She wasn’t supposed to meet with the bastil for two more days.


    After the Vault, Quistis couldn’t wait any longer.


    “The staff’s a fake,” Rumi had said when Barlo brought her the silver object adorned with a sapphire gem for a head. “It’s perfectly made, but the effect is not consistent with what’s written here. It repeats it, but only superficially.”


    Bugger.


    Of everything she hoped against, finding that out was the worst outcome possible. Iliaya’s Staff had been secured in Valen’s Vault for a very simple and terrifying reason. It could, in the hands of a competent wielder, radically change a person’s physical look to a level of detail so precise that it was impossible to determine the forgery by most means. It could even hide from an Egia’s sight which was why the staff had been secured away.


    Iliaya’s reign of terror lasted for nigh a century before the Empress had put an end to her at the dawn of the Empire and took her weapon away to safeguard.


    If Cinder so chose, she could… well, she could do anything she set her mind to. The only grace, Falor had read off the catalogue, was that the staff’s power waned in mere bells if the wielder parted with it. It was also too gaudy of an artefact not to attract attention.


    Small mercy that.


    “You’re in a mood, Captain.”


    Barlo walked with her through the storm, quietly sheltering her in the shadow of his great cloak.


    She grumbled at him, too lost in thought, and the wind too cold and wild for talking. They were headed down from the Fortress and across the Agora, to climb into the Enginarium’s Quarter. Despite her dark mood, she did not cherish the thought of what she needed to do next.


    Falor should be doing this, not me. But Falor had remained behind in the Vault to finish the inspection. Iliaya’s Staff was just one of too many obscenely dangerous items in there. They already knew Cinder had taken the Ikosmenia Mask which mimicked an Egia’s true sight, but maybe there were even more planted fakes. To have found even one meant all others were suspect now. It would take days to re-catalogue them all.


    Empress Catharina would have kittens when she learned of this development.


    Quistis and Barlo made their slow, steady way to the Enginarium’s compounds deep within the Quarter, beyond the Alchemists’ mazes and their stinks. Carriages ran poorly in that weather so they walked there through the billowing blizzard, snow weighing them down and impeding their progress through some of the narrower side-streets.


    By the time the black gates of the Enginarium Prime compound loomed through the near blinding snowfall, the cold had wormed its way through her boots and the three pairs of socks she wore as padding. She felt it nibbling at her toes with tiny, insistent fangs as Barlo pushed open the snowed-up gates. A guard ran to his aid from within.


    She knew the compound well enough to get past the gates and into the main building unattended. The storm obstructed all sight of it except for the sprite lamps that briefly pried open the darkness. Pity. The Prime building was a beautiful piece of architecture that she enjoyed seeing at night even if only to admire in passing.


    A man dressed in the simple black uniform of the enginaris—Caius, she remembered his name—took her staff and cloak, along with her boots and gloves, to dry in front of a hearth. Barlo just sat down in front of the fireplace, fully dressed, and huffed.


    Her face tingled when she took off her scarf and breathed out a frozen breath. She accepted a warm towel gratefully.


    “Strange hour for a visit, ma’am. We expected you the day after tomorrow.”


    “What time is it?”


    Caius inspected a device on his wrist and tapped it with a finger, making it light up.


    “Well, ma’am, the eight bell of evening would have sounded a short while ago. Aside from production, we were locked up for the day.”


    “My apologies, Caius, but events have taken a turn. I trust my coming earlier is not a great inconvenience.”


    “No, ma’am. I’ve sent someone to rouse them the moment the guards signalled your coming. Their preparations were done just this evening and they went to rest for the night.”


    He poured her a cup of coffee from a metal pitcher.


    “Sugar?”


    “I don’t touch it. Thank you.”


    Barlo took the entire bowl of sugar cubes and ate them while his clothes dried. He refused the coffee.


    She sat in an uncomfortable armchair and allowed the coffee to warm her while she waited. It fought off the drowsiness she felt after getting out of the cold. The thought of trekking back to the Citadel through that late-night blizzard only served to depress her further.


    The room was sparse in furnishing, everything kept utilitarian and monochrome and frightfully unimaginative. Schematics of various clockwork—they abhorred that term but it’s what she’d been taught as a girl—crowded the walls, a mystifying forest of white lines on special blue paper. She had tried in the past to study what was drawn there but found she had no mind for understanding the complexity of the designs.


    You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    Another enginaris poked their head through the door at the opposite end of the room.


    “They are ready for you, Captain.”


    “Do you need me along?” Barlo asked.


    “No. Our host gets fidgety if we crowd them. Enjoy your sugar while I’m gone.”


    He saluted with the half-empty bowl and popped another cube in his mouth.


    Quistis followed behind the enginaris. Sprite lamps lined the walls as they ascended into the compound’s upper levels. Most morgues were built underground but the bastil preferred being closer to the sky. The Enginarium were happy to indulge this particularly as long as it kept their guest happy.


    They were waiting for her in a room that had three sides open to the night. Glass shook when she closed the door and the storm whistled outside.


    Aarhyansh sat cross-legged in the centre of the floor. She knew their name but pronouncing it…


    “Good evening, Captain.” They saved her the embarrassment of the attempt. “Had we known you’d be gracing us with your visit, we would have forestalled our rest. We apologise for delaying you.”


    “Not at all,” Quistis replied. She kneeled on the floor, opposite them. “We received your runner this morning. Unfortunately, we had some developments over the day and this matter became urgent for us.”


    The bastil smoked their customary meerschaum pipe. Smoke floated lazily through the low-lit room, mimicking the way their fur floated upward; it smelled of spices, sweet and prickly, with none of the harshness of tobacco.


    They exhaled a thick plume, blue-white in the light, and then smiled. Quistis dearly wished they hadn’t picked up that particular human custom. A smile from Aarhyansh put her in mind of a dray wolf, except that a wolf’s muzzle had fewer, shorter fangs than the bastil displayed.


    “Your request was quite a puzzle for us. We cannot be entirely certain that you will get what you need from the made-thing.” They shook their head slowly. Small, beady bells adoring their fur rang out a soft, sad melody. “Whatever was done to the maker of this thing, it was frightfully violent. You may get your answers or you may only get their anger. We cannot make a promise, Captain Quistis.”


    “I’ll take my chances. A name is all I need. If I can get at least that, it’ll have been worth the trouble.” She fidgeted on her knees. “I’m not familiar with how this works.”


    Aarhyansh removed the pipe and spent a handful of heartbeats in silence, carefully cleaning it. Quistis watched how they scraped out with a claw the mix of burnt herbs and carefully deposited the ashes into a pouch they wore tied on their belt. Cleaning their pipe was something that couldn’t be rushed or ignored, so she sat quietly and waited. It was considered polite not to interrupt.


    “We shall guide the melding of your conscious mind with the echo that was imprinted on the made-thing, as we will protect you from invasion. Even with its maker dead, an imprint of them remains behind and can be reached,” Aarhyansh spoke as they carefully oiled the parts of their pipe. Names engraved in small runes showed up in the light, covering the entire outside of the pipe’s bowl. “Calling on the echo releases it from its bond. How useful it might be depends largely on how strong the maker’s self was in life.”


    It always struck Quistis as odd how gracefully the bastil moved when they did. In one fluid motion they were on their feet, despite their low, stocky build, and stretched out a four-fingered, clawed hand to help her up.


    Aarhyansh led her into an adjoining room. A solid door opened with a hiss and a rush of freezing cold air.


    “We apologise for the chill but we have taken the doll apart in our exploration of its creation. Even in Winter, something like it will rot away.”


    Living things took a long time to rot away in Winter but illum-born creatures weren’t as resilient on their own.


    “Even with blessed Cares watching from above, it was a stroke of luck that you found the Flesh Doll when you did. A day, maybe two more, and it would have broken apart.”


    Greenish-yellow jars lined shelves all around the darkened storeroom. The low light following them through the door showed Quistis the offal contents of the jars. It smelled like a butcher’s abattoir. She regretted the coffee.


    “We do not believe you will get a second chance, Captain. It has taken great efforts, both of the Enginarium and of ourselves, to keep the remains from wasting away.”


    A gas bubble floated slowly to the top of one of the jars and popped on the surface.


    “And, one more thing, Captain.” The bastil put their hands together and looked at her with what passed for worry in their milk-white eyes. “We cannot protect you from what this other presence chooses to show you. It will not be allowed reach into you but once you establish contact, you will need to break it off on your own. We can do very little to aid you beyond facilitating your meeting and shielding your deep self.”


    “Well, no time like the moment,” Quistis said and steeled herself for whatever was to come.


    She blinked and was face to face with the ghostly white outline of a woman. It had appeared so suddenly that she flinched back in surprise. The bastil said nothing. They were letting out a slow murmur at her side, an oddly strained sound that seeped into her bones.


    “Hello?”


    “Hello,” the figure replied, its voice dead and distant. It looked around, wary and skittish, then at its hands as if it had never saw them before. “Where am I?”


    “Can you tell me your name?”


    The figure turned its gaze to her as if just now realising there was someone there. It raised a hand towards her. Quistis mimicked the gesture. She tried not to, but a will stronger than her forced the movement.


    Anger struck her when the tips of their fingers touched, like flies buzzing inside her head. Pain followed. Confusion. Fear…


    “Who are you?” a shrill voice asked in her mind. It screamed its questions at her. “Where am I? What have you done to me?”


    Quistis stood her ground against the assault of unhinged emotion. She would not be cowed by the echo of a monster. The room grew dark as she was drawn inward.


    “I am Quistis Iluna, Captain to the Valen Storm Guard cell. And you are dead, whoever you are.”


    Outrage!


    “Do not dare threaten me!”


    Jumbles of images poured into her. Scalpels and sutures, silent screams and crying eyes, more than a lifetime of inflicted suffering. It wanted her frighted.


    It would eat shit before that happened.