Chapter Text
I never sleep well in winter. I don't know what it is. We're a week from the winter solstice, and the streets are smothered with snow, and the nights are long and cold and pitiless.
Tonight was no exception. Through the night I wandered around the main hall, doing whatever little jobs the priests saw fit to give me—straightening paintings, polishing windows, just until I was exhausted enough to sleep.
It was well after midnight when the front doors opened, their hinges shrieking. I winced and went down to the cellar, thinking I'd find some oil for the hinges while one of the brothers spoke to the poor bastard who had come knocking at two in the morning.
Normally it'll be someone looking for shelter, and they'll shuffle him off quietly into a spare room, but as I came up the stairs, clutching an old oil canister, I heard a spirited argument.
"Please—j-just give her my name," the visitor was saying. "If she won't see me, then she won't see me."
"I'm not about to rouse the Divine in the dead of night for the sake of a stranger." I recognised Brother Reynard's deep voice.
"It won't
b-be
—please, just a word to her. Please."
"You must know how many people come here asking the same thing." Reynard's tone teetered between sympathetic and deeply annoyed. "If I bothered her about every last one of them. . .well, I couldn't. It'd be inhuman, she'd never sleep through a night."
The stranger made a frustrated sound. "In the morning, then."
I could
hear
Reynard roll his eyes. "Aye. In the morning, I can put you at the end of a very long list of names, and if you really are known to her, you might have word before the year is out."
"No.
It can—an't wait."
"Shame."
The stranger sighed. I thought he might give up then and there, but after a moment he changed his tack. "What do they c-call you, brother?"
"Name's Reynard."
"Reynard. My name is Rahim. You hear it? It's a short name, not longer than yours. It'll tak—take one instant, and I'll be out of your hair."
My heart dropped. I walked into the centre of the hall, conscious of the way my footsteps thundered on the marble floor. Rahim—it was him after all, bloodied and missing a few scales and with his shirt in ruins—his eyes went wide when he saw me.
"Rahimus Irgx," I said.
He grinned and, stiffly, as if it hurt to do it, he took a knee in front of me. "My Divine."
I caught Reynard's eye and he nodded. "I'll be across if you need anything," he said, and made himself scarce.
Rahim struggled to his feet. "You're d-dripping," he said.
"I—what?"
He pointed behind me. Apparently my grip on the canister had gone slack with surprise, and now there was a black trail of oil all along the floor.
"Bollocks," I said. "Why are you here?"
"I. . .found a bit of tr—trouble," he said, gesturing at his tattered self. "Speaking as a pil. . .grim, er, I want to ask for sanc—sanctuary."
I folded my arms. "A pilgrim? What pilgrimage have you made?"
"I cr-crossed the street. Does it make a difference?"
"I—" He wasn't wrong; as a rule, the Cathedral never turns away a petitioner, even if all we can offer is a night's board.
"It's c—it's cold out here, Safiya," said Rahim, bringing me out of my thoughts.
". . .shall I take you to the infirmary?" I asked.
"Please."
I led him there. The infirmary had begun as a little side room, meant only for use by the priests who lived in the Cathedral, but as we got more and more traffic, we had to expand it until it became sort of a small hospital.
We don't have the finest clinic in Arx, but we're the best for those who can't pay. And if it's absolutely necessary, I can heal anything up to and including death. (Although I don't bring people back from the dead. Much.)
By some miracle, the infirmary was empty tonight. "What exactly is the damage?" I asked, gesturing for him to sit on one of the beds.
"Co—ould have been worse," Rahim assured me. "I think they broke my hand, and—" He ran his finger along a slash in his cheek; it was deep, his scales had flaked off around it. "The rest is just nick—icks and bruises."
I frowned. "Who's 'they'?"
He was quiet.
I took his hand. It was an old break—weeks, at least. The bones had begun to fuse, but crookedly.
"I need to break this again," I said. "It'll hurt."
"All right. I'll try not to wake the—" He screamed a long, ragged scream as I shattered his hand with a burst of Source.
"It's done," I told him, while he was remembering how to breathe. "The rest won't hurt. It might feel odd."
"All right," he said, drawing a deep, sobbing breath. "Gods. Wow. That might've been worse than the first time."
I shrugged and closed my eyes, reordering the fragments of bone. I hate hands—they're so bloody complicated. I was about to ask whether I'd missed anything, but his hand had already slipped out of mine. Rahim flexed his fingers, rolled his wrist, and gave me a look of wonder.
"Good as new," he said. "I'm a—a fugitive from the Empire."
"A
fugitive?
What did you do?"
"Insurrec—ection, is what they charged me with. But of course the inqu—inquisitors of War don't need evidence to bring anyone in."
"That—" I paused. "That means you—they accused you of staging an uprising?"
"I did kill one of them. I'm not con—contesting that."
"Why?"
"Why!" he laughed, as if I'd asked him which end of a dagger was safe to hold. "The Ancient Empire's a mess, Safiya, and not just because of the Void. A lot of us have been sitting on our hands since that Red Emperor ascended—but he's done nex—ext to nothing for us."
I left his side to rummage around one of the cabinets, searching for something to clean his cut with. "Tell me," I said.
Rahim sighed. "Where to begin. Officially, it's true that there are no more slaves in the Empire, but there are enough p-people who—who were 'freed', and coul—ouldn't scrape together what they needed to go home, and got no help.
"Then when one of these lost elves or humans com—commits a crime—if she steals food, or money for her escape—if she's stolen from a noble or a ranking House member, the c-courts will just take a bribe and let the rich plaintiff do as he pleases. So he'll make the servant work off her debt, which she never will.
"And as soon as someone talks about changing the order of things, the House of War sends its inqu. . .isitors to c-crush them. All of this while the Emperor sits on his golden throne, eating candied fruit." He chuffed. "We're sick of it."
I'd come up with a bottle of pure alcohol. I emptied some of it into a wad of cotton and dabbed at his cheek with it. He flinched, but didn't complain. "All right," I murmured, acutely aware how close our faces were. "Why come to me?"
"I don't want to die," he said simply. "You—you don't have to agree with me, but for traitors—Safiya. They'll gut—gut me and leave me to the vultures, if I'm lucky."
"Rahim—"
"But if you do agree that things need to change. . .the support of the Divine would mean everything."
"You're mad," I said. "I'd be violating the Constitution of Rivellon. Then we'd have a war, and everything would be ten times worse."
"I'm not saying 'charge in with your swords drawn'. There have to b-be subtler ways to get the Emperor's attention, right?"
I looked into his eyes—that deep green, faceted like emeralds. I should have turned him out to fend for himself. We don't need the trouble.
"You can stay the night," I sighed. "We'll see about the rest tomorrow."
His smile was full of relief. "Thanks."
I left him for what he was, already trying to sort through this fresh mess in my mind. I'm going to have to swear all the brothers and sisters to silence—and have a serious word with the Imperial Consulate.
Ugh.