Chapter 68
After her meeting with the Guardian, Maya did little but inspect her conscience. When reunited with Request and Tone, Maya had no words to ease their confusion, make them understand what had happened: how could she when she didn't even know herself? Request tried to spend time with Maya when she wasn't working: at each dinner, she was bright and jokey. Maya understood she was trying to distract her, but didn't like being treated like an invalid, someone who needed to be handled with delicacy.
Even if that's what she may be.
Three days later, Tone called Request to investigate something – Maya wasn't allowed to know what, which was probably for the best – providing her first chance to talk to her Spirits without Request present: perhaps Request had been ordered to hang around her, look for warning signs of another episode.
“Come out,” Maya told them, holding her short sword and Nephilim's ring. “Give me your thoughts, both of you, on what happened.”
Applekill stepped forward, talked quickly. “Your memories have been tainted, twisted, so I can't see what you did. What the reports suggest, though... It's not good. You hurt so many people...”
“You were not in the correct state of mind, nor a healthy one,” Mission said, folding his liquid arms. “That much is certain. I can see your thoughts were not truly your own.”
“What might have caused it?”
“I think,” Applekill said, eager to speak, “the Mentalist needs to work with you. Your memories seem like they've been affected by a mental disorder: a mental illness and a Cyrus Force influx could have combined to create what happened to... to those poor Shields.”
Maya took a slow breath. “That was one of my fears.”
Mission did not seem convinced. “I suppose you're not talking about an impossibility, but I can't shake the feeling that there's something else to this.”
“I am certain,” Applekill said. “I pull this from Warmth's memories: people who shape and control Cyrus Force that develop mental illnesses have strange and negative reactions to them. The First Thought's experience tells me this is a combination of anger, hatred, and something wrong... wrong with Maya.”
“I don't understand how you can be so certain,” Mission said.
“Well, I am, okay?” Applekill hissed.
Maya examined Applekill closely: she wasn't being honest. “Is there something more to this, Applekill?”
“More than the provider of my Cyrus Force potentially being ill, you mean?”
Spirits, though separate entities, relied on humans for sustenance and life. As such, her acts would always upset the Spirits, which might explain why Applekill’s attitude and Mission’s trepidation. It did not, though, explain the lies, but Maya would have to wait to press that point.
“Perhaps what Applekill says makes sense,” Mission said. “I have only what knowledge Nephilim left for the prior version of me to draw upon.”
Applekill seemed to relax. “Exactly. Maya, give the Mentalist a few weeks to work with you. See if they can diagnose a problem. As you do, we'll work on finding another cause for your... indiscretion.”
Her wording amused Maya. “Indiscretion. We should keep that term.”
“Perhaps that will be for the Mentalist to decide?” Mission offered.
“Perhaps it will,” Maya said.
She found out when Portrait arrived for their appointment the next day. The Mentalist was Tone's age, bald by choice, and she carried herself with great delicacy, like each move was planned days beforehand. She stepped into the room like it was hallowed ground, but kept a professional manner during their session. A session that was ultimately fruitless: they only talked about things unrelated to her indiscretion, such as her upbringing and living arrangements.
“Don't get frustrated with this process,” Portrait said as she left, their hour evaporated away. “This will take months. Illnesses of the mind are not like those of the body: they are like thread in a loom, in that they must be teased out and worked through before you get anywhere. I'll see you tomorrow.”
Maya showed her out and felt sour for the rest of the day. If she hadn't promised the Guardian, she would have dismissed the Mentalist. But her word, and Applekill's worried diagnosis, prevented her doing so.
Instead, she looked through her Acolyte papers and caught up on the administration her Station required. Tracking down who caused Lun's Burst, and reviewing potential candidates for the Acolytes next year, had dominated her time, so there was a pile of work awaiting her. These smaller clerical tasks took the rest of the day. She went to bed, drained, before Request returned from her investigations.
After another jovial breakfast with Request, Portrait appeared, frowning at an envelope as she entered.
“What do you have there?” Maya asked.
“It's a letter. For you,” the Mentalist said. “A Messenger delivered it to me on my way here.”
“Excuse me?”
Portrait looked up, puzzlement making a maze of her wrinkles. “A private Messenger gave it to me shortly after I left my home in Sol's Greeting. They said that it was for you, that they didn't know where you lived.”
“But they knew you were working... with me?” Maya asked.
“Obviously so. In spite of the Secrecy Order.”
Maya took the envelope from the Mentalist. The paper was cheap, nearly pulp, and the envelope was sealed with plain wax. Nothing was written on the front or back, but it felt as though a thin letter was inside.
“Will you open it?” Portrait asked.
“Later. I think it's more important we concentrate on my indiscretion, don't you?”
The Mentalist looked hungrily at the envelope. “Of course, you are right. Whatever that is pales in comparison with your mental well-being, I'm sure.”
Portrait pulled two chairs from Maya's dining table and placed them opposite one another. This done, she gestured for Maya to sit. “Shall we get started? I'm keen to hear more about your anger issues.”
“What anger issues?” Maya asked cautiously.
“A Mentalist's job isn't to get their patient's version of the truth, but other peoples',” Portrait said, patting the empty chair. “I have spoken with those you’ve worked with to understand your mental state around the time of your indiscretion. I'd like to discuss what I've gleaned from them.”
Her first impulse was to ask who had talked, whether her enemies in the Council or her friends had betrayed her. “I feel like you have gone around my back, that you either can't trust what you've heard or I have been sold by people close to me.”
“Let's discuss that, shall we?” Portrait said, pointing to the chair again.
Maya sat in the empty seat, and they did discuss it. This session seemed more fruitful, as though Portrait was driving toward the cause of her indiscretion. She made Maya angrier than the previous day, and together they explored the roots of that anger, though they could not go into great depth yet. Maya thanked Portrait when they parted ways.
When the Mentalist was gone, she returned the chair to the dining table. On the table was the envelope: featureless, cheap. Maya considered it, before opening the envelope.
It was an invitation. In a script falsified to hide the writer's idiosyncrasies, it said, “Former warehouse sixteen, basement, three hours after Solfall. Come alone if you want evidence of Council Heresy.”
Maya read it three times, not seeing anything different on the third viewing. She was being invited to a secret meeting in a warehouse that now held refugee living quarters. 'Evidence of Council Heresy' was too perfect a hook: evidence that those she was furious with were Heretics? It had to be a trap, but she couldn't turn it down. The wording didn't specifically say this was related to Lun's Burst, so she wouldn't defy the Guardian's orders by attending...
Whoever invited her knew of the Secrecy Order, and so must have known they’d need to be tantalising and specific in what they said. Whether it was a physical trap, or a political one, Maya could fight off whoever it
was.
“What do you two think?” she asked her Spirits.
“That was written by hand, by someone who cares deeply about the subject,” Mission said.
Maya looked for herself, saw a strong Cyrus Force signature. “It's not hatred. More like... expectation.”
“Hope,” Mission suggested.
“Someone with something to gain from a Councillor being a Heretic?” Applekill suggested.
“An underling, perhaps, one who is a likely replacement?” Mission said.
“There's only one way to know,” Maya said, folding the letter. “Do you object to us going?”
Mission clucked a tongue he didn't have. “You needn't ask our permission, Maya.”
“I know. But, until we know what I did to those Shields, I think it's best if I do. You two may not be affected by my... issues, so you can check my thinking. That's right, isn't it, Applekill?”
Applekill looked away. “It is. You can trust us.”
Mission watched her other Spirit closely, but said nothing.
Maya spent the day feeding her Spirits, pouring her emotions into her short sword and Nephilim's ring. Mostly, she treated them to fear, excitement, and hope, the most readily-available feelings. After, she lunched and wrote to her parents, who she hadn't seen since they’d visited last Cleansing Day. She liked being honest with them, but couldn't dispel the official line that she had gone into mourning for her Acolytes.
Maya closed her eyes, her quill not yet having touched paper. When Request had informed her of that lie told in her defence, Maya had nearly lost her temper again: it placed her in such a weak position. Her indiscretion was her own fault, no one else’s, but they’d used a horrible excuse to protect her.
Perhaps that was the point, though, and it was part of her punishment.
Both the letter and feeding her Spirits were therapeutic, left her feeling calm, centred. Better than since she chose to go to the eastern Front, the perfect frame of mind to meet whoever had invited her to a basement.
Maya left half an hour early. It was only a ten minutes journey, but being early let her inspect the building, choose potential exits and prepare against potential sniper's position. There was still a Disciple conspirator at large… Her inspection was rapid, but thorough, and she found nothing untoward.
Convinced she was safe for the moment, she entered the old warehouse. No one greeted her at the main door, which was surprisingly unlocked. Small abodes with copper numbers on their doors rested within. At the end of a damp, crooked corridor was a door with a huge brass handle and a large lock, the only route which wasn’t someone’s home. It opened to reveal stairs plunging down into a well-lit basement.
The stairs were new enough to not creak, allowing Maya to descend silently. People murmured below, two distant voices. Lanterns were dotted on each beam overhead, transforming the basement into a sunny day except for two tall shadows.
Standing straight, she decided to surprise them, increase the mystery around her. At the opposite corner were two men in grey robes. One had a nasty-looking scar which ruined what otherwise might've been a handsome face. The other had a shorn and scar-speckled face and the stance of someone ready to fight.
“Acolyte,” the badly-scarred one said as he bowed. The warrior followed in tandem. “I am so glad that you decided to meet with us.”
“I could hardly ignore an accusation of Heresy, could I?” Maya said.
“Quite,” he replied. “My name is Wasp. This is Slant.”
Maya recognised the first name but couldn't place where from. “Which Station do you belong to?” she asked, hoping to put it together.
“We have no Station. Not yet,” Wasp said, stepping forward with almost-regal poise. His manner reminded her of a Merchant or a Lord. “We are... concerned citizens, citizens who found evidence of Heretical behaviour from someone in the Council. When we discovered what we’ve found, we thought, 'Who might be the best person to bring it to?' Well, who, besides the Guardian, is closer to Sol than you?”
“What have you found?” she asked, annoyed at herself for not knowing where she knew his name from. “My absence will be noticed, so I don't have time to waste.”
Wasp grinned, the same smile a cat gave its prey. “Come now, surely you have a lot of time available to you after you injured all those Shields?”
“The rumour has spread that fast, has it?” Maya asked. “In spite of the Secrecy Order.”
“Rumour always does.”
Maya waited for him to continue. Her silence displayed her displeasure, gave him air to fill.
“Very well, to the point,” he said, smoothing down his robes. “We have found something which directly connects a member of the Solaric Council to the Disciples.”
Maya marched across the gap to consider this Stationless man, this scarred thing who felt he had dignity and power enough to play games with her. He did not flinch under her attention: his line about being Stationless might be true now, but he had certainly been in a Station once. And high up in that Station.
“What did you find?” she asked.
“That's the wrong question. You should ask, 'What do you want for this evidence?'”
Maya pursed her lips. “You want to trade for evidence? You realise what you have on your hands?”
“I do. That's precisely how I know its value, sire.”
Slant shifted uncomfortably, moving from one leg to another. Maya wished she could have a crack at him, break him, but Wasp wouldn’t allow that. He'd planned this out carefully, like a Merchant plotting a deal. A Merchant...
“I know you,” Maya said. “You are the father of Contegon Chain Justicar's daughter.”
“A daughter?” Wasp said, his mouth falling open. He shook his head, his cool shattered. “Look, I don't care if you know who I am. Yes, I used to be Merchant Councillor, so I know inter-Station politics. You need something good to break the Station involved. I have that, but I need an endorsement to create my own Station.”
Maya looked up at the ceiling. Any Councillor could endorse the creation a new Station. Giving someone so much power, particularly someone who had treated Chain the way he had, was asking a lot. “That is a tall order. What would this Station do?”
“Have you been to northern Buyer’s Haven recently, Acolyte?” Slant said, stepping forward. “Or the north of Ocean's Edge.”
“I have not,” she admitted.
“This is because the Merchants and Mariners don't want you to, sire: it is a new Outer Aureu. Poverty and desperation have set in there and many other places. I know because I have been there for a while... and because I used to live in Outer Aureu.”
Maya closed her eyes: she had taken her eye from the issue of poverty, assuming the regeneration of Outer Aureu and the refugee influx into Sol's Landing would solve it. Yet here was someone claiming the slums had moved. “I can only apologise and say I will fix that. We do not need a Station for it.”
“With all due respect,” Wasp said, interjecting sharply, “the Custodians would not prevent slums, but keep the laws broken in them. Gangs and Zones are rife in Aureu, and the Contegons are too busy pushing into Moenian to keep the peace. Even your Station is depleted. I offer my condolences for that, by the way.”
“Accepted,” Maya said. “You want to run a Station dedicated to keeping law and order?”
Wasp scratched his scar. “Don't say that as though it were a trivial matter.”
“If the situation in Aureu is so urgent, why has no other Councillor supported your idea?” Maya asked after some consideration. “Why must you trade valuable evidence for my endorsement?”
“You're smart,” Wasp said. It wasn't a compliment. “You can only apply for an endorsement once per year, and, since the Maters, most Councillors have been swamped with requests for the wealthy's pet projects: influential Doctors and Merchants wanting to up their personal power by side-stepping the hierarchy above them. Many now flat-refuse all requests. Including mine.”
Maya could believe that: her own office was bombarded with requests for new Stations. “Okay. If this evidence is as strong as you say, and you can produce a full proposal for this Custodian Station, I will endorse it,” she said. “On the condition that, as your sponsoring Council member, I shape the Custodians.”
“That... wasn't the deal, sire,” Wasp said.
“Why not?” Slant asked, shocked.
The former Merchant’s eyes narrowed, a brief look of hatred and violence. “I suppose that there is no good reason to deny your condition. Okay, sire,” he said as he turned back to Maya, “we have a deal.”
“What do you have then?” Maya asked. “Hurry.”
“Slant?”
Slant stepped back and uncovered a blanket on the floor, something she had discounted as detritus in the warehouse. Beneath it was a Farmer's jug, the kind used to store food, which he picked up carefully.
“Months ago, I was in a Farmer's warehouse, investigating a Gang that supplied Seed to Zoners. I found jars marked differently to the others. Notice the crosses cut into the lid, sire?” he asked, his hands shaking. “These are the unique markings of Flux, the Farmer Councillor. None may open them once they are sealed at his Farm in the Gravit Mountains. We have tested similar jars covertly, and found Heresy within each one. You can see this one is sealed. When I open it, I expect it to contain the same horrors.”
“And you found this out months ago?” Maya hissed.
“When you have something this valuable,” Wasp said, “you wait for the best moment to cash it in. Besides, would you have believed a Stationless man accusing a Councillor of Heresy before Lun's Burst?”
“Of course I would!” Maya shouted. She grabbed the man by his robes, lifted him into the air. “We should arrest you right now.”
Wasp shrugged in her grasp. “If you do so, you will taint this evidence.”
“Maya!” Mission shouted, concern filling his voice. “Keep your cool.”
She took a deep breath and dropped the man. “Open it,” she said, mouth dry, heart beating.
Slant opened the jar. Inside were maybe a hundred tiny legs, like the one found at the scene of Lun's Burst, or that Chain found in Buckle. Slant waggled the jar, and the legs rattled against one another lifelessly, spreading to show that other Disciple parts were beneath.
“The evidence is damning and complete,” Wasp said, his face sombre. He pulled scrolls tied with dark ribbon from his robes. “This documentation took us some months to procure – we had to do so in order to be certain, you understand – and it proves the markings belong to Flux. There are strict orders for them to be handled with care, and that they are not to be opened except by Flux's direct staff.”
“Flux... Flux is a Disciple traitor,” Maya said, taking the documents from Wasp. She looked them over, confirmed their legitimacy. This evidence painted him as a mastermind, someone deeply involved in the smuggling of Disciple technology into Aureu. The same technology that had been responsible for the deaths of her Acolytes.
She looked up at the two men. “I must run. I must take these and run.”
“We expected you would,” Wasp said. “Go, but remember your promise. I will come to you after Flux's Hereticum, with the proposal for the Custodians.”
“Yes, of course,” Maya said, already no longer caring about these 'Custodians.' She had in her hands the evidence that cracked open the investigations into Lun's Burst. She had present it to the right people, a list she made as she ran away, jar and papers in hand.
“You must remain calm,” Mission said, floating behind her as she climbed the stairs. “Do not kill Flux. That would be the worst thing you could do in this situation.”
“Agreed,” Maya said. “Keep me in check, okay?”
“We will,” Applekill promised.
The Acolyte and her Spirits left the warehouse and ran into Aureu. Justice was at hand.