Year 562, 5th Kratos of Julius, in Marivannia, within the domain of Lord Jack de Brothkovic.
Tock! Tock! Tock!
Someone is knocking at the door.
I have no desire to open it, nor to stick my muzzle outside.
My pocket watch tells me it's 8:42 a.m.… I haven't even had five hours of sleep. What cockroach wakes me at this hour?
"Forgive the disturbance, Magus Solis de Lumen!"
"Who's at the door, humble servant?" I say with sarcasm, for of course, it's Kratos at the door.
"It's the receiver! The bailiff, Jonathan Corivaux, would like to invite you to his humble home!"
"Okay, where's my tithe?"
"The bailiff planned to give it to you at supper. Are you unwell? You're not usually this rude, if I may say so?"
The poor man is likely to be disliked by the other villagers. I should stop playing with the past…
At last, I opened the door. A man in his thirties stood on the other side. He wore the typical outfit of a writer or artist. Kratos has an excellent salary, but he doesn't show it. The poor fellow's eyes are tired; yet he forces a jovial air.
"You don't look well…" said the receiver with a compassionate tone.
"Indeed, but I could say the same for you."
We burst out laughing together. Our days hadn't even begun, and we'd already had enough.
The guest entered as by habit and sat in his favorite chair. He seemed radiant, as if all his worries had flown away. On the table lay his favorite bestiary; he loves to read it—this kid has finished it more than thirty times. When that formidable book is not clearly here, he has it at home.
A book filled with memories. Readings that forged his pen. Discoveries that amazed him. Ancient knowledge which, without me, would never have touched his child's heart.
Yet he did not start reading.
Behind his smile, worries lurk. He saw something that shook him. He has another purpose than simply playing messenger. He taps his foot; he is not blind. No morning pajamas: I haven't combed my hair, nor bathed, nor applied perfume. The same jewels and the same clothes as yesterday. Good grief! I'm still wearing my belt. I have three balls left.
I took a breath. I dropped it. What an idiot I am.
At last, my backside sat on a sofa, where my dear friend would babble on about atrocity.
"I never asked you: how do your powers actually work?" Kratos asked, curious.
"Haven't you read the Magus Libri?" I retorted, somewhat defensively.
"I have, but the book is one thing, the real thing another."
"Indeed…"
"So?"
He's curious…
I could toss him a bone. But a sorcerer keeps his details, and a demon-hunter turns his tongue three times before speaking.
"A common term used to describe our powers is the word 'authority.'"
"Why?"
"Because controlling our power is as natural to us as breathing."
"Go on?"
"I have the authority of temperature."
"You control temperature?"
"No, I control water! Look, your wine is warm!"
He looked offended by my glitter. Technically, I can control water, in a way. But telling him my authority would let me kill him in a fraction of a second seems ill-advised.
"Come on, give me something! You said the authority of temperature! The encyclopedia tells of impossible feats! Heroic hunts!"
Hunts—more like murders.
"Hot or cold—nothing more complicated! Discussion over."
"I saw you melt iron with a glance."
"Okay… I can change the state of matter like your eyesight! What do you want me to say?"
"I…" He shuts up; I've never seen that face on him.
I've said too much. I think he's terrified or shocked. Understandable: I killed a devourer yesterday.
Ah! I take it back—he has a plan. He always scratches his nose before hatching one. That's how I knew he'd found my cookie stash.
"And how old are you?"
"Didn't anyone ever tell you to address a Magus properly?"
The young man flinched slightly, and I laughed. I can't stay angry; he's just a kid, in the end.
"Let's say the city of Lumen no longer exists on the map thanks to one of Mourabis's servants."
"So you helped the heroes kill the archdemon!" he cried with the vigor of a child.
"You think I'd go on a manhunt at twelve?"
"Sorry…"
Another awkward silence set in… He'll get to the point. Finally, I think.
"So, to what do I owe the visit?"
"Oh! Um… as I said, the bailiff wants to speak with you over dinner."
"And why?" I asked, trying a tone that might amuse him.
"You know I'm in my thirties?"
"Ah…"
He seemed annoyed or snide… A clear memory surfaced from my unconscious: during our readings, he liked… at twelve… I forgot that Yapo was the only thing that aged along with me.
"I'm sorry," I said, trying to sound as sincere as possible.
"You've nothing to apologize for, it's nothing."
Of course, he has marmoset cheeks.
"Just… to me, ten years is nothing…"
"I see…"
The atmosphere is sliding toward the pitiful. Kratos is about to announce something hard. He finally comes to the point.
"There's something else…"
"What?"
"We went into the forest after your hunt… to find Victor…"
"Yes…"
"His body was mutilated… as you saw, and we saw the trees burned… Is that where the fight happened?"
"No."
"So what happened?"
I had to explain every detail. Honestly, why does this story hurt me so much? I've known worse; you could say I've lived in hell.
After he had my account, his expression seemed even more troubled. Something was at the tip of his tongue… a rebuke for my cruelty, or a…
"We found Josèphe hanged… When he saw his brother's body, his soul broke…"
Life is already too short for them. — Why end it?
"Pardon?"
"I meant nothing—forget it."
He's holding back tears. His eyes are red, and they try to lock on mine. He feels pity.
I should explain everything to my page. He should arrive tomorrow. After I sell my stock… Victor and he spent a lot of time at the tavern. What's more, his servant is a Venator IX, thus in the same organization as Vic. A colleague and a friend died… A hard reception awaits him.
"The bailiff wants to thank you for all your feats… You felled a beast that could have destroyed our village!" he ventures.
"Perhaps, but it seemed ready to leave…"
"Then why would it have come?"
"Yapo took something from its territory—meat, perhaps."
"He wouldn't have…"
"Dragged an animal in shock?"
"Did you see his reproductive seed?"
"No… It's only a theory. Its branches were destroyed; it may be that…"
"Listen—why don't we investigate a little? It might change your mind; maybe we could find Yapo's successor? He shouldn't be far…"
Good God… feels like chewing razors.
"Fine. After business with the bailiff, tomorrow, we'll take a little excursion."
"That's perfect! I have nothing else tomorrow!"
I doubt that. Still… Maybe Yapo has offspring? I must protect it for my friend.
"What should I name my third son?"
"?!"
Talking zero to ten? He wants to distract me; I must look pathetic. I need a distraction. A little humor might help?
"Third? You and Emilia don't waste time!"
"You know how to use a calendar? You haven't read the Calendarium Mensium ad Vitanda Problemata?"
"Oh my God!" he says, hiding his face in embarrassment.
"What? Have you ever wondered why I have no sons or daughters? Think I'm pious?"
The receiver laughed; I did not. My instinct says he wants to name the third after one of the victims. In poor taste, to my mind.
"Well! I think it's time to see Jack!"
"Perfect, come by if you need anything."
I took the road to the bailiff's home and headed toward the bees with Kratos. My steps followed the usual route, and I spotted an anomaly at the jail. The two guards were guarding the cage door?
Across the street, Barnabas, the innkeeper, greeted me and pointed at the double-barred door with evident relish. He seemed unaware of the tragedy?
One guard roused and hailed me: the story interested me, and I wouldn't say no.
"Why are those two louts behind that wall?"
There were two objects at 36–37 degrees behind it; if it smells like a cat, perhaps it's a cat.
"We arrested them for lèse-majesté, sir."
"Who would do that?" I asked, sarcastically thinking of the bailiff's ridiculous reforms at times.
"Those two scoundrels spoke ill of you, Sir Solis!" said the other guard.
"Ha…" I had all sorts of Machiavellian ideas to put into action. But one punishment was perfect for them.
My smile awakened the sadistic side of my two faithful accomplices.
"I know it's the bailiff's job to deal with them, but he's quite busy—and it's my problem, isn't it?"
"Indeed, sir!" the two soldiers exclaimed with enthusiasm.
The door opened and, at the sight of the sunbeams, the two prisoners started to smile. But when they turned their gaze to the entry, terror debased them. Their surprise was hilarious, and I had a punishment just as hilarious.
"Send them to the alchemist! He's working on a revolutionary emetic…" I murmured into one guard's ear.
The two men were terrified while a grin split the guards' faces. The alchemist would have an excellent surprise.
After a few laughs with the guards and Barnabas, who had joined us after the sentence, I resumed my route with a bitter taste. It seems the villagers are trying to comfort me; perhaps my perception is off, but I received looks of pity from those three louts.
The landscape was pretty, and the blue sky warmed me. Everything seemed normal, yet the rabble greeted me more than usual. Some stopped to ask how I was… Their comfort was miserable. It was no secret anymore: the peasants had seen Josèphe's body—or even Victor's.
Being treated like a kid amuses me a little, despite the gravity. I should start drafting my speech for their funerals: something unique and personal. I owe financial compensation to that family's survivors. It's partly my fault Victor became a Venator; I introduced him to the hunt. My style has never been discreet… I owed them that much, in memory of their great-grandfather. Teaching Victor and Josèphe had struck me as fair due.
Each step in this village grates on me. I can't tell why.
The gravel ran to the horizon. In the middle of the road, a woman in her fifties awaited me, her face ravaged by deep sorrow. She cried, screamed, and cursed me; I could not reply: my serpentine tongue failed me. Her husband avoided me. My throat burned, my heart hammered… and I was cold.
"You're nothing but a monster! Why did you do nothing? Abomination! Killer! Demon! We gave you everything!"
…
Bam!
…
A good breath in… then I exhaled.
An acrid smell filled the air. My nose began to run. Probably mucous, by the viscosity.
My gaze on the horizon stayed steady. My face was the picture of calm.
Before me, the bailiff's door was ajar. He stared at me, confused.
Drops fell from where I didn't know.
The door leaf was made of broken planks?
An extremely metallic, acidic taste filled my mouth.
An impossibly viscous liquid touched my lips.
My nose screamed ammonia!
The wood bore a circular stain—and the liquid seemed to boil—what is this?
I couldn't hold back tears, like cutting fifty onions.
I ran my fingers through my beard to find the source of the sensory mess.
But my fingers touched the liquid.
I held my hand before my eyes.
A bright, searing red blinded me.
…
Damn! I'm bleeding from the nose!
…
I slammed into the door?!
There's no alternative but to replace it.
"Damn! The cartilage crackling!"
"Sol? You, okay?"
Well, here I am. We're talking a "Tock! Tock! Tock!" Splendid idea to reinforce the entry, Mr. Bailiff!
One… two… three…!
Crunch!
"By the gods! You broke your nose!"
"No, I'm testing your door's lead content, Jonathan!"
"Right… come in."
I made myself comfortable at the table. Arletta Corivaux fixed me with that same pity. At least the children were lively. Our conversation was anything but. Jonathan and I, after supper, withdrew to his office in private. Nothing of consequence—thanks and apologies. At least I ended my day with an extra purse of gold. Pouring a glass of water into an ocean… nothing more apt.