Hello! Want to get a taste of the book before you buy it? (I know I always do.) This is the first chapter of the first book in The Alchemist’s Agent series: The Gilty Party. I hope you enjoy!

Chapter One

Ibram Ucalegon rubbed the back of his neck as the swaying aerial gondola he traveled in rolled down its thick wire hauling rope. Their carriage shuddered to a halt on the track line at the relay station. A platform conductor held her hand up to the window while the gondola was redirected to the next line, and Ibram nodded, though he doubted she could see him. Beside him, Ahksell Solari, childhood friend and all-around fussbudget, leaned closer to the window and waved to the burly servants pushing their gondola from one section of the station to the next. He had to hunch down to do so, but Ahksell was both huge and friendly, and so never seemed to mind contorting into the oddest positions in order to fit in a courtesy.

“If you’d wanted breakfast, Attendant Solari,” Ibram continued as he shuffled to the window screen next to the door to give Ahksell a little more breathing room. “You could have just eaten in your dormitory with the rest of your compatriots.”

Ahksell grinned and shrugged. “But no one sets out a breakfast like your mother!”

Ibram rolled his eyes. They were alone in the carriage, which suited him well since that meant they could speak normally rather than whisper in order to spare the ears of their fellow passengers. Like many folk in the surrounding villages, Ibram’s daily journey up the living mountain to the Sect of Seven Fires involved a carriage, two perpetual wheels, and a diversion from the imperial road through the deeply disturbing lift system which acted as the mountain’s central transportation. It was rare that he had any space to breathe at all.

The aerial gondola rocked into its tracks as two different burly servants attached the spring-loaded grip to the hauling rope which rose up the mountain. Ibram swallowed heavily. Not that the air was doing him any good, regardless of personal space.

Ahksell waved at them as well, and then grabbed Ibram’s shoulder for balance as they began to sway upwards. Ibram braced his feet; they both wobbled but soon found their footing again. The relay station dropped away from view.

“Besides,” Ahksell protested, and Ibram tore his attention from the window. “Mentor Hobon wanted to speak with you, and I had no other plans.”

“Which I would have learned when I went up the mountain without you needing to fetch me,” Ibram pointed out. “Since I do that every morning. For my work.”

Ahksell shrugged; it looked rather like a mountain range resettling itself. At all reports, Ahksell’s growth spurt had begun soon after Ibram gone away and Ibram saw no evidence that it had stopped since his return. Ibram sniffed and turned back to the wire screen window. Deep green treetops waved beneath him; he grit his teeth. What a horrible way to travel.

Surely cutting a swath of roads up from the base of the mountain range had to be better than this—this lugging back and forth, like they were in the lunch pail of a giant walker. Simply because Ibram had never seen a better system in all his travels didn’t make the relays the best. Other kingdoms doubtless had their own methods. He glanced about himself while Ahksell began to hum a tune Ibram didn’t recognize. Their carriage featured four large square wire screened windows—an amazing expense if they hadn’t been made by the alchemists themselves. It provided Ibram an excellent view of the world and his little place within it.

If he could manage to maneuver himself around Ahksell to face the back he might see the village of Lityen, where he’d been born and raised. To his left—upwards of course—perched the Preceptory of Yseult, seventh domicile of the Sect of Seven Fires, pride of the Vissilian Empire, nestled within the Emerald Mountains on the most western edge of the province of Vanima, a haven for alchemists and academics, and the sort of folk who enjoyed setting fires to find out what might burn. Ibram, for his sins, was employed there in a more-or-less unofficial family tradition.

“You come down the living mountain and eat my ama’s cooking, but you won’t tell me what Ladyship wants, even though you expressly came to the house to tell me she wants me to come to work,” Ibram said. “This was your plan.”

Ahksell grinned. “You know the mentor,” he said. “I didn’t want to prejudice you about the Monbriths.”

Mentor Hobon—or Lady Azadiya Hobon, as Ibram knew her—operated out of her tower in Yseult as its Fourth Mentor. The preceptory believed in the refinement of the physical body, which seemed to mean they drank a plethora of oddly colored, often smoking, infusions and then gained the ability to jump very high and float boulders out of farmer’s fields. If they were very good at it, they might gain enough control to not require their potions and pills; Ibram didn’t want to know how they achieved that. Ahksell might have told him, but Ibram had firmly decided never to inquire.

“The Monbriths?” Ibram repeated. He furrowed his eyebrows. “What about them? I sent in that report two months ago.”

“I don’t think I was supposed to say that,” Ahksell winced. He looked out the window, squinting. “Let’s talk about the view instead.”

Ibram poked him in the arm; Ahksell poked him back. The aerial gondola swayed upwards.

“You have to be the worst Attendant Yseult’s ever produced,” Ibram declared. “Not only have you never been in a fight in your life, you’re also the least discreet man I’ve ever known.”

Alchemists were supposed to be like cooks, hoarding their secret recipes and only releasing their by-products for a neat profit. Being the seventh preceptory, Yseult should have been more anxious than most to protect its secrets, yet its members were far more likely to play down their alchemical craft and stress their emphasis on physical education. Ibram had once heard Lady Azadiya declare that all anyone needed to join Yseult was the ability to dance.

It was just a smokescreen, really, to make them seem as approachable as an alchemist could be. Yseult tended to act as a kind of catch-all for the day-to-day affairs of the villages and farms that lay within the Imperial boundary which separated the Sect of Seven Fires from its more commonplace neighbors. Non-specific requests for mediation between angry competitors or a local investigation that no one wanted to bother a warder over always made their way to Lady Azadiya’s desk somehow. That was where Ibram and the rest of Ladyship’s agents came in, supplying discreet and professional service of whatever type might be needed.

“Oh now, that’s not fair,” Ahksell said. “I’ve been in a fight.”

He reached up and touched the blocky black embroidery which covered the closure of his standing collared gambeson at the side of his neck, marking his association with the Preceptory of Yseult. The little stylized mongoose jumped when he swallowed.

Ibram snorted. “Running around the apple orchard being chased by bees is not a fight.”

Ahksell shrugged. “Anything you can walk away from.”

Ibram frowned down at his feet. What could Ladyship want to know about the Monbriths that he hadn’t written in his report? It had been a very cut and dried case, if he recalled correctly. An old man—an itinerant blacksmith—had died, and Ibram had been sent out as a courtesy to the headwoman of the village to make sure everything was above board. The Monbriths had owned the draughtshop where the body had been found. It had all seemed rather mundane, to be sure.

He rubbed his thumb against his eyebrow. The thought that Lady Azadiya might be displeased with him made the back of his neck tighten in stress. Officially, he was employed by the Sect and merely attached to this particular preceptory, but in practice he was…well, in a way he was an illegal legacy hire. His mother had been an agent for the Preceptory of Yseult as he was now, and his father and sister were artisans who mostly took commissions from the Sect of Seven Fires. Alchemists were forbidden by imperial law from having personal retainers; Ibram preferred to think of it as a grey area.

The swaying gondola swung to a gently rolling stop at the clearing station outside the preceptory. Two workers caught each side of the carriage and then pulled it along the short track to the disembarking platform before the next arriving gondola could smash into them. The platform conductor raised both hands and came up to the door to unhook the lock. Ibram lunged for freedom first and stood on the thick wooden beams, breathing the crisp mountain air. It smelled like hot metal and tree sap; he sneezed.

“It’s the same air in the gondola, you know,” Ahksell said.

“I don’t believe you,” Ibram muttered. He continued to breathe deeply.

The workers ignored them, already towing the empty gondola out of the way of the next one approaching. Ibram jerked his head, and then he and Ahksell stepped off the platform and down the broad stone stairway that lead to the compound proper. Ahead of them lay the huge metal and granite gates of the preceptory, opened to all visitors, but guarded by gigantic sparking lodestones set into the walls in a diamond pattern. Ama had told him once, when Ibram was a child, that the lodestones were infused with lightning, in such great amounts as to put the security locks folk put on their valuables to shame. She claimed invaders laying siege to Yseult would find a very lively welcome, but now that he was older Ibram didn’t put much stock into it. No one had laid siege to so much as a rebellious hamlet in centuries, after all.

Ahksell fell into step with him once they passed through into Yseult, a courtesy which Ibram silently appreciated in deference to his own shorter legs. The Preceptory of Yseult resided in the lowest section of the sect’s complex, for which placement, Ibram thanked Yilka the Green daily. A man still had to conquer the steep gradient of the lower sect courtyard to gain access to the interior, but at least Ibram had never gotten a nosebleed out of it. A few other agents of the sect greeted him as Ibram walked through, and bowed to Ahksell in passing. The sun was out, but not yet powerful enough to make its heat felt. Ibram tugged on his high collar and brushed a hand down the sect badge on his chest. His stomach gurgled.

“Here,” Ahksell said. He dug into his belt pouch and then held out a wax paper bag full of crystalized ginger. 

Stiff breezes ruffled Ibram’s hair as he walked; he tucked the loose strands behind both ears. Ibram swallowed heavily. The trip up the living mountain always sent his stomach writhing, and only time had managed to reduce his queasiness to a level where he could mostly ignore it. Ahksell held the bag out and shook the contents. With a groan, Ibram grabbed the biggest piece of ginger he could feel from the bag, and then popped it into his mouth. They veered right down one of the smaller alleys that branched off from the main stone courtyard.

Yseult was conservative for a preceptory, no strange odors or mysterious outbreaks of dancing fever, and only the occasional unexpected explosion. It sprawled with training fields and wooden pavilions, stone dormitories and work buildings, and several garden manors responsible for feeding the mentors, attendants, learners and support staff who lived there. He glanced up at the First Mentor’s manor house as they passed by and sucked on his ginger meditatively. A honeycomb manor was probably meant to make visitors from below feel at home when they arrived, but an entire palace raised out of the mountain, whole-cloth, without seam or joint? It just didn’t seem altogether friendly.

He bit into the ginger and chewed the fibers, swallowing down the burn. His stomach grumbled to itself. Ibram nodded at the soldier standing guard outside the miniscule Scribes’ Bureau tucked into the shadow of the other buildings. All the preceptories had them, a small nod to the empire’s continuing interest. The guard nodded back, and then Ahksell had taken the corner and disappeared, which forced Ibram into a walk that could have been called a run in order to catch up.

“Why does Ladyship want the Monbrith report again?” he asked.

Ahksell’s head wobbled left and then right. “She didn’t say,” he replied finally. “But I would wager it has something to do with the runners they sent up late last night.”

Ibram paused until he remembered the name of the village. “Runners from Fontis?”

Ahksell guided them down the tree-lined path that led away from the main buildings. “One of them came up around the evening meal,” he said, and then lowered his voice. “But the other had an Imperial badge worked in silver on his chest. He went straight to the Preceptory of Salacia.”

Ibram glanced up at that, and caught Ahksell looking just as grim as he felt. The Imperial falcon in silver meant the Bureau of Justice and its Cohorts of Peace and Vigilance. Not the typical visitor up the living mountain at all. The sect was officially a loyal Vissilian guild, of course, but no one wanted an Imperial embarrassment on their back terrace. They walked past the training grounds in silence.

“Has Lady Sebbina requested a visit?” Ibram asked as they turned down the little courtyard outside the Attendants dormitories.

“Her Gracious Majesty’s most cherished representative has not come up,” Ahksell said. He leaned in closer, which was a bit like being loomed over by a boulder. “But Salacia’s Second Mentor has been down the mountain since the first runner came to see Mentor Hobon and she has been in her office—oh, shh!”

Ahksell straightened and nodded sternly to a group of learners rushing up the path with their practice gars in hand. They had to be no more than ten in number, but more than made up for it in noise. The children parted to either side of them on the pathway, and Ibram batted one of the thick ash wood sticks out of his face. He glanced over his shoulder as the little ones clattered up the hill in a swirl of chatter. He raised his eyebrows at Ahksell, who shook his head; they walked on.

Lady Azadiya Hobon lived off by the inner curtain wall. As the Fourth Mentor, it was Ladyship’s right to live wherever she well pleased, but Ibram was always struck by how odd the place looked amidst its surroundings, even here with its impossible lacy stone architecture. The middle of the empire—what they called the garden provinces—built their homes into equal, elegant sections, with shared walls mimicking honeycombs to capitalize on space. Lady Azadiya’s tower squatted in seclusion, with its own kitchen garden and laboratory. There was even a small stables for a palfrey and an old grey destrier of fourteen hands. From the outside, it looked like it had drifted off from some Western fortified castle with thick, smooth stone walls that stretched up for three stories and a tiled roof, and the windows set high up from the ground. The white plaster was always crumbling into the Spiny Orange bushes growing along the base of her home, and the huge stone slabs used as doors looked like they could withstand a siege.

Ahksell pulled the braided bell rope attached to a lodestone riveted to the outer wall, and then pushed open the doors and disappeared inside. Ibram followed, but rested his hand on the door as he passed over the threshold. Each eight foot tall rock was weighted by charms to swing lightly as a cloud, despite being more than two hands wide, but just walking past them made him want to shiver.

The tower’s inhabitants were at work, as usual, with servants and learners scampering underfoot, and Attendants in green tunics carrying supplies and gigantic paper scrolls from one room into another. It often seemed like the whole of Vissilia swirled in the ranks of the Sect of Seven Fires, the muddled masses of a sprawling empire from the sea peoples to the mountain dwellers, the plainsmen and the denizens of the valleys. Ibram even knew of a few Eastern horsemen up in the Preceptory of Baran, explaining how their wind demons were actually gods. Yseult seemed to attract mostly folk from the garden provinces and the rivers, but these days a few pale Northerners had made their home there as well.

The lodestone bell tolled loudly as they walked underneath the wooden balcony. Somehow—no one had ever explained—the tiled ceiling was transparent inside the tower, and filled the stories below with daylight, directed by polished reflecting mirrors. Ibram paused to allow a flock of learners herded by their teacher out of the doors, and found himself staring down into the sunken main area.

The large intricate metal and stone fountain burbled in the center of the room, crowded by low couches piled high in cushions. On each couch sprawled Lady Azadiya’s agents, seconded to her from the pool of arms-for-hire employed by the Sect. Ibram’s avowed ‘amitai,’ his uncles and aunts, made up the bulk of them. They were no relation to his mother at all, but Merrilians behaved like Merrilians, no matter where they lived. They wore dark wool robes with ribs of silver embroidery down the front and worn stiff wool breeches, and their fur-topped boots came up to their knees. None of them wore a house badge or even an obvious clan bracelet, but each bore the hammered silver torch buckle connecting a leather strap to their wide belts. Ibram wore the same buckle against his chest. Technically, he was of an even rank as well, though no one ever acted like it.

Someone shouted for a song. In two seconds, one of them would have a gittern out, and then it was a fond farewell to good sense. Ibram walked along the row of potted plants, and smacked a stinging euphorbia when it tried to bite him. He craned his neck up and saw Lady Azadiya out on the second floor landing, throwing a glowing rock across the tower to one of her attendants. She kept her hand extended, conducting it to the other side of the building as it dipped and swirled like a bird in flight.

Ibram shouted, “What do you mean ‘you want the Monbrith report’?”

The horde in the tower barely registered the new noise. High above him, Lady Azadiya leaned over with one hand gripping the ladder attached to the second and third floor railing. Her oval face, sharp-chinned and tan, looked down at him in the sort of fondness Ibram often imagined cats felt for smaller cats who did whatever they were told. Her dark hair, softly braided into one mass, fell down her shoulder and swung idly in the air. She had golden pins holding the rest of it off her face in a half-circle, and Ibram’s father’s best filigree work dripped from her ears and neck.

“I mean what I say!” she yelled down at him. Well, called strenuously. Nobles never yelled, that would admit inconvenience. “Come up, come up!”

She waved her hand like she was scooping air to the vaulted ceiling, and then disappeared. Ibram took a moment to brush down his clothing and make sure the hilt of his sica was tied securely at his waist. A complicated chord stuttered its way out from the crowd in the center of the ground floor, and Ibram launched himself up the wide stairway that curved around the entire interior of the tower with Ahksell close behind.

“You got any more of that ginger?” Ibram asked, glancing over his shoulder. He turned back just in time to dodge a maid carrying her bodyweight in expensive linen.

The wax paper bag appeared over his shoulder. He grabbed it, and rooted inside. Below, the amitai were threatening to sing.

“Still with the stomach?” Ahksell asked.

Ibram dug out another chunk of sugared ginger, and popped it in his mouth. He licked his fingers clean. “You still live sideways off a gigantic mountain, to be sure.”

“It’s not sideways,” Ahksell said. “We’re perfectly safe.”

He scooted left to avoid an Attendant about to make the fatal mistake of reading a pamphlet while walking; Ahksell snagged her elbow and rerouted her into an empty room. Ibram wiped his fingers off on the sleeve of his green and brown leather gambeson. “There are 114 steps just to get to the lower courtyard, and a sheer drop with absolutely no handrail.”

“Ah, but that’s why we have the relays!” Ahksell laughed at him, but by then they were on the second floor outside Ladyship’s office, and Ibram couldn’t respond appropriately. He tossed the bag over his shoulder, and then straightened his collar as he entered with a short knock on the door lintel. Doors were never closed in the tower unless someone needed a great deal more privacy than Lady Azadiya normally tolerated. Ama said it was just that alchemists grew peculiar as they aged, but Ibram thought that was one of the half-truths they both favored in place of outright lying. He was pretty sure at whatever age Ladyship had escaped from the nursery into the world the doors had been flung wide in a matter of seconds.

The noise outside lowered to a murmur as Ibram walked further into the room on account of the pumice and bluestone tiles fixed to the lintels and floor. Lady Azadiya sat at her desk, writing something into one of her wooden ledgers with a green engraving pen that smoked as she sketched. He bowed with his hands on his stomach, and straightened almost immediately. It was an airy room, with large windows pouring down light from the loft on the third level, which had no stairs, nor ladder, nor even rope access, but could only be reached through alchemy.

Ahksell clapped him on the back as he went past to poke the bubbling glass cylinder Lady Azadiya held suspended by three thin steel chains from the ceiling; it sloshed and released a green smoke. Ahksell seemed delighted.

While Lady Azadiya finished her writing, Ibram glanced at the walls draped in white and red patterned tapestries. A long, curved wooden set of shelves lurked in the back, and the floor was dense with layered black-worked rugs. Plants and light globes hung from the beams in the ceiling. He eyed the back of one of the heavily carved chairs near Ladyship’s desk, padded with thick pillows and tightly woven blankets. He remained standing.

Lady Azadiya set her engraving pen back into its portable furnace. She sat back in her wide, comfortable chair behind her enormous dark wood desk, and raised one eyebrow. Ibram sucked his ginger.

“You know, if you would stop closing your eyes every time you take the relay, you wouldn’t have these episodes,” she said. When she was at home, her Western accent lilted like burbling water.

“I don’t close my eyes anymore,” he said, but his weight shifted from one foot to the other without his permission. Ibram crunched down on the sugar coating and swallowed, and then cleared his throat.

“It does move very quickly, Mentor,” Ahksell said, before Ibram could speak.

She shrugged, but nodded. She stood up to lean across the desk and tapped a small stack of loose sheets of paper. With one quick wave of her fingers, she spread them out in a fan. Ibram frowned.

“Those are my notes,” he said, “and that’s the paperwork the headwoman Mistress Denrind sent with me for you.”

“And do you recognize the last bit of handwriting?” Ladyship asked.

He shook his head, and took a step closer to the desk. It didn’t sit well with him that she’d taken the trouble to bring out the entire bundle from her archives to speak about the Monbriths, who hadn’t really been involved except in a small legal capacity. He’d never seen her need to consult a single page after she had read it before.

“What prompted you sending for me, Ladyship?” he asked. “I woke late in the belief that peace had broken out in Vissilia.”

“Ibram,” she gasped and put one hand to her collarbones. “The grand Vissilian Empire is a bastion of peace from the Ice Sea to the Gulf of Summer!”

He felt the left corner of his mouth curl up. “And every subject free from strife.”

“Ibram,” Ahksell whispered in embarrassment.

“From the blessing of her gracious Imperial Majesty, may her sandals never touch dirt,” she said, and then snorted. “Can I help when I am called upon, Ib-la?”

“You know that makes me sound like a children’s sweet drink,” he pointed out.

She ignored this. “Now, I have called upon you, and what do you do? Do you ask me what the matter is?”

“I just did.” He waved his hand at Ahksell. “I have a witness.”

“I see nothing but through my Mentor’s eyes,” Ahksell said.

“This is why you—”

“Enough, thank you.” Ladyship pinched her ring finger and thumb together, and Ibram felt a distinct tug on his right ear. He shut his mouth.

Lady Azadiya came around the other side of her desk. The soft outer layers of her dress floated as she moved. She was out of uniform, but then Mentors were allowed a great deal more freedom than the lower ranks. For herself, she was dressed down. Her teal silk dress, high-necked and painted with purple and gold tennic birds, moved easily with all those layers, and her reinforced boots made the smallest sound on the polished wooden floor. She grinned, and flashed too many even white teeth for polite society.

“The Monbriths,” she prompted. “I notice they appear in your notes, but do not feature.”

Oh hang, something had really gone wrong in Fontis since Ibram had visited. “Small householders out past Fontis,” Ibram said, going back over the facts as he recalled them. “They keep a draughtshop that doubles as an inn at the edges of their land, and grow marrows. Two sons, the oldest not very bright, and a daughter wasting her potential. The father died four years ago, and the mother never remarried. They have no idea how the body of Harken Tolk got to their syah berry patch, and they doubtless preferred that he’d found a nice timoleon bog to drown in, instead.”

“Alas, two hundred miles off,” Lady Azadiya said.

“One of the sons was the First Finder, wasn’t he?” Ahksell asked. “The…younger one, I think.”

“No, it was the oldest boy,” Ibram said. “The middle child.”

“Very well remembered though, Ahk-la,” she said. “I fear we have reached the salient point.”

“The salient… Oh, hang,” Ibram groaned. “Ladyship, do not say it.”

“I fear I must,” she said. Her dark eyes tilted dangerously upwards in amusement.

“He had every moment in the world to screw up his courage!”

“Alas his courage remains quite loose,” she said, and tapped the stack of papers. “I am informed by several letters that the second Monbrith child has not only failed to appear in court to explain his finding of the body, but he has himself gone off…probably to find his own timoleon bog, if he’s smart enough.”

Ibram groaned again. “He isn’t.”

“To be certain,” Lady Azadiya agreed. She crossed her arms and walked to the back of her room. She pulled a stack of bound wooden slats and held it open in two hands, and then returned to her desk to set the stack down. Ibram could see the symbols burned into the wood as a set of formulae. He frowned and glanced at Ahksell, who shook his head.

“Have the warders been sent out?” Ibram asked.

Lady Azadiya nodded. “The circuit judge sent from the Court Civil was unamused.”

“Also, you’re wrong,” Ahksell said.

“I beg your pardon?” Ibram twisted to stare at him.

Ahksell shrugged and lifted his hands. “They’re not past Fontis.”

“Yes, they are, that’s why they sell rooms above their draughtshop. There’s no other place large enough.”

“Yes, but they’re still within Imperial limits,” he said. “So they count.”

Ibram scrubbed his eyebrow. “Which means it’s not the Monbriths alone who will be fined for not appearing in court.”

“Fontis will also be punished accordingly,” Ladyship said with a sigh. She tapped the wooden slat in front of her and then pulled the papers on top of her bundle. “And if this announcement I’ve received from Salacia runs true, then if the First Finder is not discovered, the village will be interdicted for the full fifty years, rather than a nicely manageable oppressive fine.”

“Interdicted?” Ibram asked. The back of his head tightened.

She lifted one shoulder. “Sanctioned.”

“But no one gets sanctioned anymore,” Ahksell protested. “Not since…I don’t even remember when!”

“The third year of Empress Soliya II’s reign,” Lady Azadiya said. She held up a piece of paper, frowned at it, and then set it down again.

“Isn’t the usual response just a heavy fine?” Ibram asked.

She nodded. “Which says to me there must be something going on down there to prompt such a harsh prospective ruling.”

“A prospective ruling?” Ahksell repeated. “So the judge might change their mind.”

“To be sure,” Ladyship said, though she didn’t sound it.

Ibram’s stomach grew heavy. Any kind of ruling that disrupted trade in Fontis impacted not just the village, but their entire corner of the province. A raising of the rates to pay off a court fine might slow trade for a while, but sanctioning sounded much worse. He tried to think what that meant, and could only stir a feeling of revulsion in his memory.

“Ladyship, how is a sanctioning even accomplished?” Ibram asked.

 She shook her head and braced herself on her desk with both hands. “I would have you focus on the matter at hand,” she said. “We can expand your education at a more convenient date, but the impact of this must be assessed immediately.” She huffed in amusement. “You have been requested personally, you know.”

“Me? Personally?” Ibram straightened up, and then tilted his head. “So to avoid their own work, the judge asks us to intervene?”

She shook her head. The morning light made her already youthful face seem even younger, but Ibram discarded the thought. She had looked the same age since they had been formally introduced when he was ten years of age. Alchemists were all like that.

“The Monbrith heir sent you a message addressed to the sect, after which I requested the viewing of these court documents from Mentor Armida,” she said, and waved her hand at the stack of papers again. The mongoose signet ring on her first finger gleamed, and Ibram could just see the beaded end of her clan bracelet. He stepped up to the desk and looked down at the pile.

“You liked her, didn’t you?” she asked suddenly.

“The younger Mistress Monbrith knows her mind,” he said, and picked up the top paper. It was addressed to him in cheap brown ink but written in a firm hand, almost elegant. “Her name is Satya.”

He glanced over the letter. Satya’s request for aid sounded urgent, but the tone of her writing was also bewildered. Events seemed to have progressed quickly after he’d left Fontis. A dim—a very dim—memory of a classroom lesson wafted upward in Ibram’s mind. A sanctioning was a municipal shunning, a holdover from ancient days when alchemists served in the royal courts of kingdoms long since absorbed into the empire. Some of them had even ruled those lost dominions. He rubbed his thumb over his eyebrow. In the firetale his teacher had told the class, even five years sanctioned could be the death of a village. No trade, no leaving, and no doubt, Satya Monbrith knew who her neighbors would punish first when tempers flared.

He set the paper down. “Ladyship, how can the judge do it? The whole village is bisected by an imperial road—an important one at that.”

Ibram frowned. It was illegal to block an imperial road; the Judge’s proclamation would invoke one law by outraging another. Lady Azadiya tugged on the end of her braid.

“That is none of your concern as of yet,” Ladyship reminded him. “Mistress Monbrith the younger would like us to find her brother in the hope that his return would intercede with the court’s displeasure.”

“Do we agree?” Ibram asked, and looked up.

“No, the warders know how to search and it’s best to leave them to their business.” She twirled the fingers of her right hand. “I think there is nothing you as my agent can do that the Cohort of Peace already searching the area are not in the process of accomplishing.”

Ibram brought up his hand without thought and just stopped himself from rubbing his eyebrow. He’d been trying to break himself of the habit. The Imperial Ministry of Order had two main bureaus: Justice and Administration. The Bureau of Justice contained the Cohort of Peace for all Her Gracious Majesty’s judicial needs and the Cohort of Vigilance in case anything Soliya IV owned caught on fire. Ibram much preferred working with the latter, but society was structured differently in the lands immediately surrounding an alchemical sect.

“No one could run far this near the living mountain,” he said. “Even a day’s ride out would place them in grabbing distance of a warder patrol.”

In addition to the main garrison at Delbrite, the Cohort of Peace had warders stationed in strategic points all around the villages that relied upon the patronage of the Sect of Seven Fires. Ibram sometimes thought that their little corner of Vanima was more accurately described as a series of imperial waystations dotted by the occasional village. He often tripped over them in the course of his duties for Lady Azadiya.

“Who has been assigned the case?” he asked. “Vainamonien? Ilme?”

Lady Azadiya shook her head. “Commander Osthanes himself,” she said. “Brought specially from Delbrite.”

Ibram whistled lowly. “How did that come about?”

“I believe he was requested personally by the judge.” Ladyship sighed and tugged on the end of her braid. “Something caused Rustam Monbrith to run when it was absolutely not in his best interests. Something has been overlooked, Ib-la. When you are searching for a man, you must investigate him as well.”

He swallowed, and glanced at Ahksell, who winced. “You mean, I missed something.”

She nodded.

“And now the village is paying the price.” The back of Ibram’s head throbbed. “I tell you, Ladyship, I don’t know what else I could have done. Master Harken Tolk was dead when I arrived and nothing about his death, nor his corpse or belongings struck me as odd.”

“And yet,” she said.

Ibram sighed. “And yet,” he repeated. “Do I tell Satya—I mean, the young Mistress Monbrith that I am investigating her brother and not looking for him?”

“No,” Ladyship said after a moment of consideration. “I think we shall keep that between ourselves for now. And, if you hear something to indicate Monbrith’s whereabouts, more to the good. Regardless, the request must be answered.”

“I’ll read through my notes again, and be at Fontis tomorrow,” he said.

Ladyship resettled her sleeve, and rubbed her fingers over the trimstone bead of her clan bracelet. “Take Ahksell with you this time.”

Ibram frowned. “What? Why should he come?”

“I want a closer look into the body,” she said. “They left it under a sealing charm, of course. Let us see what Ahk-la can make of it.”

“The man was in his seventies,” Ibram protested. “His corpse was immaculate. I can tell the difference between a murdered man and a merely dead one.”

“And yet this young Monbrith has run away from all his life’s responsibilities, and there was no reading of the body based on my own agent’s report,” she said. “Kivan the Red will have answers.”

Ibram did not groan aloud at that assertion, but it was a close run thing. It was typical that Lady Azadiya brought in Kivan the Red rather than the magistrate’s looming wrath. Ladyship didn’t give the filip for the Imperial presence within Vanima.

“You aren’t even dedicated to him,” he said. “How could this be any concern of his?”

She raised her eyebrows and Ibram settled back on his heels. He cleared his throat. “Not that Catha the Grey is uninterested in justice,” he muttered.

“Twins naturally share interests,” Lady Azadiya agreed. “But perhaps we should concentrate on the matter at hand.”

Ibram had never put the question to her, but it was odd for Ladyship to be dedicated to the Western goddess of death and recompense, while most of her agents had been dedicated at birth to the Western god of fair justice and mercy. Ibram often wondered why Ama had given him to Yilka the Green, the three-faced goddess of skillful hands, but she was certainly an easier divine being to do proud.

“It is strange.” Ibram swallowed. “But, Ladyship, I investigated the body and the site where it was found. Rustam—he was shaken, but nothing was out of the ordinary concerning Tolk’s body, nor his room at the Monbriths’ draughtshop.”

Ladyship looked to her right. “Who will take your classes?”

“Dasa owes me a favor or three,” Ahksell said immediately. “She can take over for me—and she just started gemstone resonance, so running back over base metals might conjure up a break through.”

Lady Azadiya smiled, and readjusted her sleeves over her wrists. “Well enough.”

“Can I take the carriage?” Ahksell asked.

“We can simply ride there! There’s nothing wrong with my sister’s horse,” Ibram said. “Pick a nag from the sect’s stable.”

“A nag,” Ahksell said. He had entirely too much fondness for animals, and it showed in the growing affront of his raised voice.

Ibram held up both his hands, and groaned. “Ahksell.”

“Pick a nag,” Ahksell said in an incredulous tone.

“Carriage it is,” Lady Azadiya said.

Will Ibram and Ahksell Save The Day? (I mean, yes, absolutely they will, but how??)

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