Afternoon, 35 Dentis 2719
A Conference Room, Brunnhold Seventen Headquarters
A Conference Room, Brunnhold Seventen Headquarters
Nkemi knelt at the edges of the circle, and drew the last sweeping line of chalk, shaping the rune with a practiced, familiar motion. She breathed deep, and rose, slowly, the chalk still held in one white-dusted hand. The clairvoyant conversationalist stepped back once, and then again, out of the circle, practiced bare feet careful not to smudge even the tiniest line of the chalk.
The diagram spanned nearly the entire room; the table and chairs which usually occupied it had been carried out two green uniformed hands at a time. There was space left along the walls inside the door, but otherwise Nkemi had drawn the circle as widely as she could. At the center sprawled one of the largest maps she had ever seen; each corner was weighed down with a heavy metal block, with a small carved stone set atop it. It was all six of the Kingdoms; it was one of the most beautiful maps that Nkemi had ever seen, detailed and precise in its shaping, with the names of dozens of towns – hundreds, perhaps – scratched in tiny, flawless writing onto its surface.
Not for the first time, the Mugrobi stepped into the circle, and walked, bare-footed onto the map; she stood atop Mugroba and looked down at the sweep of the Turga beneath her feet. She traced it, one step and then another, from Thul Ka; she followed the curve of it down, and then walked one, two steps into the desert – each step a day, Nkemi thought, solemn. She crouched down; there was the faintest tracing of a canyon, there, etched in the same ink, and the name Serkaih written so small she could barely see it. She breathed in, and then out again, and traced a small finger along the edges of the page. There – tiny – Dkanat, a breath of ink, shaped barely into tiny pale letters against the yellowed page.
Nkemi rose again; she wandered along the borders of her homeland, glancing down at the mountains of Hox; she followed the sweep of the Turga back through Thul Ka, and along the long journey to Anaxas in just a few steps. She crossed the Tincta Basta in two steps, one for the Muluku Islands, and the next onto the shores of Anaxas; she followed the Arova back along to Brunnhold, and looked down at the tiny blue letters.
“Preparations nearly finished, Subprefect pezre Nkese?”
“Yes, sir, inspector,” Nkemi bowed to the Anaxi standing at the door, his thick graying red hair neatly combed and the well-tended bright mustache which sat comfortably over his upper lip. As always, the five circular pins above his monite sash caught her eye. His snaps, Nkemi had learned they were called, long before her first day in Anaxas. She took a deep breath.
Criminal Investigation Inspector Rejinaled Oferoton nodded. “Excellent. We’re hoping this works, subprefect.”
“Yes sir,” Nkemi bowed again. “As am I.”
Oferoton nodded again. He left the doorway; it was the others who filed in first, green uniform after green uniform. Nkemi breathed deep. She had cast the spell more than once before, before such audiences and with such high stakes. All she could give was her best.
It was Special Enforcement Sergeant Desemarash who came over, smiling, although he did not cross onto the map. “Subprefect,” he bowed, politely. She felt his caprise, polite and respectful, perceptive and clairvoyant mona mingling with hers.
“Sergeant,” Nkemi bowed back. The clairvoyant mona of her field relaxed, belike; the static swirled around him as well, edging curiously into his field with all their characteristic warmth.
“An impressive spell circle,” Desemarash glanced down, and then back at her. “The effort means a good deal to us, subprefect. To me,” he added, “whether you succeed or fail. I saw the scene; terrible, nasty thing. I understand you have some experience, with such passives…?”
Nkemi looked up at him, solemn. She glanced down at the circle, now, along the edges of the map, at the deliberate holes she had left in the pattern, and the items set within. Her gaze lingered for a moment on the folded cloth, stained with the brown rust color of old blood. She looked back up at Desemarash. “One,” Nkemi said, quietly. “Yes, sir.”
Desemarash nodded. “Terrible thing, of course,” he frowned, following her gaze to the bloodstained cloth. “One feels we’ve failed as our duty in caretakers,” he said, quietly. “For the poor boy and his brother both.” His lips pressed together, now, more thinly. “May Alioe’s light shine on this endeavor.”
“Thank you,” Nkemi said, solemnly.
Desemarash smiled at her, and it pulled down the corners of his eyes. He made his way back, joining the other Seventen along the wall.
Nkemi breathed in, deeply, and out once more. She traced careful footsteps back out of the map, and settled, kneeling, in the only empty circle within the pattern. The bowl of ink sat before her, ensconced in monite symbols of its own. Nkemi breathed deep, looking down at it. She sat, back straight, her gaze cast out over the map.
“Whenever you’re ready, Subprefect,” Oferoton said.
Nkemi glanced up at him, and all the rest; she looked at each of the men and women, and she did not smile. She nodded, only, and turned back to the map. She breathed in, deep and out again; she reached down, and cupped the bowl of ink in one hand, lifting it carefully; the small pool of ink in the bottom swayed with the movement, but did not splash.
Nkemi watched the map, with all her focus; she brought her intention to bear, and she called upon the mona. She was solemn, now, bright but solemn; she came to them in earnest, in determined strength, and she told them of her needs. She asked them to find the man responsible for this blood, the man whose hands had held these things, whose body had rested on these sheets; the clairvoyant mona rippled through the air around her, blanket-soft, draping themselves over her.
Nkemi reached, and when she thought she had it the spell shifted, changing, these words a well-practiced request for information. She spoke it, and spoke it again; she rose, still chanting, and took step by step across the map. She knelt at Brunnhold, the ink cradled in one hand; she rested her palm into the ink, and drew it out, and settled it on top of the city, leaving her handprint across it. Nkemi was in the leybridge, now; and then she was holding the clairvoyant spell, upkeeping it, even as she called upon the static mona. The two wove together in her field; the softness became warm, draped all around her.
Nkemi asked the mona to trace him, this man whose hands had caused these bloody things; she asked them to find him, now, to find where he was, and to show her the path he had taken to get there. With every syllable, calm and steady, she put to them the importance of the request; with her whole self, she dove into the cast, and never hesitated. Lars Savatier, she asked: where are you now?
The diagram spanned nearly the entire room; the table and chairs which usually occupied it had been carried out two green uniformed hands at a time. There was space left along the walls inside the door, but otherwise Nkemi had drawn the circle as widely as she could. At the center sprawled one of the largest maps she had ever seen; each corner was weighed down with a heavy metal block, with a small carved stone set atop it. It was all six of the Kingdoms; it was one of the most beautiful maps that Nkemi had ever seen, detailed and precise in its shaping, with the names of dozens of towns – hundreds, perhaps – scratched in tiny, flawless writing onto its surface.
Not for the first time, the Mugrobi stepped into the circle, and walked, bare-footed onto the map; she stood atop Mugroba and looked down at the sweep of the Turga beneath her feet. She traced it, one step and then another, from Thul Ka; she followed the curve of it down, and then walked one, two steps into the desert – each step a day, Nkemi thought, solemn. She crouched down; there was the faintest tracing of a canyon, there, etched in the same ink, and the name Serkaih written so small she could barely see it. She breathed in, and then out again, and traced a small finger along the edges of the page. There – tiny – Dkanat, a breath of ink, shaped barely into tiny pale letters against the yellowed page.
Nkemi rose again; she wandered along the borders of her homeland, glancing down at the mountains of Hox; she followed the sweep of the Turga back through Thul Ka, and along the long journey to Anaxas in just a few steps. She crossed the Tincta Basta in two steps, one for the Muluku Islands, and the next onto the shores of Anaxas; she followed the Arova back along to Brunnhold, and looked down at the tiny blue letters.
“Preparations nearly finished, Subprefect pezre Nkese?”
“Yes, sir, inspector,” Nkemi bowed to the Anaxi standing at the door, his thick graying red hair neatly combed and the well-tended bright mustache which sat comfortably over his upper lip. As always, the five circular pins above his monite sash caught her eye. His snaps, Nkemi had learned they were called, long before her first day in Anaxas. She took a deep breath.
Criminal Investigation Inspector Rejinaled Oferoton nodded. “Excellent. We’re hoping this works, subprefect.”
“Yes sir,” Nkemi bowed again. “As am I.”
Oferoton nodded again. He left the doorway; it was the others who filed in first, green uniform after green uniform. Nkemi breathed deep. She had cast the spell more than once before, before such audiences and with such high stakes. All she could give was her best.
It was Special Enforcement Sergeant Desemarash who came over, smiling, although he did not cross onto the map. “Subprefect,” he bowed, politely. She felt his caprise, polite and respectful, perceptive and clairvoyant mona mingling with hers.
“Sergeant,” Nkemi bowed back. The clairvoyant mona of her field relaxed, belike; the static swirled around him as well, edging curiously into his field with all their characteristic warmth.
“An impressive spell circle,” Desemarash glanced down, and then back at her. “The effort means a good deal to us, subprefect. To me,” he added, “whether you succeed or fail. I saw the scene; terrible, nasty thing. I understand you have some experience, with such passives…?”
Nkemi looked up at him, solemn. She glanced down at the circle, now, along the edges of the map, at the deliberate holes she had left in the pattern, and the items set within. Her gaze lingered for a moment on the folded cloth, stained with the brown rust color of old blood. She looked back up at Desemarash. “One,” Nkemi said, quietly. “Yes, sir.”
Desemarash nodded. “Terrible thing, of course,” he frowned, following her gaze to the bloodstained cloth. “One feels we’ve failed as our duty in caretakers,” he said, quietly. “For the poor boy and his brother both.” His lips pressed together, now, more thinly. “May Alioe’s light shine on this endeavor.”
“Thank you,” Nkemi said, solemnly.
Desemarash smiled at her, and it pulled down the corners of his eyes. He made his way back, joining the other Seventen along the wall.
Nkemi breathed in, deeply, and out once more. She traced careful footsteps back out of the map, and settled, kneeling, in the only empty circle within the pattern. The bowl of ink sat before her, ensconced in monite symbols of its own. Nkemi breathed deep, looking down at it. She sat, back straight, her gaze cast out over the map.
“Whenever you’re ready, Subprefect,” Oferoton said.
Nkemi glanced up at him, and all the rest; she looked at each of the men and women, and she did not smile. She nodded, only, and turned back to the map. She breathed in, deep and out again; she reached down, and cupped the bowl of ink in one hand, lifting it carefully; the small pool of ink in the bottom swayed with the movement, but did not splash.
Nkemi watched the map, with all her focus; she brought her intention to bear, and she called upon the mona. She was solemn, now, bright but solemn; she came to them in earnest, in determined strength, and she told them of her needs. She asked them to find the man responsible for this blood, the man whose hands had held these things, whose body had rested on these sheets; the clairvoyant mona rippled through the air around her, blanket-soft, draping themselves over her.
Nkemi reached, and when she thought she had it the spell shifted, changing, these words a well-practiced request for information. She spoke it, and spoke it again; she rose, still chanting, and took step by step across the map. She knelt at Brunnhold, the ink cradled in one hand; she rested her palm into the ink, and drew it out, and settled it on top of the city, leaving her handprint across it. Nkemi was in the leybridge, now; and then she was holding the clairvoyant spell, upkeeping it, even as she called upon the static mona. The two wove together in her field; the softness became warm, draped all around her.
Nkemi asked the mona to trace him, this man whose hands had caused these bloody things; she asked them to find him, now, to find where he was, and to show her the path he had taken to get there. With every syllable, calm and steady, she put to them the importance of the request; with her whole self, she dove into the cast, and never hesitated. Lars Savatier, she asked: where are you now?
