Loom and Half-Moon

They found the priest in the inner courtyard.

The place had cracked tiles and a dry fountain, now turned into a flowerbed. Even in the open air, the thick smoke from his pipe fought fiercely to mask the smell of roasted meat from the night’s special.

Vigae Senniusid — that was the name Thanatos had given her — sat on the stone rim of the fountain basin, his short legs dangling in the air. He was a dwarf, broad-shouldered and short-necked, with a neatly trimmed beard forming two straight lines along his jaw. His skin bore the hue of someone who lived under the sun, and his eyes were pale and patient.

He wore a dark gray tunic of the Orthodoxy, a frayed belt made from hemp rope, and around his neck hung the iron chain of his sacred symbol: the Weaver of the End, the god of destiny. A loom with short spokes, inside which ran the relief of a cross-woven thread.

“Vigae.”

Noticing Thanatos, he set the pipe aside and greeted them with a nod. The faint smile on his lips suggested that nothing could surprise him anymore.

“Thanatos, the fool. Though there’s nothing foolish about you” he said with a quiet chuckle, no reproach in his tone. “And as always, accompanied by a woman. Sit.”

Sallustia tilted her head, considering the priest’s remark. Thanatos sat beside the dwarf.

“So, old friend? Have you finally come to have a sincere talk with the gods?” the cleric asked, sipping what looked like water from a mug he had left hidden inside the old fountain.

“Cut it out, man! What would people as important as the gods have to do with me?”

“Perhaps their mercy might inspire you to think better about how you wish to die.”

“Oh, but I know exactly how I want to die” the fool said with mock offense. “Old, unable to walk, and too drunk to know where I am. Unless it’s in some wench’s bed. That way I’d want to die fully aware.”

Vigae roared with laughter at the blasphemy.

Unusual for a cleric. Sallustia noted.

“What is it you need then?” the priest asked, slipping the pipe back between his teeth.

“I need your knowledge of geography” Thanatos replied. “The routes by land and sea, the toll cities in the southern satrapies, the ports in the archipelago, and the frozen outposts of the north. Versagënn as well, of course. Whose hands control what?”

The priest rested his hands on his knees. The symbol of the Weaver hung dull on his chest after so many years of use.

“I’ve tried sending brothers and sisters north” he said slowly, “but the routes are blocked. Many checkpoints where we once had free passage have been outsourced to companies and guilds of the Middle Ring. Loyal to the Party of Swords. To senator Prebito, if you prefer. Caravans carrying clothes, blankets, bread, water, and other essentials are detained, but wagons of narcotics pass with his blessing. If you’re on their side, the gate opens. If you’re not…”

“Profit in war” Sallustia remarked.

“Profit in hunger and fear” Vigae corrected. “Versagënn has practically fallen. News comes to Gran-Devana in fragments. A temple plundered, villages without grain, roads blocked.”

“And you haven’t reported this to the Orthodoxy’s council?” Thanatos probed.

Vigae glanced around to make sure no one was listening.

“The Pontifex speaks only of prudence in her sermons. And denouncing what everyone pretends not to see takes more than a sermon. The Vestals are not blind, but they are bound by ancient edicts dating back to the fall of the old imperial family, as you well know. Many allies of the Swords are also faithful tithers.”

There was a brief silence.

Someone laughed too loudly inside the hall, and down one of the corridors, two private guards passed by in moss-green coats, short swords at their sides. Sallustia followed them with the corner of her eyes.

“That’s enough. I ask your blessing, if the Weaver allows, of course.”

The cleric touched his sacred symbol.

“May your thread not snap before its time.”

He rose with some effort, adjusted his tunic, and withdrew into a side corridor. Thanatos nodded, grateful.

***

The fool lingered another fifteen minutes, admiring the night.

Sallustia quickly understood what he was doing. The priest had left, but there was still the risk someone might approach them to extract information. So she stayed ready to act until Thanatos finally stretched and rose from the fountain’s stone rim.

“Missing someone?” the paladin-slave asked.

“Not all human beings are ‘someone’ in this city” Thanatos corrected, nodding toward the service door. “If you think in legal terms, it would be more accurate to say we’re missing ‘something.’”

A woman entered carrying a tray of mugs through the same door Vigae had used to leave. Medium height, thin, arms marked by labor, brown skin, hair tied in a simple knot, with the demeanor of someone who had learned not to be noticed.

Her clothes were of dark fabric, the apron clean but old, and at her neck, beneath a scarf, was the iron circle of a discreet collar: a mark of ownership. She set the mugs carefully on a table, wiped them with a damp cloth, and was already leaving without a word when Thanatos called to her.

“Justa?”

She paused, only long enough to show she recognized her own name as a password. She did not return the gaze. Only made a barely perceptible gesture with her fingers, asking them to wait.

It took as long as a handful of off-key songs and a loud toast. When she returned, she brought a plate of aged cheese and olives, setting it down with a paper beneath the plate.

“The house thanks you” she said in a neutral tone.

Thanatos slowly chewed a piece of cheese. Sallustia lifted the plate, as if seeking the best angle of the tray, and the note came with it.

It was a thin scrap, with three words written in charcoal: “tone; behind; half-moon.” And below, on a separate line, in smaller script: “M. Lestat — at the lighting of the gas.”

Sallustia stared in confusion at a wall with a wooden panel carved with a half-moon. “Tone behind” could mean the piano — resting just ahead. She watched the drunk pianist, his heavy fingers striking wrong notes. Behind him, a divider with shelves of empty bottles, more decoration than stock.

“There are people who come in through the door that doesn’t exist” Justa said before leaving, as if commenting on the weather. “And there’s a conversation that always happens when they light the gas. Every day at the same time.”

“Who?” Thanatos whispered.

“Outsiders. And a woman who smiles and wears silver when everyone else wears gold.”

“Mave Lestat” Sallustia guessed.

Justa neither confirmed nor denied it. She only adjusted her apron.

“If the half-moon turns, the conversation moves rooms.”

“Where do I get one of those tokens?” Thanatos asked.

“Swords” Justa replied, as if speaking of chopping onions.

“The Sword's faction is sending messages through the gas-lamp lighters of the Outer Ring” Thanatos concluded. “Arranging meetings here in the Maiden and the Staff, the signal being the position of that moon carving.”

The slave made as if to leave. Thanatos placed two coins on the plate, a discreet gesture, practiced by a man with perfect command of his body. Not only a fool, but a true artist.

She did not take them. This time, she looked at him for a full second.

“That’s not it. If one day there’s room, write my name on a list. Justa. Without a master.”

Sallustia spent a few moments staring at the half-moon carving as the woman left. Thanatos sighed.

“Fraudulent ration contracts, most likely for the clandestine caravans heading north. Tolls for the religious aid that should reach the people. And a network of informants in the city’s public lighting. Mave Lestat and Prebito pulling the strings.”

“And us?” Sallustia asked.

“We’ll find out soon enough.”

The artist walked back into the hall, the paladin-slave on his heels.

“Hey, friend?” he called to the old pianist. “You’re dragging the melody too much. Can I still request a song?”

The man smiled with tired eyes.

“Ultio’s list pays three times a night, master. And Fatidica cleared all the other names. I’m afraid I must keep playing the same repertoire.”

“What was that?” Sallustia asked, on guard.

“Fidenzio will want all this information. And now we have a new name: Ultio Fatidica” Thanatos said, touching his ear. “He put a lot of emphasis on those two words. I don’t know if it’s a person, a title, or a password. But they planted this old man here as a recruiter. If Prebito’s involved in this scheme, then his recruitment methods are far more elaborate than we thought.”

“I don’t like this place” the paladin-slave muttered after so much information, massaging her temples.

“No one does” Thanatos replied. “But it’s here that many of us learn to make a living. Money for secrets and vice versa.”

They did not leave through the main entrance, but through a discreet door leading to an alley where the sidewalk was narrower, and the smell of old grease clung to the walls.

In the sky, a gray streak announced that morning was near.

“You did well” Sallustia said to Thanatos, adjusting her cloak. “Perhaps I’ll regret saying this, but I’m impressed.”

“I did my job” he replied with a shrug. “Fidenzio needs information if we’re to have any chance at success. And I have a few debts to settle — with Giuseppe, and obviously to get Justa out of that house when possible. Maybe even write poetry about it, depending on how it all ends.”

The paladin-slave was surprised at how much emphasis he placed on the slave informant’s freedom. But she decided not to ask further.

It was time to return to Tinuso, and if all went well that night, the Coins would have succeeded in leveling the playing field across the three Rings of the imperial city.