Chapter 13

Scorio unbuckled a slender leather strap and pulled the pouch open. The whole of it was folded several times around its contents, buffering them with multiple layers from potential damage. Crouching down, unfolding the wrapping across one knee, Scorio finally revealed two stoppered vials, each thicker than his thumb and six inches long.

His breath caught in his throat. Within each swirled a metallic blue smoke, shot through with glittering flecks of mica. They were indescribably beautiful, endlessly curling through a variety of hues, revealing dark, sapphire depths and lightening to brilliant azure at the raised ridges.

But more than the sight of them was the pull they had on his spirit. Scorio couldn’t fathom why he felt such a desire for the blue smoke. Drawing the vials forth, he held them up and stared into their depths. What were they? The smoke seemed too solid, almost an endlessly swirling fluid, or…

But he wanted it. Like a starving man might crave a grilled slice of meat, fat and juices dripping from the seared exterior, he yearned to devour their contents in some manner.

Scorio stared, transfixed. The corks were sealed with thick crimson wax, with a symbol pressed onto their heads as if by a signet ring. A chimera, a cruder version of the one carefully stenciled on the badge he’d discarded.

It would be child’s play to break the seal and pop a cork. But then what? Drink it? Try to swirl it around his Heart… but to what end?

With great reluctance, he slid them back into their velvet loops and folded the pouch closed, buckling it tight. No. Given his ignorance, he’d just waste this treasure. And the only thing worse than not consuming it would be watching it disperse into the air while he flailed like an angry child after it.

Frowning, he stared at the alley mouth where pedestrians strode by, flashing into his line of view before disappearing after two steps.

Return to Dola? Hand over the pouch? This mission had been riskier than even she’d warned. Sure, there had been people on the inside setting things up for them, but their disguise had been flimsy, the security too tight. Was that Dola’s fault? No; she’d made the risks very clear. But she’d been all too willing to gamble their lives away at the slim prospect of acquiring these vials.

Would the next job be better? Dola would never stop trying to profit off his abilities. She’d ride his successes till he died.

Mood turning dour, prickled to mercurial anger by the pull of the vials, he remained crouched in the gloom, the burnished light of Second Bronze bathing Bastion in its unceasing glow.

He felt uneasy, felt trapped. Biting the inside of his cheek, he considered the black pouch, then sighed and rolled his neck till it popped. Had he overlooked other options? Feiyan and Helena had made it seem otherwise. Was Dola his only recourse? He thought of the guards chasing after him. They’d just been doing their jobs, and now would pay for their failure to guard this treasure. The thought made him feel queasy.

Turning, he sat against the wall, shoulders slumped. He simply didn’t know enough about this world to make educated decisions. Everything was so complex, the city, its people, the politics, the tension that filled the streets. He’d emerged from the ruins searching blindly for direction, guided by anger and resentment. What were his goals? What was he trying to achieve? To just live as an operative for Dola, earning a handful of octs after each successful heist?

No.

He’d convinced himself it was fitting to rob from the Houses, but now that he’d actually done it, he realized it wasn’t for him. He didn’t want to be sent blindly into another suicide mission. To die or be apprehended like Skarx, a rustspark addict desperately trying to just make it through another day.

He ran his thumb slowly over the velvet pouch. For better or worse, he was a Great Soul. He had within him illimitable potential if he could just harness it. Helena, Feiyan, even Dola had been aware of that primal difference between him and them. Questions of fairness or merit aside, he had a chance to make something of himself.

But again, to what end? Praximar had closed all the doors. Even if he overcame those obstacles, forged a fake identity for himself, what would he achieve? Did he wish to simply embed himself in one of the four Houses, to walk around in a uniform, giving orders and living off the labor of others? That had no appeal.

What if he became powerful enough to strike out into hell itself, to leave Bastion and its problems behind to explore the lands under those blue skies? That felt better, but still felt… hollow.

There was too much he didn’t understand. He had to grow, to learn, to figure out his place in this strange world. Which meant, more than anything else, he had to continue wrestling with his Igneous Heart, with his latent powers. Leonis and Lianshi were no doubt blossoming under the guidance of the Academy instructors, but he had to figure it out by himself.

And these vials might be a means to achieve a breakthrough.

He’d not be giving them back to Dola.

Scorio grimaced and rose to his feet. Which meant, in turn, that he was making a very powerful enemy.

He thought of Dola. Powerful, white-haired, grim-faced, looming over the Narrows like a shadowy titan, her reach sufficiently pervasive to penetrate even House Chimera’s skycrane yard.

Not an enemy to make lightly.

Then again, she could only ever be the worst kind of friend.

Carefully placing the velvet pouch inside his robes, he took a moment to adjust his numerous treasures, tightened his belt, then stepped up to the alley’s mouth. He looked up and down the broad street at the sparse crowd rushing back and forth. Each person carried behind their inscrutable faces a world of purpose, desires, hopes, and frustrations. All of them belonged to Bastion, understood it in their own nuanced way, navigated its corridors of power, strove to do just a little better, to parlay their luck and talent and dreams into an improvement of some kind.

Was he any different?

Not really. But fate had gifted him the means to realize a wholly different level of power. To attain goals beyond even his own imagining.

Stepping out, hands linked behind his back, he walked axially south, tracing the long road beneath the sun-wire toward the distant ruins.

He’d been a Blood Baron once. He, Scorio. Reborn within the Academy, on a jeweled bier. Had that past-life version of him also been cast through the Final Door? If so, it meant he’d overcome these challenges. He’d asked the same questions, faced the same foes, and won through.

Scorio took a deep breath and raised his eyes to the city that arched overhead. The disparate neighborhoods, all of them bathed in the sun-wire’s ruddy glow. He’d walked these streets centuries before. He’d ignited his Heart, had passed his Four Trials, had broken through the bottleneck of being a Dread Blaze, had become a Pyre Lord, and then a Blood Baron.

He studied the strange city as he walked, lips pursed. If he’d done it once, he could do it again. Perhaps in this life, he’d rise higher. Reach Charnel Duke like Jova Spike had done.

But to what end?

The question gnawed at him. He felt, as deeply as he did the pull of the vials, a hidden imperative. A reason to fight. A cause. A primal drive to overcome and grow.

To spurn the Academy, and show the chancellor that he’d excelled without their help? That felt a hollow and petty motivation. Power for its own sake? To satisfy his curiosity about what it was he could do?

Intriguing, but insufficient.

The sun-wire began to dim, the light turning a sultry brown, a soft benediction, shadows creeping forth to meld, colors fading, a dusky burn that promised true darkness. Great streams of mist began to rise from the city, arching their way up toward the sun-wire and there set to coiling around its livid filament.

He’d have to find a place to bed down. Where? Helena and Feiyan would have vacated their basement by now. It had obviously proven safe enough for them to use for a spell. There was no reason it wouldn’t work just as well for him.

On he walked, the neighborhoods changing, the differences in their character subtle, but all tending toward greater impoverishment the closer he got to the ruins. It was still Second Rust when he finally reached the edge of civilization, pausing to stare out over the maze of scorched rock, gutted buildings, and rubble-strewn streets.

He glanced behind him at the slum he’d just passed through, already decrepit and clearly in the process of being consumed by the decay. What was going on? How fast were the ruins advancing? Where would the people of Bastion go when the city was consumed? What were they doing to try and mitigate the damage?

Fruitless questions.

Taking a rough guess at his location, he set off radially west, picking his way carefully along the margins of the slums, walking constantly up a subtle curve of the city, avoiding attention by dipping into the ruins when necessary, skirting impoverished camps, knots of humanity trying to survive on the outskirts of the city, children laughing and chasing each other, the gray ivy claiming everything right up to the edge of the ruins proper.

Here and there he saw the crimson-bodied salamanders, long as his arm, sinuous and playful as they rippled over shattered walls or dove into dark holes. Once he espied a moth-rabbit, pale and luminous like a pearl, flitting overhead on its great, dappled wings, rising and falling in erratic dips that made it look barely in control of its own flight.

Finally, he reached the market, which appeared unfamiliar in the chestnut light, empty again of its stalls and vendors.

He entered the ruins, followed the broken street a couple of blocks, then turned radially east and made his way through the rich gloom, searching for the right building. He passed it by a block, realized he’d gone too far, and returned slowly till he saw the familiar window. He glanced up and down the street to make sure nobody was watching, and then prepared to climb into the dark interior.

Only to pause, one foot raised, at the sight of a languid gleam running along the windowsill.

A slender thread.

He followed its length to the window’s side, then leaned his head in to trace its path up to a collection of battered metal pans, hung precariously off an ingeniously rigged hook.

Scorio frowned, considered. An alarm. Feiyan seemed the type, but would she have set it after leaving? There hadn’t been one when they’d returned together from the market. Perhaps she only set it when they were home?

He stood there, indecisive, and then caught the faint scent of cooking from the building’s interior.

His stomach gurgled plaintively.

A subtle sound from across the street caused him to whirl just in time to see movement on the far rooftop, too quick and now gone for him to make out.

One of those salamanders?

Acting on a hunch, he took off at a stooped jog, hurrying back toward the broader avenue, and there dropped behind a pile of rocks and went still.

The sun-wire overhead was darkening, the end of Second Rust coming fast.

A shape came racing down the avenue, fleet of foot and intent on leaving the ruins. A young, dusky-skinned boy, clad in ragged robes, hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, the sides of his scalp shorn clean.

Timing it just right, Scorio took out the bridge, set it on its side, base against the closest large rock, then activated it.

The bridge exploded outward across the avenue, four feet high and forming a low wall. The youth stumbled to a halt, eyes wide, but then Scorio was on him, bolting across the avenue to grab a fistful of his robe and haul him around.

Only to receive a painful stomp across his foot and a hard elbow into his gut.

Hissing in pain, he yanked the kid in closer, wrapped an arm around his neck, and squeezed till the boy stopped struggling.

“Nice and easy now,” he said, the bridge popping back into its diminutive shape and dropping to the ground. “I don’t kill kids, so relax.”

“Let me go,” hissed the boy, both hands gripping Scorio’s forearm where it pressed against his neck. “I didn’t do nothing, let me go!”

“Sure, all in good time. Let’s take a little walk first.” He dragged the boy over to the bridge, scooped it up awkwardly, then bent the boy’s arm behind his back and escorted him back down the street to the musicians’ home.

The boy whined the whole way, struggled and twisted, and reminded Scorio of how Instructor Helminth had escorted him to the holding cell. Scorio frowned, thrust away the memory, and stopped before the window.

“Hey!” His voice echoed within. “Helena? Feiyan? Come on out for a moment.”

Realizing he wasn’t going to get away, the boy relaxed. Only to throw himself sideways with all his strength and nearly break free of Scorio’s grip.

“Sit,” said Scorio, shoving the boy down, and then positioning himself over him. “Stay.”

“What are you doing here?” Feiyan had appeared in the window, hammer resting over her shoulder, making no attempt to mask her anger.

“Scorio!” Helena’s stepped into view behind her, her smile easy and warm. “You’re in real trouble.”

“Saw this kid watching your place,” said Scorio. “He took off, but I grabbed him. Thought you might like to know.”

Feiyan glanced down at the boy, who had turned away sullenly, arms wrapped around his knees. Her gaze flicked back up at him. “Doesn’t explain what you’re doing here in the first place.”

“You told me you were clearing out,” he said. “I thought I’d use your place for the night.”

Feiyan’s frown deepened. “Damn it. That was supposed to keep you away.”

“Why we being watched?” asked Helena, moving up alongside Feiyan and peering down at the boy. “Hey, kid. Why were you watching our place?”

“Not going to talk,” he grumbled.

“We both know you are.” Feiyan’s voice was low and serious. “One way or another. So be reasonable. There’s no need to have your legs bent the wrong way before you tell us what we want to know.”

Scorio stared at Feiyan. Her face was impassive, her heavy brows lowered, her lips set. Would she really…?

The kid sure thought so. He stared up at her, terrified, and then raised both hands disarmingly. “Dola sent me. She thought Scorio might come back here.”

“Uh oh,” said Helena.

Feiyan’s gaze traveled with painful slowness from the boy’s face to Scorio’s own. “Dola sent him. To watch our place. What have you gotten us mixed up with?”

“You said you’d be gone,” said Scorio again.

“Answer the question,” growled Feiyan.

“I did a job for her. Didn’t like how it went down and decided to keep the goods for myself.” Scorio placed his hands on his hips. “Simple enough.”

“Fool. You’re a dead man.” Feiyan blew the lock of curled hair away from between her eyes and stared up at the darkening sun-wire. “We need to go straight to Dola and tell her we’re not involved.”

“Won’t work.” Helena crossed her arms and leaned against the side of the window. “You know what she’ll ask you.”

“True.” Feiyan grimaced. “We’ll need to bring you with us.”

“That’s not happening,” said Scorio. “Sorry.”

Helena jutted out her chin and scratched the length of her jaw. “Impasse.”

“We can take him,” said Feiyan.

“Yeah, probably,” allowed Helena. “But I don’t want to.”

Feiyan turned to stare at her partner. “Dola will string us up if we don’t.”

Helena inhaled deeply, her broad, thin lips pursed in thought, the metallic eyeshadow catching the very last glimmers of the sun-wire. Scorio and the other two watched her, waiting, till she let out a controlled exhale.

“All I’ve wanted since I met you was to leave this life behind. Find a way to live somewhere nice, where we can be our better selves. Or just a chance to figure out who we could be. And now? We actually have a way out. Thanks to Scorio. And what did we give him in return? A set of robes, a pair of sandals I’m amazed haven’t broken yet, and an introduction to the worst lady on this side of town. Doesn’t that rub you the wrong way, at least a little?”

“Sure,” said Feiyan. “But nobody ever said this world was fair.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Helena impatiently. “But it doesn’t mean we have to drag him broken and bleeding to Dola, either. Let’s head north. Right now. Just grab our stuff and go. We can change the meeting spot. Go where Dola’s not welcome, and then—I don’t know—send her an apology that’ll more than make up for this.” She pushed off the wall and looked down at Feiyan, her expression solemn. “I don’t want our last memory of this old life to be throwing the man who helped us to the wolves.”

Feiyan's face contorted into a silent snarl as she stared up at Helena, and then her gaze cut sidelong to where Scorio stood. She clenched her jaw, then pressed the base of her palm between her brows, scowling. “Idiots. We’re complete idiots.”

Helena wrapped a long, tanned arm around Feiyan’s stocky shoulders and squeezed her tight. “Gorgeous, insanely talented, and free idiots.”

Feiyan’s shoulders slumped, and she shook her head wearily, then looked up with a rueful smile at Helena. “You’re going to be the death of me, you know that?”

Helena beamed at her and turned to Scorio. “So. Looks like you’re off the hook.”

“I owe you one,” he said.

“Probably, yeah. Or maybe we’re about even.”

“Dola won’t let you go,” said Feiyan, tone grim once more. “She’ll hunt you down wherever you go. She can’t afford not to.”

“There’s got to be some place her influence doesn’t reach,” said Scorio.

“Sure. Lots of places. But you can’t get into them either.”

“Then… fine. I’ll stay in the ruins. Go deeper, even, till I figure things out.”

Helena peered at him. The darkness was growing murky, the last of the browns and oranges fading to shadow. Overhead, the clouds were spiraling swiftly around the sun-wire, causing a wind to pick up, fresh and humid. “You going to work on your, ah, special talents?”

“Something like that.”

She nodded approvingly. “Best thing you can do. Probably the only way you can make yourself untouchable.”

“Good. Any pointers on where in the ruins I should go?”

Feiyan scrunched up her lips, peered down both sides of the street in thought. “It’s all pretty rough out there. The gruel and water fountains are non-operational. Fiends come up from below when it gets dark. You’ll need to find yourself a safe room you can defend.”

“And avoid the area around the really tall tower,” said Helena. “That’s Nightmare Lady territory. You’ll know it when you see it.”

“Nightmare Lady?” asked Scorio.

“Bad news. Don’t know if she’s a fiend or what, but… yeah. Just take my word for it. Steer clear.”

“Got it.”

“Can I go?” The youth rose to his knees. “You’re not going to kill me, and I, ah, can walk slowly back to Dola’s.”

“What are you going to tell her?” asked Feiyan, leaning out the window to pin the boy with her glare.

“That—that I saw him come by here… and…” The boy’s mind was clearly racing.

“And we kicked him out,” said Feiyan. “He set off this trap”—and she plucked gently at the windowsill string—“and we came and told him to clear out. Which he did. We didn’t talk. He didn’t catch you. Then you went to tell her everything. Right?”

“Right,” said the boy uncertainly.

Feiyan narrowed her eyes. “You know who I am?”

The boy gave a jerky nod.

“Dola’s trouble, but I’m not much better. I find out you told a different story, you won’t see me coming.”

“And when you think about it,” put in Helena, “you’re still basically telling the truth. We’re telling Scorio to get lost, and want nothing to do with him.”

“True,” said the boy.

“So get out of here,” said Feiyan. “Walk slow, think it over.”

The boy climbed to his feet and backed away warily. “All right. Thank you.” And then he turned and ran off into the gloom.

“And you.” Feiyan raised her chin at him. “We’re not friends. We don’t like you—”

“I kind of like him,” said Helena.

“—and we don’t want you looking us up again. You hear me?”

“I hear you,” said Scorio. “Mind if I wish you luck with your new life?”

Feiyan snorted, but Helena wrapped a long arm around her friend’s shoulders again and pulled her into a tight hug. “Go right ahead.”

“Best of luck to the both of you. I’m sorry if I caused you any trouble. It wasn’t my intent. I hope the sunphire gets you everything you’ve been wanting, and more.”

“That was so nice!” Helena turned to beam down at Feiyan. “You hear that? Tell me that wasn’t nice.”

“Yeah, real sweet,” grouched Feiyan. “Now come on. We need to pack up and get going.”

“Take care of yourself, Scorio.” Helena extended her hand out the window to him. “And watch your back.”

He shook her long-fingered hand. “I will. Bye.”

Feiyan turned and disappeared into the house, Helena following right behind, and even as Scorio turned to walk away, he heard Feiyan say something low and grouchy, which caused Helena to laugh, the sound echoing faintly down the ruined street.

The sun-wire darkened to a cherry-red streak, barely visible through the revolving cylinder of clouds, and a strong gust of wind tore down the street as a light rain began to fall, pattering over the shattered rocks as night fell over the city.

Scorio fought off a sense of bleak disappointment. Had he thought Helena and Feiyan might become actual friends?

He should have known better.

Again he thought of Leonis and Lianshi. The rain plastered his hair down, soaked into his robes, the drops fat and warm. Were his friends inside somewhere, eating dinner? Comfortable, clean, and learning how to wield their power?

He sure hoped so.

Scorio walked deeper into the ruins, into the rainy night. No matter. He was still walking, still alive, and now he had two vials worth more than he could fathom tucked into his robe.

It was time to get to work.