The scout’s report was a splash of cold water in the grey fug of the camp. Alessandro Volpe had listened, his head cocked like a bird of prey, then turned to Sineus. His eyes, usually clouded with cynicism, held a sharp, hungry light. The network had found them. A convoy, moving west under heavy guard, carrying components for the Lethe Mortar. The words hung in the air, a promise of violence, a chance for retribution.
Sineus felt the news not as hope, but as a tightening in his chest. He thought of the girl, Anya, and her faceless doll. He thought of the hollow-eyed refugees huddled in their ragged tents. This was not about grand strategy anymore. It was about silencing the machine that unmade people. He nodded once, the motion sharp and final.
— We need to be certain, — Sineus said. He knelt and unstrapped his saddlebag, the leather stiff with damp. The other Carbonari watched him, their faces a mixture of suspicion and weary curiosity. He pulled out the Orphic Compass.
The device was a perfect sphere of solid black stone, twenty centimeters in diameter and weighing a dense twenty-five kilograms. It absorbed the meager light, giving nothing back. It was a piece of forbidden Lodge craft, a thing of profound and dangerous power. Holding it was like holding a solid piece of the night sky. He cradled the sphere in his hands, its surface cool and unnervingly smooth, and closed his eyes.
He focused his will, pushing past the grief for Pyotr, past the fear of Janusz Kurov’s relentless pursuit. He pictured the convoy, a line of wagons and soldiers moving through the blighted land. He projected that image into the heart of the compass. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, a low hum vibrated up his arms, and intricate lines of silver light raced across the sphere’s dark surface.
The patterns were a living map of memory, the fundamental script of the world. He saw the convoy’s history, the memories of the road, the soldiers’ thoughts of home, the weariness of the horses. And then he saw the cargo. It was not a memory but an absence, a collection of cold, dead voids that screamed of anti-reality. It was the signature of annihilation, a presence so profoundly wrong it made the back of his teeth ache. The compass gave him absolute certainty.
— It’s them, — Sineus said, his voice tight. The strain of using the compass left a metallic taste in his mouth. He felt drained, a little more of his own substance poured into the act of seeing.
— I never doubted it, — Alessandro replied, his hand resting on the stock of his rifle. — But to hit them, we need to know which wagons, which barges. We need the shipping manifests.
— And the French hand those over to anyone who asks? — Sineus asked, packing the compass away.
— No, — Alessandro said, a thin, grim smile touching his lips. — But they contract their shipping to neutrals. And neutrals talk. If you have the right currency.
The journey took them two days, moving through the thick, disorienting fog that marked the edge of the neutral territories. Here, the Echoing Blight’s influence was weaker, the land less a wound and more a scar. The oppressive silence of the Ashen Tract gave way to a damp quiet, broken by the distant lowing of unseen animals and the drip of water from unseen branches. It was a world of grey shapes and muffled sounds.
The trading post was not a town, but a temporary gathering, a collection of hide-and-felt yurts that materialized from the fog like large, sleeping beasts. There were no banners, no uniforms. The only law was that of the bargain. Here, agents of the Russian Empire could trade for information with spies from the French court, and neither would draw a blade so long as the deal was honored. It was a place run by the Circle of the Golden Horde, a faction of traders and shamans who saw memory not as a thing to be cut or preserved, but as the ultimate currency.
They were met by a silent guard and led through the camp. The air smelled of damp wool, horse dung, and the sharp, unfamiliar scent of brick tea. Men and women with faces that spoke of a dozen different bloodlines watched them pass, their expressions flat and unreadable. This was a world away from the perfumed courts of St. Petersburg, a place of hard, practical survival.
The Golden Horde Envoy received them in a large, circular yurt. The air inside was warm and thick with the smell of burning dung and oiled leather. Intricate tapestries, their threads depicting spiraling, abstract patterns, hung from the curved walls. The Envoy was a woman of indeterminate age, her face a mask of fine wrinkles, her eyes as dark and polished as river stones. She sat cross-legged on a pile of thick carpets, a small bowl of steaming tea in her hands.
— You seek information, — she said. Her voice was low and melodic, without accent. It was the voice of someone who had learned a hundred languages and forgotten them all. — The manifests for the western convoy. Information has a price.
— We can pay, — Alessandro said, stepping forward. He placed a small, heavy leather pouch on the carpet between them. The clink of gold was a dull, unimpressive sound in the warm tent.
The Envoy did not look at the pouch. Her dark eyes remained on Sineus. — Your coin is from a dying empire. Your promises are from a man who has no future. That is not a currency we value.
Alessandro’s jaw tightened. — What do you want?
— Value for value, — the Envoy said simply. She took a slow sip of her tea. — A secret for a secret. A possibility for a possibility.
The negotiation was short and brutal. The Envoy wanted a memory of a Lodge safe house location, a tactical map of the French occultists, a favor that would put them in debt for a generation. Alessandro refused each demand, his frustration growing. They were at an impasse. They had nothing of value to these people.
Sineus thought of the camp, of Anya. He thought of the spreading Lacuna. He could not fail here. He reached into the inner pocket of his coat, his fingers closing around a small, hard cylinder. A relic of his old life. A tool he had hoarded, thinking it might one day buy his own survival.
— We have something else, — Sineus said, his voice cutting through Alessandro’s strained arguments. He stepped forward and placed the object on the carpet.
It was a Blank Memory-Vial, a small cylinder of flawless, spun crystal, perfectly cleansed of all prior psychic residue. It was a vessel of pure potential, a clean slate on which a new memory could be written. In the occult world, it was rarer and more valuable than a flawless diamond. It was one of the last he had. A tool he could not replace. The price was a piece of his own security, a future option surrendered for the needs of now.
The Envoy’s eyes, which had been placid and distant, sharpened. She leaned forward, her gaze fixed on the vial. The air in the yurt grew still. She reached out a slender, long-fingered hand and picked it up, holding it to the lantern light. The crystal captured the flame, refracting it into a thousand tiny points of fire.
— A vessel of pure potential, — she murmured, the words a soft hiss. — A clean slate. Very rare. The Lodge does not part with these lightly.
She looked at Sineus, a new understanding in her eyes. She saw not just a fugitive, but a man willing to burn his own bridges, to sacrifice the tools of his past for the sake of his present.
— A trade of this value creates a bond, — the Envoy said, her voice regaining its melodic calm. She placed the vial carefully into a silk-lined box. — The Circle does not forget its accounts. We will remember this.
The words were a promise and a warning. They had not just bought information. They had incurred a debt, a connection to this neutral power that would one day be called upon. The Envoy nodded to her guard, who stepped forward and handed Alessandro a rolled oilskin packet, tied shut with a leather thong. The deal was done.
They left the yurt and walked back into the thick, muffling fog. They did not speak until they were clear of the camp, hidden in a grove of skeletal trees. Alessandro untied the packet and unrolled the manifests. The papers were covered in neat columns of French script, detailing cargo, destinations, and schedules.
Sineus leaned over the documents, his eyes scanning the familiar codes. Alessandro lit a small, shielded lantern, its yellow light casting their faces in sharp relief. The world narrowed to the rustling paper and the urgent need to find their targets.
Then Sineus saw it. Three barges, listed separately from the main convoy. Their cargo was designated only with a simple code: MD-L. Mortier de Léthé. The Lethe Mortar.
— There, — Sineus said, his finger tapping the page. — Three of them.
Alessandro leaned in, his expression hardening into a predator’s mask. The information was a key, and now they had it. The cost had been high, a piece of Sineus’s past and a mortgage on their future. But in his mind’s eye, Sineus saw a little girl with a faceless doll, and he knew it was a price he had been right to pay.
The fog muffled the sounds of the departing traders. The air grew colder, thick with the smell of wet earth and distant smoke.
Now they had to plan a war on the water.
