29 March 1686 of the 6th Era, Butter Street, North District

  Antony stopped at a crossing, trying to get a sense of direction, then hesitantly pointed towards the other side of the street.

  “If I remember right, it should be right through that alley, and then we’re where we need to be.”

  “Worst case we’ll just have to backtrack,” Charlotte stopped to look around. The West District with its fashionable cafes and restaurants, well-dressed men and women, expensive carriages and wagons full of exquisite goods now mostly disappeared out of sight, shabby wooden barracks and simple brick houses taking their place.

  It was almost a different city. The broad paved roads were all but gone, giving way to muddy narrow alleys and winding streets. The few businesses they saw had nothing but a dingy board with a crude painting to denote what they offered. Unlike the stores on Tamir Avenue with their pompous names written in an elaborate font, bright gilded signs, and a helpful young doorman in a perfectly fitting suit eager to be of service. Provided, of course, that you looked like someone who could actually afford the goods. The people here, however, had no use for a written sign, or a name. Most were illiterate, and those who could read, usually did so on a very basic level. There were, of course, exceptions. Those who attended proper school for a period of time. Or those who got lucky by being exceptionally gifted in magic and therefore required special training that went well beyond an explanation about the use of such spells as Light and basic safety measures.

  Yet, Antony explained, this place was almost heavenly compared to the real slums that started further to the north west from where they were. The people living in the North District, he explained, earned a bit under one hundred gold pounds per year, which allowed them to pay their rent, afford warm clothes, and put something on the table. People in the slums earned maybe half of that.

  “I envied them growing up. Imagine your parents working all day, from dusk till dawn, just to be able to afford a loaf of bread that would need to last an entire week.”

  “I won’t even pretend I can,” she placed her hand on the little crest depicting the Dead Moon. “Obviously even when I started living on my own and earning my own keep I still made decent money. Nothing too grand, seeing that it was just a university lecturer’s salary, but comfortable. Never once worried I’d have nothing to put on the table.”

  “And I am happy that that’s the case. I wouldn’t wish anyone to live through what I have experienced,” he looked at the bright skies above their heads. The weather changed for the better since yesterday. Even the winds were coming from the south, bringing with them that gentle smell of fast approaching blooming season. Just a bit more, and he’d finally be able to enjoy the cherry and apple trees growing in his tiny garden, coupled with the tulip and daffodil flower beds.

  Antony led her through the winding alleyway, to his relief finding that it wasn’t as filthy as he expected it to be.

  “No windows,” Charlotte looked up, pointing at the blind walls on both sides.

  “Why would they bother with those? Not exactly an interesting view,” he shrugged his shoulders. “Also, the less glass, the more heat can be conserved.”

  “I’m not talking about architecture right now,” she frowned slightly, then stopped and, to Antony’s horror, kneeled, tracing something on the ground.

  “Your dress…”

  “You worry about my clothes more than I do,” she made a brushing gesture, and the dust and dirt instantly evaporated. “Someone’s been standing here for a while. A recent trace, too, considering it rained yesterday.”

  “This is still some distance away from Butter Street,” Antony saw her nod, acknowledging that she was aware of the fact, and resumed walking. “If I may ask, what is that case the Nightmare Poets are working on? I don’t think you’ve provided even a brief explanation.”

  “Really?” She looked at him, somewhat surprised. “Probably because there’s not much to tell. There have been reports of mysterious green lights in the North District as of late. Enough that it finally attracted the attention of the Nightmare Poets, especially after they found a half-raised undead in one of the sheds where the lights were reported to have appeared. Don’t think I need to tell you which school of magic green is usually associated with.”

  “I hear people report green lights and their relatives coming back from the grave every other fortnight. Not exactly news.”

  “The threat seems to be real this time, though I do agree with you. People love stories about some necromancer hiding in plain sight, conducting their vile experiments, and then unleashing a plague on the unsuspecting citizens. Way more intriguing than some corrupt official taking bribes or running a cartel and using a green lantern to signal where the next meeting place should be.”

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  “Wait. Sir Fleming’s previous book followed that plot.”

  “I’m pretty sure he grounded it in reality, obviously twisting it as he saw fit,” Charlotte chuckled. “That or it was one hell of a coincidence.”

  “Just now, you said the threat is real, but you’re acting rather nonchalant.”

  “It’s hard to explain. The lights have been spotted all across the North District and lately in the East District. The Nightmare Poets have also reported an increase in mana flow disruptions. While this might have a fully natural cause, this is something typical for a large-scale necromantic ritual. Basically, we don’t have confirmation for anything, but what we do have and see is concerning enough to put everyone on high alert.

  “It’s just that She’s not alarmed by any of this,” Charlotte’s expression was rather hapless as she turned towards him. “I am keeping an eye on it just in case, of course. Things can change quickly.”

  “Better safe than sorry.”

  “Exactly,” she stopped once again, this time examining a deep scratch on the wall, but gave no further comment.

  They finally left the dingy alley and entered a slightly broader street, with rows of almost identical houses made out of brick lining both sides. While Ledavia’s architecture was devoid of the elaborate decor that Lundhaven, and especially Lindau, were so famous for, it still tried to incorporate an interesting feature or two. Ornamental door designs, unusual window frames, or even a doorbell of an interesting shape. It was as if the architect offered the viewer to play a game of hide-and-seek, urging them to go and find that one detail that gave the building character.

  The houses on Butter Street, however, had nothing going for them in terms of uniqueness. It was as if someone built a house, made a dozen or so identical copies, and placed them along a road, or, at least, something that was designated as a road, at even intervals. Dull brick. Tin roofs. Tiny windows polished so diligently that the sun reflecting in them was almost dazzling. Even the fences were of the exact same shape, with no variation in size or colour.

  “These were built some forty years ago, I believe,” Antony helpfully commented, noticing her curiosity. “Back then they were believed to be the new best thing in housing. Affordable, comfortable, designed for a large family.”

  “The nearest water source…”

  “Ah, you have already identified one of the major problems.”

  “Sewage?”

  “Non-existent in this part of the city, I am afraid. Still have a shack in the backyard. Mind, we have gotten much better in the past fifty years. To a point where you can enjoy a bath at your hotel, though a good water purifying spell is never a bad idea. But I’m not sure when or, at this point if, we’ll be able to grant these people at least a semblance of true comfort.”

  “Is no one really doing anything?”

  “Oh, the Queen is trying to push for equality, but she is just one woman fighting against the nobility and the wealthy. She is not without allies, thankfully, but they are few and far between, and forced to act very carefully. After all, no one wants to find their wine poisoned in the middle of a ball.”

  “The joys of politics,” Charlotte sighed. “Oh, we seem to have arrived at the right place.”

  She pointed towards a group of people carefully examining an area in front of one of the houses.

  “That’s Mr Placek,” Antony recognised the figure of the dwarf standing some distance away from the commotion.

  “Go talk to him.”

  “Not joining me?”

  “Maybe a bit later. I want to have a look around here,” she shook her head and pointed at something at her feet. To anyone else in the street, it would have looked like she was drawing Antony’s attention to a peculiar pebble on the ground, or, perhaps, complaining about the dirt under her feet. But he saw something else entirely.

  “They sure seem to like you.”

  “Cats tend to see things for what they are,” she lowered her gaze. “This goes double for their ghosts.”

  “Very well,” he nodded. “Give me a shout if you find something or need help with anything.”

  Antony turned around and briskly walked off. Mr Placek had already spotted him and was frantically waving both of his hands, while also signalling to one of the members of the investigation group to join them. Charlotte suspected that the head of the Ledavian SIU office was hopeful that Antony had information to share on the case. Or, if all things failed, could at least help with gathering evidence, given his special talents.

  The shimmering cat at her feet purred, rubbing its face against her skirt and raising its tail high in greeting.

  “Have you always been here or were you attracted by something?” Charlotte tilted her head slightly. Not that she expected an answer. Or, rather, to get an answer she’d have needed a potion of animal speech. Which, of course, she didn’t have on hand. The cat meowed in reply and unhurriedly walked towards one of the houses, climbed up the stairs and sat on the porch, basking in the warm spring sun.

  Charlotte steadily looked around. So far, this street seemed completely ordinary, and yet… No, if something was wrong, she wouldn’t be able to discern it by simply looking at the surroundings. Not until this place was swarming with ghosts and in dire need of purification, at least. She needed a different approach to this.

  ******

  “Where did she go?” Mr Placek seemed somewhat puzzled.

  “Pardon?” Antony looked up from the report the head of the SIU had handed him.

  “That exorcist acquaintance of yours. She’s gone into that alleyway, but it’s been a minute or two and she still hasn’t returned.”

  Antony turned around and, too, saw a completely empty street. The ghostly cat sitting on the porch looked at him and quizzically said, “Meow?”