew aren't bothering to be quiet about it. They've barricaded off a chunk of the Bottoms and aren't letting anybody in. And they've started taking more sacrifices—a lot more." He lifted his veil and spat. "They're recruiting anyone who falls into their hands—either you join with them, with magic to seal the deal and keep you honest, or they ‘purify' you with the machine. Guess Caramine figures sticking to criminals wasn't fast enough—now she's helping the righteous speed up their heavenly homecoming as well. That smoke isn't just from fires set in the fighting."

"Pyres," Bors agreed. "Burning the corpses."

"What about the other gangs?" Salim asked. "I thought they kept each other in check. Why aren't they doing anything?"

"Oh, they are, gov." Gav dropped back from his position in the lead to join the conversation. "But they're not exactly like some softer city's guards, neh? Nobody wants to lose more troops than anyone else, for fear another gang'll use the weakness to bite off part of their territory. The gangs put down strays when they find them, but they aren't about to invade the Bottoms. Most folk consider that a problem for the other Freemen to fix."

"Other Freemen? So they haven't all gone to Caramine's side?"

Gav laughed. "Who do you think's making all the smoke? Caramine may have a solid following, but she doesn't have Halman Wright and the rest of the Freemen's leadership. They've been fighting her tooth and nail, though so far it's been pretty evenly matched. They're why Caramine's only got part of the Bottoms and not the whole damned thing."

"What about the Church of Pharasma?" Salim asked. "Isn't the cathedral down in the Bottoms?"

"Okay, the Freemen aren't the only reason," Gav admitted. "But the crows haven't done much yet other than patch up the Freemen. The good ones, I mean."

Salim frowned. "Take me there."

"Where do you think we're headed, gov? She said to bring you as soon as you woke."

"She?" For a moment, Salim thought he meant Caramine. Then he understood. "Maedora! She's here?" He felt a twinge of guilt. In the shock of waking up among his mortal friends again, he'd totally forgotten about the psychopomp.

"She showed up yesterday and started asking about you," Gav said. "I knew you two didn't get along, but I figured you needed a pretty powerful cleric to pop you out of your nap, and you were already burning a lot of coin just lying in bed—and not in the good way. I didn't think another Pharasmin was about to smother you with your own pillow, so..."

"You were right. Thank you." Salim wondered where Maedora had appeared that it took her a day to get back here—somewhere outside the city? Or had she shown up on the other side of the world and strong-armed some wizard into teleporting her back? He smiled at the mental image.

They moved south through the inns and shops of the Core districts, making for the unbarricaded portion of the Bottoms where Pharasma's cathedral stood. As they went, Bors and Roshad explained more about the state of the city since they'd returned. As usual, Roshad did most of the talking—and cursing—but Salim could see in Bors's eyes that the big man was equally angry. For all that the two projected streetwise cynicism, neither liked the idea of a multiverse where angels and abolitionists could go bad so thoroughly. Salim understood the feeling.

When they finished, Salim returned the favor, explaining his experiences with the featureless desert, Maedora, and the aeons' tower.

"But if the angels wanted to get rid of you," Roshad asked, "why would they send you to these aeon things?"

Salim had been asking himself the same question. "I don't think they did," he said slowly. "Planar magic is difficult. I suspect they meant to maroon us somewhere in the Maelstrom for the proteans to destroy, or else farther out in the desert—another day, and the aeons wouldn't have mattered where I'm concerned. We just got lucky." He paused. "If you believe in luck."

"I'll believe in it as long as it believes in me," Gav opined. "You sure meet some strange people, gov."

"Present company included."

They found the portion of the Bottoms not yet held by Caramine significantly less crowded than the streets of Ankar-Te, and Salim supposed many folks from the southern districts must have pushed north to get away from the fighting. Those who still used the streets did so quickly and furtively, beneath eyes watching from half-shuttered windows.

The Godsmouth Cathedral sat at the southern edge of the district, where the city wall met the lip of the cliff. Constructed of black stone, the temple was a buttressed and gothic affair, with three bell towers representing Pharasma's tripartite nature rising up through a hole in the district's ceiling.

The cathedral was one of Kaer Maga's most famous landmarks, and Salim had heard tell of it several times on his voyage to the city—or rather, of the crypts it was founded to maintain. When someone important died in Kaer Maga, the Pharasmins took the corpse out through a gate in the wall and down a series of ledges to a giant face carved into the cliff, then through the mouth into a massive tomb complex. No one knew how old the Godsmouth Ossuary was, but it was rumored that not even the Pharasmins had fully explored them, and it was a mark of great distinction to be buried there.

Yet it seemed that Salim wouldn't need to visit the catacombs, or even the cathedral itself. As his party approached, a small, straight-backed shape emerged from the church's doors and moved to intercept them.

"Maedora." She was back in her human guise, clothing altered to look even more like a military uniform.

"Salim." She didn't smile, but neither was there the disdain he'd seen every other time she'd worn this body on the Material Plane. If he didn't know better, he'd have sworn she was happy to see him. "I see you finally decided to get back to work."

"After all that, I thought I deserved a bit of a lie-in," Salim said. "What happened? At the tower, I mean. Did it knock you out as well?"

She waved a hand. "That's not important. We need to travel to Heaven immediately. I've already waited too long for you to wake."

"You waited for me? How thoughtful." Despite his bantering tone, Salim was pleasantly surprised. He would have expected her to handle things herself.

Her eyes narrowed. "I use all the tools at my disposal. Including you."

"Of course." Salim bowed slightly, hands raised in surrender. "In that case, we'd best get moving. There's no telling how long we have before Nemeniah and Malchion make their move."

"Oh, you're too late for that."

Salim's head snapped up. "What?"

"I've spoken to my superiors at the Spire," Maedora said. "It seems we spooked the angels after all. As soon as they banished us to the desert, they made their move on Pharasma's Court." She looked ready to spit. "An angelic invasion."

"And...?" Salim couldn't quite figure out how to ask the question. Part of him was still overwhelmed by the angels' audacity. Though he understood why their plan was madness, deep down, doesn't some part of everyone admire a madman? "Did they succeed?"

"Of course not!" Maedora glared at him. "They surprised the Spire's forces briefly, and made a terrible mess of things—a whole branch of the River of Souls jumping its banks! But Pharasma has enough psychopomps to guide every soul in existence along its destined course. As quickly as they established their toehold, the angels were pushed out again."

Salim felt strangely deflated. Somehow, he had presumed that when things came to a head, he'd be at the crux of it. Inwardly, he laughed at his own arrogance. He thought of Bors asking what made Salim so important, and Salim answering that he wasn't—yet clearly he hadn't really believed that. "So it's over."

Maedora's expression softened. "Not quite. The angels were pushed out of the Court, but their forces regenerate quickly." She gestured toward the columns of inky smoke. "They're currently pinned down at the Spire's edge, on the border between it and the celestial planes. The Court wants us to shut down Caramine's machine and stop the flood of new troops before the final push."

"I see," Salim said. "And Heaven? Where are the other angels in all this?"

"That's what I want to find out." A look of frustration flitted across her stony face. "My superiors didn't spend a lot of time explaining."

"I know the feeling," Salim said. "Before we go running into a fight this time, I'd like to know the whole picture." His jaw clenched as he remembered something. "I still don't have my amulet, though. So unless you've learned how to tear a hole in the planes in the last few days, we're going to need—"

He broke off as Maedora reached into a back pocket and produced several slightly squashed rolls of vellum. He felt his jaw sag open. "Scrolls?"

"The brothers and sisters at the cathedral were happy to provide them."

"Somehow I doubt that." A magical scroll capable of transporting people between the planes could only be scribed by an exceptionally powerful spellcaster—presumably one of the cathedral's high priests or priestesses. Even one such scroll was worth more gold than the men standing with him were likely to see in their lifetimes. And here Maedora stood with a crumpled handful of them.

The psychopomp's lips quirked up at one end. "They were once I convinced them."

Salim could easily imagine the scene—the psychopomp storming in from gods-knew-where, demanding immediate access to the cathedral's most secret storerooms, requisitioning as she saw fit while the clerics did their best to balance humility with outrage.

The goddess giveth, and the goddess taketh away.

He smiled back. Perhaps he could get to like this woman after all.

He turned to Roshad and Bors. "Ready to pay Heaven another visit?"

"Always," Roshad said. "Especially if it's to pluck a few wings."

What passed for a smile on Maedora vanished, but she said only, "Fine. Grab hands."

Salim took Maedora's slim right hand in his left. Her flesh was smooth, yet cold as a sword left out in the snow. Bors took his right in one gauntleted paw, and Roshad hooked an elbow through Maedora's as she let one of the scrolls fall open.

Gav shoved his way through the Iridian Fold men, squaring up with Salim and grabbing his arm. "Ain't you forgetting someone, gov?"

Salim studied the boy's expression—still friendly on the surface, but with something new and hard just beneath. "I thought we went over this last time. Heaven is no place for a child." Even as the words left his mouth, he could taste the irony.

"Out of professional courtesy, I'm going to pretend I didn't hear the second part of that, sire. But as to the former—I think we can all agree that the situation has changed." He pointed to the smoke that wreathed the tall ceiling, creeping out through breaks and skylights. "Your angel friends have started messing with my city, and that makes it my business."

"I see. And what about that speech you gave me last time, about how nothing's worth dying for? How you take care of yourself?"

"I am taking care of myself," Gav said. "There ain't much work for a city guide if'n the city tears itself apart, neh? Besides, while I'm happy to extend every professional courtesy to a man of your obvious moral fiber, it's worth noting that last time you disappeared you nearly got yourself killed before you could return and settle your debts. And that, sire, is the same as running out on the check. So this time, I'm coming with." His grip on Salim's arm tightened.

Salim tried not to smile. The boy's patter really was amazing. Instead, he reached into his robe, withdrew Arathuziel's lock from his coin pouch, then handed the entire purse to the boy.

"Here," he said, "I'm pretty sure there's plenty there, even after what you spent at the White Lady."

Gav snatched the purse out of reflex, but his brow furrowed. "Gods' spit, gov, it's not about the damned money!"

"I know." Salim dropped the others' hands and grabbed the boy's shoulders, looking him in the eye. "I'm not leaving you behind because I doubt you. I'm leaving you because you're the only one who can do what needs to be done here."

Gav's anger dissipated, replaced by suspicion. "Oh?"

"This isn't just about Heaven, Gav. If we're going to fix this, we need to set things right in the city as well. I need you to gather anyone who might be willing to fight—the Freemen, folks who've lost friends to Caramine's people, clerics from the other churches, anyone. I need them willing to follow me, and I need them armed and ready whenever we return. The timing on this is going to need to be perfect." He released the boy's shoulders. "You've said you know everyone in this city. Prove it."

"Aye, sire!" Gav stepped back and saluted smartly, resentment replaced by a fierce grin. "When I'm done, you'll have a horde to rival the orcs of Belkzen. I could talk my own grandmother into taking up an axe for you, if'n I had either."

"I have no doubt." Salim smiled and grabbed Bors and Maedora's hands again. "Shall we?"

Maedora began to read from the scroll, the words touching Salim's ears and then sliding away, refusing to stick in his brain. As she did, the world around them grew fuzzy, as if his eyes were blurred by alcohol, yet those holding hands in the circle remained perfectly clear.

The background faded to a foggy white, reflecting the soft blue glow of Maedora's scroll. Then the process reversed, the fog flowing away to reveal a new scene.

Heaven. They were in the trees again, mists hiding their feet, golden light slanting through the boughs.

Maedora dropped Salim's hand and the expended scroll, then turned in the direction of Heaven's gates.

"Wait." Salim grabbed her arm. She turned cold eyes on him, and he quickly released his grip. "They might have someone watching the gate, remember?"

"Why? They've already made their move."

"Still, why take chances?"

Maedora sighed. "And you have another idea?"

Salim reached into his pocket and pulled out the thick, black-iron lock. Maedora's eyes widened slightly in understanding. She nodded.

Unsure how exactly to make it work, Salim took the lock in both hands and bowed his head. It reminded him awkwardly of some sort of prayer, but when in Heaven...

"Arathuziel," he began—then realized he had no idea how to finish the statement. How did one summon a redeemed devil? He settled for, "We have the information you seek." He paused for a moment, then called the angel's name once more for good measure.

They waited. Salim realized he was holding his breath. When ten heartbeats had passed, he let it out again in a sigh.

A burst of light dazzled his eyes, sending the ground-hugging mists rippling away in all directions. When the flare cleared, Arathuziel stood before them with burning sword drawn and black-chained wings spread, looking every inch the avenging angel.

Which he was, Salim supposed. Now more than ever.

"Salim," Arathuziel said, then nodded to the others. "I trust you know of the rogue angels' attack?"

"That's why we're here," Salim said. "We wanted to make sure you knew everything, in case anyone was trying to keep things quiet. It was Nemeniah and Malchion who framed you. They were the ones behind it all."

Black eyes shot wide above bloody tear-trails, then narrowed. "I should have known."

"Which means you didn't." Interesting. Either Heaven's higher-ups hadn't figured out exactly which angels were absent without leave yet—which seemed unlikely, given the plane's organized and orderly nature—or else Heaven operated on a need-to-know basis, at least where redeemed devils were concerned. Salim bet on the latter. Bureaucracy was bureaucracy, celestial or otherwise.

"How did you expose them?" Arathuziel asked.

"It was mostly a hunch, really." Now that Salim said it out loud, he realized how thin it sounded. Had he really confronted two angels based on no more than circumstantial evidence and a devil's accusations? He'd been right, of course, but still—he'd felt so certain when talking to Hezechor.

Which was undoubtedly what made the devil good at his job. Salim decided to leave that part out. "We knew from checking the Book of Lies that the text came from the Vault of Correction, and the inconsistencies in the record suggested an inside job. Since they never let Censors work alone, that meant there had to be two. And who better to pin it on you than someone who already knew and disliked you? So we confronted them."

Arathuziel's lips thinned. "You accused them based on that?"

"What did we have to lose? If I was wrong, we'd have offended a couple of rank-and-file angels—hardly the first time. But if I was right..." Salim paused. "Well, in this case, being right meant getting our asses kicked and banished to the far corner of nowhere. But at least it got us our answer. Nemeniah and Malchion are looking to start a war for souls with the rest of the planes."

"Where's Heaven in all this?" Maedora interrupted. "Why hasn't the Mountain sent a host to recover their wayward children already?"

Arathuziel shook his head. "They won't."

"Why not?" Salim asked. "What about righteously smiting the sinner and burning out corruption and all that?"

"Believe me," Arathuziel said, the frustration in his voice like a pot about to boil over. "If I could, I would lead the vanguard. But Heaven's leaders have spoken with those of the Boneyard. The psychopomps are naturally suspicious. The last thing they want is an even larger angelic host flooding across their border. What if once we got there, we decided that Nemeniah and Malchion had the right idea after all? The Lady's forces are more than capable of putting down a handful of rogue angels, but a whole legion...it's too risky."

It made sense, from a planar diplomacy perspective. Still, it could hardly be satisfying for those directly involved. "And you?" Salim asked quietly. "Surely one more angel across the border won't make a difference."

Arathuziel smiled wryly. "You should know us better than that, Salim. Heaven deals in absolutes." He glanced up at his spread wings and the dark chains that pierced them. "I have my orders. I will remain."

"I'm sorry," Salim said.

"Don't be." Arathuziel looked back down at them all. "You've already done me a great service. I will pass your information on to Faralan and Garinas, and spread it as widely as I can, so that everyone knows the truth." He smiled a little at that. "I think I'll enjoy that part. But I wonder if I could ask one final favor."

"Our time is limited," Maedora noted.

"Ask," Salim said.

The angel looked to each of them in turn, then settled his blank eyes on Salim. "As an angel, petty vendettas are beneath me. I have been wronged, and the transgressors will be punished appropriately. That's all that matters."

"A noble sentiment," Maedora agreed.

Salim understood. "We, on the other hand, are simple mortals, fallible and filled with unworthy passions. We can't be expected to be quite so restrained." He smiled and held out his hand.

Arathuziel took it, his handshake firm.

"Make it hurt."

paizo.com #3236236, Corry Douglas <corrydouglas@gmail.com>, Aug 10, 2014

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Gathering Storms

The hell I will!"

They were back in Kaer Maga, in an alcove of the Godsmouth Cathedral, accompanied by Bors, Roshad, and several clergy who scuttled around doing their best to eavesdrop surreptitiously.

Maedora stood with arms crossed. Despite her posture, she looked almost sympathetic. "For what it's worth, I would not have chosen this way."

"So change it!" Salim's forehead throbbed, and he rubbed at it with the heel of his hand. "I deserve to be there."

Her face hardened into its usual shell once more. "The multiverse cares little about what we think we deserve. The same is true of our employer. Our orders were clear: I am to lead the attack on the angels. You are to oversee the destruction of Caramine's device, and the bloatmage herself."

"Fine. So let me take out Caramine's machine now, then have a high priestess here use one of those scrolls to pop me up to the Spire right before you confront the rebels."

But Maedora only shook her head. "You know better than that, Salim. Timing is critical. Nemeniah and Malchion rely on the machine to supply them with continual reinforcements. If they learn of its destruction—if they even sense something's wrong—they might flee somewhere even the Lady can't find them. We need them to feel like they can still win, right up until the moment we take them. That means an apparently weak force confronting them on the Spire—and a simultaneous attack on the Material Plane."

"Which of course means me." Salim willed his jaw to loosen before he cracked a tooth. It did nothing to lessen his headache.

"What about us?" Roshad asked.

Salim and Maedora turned to Bors and Roshad. The two men had remained mostly quiet since returning from Heaven.

"What about you?" the psychopomp asked.

"We could lead the attack here," Roshad said.

"We have experience with war," Bors added.

Looking at the bigger man's scarred armor, Salim didn't doubt it, but he shook his head, which was now pounding like a bass drum.

"Thank you," he said. "Really—we appreciate the offer. But Maedora's right. The attack here is my responsibility, and I need to be able to see it through. I just wish there was a way to be two places at—"

A stabbing pain behind Salim's eyes knocked him off balance, driving him to one knee.

"Salim!" The Iridian Fold men raced to his side, overturning one of the hard wooden chairs the church had provided.

Salim's skull felt like a cracked egg, leaking its bloody yolk onto the floor. He grabbed at his face, desperately covering his eyes, as if that could somehow stop the flow.

And then the pain was gone, as quickly as it had come. He sagged against the men holding his shoulders, letting his head dangle loose on his neck like a hanged man.

<There is a way.>

The voice was only a whisper, yet it was the whisper of thousands—a choir's murmur. It rang from the rafters of Salim's hollowed-out head.

"Anamnesis," he whispered.

Roshad frowned. "What?"

<Yes> the Caulborn leader-thing responded. <We have watched you/heard your frustration. We offer a solution.>

Salim felt cold. So the Caulborn really did watch everything that happened in the city.

<No. That would be great effort for little reward. Focus is the key to knowledge. We have watched for you, Salim.>

"Salim?" Roshad was squatting now, raising Salim's face to peer into his eyes. "What's going on?"

Salim shook his head, lifting a hand to wave the man away. He closed his eyes and tried to distill his chaotic thoughts into a single voice. A solution to what?

<A way to be two places at once.>

I don't understand.

A ripple of color pulsed across his mind—Anamnesis's amusement. <We can link you to your friends. Make you a being of many units, like us.>

No. Salim didn't bother hiding his horror at the prospect. It was bad enough to have this monster in his brain, rooting through his thoughts. He didn't need to let the whole damned neighborhood into his head.

<You require a lesser gift. Very well. We can let you see what they see, and them see what you see. Communication of only the most surface thoughts. You would share, yet retain your crippling isolation.> Another mocking color-wave.

And in return? What do you get?

<To share. To watch and record.>

A small enough request, yet Salim's skin still crawled at the thought. Could he really ask the others to open their minds, not only to him, but to an alien being beneath the city? Not Maedora, certainly. But Bors and Roshad? The men had all but pledged their lives to him with this whole machoreithing, and they already tried to share everything with each other...

Wait. Your link—can it really cross the planar boundaries? Can you watch things on other planes?

<Not usually.> The chrestomath sounded regretful. <The machine that concerns you has a strong signal, one that tears the aether. We can...insert ourselves. Ride its current.>

Salim thought of the aeons and their tower, and his own ride in that lightning river.

<Yes. It will cost us much, but we are willing. Are you?>

It was unnecessary. Unnecessarily risky, in fact, and a deliberate flouting of his orders—in spirit, if not in the precise letter. And it would involve yet another player in this already overcomplicated game of interplanar hide-and-seek.

He opened his eyes and looked up at his friends. Even Maedora appeared concerned.

"I have an idea."

∗ ∗ ∗

"They're all ready for you, gov."

Salim peered through the crack in the door. Beyond, the common room of Canary House was free of its usual high-society revelers. In their place, the room stood packed with grim-faced men and women, most armed to the hilt. Salim spotted the women he'd met on his first trip to the Bottoms, Vera and the Sweettalker Xulaine, with a large knot of people he presumed must be the anti-Caramine faction of Freemen. Yet there were plenty of others: Necromancers from Ankar-Te with their Twice-Born servants. Men who wore chisels at their belts and tiny clockwork creations clinging to their dark robes. Obvious prostitutes of both genders. More of the stitch-lipped Sweettalkers, and a company of Duskwardens, the subterranean rangers Salim had met on his way into the city. There were even a few of the massive trolls in their bloodstained togas.

"Good crowd," he muttered.

"Could you possibly have expected anything less?" Gav puffed out his chest. "With me on the job, gov, you should be surprised anyone's not in attendance. They've all sent representatives—Halman and the rest of the Freemen, the Ardoc Brothers, the Duskwardens, the Commerce League—"

"Commerce League?" Salim raised an eyebrow. "I need warriors, Gav, not merchants.

Gav stared at Salim, mouth hanging open. Slowly, he closed it and shook his head. "Apologies, gov—sometimes I forget that you're straight off the barge. Trust me on this one: those merchants scare me more than most of the others put together."

Salim grunted. "Good enough, then."

The door opened the rest of the way and Bors and Roshad slipped in. "The crows are here," the smaller man announced. "A big knot of them just showed up."

"That's everyone, then." Maedora had already gone to the Spire to ready their forces there, but Salim still needed the local Pharasmins on his side to provide magical support and healing. He didn't want any more of these people dying for Caramine's madness than absolutely necessary.

Salim looked to the two Iridian Fold men. "Ready?"

"Almost." Bors lifted something silvery and attached it to his helmet.

It was a steel mask, covering his features with a stylized replica of his face that left holes only for his eyes, nostrils, and mouth. The expressionless, inhuman smoothness made him look eerily alien.

The steel-faced man nodded silently.

"What's with the mask?" Gav asked.

"It's a litchina," Roshad explained. "A war mask. It keeps people from being able to read his expressions. His warriors won't be able to see his pain if he's injured, and a blank-faced man is more intimidating to the enemy."

"Not just the enemy," Gav said.

"Showtime," Salim said, and threw the door wide.

The muttering of the crowd quieted as Salim stepped up onto the common room's small stage, Bors and Roshad silently took up positions behind each shoulder, chain dangling loose between them.

Salim let the moment stretch. He knew every man and woman in the crowd would be studying him, taking in his dark Pharasmin robes and the half-melted sword at his side. He kept his face as blank as Bors's litchina.

"You don't know me," he said at last. "I'm not from your city. But I know what's going on in the Bottoms. And I'm here to stop it."

They all already knew that much or they wouldn't be here, yet the words still drew a mutter. Salim gave it a moment, then continued.

"You're here because you represent the most powerful factions in Kaer Maga. Between you, you keep the city's peace. By now you're no doubt well aware of the schism in the Freemen, and the fact that the bloatmage Caramine is killing your citizens." He paused. "Not just killing them, either. Using a magical device to steal their souls."

The murmuring increased. Salim knew from Gav that rumors about her motivations were already on the street—certainly Caramine hadn't been shy about announcing that she was "saving" souls. But it was one thing to hear it whispered, another stated with authority.

A voice shouted from the back, near the bar. "So what's it to you?"

Salim nodded in the voice's direction as if he'd been waiting for the question. "My name is Salim, and I serve the Lady of Graves. As you can imagine, the death goddess does not look kindly on those who steal from her. I suspect that most of you have already verified my identity with the church, or else you wouldn't have come. I can solve your problem. But to do so, I need your aid."

"And why, exactly, do we need you?" This time it was no random voice, but a gray-bearded man sitting near the front. He wore the chisel which Gav had said marked the Ardoc Brothers, a gang of golemcrafters and construct-makers that ruled the district of Bis with an iron fist. A tiny mechanical dragon clung to his left shoulder. Even seated, he had the bearing of a man used to being obeyed. "No offense, lad, but we've handled more than a bloatmage and a few escaped slaves in our time. We don't need an outsider to manage our city."

"I'm sure you don't," Salim said lightly. This was it: the beginning of the real pitch. He turned back to face the crowd. "So why haven't you? Why is Caramine still blockaded in the Bottoms? Why are your spies and the unlucky residents snatched away in her raids still getting sacrificed to her machine?"

He looked back at the bearded man, who was watching the rhetoric dispassionately.

"You rule the city by making sure nobody rules it," Salim said. "Balance of power. Nobody wants to be the first to send in their people and have them get cut down. Not only would you lose strength, you'd lose strength in relation to the other gangs. Whoever moves first loses double. Am I wrong?"

The old man's beard twitched slightly, either in amusement or irritation. "No."

"In the time it'll take you all to decide how to turn this current development to your advantage, hundreds of your fellow Kaer Magans will die. You need an outsider—somebody with no ties to anyone—that you can all support equally, knowing that nobody is benefiting more than any other."

He looked back up at the group. He kept his face hard, tone level. "That's your political reason. But your politics don't concern me. Your city's not my problem, nor even those people Caramine's murdering. I'm here because creatures from beyond the Material Plane—things Caramine calls angels, but which Heaven itself is hunting—are stealing this city's souls. And they're not going to stop unless we make them."

"He speaks truth."

Heads turned. Slowly, the green bulk of a troll rose to its feet at the back of the room, massive tusks protruding from either side of its warthog's muzzle. Its white toga was clasped at the shoulder with a golden brooch, and several bloody slashes marred the cloth over its stomach.

"Our divinations have confirmed all of this," it rumbled. "The bloatmage must be stopped. If we join together and follow the foreign crow, we will succeed. Those who don't..." It let the words hang and sat once more.

Inwardly, Salim praised Gav. He had no idea whether the boy had bought the Augurs off, or simply paid the prophets to weigh the issue and come to their own conclusions, but it didn't matter. People were already looking at him with new consideration.

Of course, there was always the chance that the Augurs really had seen success in their visions. But having spent a century working for the goddess of fate, Salim knew how fickle such assurances could be.

There was shuffling among the Freemen, and then Vera stood. Her section of the room, at least, looked relatively pleased with developments. The priestess of the Drunken God crossed meaty arms and eyed him appraisingly. "So what's your plan?"

"A simple one," Salim replied. "We gather as many warriors and casters as we can and assault Caramine's position in the Bottoms. She's well fortified, and has more than a handful of zealots with her at this point, but with a little luck we can reach the machine and destroy it—and her—before they're able to mount a proper defense." He gestured to the Iridian Fold men behind him. "My comrades Bors and Roshad will lead the assault and guide your soldiers to where they can best use their individual talents."

Vera's eyebrows shot up. "So you're not leading us?"

Us. Salim gave a mental sigh of relief. "Yes and no. I'll be in constant magical communication with both of them, but I'll be leading the battle's other front—confronting Caramine's angels directly, on Pharasma's Spire."

That got everyone's attention. Some scoffed, others looked impressed, but nobody bothered arguing the point. He had them now. They'd do their best to send as few of their own as possible, but most would contribute. To do otherwise would be to lose face in front of the other gangs—and then there was the troll's warning, whether real or fabricated.

"What about spies?" That was one of the Duskwardens, a woman who looked to be the squad's captain. "If we all knew about this meeting, Caramine must as well. And if not, someone here will sell us out."

"Of course they will." Salim looked around the room, meeting eyes. For a moment, he almost felt like he was back in the Pure Legion, addressing his soldiers. Some reflexes never went away.

"That's why we're not going to give them time to react," he said. "Gather your people. We attack at dawn."

paizo.com #3236236, Corry Douglas <corrydouglas@gmail.com>, Aug 10, 2014

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The Spire's Edge

It would be easier to just destroy it."

Salim stood with Bors and Roshad at a table in a commandeered house in the Bottoms, looking over the battle plans a final time. With the help of several Freemen, he and the Iridian Fold men had been able to sketch out both Caramine's manor and the likely defensive points within the blockade the bloatmage's gang had formed. The other gangs had made good on their commitments, and fully half a dozen squads of men and women were already in place at various points around the occupied neighborhood, watching the sky lighten and waiting for Roshad's signal to move. Roshad, for his part, stood glaring down at the map, and specifically at the icon representing Caramine's magical device.

"You're right," Salim agreed. "And if there's no other way, do what you have to. But if you can find a way to take control of the machine..." The instructions Maedora had passed on from their superiors had been quite clear: their goal was not just to neutralize Caramine, but to see if the engine could be used to reverse the damage they'd done.

"Right, I got that part." Roshad's forehead furrowed. "But I'm no bloatmage, Salim."

"You're a sorcerer. You've got magic in your blood, too. If anybody has a chance of taking control, it's you."

"And if not," Bors broke in, hefting a bandoleer of alchemical explosives volunteered by a group called the Arcanists' Circle, "we blow it up."

That seemed to cheer the smaller man, as Bors no doubt knew it would. Salim had seen how much Roshad enjoyed throwing fire around.

"We'll take it if we can," Roshad said, more confident now. "See if we can't unmake some of those cut-rate angels and take the pressure off of you and the web-woman."

"Thanks," Salim said, then glanced out the window. "Speaking of which...is there anything that still needs to be done here?"

"Not by you." Reaching up to his neck, Roshad unhooked the chain from its place on his collar, then kissed the last link and handed it to Bors. The larger man kissed it as well, then coiled it at his belt. Salim had grown so used to the men's custom of constantly chaining themselves together that seeing them untether was like watching them undress.

Roshad caught his look and nodded. "It's not easy, but even szerik must unchain sometimes, if the fighting is hot enough." He smiled up at his partner. "The Boar must be free to charge."

"And the Rabbit must be free to run." Bors leaned down and kissed the top of Roshad's head.

A lump of emotion rose in Salim's throat. His mouth opened and he found himself speaking. "Your debt is paid."

The two men stared at him blankly.

"The debt—your machorei. I helped save Bors's life, and now you're both risking yours for me. That's payment enough. In truth, you've already paid several times over, but I still need your help. So I thank you, but after this, the machoreiis ended. Deal?" He put out a hand.

Roshad and Bors shared a glance, then burst into laughter. As one, they turned and grabbed Salim's forearms.

"Does a brother stop being a brother when you're even?" Roshad shook his head. "You will always be our machorei, Salim. But you're right—the debt is paid. When this is over, we will move on. Perhaps you'll even come with us?"

"Perhaps," Salim said. "For now, though..." He gently tugged his arms free and stepped back, signaling to the black-robed figure standing quietly against the wall. The Pharasmin priest produced a scroll similar to the one Maedora had used and touched Salim's shoulder.

On a whim, Salim drew his sword and brought it up in a Rahadoumi military salute, facing the Iridian Fold men. In unison, Bors and Roshad put their fists over their hearts and inclined their heads. Then Bors reached up and attached his steel mask.

The world faded, then sharpened again.

This time, the ground wasn't covered with the rolling fog of Heaven's outlands. Instead, Salim and the priest stood on a long, rocky field, bare of anything but rough stones and rich brown dirt. To their right, perhaps an arrow's flight distant, the ground fell away into empty space, forming a ragged cliff. Beyond it, there was only the silver sky of the Astral Plane and, impossibly far below, the vague outlines of a gilded city. The craggy rock of the mesa didn't cut off in a clean line, but rather ran in jagged spurs and prominences before falling away again, giving Salim a clear view of the ledges and caves that spotted the Spire's sides, narrow paths carved by creatures long forgotten.

To their left lay an endless sea of gravestones and funerary markers. Obelisks and statues, plaques and mausoleums, wrought-iron fences and headstones worn blank by age—all stood or leaned against each other in a crowded jumble.

Directly in front of Salim and the priest, between the Spire's edge and the graveyard, stood the battle lines.

The forces were surprisingly small, just as Maedora had said they would be. Perhaps a hundred of Nemeniah and Malchion's angels stood tall, backs to the cliff. They made several impressive lines along the Spire's edge, all burning swords and upswept wings, their armor gleaming silver and gold.

They looked like—well, like angels were supposed to look, Salim thought. Majestic. Pristine. Terrifying. Even as he watched, their numbers grew, several new angels blazing into existence at random points along the line. Reinforcements from Heaven? Or was Caramine's machine sending each new Heavenly warrior straight to the front lines?

Facing the angels across the rocky plain, spaced out along the edge of the Boneyard, was a much stranger force. Salim nodded to the priest, who shook a little as he produced another scroll and transported himself back to the world of the living. Then Salim turned and walked toward his army.

Where the angels were radiant, many of them literally emitting nimbuses of golden light, Pharasma's psychopomps were the opposite. Oily black feathers cast shadows across naked bone. Most of the silent warriors were skeletons, humanoid things whose spines extended into long tails, black-plumed wings rising from their shoulders. Instead of skulls, their necks ended in ceramic masks like the faces of vultures, and they carried long scythes in their claws—symbols of their status as reapers of the fallen. Between them, crows and whippoorwills perched on gravestones, their own avian faces covered with long-beaked leather masks like plague doctors. They watched Salim approach without expression, empty eye sockets tracking him.

He found Maedora easily enough, near the center of the lines. The morrigna had shed her human disguise and was once more a web-wrapped giant, her eyes hidden behind the thick mask of gauze—if indeed she even had eyes. Standing among the lesser psychopomps, holding a staff that dangled charms and little wicker doll fetishes, she looked like a death goddess in her own right.

She caught sight of him and nodded. "It's time. The angels are starting to grow restless. The fact that we haven't crushed them or brought enough psychopomps to roll over them like a tide confuses them, but they know that every moment they wait they lose even more of the element of surprise."

Salim recalled what she'd said about building up their confidence so they didn't merely hop away with magic and spend the rest of eternity hiding out among the planes. "So are we supposed to take them alive?"

Maedora gave him a blank look. "What difference would that make?"

"Good point." Of course the goddess of death wouldn't care. He'd been thinking more of Heaven—leaders trying to seem virtuous were always instructing their troops to "take them alive," not realizing how many more of their own people such orders inevitably cost. In battle, you killed or you died, and getting fancy always played to the enemy's advantage. "How are you going to draw them out?"

"I thought you might be well suited to the task," she said. "Given your personal connection, and the fact that you specialize in aggravating those more powerful than you."

"Another good point." Salim looked across the stony field to where the angels stood massed like a flock of doves. Doves with flaming swords.

"When?" he asked.

"As soon as your people are in position," Maedora said. "Are you in contact now?"

"Not yet," Salim said. "Just a second." He closed his eyes and reached out—not to the pool of darkness that was the Lady's magic, but to something else.

Anamnesis—are you there?

<We are.> The voice inside his head felt distant, as if speaking through a wall. <Are you ready?>

Yes. Salim thought, tensing. Do it.

And then he was falling—not just down, but sideways as well. Vertigo twisted his insides as pieces of his consciousness peeled off in unfamiliar directions, like a river splitting around a rock. He was here on the Spire, but he was also

—Roshad stood next to him, directing the impatient construct wizards back into position. To the men, he probably looked serious, but Bors could sense the grin beneath his—

—that's right, little crafters! You have your toys, but Bors and Roshad have crossed half the world, and seen things you've not yet dreamt, which is why—

Salim?

The dual-voice was like a shout in his head, and Salim reflexively pulled back, somehow lowering the volume of both their voices and the stream of images. They were still there, but now it was as if their thoughts and images were like a play performed on a stage at the corner of his vision—he could turn and look if he wanted to, but also look away to his own situation and thoughts.

I'm here, he thought at them. It was amazing how even their minds felt similar—like two different houses decorated by the same person. Are you ready?

Yes.

Salim opened his eyes. "They're in position."

"Good." Maedora took a quick glance at her swarm of skeletal carrion birds, then gestured at him with her staff. "Begin."

Taking a deep breath, Salim stepped out into the no-man's land between the forces. The weight of eyes from both sides was palpable, a pricking of his skin.

Yet he wasn't alone. Maedora moved alongside him, slowing her giant's pace to match his. He kept the surprise off his face, still staring straight ahead. "I thought you wanted me to be the bait."

"This investigation belongs to both of us," Maedora said. "It's only fitting that we finish it together."

Strangely heartened, Salim stopped perhaps a third of the way across the gap to the angels. "Nemeniah and Malchion!" he called. "Show yourselves!"

There was a moment of stillness from the angels, and then a rustling of feathers. The twin angels stepped out of the ranks, not coming as far forward as Salim and Maedora, yet far enough to be seen clearly.

"So you escaped," Malchion said. "Even without your magic. Impressive."

"A Rahadoumi doesn't need any priest's tricks to survive in the desert," Salim called back. He really had no idea what he was supposed to say—they simply needed to engage the angels enough to keep things personal, give them a reason to stay and fight. So he improvised.

"Nemeniah," he called, meeting the female angel's eyes. "Malchion. What are you doing here?"

"You know what we're doing here," Nemeniah said.

"But you've already lost." Salim swept an arm toward the assembled angels. "You know you don't have the forces to take Hell's embassy on the Spire."

"There will always be more soldiers willing to die for justice," Nemeniah said.

"Especially when your machine doesn't give them a choice," Salim shot back. "But that doesn't matter—even if Caramine can churn you out a thousand new angels, the Spire won't be caught off guard again. There will be defenses you can't even imagine, waiting to destroy you."

"We're not afraid of death!" Malchion shouted.

"Of course not," Salim replied. "But what about losing? Because that's what's happening here. If you make us fight you, both Heaven and the Spire lose. Two of the greatest powers for law and order in the multiverse, massacring each other. And you know who wins? The same devils you're supposed to be fighting. They're sitting back and laughing at us. I know. I've talked to them."

"And associating with devils is supposed to make us listen to you?" Nemeniah asked.

"It works for your Censors," Salim said. "But that's not the point, and you know it. The point is that there is no point—if we fight, everyone loses."

"That's where you're wrong." Nemeniah's voice was smooth, her face taking on the beatific look it was made to wear. "Whether or not our crusade succeeds, we've made a point to the only entities that really matter: the gods of justice and light. Iomedae, Erastil, Torag, the Empyreal Lords—we've shown them that we're ready to move beyond a simple truce, to resume the holy war that will ultimately bring peace to all the planes. They've been testing us, waiting to see if we're mature enough to take initiative. And now we are."

"That," Salim said, "is the most ludicrous crock of piss I've ever heard. Your proof that they want you to do this is the fact that they've made laws against it?"

"You want proof?" Malchion yelled, stepping forward and spreading arms and wings wide. "Here's your proof, mortal! If the gods disapprove, where are they? Why haven't our patrons struck us down? Even your own goddess—the one we transgress against most in the course of our quest—hasn't stood against us herself. Instead, she's sent you, and a handful of servitors. What does that say?"

"Maybe you're not worth her time," Salim said. "You're beneath the notice of any of the gods."

"Or maybe they're tired of deciding everything," Nemeniah said. "Maybe they're leaving this one up to us."

Part of Salim admired the sheer hubris. He used the feeling, letting himself smile like an indulgent parent as he shook his head. "Nem, Mal, please—the gods haven't stopped you because you're not real threats. The game of planes and gods is bigger than any of us can really understand. You, me, Maedora here—we're just pawns."

"Maybe so," Nemeniah said, voice lowering. "But even a pawn can challenge a king, if she survives long enough." She turned and unslung the enormous hammer from her back. Malchion followed suit.

"Angels!" she cried, raising her weapon high. "For justice!"

They spun and brought their hammers down toward the psychopomps. The angelic line surged forward around them.

Salim looked at Maedora. "I think we got what we wanted."

"Well executed," Maedora agreed. "You really do have a talent for this." Then she raised her own staff and pointed.

They charged.

paizo.com #3236236, Corry Douglas <corrydouglas@gmail.com>, Aug 10, 2014

Chapter Thirty

Pulling Threads

Salim had seen plenty of charges in his time—guards storming a house, infantry rushing fortifications, cavalry thundering toward an army's flanks. Yet this was the first time he'd been part of one quite so three-dimensional. He and Maedora let the rush of their own forces catch up and sweep them along. As they ran, winged shapes on both sides took to the sky, creating not just two battle lines, but two vertical walls rolling toward each other like storm clouds.

Next to him, Maedora raised her staff and shouted. As she did, portions of the wrappings she wore unraveled into the long tentacles he'd seen in the Forum of Tears, thrashing the air around her like an enraged octopus.

She gave another, equally incomprehensible shout, and the remaining spider silk against her skin bulged grotesquely, then burst, releasing a torrent of hand-sized spiders that fell to the ground, already scuttling toward the enemy.

Salim ran without looking down, trusting the psychopomp's arachnid children to stay out from under his feet. Somehow, he didn't think he was ever going to be able to look at her in quite the same way again.

Still, she was right to take the opportunity. If Salim was going to cast any spells, now was the time. He felt the old, familiar hesitation.

Screw it. If he was going to fight the goddess's battle for her, she could damn well watch his back.

Salim reached down into the dark well of her magic, filling himself with her oily essence. This he pushed outward, shaping it into a bubble around him. The air shimmered briefly in a globe, then became transparent again: a simple shield spell, but possibly enough to turn one of the angels' flaming blades. He dipped again, and this time cast the magic wide, spraying it thin over those around him in a blessing to sharpen blades—or beaks, or claws—and dull the enemy's.

No doubt the other side was doing the same thing, blessing each other with whatever magic Heaven's gods still granted them. Salim would be damned if he'd let them hog all the divine advantage.

The armies met. With a howl of exhilaration, Salim drew his sword and threw himself into the fray.

∗ ∗ ∗

It was strange to have Salim in the back of his mind. In fact, everything about this situation was strange.

Bors considered himself a simple man. Sure, he was more educated than most, but Roshad was the one who exulted in plotting and being clever. Bors liked things clear and straightforward. And nothing was more straightforward than a fight.

Screams rang out from the other side of Caramine's blockaded neighborhood. That would be the majority of their force hitting the western side, led by the Ardoc wizards and their skittering clockwork creatures. With any luck, Caramine's people would all be sprinting to shore up the defenses on that front, leaving only a token guard in other areas—or none at all if they weren't properly organized. Which meant that no one would see him and Roshad come over the eastern blockades with the fastest warriors the remaining Freemen had.

It was a simple plan, and that made Bors happy. It also made Roshad happy—and therein lay even more strangeness. Despite all the years that the two of them had been szerik, Bors had never felt Roshad literally inside his head before. Yet now he could close his eyes and see through Roshad's—see himself and the rest of the infiltration team crouched in the darkened alley, counting off the seconds till they moved. He felt the fiery little sorcerer's love for him like a hot stone in his chest, distinct from his own and yet so familiar.

If this was what true szerik felt like, then he and Roshad would pursue it until the end of their days.

"Time." Roshad spoke not for Bors's benefit—not anymore—but for the others. Vera, the big cleric of the Drunken God, nodded and signaled to her people. They stood silently and sprinted across the street, Bors and Roshad at their head.

The barricade between the houses was weak at this point: little more than furniture from nearby homes slapped together with a few nails and support beams. Bors reached up and grabbed the back of a chair, then a protruding table leg, and hauled himself up and over. Beside him, Roshad and the lightly armored Freemen bounded over it like squirrels.

He landed on the other side, facing the spears of two shocked guards. The men hesitated, and Bors's Freemen raised their crossbows.

Roshad stepped between them and raised a hand. "Sleep."

The guards' eyes rolled back in their heads, and they slumped to the ground.

Vera paused to clap Roshad on the shoulder, then continued to race down the street with her people. Roshad and Bors caught up but hung a few paces back from the front, letting the locals lead them through this warren of streets.

Bors's heart surged with pride. Vera's Freemen weren't just fighting a battle—they were facing down their former friends. Soon, they'd have to start killing those misguided comrades, and that was how it had to be—war was no place for sentiment. Yet Roshad and his magic had saved them from having to kill these two. He'd seen this spell more times than he could count, and by the time the men woke, the battle would likely already be decided. The men would keep their lives, and Vera's people would keep their innocence a few moments longer.

Wordlessly, he sent his love across the new connection between their minds, feeling the answering glow from Roshad. The sorcerer might pretend to be crotchety and jaded, but Bors knew the heart that burned underneath that veil. His Rabbit was a good man.

∗ ∗ ∗

Roshad spread his fingers and burned the men at the gate, bowstrings snapping and bolts flying wild as the men screamed and clutched at blackened skin. He put a boot in the chest of one and kicked him into the other, knocking them both aside, then directed two Freemen up and over the wooden gate. The rest of the warriors strung out to either side, hiding in the shadows at the base of the wall.

The smell of burning flesh wafted up from the corpses, and for the thousandth time Roshad wished he'd bothered to enchant his veil. He didn't regret burning them—they'd resisted his sleeping spell, and these people were a murderous cult, angels or no—but gods, the stench was like the Rough Beast's chamber pot.

The gates swung opened as the two acrobatic Freemen withdrew the bar. Vera led the rest of her team inside—a proper leader, that one. Big women always knew how to get things done. Bors was right behind her, unslinging his huge sword and then automatically pausing to wait for Roshad.

Bors. Even with his face hidden behind the litchina, the man was beautiful. Big as a bear and prowling like a lion, even in his heavy lacquered armor. Roshad might have magic, but Bors could pick him up with one hand. In anyone else, that might have been intimidating. With Bors, it made him feel invincible.

They crossed the grounds between the wall and Caramine's brick monstrosity of a manor at a run, all of them keenly aware of the windows hanging open above their heads, waiting for the arrows to begin flying. Yet none came. As they had hoped, Caramine's troop was built more on religious fervor than proper discipline. They'd heard an attack on the west side, and now all eyes were staring that direction.

Roshad moved up to the front. Last time he'd come in through a window, but he'd still seen the side door. He led their twenty-some warriors down the side of the house toward it. It was nothing grand—the sort of door servants used to take out garbage and night soil without going through the kitchens—and if one of the Freemen could unlock it quietly, perhaps—

The door opened. Something huge passed under the lintel and then unfurled, bright wings over dark, corded muscle. A mace as long as Roshad's leg burst into brilliant flame as the angel turned toward them.

"Oh shit," Roshad said.

∗ ∗ ∗

Salim fought. As always in these situations, there was no room in his head for anything else. Glimpses of Bors and Roshad crept through, the assault on the manor, yet were pushed out again by the rush of action and reaction. A glowing mace came in from the side and he ducked its sunburst head. A flaming blade met his own and pushed him back a step before he slipped free of the bind and riposted, drawing blood from an angel's knee.

The battle was unnaturally quiet. Maedora's psychopomps made no sound but the fluttering of wings as they fought, and when they fell there was only the sharp cracking of dry bone. The angels had their war cries and shouted commands, yet they too fell with unnatural grace, not demeaning themselves with the shrieks and sobs of wounded mortals. Neither side soiled themselves as they bled out on the dusty stone. They were only half-real—creatures of the planes, a literal battle of ideas.

A golden arrow tore through the skin of Salim's left arm, gouging a bloody furrow along the outside of his shoulder. The pain brought him back into the moment. Surreal or not, this was still a battle of life and death.

He fought side by side with Maedora, keeping her on his left to give his sword arm maximum room. From the corner of his eye, he watched in horrified fascination as her swarm of spiders flowed up angelic forms, pumping poison into perfect flesh with a thousands tiny fangs. Those enemies who got too close met her spinning staff, or the white ropes of webbing tentacles which lashed out with unnatural precision, grabbing up enemies and tossing them out of the way. One tendril caught an arrow in midair, snagging it just inches from Maedora's eyeless mask and snapping it in half.

A vulture-headed psychopomp slammed to the ground in front of Salim, and he leapt over its jumble of bones. Above, the battle raged, a swarm of activity that reminded Salim of the fish that schooled in Azir's harbor, how as a child he'd dived down to the reef and looked up through their flickering shapes.

A lean angel with dark purple wings and a flaming sword landed in front of him, squaring off. Salim tried to dodge around him—he couldn't afford to get bogged down, not if he wanted to reach Nemeniah and Malchion. The angel responded by bringing one wing around in a buffet that smashed into Salim's side with the force of a horse's kick, knocking him back into place.

Beneath glowing eyes, a perfect lip curled. "After all that talk, you're afraid to fight?"

"Only afraid of you wasting my time." Salim brought his blade in line, but the bravado tasted false in his mouth. Among ordinary warriors, Salim figured he could hold his own on any battlefield. But angels didn't obey the same rules. The magic inherent in his blade might let him hurt them, but they were still larger, stronger, and faster. They also had about a millennium of experience on him.

Or at least, some did. Salim seized on the thought. "So, you new here?"

The angel didn't respond, just swung in for a high line attack. Salim met the flaming blade with the flat of his own, angling so that the angel's weapon slid harmlessly away. Even so, the force of the strike was immense.

"Not that I object," Salim said, "I was just really hoping to fight someone with seniority, you know? I don't want to wear myself out on every novice with a fresh set of wings."

The angel snarled and swept around for another strike. This time Salim simply stepped back out of range at the last second, the sword's flames licking at his robes, then darted in and scored a hit on the angel's side.

"Who knows?" Salim said. "You might even get a lucky hit, and then where would I be?"

With a roar, the angel brought his weapon down in an artless overhand chop designed to split Salim in two. Salim stepped aside and turned his blade almost vertical, guiding the strike down into the dirt, then spun inside and slammed the Melted Blade's point through the angel's chest. The angel jerked with surprise as bright red blood fountained onto his chin.

Salim looked up into the angel's eyes, their glow already fading.

"You might be shaped like an angel," Salim whispered, "but inside, you're still just some dumb bastard from Kaer Maga." Then, remembering how indiscriminately Caramine had begun harvesting, he added: "Find your rest elsewhere."

He let the angel slump to the ground and withdrew his sword. Dodging past angels and psychopomps locked together in growling, grappling tangles, he spotted Maedora and made it to her side just as the press in front of her parted and two figures stepped through.

"Finally," the psychopomp said, smiling.

∗ ∗ ∗

Even if the angel had been human, Bors would have thought twice before challenging it. The huge flaming mace dangled easily from one of the creature's hands, and it moved as one born to combat.

"Did you really think we would leave this place unguarded?" Its voice was neither masculine nor feminine—the cold tolling of a winter bell.

Bors raised his sword and moved in.

"Back!" Roshad yelled. A spark flew from the sorcerer's hand, growing into a massive fireball that slammed into the angel, filling the courtyard with the stench of burning feathers. The angel staggered backward, slapping at the flames, its own blazing weapon flailing wildly.

Bors already understood the sorcerer's plan, but Roshad shouted it to the others. "Get to the main hall! Don't waste time!" Without waiting to see if the Freemen would follow, he ducked past the momentarily distracted angel and through the door, Bors hot on his heels. Behind him, the angel shouted in surprise and frustration, his words cut off as Freemen slammed and barred the door.

They wove through the hallways with Roshad in the lead, following one of the preplanned routes. Bors didn't bother trying to follow his own mental map—Roshad knew where they were, and that meant Bors knew, too.

A knot of Caramine's Freemen appeared, rushing toward the sounds of conflict. Roshad didn't even break stride as he shot flame down the hall, torching several of the warriors and sending the others tumbling into doorways for cover. One tried to duck back in and hamstring the sorcerer as he passed, and Bors opened him from navel to throat, then kicked him into the side room and kept running.

Several warriors were in the process of closing and barring the doors to the great hall just as Bors and his team reached it. Seeing the iron-banded wood swinging shut, Bors put his shoulder down and charged.

He hit the narrowing crack of light between the doors at a sprint, armored shoulder slamming into the wood in unison with several Freemen and sending the heavy doors flying open. The warriors holding the bar on the other side went sprawling backward onto the tiled floor.

The grand chamber was much as Bors remembered it. The grotesque machine still whirred and thrummed on its dais. Beside it, Freewoman Caramine still squatted on her throne like a toad, the blood-filled tubes running into her wrists. Unlike last time, however, at least twenty men and women lay bound hand and foot on the floor in front of the dais, like hogs ready for slaughter.

There were also more defenders. Dozens of heads turned toward the intruders as the doors burst open. Worse, another angel stood in the middle of the guardians, a full foot taller than anyone else, with golden wings that stretched toward the ceiling.

Caramine turned her eyes from the latest sacrifice strapped to her vertical altar. They landed on Bors and Roshad.

"You two again." She sounded bemused.

Her hand came up, and Bors flung himself to the side just as a crackle of lightning shot from her finger. It slammed into the man standing behind him, then through him to the next and the next in a sizzling line. Eyes boiled and burst as the victims fell to the ground, twitching.

Half a dozen crossbow bolts flew through the air toward Caramine. An arm's length from the throne, however, they suddenly swerved, veering off in different directions and clattering harmlessly against the stone walls.

Vera's Freemen leapt forward with a roar, and Caramine's force rushed to meet them. Bors felt Roshad slip in behind him and began to hew them a path through the press toward the dais.

A woman with two handaxes ducked his swing and tried to move inside his guard, and he lashed out with an armored elbow, breaking her nose. Another enemy managed to squeal the tip of his rapier across Bors's litchina, just barely missing his eye, before Bors's heavier blade half-severed the clever sword arm at the shoulder.

Then they were through the worst of it and charging toward the dais.

The angel stepped forward, blocking their way. This one was clearly female, dark-skinned, her golden hair and eyes matching her brilliant plumage. Her armor was heavy gilded plate, the kind no sane warrior wore except when mounted, yet she moved as if it were no more than a summer dress. The spiked head of her mace glowed like a tiny sun.

"Caramine," Bors said. "Go."

Roshad hesitated, and across the bridge of their minds Bors could feel the smaller man's reluctance to leave him.

"Go!"

Roshad went, sprinting sideways toward the nearest wall.

Bors brought his sword up to his steel-clad forehead in a salute. The angel looked momentarily surprised, then did the same, lips twisting in a little smile.

Gripping his sword in both hands, Bors attacked.

∗ ∗ ∗

Stupid stupid stupid. What in Hell's nine layers did Bors think he was doing facing down an angel alone? The man was skilled, and strong as a bull—and as stubborn—but that angel woman was a head taller than him, probably had better magic than Bors's cut-rate enchantments, and was quite possibly immortal. That wasn't the same as unkillable, but...gods damn it all!

Not that Roshad was any better equipped to take out an angel. He'd gotten lucky with the fireball in the courtyard, and wasn't sure it'd done much more than distract the creature anyway. Behind him, the Freemen were finally having it out, hacking away at each other, but Roshad wasn't here to help them settle their debts. If he wanted to end this—and he needed to end this, as quickly as possible—there was only one person he could afford to worry about. Bors understood that, which was why he was busy distracting the angel.

Roshad needed to make the big oaf's seconds count.

He reached the wall and leapt at it, shouting the words of the spell and twisting in the air to land horizontally against it, belly flat against the stone, gripping it with hands and feet suddenly unnaturally sticky. He began to scuttle across it like a gecko, climbing up above head height and then racing sideways across the wall's surface. As he turned the corner, he saw Bors bring his sword down from a salute and leap blade-first toward the angel.

Idiot. Beautiful, courageous idiot.

Roshad reached the center of the back wall and dropped just as another lighting bolt crashed into the stone where he'd been clinging, blasting masonry into expensive shrapnel. He looked up and saw Caramine twisted as far around on her throne as her awkward umbilicals would allow, maneuvering for another shot.

Roshad didn't give her the chance. Still on all fours, he raised a hand and shouted an incantation.

Caramine froze as her entire body went rigid.

Roshad smiled. After the fireball, this was his best spell—not strong enough to stop her breathing or heartbeat, but enough to make Caramine a prisoner inside her own skin, every external muscle seized tight in its current position.

It would only last a few moments, but that was enough. He made sure to stay within view of Caramine's frozen eyes as he drew his knife and moved forward, crouching next to her chair.

"Remember," he said softly, "if you really are doing the gods' work, you have nothing to fear. You'll be an angel like them in no time."

Did those eyes widen slightly in understanding? Not possible, of course. He leaned in closer, whispering in her ear.

"But you shouldn't have messed with true love."

He raised the knife and slit her throat.

∗ ∗ ∗

The angelic siblings moved apart like mirror images, holding their long-hafted warhammers in identical two-handed grips. In mortal hands, the weapons' oversized heads would have made them ridiculously unbalanced, yet the angels manipulated them with thoughtless grace.

Salim and Maedora split as well, refusing to let the angels circle them. Salim matched Nemeniah stride for stride. "Glad to see you're not going to hide behind your creations for the whole battle."

"That would be inefficient," Nemeniah replied. "We need these troops to fulfill our sacred mission. Better to cut the head off the snake ourselves."

"Funny," Salim said, "that was our thought as well."

The angels moved. There was no giveaway, no twitch of the eye or shifting of weight. One second the angels were standing tall, the next the warhammers were whipping in sideways. Salim jumped backward, out of the path of the swing—and somehow Nemeniah checked her momentum, stopping the hammer mid-arc and thrusting it forward. The flat top of the hammer's head, as large as a human shield, slammed into Salim's chest, knocking the wind out of him and sending him reeling.

Nemeniah whipped the hammer high, bringing it down again in a deadly curve designed to pulp Salim's skull like a melon. Gasping, he threw himself forward, inside the hammer's range, and took only the impact of the haft on his shoulder. Even that was enough to drive him down to one knee, his collarbone screaming in protest. Ignoring it, he grabbed the hammer's haft with his free hand and used it to pull himself farther forward, slashing at the angel's unprotected legs and scoring a red line across smooth ankles.

Nemeniah yanked the hammer back and Salim held on, letting her lift him to his feet. She reversed the motion, breaking his grip, then pinwheeled the weapon to bring the spike on the butt end of the haft over and around in a vicious stab. Salim danced sideways, the spike lancing the air over his shoulder, and scrambled backward as the angel whirled the weapon right-side up once more.

This was no good. As much as Salim's ego wanted him to be able to finish these two on his own—or at least with Maedora's help—he was only human. Beneath Nemeniah's smooth features lay something far stronger and older than any mortal woman.

Maedora. Salim glanced over and saw the psychopomp locked tight with Malchion. Two of her webbing tentacles had wound themselves around the angel's hammer and were holding it steady while she brought her own staff around in a blurring series of blows on the angel's arms and head. Malchion, bloody and snarling, refused to let go of the hammer, accepting each hit as he tensed every muscle in an effort to tear his weapon free.

At least someone might have a chance against these two, Salim thought.

Nemeniah apparently reached the same conclusion. Ignoring Salim, she shot sideways and swung her hammer in a hundred-and-eighty-degree horizontal arc.

The blow caught Maedora flat on the back, crunching bone. Maedora stumbled forward, tentacles convulsing and releasing Malchion's hammer. She managed to catch herself with her staff to keep from falling—and then Nemeniah swung again. The psychopomp half-turned, and the hammer caught her in the side, folding her like a sheet of paper and throwing her to the ground.

Nemeniah raised her hammer a third time.

"No!" Salim charged Nemeniah, sword high. The angel turned, saw him coming, and brought the hammer down in an easy block—but of course that was the point. Salim took it, the impact singing down his blade and up through his forearms, then ducked past. He stood over Maedora's limp form, sword flicking back and forth, doing his best to menace both Nemeniah and Malchion at once.

The angels flanked him. Salim drew his dagger with his off hand and settled for standing sideways over the psychopomp, arms extended to point at each angel.

Malchion stutter-stepped forward and Salim readied himself to block, but the blow never came. Knowing what must be following, Salim ducked sideways and brought his sword around just in time to deflect Nemeniah's swing. Then he was staggering back the other way as Malchion's hammer completed its original swing, clipping Salim's wounded shoulder and spinning him around.

Malchion chuckled, and Salim caught sight of the angel's face. Through the blood streaming from a gash on his forehead, the angel was grinning.

Not good. Not good at all. Salim nudged Maedora with his foot and hissed. "Get up, damn you!"

Maedora groaned and stirred, her hands moving in feeble, spasmodic gestures.

"So noble," Malchion laughed. "Standing guard over the body of a fallen comrade. Do you think you're one of us, Salim?"

"I'm nothing like you." Salim spun in a slow circle as the angels began to stalk around him.

"Of course you are, Salim." Nemeniah looked sad once more—her features seemed made for a particular brand of long-suffering, maternal regret. "Me and Malchion, you, her"—her hammer dipped to indicate Maedora's limp form—"we're all just trying to serve our own understanding of the greater good."

"The only thing you're serving is chaos," Salim snapped. "Every moment this conflict goes on weakens both Heaven and the Spire."

Nemeniah nodded. "We agree. Which is why we need to end this quickly."

She stepped forward and raised her hammer.

∗ ∗ ∗

The angel brought her weapon down.

Bors didn't dodge or parry. Instead, he stepped in and caught the morningstar's haft on the strong of his blade, then wound around it, bringing his sword to bear on the angel's neck. The angel jerked back in surprise, shoving hard against Bors's blade and pushing him backward before he could do more than scratch a shrieking line across her golden gorget.

The angel looked more serious now as she approached him. The sun-headed mace came up and around in a slow weave, spinning easily in the angel's hand, a display no doubt intended to intimidate—but then, that's what the litchina was for. Bors refused to move, hoping his blank-faced silence would unnerve the angel in return.

The mace swung in and he blocked it with the flat of his blade, binding and stepping through to sweep her leg. It was like trying to trip a tree stump. The angel backhanded him with her free hand, her armored gauntlet ringing off the side of his helmet and spinning him sideways. He got his sword up in time to deflect the next mace blow, and despite the slight wobble to the room, he launched a counterattack, stabbing down at the crack where the tasset guarding the angel's hip met the cuisse covering her thigh. He felt the blade bite home and saw the shock and rage on the angel's face. He ripped his sword free as the angel shouted and lashed out, her mace grazing his side as he whirled away.

Instead of pressing the attack, however, the angel withdrew a few steps and raised her mace in both hands. Holding the sunburst at head height, she began whispering, words both musical and meaningless.

There was a flash, and then six identical angels stood in a cluster where before there had been only one. Eyes blank and golden, they spread apart and drew back their weapons to strike.

Under the litchina, Bors grinned. He'd always expected to die gloriously in battle, but this might prove even more impressive than he'd hoped.

∗ ∗ ∗

The machine continued to hum.

Roshad had hoped that killing Caramine might have miraculously undone all the sacrifices she and the machine had performed together, but it had only been a faint hope. Clearly, the machine was designed better than that, with fail-safes to keep it running in the event that Caramine was incapacitated—or needed to get up and take a piss, he supposed.

The paralysis spell had worn off, and Carmine now slumped forward on her arcane throne, the wound in her neck still leaking prodigious amounts of blood as her body slowly shriveled down to a more normal size.

Roshad wrinkled his nose. No matter how much power these bloatmages got from all the extra blood, it'd be a cold day in Calistria's bed before anyone caught Roshad pumping himself up like an overripe berry.

Still, no time to be squeamish. He took Caramine's right hand, being careful to note the locations of each tube's insertion, then slid the tubes free, adding new tributaries to the lake of blood pooling in the bloatmage's lap. He did the same with the left hand, then grabbed her shoulders and rolled her forward out of the chair. She landed on the stairs to the dais with a wet thump.

He heard new shouts rise above the general din as members of Carmine's congregation caught sight of his blasphemy. He ignored them. The floor of the great hall was a swirling mass of combatants, and Vera and her people would keep them off him for the time being.

Even with its creator unplugged and discarded, the machine continued to hum.

Grimacing, Roshad sat down in the chair and gingerly picked up one of the tubes. It was slightly smaller around than his pinky, and hollow like a reed. Most of it was flexible, but the last several inches tapered into a hollow steel shaft like the biggest leatherworker's needle he'd ever seen. Caramine's blood wept from the hole in its tip.

"Magic blood, eh?" Roshad glanced over at the corpse chained upright to the machine's altar, the steel point still protruding from his chest, then back at the needle in his hand.

At the foot of the dais, the angel Bors was fighting suddenly divided into a half-dozen copies of itself. Roshad had seen similar illusions before—at least, he hoped it was an illusion—but it still wouldn't make it any easier for Bors to fight. More concerning still, the angel Roshad had burned in the courtyard now loomed in the entrance to the room, plumage blackened and worse for wear but still clutching its flaming sword.

Right then. No time to waste.

Roshad took a deep breath and stabbed the needle-tube into his forearm, sliding it under the skin in a clumsy attempt to follow the vein. Pain shot through him, burning as he slid the tube deeper, but he didn't give himself time to think, instead grabbing the next needle and inserting it. Then the next. His hand spasmed and shook as he switched hands, driving the remaining needles into his unmarked wrist. He hoped he hadn't nicked a nerve, but no time for that now. A buzz like an electrical current rose above the fire in his arms, climbing up his shoulders, into his neck, and—

He saw.

No, that wasn't quite accurate—his eyes still watched the melee in the great hall and, more remotely, Salim's battle on the Spire. It wasn't even precisely that he understood. It was more like he felt the machine, sensed its function like an organ he hadn't known he possessed, a second heart beating in time. He could feel the pull of the machine's magic, the invisible ties stretching out across space and planar boundaries—the trailing tails of hundreds of transformed souls. Kites on a string.

He couldn't cut them. That much was immediately obvious. These links were the machine, wrapped up in the spells that bound it together and made it function—he could no more cut those ties than he could will his own heart to stop. And destroying it...the first time Roshad had seen the machine, in those few moments as they rescued Bors, he had sensed the incredible power of the engine, unstable reservoirs only barely contained. This machine was a coiled spring, an armed catapult—start trying to disassemble it and it might just tear itself apart, taking everyone around with it.

He couldn't cut the strings. But maybe he could pull.

Mentally, like a man feeling blindly for something inside a pack, Roshad reached out and fumbled for a string, picking the first one that came to hand. He tugged, gently.

Across the great hall, the burned angel gagged and stumbled mid-charge, sagging to its knees. It clutched its chest and turned startled eyes on Roshad.

Grinning, Roshad began gathering threads by the handful.

∗ ∗ ∗

This was it. There was no way that Salim could defend against both of the angels at once—their teamwork was nothing short of telepathic. As soon as he focused on one, the other would take his head off.

For an instant, Salim wondered if Pharasma would actually let him die this time—if getting mashed to paste in defense of the Spire would at last fulfill his obligations. Somehow, he doubted it.

Then there was no time to think as Nemeniah moved, hammer coming in low and sweeping up to—

Silver-white tendrils shot out from beneath Salim's feet and snagged the hammer, pulling Nemeniah off balance. Salim didn't question, simply spun and got his blade up in time to deflect Malchion's matching overhand blow.

He felt something slap at his ankles and leapt aside as Maedora rolled out from beneath him, coming to her feet just as Nemeniah ripped her hammer free of the webbing.

Salim didn't take his eyes from Malchion. He put his back to Maedora's, savoring the comforting weight of her presence. "I thought you were down for good."

"I would have been," she said, voice ragged, "if you hadn't given me time to cast a healing spell." A cold hand reached back and touched his side. "Thank you."

"Thank me by dealing with these two."

"Oh, you'll deal with us," Malchion growled, stepping forward once more. "Don't worry about that."

Before he could attack, however, there came a shift in the sounds of combat. Angelic voices rose in confusion, and Salim looked past Malchion's shoulder to see several angels drop spontaneously to the ground like puppets with their strings cut.

Malchion's eyes grew wide. He glanced frantically around at the unexpectedly turning tide of battle, then back at Salim. "What's happening?"

Salim didn't need to consult the telepathic bond in his mind to know what it meant. He smiled. "That's the end, Malchion. Roshad's found a way to reverse your machine and break all your new toys."

"Impossible!" Yet the angel sounded uncertain, as brilliantly burning combatants fell from the sky around them like shooting stars.

"It's over," Maedora echoed from behind Salim. "You can't fight the inevitable any longer."

"Maybe not," Malchion agreed. Then he raised his hammer and sprang forward. "But there's still time to take you with us!"

∗ ∗ ∗

Another of the fake angels popped like a soap bubble as Bors's greatsword cleaved through its phantom neck. Knowing that he'd gambled and lost, that there was no time to defend against the true angel behind him, Bors braced himself for the inevitable impact of the sun-headed morningstar crashing into his back, perhaps piercing his armor and spearing a ray into his kidney.

Yet the attack didn't come. He spun and saw that the two remaining angelic clones were down on their knees, maces forgotten on the tile, clutching at their heads. They looked up at Bors in unison, golden eyes seeming dimmer, pleading.

Bors didn't question his luck. Instead he thrust quickly and lightly at the one on the left. When it tinged off steel instead of popping another magical bubble, he grinned fiercely behind his mask and brought the sword around in the same flat arc that had dispatched the illusion.

Blood sprayed over him as the blade opened the kneeling angel's neck all the way to her spine. She fell without fanfare, the illusory double next to her winking out of existence as she keeled over to the side and lay still.

He was alive after all. And all swordplay aside, he knew exactly who was responsible. He looked up, toward the machine and the throne that controlled it. It's working! he sent over the mental link. You're doing it, Roshad!

Yet something was wrong. Roshad didn't have his usual veiled smirk, the one he treated Bors to whenever he felt he'd said or done something particularly clever. Instead, Roshad sat rigid in the chair, clutching its arms so hard that the veins and tendons stood out on the back of his hands. His eyes rolled back in his head, and even as Bors looked on in horror, blood began to bloom on the sorcerer's veil.

Bors ran for the stairs.

∗ ∗ ∗

And I thought the problem would be making it work.

Roshad's veins ran with fire, surging up from the tubes in his arms and coursing through his chest, his legs, his brain. The great hall around him faded in and out of view as his senses were overwhelmed and relinquished by those of the machine.

The machine. Roshad had been able to reverse its process, all right—every invisible thread he'd grabbed and yanked had pulled down another artificial angel, reeling the stolen soul essence back in and depriving Heaven's heretics of another trooper. He smiled through clenched teeth as he saw Bors's opponent go down, clutching her head for the seconds before Bors relieved her of it.

But the machine hadn't stopped there. Roshad had reeled in a few of the spiritual kites, but then the machine had gotten the idea and taken over. Just as a tiny crack in a dike is torn wide by the pressure of the water behind it, a few pulled threads was all it had taken to reverse polarity and send every soul the machine had stolen streaming back down its tether, into the machine.

And into Roshad. He could feel the pressure building, collecting inside the union of his body and the machine. Frantically, he tried to push it back out, send it sailing up its strings back to the angels it sustained, but the machine was having none of it.

The Redemption Engine was calling its children home.

All of them.

∗ ∗ ∗

They were winning, and yet they were losing.

As nice as it was to have Maedora back on her feet, it wasn't enough. The morrigna had to be hurting more than she let on, and her movements were getting progressively more sluggish. Even in their top shape, Salim and the psychopomp might not have been enough for the angelic siblings, their incredible strength and perfectly synchronized timing. All around them, angels plummeted from the sky or went down under the skeletal claws of the avian psychopomps, yet none of the Spire's minions seemed inclined to come to their leaders' defense. Another test from the Gray Lady?

Nemeniah swung her hammer, and this time Maedora wasn't quite fast enough. Instead of angling her staff to deflect the blow, she caught it flat, taking its full force. The staff shattered, Maedora crying out as she stumbled backward into Salim and almost fell.

Instantly, Salim was there, parrying the follow-up blow and swinging wildly to try and keep Nemeniah from closing. If this were a one-on-one fight, he'd want her close, want to slip inside her guard where the length of that hammer would be a hindrance, but with Malchion behind him...

He spun just in time to feel the hooked tail of Malchion's hammer head slide around his calves. The angel yanked, pulling Salim's feet out from under him and sending him sprawling in the dirt. The hammer rose high for the killing blow—

A flaming blade slashed downward, severing Malchion's left wing. The angel screamed and dropped to one knee as blood gouted and bright feathers fell to the ground.

Arathuziel the Chained stood behind him, iron-bound wings spread wide, one hand holding the blazing sword. He smiled—not a friendly smile—and the motion changed the courses of the bloody streams that ran from his black eyes.

"Malchion!" Nemeniah broke off her attack on Maedora and ran for her brother.

"Not so fast." Maedora's tendrils whipped out and caught the angel by the ankles, dragging her down to the ground as well. The two giant women grappled in the dust, clawed hands tearing at each other.

"I thought Heaven didn't make exceptions." Salim couldn't stop the question from popping out.

Arathuziel's smile widened. "As my friends here will tell you, sometimes you have to break the rules for the greater good."

From the ground, one hand clutching at his bleeding wing-stump, Malchion attempted to swing his hammer up and around. Arathuziel responded by stomping down on the angel's wrist, pinning it to the earth with a crunch of bone. He looked to Salim. "Mind if I do the honors?"

"Not at all." Salim rose to his feet.

Arathuziel lifted the burning sword. "Malchion, by the authority of Heaven, the righteous gods, and the ideals you claim to serve, I hereby find you guilty of treason and heresy. Do you have any last defense?"

Malchion spat up at Arathuziel, the gobbet landing on his white robes. "Go back to Hell, devil."

Arathuziel inclined his head. "Maybe someday, cousin. But not today."

The blazing sword came down, severing Malchion's head from his shoulders.

Nemeniah screamed. With a burst of strength, she slammed the head of her hammer directly into Maedora's masked face, sending the psychopomp flying up and off the angel to land on her back in the dust. The angel rose, still keening like a wounded animal, and started toward Arathuziel, hammer high.

Over the corpse of her brother, Arathuziel spread his arms and let her come.

The gesture seemed to trigger something in Nemeniah. Through the bloody haze of her fury, she managed to check herself, pulling up short. Her fingers traced complicated paths through the air as she spat words of making.

A column formed in the air, twenty feet high, with her at its center. At first Salim took it for some sort of cyclone, but then he looked closer and saw the thousands of dagger-sized blades whirling and dancing within it. It solidified, flashing steel almost obscuring the angel.

"No," said Arathuziel, stretching out a hand. "I don't think so."

The tower of blades collapsed, cascading down and vanishing at the point where each blade would have touched the ground.

Looking more scared than furious, now, Nemeniah began weaving a new spell, arching her arms and wings over her head.

Arathuziel's outstretched hand twisted, and a ray of green light shot from his palm to strike Nemeniah in the chest. It coursed over her without seeming to harm her, the emerald light clinging to her skin.

"No running away, either," Arathuziel noted. "We finish this here."

Nemeniah screamed and charged. The chained angel met her wild stroke with a perfect two-handed parry, and Salim saw his smile turn predatory as the fight began in earnest.

Salim ran over to kneel at Maedora's side. "Maedora? Are you alive?"

The blank mask stared back at him, its white webbing stained with blood. Then she coughed and sat up, clutching at his arm for leverage.

"Alive?" She hacked again, spitting blood onto the dirt. "This is no time for philosophy, Salim."

Salim grinned and put a hand on her shoulder. "Stay here and heal yourself."

He turned. Above Malchion's body, the fallen angel and redeemed devil lashed out at each other again and again, sparks flashing as their weapons met. Nemeniah fought like a berserker, her despair making her fearless. Despite his burning sword, Arathuziel was the opposite: as cold as a snake, each movement of his great blade precise and calculated. It was a surprisingly fair fight.

Good thing Salim didn't believe in fair fights. He hefted the Melted Blade.

Remembering the Censors in the Vault of Corrections, Salim called upon the goddess's magic once more, bending the light in a veil around himself. Silently, he crept across the space between them. Over the din of the surrounding battle, he could hear Nemeniah's gasping sobs as she hammered again and again at Arathuziel's impeccable defenses. To her credit, the chained angel was no longer smiling, a look of intense concentration on his face as he countered each massive blow.

"Malchion!" Nemeniah called as she swung again. "Malchion!"

For a moment, the angel's pain was so real, so obvious, that Salim couldn't help but feel sorry for her. In this moment of grief, she was no angel, no traitor—just a woman robbed of her brother.

Then Salim remembered the man strapped to the altar of the Redemption Engine, the spike piercing his chest as his soul was drained from his body. Had someone wept over him as well?

Fair was fair. Putting all his weight behind it, Salim lunged.

The tip of the Melted Blade entered directly between the roots of Nemeniah's wings. After all that he'd been through, it slid in with surprising ease, and Salim found himself with the basket hilt pressed against the angel's back, hot blood running down between his fingers. On the other side, two feet of red-washed steel protruded from between the angel's vestigial breasts.

Nemeniah made a small sound of surprise, and then the hammer dropped from nerveless fingers. She slumped, and Salim took her weight, lowering her to the ground. When he could finally crane his neck around and see the glaze of death on her eyes, he withdrew his sword, wiping it on her robes before sheathing it.

For the first time in minutes that felt like days, Salim looked around. Outside of their little hurricane's eye, the battle was already decided. A few angels—presumably those Nemeniah and Malchion had convinced rather than created—still fought on, but far more had already fallen, or staggered like drunks as they fought. Roshad's magic had done the trick.

Maedora, dirty and bloodstained, walked over to stand beside him. She pointed. "What's he doing?"

Salim looked to Arathuziel, who knelt between the bodies of the angelic siblings, burning sword thrust into the ground before him. The two had fallen close together, almost touching.

The angel bowed his head over the sword's hilt. "The ends justifying the means is exactly how you end up in my former position, cousins." He paused, then said, "May your example show the rest of us the truth."

He stood as Salim and Maedora approached.

"Thank you for deciding to help us," Salim said. "We couldn't have done it without you."

"My pleasure," Arathuziel said. Then he frowned. "And in that, perhaps my fellows are right to judge me. No angel should take pleasure in this."

"They were corrupted," Maedora said. "A threat to the entire multiverse. You did what needed to be done."

Arathuziel shrugged. "They violated Heaven's laws, and had to be punished. Yet they also truly believed that their heresy would help our cause in the long run. Morality is rarely the simple thing we pretend it to be."

Something made a clicking noise, and the three of them froze. Then came a long rattle as one of the chains binding Arathuziel's wings slid off, falling to the ground alongside its sprung lock. The angel stared at it in shock.

"Looks like someone agrees with you," Salim said.

"Come on," Maedora said, grabbing Salim's arm. "Let's finish mopping up while your friends have the machine disabled."

Your friends. Salim realized he'd been so focused on the here and now that he'd been steadfastly ignoring the psychic link with Bors and Roshad. He closed his eyes and willed himself to touch their minds, seeing what they saw.

And then he did. His hand shot out and closed hard on Maedora's oversized wrist.

"We've got a problem."

∗ ∗ ∗

On the dais, Bors gripped Roshad's arm. "Roshad! Roshad, can you hear me?"

Below him, Roshad shook in the chair, his body—such a small body, so delicate—twitching like a dying animal. Blood from his nose spread out into a wide stain on the gauzy veil.

"Roshad! Please!" Bors grabbed the little sorcerer's head in his hands, pulling his face close. "We've won, Roshad! Shut it down and we'll leave!"

Slowly, Roshad's sky-blue eyes rolled back down, focusing weakly on Bors's dark ones. "Won?" The damp veil clung to his lips, making a relief sculpture of his weak smile. "We did win, didn't we?"

"Yes!" Bors felt tears trickling down beneath his litchina, and he ripped the metal mask off and threw it aside. "Whatever you're doing, you can stop now!"

Roshad shook his head. "Can't stop. Too much energy."

"Show me. Maybe I can help." Bors knew nothing about sorcery—had never studied magic at all—but he focused on the mental link between them, striving to see what Roshad saw.

And hit a wall—something huge and all-powerful, pushing him back. He gasped at its swollen weight. "Roshad?"

Roshad shook his head again. "The machine. If I let go, it'll burst."

"So let it!"

No head shake this time, only the feeling of negation flowing out from Roshad. "Too much energy. You have to go now."

"Damn right I will! And I'm taking you with me!" Half-blind, Bors felt for the tubes in Roshad's arms, the horrible conduits pulsing beneath his skin like parasites. If the machine was going to explode, so be it. He'd tear the tubes out, throw Roshad over his shoulder, and run like hell for—

Roshad smiled again, and this time his face lit up for real, in that way only Bors ever saw. "My Boar," Roshad whispered. "Always so stubborn." He raised a weak hand, and Bors took it between both of his own. "I'm sorry."

∗ ∗ ∗

"I'm sorry."

Bors's eyes widened in sudden understanding, but Roshad had already completed the incantation. The bigger man froze as the magic took hold, seizing muscles locking him in place, still bent over Roshad's seat.

Beneath his partner's outstretched arm, Roshad could see the rest of the room. In the wake of the angels' dramatic deaths and the demise of their leader, Caramine's Freemen were flooding toward the door or throwing up their arms in surrender, appealing to old friendships and acquaintances with the victors. Roshad spotted Vera the cleric overseeing the enemy's retreat and waved feebly to get her attention, tubes trailing from his arms. She saw him and hurried over.

"Get him out of here," he gasped, gesturing first to Bors and then to the rest of the room. "Get them all out of here!"

Vera looked surprised, and then her gaze flicked from him to the machine, which squealed in protest at the energies surging inside it, purple sparks arcing across its surface. She looked back at him.

He nodded. "I'll hold it as long I can. Don't let him come back till it's over."

"Understood." She tucked her broad shoulder underneath Bors's bent form, then spoke a quick prayer, asking her god to grant her strength. Her body glowed briefly with the answering magic, and then she hefted Bors's armored form as easily as a sack of grain and pounded across the room toward the door. "Everybody out! Now!"

Roshad breathed a sigh of relief as Bors and the cleric cleared the door, the rest of the Freemen hot on their heels. The hard part was over. Now there was only the energy boiling inside him, making his breath come short and hot, the magic rushing back and forth between him and the machine through the tubes in his arms.

There was no way to release it. It had been drawn from the bodies of dying mortals, and though the room was covered in corpses, Roshad had no idea how or if the energy could be distributed again. The machine hadn't been built for that, nor for storage. It had taken each spirit one at a time and cast them out into the planes, accelerating them along their new course. It had never been designed to take them back. And now that they were here, they had nowhere to go. Roshad had known enough artificers to know what happened when you tried to put too much magic into an insufficient vessel.

Across the mental link, Roshad could still feel Bors, frozen inside his body, betrayed by the very muscles that made him such a terror on the battlefield. He could feel the big man's rage, and his love, which were of course the same thing. Roshad opened himself as wide as he could, letting Bors see every corner of his soul, making him feel the full brunt of the love that rose like a phoenix within him. Within them both.

I'm sorry, he thought again.

And let go.

paizo.com #3236236, Corry Douglas <corrydouglas@gmail.com>, Aug 10, 2014

Chapter Thirty-One

Aftermaths

Another drink, gov?"

Salim put his hand over his cup, blocking Gav from refilling it. "No more for me. I have to ride in the morning."

"Still sure about that, are you?" Gav perched on the little ledge behind the bar used by Canary House's usual halfling tender. "After all y've been through with us, you still ain't fallen in love with the city yet? You're a right cold fish, sire, if'n you'll pardon my saying so."

Salim smiled. "You're not the first one to say so. Though maybe not in exactly those words."

"Something tells me I won't be the last, either." Gav smiled and scampered down the bar to pour more of A'kaan's wine for the celebrants.

Salim leaned back and took in the crowd. Canary House was full to bursting once more with faces from a dozen different gangs and factions, but this time the atmosphere was different. In the wake of the victory over Caramine and the spread of the true story behind events—and no doubt several false ones—everyone involved in the operation was in a mood to celebrate. Tomorrow, no doubt, they'd be back at each other's throats, but tonight Duskwardens drank with Ardocs, and necromancers made wry toasts to black-robed Pharasmins. Most numerous in the crowd were the Freemen—it was Vera and their leader, Halman Wright, who had opted to rent out Canary House. As was only proper, the cleric of the Drunken God was already deep into her cups, and had been persuaded to climb onto a table and regale the crowd with a bawdy song about a man with a wooden phallus, which she did in a surprisingly melodic soprano. Seated at the table, her partner Xulaine blushed furiously, yet still whistled along with the chorus.

At the thought of music, Salim looked up. The golden cages of A'kaan's famous Songbirds hung empty among their yellow silks. Salim had seen to that personally. When Vera had presented him with the Freemen's reward—all of the gold Caramine had managed to take off her victims and squirrel away in the great house's treasury—he'd known exactly what to do with it. A'kaan would buy new slaves, of course—the gleeful innkeeper would no doubt be able to replace them and still pocket a tidy profit. But seeing the care with which Vera and her people struck the chains from the singing girls, then bundled them off to new lives in the Bottoms, had made his heart feel lighter than it had in days.

Two tables over, a handful of Freemen excitedly relived the events of the battle for the dozenth time. Already stories were beginning to grow in the participants' imaginations—whole squads of angels defending Caramine's manor with flames and spells—but the basic facts were there, if only one side of them.

Salim's smile faded. He felt again the loss of the psychic link as Roshad let go of the machine, the Caulborn's connection between Salim and his friends cutting off with the abruptness of a bowstring snapping. The backlash had left Salim reeling, barely able to keep his feet. Eventually he'd fallen and blacked out, but not before he'd seen the flood of souls. Released by the engine's destruction, they'd soared across the sky over the Spire like hundreds of comets, racing inland to rejoin the River of Souls at Pharasma's Court and find whatever judgment was theirs by right. His last memory of that endless day was of the few remaining angels offering their surrender to Maedora and Arathuziel, then being shepherded back to Heaven by a phalanx of vulture-skulled psychopomps.

When he woke, he was back in Kaer Maga, at his room in Canary House. Gav, who'd been waiting by his bedside, informed him that Maedora had brought him back unconscious, and that he'd slept for a full day. "For a hero capable of going toe to toe with fallen angels, gov, you sure do seem to sleep a lot."

He'd immediately asked about Bors and Roshad, which had taken some of the wind out of his guide's sails. Gav shook his head. "Bors woke before you did, but he ain't said anything to anyone yet. He won't come out of his room."

"And Roshad?"

Gav had insisted on taking Salim to see for himself. When they reached the site of Caramine's manor, Salim understood why. Where the brick house had stood, there was now only a pile of rubble and dust, barely contained by the surrounding curtain wall.

"Everyone got out," Gav said. "All our people, anyway. Vera said Bors got control of his body back somewhere in that alley over there, and it took five Freemen to hold him down and keep him from going back in—one on each limb and Vera clinging to his back. Even so, they say he got halfway across the street before the place blew. You could see it from anywhere in the Core districts—a huge plume of dust and smoke, and then this thing like a waterfall in reverse, a bunch of glowing shapes shooting up into the sky, howling like banshees." Gav paused, then went on in a quieter tone. "Vera says he held it all in—all that energy—so that they could have time to get out. That he was a hero."

"He was," Salim said simply.

Gav considered this for a moment, then went on. "When the place exploded, Bors passed out, just like you. We carried him back here, but..." He shrugged, helplessly. "Sometimes when people lose someone they love, they just ain't the same afterward."

"I know," Salim said, thinking of a life long ago, in a house overlooking the sea. "Believe me, I know."

And so Salim had helped the Freemen celebrate, had told his story and allowed it to be retold, and joined them at the bar when they'd pressed. Yet there were still things that needed to be done.

He stood and moved away from the bar. The face he wanted wouldn't be here, in the press of people. Instead he made his way to the back of the common room, through one of the doors and into the hallway. He found the door he wanted and knocked. When there was no reply, he pressed the latch and entered anyway.

Bors sat facing away from him at a table, elbows on the smooth wood, chin rested on folded hands. He wore his armor, as always, the lamellar reflecting the lamplight. Salim noted with a guilty pang that the chains Bors and Roshad had always worn rested in a pile on the bed. The big warrior didn't turn as Salim closed the door behind him.

"Bors," Salim began, then stopped. What to say? What could he say? That Roshad had been a hero? That his martyrdom had likely saved Salim's life? Bors had sacrificed his love—his whole life—for a petty bit of planar politics. What thanks from gods or men could possibly matter in the face of that?

Salim put his hand on Bors's shoulder. "I'm sorry." It sounded small in the silence of the room. He squeezed again. "I'm so sorry. Your szerikwas a great man."

"Was?" Bors's voice sounded high and strangled, rough with disuse.

"I know how you feel," Salim said. "You may not believe it, but I do. When you lose someone—"

"Who's lost?" Bors turned toward Salim now, spearing him with his ice-blue eyes.

Dead gods, had the man snapped completely? Salim felt the guilt rise in his throat, choking him. Bad enough that he'd cost one friend his life, but—

"Look at me, Salim." Bors stared into Salim's eyes, those blue orbs hard and searching.

"Bors..." Salim began.

And stopped.

Blue eyes? Bors's eyes had always been dark brown. The one with blue eyes had been—

His jaw fell open. "Roshad?"

Bors's face twisted into a smile—one that Salim had only ever seen in the eyes, as the rest was always hidden behind a veil. "Hello, Salim."

Salim's knees gave way, and he sat down hard on the nearby bed, rattling the Iridian Fold men's chains. "But how—?"

Bors blinked, and suddenly his eyes were brown again. He shook his head. "We don't know. Something about the link your Caulborn made between our minds. When the machine exploded, the link between us and you snapped immediately. But Roshad...I felt him die, Salim. His body disintegrated in the space of a heartbeat. I passed out from the shock. Yet when I woke...he was still here."

Salim stared. It sounded impossible—but then, what about the machine did sound possible? He looked into Bors's eyes, wondering if perhaps he'd imagined the change, and the man really had lost his mind with grief.

Bors blinked again. Blue. "I'm here, Salim."

"So you are." Salim slumped backward against the wall, still staring. "It's a miracle."

"No," Bors/Roshad said, smiling again. "It's szerik. Shared mind, shared heart, remember?"

Salim thought back to his first conversation with the Iridian Fold men about their strange philosophy. "One person in two bodies."

"Or in our case, two people in one body." The two men who were one man shook their head. "Not exactly how I would have chosen it," Roshad said, "but I suppose I can't complain." His grin turned salacious. "After all, I enjoyed this body enough from the outside. Now I get to enjoy it from the inside as well."

Salim had no idea what to say, so he went with the obvious. "Roshad. I'm so glad you're not dead."

"You and us both," Roshad agreed. "And hey, look at this!" He snapped his fingers and a tiny dancing flame sprang to life above them. "My magic still works. Looks like we've got the best of both worlds."

"Amazing," Salim said, and meant it. He felt like a cloak of lead had been lifted from his shoulders. "So what will you do now?"

"Now?" Blink. Brown. "We're not sure. First we'll stay here until your tab runs out, learning how to share control of my—I mean our—body. With practice, we think we should be able to both control it together, rather than trading off."

Salim nodded. "And then?"

"Then? Maybe return to Karazh. Few men of the Iridian Fold have ever achieved this level of szerik. Perhaps we'll teach." Blink. Blue. A smile. "Or maybe we'll celebrate my new lease on life by doing whatever we damn well feel like."

"Sounds like a good plan." Salim stood and extended his hand. "You should know that I'm leaving tomorrow. I can't thank you enough for what you've done."

Brown. Bors reached out and shook. "You helped Roshad save my life, and he gave his for you. Our debt is paid."

"Of course," Salim said.

The big man yanked hard on Salim's hand, pulling him in for a fierce bear hug.

"But you will always be our machorei."

∗ ∗ ∗

After the revelation of Roshad's survival—whatever form it took—Salim couldn't bring himself to simply go back into the party. Instead, he nodded to Karus the half-orc bouncer and stepped outside, into the cool of the night. In the wake of all the excitement, the city was surprisingly quiet, with only the low buzz of distant revelry. Salim walked around the corner of the inn and stared up past the ring of the city's walls, into the patch of twinkling stars above.

"Salim."

He turned and found two figures behind him: one a short, severely pretty woman in a black dress uniform, the other a black-winged angel that floated motionless a foot above the cobbles.

Salim touched the back of his hand to his nose. It came away spotted with a single drop of crimson blood. "I was wondering when I'd see you two again."

Maedora inclined her head. "Ceyanan asked that I come along."

"After the glowing report she gave," Ceyanan said dryly, "I had to make sure we were talking about the same person."

Salim smiled. "Jealous, Ceyanan?"

"Like a jilted lover."

Maedora frowned, and Salim took pity on her. "Has Heaven found the plans for the machine? The ones that corrupted Nemeniah and Malchion?"

"Not yet," Maedora said. "Or if they have, they're not telling us. Hopefully if the two hid them well enough to stymie Heaven's internal investigators, we won't have to worry about them turning up again anytime soon."

"Hopefully," Salim agreed.

There was an awkward pause, and then Maedora stepped forward and extended her hand. "You did well on this mission, Salim. I was wrong to doubt you based solely on your species."

"Likewise." Salim clasped her wrist.

Maedora smiled, and suddenly her assumed face didn't seem quite so stern. "You know, if you ever gave up your ridiculous resistance toward the Lady, you might join us one day as a psychopomp."

Salim laughed. "Don't hold your breath."

"I don't breathe," Maedora reminded him. "See you around, Salim."

Then she was gone, and it was just Salim and Ceyanan. A familiar enough scene.

"So," Salim said at last. "Are you going to give me answers, or are you going to make me ask the questions?"

Ceyanan smiled. "Whatever do you mean?"

"Fine. I'll start: If the planes were really in such danger from Nemeniah and Malchion's little rebellion, why didn't the gods get involved?"

"But they did," Ceyanan said. "They sent you, remember?"

"Not that again. This isn't just Pharasma and her oh-so-mysterious ways we're talking about. Heaven's run by folks who like their people to toe the line, and I don't see Iomedae and Erastil and the rest gambling all their coins on me the way you and the Lady seem determined to. So why didn't they do something directly?"

Ceyanan shrugged delicate shoulders. "Maybe they weren't sure the angels were wrong. Not everyone's pleased with Pharasma's role as the judge of souls, Salim. Or maybe it served their ends to shake things up a little and remind their servitors that even angels can be led astray. Maybe there was even genuine dissension in the divine ranks. As you've seen, Heaven isn't as unified as it seems, and morality is inevitably defined by a conflict's victors. ‘Good' and ‘evil' have been redefined many times over the span of existence, and will be many times again. This might have been one of those turning points."

"As usual, an answer that's not really an answer," Salim noted.

"Of course."

"Let's try a different question, then." Salim took a breath. "Did Pharasma kill my wife?"

Ceyanan's smile fell away. It put a hand on Salim's shoulder. "Oh, Salim..."

Salim shook off the touch. "Answer me, Ceyanan. Has my whole life been a setup? Did my wife die just so that I could do your dirty work?"

Ceyanan looked down at Salim, eyes sad. "People die, Salim. Bad things happen. You know that better than most."

"And Pharasma's part in that?"

"She knows what's coming. That's not the same as making it happen." The psychopomp shook its head. "You called to us, Salim. You offered and she accepted. The choice was yours."

"I know." The words burned, yet they were also a relief. Hezechor was wrong. The fault had always been Salim's, and Salim's alone. He'd had a century to make his peace with that fact. The wound was worse, but it was old and scarred over.

"Now my turn," Ceyanan said. "Having completed this mission—do you believe it was necessary?"

"What?" Salim stared. "Since when do you care about my opinion?"

"Indulge me."

Salim thought it over. "I can think of a hundred better ways it could have been handled," he said at last, "but—yes, it was necessary. The gods don't leave mortals a lot of choices, but how to live is one of them. By taking out the element of judgment and granting their souls to whichever planar predator reaches them first, it robs them of that choice. The mortal plane would become a feeding frenzy for every extraplanar race. And the balance needs to be maintained at the planar level, too—the last thing the multiverse needs is constant war between the planes."

Ceyanan nodded. "And knowing what you know now, if you were asked—not commanded, but asked—to undertake a similar task again, would you?"

Salim's stomach lurched. Was the psychopomp really suggesting that they wanted him to start volunteering to be their cat's-paw? Or was this simply some new game? Still...

He gritted his teeth. "Yes, damn it. But only because you'd screw it up without me."

"Interesting," Ceyanan said. "I'll be sure to remember that."

"Is this what happens to all your slaves?" Salim asked, heat rising to his face. "You work them so long that they forget it's not their choice?"

"You have many choices, Salim. Including how you choose to see our relationship. Which reminds me..." The angel produced two dark objects out of the empty air and tossed them to Salim, who caught them reflexively.

The first was his plane-shifting amulet, with its inlaid spiral and leather thong. He was surprised at what a relief it was to slip it over his head and feel the familiar weight around his neck.

The other was the lintel stone. Salim hefted it, then slid it into an interior pocket.

"Thanks," he said. "Though now that I'm done with the Caulborn, I figured you'd take the lintel stone back."

"Back?"

"Yeah, back. These things aren't cheap, even by the Spire's standards." Salim looked at the psychopomp's unreadable expression. "What?"

"Nothing," Ceyanan said, face smoothing back into its usual good-natured serenity. "My mind was just elsewhere for a moment." A smile. "I'm glad that you enjoyed this particular job."

"I said it was necessary," Salim growled. "Not that I enjoyed it. Somebody needed to do it."

"And so you begin to understand," the angel said. "You're growing, Salim."

"I'm growing angry, if that's what you—"

Salim cut off, realizing he was arguing with an empty street. As usual.

He wiped his nose again and let his gaze creep back up to the stars. So cold and distant, each one hanging in space a million miles from the others.

He'd thought of himself like that, once. Cold and distant. If you never got close to anyone, you couldn't hurt them. But people did get hurt, whether you let them in or not. The world didn't care who you loved, it just rolled its dice and took its toll.

He was used to making a difference on the grand stage—Pharasma's stage. But this time he'd failed to keep his distance, and what had happened? Maedora gained new respect for mortals. Bors and Roshad achieved their perfect union. Arathuziel took one more step toward redemption. And he—

He had enjoyed it.

Salim reached down to the amulet around his neck and lifted it in his palm. He turned it this way and that, watching the starlight catch on Pharasma's iridescent spiral, winding down perpetually into its center.

Worming its way into the stone's heart.

Salim chuckled. "Tricky, you old witch. Very tricky."

He stuffed the amulet back inside his robes, the stone cool against the bare skin of his chest, then turned and walked back through the door into laughter and light.

About the Author

James Lafond Sutter is a writer, game designer, and musician, as well as the Managing Editor and Fiction Editor for Paizo Publishing and a co-creator of the Pathfinder Roleplaying Game campaign setting. His first novel, Death's Heretic—also starring Salim—was ranked #3 on Barnes & Noble's list of the Best Fantasy Releases of 2011, and was a finalist for an Origins Award and the Compton Crook Award for Best First Novel. His short fiction has appeared in such publications as Escape Pod, Apex Magazine, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Geek Love, and the #1 Amazon bestseller Machine of Death. Of his many Pathfinder game books, he's best known for Distant Worlds, his guide to Golarion's solar system, and City of Strangers, which details the city of Kaer Maga. James also edited the anthology Before They Were Giants, which pairs the first published stories of speculative fiction luminaries with new interviews and writing advice.

James and his wife live in Seattle with a bevy of roommates and a functional death ray. For free stories, music, and more, visit jameslsutter.comor follow him on Twitter at @jameslsutter.

Acknowledgments

As my friend Arya would say, no man is a fabulous island. In that same vein, no book is written in isolation, and many people deserve thanks for being midwives in this book's two-year-long birth.

First kudos go to my illustrious editors, F. Wesley Schneider and Christopher Paul Carey. However much you as a reader liked this book, I can guarantee that you would have liked it significantly less without their efforts. (As the initial architect of Hell, Wes also gets bonus thanks for letting me steal his best material.) Publisher Erik Mona gets credit for being the person who invited me to write a Pathfinder Tales novel in the first place. Similarly, the rest of the Paizo staff has been invaluable in encouraging me, helping me with research, and building all of these fabulous toys that we get to play with together.

Outside the office, I owe too many people to possibly thank them enough: My family, the Lafond Clan, for their unceasing encouragement. Wabi, the Ministers of Awesome, the Mooncastlers, Brides of the Lizard God, and all the rest of my friends for never failing to make life larger, more bizarre, and more satisfying than I could ever have imagined on my own. And of course my wife, Margo Arnold, who despite having lived with me through the highs and lows of writing the first novel, didn't even blink when I proposed doing it all again.

Thank you all from the bottom of my heart.

Glossary

All Pathfinder Tales novels are set in the rich and vibrant world of the Pathfinder campaign setting. Below are explanations of several key terms used in this book. For more information on the world of Golarion and the strange monsters, people, and deities that make it their home, see The Inner Sea World Guide, or dive into the game and begin playing your own adventures with the Pathfinder Roleplaying Game Core Rulebook or the Pathfinder Roleplaying Game Beginner Box, all available at paizo.com. Fans of Salim should check out the previous novel, Death's Heretic, and those interested in learning more about Hell should consult Pathfinder Campaign Setting: Princes of Darkness, Book of the Damned, Vol. 1.

Abaddon: Evil plane devoted to destruction and home to daemons.

Aeons: Mysterious and powerful race of creatures dedicated to preserving balance in the multiverse.

Agathions: Guardian race of the enlightened plane of Nirvana.

Angels: Race of good-natured creatures native to Heaven, Elysium, and Nirvana.

Ankar-Te: District in Kaer Maga where some of the most exotic residents can be found, and where necromancy is legal.

Asmodeus: Devil-god of tyranny, slavery, pride, and contracts. Lord of Hell.

Augurs: Organization of Kaer Magan trolls who read the future in their own entrails in exchange for payment, trusting their regeneration to heal them again.

Axis: A plane of absolute order, entirely urban in nature. Also known as the Eternal City.

Ayngavhauls: Species of devils dedicated to spreading blasphemy and heresy.

Azata: Residents of the lawless but good plane of Elysium.

Bloatmage: A spellcaster who grotesquely overloads her circulatory system in order to gain greater magical power.

Boneyard: Pharasma's realm, where all souls go to be judged after death.

Caulborn: Race of eyeless alien scholars that consume and record thoughts and memories.

Cayden Cailean: God of freedom, ale, wine, and bravery. Was once mortal, but ascended to godhood.

Cheliax: A powerful devil-worshiping nation.

Cleric: A religious spellcaster whose magical powers are granted by his or her god.

Core District: One of the open-air districts in Kaer Maga, surrounding the city's central lake.

Daemons: Evil, nihilistic residents of Abaddon who exist to devour mortal souls.

Deimaviggas: Race of devils devoted to the spread of atheism.

Demons: Evil denizens of the plane of the afterlife called the Abyss, who seek only to maim, ruin, and feed on mortal souls.

Devils: Fiendish occupants of Hell who seek to corrupt mortals in order to claim their souls.

Dwarves: Short, stocky humanoids who excel at physical labor, mining, and craftsmanship.

Elves: Long-lived, beautiful humanoids identifiable by their pointed ears, lithe bodies, and pupils so large their eyes appear to be one color.

Exscinders: Angels dedicated to hunting down dangerously blasphemous texts.

Fiends: Creatures native to the evil planes of the multiverse, such as demons, devils, and daemons, among others.

Freemen: Kaer Magan abolitionist organization, formed primarily from escaped and freed slaves.

Garund: Continent south of the Inner Sea, renowned for its deserts and jungles.

Gnomes: Small humanoids with strange mind-sets, originally from the fey realm of the First World.

Golarion: The planet on which the Pathfinder campaign setting focuses.

Great Beyond: The planes of the afterlife.

Half-Elves: The children of unions between elves and humans. Taller, longer-lived, and generally more graceful and attractive than the average human, yet not nearly so much so as their full elven kin. Often regarded as having the best qualities of both races, yet still discriminated against.

Half-Orcs: Bred from humans and orcs, members of this race have green or gray skin, brutish appearances, and short tempers, and are mistrusted by many societies.

Halflings: Race of humanoids known for their tiny stature, deft hands, and mischievous personalities.

Heaven: Plane of good and lawfulness ruled by angels, where many good souls go after they die.

Hell: Plane of evil and tyrannical order ruled by devils, where many evil souls go after they die.

Hemotheurge: Bloatmage.

Highside Stacks: Wealthy tower district in Kaer Maga.

Inner Sea: The vast inland sea whose northern continent, Avistan, and southern continent, Garund, are the primary focus of the Pathfinder campaign setting.

Iridian Fold: Secretive organization in which pairs of male lovers seek to achieve perfect symbiosis.

Kaer Maga: Anarchic free city in Varisia, located inside a vast and partially hollow ring of stone left behind by an unknown and ancient culture.

Kaer Magan: Someone or something from Kaer Maga.

Lady of Graves: Pharasma.

Machorei: Iridian Fold term with a meaning similar to "blood brother."

Maelstrom: Plane of absolute chaos, whose form is constantly shifting.

Material Plane: The fundamental plane of existence on which Golarion resides, and to which humans are native. The "normal" world.

Morrignas: Type of psychopomp dedicated to tracking down and dealing with those who flout death's laws.

Necromancy: School of magic devoted to manipulating the power of death, unlife, and the life force, particularly undead creatures.

Orc: Race of humanoids with green or gray skin, protruding tusks, and warlike tendencies. Almost universally hated by more civilized races.

Outer Planes/Outer Sphere: The various realms of the afterlife, where most gods reside.

Pharasma: The goddess of birth, death, and prophecy, who judges mortal souls after their deaths and sends them on to the appropriate afterlives.

Pharasma's Spire: The plane on which Pharasma's realm may be found.

Pharasmin: Of or related to the goddess Pharasma or her worshipers.

Phistophilus: Breed of devils devoted to corruption through contracts and binding agreements.

Plane: One of the realms of existence, such as the mortal world, Heaven, Hell, and many others.

Psychopomp: Race of extraplanar creatures dedicated to serving Pharasma and preserving the natural order of life and death.

Pure Legion: Rahadoumi military order devoted to keeping their nation free of religion.

Rahadoum: Atheist nation where religion is outlawed.

Rahadoumi: Of or related to Rahadoum.

Ring District: Kaer Magan district situated inside the city's hollow curtain wall.

River of Souls: Unending procession of recently deceased souls traveling from the Material Plane to Pharasma's Boneyard for judgment.

Sarenite: Of or related to the goddess Sarenrae or her worshipers.

Sarenrae: Goddess of the sun, honesty, and redemption. Often seen as a fiery crusader and redeemer.

Sorcerer: Someone who casts spells through natural ability rather than faith or study.

Sweettalker: Ethnic and religious group that believes speech is holy, and whose members thus sew their own lips shut. Found primarily in Kaer Maga.

Szerik: Iridian Fold term meaning several things, including one or both members of a bonded Iridian Fold pair, as well as the concept of perfect communication and integration they seek to achieve with each other.

The Bottoms: District in Kaer Maga run primarily by the Freemen.

Thuvia: Desert nation south of the Inner Sea, famous for the production of a magical elixir which grants immortality.

Trolls: Large, stooped humanoids with sharp claws and amazing regenerative powers that are overcome only by fire.

Varisia: Frontier region at the northwestern edge of the Inner Sea region.

Wizard: Someone who casts spells through careful study and rigorous scientific methods rather than faith or innate talent, recording the necessary incantations in a spellbook.

Xavorax: Caulborn city located deep below Kaer Maga.

Table of Contents

Teaser

Dedication

Map

Chapter One: Not That Kind of Priest

Chapter Two: City of Strangers

Chapter Three: The Devil's Due

Chapter Four: The Twice-Born

Chapter Five: Reanimations

Chapter Six: The Last Vampire

Chapter Seven: Thought and Memory

Chapter Eight: Tower of Night

Chapter Nine: The Quivering Palace

Chapter Ten: Old Wounds

Chapter Eleven: The Common House

Chapter Twelve: The Redemption Engine

Chapter Thirteen: The Iridian Fold

Chapter Fourteen: Heathen Stone

Chapter Fifteen: Heaven's Hound

Chapter Sixteen: House of the Redeemed

Chapter Seventeen: Arathuziel the Chained

Chapter Eighteen: The Path of Knowledge

Chapter Nineteen: The Great Library

Chapter Twenty: Cinders and Censors

Chapter Twenty-One: The Lower Collection

Chapter Twenty-Two: The Iron City

Chapter Twenty-Three: The Fallen Fortress

Chapter Twenty-Four: Showdowns

Chapter Twenty-Five: The Desert of Nothing

Chapter Twenty-Six: The Antipode

Chapter Twenty-Seven: In Light of Recent Developments

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Gathering Storms

Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Spire's Edge

Chapter Thirty: Pulling Threads

Chapter Thirty-One: Aftermaths

About the Author

Acknowledgements

Glossary