White Heart of Justice (5 page)

O
FFICE OF THE
P
ATRON
D
EMON
OF
R
OCKTHORN
G
ORGE

Dear Ms. Onyx,

As you may know, the Demon Council recently decided to build a hydroelectric dam at Rockthorn Gorge, which will supply water from the Acheron to the New Babylon power plant via an underground conduit. Construction was expected to be complete by the end of this year, but the project has suffered numerous setbacks, including several
rogare
attacks and one workforce mutiny. The outpost lord believes you may be in a unique position to lend assistance and would like to extend an invitation to you to spend your fourth semester residency at Rockthorn Gorge.

He is aware that you may be a contender for the Laurel Crown. He has never employed any Laureates, but would welcome the chance to do so. While he cannot offer the salary, honor, or accommodations that Laureates typically receive, he is hoping you might accept the Rockthorn Gorge residency on a pro bono basis.

Once the dam is complete, the New Babylon power plant will be able to provide electricity to an additional 10,000 Haljan residents, which will directly and positively impact their standard of living by providing a renewable, reliable, cost-effective energy source for their lighting, heating, and refrigeration needs.

The outpost lord would like to meet with you before you accept his offer so that he can outline the project particulars, the workforce challenges, the
rogare
threat, and discuss other matters that may affect your desire to accept his offer.

Please let us know if you would be interested in speaking with the patron demon of Rockthorn Gorge about a fourth semester residency with us. I look forward to hearing from you.

Nephemiah Zeffre
Foreman

Luck below! The patron demon of Rockthorn Gorge's foreman sounded as if he were auditioning for a radio commercial for NBSE—New Babylon Steam & Electric. I certainly didn't begrudge those residents who didn't yet have electricity their right and desire to have it, but the cynical side of me was highly suspicious of the outpost lord's motives. Reading between the lines (and knowing that Rockthorn Gorge had been a place of historic unrest), it sounded to me like this demon lord had bitten off more than he could chew with his pointy teeth or massive jaw and now he was worried about losing not just his investment, but the shirt off his back and his demon-marked skin as well.

I had to admit, though, that despite the lack of salary, honor, or accommodations, the Rockthorn Gorge offer was more appealing than the New Babylon gaol one—but not by much.
Of course
I didn't want to accept a residency where torture was part of the job description, but the Rockthorn Gorge residency was in . . . well,
Rockthorn Gorge
. A bolder, brasher, more savage place I could scarcely imagine. And helping a demon lord recoup his ill-invested savings didn't sound like a very good “pro bono” matter to take on to me. Surely there was a more direct way to help Halja's magicless masses. Like picking a few of them to watch over as they sailed the river on vessels like the
Alliance
.

Chapter 4

B
y Monday, all of the snow demons had melted. The weekend had been unseasonably warm and the only evidence of Friday night's frivolity was a black spot where the bonfire had been. (Rafe and I didn't win, nor were we expelled for our provocative entry. Ionys' carver won, perhaps in part because by the time the festival ended the pile of empty cider and wine cups in front of his masterpiece had grown into a mountain.) All the tents had been taken down, the booths and kiosks dismantled, Saturday hangovers nursed, and Sunday studies attended to. I felt sufficiently prepared for a new week.

The cases we were studying in Artifice class were all bailiff and bounty hunter cases: how to protect artifacts entrusted to us by a demon client; how to recover said artifacts if they were stolen; how to track down reluctant witnesses and “encourage” them to testify; how to collect tithes, sacrifices, and offerings; when to accept collateral against future payments; how to remit holdings to an absent demon lord, etc., etc.,
ad infinitum
. At least the bailiff and bounty hunter cases were less grisly than the execution and murder cases had been.

*   *   *

W
hat's got you so full of light, O Dark One?”

Gordianus “Gordy” Sphalerite was one of the other MITs in Artifice with me—and my new tablemate now that Ari wasn't a student here anymore. Upper-year students took classes with both second and third years at St. Luck's. Gordy would be graduating at the end of this year. His signature felt like snakeskin. During class he would send out wispy tendrils that would wrap around unsuspecting students and start constricting. I don't even think he meant to do it. Fact was, Gordy's attention often wandered, and with it, so did his magic control. So I was left to divide my own classroom focus between Glashia's lectures and fencing with Gordy's wayward serpentine signature. I beamed a smile at him, pinched one of his tendrils that was trying to climb up my leg, and slipped into my seat.

“I missed you over the weekend, Gordy.”

He gave me a nonplussed look. “You did?”

“Uh-huh,” I said, nodding my head emphatically. I pinched another tendril back that had started creeping up my arm and winked. Gordy scowled and turned his back to me.

Artifice class was on the same floor as Manipulation (our first year “Intro to Demon Law” class) but it was farther down the hallway. The fourth floor of Rickard Building was semi-abandoned. Only MITs, our Maegester professors, and a demon or two came up here. We assumed the lack of maintenance and modernization was meant to create a more welcoming environment for our ofttimes centuries-old clients but who really knew? Maybe Waldron Seknecus, our dean of demon affairs, just preferred vintage aesthetics. In any case, once students stepped out of the winder lift at the end of the hall, they stepped back in time.

Wooden worktables on this floor were old and scarred. As were the floors. In this classroom there was even old bead board on the lower portion of the walls. On the upper stone walls, there was only one tiny square window, very high up, with iron bars. A holdover from St. Luck's Fort Babylon days. No doubt our Artifice classroom had once housed high-rank prisoners. Little had they known how appropriate and appreciated their jailhouse graffiti would one day become. Singed into the bead board with waning magic or real fire were several oft quoted laments, with
libera me ex hoc purgatorio
(deliver me from this purgatory) being the most popular among students. With a quick pruning slash across another errant strand of Gordy's signature that had crept too close to my neck for comfort, I focused my attention on the row of students in front of us.

There were five other MITs taking Artifice with me: Gordy and another third year named Benvolio “Ben” Nyssa and Mercator, Sasha, and Brunus, who were all second years like me. I sat across from Ben.

Mettius Glashia paced up and down the aisle separating our tables. I took out my casebook, notepad, and an ink pen, nodded at Ben and gave Mercator a small wave. Brunus and Sasha I ignored. Although Sasha was my cousin, we weren't close. Sometimes I wished I could get along with more people, but then I reminded myself it wasn't
my
fault if
they
couldn't accept the fact that I was a woman who'd been born with waning magic.

Brunus ignored me too, but I could feel his hatred for me in his signature. It felt even worse today than usual, which I imagined was because the question of which one of us would compete in the Laurel Crown Race had now been decided.

And that person would be me, not him.

“Congratulations, Ms. Onyx,” Glashia said. “I hear you beat your opponent in Friday's rank match.” I tensed inwardly but tried not to let it show. Glashia, and the rest of the St. Luck's faculty, excelled at provoking students. Glashia's words were mostly testing Brunus, but they were also testing me. “So you'll be St. Luck's contender for the Laurel Crown starting this Friday.”

I gave a curt nod of acknowledgement and murmured my assent and thanks, careful all the while not to sound too boastful or too modest. Brunus, however, was incapable of feigning good grace over my win. He glowered at me as a single nova-like burst of naked animosity pulsed from his signature. Glashia cleared his throat, redirecting attention back to class.

“Does anyone know who the first bounty hunter was?” he asked, returning to his lectern at the end of the aisle. Mercator raised his hand.

“Anyone besides Mr. Palladium?”

No one else responded. I could almost see Glashia's inward sigh.

“Ms. Onyx, I couldn't help but notice your contest carving at Friday night's festival.”

I met Glashia's stare, making sure to keep both my signature and expression light and easy. It wouldn't do to look guilty. Besides, I hadn't done anything wrong, and no one had complained.

“We didn't win.”

“So I was told,” Glashia said, his voice pitched low with disappointment. He cleared his throat. “
I
would have voted for you. Your interpretation of Justica was very . . . assured.”

It took every ounce of willpower I had to keep the surprise off my face. I gave Glashia a winsome smile and shrugged.
“Quandoque bonus dormitat discipulus,”
I said.
Even the good student sleeps
or, more loosely translated,
Win some, lose some
.

Glashia frowned and waved his hand dismissively. If Glashia had a motto it would surely be:
Speak not of losing
.

“My point is that you seem to have an affinity for the Patron Demon of Judgment, Punishment, and Mercy, Ms. Onyx. Which is why I thought
you
might know who the very first bounty hunter was and what they were after.” I shook my head and he tsked disapprovingly. “Mr. Palladium?”

Mercator gave me an apologetic smile. (I honestly don't know how Mercator found the time to read all that he did, what with the Gridiron rank matches, our other law classes, the endless cases, code sections, and hypothetical fact patterns we were supposed to read and memorize, not to mention our need to brief, outline, and discuss all of it with other students
outside
of class in the hopes that we could understand and retain at least half of the information we were exposed to.)

“The first bounty hunter was a Maegester named Antonius Graemite, who was tasked with finding and retrieving the sword that Metatron made for Justica,
Album Cor Iustitiae
, or the White Heart of Justice.”

Like every other kid in Halja, I'd heard of the White Heart. It was Metatron's
magnum opus
, a near-mythical artifact that Metatron supposedly carved out of a giant opal and then ensorcelled for Justica. These days, most people believe that Metatron carved a white sword out of
something
(possibly ivory from the tooth of a defeated demon) and that he probably ensorcelled the sword in some way, but almost no one believes the rest of the legend—that the White Heart was some sort of doomsday weapon or philosopher's stone.

Mercator repeated what most of us knew. According to medieval lore (no doubt spread by other Angel heralds and scribes who hoped to follow in Metatron's entrepreneurial footsteps), Metatron traveled extensively throughout Halja during the middle ages “searching for Justica.” Some believe Metatron found her and the two reigned together for a time in a traveling circuit court over the far-off outposts. Others believe Metatron died on the road, lost and lonely. Many others—including me—believe that Metatron's love for Justica was merely symbolic. That he revered what she stood for, not the demoness herself.

“In any case,” Mercator said, “the route of the first ‘House of Metatron'—the covered wagon that Metatron rode around in with Justica's statue and the White Heart enshrined in the back—was the route of the Old Justice Circuit.”

“Which was abolished in 1305,” Brunus cut in, apparently anxious to show that he too was capable of contributing to the classroom discussion, “after a group of Maegesters and their Guardians were ambushed and killed by
rogare
demons somewhere along the southern part of the route.”

“True,” Glashia said. “But let's get back to the first bounty hunter case.” Brunus scowled and Glashia continued uncaring that he'd just told Brunus his contribution was factually correct but irrelevant. “So Gaemite was the first bounty hunter and the White Heart was his first target. Did he find it?”

We all shook our heads. The White Heart was legendary in part because it was still missing. So no one could compare fact with fiction.
Had it really been carved from an opal? Was it truly ensorcelled with unimaginably powerful magic?

“The White Heart is still missing,” Glashia continued. “Different theories have surfaced from time to time on its possible whereabouts, but no one has yet recovered it.” He looked at me when he said that last bit. Considering I would be entering a race to find and retrieve a difficult target starting this Friday, his look caused a small pinprick of alarm to pierce my belly.

There was no way the race coordinators would pick the White Heart as my target. Right?

It was too big, too mythical, too . . . irretrievable. It had been missing for hundreds of years. Greater minds with stronger bodies and more powerful magic had searched for it and failed. I bit my lip (violating my own policy of never looking nervous in Artifice class) and refocused on Glashia, who'd just asked if anyone knew who had hired Graemite to find the sword for them.

“Astraea?” Sasha volunteered. Astraea was the young demoness who had inherited Justica's followers, but apparently not her sword. Glashia shook his head.

“The Divinity?” Ben suggested.

Glashia looked thoughtful. “Be more specific, Mr. Nyssa.”

“The Ophanim?” But it was clear from Ben's tone that he wasn't at all sure of his answer. The Ophanim were a more militaristic branch of the Divinity. They were modern-day knights—similar to Maegesters in a way—but their sole client was the Divinity. It was a good guess, but I was pretty sure it was incorrect.

“No,” Glashia said, confirming my hunch.

“The Amanita,” I said quietly. I too might have phrased it as a question, but for the fact that Glashia admired confidence above all else. But my answer was as wild a guess as the others, based only upon my earlier discussion with Rafe when he'd told me that the Amanita believed that Metatron's work defied everything an Angel stood for.

I could tell I'd surprised Glashia with my answer. Apparently, he hadn't been expecting anyone to know. He seemed both pleased and annoyed.

“Correct, Ms. Onyx. Metatron died without issue so the Angels inherited his possessions. When the Amanita discovered that the White Heart was missing they hired Graemite to find and retrieve it for them. You seem remarkably well informed. Do you know why they wanted it?”

Again, that stare. The one that made me nervous about the upcoming race. The one that made me think Glashia knew more than he was saying. It also looked the least little bit like a warning.

Did I know why the Amanita wanted to find the White Heart?

Other than the fact that most people generally wanted what was theirs, not really. But I could guess. Most likely the White Heart had been created using perennial magic, which would explain some of the more outlandish suppositions about its capabilities. And since Metatron had created the White Heart, and the Amanita believed his magical “experiments” were blasphemous, my guess was the Amanita wanted the White Heart so they could destroy it.

But then I remembered that Rafe had said the Amanita were hypocrites. That they practiced perennial magic in order to “fight fire with fire.” So maybe the Amanita wanted the White Heart in order to use it.

I shrugged. Glashia narrowed his eyes at me, perhaps guessing I knew more than I was willing to say. But he moved on.

“Last question about the first bounty hunter case before we move on to the more modern ones . . . Where was the White Heart last seen?”