He disappeared into the crowd, leaving Farris to decide for himself who to pose the passcode to next. A younger man gave a sermon to a handful of people across the way, and he seemed to be far less animated than the first. When Farris approached, however, the preacher’s words gave him pause.

“Nothing frightens the Lord more than chaos, for even if fate dictates His own demise, Seletoth shall gladly see Himself through to the end.”

A woman from the crowd spoke up. “But what of the Lady Meadhbh, is she not the weaver of fate?”

“Of course not,” said the preacher with a soft smile. “For surely fate has existed long before the supposed Apotheosis of the Trinity. If she was the master of fate before the Final Conquest of Alabach, then what led the Human armies to this sacred country? Seletoth is the beginning and the end, but He does not have control over fate. More proof that the Trinity is founded upon lies.”

No use asking him.

He worked his way through the crowd, catching a few words from each speaker before moving on. The people who had come to hear the sermons moved from preacher to preacher too, some exchanging questions and comments with those on the pedestals.

Farris spotted Garth talking with another preacher. The Human gestured wildly as he spoke, moving his arms in wide, looping circles, possibly mimicking the three crooked rings of the Sons. Garth turned and caught Farris’s gaze, then shook his head in disappointment. He bid farewell to the preacher and began hurrying towards Farris. Farris moved forward, too, but right as they were about to confront one another, an arm appeared from the crowd and grabbed Garth on the shoulder. A bearded face leaned towards him, with eyes mad with fear.

“Where the fuck were you?” he rasped. Garth turned as Farris approached, and both faced the preacher. “I was waiting here for hours!” he said. “Then I got word that the ship crashed, and nobody told me what to do if that happened. You’re lucky everything is still in place.” He eyed Farris cautiously. “Is it just you two? I was expecting five.”

“Will two be enough?” asked Farris, careful not to let on he knew less than he should.

“The timing may be off,” said the preacher, “But we’d do a fair share of damage anyway. The first load is on the first floor. Follow me.”

The preacher led the way towards the stairway. Garth followed closely behind, fumbling through his pockets as he went. He pulled out a piece of fabric with one hand, and a tiny glass vial in another. He deftly uncapped the vial, pouring its contents onto the cloth, all without missing a step behind the preacher. At the top of the staircase, Garth lunged forward, shoving the damp cloth against the old man’s face. In an instant, the man’s body went limp, and Garth was left holding on to him. Some people stopped to look on, but neither the cloth nor the bottle were anywhere in sight.

“Edgar!” cried Garth to Farris. “Edgar, come quickly! Aonghus has gone and passed out again. Help me bring him home!”

***

The false preacher awoke no less than an hour later, just as Garth had predicted. That alchemical mixture had given them enough time to carry the old man down to the Squealing Pig, an old tavern deep within the Dustworks of Penance. It had also given Farris plenty of time to tie the preacher up, while Garth went off to fetch the Silverback. To Farris’s dismay, Argyll arrived with Ruairí at his side.

Has he found himself a new right-hand man? He didn’t have a chance to voice his opinion, as the preacher began to stir moments after the two arrived.

“What has he told you?” asked Argyll, careful to keep his voice low. “Is there anything we should know before we begin?”

“Not much,” whispered Farris. “He seemed to be working alone, expecting five of us to come off the ship. He overheard Garth use the passcode and confronted him directly.” He rummaged through a coat pocket. “We also found these on his person.” He held five flint-rings before Argyll. “The same kind that Pyromancers use to create a spark for their spells.”

“I’m… familiar with them,” said Argyll. Farris wondered if the Silverback implied more than what he said.

The old preacher slowly raised his head, his weary eyes falling upon Ruairí first, then Argyll. A look of confusion crossed his face as he noticed Garth and Farris standing side by side.

“You… you’re from… Sin? No… I can’t remember.”

“We’ll help jog your memory,” said Garth, stepping forward. “Whether you want to or not.”

“Where… where am I?”

Garth stuck the preacher across the face with a sickening crack. “You’re in a bad place, friend. Tell us everything you know.”

A flash of realisation shook the preacher awake. The weariness left his face immediately, his mouth opened in shock, his lip quivering in fear.

“I have nothing to tell you. I swore not to—”

Garth cut the old man off with another right hook, faster and harder than the last. A spray of blood followed the arc of his fist; Farris was sure he heard something break with the impact.

The Human’s eyes met Garth’s, then he spat a bloodied tooth onto the floor.

“I’ll never betray the king!” he cried, his words as strong and proud as they had been back in Sin. “The light of the Trinity protects me!”

Garth raised his hand but paused instead of bringing it down again. “Edgar,” he said, turning to Farris. “What was it you used before, to make those smugglers talk when you were in the capital?”

Farris suppressed a smile. The memory was not a fond one, but he enjoyed the game all the same.

“I’ll need a pillowcase and a pale of water,” he said, shooting a glance at the preacher. “It won’t take long.”

“No!” cried the captive. “Not that, please no!”

Farris turned to Ruairí. “We’ll need to lay him flat on his back. first. Micheál, can you grab what I need from upstairs?”

Ruairí did not respond and did nothing to hide the sheer confusion from his face. A shame. Though, Humans have never been good at this game anyway.

“I’ll talk!” cried the preacher, looking up at Garth. “I’ll do whatever you want, just keep him away from me!”

“Then speak,” said Argyll, practically spitting the words.

“I was contacted by the king himself,” said the preacher. It was as if the words couldn’t leave his lips quickly enough. “I’ve been keeping an eye on the Sons here, for the Crown, but I got a crystal wave in from the king. He told me to meet five spies at Sin, and that I’d confirm their identities with a passcode.”

The preacher looked on expectantly at his captors, as if he hoped he had said enough. The four said nothing. It didn’t take long for their captive to continue again.

“Before they were supposed to arrive, I hid… barrels of Simian black-powder in different positions around the tower. I was to give the spies a flint-ring each to light their fuses. The instructions I was given said that it would be enough to take the tower down. And with the gas in the ships, the skyfleet would be wiped out, too.”

The Silverback took a step towards the preacher. “Is that all?”

“Yes, yes, please. It is. I was told nothing else. It was supposed to take just the six of us.”

“Does the Crown have any other spies in Penance?” asked the Silverback, towering over the little man.

“No… no, it’s just me. Please, I told you everything you need to know. Please, don’t let him do what he said, with the water and—”

“Go to Sin,” interrupted Argyll, turning to Farris, Garth, and Ruairí. “Find these caches and remove them from the tower. Immediately.”

Garth and Ruairí nodded curtly and went to leave. Before Farris had a chance to follow, the Silverback placed a hand on his shoulder.

“You have experience working with the Crown’s network,” he whispered, barely loud enough to be heard, even by Farris. “Will he be missed?”

Farris looked at the preacher. The old man was still shaking, his eyes cast upwards, his lips moving frantically in prayer.

“No,” said Farris, with a sigh. “Probably not.”

Chapter 7:

Chorus of the Soul