The Commander's office is quiet, full of books and maps, ranging from philosophy to war theory to seafaring. He leaves no lantern or candle lit.
I wasn't sure that was the truth. There were several kerosene lamps in the room. I've never trusted them as they're too prone to ignition.
The air smells like dried salt and leather bindings. It's the scent of false order; of people who believe structure is stronger than chaos—a lie. One I've watched break a thousand times in thousands of men. Bruis is no different.
I pace slowly, tracing the edge of the Commander's desk with one hand. The wood is stained in spots, with tiny blots of old ink.
My eyes flick across the wall: Nautical charts, incomplete patrol logs, and a shelf labeled Unclaimed Letters of Transfer. Perhaps it'll be a convenient place to stash a permit. If one were desperate enough to pretend they belonged.
I open the drawers, sift through the scrolls. My hand passes over a parchment with a stamp of the Duchy of Seine. It is yet to be sealed. It is a forgery in waiting.
I could use this. There's unmelted wax on the Commander's desk. All I need is the seal, then the boy and I can finally leave Bruis. But I need the Commander's seal. The seal will be enough for us to leave the harbor before the dockhand or the Logkeeper rings the alarm.
Our departure must be clean. We need to get across the Albion Sea.
I pocket the letter, folding it, and slip it into the lining of my coat.
The wax glints under the morning sun, hovering over the eastern part of the city, still rising. We still have time.
I keep moving.
This place isn't like the rest of Bruis. It has order. It isn't bloated with noise. There's no rotting or ash. It's clean. It smells like faith. It makes me uneasy.
Order is only another kind of monster.
I glance at the back of the door, ensuring I locked it. The Boy, Cole, should be keeping an eye out for a ship and a crew. I'm sure the boy will manage.
I count the seconds by the tick of the clock over the bookshelves. It gnaws at me. That concept that seems to choke all men. Time.
Mortals fear losing it. I have too much, and yet there's something within, whispering that it's running out.
I stare at silver streaks running up my wrist; the clock I must abide by. If we don't find a way to leave, I'll soon fall to it like a Mortal.
I either fall to that, or I'll fall to the Somata hunting the boy. I don't want to protect; everything would be easier if I just walked away. Leave the boy, find a small boat to steal, and drift across the sea to Albion.
By the Dagda, I would rather be put to death than abandon another piece of humanity.
I move to the back of the office. There's another door. It's heavy oak, iron-banded, with a seal at its center.
It's a circle within a triangle, surrounded by two swords crossed over a closed eye. I stare at it for a moment longer, hoping it wasn't what I thought it was.
My hand rises, my fingers stretching out as I touch the seal.
The seal emits a bright, radiant light. It flashes brilliantly.
Pain. White hot, searing pain. The feel of the flesh burning away.
Damn it.
I snatch my hand back, staring at my palm. The seal is already fading.
To think I'll find a ward like the one at the church, within a Commander's office. Something isn't right in this town.
The Inquisition made laws, barring ships from departing before dark. It's not right. It's irregular. The boy said the Inquisition doesn't have much reach in Bruis, but that's simply not true.
It's infested.
I hear a voice through the door. I freeze. My hand clenched at my side, palm stinging. Through the thick oak, faint murmurs rise. The door holds the sound, but I know how to listen. The dead know all the ways noise tries to hide.
The first voice is gruff, speaking with a hint of animosity. I'll guess it's the Commander.
"I trust you've slept well, Inquisitor Quinn," Brown says.
"As well as one might, Commander. However, the Mayor of Bruis was kind enough to offer us quarters in his manor. I must say, this city has great hospitality, and knows how to treat guests. Despite your city's propensity for fierce storms."
"Sea storms should be a given for a city near the sea, Inquisitor."
"Ah, well, I should've expected. Before serving the Seven Saints, I was raised down south, where you don't get weather like Bruis."
"That's all good, Inquisitor, but you have yet to answer my previous question."
"And what's that, Commander?"
"How long do you intend to keep this restriction in place? The merchants, fishermen, colonial men, my patrol ships, they all have business during the day; you're actively impeding the city's livelihood."
The Inquisitor doesn't rush. He lets the Commander's question float before replying. "Commander Brown, I assure you, I share your frustration. But alas, my hands are tied. The wonderful Grand Inquisitor of Seine isn't concerned for commerce, nor convenience. Our concern is for the city's soul. There's blight among the people, in due time, it shall be trimmed away like a weed."
"Weeds, you say?" the Commander echoes. I hear the edge underneath his breath.
"Exactly that," the Inquisitor replies. "Bruis has always been a city of opportunity. However, some of those opportunities allow rot to fester beneath and circumvent the laws set by the city and the Duchy—even those put in place by the Regency of the Church. And that, Commander, is something we can't simply allow."
The Commander sighs heavily. "What laws are being circumvented, Inquisitor?" I hear a chair scratch the floor, knocking back a few objects. I hear the Commander's voice rise.
"I've always kept the peace, I've always kept the order. Watch your words, Inquisitor Quinn. You're merely a guest. You have no say in the laws of Bruis."
"Watch your tone, Commander."
"No, I won't. You're insulting my duty as the commanding officer of Bruis' ports. Your work here makes my sailors unhappy. You've displeased the dockmasters, the hard workers, the tradesmen, and even the citizens aren't pleased with your presence. Bruis hasn't had your church's influence before, and if you think—"
"Sit, Commander."
There's a moment of silence. Light filters through the crack of the door. Then a sudden cry, and a crash, and even more objects shatter. I hear the Commander grunt in pain, breathing heavily,
What's going on?
"Your words are admirable, Commander. But words are not what protect a city from blight. Discipline does."
The Commander's breath comes harsh, a wounded animal forced to swallow his pride.
"You speak as if order is a favor you grant. You forget: all men serve something. Some serve coin. Others, their own fear. But those who serve the Saints serve a purpose even if it costs them comfort. You say you serve the city, but the people here are swayed by what brings them the most convenience. And you can't. But don't worry, the Saints shall bring them what you cannot deliver. They will assist us in wiping out the hidden blight."
Heavy footsteps echo from the room. I can hear coughing from the Commander; his feet shift through the debris around him, trying to get up.
"Commander, you've done a fantastic job, taking care of this city, but by the orders of your mayor, and the Grand Inquisitor of Seine, you're relieved of your duty."
Then, something slams to the ground, and the Commander groans louder.
"You're willing to use fear to put us on a leash?"
"On the contrary, Commander, I use truth as a blade. You may hate me, but Bruis needs the Saints. If some must hate me, so be it. The Saints never promised us riches, or fame, or glory. Only the clarity to do what is necessary. And—"
The Inquisitor suddenly halts mid-speech. Why?
"Commander? Did you invite a rat to listen to us? No? Well then, the ridding of the blight begins, with the one behind the door."
Damn.
The Inquisitor knows I'm here.