Before setting off for 47 Brimthorne Lane, Arbiter Stroud dropped Warden Oscar off at the Imperial Crownhold, to the man's immense relief and appreciation. Stroud drove the boiler so Oscar could jump out of the passenger seat when in range of the fortress, leaving Silas squeezed in the back with Junior Arbiter Ravelin. The young woman unnerved him, her silence rivaling his own muteness. She gave no indication that she experienced emotions, eliciting zero reaction to Stroud's perpetual attempts at sarcastic humor or Warden Oscar's disgruntled efforts to cease Stroud's jokes. Silas found himself grinning at their antics despite himself, glad for the lightened atmosphere that calmed his frayed nerves.
"Make sure to change out that soap bar for a new one!" Stroud shouted after Oscar as he leaped from the boiler, eager to leave the vehicle and its inhabitants.
He rolled his eyes and growled something indecipherable. Stroud winked at him, her expression twinkling, as the Warden gave her one last dull look and slammed the door, marching with shoulders hunched to his ears toward the twin portcullises.
Stroud leaned back in her seat, sighing contentedly. She turned around as far as her harness would allow, catching Silas's gaze.
"Now, to make a pit stop at your house before we depart for our journey to your grandfather's oh-so-mysterious address," she said.
Silas furrowed his brow in confusion as Stroud turned back around and backed the boiler up into the road.
"Elsbeth, be a dear and explain the results of your investigation to me as I drive."
The Junior Arbiter cleared her throat at Stroud's words—the first noise Silas had heard her make. From a pocket in her pressed trousers, she produced a notepad. Flipping to its first page, she began to speak, her voice slightly muffled behind her half-face mask.
"I will begin by detailing all I could find about 47 Brimthorne Lane, East Gloam." The Junior Arbiter's monotonous voice droned, never lifting her attention from her notes. "East Gloam itself is well-known by locals for its unfortunate and covert demise. Located on the outskirts of Droswick, this residential district housed working-class citizens and their families in a modest suburb. A certain calamity befell the locus—the details about which were locked behind authorization that neither I nor you, Arbiter Stroud, rank high enough to access."
Stroud glanced through the rearview mirror at this, surprise evident on her face.
"While I was unable to ascertain much regarding the calamity itself, it is public knowledge that the residential quarter of the district was evacuated, leaving behind a ghost town where the suburb used to be."
A shiver tingled along Silas's spine, and his skin prickled with gooseflesh. If a Senior-ranked Arbiter is not of sufficient station to access this information, who is? he thought.
Stroud came to an intersection and asked Silas to point out which road to take, an order he obeyed. Once Stroud had completed her turn and needed no new directions, the Junior Arbiter continued in her flat, humdrum drone.
"As for 47 Brimthorne Lane itself, there was even less I could dig up. The address belongs to an unassuming townhouse located in the center of the abandoned ghost town. I found it on an old map printed before the calamity. Who the townhouse belonged to, however, I could not find. The ledger had the owner's name redacted, and again, neither I nor Arbiter Stroud is privy to this information."
At the conclusion of the Junior Arbiter's account, silence descended over the cabin, leaving behind only a low bubbling from the boiler's engine. Her words troubled Silas, his mind reeling with the information. Why would Pa have an affiliation with such a cryptic townhouse in an abandoned suburb? And why did he want Silas to go there?
"There was little new information I could ascertain from the Foundry School attack survivors." Ravelin flipped to a new page in her notepad. "They described confusion, a random passerby with a phlogiston rifle firing at the Unspoken, carnage from the carrion wolf attacks, and Silas Carrow at the scene before anyone else, directing sign language at an Unspoken that made no moves to wound him." While Ravelin's tone remained even, her attention did flick across the cabin to Silas, who looked away from her in shame, unable to bear her scrutiny.
"I figured there would be little help there," said Stroud dismissively, turning down the street to Silas's house at his direction. "Thank you for your report, Junior Arbiter. Your work was satisfactory." Stroud nibbled on her thumbnail. "I do wonder how I might gain clearance, though…" Her voice trailed off as she pulled the boiler into Silas's driveway.
Silas held back a sigh as he gazed out the window at this familiar abode, the humble two-story building's familiarity a welcome sight after the recent events. The relief lasted only a moment, torn away as Silas's mind traveled back to the images of Pa bleeding out in front of the Foundry School and, later, comatose in his sickbed, not likely to regain consciousness.
At the front door—with Stroud and Ravelin behind him—Silas realized he had no satchel and therefore no key. He turned around shyly, cheeks blushing, as he mimed that he did not have the means to enter his house. Stroud nodded as if she expected this outcome and moved to trade places with him. She bent at the waist, rubbing her chin between forefinger and thumb as if contemplating an intellectual obstacle. Suddenly, she straightened and lifted her leg, kicking the door with all her might. Silas flinched back, nearly tottering off the porch in his surprise. The door flung open with a pop, the frame rupturing at the jamb from the force. Stroud turned around and bowed with one arm outstretched, dramatically inviting the visitors into the vestibule.
"Right this way," she said, standing upright and stepping inside.
Ravelin, unaffected by Stroud's uncanny behavior, followed after her, leaving Silas standing on the porch, staring with his mouth agape at the boot-shaped hole Stroud had imprinted on the front door.
"Don't be so discourteous," Stroud pouted, beckoning Silas in. "It’s rude to leave your guests waiting, you know."
Silas bit the inside of his cheek in indignation and stepped inside, shutting the broken door gently behind him.
Ravelin had already cranked the starbloom lamps to illuminate the vestibule and kitchen. She was hovering above the kitchen table, scrawling notes in her notepad as though the dirty plates strewn about its surface were compelling evidence. Silas considered the scene sadly, recalling the rigid atmosphere between him and Pa two morns previous. He sadly wished he could rewind time and redo everything. Maybe if he had never fought with Pa, none of this would have happened, and instead of leading two Imperial Arbiters around his home, he and Pa would be sitting at the table, sharing a hearty breakfast before school. Tears threatened to spill, but he brushed them away before they could fall.
"This is a nice little place you've got here," Stroud said, thumping around the kitchen in her heavy boots. "Have you and your grandfather always lived here?"
Silas nodded, realizing now that Stroud wanted to stop here to include his home in her investigation. He wondered if he should mention Pa's study and what went on behind its locked doors, but decided against it for now. Stroud had already broken one door; he was disinclined to have her kick down another.
Stroud paused at the dark stain on the floorboards and crouched to inspect it. Using a fingernail, she scratched at the wood, flaking some residual dried ink onto her finger.
"Is this stylus ink?" she asked, standing.
Silas nodded, reddening at the embarrassing memory. Stroud chuckled at his response.
"You really aren't very nimble, are you?" she teased.
Stroud and her assistant flitted around the first floor, opening and closing drawers and peering behind closed doors as they went. Ravelin's hand never stopped its frantic scribbling, jotting down everything she saw in her messy scrawl. Silas wondered if she found every minute detail compelling or if she was the type of person who thought everything was important and was reluctant to miss anything. They finally made it upstairs, clamoring up the rickety staircase one at a time. Stroud attempted to open the door to Pa's study, her lips pursing as she was met with resistance.
"What's in here?" she asked, her face worryingly suggestive that she was considering alternate means to gain entrance.
This was not a yes-or-no question that Silas could answer with a head nod or shake. He mimed writing on his palm to indicate he needed a stylus and parchment. Stroud's lips formed a tight "o" in realization, forcing Ravelin to cease her endless scrawling so Silas could borrow her writing implements. The young woman hesitated, clearly averse to this idea, yet she relented under Stroud's impatiently raised eyebrows.
"This is my pa's study," Silas finally wrote on a fresh page of Ravelin's notepad. "It's always locked, but I don't think there is anything in there. He always takes the finished stacks of parchment elsewhere when he is done."
"Huh," said Stroud as she read. "What peculiar behavior. He's not a novelist, by chance?"
Silas shook his head, his gaze downcast.
"And he never told you what he did for work?"
Silas sighed. "We had frequent quarrels about this," he wrote, nearly tearing the parchment with his heavy scratching. "But he always managed to produce a feeble excuse instead of an actual answer."
Stroud nodded, turning back around to face the door while Ravelin greedily took her notepad back from Silas to resume her incessant notation. Stroud balanced on one leg, the other raised, poised, ready to strike. Silas jumped forward, determined to stop her, but he was too late. He stumbled into empty air where, moments before, Stroud stood. Now she planted herself in the entrance of Pa's study, the door swinging back and forth on its broken hinge.
Silas seethed at Stroud as she confidently strode deeper inside. Ravelin—without looking up from her writing—blindly followed after her, leaving Silas on the landing, glaring at them both. Disgruntled, he angrily wondered how they could so casually invade someone's private space like this with no shame or guilt. Perhaps the nature of their job and the frequency with which they engaged in these behaviors desensitized them to such emotions.
"Are you coming in?" Stroud said, her voice obstructed by the wall as she strode out of Silas's line of sight.
Silas sighed to collect himself. He had always wanted to know what the inside of Pa's study was like. Being banned from entry—especially as a child—allows one's imagination to run rampant, conjuring any number of fantastical ideas about what secrets may be hidden behind locked doors. Silas steeled himself and crossed the threshold, the floorboard creaking under the burden of his weight as he finally stepped inside.
Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.
What he found was underwhelming. The room was bare, with no furniture except for the single desk in the center and a starbloom lamp to illuminate the space. There was no carpeting or rugs to cover the naked surface of the floor, its wooden finish squeaking and crackling under the bootsteps of its visitors. The walls of white plaster were slightly peeling, and there was a crack running from behind Pa's desk, spiraling toward the ceiling. Murky shadows cast down the length of the crack snagged along the wall like a thread of spider silk, providing gossamer detail to the otherwise plain surface.
Silas allowed his body to relax, the tension vanishing, along with his anger at Stroud. There were no secrets to uncover, after all, he reasoned.
"I assume you do not own the key to this?" Stroud asked, attempting to force open a locked drawer on the side of Pa's desk.
Silas leapt over—pushing an annoyed Ravelin aside—to prevent Stroud from destructively breaking into something for the third time that morning. Stroud, startled at Silas's sudden movement, stepped back. Silas extended his arms, protectively prostrating himself between Stroud and the desk. Ravelin watched this with rapt fascination, pausing her writing for a moment to observe before returning to her work with increased fervor.
"I see that you disapprove of my housebreaking methods." The corners of Stroud's lips curled into a satirical smile. "I promise I won't do it again." She crossed her arms and huffed dramatically at Silas's unconvinced expression. "We haven't all day here, you know. Why don't you get washed up and change into some clean clothes while Elsbeth and I conclude our investigation? By your disheveled appearance, I doubt your shower with Warden Oscar was particularly lucrative."
Silas hardly remembered the shower she was referring to. As his arms came to rest at his sides, he shyly looked down to inspect his coat. Its material was stained with blotches of dried blood and water stains, the smudges pooling together into a polka-dot pattern of alternating dark and light blisters. Silas blushed, imagining what the rest of his person looked like.
"Exactly my point," Stroud said, nodding. "Ghost town or bustling metropolis, we can't have you seen in public looking like that." She indicated with a surveying wave the length of Silas's body.
She says this now, yet had no qualms bringing me to the Sanctorium in this exact attire yesterday, Silas fumed as he marched out of Pa's study. No wonder Baron Dannel recognized me right away. Before disappearing into his room—and closing the door behind him—Silas glanced over his shoulder.
Ravelin was bent low, sitting on her heels, in front of Pa's desk. Stroud stooped over her, instructing the young woman how to breach a lock using two thin metal wires. They could have done that earlier, Silas surmised as he turned around and closed his bedroom door, obscuring his view of Pa's study, yet they chose not to.
Silas stood with his back to his closed bedroom door, scanning the space. He allowed his mind to transport him to a different scene, imagining that he was getting ready for school instead of preparing for this journey to an unfamiliar destination. If he thought hard enough, the sounds emanating from Pa's study changed, too. The soft murmuring voices of Stroud and Ravelin transformed into Pa muttering to himself as he cooked breakfast. The metallic grinding as the Arbiters attempted to unlock the desk was the tinkle of silverware being set on the table. Maintaining these mental images, Silas stepped away from the door and carefully weaved between the books scattered upon the floor. With expert precision, he danced over to his armoire and procured a clean set of clothes. The only other coat he had was a fine, steam-pressed trenchcoat normally reserved for special occasions. As Silas stripped off his bloody and water-clogged articles, he decided that today was a special occasion after all. He laid his fresh attire on his bed and wrapped himself in a plush bathrobe, grinning to himself as his daydream unfolded. Instead of traveling to 47 Brimthorne Lane with two Imperial Arbiters, he was getting ready to celebrate Syzygy Day with Pa. They would be going out for a night in the city, eating at a fancy restaurant, and then joining the other excited partiers as they gazed upward at the night sky, waiting for the planets to align—signifying the start of a new syzygy. He padded out of his room on bare feet, walking across the landing toward the washroom. Stroud and Ravelin were quiet, staring intently into the depths of the recently-unlocked drawer, brows furrowing deeper the longer they stared. Silas ignored them, gently closing the washroom door behind him and latching the lock.
He cranked the shower valve as far left as it would go. Soon, hot water streamed from the faucet and fogged the washroom mirror, obscuring Silas's view of himself. He removed his bathrobe and stepped into the shower, sighing in pleasure as the hot water washed over him, the heat relaxing his tense muscles. He stood under the stream for some time, his face tilted down to watch the water pool under his feet around the half-clogged drain. He then went to work, using a thick bar of soap to scrub crusts of blood from his skin and freeing clots from his matted hair. Working slowly, he scrubbed until his skin was red, as much from the water's temperature as from the friction of the exfoliation. When the hot water began to cool, Silas turned off the flow and stepped, dripping, onto a bathmat. Once dry, he pulled his robe back on, wrapping it around his front and tying it closed.
He walked over to the sink and pulled outward on the mirror, revealing a medicine cabinet on its opposing side. He considered the bottles of Powder of Neuroleptic, neatly stacked front to back and one on top of the other on the cabinet's racks. Silas seldom forgot to take his Powder, always doing what the physicks recommended to keep the Voices at bay. But now, he doubted his episodes were psychiatric in nature, and deliberated whether to continue taking the vile, bitter concoction. After all, he had skipped his dose the previous night, and the Voices had been quiet since the day of the attack. If they truly were "stress-induced," as Dr. Strath so confidently proclaimed, shouldn't the Voices be loudest now more than they had ever been? Silas shook his head and closed the medicine cabinet, returning the mirror to its normal position. He decided he would no longer take the Powder, but could not stop himself from pocketing a single bottle.
Just in case, he told himself.
Silas snuck out of the washroom and padded back to his room, his attention flicking to Pa's study as he passed. He noticed Stroud holding a thin strip of parchment, her focus scrutinizing its contents with a deep frown wrinkling her chin. Ravelin was whispering something into her ear, her lips racing as the words flew from her mouth. Neither one of them glanced at Silas as he walked by. He wondered what they were doing with their attention absorbed in the little strip of parchment. Did they find the strip in Pa's desk? If so, why was it locked tight? And what did it say that distressed them so?
Silas quickly dressed in his fresh clothes and combed out his damp hair. He permitted himself a glance in the mirror, relieved to find his reflection looking clean and polished once more. However, he wore a smear of purple-black bags under his eyes that hollowed out his face, giving him a haunted, gaunt look. He attempted a smile to add life to his expression, but the effort of it made his eyes protrude. The effect was unsightly, so he relaxed his face to wash it away.
Unsure how long he would be gone with Stroud and Ravelin, he packed a small bundle. Included were a clean shirt, a fresh pair of thermal underwear, his comb, and his toothbrush and paste, which he grabbed from the washroom. The single jar of Powder went in as well, its familiar presence comforting to Silas. Finished packing, he stepped into the landing and cleared his throat to draw Stroud's attention. She jumped at the sound, her gaze widening as it begrudgingly left the parchment and landed on Silas. Furtively, she shoved the parchment into a pocket of her coat and stood straighter, trying on a confident smile that didn't reach her eyes. Ravelin stood stiffly beside her, still staring with narrowed eyes at the spot the parchment once was, her thoughts elsewhere. Silas looked between the two, his brain working to decipher the secret that lay between them.
"Well, you sure clean up nicely," Stroud nodded her head approvingly, surveying Silas's clean fa?ade.
She was trying to hide it, but Silas heard the quivering undertone beneath her voice. Her performance was not convincing him. She noticed this and took a step to the side, blocking Silas's view of the open drawer with her body.
"If you are ready, then let us be off! Dysol doesn't shine all day." She clapped her hands together, punctuating the tense air with a clarifying, percussive beat.
Ravelin blinked slowly as though waking from a deep slumber. Her attention crawled upward, finally meeting Silas's gaze. Silas watched her watching him, trying to discern what her body language was saying. The flicker of her irises as they scrutinized his face, along with the way her fists shook at her sides, painted a fuller picture. She was scared, and Silas needed to know why.
Silas barreled past Ravelin, beelining it for the drawer. Ravelin flinched away before he could touch her, wrapping her arms protectively around herself as her face contorted in disgust. Stroud's mouth dropped open, too shocked by Silas's behavior to maintain her carefree demeanor. Silas glared into the empty drawer, finding nothing but a thick accumulation of dust. A rectangular spot in the center of the drawer was spotless, not a speck of dust or grime to be seen. It was suspiciously the same size and shape as the piece of parchment Stroud pocketed moments before.
Silas abruptly turned and reached out an arm, moving with as much intention as Stroud when she booted open the doors. He sprang, reaching upward for Stroud's coat pocket. Her shock disappeared as a militaristic, stone-cold intention jolted her into motion. She twisted as she grabbed Silas's outstretched hand and spun him around, the force of his own momentum pitching him forward. Now facing the opposite direction, his arm was wrenched behind him, held firmly in place by Stroud's iron grip. For a moment, he struggled, thrashing against Stroud in an attempt to free himself. When that didn't work, he relaxed, an indignant growl escaping him as rage burned in his throat like bile.
"So the mouse thought he could play at being the snake," Stroud whispered into his ear. She suddenly released her grip, and Silas stumbled a few steps forward.
He whipped around, bracing for a blow, a shout, any kind of reprimand from Stroud. Yet she looked contemplative, not angry. Calmly, she turned her head to raise her eyebrows at Ravelin, who had backed herself against the wall and stood statue-still, staring at Silas with alarm. Her notepad and stylus were forgotten, left to rest on Pa's desk away from her grasp. Stroud sighed, shaking her head in disapproval at the younger Arbiter. Ravelin's attention flicked between Silas and Stroud before she carefully extricated herself from the wall and walked over to Stroud's side, her knees visibly quaking.
Unsure how to express himself, Silas signed angrily. He knew neither Stroud nor Ravelin could understand him, but he had to vent his frustrations somehow.
"What did that parchment say?"
Stroud watched him sign, his hands faltering and jerky with anger. She patted the pocket that held the slip of parchment.
"It is clear that our attempts at concealing the evidence were futile, Elsbeth." Stroud shrugged, seemingly unfazed. She let her hand drop from her pocket. "I know this is unfair to you, Silas, but you will not be learning from Elsbeth or me what was written on this parchment. Not yet, anyway."
Silas's body shook with indignant fury. In response, Stroud's face softened. She walked over to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. Stunned, Silas let it rest there for a moment, staring up into Stroud's thoughtful expression.
"But do not assume that I will keep this from you forever. I simply don't know what to make of these findings yet." She released Silas’s shoulder and leaned back, flicking her thumb into her mouth to nibble on the nail, her gaze unfocused. "Once I have looked into this deeper and have a better understanding of what I'm dealing with, I'll let you know. Right now, I think this would only bring you further distress, not clarity." Stroud chewed on her thumbnail absentmindedly, swaying gently on her feet as she thought.
"I-I will report this to Archarbiter Sorne for you, if you would like," Ravelin said, stumbling over her words. She reclaimed her notepad and stylus, tucking them into a pocket in her trousers. She refused to look at Silas, staring at Stroud with unwavering attention.
Stroud removed her thumb from her mouth and waved her hand dismissively. "Don't bother Malrick with this. Especially when we don't even know what it means." She looked at the bundle strung over Silas's shoulder. "I'd say we'd better get going. You have everything you need, I take it?"
Silas nodded, shrugging his shoulders to bring the bundle to a more comfortable position.
"Then let us be off."
Stroud strode confidently from Pa's study, leaving Silas and Ravelin alone, the only sound between them the thumping from the stairwell marking Stroud’s descent. Ravelin stumbled along after her, flying down the stairs two at a time. Silas turned, studying Pa's desk. He tried the other drawers, which were all unlocked and empty. Certain he left no stone unturned, Silas left the study, closing the door gently behind him. Before exiting the house, he walked through each room, turning off the starbloom lamps and repositioning anything disturbed by Stroud and Ravelin's investigation. Finally satisfied, Silas walked out the busted front door and climbed into the backseat of Stroud's boiler. Ravelin now sat in the passenger seat, leaving Silas alone in the posterior cabin. He leaned his forehead against the window, watching the house shrink from sight, when something sharp pressed into the marrow of his skull—not words, not a thought, but a raw pulse of hatred. It seared through him like a claw dragging across glass, leaving his breath shallow and his hands trembling. Silas snapped upright, heart thundering, but the claw was gone, leaving only the hiss of the boiler's pipes and the long road stretching toward the unknown.
