Splice found it adequate. He sat at a heavy oak table, a stack of rezoning ordinances and land-use proposals spread before him. His fingers traced the lines as though they might rearrange into sense if he stared long enough.
It had been three days since the mnemonic bead’s shattering, since Mycor’s collapse, since Goldie’s hand on his wrist.
He had not seen her since. He did not want to. And yet, he did.
Frowning, Splice bent over the papers. Searching. For what, he wasn’t certain. A clue. A pattern. Anything that might explain why a will had been rewritten to bind a god. Or why Marlow Truckenham had held a lease at Greymarket thirty years ago.
Why Goldie’s pulse still thrummed behind his ribs, beating in time with roots and rivers.
A cough, prim and oddly theatrical, sliced through the quiet hum of the room. Splice looked up. It was the mousy woman from the meeting. She wore a name badge on her lapel:Karen Vesuvius.
She stood framed in the doorway. Her hair was lacquered into a helmet, her cardigan buttoned so tight it could have been a carapace. She clutched a bulging accordion file against her chest.
He was surprised the building had let her pass.
As the thought crossed his mind, a sconce overhead spat twice and went dark.
“Assistant,” she said, each syllable carefully enunciated as though she were taking minutes. Her gaze swept over the paperwork spread across the table. “I was told I would find you here. Very industrious. Very civic-minded.”
She adjusted her grip on the file, then added, with a prim smile, “And very much in need of a deputy.”
This was unexpected. Splice inclined his head once, noncommittal.
Karen pressed on, emboldened. “You see, I was Councilman Truckenham’s deputy. For years. Keeper of ordinances, custodian of precedent, et cetera. And now…”
She gestured vaguely toward the table. “Well. You are, technically, the Land Trust majority holder. And such a position requires—oh, what’s the phrase?—continuity of governance. Support staff. An experienced hand to help you navigate the paperwork.”
“And what makes you think I’m in need of a deputy, Ms. Vesuvius?” Splice asked, his voice steady as stone. “What makes you think I cannot handle this?”
Karen tittered, the sound sharp and birdlike.
“Oh, of course, youcouldhandle it, sir. But you don’t know the internal politics of City Hall. It’s an underbelly. A mess ofordinances and loopholes. And, frankly, you don’t need to know them.”
She leaned a little closer, her voice dropping conspiratorially. “That’s what I’m here for. I thrive in the muck.”
Splice tilted his head, uncertain if this was meant as reassurance or threat.
Karen straightened her posture with a proud sniff. “Truckenham never truly took advantage of everything I had to offer. All that…expertise, wasted. I have plenty of experience in things he never even thought to ask me for.”
Her eyes flicked up and down his form, a little too lingering, and Splice felt the strangest prickle of disquiet. Was she… attempting seduction? Or merely boasting of her own power? Either way, the attention sat wrong against his skin.
The woman’s lips pursed. “I could ensure everything proceeds smoothly. The Trust, those dreary negotiations with Ashenvale. All in order. All in compliance. I would be… indispensable.”
Karen set the accordion file down and nudged it across the table. The faint shimmer of compliance wards clung to its edges. Inside were not just bonds and deeds but notarized minutes, draft charters, even a set of blank contracts already stamped with council seals. Tools of governance, smuggled into his lap, a bribe disguised as bureaucracy.
The gesture was so presumptuous, so oily, that Splice’s chest constricted with a cold, unfamiliar fury. He opened his mouth to answer, but the building answered first.
The lights flickered violently, plunging the room into strobing twilight. The oak table buckled, its legs groaning as they twisted inward. The printer shrieked and began spitting out pages of solid black ink, the sheets piling on the floor like fallen shadows.
Karen yelped as the carpet heaved beneath her feet, driving her backward toward the door. “This is unacceptable! A violationof Bellwether tenant-guest ordinances! I have rights! Rights of continuity?—”
The walls pressed inward, and the air grew thick and heavy, tasting of mold and old grudges. At the last possible moment, the door flung itself open, and the building expelled her into the hallway with a definitive thump.
Silence settled again, broken only by the printer’s last wheezing sigh.
Splice watched the woman flee, the cold anger receding, replaced by the familiar, humming presence of Greymarket’s sentience. He laid a hand flat on the table, a silent thanks. The wood warmed slightly beneath his palm.
“Having fun scaring off the civil servants?”
