Tryal's Curse 3.2

~1303 words

‘Open the door!’ Inspektor Luin called up. The figures draped in black all nodded sombrely. Evian gulped and nodded back. 

He was down the stairs and standing by the door in a heartbeat, although not before reaching into his pillowcase and stuffing a small something into his pocket with the Round Object. He cast Simon a quick glance as he erased the protective engarvments on the door—the cheap kind that you could just paste on and they would turn to ink within seconds.

When he opened the door, Inspektor Luin spat in Evian’s face. He had been wary of his companions, the Royal Rifle Crew, while they stood outside, but now he was facing Evian Threshold—a lowlife, a commoner, a not-endorsed-personally-by-royalty piece of scum. Evian’s expression did not flicker from impassive, but his eyes blazed with challenge. He bowed his head and when he raised it, his face wore a mask of polite curiosity.

Once upon a time, Evian Threshold had sparred with warriors and great men; he had fooled and acted and done both brave and stupid things. He would not be a nervous wreck. He would not let himself be found out. When he spoke, his voice was clear and strong.

‘How may I help you, Inspektor Luin?’ Evian asked. His pocket was weighing heavily on him—both in conscience and in actuality, but he shook the feeling off. Luin surveyed Evian with contempt and pushed his way into the Office before replying. The seven cloaked men did the same, the top of their black caps brushing the wooden rafters.

‘You are aware as to why I am here, Mr …Threshold, is it?’ Luin pulled a photograph from his pocket and looked at it, then smiled. ‘Yes, Mr Threshold, thirty-one years old, has worked at the Local Relations Office for the past ten years—perhaps an apprenticeship before that, if I am correct, judging by the state of your uniform; the knees of your trousers are wearing away in an alarming fashion—and you are mostly responsible for secretarial and cleaning work even now.’ He slid the photograph back into his pocket. ‘Your collar is crinkled; you have circles under your eyes that show you have not been sleeping well—of late or is this a regular thing?—but you stand with the tense attitude of a man who has something to hide.’

Evian held his head a little higher and smiled back at the Inspektor. ‘You are mostly right, Inspektor, but I am a man that hides nothing. Contrary to what you have … discerned so far, I am under no stress, no duress, and I sleep fine. You will find that it is mostly when someone is asleep—that they do not open the door at once.’ He moved towards the cupboard in the corner, eyes sliding over the orb-filled shelves before pulling out a tin of biscuits. ‘Tea?’ he asked. ‘Simon here would offer you some coffee, but as you can see, he’s out of it.’ Evian gestured to his coworker, who was, indeed, slumped over the front desk. He snored loudly.

Luin growled. ‘No—no thank you; we are here—’

‘To search the Office?’ Evian asked quietly. ‘I would presume you have come to inspect me, but I am not all that important.’ He laughed shortly. ‘Besides, you have brought these lovely … gentlemen … with you, and I am assuming they would not be out at this time were you not here for something— crucial.’

‘Your tongue,’ Luin said sharply. ‘Hold your tongue, Threshold, or I will think about arresting you for impertinence.’ He signalled to the men standing behind them; Evian noticed that all of them wore a black star on the brim of their hats, and were tall, and had the same slate-grey, emotionless faces. How peculiar, he thought. The king is hiring foreigners.

He stood watching, arms hanging limply by his side, as the seven men spread out. Some of them tore down the maps that were pasted on the walls—maps of Adreitus the Office had collected over the years: some convex, others plain, and the kinds that were heavily inked and intricate. Evian bit down on his lip as he watched one of the seven tear a gaping hole in the middle of Syti on the largest map, the one that he had recently drawn over and updated with a cartographer’s pen. He moved forward to stop them, to say something, but Luin stepped in front of him, tongue clicking impatiently.

‘Tell them to be careful, Inspektor!’ Evian said. ‘Please—it’s our work—’

‘Quiet,’ Luin said. ‘This is necessary. And I hardly think you are in the position of making any requests.’

‘Why—if I may ask, is this necessary?’ Evian asked with forced politeness.

‘Because,’ Luin replied, with the air of explaining something to a dimwit, ‘the Blacksmiths are gathering followers.’ He looked up from his clipboard, on which he had been scribbling something furiously. ‘It’s a classic trick, pretending to play dumb, Evian Threshold. You know what we’re looking for.’ He turned the clipboard and raised it to Evian’s face. He blinked at the crest Luin had inked there, the trademark sign of the Blacksmiths: an axe and a crossbow crossed diagonally, one over the other.

Evian raised his eyebrows. ‘You think—you think we’re helping the Blacksmiths?’

‘Not at all.’ Luin began to scribble down quick notes on his clipboard again. ‘I do not think anything. It is merely that your Office may be affiliated with the Blacksmiths of Orn, and we cannot risk that.’ Luin’s turned his back to Evian, gaze sweeping over the room. His head caught the light off one of the orbs; the light bounced back. Evian stifled a laugh, biting instead on the inside of his cheek.

He shifted uneasily, from foot to foot, feeling suddenly awkward and worried. Luin’s men moved from the walls to the shelves and began to juggle the orbs in their hands. A few of them fell to the ground and broke, their blue light fading to an angry yellow. Evian cried out in outrage.

‘You’re messing with the—’ Evian winced as the orb began to shriek loudly—‘the network! All our saved messages from the locals, they’re—’

CRASH. Evian’s cries were drowned out by the orbs shattering against the ground.

‘Inspektor!’

‘ A complaint has been lodged against Mr Beit of Twenty One Street, East Syti…’

‘…dragon-hunter uncle, tormented by delusions…’

‘…assistance requested; kindly dispatch a safety team for pruning and planting…’

‘Inspektor Luin!’

Evian stomped forwards and laid a hand on Luin’s shoulder. His reaction was so sudden, so unexpected, that he yelled—Luin grabbed Evian’s arm and threw his across the room. One moment he was flying over Luin’s head; the next he was in a heap against the ratty old sofa in the corner. Conveniently placed, Evian thought. He got up and rubbed his head. His shoulders felt light, all of a sudden.

Evian’s eyes widened. When Luin had tossed him across the room, he had somehow managed to grab hold of his coat. He turned it upside down now and everything Evian had hidden there fell out of his pockets.

A compass. A bag of sweets. A pencil. A fancy card.

And an orb with the Blacksmith’s seal on it.

Everything seemed to freeze suddenly and acquire clarity. Evian could feel his heart throbbing in his chest, the sweat gathering along his hairline. Simon snored loudly in the corner, his flabby face firmly planted on his desk. Luin’s face was contorted with rage and the Office was lit up with colours, spectacular blazes of whites and yellows and blues.

Slowly, it seemed to Evian just then, he got to his feet.

Then everything became hazy again—he was out the door and running down the street before he heard Luin scream.

‘Threshold!’