Brought together by Simian technology indeed.
Farris broke away from the crowd and made his way to the open gates when an old Simian beggar grabbed at his ankle.
“Please, sir, Humans broke my legs when I didn’t pause for their prayers. Now I cannot work to feed my family. Have mercy.”
The beggar half crawled across the ground, propped up with a wooden walking stick under his elbow. Torn rags covered his legs, bent and useless.
“I have no coin now, brother, but I will return later. I promise.” It was the first truth he told all day.
“Have a nice day, and a bountiful harvest,” replied the beggar dully, his eyes drifting back to the crowds.
As Farris crossed the courtyard, both Human and Simian servants busied themselves with work in the royal gardens, lush with flowers of every colour imaginable. A young female Simian tending to some roses waved to Farris but called out another man’s name. Farris wasn’t sure if she was referring to one of his own aliases or had mistaken him for another. To be safe, he smiled and waved back extravagantly before disappearing into the Grey Keep.
The crystal still hummed in Farris’s pocket as he crossed Móráin Hall. Eighteen pewter busts of dead kings lined the walls, along with portraits of the twelve Holy Saints of the Trinity.
In the early days of the kingdom, the Church had a habit of raising any Human to sainthood in response to carrying out good deeds. Amongst those pictured were Lorcan the Architect, Durnadh the Blacksmith, Aisling the Healer, Moira the Hunter, and Mhórthos the Bard.
Farris couldn’t help but stare at the last portrait. The bard’s beady eyes leered out from under thick eyebrows, his mischievous smile half-hidden beneath a beard, pointed and black like a spearhead.
Mhórthos… what he’d give to be able to see me right now.
Farris couldn’t help but see the poetic justice in his predicament. Simian separatists were a fringe political group, though Farris suspected most Simians were at least sympathetic to the cause. It was still commonplace to see loyal Simian guards and soldiers within the ranks of the Crown. However, some claimed this was concerted effort by King Diarmuid to quell Human-Simian tensions in the capital.
But Farris personified this gap, both a spy for the Simian dissidents and one of King Diarmuid’s most trusted agents, like something straight out of one of Mhórthos’s tragedies.
When Farris tore his gaze away from the bard, a trembling anxiety took hold of his body. His vision blurred, and his chest grew tight, his heartbeat quickening. The hall went spinning; he barely caught himself in balance. Eyes focused down on the crimson carpet beneath him, he took a deep breath.
It’ll pass. It’ll pass. Give it another moment and like the others, it will pass.
He exhaled slowly, focusing on every movement of air through his lips. He took another breath and tried to calm himself, but a different thought surfaced.
They know. They all know, and they’re waiting for a chance to strike. This was the last straw, and now they know.
He lost control of his breathing and fell to one knee. We should have waited. We should have fucking waited before we tried to poison the bastard.
Then the anguish vanished, his heartbeat returning to its natural rhythm. Farris stood and regained his composure, checking to make sure nobody had seen him. He smirked.
They don’t know, of course they don’t! If he did, he would have sent the Wraiths for me instead of a crystal wave.
Two Simian soldiers guarded the door to the royal chambers. Their blue-tinted armour shimmered in the waning torchlight. Farris couldn’t help but wonder what side they’d fight on when the time came.
He reached into his tunic for the crystal. “I have been summoned by the king,” he said. “It started earlier this morning.” The guards eyed the crystal carefully, then stepped aside.
Inside the royal chamber, King Diarmuid sat at the end of a long, gold-bound oak table. His face was red; from wine or anger, Farris couldn’t tell.
Perhaps both.
As he entered, another man, standing, swung around to greet him. Farris knew him well: Padraig Tuathil, Captain of the City Guard.
“I hope I’m not interrupting,” said Farris.
Padraig smirked as the Simian crossed the room, his footsteps muffled by the carpet.
“Ah, Farris Turncloak! Have you come to bring us the heads of more brothers-in-arms? Or have you any left, at this point?”
“Those men weren’t my brothers,” said Farris, resisting the urge to raise his voice. “I was acting on behalf of His Grace, and I succeeded where you and your men failed.”
“My men failed because they weren’t traitors.”
“Enough!” The king waved at both Farris and Padraig with the back of his hand.
“Apologies,” whispered Farris, sinking to one knee.
“As you were.” King Diarmuid made a motion with a jewelled hand, one finger pointing upwards. “I need to speak with you in private. Padraig, leave us be.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
As he passed, Farris spotted a thick coin-purse tied to the captain’s belt.
Another bribe from the Black Sail?
He listened carefully as the door closed behind Padraig. There was a brief silence before two pairs of footsteps moved away. He closed his eyes and unravelled the rhythm of the fading strides.
He dismissed the guards so he could listen in on our meeting.
The king stood, his hands fumbling as if he didn’t know what to do with them. “Have you brought me any news from the waterfront, Farris?”
“I delivered the Black Sail report yesterday,” he said carefully, “but you know how slippery these smugglers can be. My informants will need more time.”
