“Good morning, Elder Scribe.”
Primio looked up from his desk. His neck chastised him for the sudden motion. Beside him stood a fat monk in the traditional Prevalistic blue robes, holding a plastic tray. Primio hadn’t heard the door to the basement open, nor the footsteps as the monk approached. His focus had been absolute.
“Good morning, Brother Andus.” Primio’s voice was a cracking whisper. He cleared his throat and licked his dry lips.
The monk smiled. “Breakfast for you. Brother Kellin found hedgeboar at the market, and so Medra made bacon.”
Primio grinned. “I’m not sure I’ve the fortitude for bacon these days, brother. But I appreciate the gesture.”
Brother Andus chuckled and went to set the tray down on the desk. In the candlelight he saw that the desk was covered in sheets of paper. Conscious of the importance of the Elder Scribe’s archiving, he gently picked up a few of the water-damaged sheets to make room for the tray.
“Leave that be, please,” Primio said.
The monk blinked, and looked at the papers in his hand.
“Department of Translocation transcripts?”
Primio nodded, and extended his hand. Brother Andus returned the pages.
“Rector Eagen said you were archiving Frimmian-era works.”
“I am.”
“How do these transcripts relate?”
“They do not. Thank you for breakfast, Brother Andus. I’ll return my dirties to the kitchen once I’m finished.”
Brother Andus blinked, and then smiled again. “No, Elder Scribe. Just leave them beside your desk. I’ll be back to pick them up in an hour or so.”
“Thank you, brother. But give me three hours—I am lost in research.”
“Of course. But I would suggest that you try the bacon before it gets cold. Trust me on that.”
“I will do my best. Good day, Brother Andus.”
The monk bowed, and turned to leave.
Something heavy clapped the stone floor in the darkness of the shelves beyond the light of the candle.
“What was that?” Brother Andus asked.
“It sounded like an old book falling. Pay it no mind, brother. I’ll recover it when I stand up to stretch.”
“Nonsense. I’ll go and get it.”
“It is just a book. Do not worry yourself.”
“Never have I heard a scribe so cavalier about the preservation of the abbey’s tomes.” Brother Andus grinned and shook his head. “You must be quite lost in your work, indeed.” He stepped away from the desk.
Primio shot out a hand and grabbed the monk’s robe with his skeletal fingers.
“Leave it be, Brother Andus.”
“Elder Scribe, what are you—”
“Leave it be.” Primio’s voice was quiet, almost pleading. “Just return to your duties. Please.”
Brother Andus frowned. He stared into the old man’s eyes for a moment, as if wondering to challenge him or not. Primio did not release his frail grip on the monk’s robes.
“Is everything alright, Elder Scribe?”
“Yes. Just, please. Leave me to my work. I do not wish to lose focus, and every second that you are hear drags me further from the light of discovery.”
“If you insist.”
“I do.”
“As you wish, Elder Scribe. I’ll return in three hours.”
Primo let go. Brother Andus straightened his robes and stood still for a moment before turning towards the stairs. In thirty seconds he had ascended and shut the door to the basement behind him.
Primio leaned back, feeling his spine crack. His heart was beating wildly. He breathed in deep, closed his eyes, attempting to calm himself down and let his fear run its course.
“Wise,” came Rambolt’s voice in the dark.
Primio placed a hand on his chest, waited for his heart to slow down before speaking. “You would have killed him.”
“Yes.”
“You wouldn’t have hesitated.”
“No. I can’t be found here.”
Primio pressed his teeth together and looked at the platter that Brother Andus had left on his desk. The bacon still steamed. He had no appetite. He briefly thought about asking Rambolt if he planned on killing him once he was finished with the work, but he was certain that that was already decided. Knowing wouldn’t change that eventuality.
“What have you found?”
Primio felt the wrinkled edges of the pages in his hands.
“I need more information. Older transcripts, from years past.”
“You have what you need.”
“This is a single data point. A week’s worth of names. I have no way of determining when these people last passed through the aperture. I need more information.”
“Those names are all that you need. One of them is the source of the Schism, and you will discover who.”
“If you are implying that I should feel which one is your culprit, then I apologize, Bereaver. I do not possess the divine insight that you do.”
Primio heard a single footstep, and then silence. He waited and wondered how Rambolt would process that last remark. He did not turn around, but he braced himself for the feeling of cold steel sliding through his neck. It never came.
Primio sighed, and his stomach rumbled. Eleven hours had passed since Rambolt had shattered the sanctuary of his research. He had gone through the transcript innumerable times, eliminated impossibilities and highlighted unlikely candidates. Prominent families, licensed Celedinian interworld transporters, itinerant preachers, employees of the hub itself…
“What have you found?”
“Nothing.”
Another footstep.
“Brother Rambolt, if this is truly something that I must accomplish, then I need more information. The volumes held here only help us so much. Most everything here is from pre-expansion, anyway. I am a historian.”
“No, you are a recalcitrant old man who is refusing to assist a Bereaver. I’m sure you understand the consequences for heresy such as this.”
At that Primio turned around. Rambolt was in the darkness, just beyond the orange globe of light. The blue of his robes was faintly visible—his pale, shadowed face like that of a ghost.
“Brother Rambolt, you are fumbling in the dark.”
“Excuse me?”
“I know you—”
“No, you do not.”
“I know who you were, and you were no detective. You’ve always had a penchant for moving about unseen and being where you shouldn’t be, but never have you tackled anything like this. You do not know how to find a person that you do not know. You are desperately grasping at anything. This transcript will not show you who you seek.”
Rambolt stepped forward, his eyes wide.
“That name is on there, Primio. You will find it.”
“I can’t. This is as much as I can do.”
“No.”
“It is. With the information I have, I can find no more. The sooner you accept that, the sooner—”
“No.” Rambolt marched forward and grabbed Primio’s shoulder. His face was taught in a grimace. “That name is there. She is there, and you will find her.”
Primio grunted. “It might be there, but I have no way of knowing.”
“Then what is all this?” Rambolt ripped the pages from his hand. “These scribbles? These marks?”
“I’ve narrowed it, but not—”
“How many?”
“What?”
“How many are left?”
“Six.” Primio swallowed. His throat was dry, and stung him like a scorpion. “Six women. But I cannot narrow it further without—”
“This is enough.” Rambolt let go of Primio and held the sheets in two hands. He stood there, studying the remaining names, flipping through the pages again and again.
Primio adjusted himself in his seat. His shoulder hurt. His back hurt. He watched Rambolt devour the names with an unblinking eagerness.
“I need to narrow it down.”
“This is enough,” Rambolt repeated.
“But you don’t know which of these women—”
“I don’t need to.”
Primio felt his stomach drop. “Brother Rambolt, only one of those people is… guilty.”
“Yes,” Rambolt said. “One of them threatens the very fabric of the Real. I have no time to waste.”
“I need to refine the list. You need to get me more information. The others have done nothing wrong.”
Rambolt looked up, disgust twisting his features. “Everyone has done wrong, Scribe.”
“Brother—”
“You have been shut up in this abbey for far too long.” Rambolt crushed the pages into a ball, stuffed them into the pocket of his robe. “This whole city is festering with sin. There isn’t a single soul here that is free of guilt.”
“No. You cannot be serious. What you are talking about is murder.”
“I am efficient. I am purifying. And I have what I need.”
Primio pushed his chair out, but his hunger and fatigue wouldn’t let him stand. He straightened himself as much as he could, heard his spine pop.
“Brother Rambolt, I can’t let you do this.”
Rambolt cocked his head. “No. But you won’t be able to stop me. Not at your age. Maybe when I was younger, when you were spry enough to bend those whores you admired so much over the cabinets in the great hall.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You always sweet-talked them. Even though you were paying them, even though they prbably hated your saggy, groping paws. You loved to whisper lewd things to them as you befouled this institution. Don’t you look at me that way, like I speak lies. Did you ever wonder why I avoided that desk in the front row during your lectures? I saw what you did to that red-headed one. Hiked up her skirt caked in gutter slime and—”
“Stop!” Primio shouted. His voice rattled, burned. “You don’t know what you’re—”
“Oh, but I do.” Rambolt turned fully to the Elder Scribe. “You sure did love to sweet talk them. That voice of yours. That syrupy, gossiping, damning voice of yours.”
Rambolt shot out a hand and grabbed Primio by the jaw. He slid two fingers into the old man’s mouth and hooked his teeth, pulling the jaw open. Primio grunted in surprise and bit down. Rambolt swore. With his other hand he grabbed hold of Primio’s upper jaw. He flattened his palm against the old man’s nose and yanked upwards. Primio screamed spittle across Rambolt’s face. He clawed at Rambolt’s arms with weak, twig-like fingers. Rambolt growled and struggled to hold the jaws apart. He let go for a moment and reached into Primio’s mouth, only to have the Elder Scribe clamp his teeth shut on Rambolt’s fingers. Rambolt swore again, let go briefly, and punched Primio in the face. The old man’s head swung back like a buoy on rough seas, and his screams devolved into a harsh moan. Rambolt spat, and then grabbed hold of the jaw again.
He yanked open Primio’s mouth. Something popped in the back of his throat, and the old man took up his screaming again. Every time Rambolt pried open the jaw and reached his fingers in to grab hold of the tongue, Primio would snap his teeth on his fingers again. Rambolt snarled, smacked Primio in the face twice with his open hand. The Elder Scribe spun and wheezed. Rambolt grabbed him by what little hair was left on his scalp and smashed his head into the desk.
Primio went silent except for his rapid, caustic breathing. Each breath was wet, like he was sick. Sewer plague? Rambolt grabbed the man’s jaw again and turned his face upward. There was no resistance this time as he pried open the man’s jaw and grabbed hold of his tongue with three fingers. He placed a hand on Primio’s face to gain leverage and yanked.
The Elder Scribe awakened and screamed again, but the tongue did not come free. The wet speech organ wriggled out of his grasp and Primio’s teeth claimed a fingernail. Rambolt howled and retreated his hand. Primio was leaning back over the desk, groaning and gargling, with the Bereaver’s blood in his mouth.
Again Rambolt slammed Primio’s head onto the desk. This time he placed his whole hand across the Elder Scribe’s eyes and forced the head down. Then he drew his rapier. He swatted back the one arm that Primio was weakly trying to resist him with, and hovered the tip of the sword above the gasping mouth. The blade was three feet long—Rambolt had to extend his arm wholly to get it in the right spot. With two fingers he pried open Primio’s mouth. He moved the sword forward just slightly and split open the Elder Scribe’s top lip. Rambolt cursed in a throaty roar, and then Primio jerked his head. The tip of the blade dug into the gums and ripped three teeth free from their roots. Primio’s screams became wet and gargled as his mouth filled with blood. Rambolt smashed his head back again to try and silence him, to stop the screaming, to give him a moment’s peace so he could just cleaning remove the bastard’s tongue. But pain and fear were overwhelming Primio rapidly and he began gnashing his remaining blood-soaked teeth on the blade, ripping apart his own cheeks and turning Rambolt’s slick fingers into hamburger.
Rambolt pulled back again, removed the sword. Then he went back in and tried to pry open the mouth only to have the old man crush his fingers again. Rambolt howled once more, and then put weight into his rapier and ran it through Primio’s skull.
The blade dug into the wood of the desk and Primio went still.
Rambolt Eells stared, heaving and leaning over the desk. Primio was dead, with his tongue still firmly in his head. Rambolt’s lip trembled. He grasped Primio’s neck and pulled his sword free, a motion that was accompanied by a spurt of blood and the sound of sucking water. He stepped back and Primio’s body slid off down into the darkness below the light of the desk.
Rambolt stood there in silence. With shaking fingers he patted his pocket, felt the bulge where the crumpled papers waited. Everyone has done wrong, Scribe. He sheathed his glistening rapier and marched for the stairs.
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