207 (II)

Admission [I]

Shiv moved. He exploded toward the threat in a blur of violence. The bladed rim of his legendary frying pan came an inch away from beheading the intruder.

“Stop!” the liaison called aloud.

Shiv barely caught himself in time, and he scowled at the man. “Listen, if you’re gonna summon… whatever the hells this is, you need to give me a warning. Okay, now what in the Broken Moon am I looking at?”

The creature the liaison had summoned was unlike anything Shiv had ever seen. For one, they were tall, taller than Shiv by two heads, yet they were also far too thin. So thin, in fact, that Shiv had no idea where their organs would go in their reed-thin body. They were practically a walking stick figure. A cloak of flowers and leaves swayed behind them, and wonderful fragrances slid into Shiv’s nostrils. The delightful flavor of roses crawled down the Deathless’s throat, and for a moment, he wondered if he was being poisoned. When nothing happened, his paranoia lessened, but his frying pan remained in line with the newcomer’s neck.

The first thing that Shiv noted about the strange entity’s head was how long its ears were, pointed a near-meter into the air. Something about that made Shiv think of the elves, but the rigidity and sharpness of the creature’s auditory organs seemed to be on another level of extreme. Its nose was fair, its skin was smooth and pristine, without any imperfections. Its eyes were also too wide and devoid of any irises; they were like two pools of white upon a face of soft pink. The entity’s skin color also changed as it gazed at Shiv. Instead of betraying any hint of fear or anger in its body language, it seemed tired, exhausted, almost, and faintly Shiv heard a song ringing forth from the creature. It sounded like bells jingling over the horizon, like a rush of leaves tumbling through a grand forest.

“I am Cullyweir,” the entity said, its soft, slightly masculine voice sounding without any hint of enthusiasm. In fact, it seemed sapped of all will and on the verge of utter listlessness. “Exile of the Fairwoods. I have given my name. I have been called. I must answer—and all that other drivel…”

Each statement hit Shiv like there was actual weight behind them. Why that was, Shiv didn’t know, but an unsettling feeling sheathed itself in his gut, and instinctively he knew. He knew this creature shouldn’t be like this. It also shouldn’t be here. It felt dimmed by this world, dimmed by this reality, and the melody spilling out of it was muted as well, oppressed by a realm that wasn’t meant to stomach such songs.

“Cullyweir,” the liaison repeated. “Say his name, and he will come to you, carried by wind and fragrance. He will come to you, and he will be able to service you for whatever your needs may be.” And Shiv really didn’t like the smile on the liaison’s face.

“What the fuck do you mean, ‘my needs’?” Shiv asked. A bit of aggression leaked into his words, and the smile faded from the liaison.

“You must understand that you are in a perilous position. As such, the Neath wishes to offer its services. After all, it is not easy to defy the gods of the Republic, and everyone needs help.”

“I already have enough help,” Shiv said flatly.

“And more will be required in time,” the liaison insisted. “But even if you don’t, we are in business together, and we wish to ensure that our arrangement with you is well taken care of. After all, you are due a meeting with the Dragon Brokers, and we wouldn’t want anything unfortunate to befall you before that point, would we?”

It sounded almost like a threat. Almost. Shiv glared at the liaison. “I will make sure nothing unfortunate happens to me. I can’t say the same for everyone else, though. People around me, especially people who piss me off, things don’t usually turn out well for them.”

A faint trace of something formed between him and the liaison. It was barely there, but Shiv hid a smile as he felt a trickle of fear wash over from the man. Yeah, that’s right, the Deathless thought to himself, you flap those fuckin’ peacock feathers as hard as you want, but you remember who you’re godsdamn talking to.

“Regardless, if you need anything at all, or if you wish to communicate with us,” he gestured toward Cullyweir, “you can speak through your personal aid, and he will carry our words between us.”

Shiv looked Cullyweir up and down, noting how the strange being couldn’t meet his eyes. Shiv had seen that look on others before, on the slaves back in Gate Piety, and he realized why he wanted to rip the liaison’s head off.

“Is this one a slave?” Shiv asked flatly. Depending on the liaison’s answer, Shiv might come out of this with new enemies.

“He was,” the liaison said casually. “Now, he is an employee of the Neath, favor-bound to the Dragon Brokers.” He wiggled his nose as he let out a performative sigh. “It is a dark thing for a pattern-based being to own one of the Fairest.”

“Pattern-based?” Shiv asked.

“Like us, or the goblins, or the automata. The things that follow incremental logic and exist in a steady reality with a stable level of mana. Cullyweir is Fae. In fact, he is Fairest, eldest of the Fairwoods. Explaining all that he is would take too long, but it’s best that you think of him as some kind of magical, wish-granting sea fish that is now being forced to live in a river.”

“Why is he forced to live in a river?” Shiv asked. He wanted to hear Cullyweir explain why, but the Fairest didn’t respond. Instead, he simply kept his gaze pointed at the ground.

The liaison puckered his lips. “Because if he were to ever return home to the Fairwoods, then he would experience a final fate: death.”

“And what the hells did he do to deserve that?” Shiv asked.

The liaison shook his head. “A truly foul sin for the Fairest. You see, he fell in love with a human woman, and he bred with her, and from their union came an elf.”

Shiv’s jaw fell open slightly. “That’s it?”

The liaison winked at the Deathless, but it was not a friendly wink, more like a taunting gesture. “There are some bloods that simply shouldn’t mix. Such is the opinion of the Fairest, or those of the border courts, at least. Now say his name, for if you do not, he will wilt and suffer and die, because,” the liaison drew in a breath, “I bequeath authority over this melody unto you.”

Another weight struck Shiv. This one actually came down upon him like a falling mountain. The floor beneath Shiv fractured and fissured. The Deathless grunted. “What the hells did you—” Before him, Cullyweir began to come apart in flaking bits of gray. He gasped and groaned as his flesh dissolved, and Shiv gritted his teeth. “You motherf—Cullyweir!” he called out, and just then, something came into existence between him and the Fae before him: a connection, a bond. But it was a bond that weighed heavily on his end and light on the Fae’s. It was like a chain he could pull at any time, and boiling rage nearly detonated inside Shiv.

Pact Gained: [True Name — Cullyweir]

Suddenly, his pan was pressed against the liaison’s neck, and the man’s back struck the far wall of the arena as Shiv’s Shapeless Tides surged forward in a roar of kinetic energy. The liaison let out a surprised cry and clenched his teeth as he felt the skin around his neck split open. He reached up, trying to grasp his blade, but Shiv got there first and closed his hand around his wrist. A burst of Chronomancy detonated outward but remained within Shiv’s clenched hand, unable to break through his cycling vectors.

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“Alright,” Shiv said, barely able to keep a snarl out of his voice. “You said he wasn’t a slave. Well, why do I feel like I got a chain inside me?”

“Because that’s how a Fae soul-pact works,” the liaison said, sounding surprisingly calm. But he really wasn’t. Shiv could feel an active river of fear rushing into him now. “If you kill me, it won’t matter. I’m merely a servant, a disposable pawn of the Neath. I’d like to keep my life, but if you slay me, another will take my place. And now that Cullyweir is bound to you, why, the Dragon Brokers and the major interests will speak to you directly. We will never meet again.”

The liaison drew in a harsh and ragged breath, and Shiv pulled his frying pan away. Part of him still wanted to cave the liaison’s skull in, but the real people Shiv wanted to hurt were the so-called Dragon Brokers. Before that, he also wanted to figure out more of this Cullyweir’s deal. As he turned to see where the Fairest went, he realized that Cullyweir was utterly gone. In his place were a few leaves and petals scattering in a wind that wasn’t truly there, and a fading fragrance.

“Oh, he’s still there. He’s just in the wind, flowing around you. He stands apart from the world most of the time.” The liaison swallowed. “It’s quite an uncanny thing when he reappears. All you need to do is say his name, and he’ll be invoked.”

“And he has to come?” Shiv clarified.

“He has to.” The liaison smiled. “But is that not true for all of us? We’re all owned in one way or another.”

“Not me,” Shiv said.

“Perhaps not yet,” the liaison replied. “But in time, everyone is bound. Chains make for gorgeous necklaces.” Despite the man’s hidden fear, something told Shiv that killing him would be a kind of mercy, a kind of freedom.

“And what’s your chain?” Shiv asked. “What did you give? Soul, skill, or family?”

The liaison stopped talking for once, and he turned away. Shiv caught that look on his face, the same look he’d seen on the Educator earlier: shame.

“All three, then,” Shiv said, taking a blind guess. The liaison turned brittle, his body becoming as if a sculpture of glass. Shiv laughed bitterly under his breath and left the liaison there, turning on his heel and making his way back down the stairs.

As he got to the bottom of the steps, he retraced his path back to where he’d first arrived, back to that ruined restroom, to the toilet he had exploded out of. The Deathless sighed as he stared down into the fetid, swirling pool that had spawned him. Just then, he looked up, and he invoked the name that was now connected to his soul. “Cullyweir,” Shiv said softly, unwilling to bark it like a command. Still it echoed out, and still the fairy was forced to come.

“I am here. I heed your words, O Pact-Bearer.” Cullyweir yawned as he manifested, and he seemed distant. Indifferent to the point of depression.

“Don’t call me that,” Shiv said, and he looked the Fairest up and down. “Call me Shiv. Listen, you, uh, you don’t have to do this. If this is some kind of slave contract, I swear I’ll set you free, or something. Whatever the words are.” When nothing happened, Shiv frowned. “Do I need to reach into the skill or pact and break it apart somehow? How does this thing work?”

“I cannot be free,” Cullyweir said emotionlessly. “I cannot be free so long as my blood still lives, and so long as I remain unforgiven by my own kind.” For the first time, a sad, distant smile crawled over Cullyweir’s face. “And I will never shed my own blood, so I will not be free.”

Shiv didn’t know what to say to that, but in his silence, Cullyweir decided to continue on. “I see that you wish to proceed toward your destination, to the Royal Morgue of Archmortalis in East Highvine, yes?”

Shiv stared at Cullyweir, and just then, he felt his body start turning into droplets of fluid. He began to spill into the swirling pool within the toilet bowl, and he realized it was Cullyweir casting the spell, the Fae blending with him, wrapping around him. Cullyweir had been with them this entire time.

That was how they had moved from place to place. The Dragon Brokers and the Neath had a Fae using his magic to serve them. Cullyweir’s mana was unlike anything Shiv had ever felt. It was softer, more flexible, less defined. Just like that, Shiv was gliding through the pipes again, and Cullyweir flowed with him. And that had him thinking: If the Neath had a Fae on their metaphorical payroll, what else did they have hiding up their sleeves? What other surprises?

It didn’t take long for him to arrive at the morgue. He was moving far faster now, with no stops in between. It seemed like Harlock was distracted. Previously, they had halted several times while in transit to the Coliseum. Shiv wondered how the prison break was going and if anyone innocent had suffered. All actions had consequences, even the ones that were ultimately necessary, even the ones that had good intentions behind them.

After what felt like half an hour, Shiv mercifully emerged from the faucet of a sink, stumbling out into a private restroom. A crystal decanter lay upon a tray placed over a bathtub. In it, a rather corpulent man lay with his throat slit, dyeing the water red. His eyes were bulging and wide as he stared at the soft-white ceiling, and Shiv wondered just what the hells he’d stumbled in on.

As soon as Shiv finished solidifying, the door next to him swung open, and Shiv nearly took someone’s head off using his frying pan. Across from him stood a young woman. She was dressed in pitch-black robes, and on her shoulder was a ribbon that portrayed a singing woman with dark hair and predatory eyes. Shiv shuddered as he remembered those eyes. Kathereine the Songbringer. Had he been discovered by one of her faithful? Was he going to have to…

“Oh, good, you’re here.” She looked him up and down and sniffled. “You’re the Deathless in disguise, I take it? Morgue’s next block over. I’ll get you there. The other team just handed me the cloak. Just give me a second.”

Shiv blinked. He hadn’t told anyone he was coming. Cullyweir, he realized. Now he had a snitch accompanying him. That wouldn’t do, that wouldn’t do at all. He needed to fix this problem.

“You are the Deathless, right?” she asked again. “Please say yes. Otherwise, I might have to clean up two bodies.”

“I am,” Shiv said, doubtful about this one’s abilities. “And I recommend against doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Threats. They only work if you can pull off the murder.”

A silence passed between them. Then, she turned away with a huff. “Take those off.”

Shiv blinked. He looked down and realized she was gesturing at the uniform he wore.

“Do it quickly. Harlock won’t be distracted for long.” From behind her, she pulled out a massive veil of static blackness. The Dimensionality radiating from the large blanket made Shiv wary.

“What’s that?” he said.

“Mass Swapper,” she replied. “You’re going to strip down, and you’re going to fall into it. As you do that, the decoy body we left in the morgue will be swapped out with you. Your presence will displace it. After that, I will disable the cloak, and you will be left in the morgue. Then, I will be gone, and we will forget we ever saw each other.”

Shiv was practically speechless. The operatives of the Neath might be questionable and criminal, but they most definitely were prepared, and they were quick about setting things up too. As he stripped away his school uniform, his Perfect Semblance was left nude while he himself remained clad in his armor. He pulled the bracelet Adam gave him off and threw it into his cape. “Alright. Got it. So. Just fall in?”

“Is my understanding that you have the means to induce a specific type of venom upon yourself?” she said.

Ah, right. Irons’s suggestion—shit, the crafters are informants too.

“Yeah, I got it,” Shiv said, not wanting to explain too much about what he and Helix intended to do. “Don’t need that service from you.”

The young woman hesitated a while longer and stepped aside. She gestured for him to descend into the dimensional sheet, and Shiv fell face-first into the blanket without any other words exchanged.

As soon as he did, he felt something slide past him. Another weight, another presence, another body. Before he could turn and catch sight of it slipping through him, he slammed hard against a steel surface and dented it. Shiv grunted as he felt himself jammed tight in a space too small for him. Just then, he found himself lying upon a tray. The air was cold, and it glided upon his flesh in unceasing waves.

Shiv looked over his shoulder and saw another such blanket residing beneath him, but a second later, it flashed a final time as its static dissipated, and it finally went dormant. Everything unfolded just as the young woman had said.

And so, in the span of a half-hour, he went from being in a coliseum to being a reawakened corpse in a morgue.

Shiv let out a disbelieving laugh. Well, I’ve done a lot of weird godsdamn shit, but this was something special. He gave himself a moment and laughed.

“Hey, Helix,” he called out.

“Insul.” The orc’s voice was thin and nasally, ridged with annoyance. “Am I finally needed now?”

“Yeah, hit me with that toxic thing Irons told you to do.”

“That ‘toxic thing’ ‘Irons told me to do’?” Helix said, his voice scornful. “Do you not remember the affliction I’m supposed to inflict upon you at all?”

“Can’t quite think about it, can’t quite remember right now, no,” Shiv said flatly. “Just dose me up so that we have a bullshit excuse for why we’re just waking up. I got some poor attendant to scare shitless.”

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