Chapter 174 - Assassination (Patreon)

Mirian and Selesia found themselves eating a late dinner at one of the ‘bars’ near the University Hospital where Jherica had been taken. Mirian was still a bit disturbed about how prevalent alcohol was in Vadriach. However, it allowed them to have a quick meal at one of the small tables on the street, so it made for a good lookout post.

“It’s kinda fun. It’s like we’re in a spy novel,” Selesia said. “Have you read any of those?”

Mirian smiled. They’d had a conversation like this before. Several, in fact. “They used to be my favorite.”

“Oh, neat! Wait, used to?”

“I don’t really read for pleasure any—hold that thought. Stay here and act normal. If anyone asks, I’m in the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”

A sleek looking spell carriage had just passed by, heading towards the hospital. The driver had a soul-disguise on. Mirian abandoned her food and walked down the street, casually, like she was just another of the pedestrians. She watched as five people, all wearing Akanan-style dark suits, piled out of the carriage. One took a position near the back while the others went in. Mirian could see the wand holster next to the pistol holster. If they were trying to be subtle about being agents, they were doing a terrible job.

Mirian went around to an alley and summoned her hidden remote spy spell. When she’d checked the wards around the hospital, there didn’t seem to be anything detecting the spell. She moved the invisible observer up to the third floor window, staying in the shadows while she waited.

It didn’t take long. Four dark-suited men walked into the room along with a priest. Mirian put more mana into the sound amplification glyphs.

“…very obviously a curse, though not one I’ve ever seen. We suspected a necromancer immediately,” she caught the priest saying. “The damage to the kidneys and liver has been healed, and we’ve been hydrating him. Without the ability to wake him up though, his life is still on a timer.”

“Very good,” one of the men said. “We’ll handle it from here.”

The priest raised an eyebrow. “Is RID trained in the healing arts now? I thought this was investigative.”

“It is investigative. We’re going to check the body. As you said, we won’t find anything. Then we file a report. Routine procedure, but necessary.” The man gave the priest a smile that didn’t touch his eyes. “You know how bureaucracies are.”

“Then there’s no problem with me staying to observe the patient,” the priest said.

“There are,” another agent replied. “Investigative techniques are considered secret. We have a letter of investigation from a judge,” he said, pulling out a scroll.

The priest broke it open, then scoffed. “This is absurd. Judicial overreach doesn’t even begin to—”

“Take it up with the judge. We’ll be out shortly. Please don’t turn a routine procedure into something more than it needs to be,” another agent said, stepping closer to the priest.

He looked at the four men, face turning grim. “Disgusting,” he said, turning on his heel.

The first agent followed the holy man to the door, then locked it when he was out. He cast a quick anti-eavesdropping ward on the door. He didn’t bother with the windows. One of them just glanced out and didn’t see anything. Sloppy, Mirian thought.

“Euric?” one of the men asked.

“We can be quick. It’s one of ours,” one of the agents said. Euric, apparently. He was tall and broad-shouldered, but thinner than the others. Apparently, he was also the curse expert.

“So who authorized it?”

“Endless night is earmarked for assassinations only. That’s not our department, and none of you have clearance.”

“‘Endless night’? Who the hell names these things? That’s the kind of name my teenage son would come up with for a spell.”

“Five fucking hells,” another agent said. “Then we need to start an internal investigation.”

Euric bent over Jherica’s body, squinting at him. His hand was pressed up against his chest, no doubt making sure his focus had good contact with his skin. “There will be. A quiet one.”

“Quiet? This isn’t some dune-fucker from Persama. This is an Akanan citizen.”

Mirian’s lip curled in disgust at the slur. She kept listening.

The short agent scratched his nose. “You know as well as I do there’s a lot of reasons for a secret judicial order. It’ll go through the process.”

“This man doesn’t have time for the process.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Euric said. “He’s dead.”

“You’re not going to break the curse?”

“I can’t. No one can. This one isn’t a normal lethargy curse or daze curse. If I picked it apart, the distortions to his soul would cause lethal brain damage. That’s why it’s earmarked for assassinations. As far as we’re concerned, this investigation is over. He’ll expire within the week. Let’s get out of here before that priest kicks up a fuss. He seems like the type to do that, and I don’t want to deal with it.”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” the short one said. The group headed for the door.

Mirian cut the observation spell and walked around the block the long way, then rejoined Selesia who was impatiently tapping the side of her drink. “Mirian! You took so long. I was worried.”

She’d been gone a few minutes at most. “Sorry.”

“Well? Your food got a bit cold.”

Mirian used a raw spell to start reheating her plate. She spoke in Friian, just in case. “They can cast them, but they can’t break them, apparently. Either that, or the agent was lying. Or, if there’s a way to break the curse, it’s been kept hidden from him.” That was about as much as she was willing to share with Selesia. She could break the curse, but she didn’t know what it would do to him in the long term. Possibly, he would have brain damage that persisted through the loops. Better to wait, and do it right.

***

They spent a few more days in Vadriach. Mostly, Mirian scouted out the Republic Intelligence Division headquarters there and got to know the areas around the Senate building. It was the nexus of political power in the country, so it seemed like a good idea to at least understand it.

Then, they headed north to Mercanton.

Akanan trains were far more packed than Baracueli ones. Mirian and Selesia found themselves standing, which felt wrong to her. On the plus side, they had modern spell engines that could really move. It only took a few hours to reach Mercanton.

It was hard for Mirian to put into words how big Mercanton was. The city seemed to sprawl out endlessly, with houses and factories covering all the hills. In history class, she’d learned that Akana Praediar’s coasts had once been covered in ancient forests. It seemed hard to believe. There was no trace of any greenery.

Along the river were the towers. Vadriach’s towers were built as tributes to the classic styles of architecture. Mercanton’s towers were just designed to be large and tall. Cities like Palendurio and Alkazaria were settled things; a few houses or public buildings might go up from time to time, but the populations were relatively steady. Mercanton had cranes everywhere, and it seemed on every block someone was building something. Mirian had grown somewhat used to the crowds of the large cities in Baracuel, but Mercanton’s crowds and chaos were on another level.

“I hate this city,” she muttered to Selesia in Friian.

“Not a strong enough word,” she said. “The rest of Akana is so much nicer. Well, Ferrabridge is gross too.”

Getting off the train involved a great deal of pushing and shoving. Mirian had to restrain herself from simply blasting people away from her.

“Is it really normal for people to be like this?” she hissed.

“In Mercanton? Yes,” Selesia said.

Once they were away from the train station, the crowds went from ‘infuriating’ to ‘merely intolerable.’ They made their way over to Merchant’s Avenue, dodging spellcarts that rattled over the wide streets.

At some point, Merchant’s Avenue must have had merchants lining it, but now it was full of stubby towers packed with rich-looking apartments and storefronts that looked like they’d charge a silver sigil note just to look through the windows. A few dozen blocks later, the streets looked more normal, going from paved to cobbled.

Celen’s apartment wasn’t hard to find. There were only so many wainwright shops on the avenue. A neighbor mentioned he lived on the top floor, and how it was strange that he hadn’t seen him at all the past few days. “Must be busy scribbling away. I doubt he’s visiting family, he usually tells us so we can water his plants. Friendly chap. How do you know him?”

“Oh, he helped me out when I was in a pinch once,” Mirian said. “As you said, friendly man. Easy to talk to. Was going to repay the favor, if he’s around.”

His apartment was even easier to break into. He didn’t have so much as a ward on the lock, so Mirian used a bit of force magic to open it.

“Oh God,” Selesia said, turning her head as soon as the door opened and making a retching noise.

Celen was slumped over a writing desk, dead. He had the remains of a fireball wand still stuck in his mouth. There wasn’t much left of his head. So this is what Troytin meant that he’d succumbed to despair. “You can stay outside if you’d like,” Mirian said gently. “I’ll be a moment.”

Selesia nodded, and closed the door. Mirian had to pause and remember what a normal person’s experience was. Death and gore had become so commonplace to her now.

She walked closer to Celen. Above his writing desk was a hole in the ceiling. Hmm. He was up early. Or very late. She examined the corpse more closely. The fireball was obviously self-inflicted. As a time traveler, it simply couldn’t be an unexpected ambush, because the next time, he’d expect it.

It could be a body double, but she imagined Troytin, who likely knew what Celen looked like before he attacked, would have checked for that sort of thing.

Mirian stood for a moment, contemplating the implication. As a student, she’d learned to use her time wisely, always striving to make every minute count. Most of her family’s money had gone into her education, and so she’d valued every class, and known to study and study more when she had the time. When the time loop had started, she’d instinctively transfered that understanding, trying to maximize the value out of each cycle. Presumably, there were a limited amount of cycles. Professor Endresen had made clear that all action on the universe cost energy, and infinite energy was impossible.

The macabre scene aside, here was another approach: end each cycle immediately. For Celen, perhaps only a few hours had passed since he’d decided the easiest way to escape Troytin. A few hours, and he could go through hundreds and hundreds of loops. Thousands, maybe, though Mirian prayed it wouldn’t last that long. Then, maybe he could stop and see if the other time traveler had forgotten about him, or circumstances had changed.

She couldn’t help but feel bitterness, though. It seemed cowardly. You could have fought him. Tried to warn others. Tried to change your own fate. It’s the apocalypse. It’s bigger than just you. You—we—have a duty.

But there was nothing she could do about him. If Jherica proved permanently crippled, she could at least remove his temporal anchor. But for better or worse, Celen was out of her reach. His soul would go wherever their souls went in between cycles, along with the needle in it.

She investigated the apartment.

It wasn’t clear to Mirian how Celen knew magic, or how much he knew. Aside from the wand, few of his possessions had anything to do with magic. He had a great deal of books, but almost all of them were fiction. He had a selection of classics, translated into Eskanar, bound with nice leather and gold leaf. He also had a few dozen novels she’d never heard of, the cheap kind you got from a bookstore when you didn’t want to read anything serious. There were some papers and ink on his desk, but they were utterly ruined. Another pile of papers had been burnt to ash, probably by the same fireball wand.

His kitchen was a bit of a mess. His bedroom was impeccably tidy. Celen seemed normal.

I guess we all were when this started.

They left shortly after.

***

“You’re free to leave. I can hand you a stack of sigil notes and you can visit your family,” Mirian reminded Selesia.

“I’d rather stay. I’d rather know, you know?”

Mirian did, and she respected the younger student for it.

It was the 21st of Solem, the day of the assassination. They were sitting on a balcony of a rented apartment that overlooked Dale Boulevard and Founder’s Park. The park was absolutely packed, because Prime Minister Jondar Kinsman would be speaking soon.

Selesia had told Mirian that Kinsman was popular, many, many cycles ago. Logically, she’d known that.

Seeing it was something else entirely. Not only was the park filled, Dale Boulevard was filling up as well. From their dress, Mirian could tell these were the people who made up the foundation of the city: factory workers, dock workers, artisans, artificers, servants, cooks—many of them still were dressed for work, having rushed to the park during their lunch.

Mirian had done some basic divination, falling back on the techniques she used when typical divination spells would be detected. That meant her reconnaissance was limited, but she could get a general idea of the wards they’d set up to protect the Prime Minister. The park had fire suppression wards dotting it already, so most of what was set up was a contingent barrier scheme, run by spell engines. If a bullet or slashing spell came at him, the wards would trigger, putting up a force shield. 

It was critically flawed. Magebreaker ammunition would pass right through it. There’s no way his security detail is that stupid. Does that mean his bodyguards have been compromised?

Mirian had a lens spell ready, but nowhere to point it yet. There were just so many people, and so many tall buildings surrounding the park. She knew Nicolus’s uncle had said it was a rifle bullet that killed him, but that didn’t narrow things down at all.

A commotion started on the far end of Dale Boulevard: the Prime Minister’s spell carriage, surrounded by the Republic’s Protectors, a special division of the army that guarded high elected officials. The crowd parted, and a cheer rose up as Johndar Kinsman emerged. Immediately, he began working the crowd, shaking hands and acknowledging greetings, a big smile on his face. The way he walked projected confidence, but the way he bent down and shook the hand of an eager supporter projected compassion.

He made his way to the stage they’d set up. The Republic’s Protectors looked alert as they scanned the crowd, while a sorcerer cast a sound projecting spell.

“Friends and countrymen!” Kinsman said, gripping the podium as he surveyed his audience. Wild applause erupted. Then he gave an easy laugh. “Bit of a small crowd, don’t you think? Well let’s get started. You didn’t come here to see me, you came to hear what I represent. Akana Praediar faces a crisis. You all know it. You all feel it.”

His demeanor shifted, and with it, the crowd. A hush fell over them.

“Akana has ascended. Our ancestors dreamed of conquering the frontier. And it is conquered. You conquered it.” More applause and shouts of encouragement. Kinsman nodded, eyes scanning over the crowd. Mirian had to tear her gaze away and remind herself she was looking for the assassins. “Then you built this,” he said, arms gesturing wide to the city. “Cities that span the horizon. Towers that pierce the sky. Factories that have turned our country into one unrivaled, unquestioned in its dominance. You built these towers. By your hands, by your labor, by your love, you have transformed this country. The power to overcome the myrvite terrors of the night—we gained it. Our spell engines have reshaped the world.”

As he let those words linger, the crowd held a collective breath. Mirian looked around. Hundreds of people were leaning out from balconies. Near the back of the crowd, there was so much movement as people jostled for a place. No, it won’t be a last minute perpetration. These people are planners. They’re in place already. They’ve been in place, Mirian thought. The assassin wouldn’t be in the crowd. The windows, then? Or maybe the rooftop?

“So where is paradise?” Kinsman asked. “With your hands, you build, so where are your towers? Our country is unrivaled in wealth. So where is it?”

The crowd already knew the answer, but they yearned for him to say it.

“These factory owners have hoarded it, then created a new untamed wilderness. A jungle of rules and legalism that has devoured far more Akanans than any frontier ever did. The generals have hoarded it, then created justifications for our vast armies. They say we must fear Persama. Why?”

Murmurs of approval filled the park. Mirian kept looking around. She tried to find the glint of a gun barrel, or maybe a group of agents. At her distance, though, there was no way to see soul disguises. She embraced the Dusk Waves stance to better be able to react, and let soul energy run by her senses. She needed to take in every detail.

“I’ll tell you what, they better get a hell of a lot better at swimming before I start to worry!” Kinsman said, and laughter melted the tense mode. “Well, the Senate is dragging its feet, staring at that jungle of laws and the fields of weaponry, feeling mighty uncomfortable about giving them up. Some of them are waiting for Mr. Aurum to give them marching orders. But someone needs to tell the Senate they don’t serve him, they serve you! Here is my promise: to put an end to the war in Persama. Akana is in the business of business, not war. To put an end to the maze of legalism that prevents justice from being done. To make sure a fair day’s work gets a fair day’s pay. And I say—”

And then a rifle shot boomed out, echoing across the park like thunder, and Kinsman fell dead.