Ilios was still quite drunk. But perhaps not quite as drunk as he had been a little while ago. The growing embers of rage which led up to Bellerophon being beaten to death by a mob like the mad Emperors of old had dissuaded him from partaking in drink. By the time all the action was over, Bellerophon dead and his villa all on fire, all the guests and the entertainment all spilled out into the street, Ilios had recovered to a state of only mild drunkenness.

Had he helped kill Bellerophon? He wasn’t sure. He remembered his foot impacting against a ribcage on the ground, but had that been participation in the murder, or merely him kicking the corpse after it was all said and done? Or it was just a particularly vivid imagining? The question didn’t matter, nor did its answer, but Ilios kept thinking about it again and again even when he should have been thinking about more important things. Things like, what was he going to do now that he was party to a murder and an arson? The arson was much firmer in his mind than the murder had been.

That latter question—the ur-question, the always-question, that being what to do next—was omnipresent in the minds of those warming themselves before the pyre of Bellerophon’s estate. It was obvious that the threshold of irreversibility had been passed: there would be no pretending that this had not happened, that everything was normal, no return to their own estates to carry on as they had. Killing Bellerophon had been an admission that all propriety had fallen apart, and it was time to act with the viciousness of wolves.

Thus, as the partygoers scattered, it was not the slow, drunken meandering of one drifting away from a party which had finally died. One by one, the senators and men of wealth slipped away, each no doubt having his own schemes for escape or subterfuge.

Ilios didn’t have a plan. Oh certainly, he had considered plans; but the simple fact of the matter was that no plan within his means would allow him safety from the impending conflagration. That was why he had come to accept his impending doom by getting drunk. Every figure that escaped, every man who showed by his actions that he had a plan to carry out, left Ilios feeling yet more abandoned and hopeless.

At least in his hopelessness he was not alone; even with the haze of alcohol he could tell that there were others left grasping at straws next to him. It would have almost been funny had not it been so sad. A bunch of rich, powerful men, standing in the dark, staring at a burning building and realizing that they were all completely fucked.

“Hey! You all, standing around looking stupid!”

The silence was broken by a hissing voice, almost but not quite whispering. As one, the entire hopeless assembly spun around until they found the source of the voice. It wasn’t anyone Ilios recognized, which was strange. He was certain he would have recalled at least the face of the man he was looking at, sandy-haired and possessed of only a scruff of a beard, even if he didn’t know him by name. By his dress and carriage he was clearly as rich as the rest of them, but that was all he could tell. Maybe it was the alcohol.

“What are we doing here? Just going to wait for the Emperor to take notice and drag us all off?”

“Do you have any better ideas?” someone asked, invisible through the crowd.

“I do, as it happens,” said the stranger. “Though it might be… unpleasant.”

“And getting our heads cut off by the Emperor or the rebels would be quite delightful,” Ilios remarked. “If you have a plan, damn well spill it!”

There was a general rumble of assent.

“I know of a secret path out of the city, a hidden gate in the walls built by some Emperor long ago and forgotten about by everyone. We can slip through it and be far away from all this violence by sun-up. I’m sure all of us have some relatives we can stay with outside the city.”

Ilios didn’t have many, aside from his wife, who loathed him. But they were still married, at least in theory; and though she would hate to have to support him, and he would hate to be living in the household of the man who had replaced him, it was better than death. So it was that Ilios ended up at the tail end of a pack of thirty or so aristocrats stumbling through the dark as quickly as their legs would allow.

It was a long, meandering, and exhausting journey to the secret door. They passed through all of Chrysopolis, it seemed, through every narrow alleyway and poor neighborhood, through every ditch and abandoned place. Ilios was certain that the course they took was not a direct one as the pack swerved through all of Chrysopolis’s various districts. He quickly dismissed any misgivings about that, reasoning that it must have been to avoid the attention of the city guard. Indeed, law was nowhere to be seen as the senators made their escape: they must have all been on the walls.

Not that there were any guards to be seen when at last they arrived at the foot of the grand wall. It was dark, full midnight lit only by a sliver of a moon and what stars were there. For a moment, Ilios found himself bereft of all aside from his own private thoughts, contemplating himself in the silence.

Apparently the same was true for the others, and they didn’t like it one bit. Someone spoke up. “Where’s the door? Where’s the damn door?”

“I thought we all needed a rest, it was quite tiring making it all the way here.” The stranger did indeed sound rather out of breath.

“To hell with rest, we can rest when we’re safely away from all this bloodshed. Isn’t that right?”

There was a general assent; nobody wanted to waste any time on contemplation. The stranger nodded, and walked to a spot on the wall that looked the same as every other spot on the wall for a mile in either direction. Ilios’s heart seized with the sudden fear that this was all some grand lie. Then the stranger pushed on an unassuming segment of stone, and the trick was revealed: those stones were not stones at all, but simple clay decorating a door.

They all piled in through the door, finding themselves in a short, pitch-black passageway tunneling through the breadth of the massive wall.

“Don’t close the door,” said the stranger, “I’d like not to trip over my own sandals.”

From the door on the far side, the pack emptied out into an eerie, liminal space: the gap between the inner wall and the outer. It was a trench, about wide enough for five or six men to stand shoulder to shoulder, and it curved off in either direction as far as the eye could see. It was not a place where human beings were meant to stand: by the intentions of its makers, nobody would go there unless the wall were breached.

They passed swiftly through another door, and through another passageway. When the stranger undid the lock on that final door and shouldered it open, something snapped. Not until that moment, when the sliver of starlight made itself visible, did Ilios truly, innately, realize what it was that he was doing. That group of the rich and powerful became a desperate rush, all of them shoving past each other to get into the open space as quickly as they could.

Ilios, for his part, made it about fifteen steps before he realized. Others did not make it quite so far. Some, blissfully ignorant, made it quite a bit further. But, inevitably, every single last one of them saw their doom well before it struck. They were not, in fact, running out into freedom. Rather, they were running out into a ruined field that had once been used for raising pigs, and which was now being used as a guard post by the rebel cordon. The rebels, though surprised by the sudden arrival, were nonetheless much faster than a group of old men and politicians. In a matter of moments, they were surrounded by spear-points.

Ilios, with only seconds of freedom remaining, turned around to berate the stranger for his foolishness. He saw, out of the corner of his eye, several of the rebel soldiers investigating the door through which they’d come, and the open path from it all the way to the far side of the wall. As for the stranger? He was nowhere to be seen.

…

Frasalu and Sothvam cleared out of the late Bellerophon’s estate as quickly as they could. Despite the totality of their success, the evacuation could not help but be an event of fear and panic. The frenzy of the rage with which Bellerophon’s party guests turned on him was a terror to behold, and far beyond what she had expected when the plan had first been explained to her. What was done was done, however: Bellerophon was dead, and the scent of smoke on the air told her that his compound was soon to follow him into the afterlife.

There had been one final command after that. Shirrin had been very clear about the finality of it, that this was the culmination of all the work which she had originally conscripted the Trabakondai to do. Whatever came next would be something different. Frasalu tried not to think about what that something might be as she slipped through the streets of the city, deftly navigating alleyways and boulevards to reach the final objective: a small, unremarkable weaver’s shop, seemingly long-abandoned.

Everyone was there, not just Frasalu and Sothvam but Diorda and Komshirn and Kreth and all the rest, every single one of the men and women who worked under Shirrin’s employ. Once gathered, they… waited. Odd. Shirrin was usually quite punctual, and the force with which she emphasized the importance of this final order implied it was quite urgent.

Two warring anxieties entered into Frasalu’s mind. One was that Shirrin was dead or somehow in danger. The other was that they had been betrayed, Shirrin was nowhere to be found and soon the guards would be upon them. As the stars continued to turn overhead, that paranoia grew and grew, until Frasalu’s body ached to flee into the dark. Still, she held fast to her faith. Shirrin had been dependable so far; she must have been late for a reason.

That faith was rewarded when Shirrin did, indeed, appear. Frasalu asked where she had been.

“Taking care of some loose ends, and advancing the situation to the final stage. We must act quickly. Follow me.”

They followed Shirrin as, by mysterious means, the floor opened up beneath the weaver’s shop to reveal a staircase down. Shirrin conjured candles and handed them out before descending. Almost immediately upon setting foot into that underground basement, Frasalu gasped in amazement. Her eyes were nearly blinded by the glittering of gold and copper.

Jar upon jar of coins lined the shelves of that small chamber, and other precious things as well. Jewelry, brass and silver and painted glass, gold and lapis and opal. In this tiny basement, where the members of the gang were forced to stand shoulder-to-shoulder, was a king’s treasure-hoard.

“What…? How?”

“You did not think I had been spending all the money from Bellerophon’s coffers, did you?”

Frasalu shook her head in disbelief. “But this is far more than…”

“Yes. There are a great many ways that a witch can accumulate wealth. My services can be quite costly, you see, and those who do not pay in gold pay in secrets, which can themselves be converted into gold. Each of you take a pouch, from over there, and fill it with whatever you like.”

Shirrin nodded in the direction of a pile of leather coinpurses; each member of the gang took one and proceeded to stuff it full of as much treasure as it could fit. Frasalu’s normally-sound monetary instinct struggled to comprehend how much wealth this was. With just her own gold she could buy an entire business, a tavern on a crossroads or a successful vinery, and live off the proceeds forever. Together…

“Now then,” said Shirrin. “There shall be one final transmutation. Do I have your consent?”

“Aye,” said Frasalu.

“Aye,” said the others.

Shirrin made an occult gesture; but this time there was no sudden twisting of flesh. Instantly, Frasalu lost consciousness. When next she opened her eyes and sucked down breath—even though she felt only the passage of an instant, she found herself strangely suffocated—she was in a field. Frasalu turned about, confused as to where she was. It took her quite some time to notice the distant embers and plumes of smoke: Chrysopolis was burning, and it was already out on the horizon.

“What the hell kind of transmutation was that?” Sothvam asked.

“Into pebbles. I apologize; it’s the easiest way I have of transporting so many of you at once.”

Frasalu barely took note of Shirrin’s response, though, for something had changed about Sothvam. His voice was different. After a few shocked seconds, Frasalu finally realized it: his voice had returned to what it was before Shirrin had transformed him! Frasalu grabbed her bosom with both hands. Indeed, gone was the great soft form that Shirrin had given her for her disguise, back was her old wiry frame. She lifted her arm before her, and the pale northerner’s skin glistened in the starlight.

There was a round of general celebration, the members of the gang hugging one another and exulting in the return to their prior shapes. Shirrin slowly retreated from the middle of the group, until she could barely be seen amidst the shadows and the dark. Once the noise had begun to die down, she spoke.

“I release you from your bonds. Go now, apart or together, and flee to wherever the winds take you. You have wealth enough to make your own pathways now, for I have no more need of you. Know that you have served me well, and I shall be forever grateful.” Shirrin paused, her expression souring.

“What about the city? Can we not go back to the city?”

“No!” Shirrin announced. “By this time tomorrow night, Chrysopolis will be an abandoned ruin. Throw not your lives away!”

And that was that. There was a good deal of conversation about where's and how’s. It was eventually concluded that they could not remain together, not in one assemblage; but that it would be quite nice if they were not to separate too far, and remain in contact in some way. Near Trabakond would be a good place for them to settle.

During this debate, Diorda slipped away, and briefly spoke to Shirrin. Frasalu took no note of this, not until she returned looking… different.

“Diorda, what the hell did you do?”

“I may have convinced our former employer, out of the goodness of her heart, to give me one final transformation. She says I’ve got the body of a woman only forty-five years of age, now.”

Frasalu grinned. “Only fifteen years off the top?”

“Aye, only fifteen. Would rather chop off two decades from my lifespan than have to bleed ever again.”

Frasalu thought it fair. But if such modifications were on the table…

Some time later, Frasalu found herself sitting by the edge of a small stream, pondering her own future. Most of the others had scattered off, some alone like she was and others in bands of two or three or four. The gang was over. Whatever would come next? Frasalu didn’t really know; she’d never had such freedom of choice before her, and the idea frightened her.

She was shaken from her considerations by footsteps coming up from behind. She turned, reaching for her dagger, but stopped when she saw it was Sothvam.

Sothvam chuckled. “And I thought you hated what Shirrin had turned you into.”

“I did. I hated looking so Macarian. But having a figure so plush made me realize that I could appreciate some amount of curvature. Especially now that my days on the street are over.”

“Of course, of course. Any idea what you’re going to do with all that coin?”

Frasalu shook her head. “I was in the process of deciding.”

“Might I offer a suggestion?”

“Go ahead.”

“Well, if we pool our funds between the two of us, I hear there’s a lot of money to be made in smuggling iron across the border.”

“You mean to imply,” Frasalu said, “that after everything you wish to remain in criminal enterprise?”

“It’s not as though we’d be going back to common street thievery. Smuggling rings and prostitution are quite lucrative, and being able to hire two score of thugs makes it quite safe. Who ever imagined the two of us making our money legitimately, besides?”

Frasalu’s eyes were like dinner plates. She lunged forwards, and gave Sothvam her opinion on his proposal thoroughly and with tongue.

SaffronDragon

Say goodbye to Frasalu and Sothvam, my dear readers. This is their happy ending. Things are rapidly approaching to a deadly end, and they deserve to be able to leave now while they still have a chance.

Speaking of rapidly approaching the end, that's what's happening with Bladethorn on my Patreon! With six early access chapters, patreon subscribers now have access to the final numbered chapter of Bladethorn, with only the epilogue unreleased. So if you want to see what kind of ending the rest of the cast gets, click the link below and subscribe at any tier.