Efrain was sitting in a boat jam, without so much as a corner of the square in sight. He could certainly hear the festivities, as well as the various musical strains that wafted out. However, the boatman had to carefully pick his way through the canal to avoid damaging any of the other crafts. Efrain didn’t fume, it was not important enough to fume at, but it certainly irked him.

 

The boatman had promised that this was going to be the clearest way and Efrain had believed him. Unfortunately, it seemed that the man had haphazardly led them into one of the city's preeminent moorage canals. That, combined with his previous workshop escapade ensured that he was late to the opening by over an hour.

 

They passed by another collection of boats, when the music suddenly ceased in a sawn off horror. Efrain perked up, craning to hear the disturbance in the sound. There was certainly something that had changed in the murmurs and raucous calls of the crowd. He wasn’t entirely sure what, however, and spurred on the poleman.

 

It still took them a good fifteen at least to get all their way through the boats. At this point, however, they were close enough to the crush that Efrain could hazard jumping from bow to bow. There seemed to be a smaller number of people than usual, and many were pressed to the edge of the great stone square. Most were huddled in small groups, whispering, muttering, and gesticulating towards the square centre.

 

Efrain, upon taking the steps and getting onto the main level, pulled a man aside.

 

“What has happened?” he inquired in Kirakosian, to a shaken head.

 

“I don’t know,” said the man, “there was some kind of disturbance at the front, near the senior families’ table. People are saying many things, nothing good.”

 

Efrain pushed past the man and went to another group, closer to the centre. They responded in much the same way, adding various rumours of what had happened. Some suggested malicious spirits, others, assassins, some blamed the church knights, and so on. This went on with two more groups until Efrain, tired of inadequate answers, made his way down the central corridor of merchants. Sidling over to one of them, he inquired in the same vein.

 

“Can’t say for sure, sir,” said the man, craning his neck to try and get a view over the still crowded centre, “there was a mighty commission about fifteen minutes ago. Stopped dancing and music stone dead. Some shouting, then the old houses were taken off the benches.”

 

Efrain’s index slid to his temple as he considered. Was assassination the more likely option, then? Had someone tried to assassinate the matriarch? Why? Was this connected to the Madros boy’s death?

 

He stood there for several minutes, trying to puzzle it out as much as possible. Finally, he attempted to squeeze his way through the various agitated people, without much success. For his efforts, he finally caught a glimpse of the main staging area, finding complete bereft of both performers and noble guests. He thought it also saw something wrong with the colouration of the great mat that had been set out for the acrobatic display.

 

He was shoved out by someone, nearly sent to the ground by the force of the blow, and only managed to rise when several hands reached out to help him up. He quickly judged another attempt to be fruitless, and instead elected to stumble out back into the merchant’s locale.

 

“The sandshell legion is cordoning off the square,” said his merchant, “it’ll be messy here for a while yet. Probably best to leave, foreigner.”

 

Efrain thanked him for his advice and decided to do just that. It didn’t take him long to step off into the waiting boat, and found the driver displeased to have to reverse all the effort he’d spent in getting them there. Just before he could set off, however, not entirely sure where he wanted to go, someone called out.

 

“Oh! You are-!”

 

Efrain turned to see the man from the previous evening, the apparent accompaniment to the false Occluded that had stolen his senses.

 

“I’m so sorry,” he said, wheezing and bent double at the edge of the square, “I don’t suppose I could ask you for a ride? Mine appears to have driven off, with a fair amount of money to boot.”

 

The academy poleman snickered something about foreigners and scams, but Efrain quickly shushed him.

 

“I don’t see why not,” he said, shrugging, “I can’t go elsewhere, given the chaos.”

 

The man hopped from the lip of the dock and into the boat, nodding gratefully.

 

“Orthelli, wasn’t it? In service to a duchess?” Efrain said, tilting his head.

 

The man loosened his mask, slipping it into a pocket as he dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief.

 

“That’s right. I serve as her secretary,” he said, “though I was sent as an envoy and trader in all but name.”

 

“You have a diverse portfolio,” Efrain observed.

 

“Everything’s a test. She certainly demands it of me,” he said with a small laugh, “though I say that’s a reflection of her faith in my abilities.”

 

Efrain looked closer at the man, who, while not necessarily handsome, was certainly intriguing. His face was that indeterminate character that couldn’t decide between young adult and middle age. A decent jawline, though it had just a touch of softness, some careworn wrinkles here and there, but otherwise unblemished. What was probably the most remarkable about him was the colour combination of his eyes, skin, and hair.

 

The man had a bunch of thin silvery strands, pulled back in a tail with a simple ribbon. His skin was a tan, almost outright dark, and his eyes were… strange. It was hard to see in the moving and rather ambient light of the lanterns, but they were almost purple. Not only that, but there were subtle gradations and shifts of colour that gave the faint impression of stacked glass panes.

 

“Ah yes,” he said, pushing back his hair to remove tangles and frizz from off his face, “my… heritage. My family’s from the First Lands.”

 

“Now that is a rare sight, especially this far east,” Efrain said quietly, “what’s more, in the employ of an Angorrah dutchess.”

 

Pasgrimans were rare enough on the entire continent, and usually were either second or third-generation natives, there unwillingly, or only here temporarily, as part of a trade mission or some other official visit. To have what looked to be a native-born man, and in high esteem of a Angorrah duchess was extraordinary.

 

“There must be quite the story there,” Efrain said, “I hope to hear it.”

 

“Oh, my story is really not that interesting,” the man said, waving a hand in embarrassment, “mostly drifting from place to place. Only luck with a dollop of hard work got me where I am.”

 

Efrain regarded him further, not willing to say much more.

 

“Did you…” he began, trying to recall what their previous conversation was about, “did you find the soldiers?”

 

“Ah yes!” said the man, replacing his mask, “yes I did. Commander Naia, hard to believe he’s a commander. Still so young.”

 

“Hm?” Efrain said, sitting forward and regarding the man with a new interest, “you know the commander?”

 

The man nodded, quite fervently if Efrain was any judge.

 

“Do tell,” Efrain said, “he’s quite the perplexing man, and he shares nothing about himself.”

 

“Are you trying to get me to betray his secrets?” said Orthelli, “I’m afraid you’ll have to do better than that.”

 

“I could strand you out here.”

 

“But I could walk. Your threat does not hold water, as it where” he said, chuckling, “speaking off, driver, would you mind sending us to the Yuffitizi bank? I have some business to conclude there.”

 

“How about this… disturbance?” Efrain said, shifting the subject, “I arrived too late to the square to see anything. Must’ve been quite something to disrupt the festival.”

 

“Oh, that,” said Orthelli, his lips twisting in what might’ve been distaste, “there was… well, I’m not entirely sure how to describe it. It was something like… a man pushed his way through the crowds, then the dancers. I couldn’t quite make him out, my eyes are not the best.”

 

Efrain waved him on to continue.

 

“Well, I tried to get closer,” he said, “it was fascinating, all the dancers falling away. For a second I think everyone thought it was simply part of the act. But then he started screaming something at the high table.”

 

“What did he say?” Efrain broke in impatiently.

 

“I couldn’t quite hear anything distinct over the murmur of the crowd,” said Orthelli, “but he did sound angry. Then, he… well, it shocks me to say, but he appears to have slit his throat in front of the whole crowd.”

 

Efrain sat back, his mind churning.

 

“What do you think it means? I don’t have the faintest idea,” said Orthelli, shaking his head.

 

“I couldn’t say,” Efrain said, “I’ll have to ask after the Eisens tomorrow. Inquire about their safety.”

 

“You have a line to the Eisen?!” exclaimed the man, now it was his turn to sit forward and stare at Efrain, “I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of making your acquaintance. Forgive me for being remiss about formalities. May I ask your position, ‘Efrain’?”

 

“I don’t have a formal position,” Efrain said, “I teach at the Academy.”

 

It wasn’t technically a lie, he supposed. He had taught at least some people a handful of things at the academy.

 

“You don’t have a formal position?” Orthelli said, “now that must be a story as well. I would love to hear it, if you’re willing.”

 

Efrain hesitated, but the man’s smile was so good natured that he eventually told him.

 

“So you’re the founder of the Academy, and you’ve come back?” said the man, rubbing the corners of his mask, “Remarkable! That must make you… almost two hundred years old!”

 

“Closer to five hundred,” Efrain said casually, seeing no point in denying it.

 

The man’s jaw dropped, earning him a chuckle from the lich.

 

“My… my… by the Lost!” he said, almost a touch too dramatically, “I can’t even imagine.”

 

“You’re from the First Lands,” Efrain said, shrugging, “I know there’s many stories there of long-lived people. Is it really such a surprise?”

 

“Well, it’s one thing to hear stories, but to meet someone who’s actually lived that long, it’s… well, It’s singular,” Orthelli said, “I should certainly ask you to Inalthia. The duchess would be fascinated to make your acquaintance, Efrain.”

 

“Lord Efrain,” Efrain corrected, half-sardonically.

 

“Oh, my apologies, my lord,” Orthelli said, “I wasn’t aware you had peerage.”

 

“I don’t,” Efrain said, “I use it in the old way, the formal way. It wasn’t always a title for nobility alone. It was a denotation of mastery, before the modern guild system came along. ‘Lords’ were the equivalent of ‘masters’, be it in crafts or magic, or so on.”

 

“Really?” said Orthelli, “how fascinating. I must say, antiquity in all forms is something of a special interest. Would you share more?”

 

“Well, I’m not sure there’s that much more to tell,” Efrain said, shrugging, “that’s all I know about that particular term. I’m not even sure where the practice originated from, to be honest, or what language.”

 

The man sat back, disappointed with the dead end, but soon he’d squared himself again.

 

“Well, still, you’ve been around five centuries, assuming you’re not lying to a poor servant,” said Orthelli.

 

The question prompted a raised eyebrow from Efrain, knowing that the words might be taken as an insult to someone of his albeit assumed status.

 

“I’m sure you could offer much and more insight,” he said, “I would love to compare notes on history with you one day.”

 

“Perhaps I’ll take you up on that,” Efrain said, charmed by the man’s geniality, “although I’d best ensure that everything is all right in the city first.”

 

The man nodded, and the pair of them fell back into silence as they watched the lanterns and bridges go by.

 

“Although,” Efrain spoke aloud, only half-conscious of the words, “there is something that…”

 

“Yes?” said Orthelli, legs crossed beneath him and eyes closed, seemingly enjoying the summer breeze.

 

“Well, I don’t know if,” Efrain said, looking back at the driver of the boat, the back at the man, “I’ve run into a bit of a stumbling block in a case study.”

 

“Oh?” the man said, cocking his head.

 

“Yes, well,” Efrain said, couching his words very carefully, “it’s an old, old historical mystery, in the Serpent's century. I’ve been trying to solve it, as an academic exercise. Very little information.”

 

“Oh, a mystery? Of what kind?” said Orthelli, clearly drawn in at once.

 

“Well,” Efrain said slowly, “it’s something like this.”

 

As abstract and disconnected as he could, he spun Orthelli the tale of a fictitious young man’s poisoning, then his institution shrieking at him about the development of a new metallurgy. The story had been dressed up in the trappings of history, but it felt rather weak, although the man didn’t seem to care.

 

“So, you suspect one of the metallurgists?” he said, “why?”

 

“I don’t know,” Efrain admitted, “something screams at me that they have something to do with it.”

 

“Perhaps the culprit would have hidden the poison among the arms? Or destroyed evidence in the forges?”

 

“Perhaps,” Efrain said, the threads of his intuition beginning to quiver.

 

“Hmmm,” said the man, rocking gently side to side, “did this happen early or late in the Serpent's century?”

 

“Late,” Efrain lied, having no idea what the difference would be.

 

“Well, you might be in luck, then,” he said, opening his eyes.

 

Another set of lamps went past at that moment, catching the irises at an odd angle. The lines and gradients seemed sharper, richer for a brief moment, then it flickered away.

 

“Oh?”

 

“You know about the marking system? The bill-and-trade? Its origins were in the early Serpent's centuries. Tradesmen were exhausted being used in the games between houses,” he said, “they decided official seals must be presented to requisition equipment or substances directly from workshops. It allowed them to point to their books if subterfuge was suspected, so other houses could track one another. Grew to the point where no majors orders would be completed without seeing a seal.”

 

They passed under another bridge, the man’s eyes falling into indigo shadow.

 

“Well, it was revised at least twice to my memory,” he said, “so most minor orders weren’t held up. Major orders requiring any design work have to be exposed to public scrutiny. But that’s not important - what is is that those records are all kept at the public bank. There hasn’t been any major disaster in the archives so you could look there to see if there was anything about this ‘Davlio Davieliae’.”

 

Efrain managed not to cringe at his made-up persona taking the place of the boy.

 

“Just where you happen to be going,” he said slowly.

 

“And just where we happen to be,” Orthelli said, pointing to the large building approaching on their right.

 

The two of them got out of the boat, standing near the entrance, watching as a scant few people entered in and out.

 

“Well,” Orthelli said, ducking ahead, “I’ll leave you to your business. Thank you for the ride, and happy hunting!”

 

The foyer was large, staffed with numerous kiosks on an elaborately muralled floor. The single free booth had a young woman, frantically scribbling away at a log book.

 

“Oh? Oh!” she said, noticing Efrain, “how can I help you?”

 

“I was hoping to access the archives of purchases?” Efrain said, “Using the ‘trade and bill’ system. Particularly in the last couple years.”

 

The woman pursed her lips, perhaps picking up on Efrain’s inexperience with the term.

 

“Well,” she began, “I’m afraid those archives are not public access. The older ones, for the purposes of records and research, absolutely, but you’ll have to display a sigil to access it.”

 

Efrain swore internally, then thought for a moment, and pulled out the academy access pin.

 

“Will this do?” Efrain said, presenting it to the woman, who took it and examined it.

 

“Are you from the academy then?” she said, flitting through the pages until she reached on with elaborate ink recreations of various heraldries.

 

“Yes. I’m simply taking a look at some of the academy purchases. Some minor discrepancies with the budget,” Efrain said quickly, “and most of the accountants are currently too drunk to process it. They sent me, for some reason, to check.”

 

The woman seemed convinced after checking the sigil against one of her artistic recreations.

 

“Very well,” she said, “I will need your name.”

 

“Efrain,” he said, “mentor Efrain.”

 

That particular deceit chafed at him a little bit after saying multiple times he didn’t want the position.

 

“I see,” she said, scribbling, “well, everything seems in order.”

 

He was led into the vaults containing shelves and shelves of documents, and quickly began thumbing his way through various documents. Fortunately, sleep wasn’t on the menu tonight, it would seem as he ploughed through several months worth of accounting.

 

Finally, he found what he was looking for, and noted down the names of the various workshops contracted for the ‘spring projects’. Minimal details were included, but they were not important. Efrain took up his list, and set off to the academy, determined to track down that final thread of intuition.