Amelia Thornheart

Ishaq had changed.

Menes was sure of it.

Throughout his entire life, the Golden City had thrived. The warm gaze of Pyrinn would mix with the southerly breeze, manifesting a sense of peaceful prosperity. Good food, good people, and a loving wife. That was the blessed life Menes had experienced so far.

But, beneath it, there was a growing darkness.

At first, it was a subtle pressure, only detectable by those such as him who were attuned to the ways of the city. It had simmered quietly, staying hidden until it had become confident enough to spread its tendrils. It had started at the bottom, manifesting in small ways: easier access to opium, a small bribe, a bit of smuggling. Its influence had pushed forward evermore, rewarding those who would look the other way.

Like a sickness, it had spread, attacking the weakest first.

Instead of the occasional cheeky softhorn that might slip an amberfig into their pocket when the merchant wasn’t looking, entire factions rose up and systematically established organised criminal syndicates. These groups strong-armed Ishaq’s civilian class, pushing out merchants and replacing them with those that wouldn’t ask questions about the origins of their goods. Those cheeky softhorns were pulled under their influence and organised into pickpocketing gangs.

Not that Ishaq hadn’t fought back.

The council did as it should. Laws were passed, raids carried out, and Ishaq’s honourable elite responded with their own pressure, forcing back the darkness.

It worked at first.

Until it didn’t.

The demands of the Cascadian-Republic conflict dragged Eastern and Centralis-funded patrols away from the Passage. With them gone, the South couldn’t, or didn’t want to, make up the difference. The weakened security meant new powers moved into the Passage, attracted by the prospect of a place outside the Empire’s reach. It did not help that many of them were former soldiers, coming to the Far South with a skill set to carve out their own little corner of darkness.

It had happened so fast.

In just a few short years, the pressure had exploded, and the corruption had reached even the council. They had given up on fighting and instead focused on appeasement, satisfied with their own purses, which grew heavy beyond their salaries.

Everything had changed.

If you were new to Ishaq, you might not notice. Outwardly, the good people were happy and content with their lives, but if you looked more closely, you would pick up on signs. The choice placement of a merchant's stall was no longer granted on a first-come-first-serve basis, but instead, based on which faction backed you and which territory you were in. Ishaq’s fishermen, who had fought over fishing spots in a friendly manner for years, now had access to more untoward methods; sabotage and intimidation.

The greatest city in Cascadia was sick.

And its worst sickness was opium.

Menes reached the end of the mountain path, coming to a small outcropping. To his left, the farmlands and fishing villages stretched to the east, casting long shadows in the morning sun. To his right, Ishaq sat, comfortably resting against the Salaban Mountains.

In front of him was a gravestone.

He knelt, using his hands to rub away any dirt. There wasn’t much, for he came here often.

“I meant to come sooner,” he said quietly. “I have been so very busy.”

In a contemplative silence he set about his tasks. He had brought with him tools and flowers, which he began to plant around the gravestone.

“I met an incredible person,” he said. His hands paused momentarily. “I met two incredible people,” he corrected. “Two incredible women. They were so very different but so very similar. They were fire and ice. They were—” He felt himself frown. “No, they were more like hellfire and ice. No…” He shook his head. “They were both hellfire, in their own ways. You would have liked them, I think.

“I had an opportunity,” he continued. “A chance. One was a healer. Can you believe that?” He flicked his eyes to the grave. “Not the kind you’re thinking of. A magical healer. A human. I came to an accord. I would do my part and she would burn away some of the sickness.” Menes shook his head, feeling a small smile on his lips. “You should have seen her magic. It was as beautiful as your flowers.”

It had been more than beautiful. It had been transcendental.

And her aether capacity… it was too great for a First-Word Speaker. He hadn’t met many Speakers in his life, and seen even less in action, but he knew mathematically what their aether capacity should be. He had read an analysis of human healers from Terra Aurea. It didn’t make sense. The saint disguised as an icemage was too young to be so powerful.

It had to be her, didn’t it?

The identity of the mysterious Speaker from Asamaywa.

The one that had stolen Suijin from the South.

“Well…” Menes said quietly. “It does not matter now.”

If Suijin was truly in her hands, then the demonic embodiment was in the right pair of hands. And she was in the South, wasn’t she? So in a way, Suijin had returned to them.

That’s how he chose to think about it, anyway.

“We went through the dens,” Menes said, gripping a stubborn bunch of weeds and ripping them out. “Every one that me and Bahar could find. There were more than ever before. I wonder what they will think? Ha!” He looked up, squinting against the morning sun, casting his gaze over Ishaq.

How many hundreds had been healed last night? Thousands? There had been more customers than Menes thought possible. It wasn’t just the loss of revenue the factions would suffer but a loss of power as well. Without addicts willing to do anything for more, the criminal groups would have less willing hands to do their dirty work.

“I feel like Ishaq has been healed,” Menes said. “That the pressure has lowered.” He looked down, pulling the last few weeds that were threatening the flowers. “I hope it was enough. But… I fear I may have to do more. Perhaps I shouldn’t have become a sayyid.”

Menes had taken a step into the world of the Tasalsul as he believed that was where he could help Ishaq the most. For the longest time, he had believed it was the right path. Through his rank, he’d gained the influence to expand Ishaq’s prospects and help tame the Passage with new mathematical models. He’d met and worked with brilliant minds, like Captain Halen’s sister, and established his own small network of influence, assisted by his beautiful wife.

But it wasn’t the Southern way.

Another path he could have chosen would have led him to become a man of power. A man of violence. Would it have been better if he’d chosen that path? Would he have been victorious if he’d grown his own faction and subjugated the corruption? With enough power, all the merchants and fishermen would be protected by him. The council would have had to listen to him. He could have guided Ishaq with might.

Or would he have become another thuggish brute?

He had long believed that the Southern way of settling everything through violence was flawed. A good punch might quell a group, but a good speech could move thousands, and a stroke of a pen could mobilise millions. Even so, hadn’t Sayyidah Halen chosen the former when she disarmed that snake, Maramba? Hadn’t Speaker Maranai chosen the former when he Spoke against the Council?

“They are more powerful than me,” Menes said, placing his tools back into his bag. “My orange isn’t enough. I must do what I can, with what I have.” He stood up and, for a long time, looked at Ishaq. The city was waking up. While many of its citizens wouldn’t know what had happened, there would be some who would be very confused this morning.

His eyes wandered to the docks. A stream of fishing vessels launched to and from its many bays. Some fish were most active in the early hours of the morning, and for the fishermen, the opening hours of the day determined their profits. He watched them go in silence, letting the morning sun slowly warm him up.

His eyes lingered on one of the bays; it was unused, empty, too large for any fishing ships.

The white ship had left hours ago, in the dark.

By now, Sayyidah Halen and her loyal followers would be traversing the Golden Path, snaking their way to Hakim. From there, they would need to hire windrunners. No. They wouldn’t be able to. This close to Pyrinn’s moonrain? No one would do it. Their insurance wouldn’t cover the lightweight and delicate ship being taken out into the Red Sands at such a time. Too much risk.

Which meant…

Menes chuckled.

He would have very much liked to see the Eastern Sayyidah try and ride a sandskimmer.

“In another life,” Menes said, turning to the grave, “I might have gone with her.” He shook his head. “But my place is in Ishaq,” he said, as much to the grave as to himself. He placed a heavy hand on the smooth stone. “I will return later with Nefertari and Bahar. They miss you as much as I.” He patted the gravestone and took a final moment to admire his gardening skills. Then he left, walking back down the mountain path and into Ishaq.

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He greeted people as he went. Today would be a slow day. He could see it in everyone's movements. Too much alcohol, not enough water. More than a few people were lying on the floor, passed out under the terracotta cooling towers. Menes made sure they would be okay before continuing on his way. He didn’t have to go far before finding somewhere else to pitch in. He stopped at a group and began helping others tidy up the carcass of one particularly brutalised piñata. While he slipped a few paper-wrapped sweets into his pockets for his children, he made small talk with those around him.

“It feels like we have crossed a great hurdle,” Menes said idly, picking up a piece of dented wireframe that would have been part of the paper arcwhale’s tail. “Our future is bright; I know this.” At his words, some of the citizens around him nodded.

“I hear your words,” a woman said. “My useless son hugged me this morning. Can you believe that! I thought he was drunk, but…” the woman trailed off, idly folding festival bunting.

“But…?” Menes questioned.

“But his eyes were clear,” the woman said. “He said he’s done twisting my horns and being an embarrassment to the family. He said he’s done drinking. I couldn’t believe it. Did the funeral barge reach Rhaknam’s domain already? Pyrinn must be smiling upon me, bless Mura and her children.” The woman shook her head. “We’ll see if it lasts.”

“He used to drink?” Menes asked. “Too much?”

“Yes, too much. And more…” The woman looked embarrassed for a moment. “Sometimes he would come home with eyes clouded and a slow mind. Honestly, I was going to ask for you to set him straight, Menes.”

Menes laughed. Could it be? Perhaps the first signs of last night were already trickling their way upwards. Unlike tendrils of darkness, these were tendrils of hope, of opportunity and progress.

Ah, how he so desperately wanted to walk the streets of Ishaq’s underbelly. With his orange, he could eavesdrop and listen to their confusion. He could imagine it now. Why was no one coming to their establishments this morning? Had someone poached their customers? They would all be thinking such things.

He wanted to see it himself.

But he couldn’t. He had spent a great deal of effort making sure he wasn’t seen last night. If he travelled those streets now, it could draw suspicion. They would see him and wonder why Sayyid Bastet was there. Was he seeking pleasure away from his wife? Was he—

Menes paused. He could go and see Ihra, couldn’t he?

Yes. A friendly visit to a friend of the family.

“Save some of this wire,” a voice said suddenly.

“Mmm?” Menes hummed.

“I need it to protect my fish,” the man said. “From the Grey Terror.”

“The Grey…?” Menes frowned.

“Ignore him, Menes,” the woman said. “It’s just a local peeka.”

The man scoffed. “You’re not the one having your fish stolen!”

The pair of them bantered with each other, but Menes didn’t pay much attention. His thoughts were elsewhere. He handed the man what he’d collected and bade them farewell. He took a slow, meandering path through Ishaq’s streets, trying to eavesdrop on the locals. There were whispers here and there that something had happened the previous night.

A sudden burst of colour, sparkling with red crystal, swooped down and landed on his shoulder.

“Morning!” Solara squawked. “Morning!”

“Did you escape again?” Menes asked, reaching up and giving the macaw a scratch.

“Rommy!” the bird chirped. “Rommy!”

“Ah, looking for your peeka friend?” Menes asked. “Romulus has left the city, but I’m sure you’ll see him again, Solara. People have a way of coming back to Ishaq.” He wasn’t sure how much the smart bird understood, but he didn’t seem upset, at least.

He walked with Solara on his shoulder, eventually finding himself standing before a great bronze statue. It was the statue of the Unknown Fighter, the man who’d silenced King Orizen’s royal tyranny, burned down the palace, and established the Republican Council. Despite being such an important figure in Ishaq’s history, no one knew who the Unknown Fighter was. He had appeared out of nowhere and vanished into nothingness. Whoever he was, his actions were benevolent.

And mighty.

Menes looked at the statue up and down. Complicated thoughts tormented him once more. Was his path really the one for him? Here was one man, a single demon, who had freed a city. Was it time for another man to do the same? He might only be capable of orange aura himself, but he did have influence. Could he—

Those are dangerous thoughts, friend.

Greatlord Malin’s warning echoed in his mind.

No, Menes couldn’t lead it. Someone else would have to. His position as a Sayyid meant that even if he was successful, Saladin would put an end to it. The Overlord would not tolerate a member of the Tasalsul taking Ishaq.

But if it came from someone else? Someone respected in the city, someone who—

“What’s got your horns wilting?” a smooth voice spoke out, breaking his concentration.

Menes blinked. He turned to see Ihra standing next to him.

“I was coming to find you,” he said, frowning.

Ihra tilted her head. “You sound disappointed that I found you first?” The demon’s lips curled into a sly smile. “Were you looking for an excuse to spend some time at Madam Sakina’s? Really, Menes. I would have thought Nefi would have been enough for you.”

“Do not tease me,” Menes answered, waving a hand. “I was going to… investigate.”

“Investigate?” Ihra cooed, placing her hands on her hips. “Of all the excuses men make, that has to be—”

“Not like that,” Menes said, cutting her off. He decided to take a risk. “I have been helping others clean up after the festival. I heard some rumours.”

Ihra blinked. “Rumours?”

“That something happened in the red light districts.” Menes shrugged. “A woman’s drunken son is said to have been… cured of his desires.”

“Oh.” Ihra said no more and just watched Menes carefully.

“Is it true?” he asked, trying to keep his tone under control.

“Something might have happened…” Ihra said slowly. “Do you…” she blinked, and for a moment there was a glint of something else in her eyes, “know anything about it?”

“Yes,” he answered confidently, folding his arms.

“Yes?”

“It is Pyrinn’s blessing,” he said, pointing at the Red Moon. “She has smiled upon us, as thanks for honouring Rhaknam’s child.” For some reason, Ihra looked almost disappointed, so he quickly added, “This is a good thing. The people need good news.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t good, Menes,” Ihra said, folding her arms. “It’s just strange, that’s all. Now I think about it, I didn’t see that ship docked earlier. When did it—Ah!” Ihra took a step back. Solara had launched itself onto Ihra’s shoulder and was fighting to balance on the poor demon.

“Ow, ow…” Ihra winced. “Seriously, what the—”

“Solara!” Menes barked. He took out the cloth he’d used to clean the gravestone and wrapped it around Ihra’s wrist. “Remember your claws! Come here!” He tapped Ihra’s wrist, and Solara begrudgingly moved over. “Have you tired of me already, you foolish bird?” He apologised to Ihra, receiving only a sarcastic look in return.

“A scratched shoulder and a dirty rag,” the demon said. “Wonderful, just what people expect when they go to Madam Sakina’s.” Ihra rolled her eyes and lifted Solara to her face. “You’re a troublesome bird, Solara. I hope you're sorry, or I’ll be eating macaw tonight.”

Solara squawked. “Smell nice! Smell nice!”

“Hrmph,” Ihra intoned. “I guess you can stay for now.”

“He means no harm,” Menes said.

“Many people don’t,” Ihra replied coolly. “Yet it is those people who cause the greatest harm.” She turned away from Solara and met Menes’ gaze. “As I was saying. I noticed the Vengeance set sail sometime in the night. Do you know when?”

Menes shrugged. “I’m not sure.” He rubbed his nose. “I said my farewells to Sayyidah Halen yesterday. Their duties take them elsewhere. Perhaps they are leaving the South?”

“Perhaps,” Ihra said. “Well,” she said, her face breaking out into a smile. “I was just curious. It is a famous ship after all. They say a Formless lives on it.” Ihra blinked. “I mean, a djinn. Can you believe that?”

“I can believe it,” Menes said, nodding.

He and Ihra talked for a few minutes. He wasn’t sure, but he felt as if the woman was hiding something from him. If last night's activity had healed the addicts, some of Madam Sakina’s regulars might have been caught in the crossfire. Perhaps Ihra had come here to see if Menes knew anything about it.

Well, if she knew she wasn’t sharing, and Menes kept his cards close to his chest.

“I’ll be seeing you,” Menes said.

“Are you… going to take your bird?” Ihra responded dryly.

He chuckled. “Solara, come!”

The macaw didn’t move.

“See?” he gave Ihra a shrug. “He does what he wants. Do not mind; he’ll get bored in a few minutes.” With a wave, he finished with, “Look after him!”

“I’ll… I’m going to throw this dirty rag away!” came the annoyed response.

Menes only laughed, and as he laughed, he felt his mood rise.

But, despite his jolly mood, his mind was focused.

There were many things to do, and he had to be very careful.

It was time for change in Ishaq.

Sahira watched Menes’ broad back disappear around a corner.

She sighed, and looked at the troublesome macaw.

“What am I supposed to do with you?” she asked.

Solara squawked. “Adventure! Adventure!”

“Can you tell me if Menes is hiding something?” she asked.

The bird didn’t respond.

She sighed again, looking at the corner the Arakian lord vanished behind.

Did he have something to do with last night?

Tefira was in an uproar, and it wasn’t just her. Something had happened in Ishaq last night. They knew by now what had happened, but no one knew how. Despite that, it hadn’t stopped everyone and their peeka from offering suggestions.

Pyrinn had smiled upon them.

Rhaknam had blessed them.

The Empress had visited Ishaq.

Whatever it was, something had… cleaned the minds of nearly every opium smoker, dust sniffer, and sex addict. Tefira wasn’t as established in the drug market as most of her competitors, but she’d still faced a sudden drop in revenue. Over the last few hours, they’d run the numbers again and again.

It wasn’t good.

All the more reason to leave Ishaq for a while.

Even so, a part of Sahira’s mind niggled her.

Menes Bastet and Captain Halen. They had something to do with this. She didn’t know how or why, but some part of Sahira’s instincts knew it to be true. And there was still the mystery of Lia Liona, who was backed by someone so terrifying that half of Cascadian Intelligence didn’t even know he existed.

The Empress-in-disguise? Sahira thought, chuckling at the thought.

Well, it was an explanation.

“Hey, Solara,” she said, bending her arm to face the bird. “Menes hosted Captain Halen and Miss Liona; were you there?” When the bird didn’t reply, she prodded further. “Any chance you saw her Speak a Word? Perhaps she’s our new saint?” Ihra chuckled.

Well, that was another explanation, but about as likely as it was that Miss Liona was the Empress-in-disguise. Amelia Thornheart was known to still be in the East, recuperating under the watchful eye of the Eastern Overlord in the Three Sisters. Apparently, she’d badly exhausted herself in the Asamaywa healing event.

And if she’d recovered quickly, why would they keep that a secret?

And why then send her to Ishaq?

Ihra shook her head. It was nonsense.

Still. Miss Liona was someone. It was a cover, of that she was sure.

“Lia!” Solara squealed. “Lia Liona!”

“That’s right,” Ihra mused, lost in her thoughts. “Help me out here, Solara.”

The bird was silent for a few seconds.

And then he opened his mouth.

“Golden hair!” Solara squawked. “Golden hair!”