Inks
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Word Count - [1,145]
Novem’s windows still stood dark when the messenger arrived, the morning following Magister Eximium’s assassination.
Novem hadn't slept – although he very much doubted he was the only one who could make that claim. The devastating conclusion to Nocte Nil had left too many thoughts in his head. Too many questions, and not nearly enough answers to satisfy.
The Pactum Quingenti treaty. What Eximium had claimed it to be – to mean – for the future of Araevis.
The magister’s death, brought to him in the form of a pen promised to bring peace. Eximium’s lifeless, glassy-eyed stare, and Novem’s subsequent flight from the city square.
He’d heard more, later on. After he’d ensured he’d not been followed, changed his clothes, and holed himself up in one of the inns which doubled as safe houses for Iuratus. What he’d heard only provoked more questions, answered too few in return. And what answers the Orator did offer, Novem took cum grano salis.
He didn't trust the Arcanum’s magister, but neither did he trust the man whose image had appeared upon the grandis speculum. Novem trusted only what he could confirm for himself, and so far he had little more than the words of men, who so often colored events to suit themselves.
Yet…
Astra Non Obligant. Were he not already Sworn…
Were he not Nonus Novem, would he…?
It was a foolish line of thought, one that could have led to a night of restless pacing on its own.
But then there was the matter of the bounty. The image of a hooded enlil, painted in greens across every speculum in Terminus, pinned to the bounty boards of any bar frequented by Fraternitas or independent hunters.
Novem’s room consisted of little more than a cheap bed, cheaper table, and a single stool with uneven legs, and yet it pressed upon him. He didn't dare to seat himself near the room’s drafty window, not when there were men looking for his face, but the inn room felt too small, too confining.
And so he’d paced, tails of cobbled-together, drab-colored cloth trailing after him where he’d layered it thick. He paced the night away, and even in the privacy of his room, his expression remained unreadable. He circled the room until the city chill left his window clouded, until the candle upon his table had burned itself out, and until his talons had no-doubt worn new grooves into the floorboards.
He paced until the messenger arrived, early the next morning.
The knock at his door almost surprised him. It wasn't like Iuratus to knock; if he’d slept, he would've bet exa that he’d have woken up to someone lurking in the corner of his room or lounging at his table like they’d always been there. It wasn't in their training, acting out all the clichés, but that didn't seem to stop most of them from doing so. Especially the younger ones.
Novem fetched the room key from his table and unlocked the door. The moment the door cracked open, a dark-haired blur shouldered past him into the claustrophobic space of his room, and only recognition stopped Novem from lashing out with the throwing knife in his offhand. The surprise he felt didn't make it to his face.
“Trice,” he greeted, and, after a moment, he shut the door.
He turned to find his guest leaning back against his table, arms crossed over her chest.
Tricesima stood less than an inch shorter than Novem, a young, dark-skinned laicar woman made up of bony angles and sharp edges. She’d pulled her curly, dark hair into its usual tail at the base of her skull – Novem could count the number of times he’d seen it loose on one talon. A heavy cloak hid her outfit, made up of carefully-maintained, form-fitting leathers, and the two long daggers Novem knew she kept at her sides at all times. In the room’s pre-dawn darkness, she was like an extra shadow.
Tricesima and Nonus knew each other from way back. Where he was a Nine, she was a Thirty…but they were both Ninths. He hadn't seen her in months, though, since she’d left Terminus on assignment. And now…
“Novem.” Trice’s black eyes were flat and angry. Novem didn't need to be able to see them to know that. “You need to fix this.”
“It’s good to see you, too, Trice.” Novem crossed the room to his rickety little stool. He perched on it, keeping it from wobbling with one talon braced on the floor. He didn't bother with his usual smile – Trice knew him better than that. “How did your—”
“I’m not here to trade platitudes and ‘catch up’, Nonus,” Trice interrupted, voice as angry as her stare. “Don’t involve me in your stupid games of make-believe. They’re the reason this,” her hand dipped into her cloak and withdrew a copy of Novem’s bounty, “happened in the first place.”
“…You’re right,” Novem allowed. “This is my mistake, and I’ll handle it.”
“The moment your image was publicized it became the Iuratus’s mistake,” Tricesima countered, stiffly. “Was it worth it? Did you have fun faking smiles at the rabble, pretending you have any idea what normalcy looks like?” She flung the bounty down on the table. The image was too dark to see, but he knew what it looked like already. His features, thrown into shadow by the hood he’d been wearing, weren't as obvious as some of the others caught leaving the scene of Eximium’s murder…but Trice wasn't wrong. The point of hiring an Iuratus was that they were unrecognizable. Unknown.
Novem’s mouth pressed into a thin line. ”I’ll handle it,” he repeated, tone sharp and controlled. “Unless whoever sent you had a specific message for you to deliver, we’re finished here, Trice.”
A thin, humorless smile crossed Tricesima’s face. “Better,” she said, and pushed herself away from the table in a single, fluid movement. “That’s what Nonus Novem sounds like.”
Novem didn't stand, and he didn't reply. His gaze, pale even in the dark, tracked her as she moved towards the door. The softness had vanished from his expressionless face.
Trice opened the door, started to step through, and stopped, bracketed by the door frame. Bracing a hand against the old, scuffed wood, she looked at Novem over one slightly-hunched shoulder. “Take care of it, Nonus,” she said, “or we will. That’s the message. But you already knew that,” and then she was gone. She didn't bother to close the door behind her.
Novem sat, carefully still, for a few empty minutes. That’s what Nonus Novem sounds like.
Crushing down whatever emotions those words had provoked, the enlil took the copy of his bounty information from the table. He stood, sheathed his knife (he’d forgotten he was still holding it), and left to find a Conexus guard.
He needed to turn himself in.
.
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