Fate's Hand

By Darren Pearce and Neal Levin

One hundred years after a terrible disaster a powerful church has risen to take control. The Church of Progression led by the Cardinal crushes the spirit of all on Hestonia beneath an iron-shod boot. With the aid of the Inquisitors, highly trained church operatives that have access to magically powered technology the church ruthlessly oppresses all who stand in the Cardinal's way. Amongst the church's targets are magic users, wizards, descendants of the original powerful beings known as the Anshada.
    The church is rife with conspiracy and even its own internal strife threatens to doom it. Power plays come from within and without as the Arch Inquisitor Roland, his lackey Inquisitor Gwillis and disillusioned Inquisitors and other powerful agents of the church clash for control.
    There is one agent of the church that remains steadfast, Kalon Rhadon. He is Fate's Hand, the most dangerous of all the churches weapons. Yet even he begins to doubt the established order of things when he is sent to recover a dangerous magical artifact that contains the teachings of the demonic Anshada.
    In Kalon's quest for the book there is a young Stealer, Spry, who is instrumental in Kalon's understanding of the events to come and the role that Fate herself has planned for him.
   Fate's Hand is a dark fantasy novel set in an original universe that has elements of technology and magic in a decadent society. It is a Steampunk Renaissance novel that couples the swashbuckling traditions of the Musketeers with a powerful narrative.

 

 Join Kalon Rhadon, the First Agent of the Church of Progression, a man who sees the world in black and white and who has loyalty to the Church and no other. Kaitlinel, a sado-masochistic lycanthrope who has her own agenda and reason for helping Kalon discover the book, Spry, a mute orphan who is the key to the book’s ancient lock and finally, Lucretia, a dead woman who has defied the God of Death and serves as the trio’s guide to the resting place of the book. Along the way they will deal with subtle plots against them, betrayal and secrets, all set in the technological fantasy world of Hestonia where giant bird shaped flying machines dominate the sky, souls are bound into crystal to power the devices that keep society functioning and ancient sorcery is countered by the forces of logic and science.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Green Janus Press
• Release date: Nov 6, 2013
• ISBN: 9781497795464

Book preview

1 — THE THIRTEEN

BENEATH THE GROUND where the steady drip of water echoed in a sewer chamber, a single figure paused. The edges of a long coat trimmed with silver dipped into the murk as Inquisitor Kalon Rhadon stalked the darkness. He moved through the underground like a hunter, traversing with a soft step through the near-murky gloom, his eyes aided by a thin film across the pupil allowing him to pull back the darkness. A tech-magis gift from the order he served.

A body lay across a shaft of light that flickered through a crack in the ceiling above; dust filtered down through the beam and dropped onto the corpse of a man. A partially dried pool of blood mixed with the sewage beneath the body. As Kalon knelt to examine it, he dipped a black-gloved finger into the muck. He brought up a small pendant, a six-pointed star, and sniffed slightly.

Wizards, he said with an air of resignation, throwing the icon down. So our information was correct.

Without a backward glance, Kalon moved on, his footsteps sloshing through the grime. He turned a corner and his eyes caught a single flicker from the edges of the stonework; a few telltale symbols had been carved into the rock there, and one of them shone out like a beacon to the inquisitor’s gaze. He approached it at a tangent, keeping low.

The entry was guarded. He could feel the crackle of heresy in the air around it, almost smelling the stink of magic upon the stonework. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully and then ran his fingers around the symbols. These curved devices were simple wards meant to conceal the entry and not to cause harm.

Kalon drew a small piece of white chalk from his pocket, gripping it between his forefinger and thumb. He traced numerous equations in a fine script around the warding and stepped back. Nothing happened for a few moments, but then the rock crumbled with a soft sigh as the ward gave way, broken by the equations Kalon had inscribed.

With the magic gone, a doorway appeared from nowhere. It was an unremarkable portal, constructed of dark steel and featureless. Kalon moved to it and opened it carefully, pushing it inward with a grumble of metal against stone as the door swung wide.

Beyond, all was wrapped in darkness; another body lay in the inquisitor’s path. A woman this time, her injuries less severe than her counterpart outside. Her throat had been torn open and her right side showed several long claw marks across the exposed skin. Her clothing was covered in blood. Kalon noted the familiar six-pointed star of the Anshada wrapped around her ruined neck.

He quickened his pace and moved on through the corridor. The walls were functional, featureless, and lacked any form of detail worth noting. He directed his exploration to a side passage and chanced now upon two more bodies, both men. These were not wizards but mere guards. They had a uniform of sorts but nothing that stood out; breeches, tabards and chain-mail coat served as such.

A sudden movement caught his eye just in time, and Kalon stepped backward, both hands delving into the depths of his long coat. He felt the breeze from something he couldn’t see and his left cheek stung as if it had been struck by a wasp. Warm blood oozed down his skin and he skipped back three paces, bringing a pair of ornate tech-magis adjudicator pistols to bear toward the darkness.

Each weapon was made from bright steel and inscribed with a cogwheel on the grip; at the center of the cog was an open eye. This was the insignia of Kalon’s order, the Church of Progression. He swept the pistols back and forth in an ever-widening arc and his senses sharpened. His order’s training had prepared him to face any threat; invisible assailants were another matter, though. Not even the combat doctrine could assist with such a foe, so it was down to Kalon’s own instincts.

The inquisitor ducked as he sensed the air moving. A section of the wall behind him burst apart and he rolled to the right-hand side, firing three quick bursts of gunfire as he did. Some of the shots struck the dead and they shook from the impact, fresh blood splattering.

He took a steadying breath and cast his gaze about him once more; this invisible enemy was enjoying the hunt. It seemed to delight in playing with the inquisitor, but Kalon was less than impressed. His angular features displayed distaste as he listened to the room. His hazel eyes, tinted a lighter color by the false membrane across them, caught sight of a tiny fleck of blood just hovering in the air.

Kalon acted swiftly, discharging his right pistol into one of the bodies. The blood splashed upward in a sudden arc and painted his assailant with flecks of crimson. Now the inquisitor had a target, and he let the second pistol in his left hand speak for him. The tech-magis rounds hammered into the hidden creature, and a vicious howl of pain thundered through the chamber.

He wasted no more time, unloading both clips into the blood-flecked air. Round after round peppered his opponent and burst upon impact, searing the creature’s skin. Each bullet was carved with exquisite numbers, symbols, and letters, all of them serving a purpose. They tore the magical skin of this beast asunder, impacting heavily against the far wall as the creature’s body ignited into a sudden explosion of glowing ash.

Kalon checked a small chamber on the side of each of the pistols. A slight red glow pulsed there. He had expended nearly a full charge per weapon on this monster, an indication that he would need to let the pistols recharge. He stowed them and examined the ash, pushing the pile around with his boot. Once he was satisfied the creature was deceased, he continued on through a door at the back of the room.

A few more corridors led to a long hall. Dozens of bodies were strewn here, each telling a similar story. Every corpse had been butchered, and several were missing limbs and chunks of flesh. It was a grisly scene. Several long tables and chairs had been tipped over, and as Kalon entered, he smelled the familiar tang of ozone upon the air. A magical haze hung over the room.

Instinctively, he looked up to the ceiling; more symbols and mystical heresy were carved above. But before he could study them further, the first of the bodies lurched upward and toppled over the nearest chair. Then all around, the dead were rising and stumbling to life. Their hollow eyes were glazed, mouths wordlessly cursing the living as they lurched in the inquisitor’s direction.

Kalon wasn’t sure exactly how they had been called back from death. He didn’t care.

He balled his gloved hand into a fist and aimed a sharp jab at one, while kicking backward with his left leg. Both impacts pushed the living dead back, sending them reeling over a table and chair, respectively. Then he felt something grab his right foot and he was yanked off balance, crashing to the floor with a thud.

He met the eyes of a savaged woman; her lower body had been torn in two from her hips down, and her entrails made a curious tail as she crawled toward him. He kicked out with his right boot, striking her repeatedly on the nose until it resembled a bloody lump.

Her teeth bit into his boot and met the lining of metal there; she looked upward with ruined fangs. Kalon drove his foot into her face once more until he heard the skull give way. Just in time, as another shape moved above him.

He caught this new opponent by the dangling remains of the small intestine. Pulling hard on the long, sinewy, ropelike organ, he tied it to a table leg, gloves smeared with bile and stinking fluids. A whine from his coat indicated that salvation was only a few seconds away. A trio of dead stumbled over each other in their efforts to get to the inquisitor. The creature he had tied seemed to have some semblance of intelligence, and rather than trying to savage Kalon, it proceeded to attempt to bite through its own gut-rope.

Kalon drew his two pistols and righted himself with a quick flip, acrobatically rising to his feet as his long coat unfurled around him. He stepped up onto the shoulder of the tied corpse and pulled the trigger contemptuously. Blood and brain matter spattered across the floor as the creature’s head disintegrated.

The inquisitor had the higher ground now. He spun around on the table, a ballet dance of sorts, pistols blazing in the dark of the chamber and lighting up the interior as the dead were given a final resting place. He finished in a kneeling position with his pistol firmly jammed into the mouth of the last dead. The woman’s hollow eyes turned blood red, the tech-magis pistol report muted as the back of her throat blew out.

Her body dropped to the floor but Kalon remained where he was on the table. Only after a few minutes had passed did the inquisitor stow his weapons and step down slowly.

Vexing, he said to the dead, and he rolled one over with his boot to examine the body. What brought you to life, I wonder?

He looked up again at the ceiling and studied the magical symbols there; his answer was apparent. Each symbol formed part of a greater spell — a spell that would summon the dead back to defend this installation, and which did not discriminate between an investigator and an attacker. It was probably tied into the pendants these wizards wore; it would be a cold day in hell before Kalon donned one.

He left the hall and moved farther in, determined now to get to the core of this underground lair. He felt as if something important lurked here in the darkness. Pausing in a long passageway, he took out a scroll case, unfurling the letter within and examining it once more. It was marked with the cog-eye of the Church of Progression and bore the signature and seal of Archinquisitor Roland, the head of the Inquisition. Roland had been most insistent that Kalon handle this particular investigation.

Did Roland know about the danger that lurked here? Or was it simply that Kalon was First Agent of the Church, the best at what he did? Either way, these questions hardened the inquisitor’s resolve as he stowed the scroll deep in his pocket again, then continued his journey beneath the city.

He wondered how the people of Terralion would react if they knew a nest of heretics worked beneath them. Idly, he wondered whether Lady Asher, the ruler of the city, even knew. He would have to investigate this further if he was given the chance. Now, of course, was not the time for such idle conjecture.

At the end of the corridor stood a large wooden door. It was marked with the numerical symbol Thirteen, written in Teral. Under this was a six-pointed star.

So here we come to the heart of the matter. Kalon spoke to the door as he regarded it with a practiced gaze. It was covered in the now-familiar magical wards and protections, barriers and devices designed to keep the unwary from delving into the secrets beyond the portal. What sorcery do you have planned for me now?

He took a long time to study these particular magical markings, making careful note of the ones that could potentially cause harm and those meant to drive a being mad if they were broken. Once more, he drew out his chalk and began to write a complex series of equations upon the walls and floors. He scribed them beneath the symbols on the door, making sure he didn’t actually touch any of those magical markings. He reserved the final equation for scribing in a final circle around the star.

With his handiwork in place, Kalon watched the weave of the wizards come loose, their protections faltering as the cold hard logic of science was driven into the fanciful mysteries of magic. Each symbol broke down and fell away in reaction to Kalon’s equations, powered by stalwart belief and an unwavering faith in his order.

When the door was safe, he put his hand upon the knob, but then withdrew it quickly. He checked around the handle for a physical protection, a needle or some other form of trap. He could not afford to be lax in his approach.

When he was finally satisfied that all magical and physical threats were gone, Kalon pushed the door inward and beheld a large chamber. A six-pointed star was inscribed in silver upon the floor, and around it ran a two-inch-wide circle. More symbols were scribed around the circle’s edge, and before each stood a black wooden chair — twelve in all, with a thirteenth grand chair at the center of the star, set upon a circular plinth of stone.

Kalon took a shallow breath; he suddenly knew what this place was. He had heard rumors of a mystical group of sorts that sought to rule Terralion from the shadows. Its members were wizards who kept the balance between one power and the next, never allowing any side to achieve total domination. They were opposed to any one faction becoming too powerful — including Kalon’s church.

Roland’s letter made sense, and he knew now that the archinquisitor must have sent him to the lair to investigate. Roland of course would not reveal the true purpose of the mission; the less Kalon knew, the better. If captured, he would be unable to divulge what he did not know.

As Kalon stepped fully into the chamber, he took a long look around. Every chair held the dead body of a wizard. Male and female, all of the corpses shared a single common feature. They were missing their eyes. Several parts of their protective circle had been broken, and a number of claw marks on the floor served to indicate just how this had been accomplished.

Kalon ignored the twelve and homed in on the thirteenth grand chair. He examined the dead body in it — an elder gentleman with a short gray beard and hair, a wizened face, and wearing dark brown and orange robes. Gripped in his left hand was a large, ornate-looking brass key. Kalon wrenched it from the dead man’s fingers.

A key like this would fit something important. The inquisitor searched the grand chair, finding a small latch that revealed a secret compartment. From it, he pulled forth a brown oblong box with a large keyhole. The key turned in the lock with a satisfying click, and he opened the lid. Inside was a large black book marked with the six-pointed star.

Under the book as he lifted it, Kalon caught sight of a parchment. Picking it up, he examined the writing on it — a list of names, with his own at the top. Next to Kalon’s name was that of Rand, an inquisitor with whom he had served in the past, and who had been killed by a bomb outside the church’s headquarters in Messania.

So the Thirteen were responsible. It made sense to Kalon. After all, they styled themselves keepers of the balance.

He noted, though, that Rand’s name had several black-penned question marks beside it, seemingly indicating that someone questioned the man’s death. He filed this away for later thought.

As he flipped through the book, Kalon saw that it held a wealth of information detailing the location of many of the Thirteen’s assets, in additional to their plans and operational procedures. A curious small shred of parchment was tucked between its pages. Kalon examined this note, but the magical writing of the Anshada defied him, writhing like fire to escape his gaze. Only by focusing down on the words could he make them legible. The tale they told was of how the Anshada had written all of their heresy into a book, locking it deep away under a familiar mountain and protecting it with ancient mechanisms and traps.

A worthy secret you held in your cold hand, eh, wizard? Kalon spoke to the dead man, tucking the book away into his coat along with the larger parchment and the smaller fragment for later perusal. But as he turned back to the eyeless man, the wizard’s bony hands suddenly clasped the inquisitor’s shoulders, latching on with a vicelike grip. A voice as old as rotted parchment hissed from the corpse’s lips.

You cannot be he... impossible...

Before Kalon could react, something clove the head from the corpse and tore the back of the chair clean off. A dark shape manifested in the room — a huge creature that was more shadow than anything else. The demon’s eyes burned with a cold malice; rows of sharp fangs glinted as it smiled in the inquisitor’s direction.

Kalon shoved the corpse’s hands off his shoulders and kicked the dead wizard over the chair, straight at the demon. The creature swept a taloned hand to the side, batting the body out of the way into one of the chairs; both corpses and chair toppled over with a crash as another of the dead Thirteen clattered to the floor.

Kalon was reaching for his pistols as the creature moved, too quickly. It pushed the inquisitor against the wall, his back meeting the stone with a crack. He winced as he held his gaze resolutely against this nightmarish visage of demonkind, its hot breath sweeping over him. The creature had pinned his arms, and he could reach only a small pocket with his right hand.

He felt a long tongue lick the stone next to his ear. Many men would have been panicked; Kalon kept his cool as he fished out the familiar white piece of chalk. Twisting to free his right arm, he pressed the chalk onto the demon’s head, scratching out a quick equation that he often used to unbind simple magical constructs.

The chalk and its accompanying scribble were like acid on the monster’s skin. The unbinding tore a hole in the creature’s forehead, from which bubbled forth a sick black bile. Rather than battling the inquisitor further, the creature howled in agony and turned tail. Before Kalon could bring his weapons to bear, it had vanished in a cloud of oily smoke, fleeing upward into the cavernous ceiling.

As the stone above gave way with a crack, Kalon sprinted ahead. The ceiling dislodged by the massive demon fell inward and crashed down onto the remains of the grand chair. As it broke into hundreds of pieces, the whole room shook with the force of the impact. At the shattered ceiling, the creature escaped upward and out of the Thirteen’s lair, leaving fractured beams of sunlight to play down into the chamber below.

Kalon closed the door behind him and retraced his steps to the long hall. The dead were at peace now, and as the inquisitor walked through, his long coat trailed in his wake, touching the blood and bodies as he stepped across them. No one rose to try to claim him this time; the smell of death lingered ever present in his nostrils, along with the tang of spent magic.

He heard the sound of voices, consternation and panic, as footsteps echoed in the corridor beyond. Seeing perfectly in the dark, Kalon flattened himself into the nearest alcove and moved quietly back. A flicker of torchlight appeared, a small circle of wan orange emerging from the doorway. The smell of pitch clung to the men who passed into the long hall.

What the hells? said a swarthy man as he bent down to look at the dead. We should report this to the Lady Asher; it looks like her pet project is dead.

We can’t do that, said another. What if the Inquisition starts nosing around? They’re bound to ask questions — they know all, see all, hear all.

Poppycock. The first speaker laughed lightly. You really believe that claptrap about the all-seeing cog and eye? His voice was thick with derision. Come off it, they’re just men like us; not gods or wizards.

One of the men spat at that word. Bloody wizards. Very bloody wizards. They all shared a laugh.

All of ’em cursed, a thin man observed. You would have thought Asher had more sense than to let these dabblers run free like rats beneath her. I wonder what sort of deal she had going with ’em?

I heard they kept her young and beautiful as long as she didn’t make no demands.

It would take more than wizards to keep that hag looking anything but an eyesore. But as he spoke, the first figure glanced up. Something dropped on him from the ceiling — a smaller demonic creature that popped out of thin air and tumbled downward, its dozen claws and gleaming teeth extended. Its pink maw flashed opened and closed as it landed square on the soldier’s head, which came off with a spurt of blood. The demon wobbled as it hung on, red flowing from between its daggerlike fangs as the body buckled and crashed to the ground.

Before the demon could wreak havoc upon the other men, a loud report sounded out and Kalon was illuminated in the shadows. His long, dark ponytail flicked over his right shoulder, and his angular features displayed his revulsion at the foul spawn he had just shot dead.

The remaining five men turned to face the inquisitor; one brought up his torch to better look at him.

Oh, damn, the thin man said. We can explain.

What are you doing here? Kalon’s voice was cast iron in the flickering light.

Lady Asher sent us, the thin man explained as he judged Kalon’s flat expression. One of the servants came to the palace all bloody, said there’d been an attack.

You openly consort with known heretics? Kalon questioned. His finger tightened imperceptibly upon his pistol’s trigger.

We’re doing our jobs, the thin man tried to explain. Lady Asher said to keep an eye on the Thirteen, and as long as they didn’t cause any trouble they could stay.

Immaterial. You openly consort with known heretics.

The man’s mouth opened as if to speak. But in the end, he only nodded to Kalon and closed his eyes. He felt the impact that broke his skull, the dark behind his eyelids lighting up with a bright white flash as the inquisitor pulled the trigger without remorse or hesitation.

The thin man’s body fell backward as a smoking hole appeared in his forehead. Kalon turned and drew his other pistol. He pulled the trigger repeatedly, sending the rest of the men into oblivion before they could even think of drawing weapons. These were common soldiers, not worthy of Kalon’s time; he dispatched them all with the contempt they deserved.

As he stowed his pistols and turned to leave, the demonic creature he had shot twitched and surged to life on the floor. As it dribbled and flowed toward the inquisitor’s back, Kalon heard it. He snapped his hand down, a cylinder covered with ornate symbols and studs falling into his palm. It resembled a sword hilt, and as Kalon activated one of its studs, a liquid metal flowed down to form a razor-edged blade etched with equations and symbols.

He pirouetted on one heel, long coat splaying to the side like a bird’s wings as the tech-magis sword blade split the demon in two. The pink, bubbling remains of the creature splattered across the floor as it dropped in inert halves. Its legs twitched, six per side, until it moved no more. With a flick of his wrist, Kalon swung the blade side to side, the gore that streaked it spraying off across the walls.

He deactivated the device and the blade rolled back into the hilt. He slotted the whole thing back up his sleeve into its hidden scabbard, then continued on his way. He didn’t stop to search the dead men. Moving with swift purpose now, Kalon left the lair of the Thirteen behind, closing the door and returning to the sewers under Terralion. A ladder took him upward and into an alley behind a butcher’s shop. He could smell the meat and the stench of the city all around him, its rising walls crumbling in the distance where their stone showed its great age. He would wait until nightfall, until the demon that had escaped him had grown complacent. And then Kalon Rhadon, First Agent of the Church, would become the hunter, not the hunted.

2 — A DEMON IN THE DETAILS

TERRALION WAS A BROKEN and battered city, a ruin of the Age of Rogart when the Regent’s power base stretched across Hestonia for nearly a hundred years. It had been caught in a cataclysmic event that flowed across the city in waves of energy, shattering tall towers and turning men and women to ash in its wake. During those days, known as the Tiers of Wyrden, much of Hestonia was ravaged by the unleashed power that erupted from the three-tiered port city.

Kalon made his way from the twisting alleys, past the inhabitants dressed in rags, and now stood in the main thoroughfare. His coat was buffeted by a strong wind that blew the stench of disease, decay, and foul hope across his face. He could taste the smell on the tip of his tongue, and it almost made him gag. He cast his gaze from side to side, and as the sun smoldered in the azure sky above, a large metallic vessel caught his eye. It was the tail end of a golden colored wind-ship, shaped in the form of a giant hawk or eagle. It left a trail of aetheric disturbance across the heavens, and following that was the dull throb of an engine as it thundered by.

It was a momentary distraction; Kalon knew the ship, it was the Mist Reaver, and he was unable to do much about it.

He concentrated on picking up the trail of his demonic quarry. The creature had escaped him in the sewers below but it could not get far, nor could it resist hitching a ride in the rotten soul of one of Terralion’s waifs and strays. It would be drawn to a large concentration of suffering first. All Kalon needed to do was seek out the places in this cesspool where the detritus of society was at its thickest.

A single thought came as clear as the sunlight; Kalon turned on his heel and moved across to the nearest group of ragged beggars. His black-gloved hand was already in his pocket, emerging with a single minted coin, a silver ikon with the cog and eye of his order emblazoned on both sides. He tossed the coin at a likely man, a bleary-eyed soul who cradled a metal cup in bloodied hands. The other men and women watched the coin fly and they licked their lips. It was only when they saw the generous man that all thoughts of robbing both him and their erstwhile companion vanished from their avaricious heads.

I will speak this but once, Kalon said, addressing them all. Then I will be gone and no more coin will I leave you. Unless of course you provide me with satisfactory answers to the questions that I ask.

Go ahead, my lord inquisitor. One of the women, a young thing who had been beautiful at one time, turned her scarred face toward Kalon where she sat on the paving stones. She tried to smile. I will do my best to answer.

Excellent. Kalon took out another coin and proceeded to run it over his fingers as if he were a street performer. I have two questions. The first, then: This is a city of suffering and ruin; where is the worst of your kind?

The worst, lord inquisitor? she asked, her cracked lips showing a bloody mark. We are the worst of all Terralion.

Unlikely, Kalon answered, and the coin vanished for a moment behind his hand. Elaborate?

The beggars’ eyes as a collective watched the coin go; a shared sigh escaped their lips. The woman struggled to her feet and dusted herself off. I was a noble once, sir. A noble with title and lands. Now I am nothing, a rag on the street corner that is taken advantage of and bullied by all. Is that not the worst suffering?

Kalon listened impassively. The words might well have touched a chord in another inquisitor’s heart. However, they did nothing but serve to further his impression of the broken doll before him. Immaterial, he said with a shake of his head. This suffering is natural for a cesspool such as Terralion. I need a collection of doomed souls, those who have nothing at all to look forward to save the surety that their lives are forfeit before they have begun. You have lived your life; you have had your place in the sun.

The woman’s lip trembled as the inquisitor’s words cut like a shard of ice. She nodded feebly and her jaw clamped shut.

Then my lord inquisitor... An older beggar, one with a ripped long coat and battered wide-brimmed hat addressed Kalon. I might suggest that you look at the little ones. After all, those poor buggers have never had it as good as we did in the past.

Where? Kalon demanded. He held the coin just shy of the man’s hand.

About a few streets away. Rather than tell you sir, I can show you. If that’s permissible? The beggar cradled his hands as if expecting Kalon to drop the coin into his palms.

The inquisitor thought on this for a moment and then nodded. He gently placed the coin down and extended his left hand. Lead on.

At this invitation, the beggar moved sharply away from his comrades, who now looked at him with envious eyes. He led Kalon out of earshot and quickened his pace.

I appreciate you giving me this chance, lord inquisitor. I used to be a metalsmith and forger for the church. I made some of the early weapon designs for the inquisitors. The beggar spoke quietly as they walked slowly through the Poor District. I was an assistant to Master Daroni.

Daroni makes good weapons. How did you assist him? Kalon questioned as he continued to walk; he never once looked at the man.

Inquisitor Gwillis found a flaw in my design and —

Kalon cut him off. I asked you how you assisted the man, not how you failed.

Sorry, lord inquisitor. The beggar dipped his head. I made the master molds on his designs, the smaller parts and suchlike.

I see. Kalon shrugged his shoulders. Inquisitor Gwillis is a taxing man, yet his judgment is never flawed. You are never allowed a mistake with him.

He said some of my molds were flawed, some of my designs were broken, and the test piece I made exploded in the hands of an acolyte. The beggar waited for the ire of the inquisitor.

Unfortunate, Kalon replied. Trial and error have their uses, but precision is highly valued by the church. If you lack such a quality, then you deserve your squalid fate. They both lapsed into a dark silence.

The grim, murky, and filth-strewn streets of the Poor District sprawled before them, a dozen alleys feeding the body of the city with the diseased blood of hundreds of homeless and forlorn souls. They shuffled in slow-moving lines, some of them stopping now and then to upturn a box or casket as they looked for scraps of food or temporary shelter from the cold night to come.

In time, Kalon and the beggar left the main street to stand before a three-story ramshackle building. It had seen better days. Its black slate roof appeared to require some work, as a few of the tiles were missing and the chimney pot was lopsided. The stone showed signs of recent renovation, and a small chain held the body of the chimney pot to prevent it from crashing down into the street below.

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