The darkness of the third festival morning greeted an already working Efrain, scribbling a handful of notes from Academy records. He should’ve had enough information simply from the bank, but it would pay to be careful. Perhaps he could narrow his search for that ‘insubstantial mechanism’ that had so twinged his interest.

 

He found that of the contracts he’d secured, there were several workshops that had functioned more like manufactories. They only got the finished designs, and replicated them for the purposes of city armaments. The actual design workshops were smaller, more artisanal affairs deeper in the city. That allowed him to at least order his lists, the latter type on top, the former lower.

 

Avencia seemed a little taken aback when he’d asked for records on the spring projects, but quickly greeted him with all the enthusiastic cheer Efrain was accustomed to. Perhaps he thought that this interest in the Academy’s affairs signalled a relent for Efrain opposition to his offer. The man was, of course, wrong, but Efrain did not go out of his way to correct the assumption. Better that his motives seemed of genuine interest rather than anything specific and suspicious.

 

He’d just finished formulating an itemised list with corresponding addresses, and was prepared to go, when there was a gentle opening of the door. To Efrain’s surprise, Aya stepped in, cloaked, and without any sort of guide.

 

“Hello?” she half-whispered, looking around the office as if she expected someone to jump out at her.

 

“Aya,” said Efrain, “why it’s… barely an hour after midnight. We really need to schedule a more formal time for lessons. I can’t have you coming in at all hours.”

 

“I know,” she said, “I’m not supposed to be here. I just… needed to see you. Things have happened.”

 

Efrain started to question the wisdom of her coming in secrecy, but relented when he saw the look on her face. The girl’s eyes held a wide restlessness, one of the corners of her lip were twitchy, and the heavy bags under her eyes betrayed a lack of sleep.

 

“Well,” Efrain sighed, indicating the chair across from him, “close the door behind you.”

 

He was quick to stride around the desk and close the blinds, weaving a distortion hex as he did so. The girl slumped into the chair, throwing back the deep hood.

 

“I trust you have a very good reason for sneaking away from your grandmother,” he said, sitting in his customary place, “I can’t imagine she’s too happy about-”

 

“Do you have no other clothes?” she said, her eyes squinting at the man’s form in the comparative gloom.

 

“Uh,” Efrain said, wondering where the question had come from.

 

“Sorry, sorry,” said Aya, rubbing at her eyes, “it just… spilled out. I got no sleep.”

 

“Was it the dreams again?” said Efrain.

 

“No, it was…” she said, her eyes growing distant, “last night, at the festival.”

 

“Oh?” said Efrain, wondering if he should call for tea, then cursing himself. Of course she would’ve had a seat at the high table, she could tell him what the disturbance was.

 

“Well, there was a man,” she said, before a yawn shattered her expression, which nonetheless grew paler as she continued “he… um… killed himself.”

 

Efrain sat back in his chair, finger rising subconsciously to his temple.

 

“In front of everyone?”

 

“On the dance floor,” the girl said, looking like she might be sick on his desk, “he shouted something at us. I think it was at my grandmother, then he drove a knife into his chest.”

 

She mimicked the motion, driving below her sternum and upwards. The motion was almost familiar - Efrain was certain that he’d seen it before, though he wasn’t entirely sure where.

 

“Bizzare,” he intoned, “are you alright? Can I get you anything?”

 

“No. I’ll be fine. I think,” she said, seemingly conscious of the queasiness of her own expression, “it was odd.”

 

“Well, then,” Efrain continued, drumming his fingers on the desk as his brain tried to imagine the experience, “what did he say?”

 

“It was something- well I couldn’t understand that well. It was Karkos, but strange. Older. Only picked up a few words? It seemed like a challenge or something.”

 

“Aimed at the matriarch?” Efrain said, feeling a sinking feeling in his chest at the information.

 

“I think so. It was hard to say. Grandmama was shocked. She wouldn’t tell me what the word meant. No one did, not even grandfather.”

 

“Did you catch anything specific?” Efrain said, “any other details you think might be relevant to however this man was?”

 

“Well, I caught his last words,” Aya said, casting her eyes up as she recalled, “something about ‘Umtau’.”

 

Efrain’s fingers froze on the desk as a grim puzzle fell into place.

 

“You’re certain he said that? ‘Umtau’?”

 

She had clearly noticed his surprise at the phrase, and cocked her head.

 

“Yes. Why? What does it mean?”

 

Efrain sighed as he once more sat back, looking up towards the ceiling.

 

“It means trouble. ‘Umtau’. How many years…” he said, remembering what he could of the Karkosian ritual, “and to do it at the festival too…”

 

“What does it mean?” Aya repetition more emphatically.

 

“The rite of Umtau,” Efrain said, “the rite of making an enemy of death. To declare death an enemy.”

 

Aya sat quietly as she digested this new information, Efrain trying to remember from what scraps had been whispered to him.

 

“Just about the most inappropriate thing you can do at the Festival of the Occluded,” Efrain said, “where the point is to greet death as a friend, with all life’s pleasures fulfilled. The man no doubt knew exactly what he was doing.”

 

“But why?” said Aya, “why would anyone do such a thing?”

 

Efrain held back his suspicions in reserve as he eyed the girl.

 

“Anything else about him?” he said, “anything you remember?”

 

She thought for a moment.

 

“Nothing much,” she said, shaking her head, “he was older, maybe in middle age? Dark skin, dark hair, wore a gown of really deep blue.”

 

Efrain mulled over the information, before involuntarily sitting up a little straighter. Wasn’t the Madros boy, and his houseguard, dressed in deep blue? Was that the house colours of the Madros? If that was so, was that the boy’s father that had just killed himself in front of the matriarch, issuing a challenge to her?

 

“Ah,” Efrain said, “Aya. I want you to go home.”

 

“What? I just got here!” she protested.

 

“No,” he said, “no, you need to go home. Go be with your grandmother. Stick close to her, you understand? And don’t leave home without an escort.”

 

“Why?” she said, eyes widening, “why, what’s wrong?”

 

“Something about this whole thing reeks,” Efrain said, “but I don’t have any definite answers. I think we need to go talk to your grandmother. I’ll take you back myself.”

 

Less than ten minutes later, they were headed back towards the Eisen house. When they reached the steps, Efrain wondered how Aya had managed to slip out past them. Either way, they were soon ushered within, and the matriarch herself came to see them, eye blinking with sleep.

 

“Aya? What have you been getting up to? Why are people telling me that-” she said, the beginnings of a frown forming on her face.

 

“She snuck out to me,” Efrain said, “she was confused and frightened and didn’t know who to ask. We should have a private discussion about your granddaughter’s inappropriate behaviour.”

 

Aya looked up at him in confusion as the older woman set her jaw.

 

“I see,” she said, looking hard at her granddaughter, “well then.”

 

She herself escorted them to a private sitting room up stairs, where she was joined by Fascili, who smiled tiredly and nodded to Efrain. As soon as she shut the doors, with instruction to the guards to keep the doors closed and watched, she whirled.

 

“Aya! I thought I told you to stay in the house at all times!” she snapped.

 

Aya wilted under the pressure of her grandmother’s angry look, while Fascili nodded gravely. Efrain took the time to weave the distortion hex, ensuring that the conversation would stay within the paper walls.

 

“You should not have gone out,” he intoned, gentler than his wife, “it may not be safe right now.”

 

Aya’s eyes were firmly fixed to her shoes as she endured the reproaches of her family. Efrain settled himself, wove a distortion hex, and coughed gently to distract the conversation.

 

“Alas,” he said, “I didn’t come simply to watch you chastise your granddaughter. There’s something more going on.”

 

“Out with it mage,” Aysatra snapped, sitting next to her husband, who laid a gentle hand on her back.

 

My, not so indefatigable as you first appear, Efrain thought as he began to speak.

 

“The last time I was in this city was around two hundred years ago. And I never heard the Umtau ever invoked, least of all at a sitting great house. I was given the distinct impression that lesser houses barely even knew of it. So what’s a lesser house challenging the most powerful woman in the city?”

 

The matriarch fumed at his imposition, finally throwing up her hands in exasperation.

 

“How in the names of all the gods should I know what the ingrate was thinking?” she said, “sorrow, I can understand. I’ve lost nephews and nieces, I’ve lost my own daughter, after a fashion! For a man to simply kill himself in front of me, to declare Umtau! He’s lost his mind!”

 

“Was Madros not a lesser house?” Efrain said, “how would he even know about such things? Umtau was a ritual for an entire house once. It goes all the way back to the foundations of Karkos.”

 

Aysatra rose to answer, but it was Fascili that beat her to the punch, his own face pale.

 

“That’s the question. No one should know of it, other than some senior house leaders,” he said, casting a glance towards Aya, “In fact, it might not be correct to speak about it with Aya in the room.”

 

“I only know of it because Armsted came into leadership at a young age,” Efrain confessed, “and he made me swear to secrecy. He didn’t tell me much, only that it was a form of ritual suicide.”

 

“He was correct to do so,” said the matriarch, expression black, “Umtau is not merely suicide. Aya, you should-”

 

“She should stay,” Fascili once more interjected, “if she’s to be successor, she should hear this.”

 

Aysatra’s face darkened even more somehow, but she nodded.

 

“Sit over there, girl,” she said, voice cold, “Umtau is the extinction of a whole house. To go and kill your entire family, to the smallest child, then to enter the arms of your enemy, and curse them with death. It’s a foolish tradition born of foolish men.”

 

She spat out the last words, and Efrain was almost inclined to agree, except…

 

“What was the curse meant to accomplish?” Efrain said, “surely it must be more specific than that.”

 

“Shut up mage,” she said curtly, addressing her granddaughter, “it was not merely an act of revenge either. It was meant to be a deterrent. There used to be more founding houses once, but when one was brought low, they could threaten the Umtau upon perceived aggressors. Some died out naturally, some left the city, a small handful declared Umtau.”

 

“What happened?” said Aya, looking even closer to vomiting than she had this morning, “what did it do.”

 

“Nothing!” the matriarch hissed, “nothing at all! No curses, no disasters that couldn’t be explained elsewise. The Umtau is a repugnant thing of the past. Umyaks ons sapene!”

 

The curse was a particularly foul one, which demonstrated the disgust the older woman held towards this particular part of Karkosian tradition.

 

“Except for the Miram,” Fascili said quietly.

 

“The Miram was a simple accident!” the matriarch nearly screamed, “I will hear nothing about spirits and curses! The damned fool burned his own house down to-”

 

“So the Miram declared Umtau,” Efrain said quietly, “No wonder you were so rattled by the declaration.”

 

“The old Miram went insane,” she said, rounding on Efrain with venom, “so lost in debts and his own stupidity that he couldn’t find a way out other than to kill his entire family!”

 

“And that’s why you keep the burned remains of the Miram cordoned off? Because there was no curse?”

 

The matriarch's face grew pale with fury.

 

“I kept it cordoned off because fools would get themselves crushed searching for loot!” she said.

 

“That’s not true and we both know it,” Fascili said, with surprising iron in his voice.

 

The matriarch turned on him and looked ready to attack her husband.

 

“Stop it!” cried Aya, “stop fighting!”

 

The voice seemed to settle the couple, and Efrain marvelled on just how much influence she had with such little time. The matriarch took several breaths to steady herself, and looked Efrain dead in the eye as her husband gently laid a hand on her shoulder.

 

“What I meant to say,” Fascili said a bit sheepishly, “I suspect there might have been something that came out of that horrid ritual. The damage to the buildings was greater than even the fire would have done in that time, and there were eyewitness reports that-”

 

“The word of dunkards and urchins!” the matriarch snapped.

 

“Yes. Unreliable perhaps, but there were reports that there was some… creature that emerged from the flames and into the canal. No search turned up any evidence of such. If it existed-”

 

“It did not,” said the Matriarch.

 

“Perhaps. But if it did, it may’ve been swept out to the ocean,” Fascili finished.

 

“Superstition,” the Maritrach declared, waving her hands, “what am I, to take the words of every account of fae-folk and sea serpents?”

 

“That’s not what I meant, my love,” Fascili said, squeezing every ounce of soothing into his tone.

 

Efrain’s temple itched incessantly as he felt his stomach drop, realising the true meaning of Umtau.

 

“No, no,” he said slowly, “your husband has a point.”

 

Both of their attention snapped back to him.

 

“Explain. Now,” said the Matriarch through gritted teeth.

 

“There is a distinct possibility that… I think I understand the roots of the ritual now,” Efrain mused, “it’s much older and more profane than I’d guessed. There is a curse, of a kind.”

 

“What?” exclaimed the three Eisen.

 

“It’s a very crude form of blood magic,” Efrain said, feeling the wrinkling of a non-existent nose in disdain, “but rather than… oh, that is devious.”

 

He waved his hands around, trying to articulate the rush of thoughts.

 

“Emotions, strong emotions, leave impressions in places. There’s an old teaching in many schools of magic - that mages should never be involved in battle. Interesting, no? Why would mages, who hold an advantage that few others have, not-”

 

“Get on with it,” Aysatra snapped.

 

“Emotion is power, it is fuel in the way wood fuels flames. You leave a place that is rich with magic saturated with emotions, particularly specific emotions, and what do you get?”

 

They stared at him blankly.

 

“A demon,” Efrain said simply, “a whirlwind of emotion and magical power.”

 

“A demon?” said the Martirach, her nose wrinkling, “what kind of made-up bull-”

 

“The Umtau is meant to form a demon?” Aya said, frowning, “but if it’s been done many times, then why don’t people know about it?”

 

“It’s not about creating a demon specifically,” Efrain said, “ I don’t know how to do that or if it’s even possible. It’s about creating the right environment - intense pain, anger, betrayal, grief. Essentially the Umtau creates an artificial battlefield, where with bad luck a monster will be created. It’s up to sheer chance though. A house could kill itself, and then, a month, a decade, a century later, a monster might form. It’s a long-term chance of posthumous revenge. Were there mages in the Miram house?”

 

Aysatra, her face a mixture of confusion, disgust, and disbelief, still managed to shrug.

 

“Probably,” she said, “they were large enough.”

 

“Then perhaps there was enough residue magic to form a demon. Shear chance might’ve made a demon on the night of the burning,” Efrain said, feeling a grim excitement flare up within him, “I would very much like to examine the ruins.”

 

“Why did you even come here, Efrain?” the matriarch said, eye narrowing.

 

“I found something about the academy. One of its contracted workshops-”

 

Before he could say anything further, the door was pushed over, a panicked Azia stumbling in the room.

 

“What the fuck is it?!” shouted the maritrach, her calm once again broken.

 

“It’s…” he wheezed heavily, before drawing himself back up, “we found the Carim boy. He was hiding out in the ruins of the Miram.”

 

The three of them looked at eachother, then back at the exhausted man. Another woman, possibly his wife, entered slightly after, puffing as she raced after her husband.

 

“We just cornered him,” he said, “we need to hurry, to seize him with your permission, matriarch!”

 

Aysatra sat, seemingly dumbfounded by the sudden announcement. Efrain, on the other hand, felt his mood deepened. There was something in this interruption, something that spoke of the surreal acceleration he felt underlying the city. The sense of things coming to a head, a critical junction just ahead.

 

Efrain was the first that got to his feet, gesturing at the rest of them to get up.

 

“Well, come on,” Efrain said, “we might as well go see what the boy has to say.”

 

“With your permission matriarch?” said Azia, his eyes shining with excitement and exhaustion under his heavy brows.

 

“Yes, yes,” she said, “we’ll go find who’s responsible for this mess.”