Four days taught me more about Éthérite than buying twelve sacks of it had.
Mostly that plants were insufferably patient.
I had spent years dealing with criminals, nobles, starving villagers and men who believed murder constituted a negotiating technique. Almost all of them could be pressured.
Grain could not.
It grew when it pleased.
Balthazar had arranged twenty-four kernels inside six sealed germination trays in the Sierra's work cabin. Each rested on treated fiber rather than soil, allowing him and Elisabeth to observe the roots without disturbing them. Small measurement slates stood beside every tray.
No brewing.
No tasting.
No grand revelation.
We watched seeds become slightly less boring versions of themselves.
I hated research.
"You're staring again," Elisabeth said.
"I paid for them."
"That doesn't make them grow faster."
"It should."
Balthazar looked up from his notebook.
"Try threatening them."
"I considered it."
"Please do. I want to record the results."
The first tray contained untreated controls. Fine silver threads had begun to appear inside the newly split kernels, and the detection indicators around them showed exactly what we expected: Nielle d'Éther embedded throughout the developing structure.
The second and third trays had received variations of our first treatment.
Both were useless.
One had failed to germinate.
The other had survived while retaining enough toxin to make the entire experiment an elaborate method of producing dangerous porridge.
The fourth tray was different.
Balthazar adjusted the mana lamp.
"Watch the root."
I leaned closer.
A pale shoot had broken through the kernel during the night. Under ordinary light it looked unimpressive.
Under the measuring lens, the internal etheric channels glowed faintly silver.
The root did not.
A dark concentration had accumulated at the boundary where the young root met the remaining husk.
Elisabeth checked the numbers again.
"It moved."
Balthazar nodded.
"Part of it."
"The Nielle?"
"Yes."
My interest sharpened.
Not a solution.
Movement.
Much better.
"How long?"
"Unknown."
"You've observed four days."
"And the migration began between two measurements."
"How far apart?"
"Several hours."
I disliked imprecision.
Balthazar disliked me disliking it.
"We sleep, Raymond."
"An unfortunate design."
"We also attend classes."
"Another."
Elisabeth tapped the glass.
"The important thing is that the toxin concentration inside the usable kernel dropped during germination."
"Below unsafe levels?"
"No."
That killed a beautiful thought before it could embarrass me.
Balthazar turned to tray five.
"This one came closer."
The kernels had been germinated under a slightly different mana environment. He had not let me choose it.
I remained wounded by this.
The detection slate showed a lower internal concentration.
Still dangerous.
But lower.
"Can we separate the root while the Nielle is concentrated there?"
Elisabeth answered before Balthazar.
"We can investigate whether separation is possible."
Subtle woman.
"And after that?"
"Test the remaining grain."
"And after that?"
"Repeat it."
"And—"
"Repeat it again."
I looked at Balthazar.
He nodded.
"Then a different assay."
"Then?"
"Long-term stability."
I closed my eyes.
"Marduk never mentioned how exhausting competence was."
"You could always sell the grain."
"For a loss?"
"Yes."
"Profanity before breakfast. Charming."
Balthazar wrote another line in his notebook.
The research agreement we had made remained in force. His academic work would concern Éthérite biology and Nielle behavior. If we found an actual commercial purification process, that would be treated separately.
Not because I owned him.
Because we had negotiated it.
The distinction had become annoyingly important.
Elisabeth moved the trays back beneath their wards.
"No new treatment until tonight's measurements."
I glanced toward the cabinet.
One additional experimental sample sat inside.
"Not even—"
"No."
Fine.
I had discovered many years ago that one should choose battles carefully.
Particularly when the opposing side controlled one's medical care.
Nexus served fish stew for lunch.
Arkad Sol regarded this as a personal insult.
"This is water with evidence."
Anata LeeRoy ate without complaint.
That didn't mean he enjoyed it.
Anata approached meals the way one might approach a contractual obligation: quietly, resentfully and with every intention of finishing.
Balthazar sat across from them organizing his lecture notes by subject.
Of course he did.
I joined the table.
Arkad looked at my hat.
"You're wearing that again."
"Everyone has opinions about the hat."
"You look like a dishonest undertaker."
"Thank you."
"It wasn't—never mind."
Something had changed around the table since our first days.
Not friendship exactly.
Familiarity.
A more dangerous condition.
Arkad pushed his bowl aside.
"I filed the statements."
Balthazar stopped arranging paper.
Anata continued eating.
"What statements?" I asked.
"The three upper-years."
The ones who had cornered Arkad and Anata before Xavier intervened.
I hadn't forgotten.
Apparently neither had Arkad.
"Extortion," he continued. "Two other first-years agreed to testify."
Anata finally looked up.
"They agreed to complain."
Arkad frowned.
"Same thing."
"No."
Anata returned to the stew.
"Complaints have names."
The sentence sat differently than Arkad wanted.
He leaned forward.
"And doing nothing has victims."
"I didn't say nothing."
"You said don't file."
"I said don't give the disciplinary office a list before you know who reads it."
There.
Independent problem.
Independent disagreement.
Neither had asked me.
Good.
Arkad turned toward Balthazar.
"You agree with him?"
"No."
Anata's spoon stopped.
Balthazar continued calmly.
"I think Arkad is right to document it."
Arkad looked triumphant.
"And Anata is right that the document itself creates risk."
Triumph died.
Balthazar sipped water.
"So make two versions. Full statements secured. Summary complaint without unnecessary victim identities until the office formally requests them."
Arkad stared.
Anata stared too.
I smiled.
"Balthazar, you're ruining a perfectly good moral argument with administration."
"It is one of my talents."
Arkad grumbled but reached for his notes.
He was going to file the complaint anyway.
Anata was going to watch who received it.
Neither required me.
That was healthy.
I didn't entirely enjoy it.
Also healthy, presumably.
Before leaving, Anata looked at me.
"You're limping less."
"Were you monitoring me?"
"No."
"Heartbreaking."
He picked up his bow case.
"I just remember things."
Then he left for afternoon practice.
Arkad followed in the opposite direction toward the disciplinary wing.
Balthazar watched both.
"Still think everyone behaves like pieces?"
I looked at him.
"No."
"Good."
"I've upgraded to expensive complications."
He laughed.
I didn't tell him that the answer had come too easily.
Sometimes one can turn self-awareness into another form of vanity.
That thought ruined the rest of my lunch.
Nessa Carrow sent a letter to the Sierra that afternoon.
Not a threat.
Worse.
An offer.
The envelope was cream-colored, sealed with the three brass circles used by Carrow Exchange. Inside sat one sheet.
She wanted to repurchase the receivable linked to Luther Hane.
Her price was forty percent above what I had effectively paid for that portion of the distressed bundle.
I read it twice.
Elisabeth read over my shoulder.
"Sell."
I looked at her.
"You didn't even pretend to think."
"You bought garbage four days ago."
"Distressed assets."
"You bought poisonous grain, broken brewing equipment and overdue paper."
"Such cruel simplification."
"And someone is offering profit."
She tapped the amount.
"Sell."
I wanted to.
That was the problem.
The offer would cover the next Éthérite storage cycle, replace most of Balthazar's consumed reagent and leave enough to pretend I had known what I was doing.
Instead, I kept looking at the letter.
Nessa wanted the paper back.
Why?
The guarantee?
Luther?
Something exposed by my audit?
Maybe.
Or perhaps she simply disliked a stranger holding her obligation.
Chessmaster arranged possibilities.
No proof.
Elisabeth watched my face.
"You aren't going to sell."
"No."
"Why?"
"Because forty percent is too generous."
"Or because she knows you're thirteen and hopes greed still works."
"Greed works beautifully."
"Then sell."
I folded the letter.
"First I want to know what she thinks she's buying."
Elisabeth sighed.
"There goes the reagent money."
Exactly.
Real cost.
I hated it enough to trust the decision slightly more.
Carrow Exchange had better chairs than Rook & Vale.
That was my first conclusion.
My second was that Nessa Carrow had known I was coming.
She was waiting in the rear office.
Mid-forties, perhaps.
Dark hair pinned without ornament.
Gray suit.
No jewelry except a narrow copper ring on her right thumb.
The room held one cabinet, two chairs and enough empty space to suggest she didn't need to prove wealth to clients.
She gestured toward the seat.
I remained standing for half a second out of principle.
Then my ribs objected.
Principle lost.
"You're younger than Rook said."
"People keep saying that."
"He described you as irritating."
"Ah. Professional respect."
Nessa set a copy of my purchased claim on the desk.
"You paid too much for it."
"I know."
That surprised her slightly.
"Then sell it back."
"Why do you want it?"
"Because my name guarantees part of the obligation."
"An obligation that is already delinquent."
"Yes."
"And your offer exceeds its face-adjusted market value."
"Yes."
"Which means either you're generous or I'm holding something awkward."
Nessa rested both hands on the desk.
"You believe every premium hides a secret."
"No. Sometimes it hides embarrassment."
That earned the smallest smile.
"Luther's guarantee was never meant to remain outstanding this long."
"Why?"
"Because his lease structure changed."
That matched chapter fifty-seven.
Independent confirmation.
"Unit Six reverted to the Guild."
"Yes."
"Five is subleased."
"Yes."
"Four remains his."
"Yes."
Nessa's expression sharpened.
"You inspected."
"I paid for the privilege of learning less than expected."
"Welcome to finance."
I liked her less now.
Too familiar.
She slid a second document across the desk.
"Transfer it back. Today."
I didn't touch it.
"Tell me what private protection buys."
Her eyes became still.
There.
Not fear.
Recognition that this meeting had never really been about Luther.
"Why?"
"I collect hobbies."
"No."
"Then consider it part of the premium."
"You want information instead of money?"
"I want both. I'm young."
Nessa leaned back.
For several seconds she examined me without speaking.
Then she picked up my claim.
"One answer."
"Define answer."
"Don't become tedious."
"Impossible."
She ignored that.
"Private protection is not insurance."
"What is it?"
"A promise."
"From whom?"
"Depends who issued it."
"Baronna?"
"I did not say that name."
"You didn't need to."
Nessa looked toward the closed office door.
Not alarm.
Habit.
"Licensed businesses purchase legal insurance. Fire. Theft. freight loss. Guild dispute."
"And private protection?"
"Problems insurers classify as your fault."
Better.
"What kinds?"
"Cargo released to the wrong porter. Debt collector appears before closing. Stall disappears from tomorrow's allocation. A supplier suddenly decides somebody else has priority."
"Crimes."
"Sometimes."
"And other times?"
"Someone loses a cart."
I remembered Marcus telling me protection had layers.
Nessa continued.
"Guild investigation takes three days. Private protection may return it that evening."
"May?"
"Nothing is guaranteed except payment."
"Then why buy it?"
She looked almost offended by the question.
"Because it usually works."
That mattered.
More than fear.
Predictability.
"If a protected merchant loses goods?"
"The local line investigates."
"If recovery fails?"
"Depending on the agreement, partial compensation."
"From La Baronna."
Nessa said nothing.
Silence counted.
Not proof.
"What about disputes between two protected parties?"
"Arbitration."
"By criminals."
"By whoever both parties believe can enforce the result."
There was the city.
Not good.
Not evil.
Functional.
Ugly institutions often survive because something uglier happens when they vanish.
I looked at her paperwork.
"You lend to merchants who pay protection."
"I lend to anyone whose risks I can price."
"So you treat criminal protection as a business expense."
"I treat winter as a business expense too. This does not mean I approve of snow."
Excellent woman.
I almost smiled.
"What are settlement stamps?"
Nessa's fingers stopped.
A fraction.
Too specific.
Marcus had never told me.
I had inferred them from the tokens and receipts.
She answered carefully.
"Evidence that a private obligation has been reconciled."
"Where?"
"No."
"How often?"
"No."
"What records are kept?"
Her gaze hardened.
"Your answer is over."
Fair.
I had pushed to the edge.
Then I placed the repurchase offer back in front of her.
"Forty percent isn't enough."
She laughed.
Not loudly.
Actually amused.
"You arrived to interrogate me and now want more money?"
"I arrived to understand why you were paying."
"And?"
"I understand enough to charge more."
She studied me.
"Fifty."
"Seventy."
"Get out."
"Sixty."
"Fifty."
"Fifty-five."
She stood.
Meeting over.
I remained seated.
The ribs, again.
Finally:
"Fifty-two."
Nessa looked at me.
I looked at her.
Then I shook my head.
"No."
Her expression changed.
Not dramatically.
But now she knew.
"You never intended to sell."
"I considered it."
"Why keep a poor receivable?"
I put on the brown hat.
"Perhaps I'm sentimental."
"No."
She had learned quickly.
At the door, she said:
"Raymond."
I turned.
"When people buy bad paper they don't need, they're usually buying the debtor."
"Balthazar already corrected me on that."
"Then what are you buying?"
I smiled.
"Questions."
That was too polished.
I regretted it immediately.
Nessa didn't.
Her face became colder.
Information for her.
A mistake.
Small.
Real.
I left.
The protection market looked different once I knew customers could complain.
That was the important part.
I returned to South Market near dusk.
The baker's blue oven sign still hung outside.
Havel hadn't arrived yet.
Across the lane, the spice merchant from his route was shouting at two men beside an empty cart.
"My crate was sealed!"
One man wore no black thread.
The other did.
A short loop at his collar.
"Token," the second man said.
The merchant slammed a copper disk onto the cart.
"Paid yesterday."
The man checked the stamp.
Then the date.
Then turned to his companion.
"North lane?"
"Third cut."
"Find it."
No intimidation.
No kneeling.
A customer making a claim.
I bought a pastry from the baker.
She recognized me.
"You again."
"The bread was good."
"You argued about the price."
"The bread remained good."
She handed me the pastry.
I nodded toward the spice merchant.
"Lost something?"
"People always lose things."
"Does Havel get them back?"
The baker's eyes narrowed.
"Sometimes."
"And if he doesn't?"
"Why?"
"Academic curiosity."
She looked at my Nexus band.
Then at the hat.
"You dress strangely for academic curiosity."
"Uniform requirements are becoming cruel."
She returned to kneading.
"The line pays part."
"Part?"
"Depends what you bought."
There.
Protection tiers.
Not one fee.
Not one promise.
The merchant outside had purchased recovery coverage.
The baker might have purchased fire warning, street security or simple permission to operate after dark.
Whatever La Baronna was, it had products.
That was worse than a gang.
Gangs could be replaced.
Services created habits.
The spice merchant's missing crate returned twenty-two minutes later.
I timed it.
A boy pushed the cart.
Not the pickpocket from chapter fifty-four.
Different child.
The crate's rope had been cut.
Nothing appeared missing.
The merchant opened it, counted packets and cursed anyway.
The black-thread man wrote something on the back of the protection token.
Havel arrived during the count.
The merchant immediately confronted him.
"You're paying the delay."
Havel looked exhausted.
"Nothing's missing."
"My porter stood idle."
"Not covered."
"Last month it was."
"Last month you had transit plus interruption."
"You changed the price."
"You changed the contract."
They argued.
Like customer and service provider.
Not victim and extortionist.
Both, perhaps.
That contradiction was the point.
A society rarely tolerated a criminal institution for years because everybody was stupid.
It tolerated one because someone, somewhere, found it useful.
Tomas Grell appeared from Lower East shortly after.
Havel saw him.
Their argument from the warehouse had not improved with time.
I stayed near the bakery.
No following.
No interference.
Tomas handed Havel a folded paper.
Havel read.
His face darkened.
"I'm not paying that."
"Your release mark delayed my line."
"Your duplicate blocked mine."
"Client doesn't care."
Client.
"The error was yours."
"The penalty is shared."
"No."
Tomas shrugged.
"Then settle it at reconciliation."
That word.
Nessa had used it indirectly.
Private obligations reconciled.
Now Tomas used it openly.
Havel folded the paper hard enough to crease his knuckles.
"When?"
"Same time."
"Not after Unit Five."
"Especially after Unit Five."
They separated.
No fight.
Because somebody else would decide.
A ledger.
An arbiter.
A reconciliation.
I didn't need Marcus to explain the concept anymore.
I needed him to tell me what he knew about the machinery.
Before I could leave, the street changed.
Conversations lowered.
Two porters entered from the lower lane carrying a narrow case wrapped in black cloth.
Red cord crossed the lid.
Same presentation.
Third observation.
The black-thread man who had just argued over a spice crate stepped aside immediately.
Havel did too.
Tomas did not touch it.
He only checked a small slip held by the lead porter.
Then he signaled.
The case moved through.
No inspection.
No fee exchanged.
Prepaid.
The spice merchant watched it pass and muttered something under his breath.
"What?" I asked.
He glanced at me.
"Nothing."
Exactly.
The things nobody named.
I noticed something else.
The case didn't travel toward the black market entrance I knew.
It headed uphill.
Toward respectable streets.
That was new.
I did not follow.
I had finally begun learning.
Marcus listened from the Sierra's table while slowly flexing one leg beneath the chair.
Elisabeth had given him exercises.
He hated all of them.
"Tomas said reconciliation."
Marcus stopped moving.
"Yes."
"You know what it is."
"Yes."
"Current information?"
He gave me an irritated look.
"Concept is current."
"Location?"
"Maybe not."
Improvement.
"How does it work?"
Marcus rubbed his jaw.
"Collectors carry stubs."
"What stubs?"
"Payments. Recovery claims. Compensation. Disputes. Territory fees."
"Tokens?"
"Tokens too."
"And someone matches them?"
"Against line books."
There.
Records.
Not because criminals enjoyed bureaucracy.
Because otherwise every Havel in the city would steal from every Tomas and blame the merchants.
"Who keeps the books?"
"Depends on line."
"Who compares lines?"
Marcus hesitated.
"Reconciliation clerks."
"Baronna?"
"Yes."
"Where?"
"I told you. My location could be old."
"Give me the old one."
"No."
I looked at him.
He looked back.
Not fear.
Terms.
The person he protected still sat between us.
Fair.
"Then tell me how to find the current one."
Marcus considered.
"That I can do."
He pointed at my pocket.
"Protection tokens."
"What about them?"
"Different lines stamp different edges."
I remembered.
The baker's token.
Spice merchant.
Release papers.
"The marks are routing codes?"
"Partly."
"Toward reconciliation?"
"Toward the clerk responsible for settlement."
"Meaning if I collect enough current tokens—"
"You see which marks converge."
"Where?"
Marcus smiled.
"You're supposed to be clever."
I sighed.
"You were more pleasant dead."
"Soup brought me back wrong."
I described the black-wrapped cargo.
Red cord.
Third appearance.
Marcus stopped joking.
"No inspection?"
"None."
"Money?"
"None at transfer."
"Prepaid?"
"Probably."
He leaned back.
"Silent cargo."
A name.
Not Abooros.
Not religion.
A logistics category.
"What does that mean?"
"Exactly what it sounds like."
"Whose cargo?"
"No idea."
"Marcus."
"I mean it."
He stared at the table.
"Collectors don't inspect silent cargo. Most captains don't either."
"Why?"
"Because the contract says not to."
"That has never stopped criminals."
"The penalty does."
"What penalty?"
Marcus shook his head.
"Depends on the contract."
"Money?"
"Sometimes."
"And otherwise?"
He looked at me.
"I never asked."
That answer mattered.
Marcus Miller, a man who kept illegal private accounts, had intentionally chosen ignorance.
"Were these clients Baronna?"
"No."
Certain answer.
I raised an eyebrow.
"They're customers," he corrected. "Or were, when I handled them."
Better.
"So La Baronna moves unidentified cargo for an outside client."
"Several clients buy silent carriage."
"Same red cord?"
Marcus frowned.
"No."
My pulse shifted.
"Explain."
"Silent cargo has different seals."
"This one?"
"I've only seen red cord twice."
"Both?"
"Same payer code."
Now we had something.
"Name?"
"No name."
"Code?"
Marcus looked at me.
Price.
Of course.
I smiled.
"You're becoming healthier."
"And more expensive."
"Tragic correlation."
"What do I get?"
"We are still negotiating protection for your unnamed person."
"Yes."
"I haven't forgotten."
"Neither have I."
I stood.
No answer tonight.
Marcus seemed surprised.
"That's it?"
"Yes."
"You don't want the payer code?"
"Desperately."
"Then—"
"But not enough to make a promise blind."
For the first time, he looked frustrated rather than defensive.
Good.
Our relationship was becoming equal enough to be unpleasant.
At the door, I stopped.
"One thing that costs nothing."
Marcus waited.
"Were the red-cord goods religious?"
His face closed.
"I don't know."
Not hesitation.
Actual uncertainty.
"Did buyers treat them that way?"
"Some crossed themselves. Some spat. Some didn't care."
Multiple interpretations.
Excellent.
No answer.
I left it there.
The message from Balthazar arrived after midnight.
Three knocks on the cabin wall.
I entered the workroom.
Elisabeth was already there.
Tray five sat beneath the lamp.
One germinated kernel had been separated into three sealed components.
Root.
Husk.
Inner grain.
Balthazar pointed at the measurement slate.
"First assay."
The inner grain registered almost nothing.
Almost.
My pulse quickened.
"Below threshold?"
"For this test."
Elisabeth immediately added:
"Not declared safe."
"Yes."
"I heard him."
"You were smiling."
Apparently facial expressions were evidence now.
Balthazar ran a second assay using a different detection principle.
We waited.
The value appeared.
Low.
Still low.
Lower than untreated grain by an absurd margin.
Not zero.
But for the first time, the toxin had become a measurable problem rather than the defining property of the grain.
"How long does the window last?" I asked.
"Unknown."
"How reproducible?"
"Unknown."
"Does the etheric charge remain?"
Balthazar checked another slate.
"Yes."
That mattered.
A great deal.
"And nutritional structure?"
"Looks intact."
Elisabeth folded her arms.
"Still not food."
"I know."
"Not beer."
"I didn't say beer."
"You thought it."
I looked at Balthazar.
"Is thought regulation part of your academic agreement?"
"I'm considering it."
We sealed the sample again.
No tasting.
No celebration.
One kernel.
One phase.
Two preliminary tests.
That was all.
But four days ago everyone in Catington considered Éthérite useful primarily as something to burn or throw away.
Tonight one kernel had retained most of what made the grain extraordinary while shedding much of what made it dangerous.
One kernel.
I wrote the result carefully.
Not:
PURIFICATION SUCCESSFUL.
Instead:
POTENTIAL SEPARATION WINDOW OBSERVED.
Then:
Requires replication. No consumption. No commercial claim.
Balthazar read it.
"Good."
I looked at him.
He frowned.
"What?"
"Nothing."
Some verbal diseases spread through proximity.
Before sleeping, I opened the Blacklist.
The La Baronna entry had become larger than some countries I remembered.
Not names.
Relationships.
Protection
Observed functions:
— theft recovery;
— partial loss compensation;
— private arbitration;
— transit authorization;
— release authorization;
— territorial handling;
— interruption coverage varies by contract.
That explained something important.
Destroying La Baronna tomorrow would not simply free merchants.
It would also remove services they had learned to depend upon.
A vacuum.
Someone would fill it.
Probably with knives.
If I ever took this organization, I couldn't merely eliminate its violence.
I would have to preserve the functions that made people tolerate it.
Commerce.
Security.
Logistics.
Information.
Perhaps, eventually, medicine.
The thought stayed.
Not a plan yet.
Then:
Reconciliation
Confirmed:
Havel and Tomas use a periodic reconciliation process for cross-line disputes.
Marcus confirms collectors submit payment/recovery/compensation records.
Current location unknown.
Routing codes exist on current protection tokens.
That was enough for tomorrow.
Find the tokens.
Map the routing marks.
Find where they converged.
Not through Chessmaster magic.
Through receipts.
Boring.
Beautiful.
Then the red-cord cargo.
Three observations.
Underground market.
Lower East warehouse.
South Market transfer toward upper streets.
Marcus knew it as a silent cargo seal used by an external customer.
Same payer code, according to his memory.
But memory only.
Needs current verification.
I wrote:
DO NOT IDENTIFY CLIENT YET.
Under that:
Do not assume Baronna owns what it transports.
Important.
An organization can move poison without making poison.
Transport faith without believing.
Protect murderers without knowing what they plan.
The distinction did not absolve anyone.
It simply kept the world large.
Finally, Éthérite.
The storage charge was due in the morning.
I looked at my purse.
Then Nessa's unsigned repurchase offer.
Selling the claim would solve the immediate expense.
I could recover research costs.
Buy more reagents.
Reduce risk.
The rational choice was almost offensively obvious.
I folded the offer again and put it away.
Not because I knew I was right.
Because the receivable still connected Nessa, Luther and a warehouse system whose records had begun touching La Baronna's logistics.
Information had value.
So did liquidity.
I could not keep pretending choosing one did not sacrifice the other.
Tomorrow I would pay the storage fee.
After that, the twelve sacks had to start justifying their existence—or I would sell them, research miracle or not.
A monopoly was a lovely dream.
Storage invoices were real.
I closed the Blacklist.
On another page waited PANDEMONIUM and its incomplete temporal sequence.
On another, the admissions case.
Another held Marduk.
Another Abraham.
Too many unanswered things.
For once, I didn't attack any of them.
The city had finally taught me something Marduk never managed to teach without violence.
Some doors did not need kicking.
Sometimes all you had to do was stand outside long enough to see who kept bringing the keys.
Tomorrow—
I would count the keys.