The Semaphore

The cell was too narrow for Mondagreen to lie down. He sat against the wall—unpainted concrete—with his legs crossed, massaging his ribs where a member of Osseon's Security Forces had tackled him. He hadn't resisted, and he was proud of himself for that; he could have fought back, drawn his katana and dealt blows from which they would never recover. But they were simply protecting the people of Osseon from a perceived danger. Though it was not lost on Mondagreen that the people of Osseon—who named their children after the Blisstaker—were maybe in need of a different kind of protection. Not from intruders but from their own demented perceptions. Then again, Mondagreen knew very little about them, and it was not like he or his people were without their own moral lapses. Especially him. Especially Mondagreen.

They took everything from him: his cigarettes, Sarabeth, the satchel… He tried to explain that he was there for a reason—an urgent reason. He tried to explain there was a girl in the satchel who needed medical attention, or some kind of attention, that she was in pain. He blurted out—as they shackled him and dragged him into the back of an enclosed vehicle—that there was a man with no eyes at the bottom of a hole in Arborvale who probably murdered Mondagreen's friends—not to mention an entire town of people—and that it all had something to do with a Hemmick practitioner who, for hundreds of years, had waited in hiding to… Mondagreen must have sounded like a lunatic, and as the guards slammed the vehicle's doors, sealing him in darkness, he felt quite like a lunatic as well. He pondered seriously for the first time since leaving Allegewi with the girl what on earth he was doing, and why, really, he was doing it.

There was a single small window near the ceiling of the cell through which dim light trickled. The cell smelled fine, at least. Like disinfectant. Mondagreen had spent time in a few cells that did not smell fine. He figured that at this very moment the Security Forces were discovering the girl inside the satchel, recoiling in horror at her condition. It would appear to them—and why wouldn't it?—that Mondagreen was responsible for the horrible things done to her. They would confer with whatever authorities granted permissions for execution, and return to his cell in the night, throw a bag over his head, and drag him into another concrete room. He would plead and beg and try, again, to explain the situation, that he was here to help the girl, that he would never hurt a child—or anyone—with such sadism.

But was that true? His katana had opened dozens of throats, severed scores of limbs. Of course Mondagreen never instigated violence—almost never—and yet kept finding himself in situations where people wanted to hurt him. That was not how good people lived. Good people avoided conflict at all costs. Mondagreen was not one of those people, and it pained him. But there was something that pained him even more. There was someone else he was killing, slowly and without weapons. Someone who had done nothing to deserve it. He thought about Tecca. He thought about Ramsy with her smoky voice and the sweet, salty smell of her hair. He thought about Necko, barely a year old, dying in small, terrible ways at the absence of his father. His father, a coward and a killer, had run away just when he was needed. And wasn't that why Mondagreen was really here in this cell? Wasn't that why he had really made this pointless, dangerous dash through Senescence to a city in search of answers to a question he didn't even know? Wasn't that really it? Because he would rather be anywhere in the world than where he was needed. He would rather be dead or in a cell than face the possibility that he might be the same kind of man his own father was. It all made perfect sense. Mondagreen wished he had his katana with him only so that he could drive it through his own heart.

The bolt on the outside of the metal door clunked and whined, and the door swung open. Mondagreen expected a trio of guards to rush in, seize him and drag him somewhere to be executed without trial. But only a single man entered. He was older, perhaps sixty, with a shaved head, frameless spectacles, and tight fitting black robes. He stood just inside the cell, his hands behind his back. He looked at Mondagreen with absolutely no expression on his face.

"Strange," said the man after awhile, his voice thin. "You don't look like a centuries old Hemmick Votary."

Mondagreen stood abruptly, caught by surprise and momentarily forgetting about his swollen ribs. "How did…" Then the pain returned, and he buckled over. "I'm not," he managed, leaning against the concrete wall.

"No, of course you're not," said the man. "But it does raise the question then: What are you doing sneaking into the Garden of the Well with a Witness of Nonk'non in a satchel?"

Mondagreen took a slow breath, fighting the urge to collapse to the floor. "I'm looking for help," he said. "For the girl… the Witness… The folk who brought her to me, they reckoned there might be a one here who could help her…"

The man's eyebrow twitched so minutely that it might not have moved at all. "Who are these people?" he asked. "Who brought the Witness to you?"

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"Pontis Inoue and Varia Longley," Mondagreen said, closing his eyes against a wave of pain. "They came from Lowood Den. They're dead now."

"You killed them?"

"What? No. They… they went down a hole, in Arborvale, in the Allegewi Forest. They were trying to find answers, about what happened to the girl. They never came out."

The man's expressionless eyes bore into Mondagreen. For nearly a minute he was silent, and Mondagreen started to worry that there was something he could be saying to convince the man that his story was true.

"You're very lucky," the man said eventually. "Had I not happened to overhear a pair of guards discussing your arrest on my way to the Museum, you may well have been executed for a crime you did not commit."

"I appreciate that…" Mondagreen took a slow breath. "So who are you, then?"

"My name is Caboj Hayword," said the man. "I am the assistant to Curator Hobbes Nicole Penate. I have made her aware of you and your situation, and—given related events that are unfolding as we speak—she has requested I bring you to speak to her immediately. Do not worry about the junction on your name, she has lifted it. Can you walk?"

Mondagreen stood upright. He put some weight on his left leg. Pain tore through his side, and his vision swam. "You betchya," he said, his voice strained.

"Then follow me," said Caboj Hayword, turning and exiting the cell.

Mondagreen rubbed his face. He half expected the cell door to slam shut before he could reach it, the whole thing some cruel prank. But it did not.

He stepped out into a long, concrete hallway. There were no guards, only Caboj Hayword, assistant to Curator Hobbes Nicole Penate—whoever that was—walking swiftly away from him. He placed his hand against his side, hoping that a bit of pressure would help alleviate the stabbing pain of walking. Though as he followed Caboj toward the jail's exit he was dismayed to discover that it did not.

#

It was late afternoon, and the thousands of west-facing windows of the black skyscrapers of Osseon reflected the orange sky.

The city's streets followed a perfect grid, with the widest of them, the boulevard, running from north to south down the middle of the island. Mondagreen peered out from Caboj Hayword's vehicle as it whirred down the boulevard toward the square, where Malory's Palace loomed. It was taller than all the other buildings in the city by many orders of magnitude. Taller than all the other buildings combined. It was taller, in fact, than any other point on earth.

Caboj sat with Mondagreen in the backseat. His driver, a young woman who had yet to speak, guided the vehicle down a central lane that appeared reserved solely for official traffic. The people of Osseon hurried along the sidewalks, all dressed in similar unadorned black clothes. Occasionally, someone would catch a glimpse of Mondagreen through the open back window and stop to stare as he passed, but for the most part no one paid him any mind.

The boulevard fed directly into the central square. It was surrounded by austere buildings, each constructed from the same dark rock. They appeared to have been built with a unification of purpose in mind: to emulate the appearance of Malory's palace. This was evident from the appearance of the palace itself, the base of which spanned the entirety of the square's northern side. It was easily a mile in circumference, so wide that it appeared more like a wall cutting across the top of the square than a cylindrical structure, which in fact it was. In stark contrast to its size was its entrance; Mondagreen was baffled to see a single, narrow doorway at its base. It was so thin that it likely would not have accommodated more than one person squeezing through it at once. This bizarre contradistinction—between the tower's enormity and the sole, attenuated doorway—just made it appear all the more menacing.

It didn't help that Mondagreen knew the Blisstaker himself sat just inside.

The vehicle stopped in front of a wide, gray building—the only one in the square not designed to resemble the palace—with large granite columns and a long staircase leading to its entrance. Engraved into its lintel: MUSEUM OF ART AND ARTIFACT. Caboj exited the vehicle and ushered for Mondagreen to follow.

Mondagreen swung his legs onto the pavement and nearly shouted in pain. If his ribs weren't broken, they were at the very least badly contused. He took a few breaths—which also hurt quite a lot—and hobbled after Caboj.

There were two figures standing in the middle of the square, and Mondagreen stopped suddenly when he recognized them.

The riders who had saved him in Senescence. They stood unmoving in their red robes, their faces concealed behind their veils. Behind them was a red carriage, with two appaloosas fastened to its breech and two more tacked by the reins to its sides.

Mondagreen approached them, waving.

"Hoi," he yelled across the square. "Hoi, remember me?"

The two veiled figures did not react. They remained perfectly still, as if they had been there for a thousand years.

"Hoi." Mondagreen stood in front of them and offered a smile. "You two saved my life out in Senescence. Remember? It was just last night. Earlier this morning, actually. You really done a number on those Toymakers. What was that you all used? I was a little indisposed, but it looked like bottles of fire. I'd love to see that go again sometime. Full exciting stuff."

The two figures stood silently.

"Anyhow…" Mondagreen peered at them. "I just wanted to thank you. They were about to, you know, send me home… Reckon your timing couldn't've been any better." He chuckled and pulled his lip aside, revealing the three empty sockets in his gums. "Well, it could've been a little better."

Caboj Hayword cleared his throat from the base of the Museum steps. His expressionless face betrayed not a hint of his impatience.

"Thanks again," Mondagreen said to the veiled figures. "I'll get the next one." He offered them a thumbs-up—thought briefly of Pontis and experienced a surprising jolt of sadness—and then braced himself to follow Caboj up the stairs.