NONE SO VILE

09: Six Days Dead

Albedo, Rennaire, 1802.

The boot hung still a few inches from Alabaster's face. Beneath the mud and bodily fluids it was a fine piece of cordwaining, with neat stitches and well-cut pieces of leather. Alabaster was surprised none of the roaming looters had pried the heavy brass buckle off yet, but he'd no doubt they would find it eventually.

It was a rich man's boot, attached to a rich man's leg. The fox was six days dead, his face beaten into bloody anonymity, gravity dragging the fermenting broth of his body down into those rich boots, fusing leather with his rotting flesh. Above the neck it was even worse – the noose had been pulled tight and now formed a tourniquet, keeping all the juices from his brain sealed up-top. His milky eyes were bulging from the pressure, a swollen tongue propping open his muzzle.

The corpse was ripe, ready to pop.

One small tug of the ankle, that's all it would take. A part of Alabaster wanted to do it; to yank him down and let the headless body fall like a busted sewage pipe, the foul entrails spilling out into the gutter. Let the rioters deal with that mess. Killing is so easy, it's what comes after that is hard.

Six days had passed since Lazare's massacre at La Tour de Sel, and the city had gotten worse with each one. As news spread from the prison, the people had become enraged. First came the fires, then the riots, and now the hangings.

“But what comes next?" Alabaster whispered to himself. On the body beside the rich fox hung a female badger, his revenant vulture Bellamy perched on the beam above her, that long beak picking at the carrion flesh. If Bellamy had any guesses, he kept them to himself.

The King had decided to try and regain control of the city block by block. The city guards all gathered up together like a small army, moving from the western wards to the east in a slow, concentrated wall of law. It would be several days at least until they returned to this section of Albedo, but Alabaster did not have several days to wait.

He glanced down to Sarento's arrest report, spattered with dry blood but still very much readable. The killers had been a dead end, the Undercity middle-man had been a dead end, and the poisoner had just been dead.

Weeks had passed since Alabaster awoke in the peasant graveyard, and still he felt no closer to knowing who was responsible. This was his last chance, the final thread on the sordid tapestry of his revenge – the man who had condemned the poisoner Sarento to La Tour de Sel.

Claude Reinhardt, High Judge of the Eastern Ward.

A relatively unimportant man, squirrelled away in the most unimportant of the city's many courthouses. A perfect little servant, by Alabaster's assessment; important enough not to be questioned by those around him, but removed enough from the royal palace that he could be easily controlled.

Clever rats, he thought, claw tightening around the report. But the cat finds your scent eventually.

Reinhardt's home had been empty, already ransacked by the wandering protestors several days prior – if the High Judge was still alive, the Eastern Ward Courthouse was the only place he could be. Unfortunately, the rioting abolitionists had decided it would make the perfect place for their new centre of chaos.

The eye of the storm, at least in this district. The steps leading up to the courthouse were littered with broken wood and glass, smeared black from fires, and draped in soiled Rennairan flags. The front walls of the wide, squat building were covered with abolitionist symbols slathered up in bright paints. All across the second and third floors large windows stood shattered, broken bodies lying beneath them – victims of the latest wave of defenestrations. The one unimpressive statue out the front of the courthouse gates had been toppled over, and somebody had sawed the head off and taken it. What exactly a bunch of angry peasants planned to do with the severed copper head of a centuries-dead King, Alabaster couldn't begin to guess.

He'd been watching the courthouse for several hours now, crouched down in the mess of debris stacked by the gallows they'd built across the street. None of the rioters seemed brave enough to come back to the corpses they'd made, but Alabaster had always felt at home amongst the dead.

There was an order to the disorder, he'd noticed. The rioters had no systems of organised rank or structure, but there were definite ringleaders moving about nonetheless. The ones assigned to 'guard' the courthouse steps milled about at random, not stuck to any one post and instead simply drifting, kicking around the discarded trash and occasionally banging their weapons on things. Alabaster found it amusing – a more organised group would have actually been easier to infiltrate, because he couldn't predict the rioters' patrol patterns if they didn't have any. Not that it mattered, sneaking by didn't seem like much of an option to him; the halls inside the courthouse would be cramped and narrow, and the second someone saw his white scales the mob would be on him like flies on the rich fox swinging above.

If they found him he would be overwhelmed immediately, and after the carnage at the prison, he doubted even a frightening show of sorcery would scare them off this time. But six days had passed, and if Judge Reinhardt was still alive, Alabaster knew he wasn't likely to stay that way for very long. If he wanted any chance of getting to the judge, it had to be now.

“Why can't anything be easy?" He wondered, glancing back up at the dead fox above him. A shift in perception showed him the threads of other drifting off the corpse, stretching out to the world like the tendrils of a fungus reaching for the light. This corpse was too far gone to puppet; the acids within it had already broken down the muscles and ligaments, leaving it little more than a sagging husk of liquified innards. But the husk itself… Now, perhaps that was still useful.

When he thought nobody was looking, Alabaster climbed up the side of the gallows' side-strut, slipping his kriss dagger from its sheath and stretching out towards the corpse. It only took three back-and-forths to cut the rope, the corpse falling to the ground with a wet plop, splaying out on the gutter bricks like a dropped mophead. Alabaster quickly followed it down, flattening the body out and stretching the limbs apart. Excited by an easy meal, Bellamy glided down to the ground, but Alabaster quickly shooed him away, turning on the body with his dagger in claw.

It took fifteen minutes to prepare the ritual. Rigour mortis had set in days ago, and Alabaster had to break the fox's jaw in order to get an imbued bone charm into its mouth, but otherwise the preparation gave him no trouble. When Alabaster had first begun his apprenticeship as an Urdo witch-doctor, Fayez had explained how all pieces of the physical realm were made up of tiny building blocks. They stacked together to create matter, and the magical threads of other were strung through just like the stitching on the rich man's boot. The other was what bound reality, what created men and minerals from the primordial sludge the world was made of. But just as a mighty redwood could be broken down into planks of wood, so could a man's body be broken down into composite parts.

Speaking the language of the First Angels, Alabaster unravelled the threads that bound the body together. A nauseating stench wafted up as entropy devoured the corpse before his eyes, the fur, the meat, and finally the bones of the rich fox melting down together into a pool of sticking purplish fluid. It was almost warm to the touch, and Alabaster wasted no time in slathering the corpse-gunk across his arms and face, careful to make sure he covered up any exposed part of his scales. As the sorcery came together, he shaped his claws into orange-furred paws, moulding an oversized muzzle atop his face, and using his new fingers to pinch above his head and create two pointed ears. The tail he decided would be too difficult, and so he opted to ignore that part, tucking his own spiked extremity into the leg of his trousers, hoping that his draped cloak would be enough to conceal it.

The necromantic visage felt like mud on his skin, lukewarm and sucking, but as Alabaster found a nearby puddle of filthy water he decided the transformation was sufficient. Any fox that looked as misshapen as he did would certainly be considered some kind of freak by most who saw him, but he doubted any peasant in the world would decide that was a less likely option than the truth. He'd once seen a pathetic attempt at taxidermy of a feral fox by a man who'd never seen one, the animal's face bloated and oddly proportioned – Alabaster's new corpse-face reminded him of that.

Dressed as a dead man, he found one of the abandoned abolitionist flags on the ground, shaking the water from it and wrapping it around his shoulders.

Just another angry peasant, he thought, slowly climbing up the steps towards the courthouse gates. He gave himself a bit of a limp, to help add to the idea he was an invalid. The disfigured of the world made most people uncomfortable, and their naive mix of pity and revulsion would keep them from asking too many questions.

At the top of the steps a wolf was guarding the courthouse's front door. He had dark grey fur, with green paint smeared over his eyes and a tattered vest pulled over his chest. His bare feet dangled over the edge of the crate he was sat on, a rusted cudgel to his left, an oversized flintlock pistol to his right.

“Hail, brother citizen!" He said as Alabaster approached, smiling broadly.

“Hail… brother," Alabaster coughed, dipping his head as if ashamed. The protestors were almost like a cult, and every cult had a shared rhetoric, he just needed to figure out like he knew what it was. “Shelter to the faithful inside?"

“Faithful?" The wolf cocked his head. “Have you not heard the Speaker's word, citizen? There will be no need for faith in our new society, every man will make his own fate!" His chest swelled as he recited. “No Gods! No Kings! Only Man!"

Alabaster nodded fervently, raising his claws. “Of course, of course, I meant faithful to the cause, you understand… citizen."

The wolf clapped his paws together, sliding off the crate and stepping towards Alabaster. He reached out as if to help steady him, but Alabaster quickly pulled back, as if he were afraid to be touched. The wolf paused, eyeing him.

“Are you… alright, brother?" His voice dropped, ears sagging. “It ain't leprosy, is it? Sorry, I can't let you in if it is, you see."

“No, no," Alabaster shook his head. “An ailment of… a cursed birth, not contagious. But it does hurt from time to time."

“Well, soon it won't," the wolf replied, his tail sweeping the dust behind him. “Soon we'll do away with the old ways, and you can get the medicines they've been keeping from you. Here," he said, stepping beside Alabaster and pointing inside the courthouse. “Go on in, I think the Speaker is gonna talk soon, best you hear what he's got to say I think. He's much better with the word than I am."

“Thank you, thank you," Alabaster replied, half-bowing to the wolf as he shuffled inside.

The visage felt like it was constantly slipping from his body, and Alabaster had no choice but to trust his sorcery, resisting the urge to constantly re-affix the loose hide packed tight around his eyes. It was a weak parlour trick, but so long as nobody touched it, Alabaster would remain undetected.

As he limped across the courthouse lobby, he glanced around surreptitiously, trying to get a sense of the state things were in. It was less filthy in here than the streets outside, but that was a low bar to pass. Flyers littered the ground underfoot, a small chuckle finding its way to Alabaster's throat as he saw himself crushing Leon Valoisier's printed face every time he took a step. Flags and symbols covered the walls, and there were several small huddles gathered in the corners of the room, whispering amongst themselves. The expressions he saw were simultaneously euphoric and suspicious, grinning slightly too-wide, eyes darting around nervously. Alabaster had seen the same kind of look before on powder addicts in need of the next fix. They knew deep down this wouldn't last, but they were hoping they were wrong.

Naive fools, he thought, snorting to himself. Three days from now and this place will be filled with city guards. Where will your new world be when the noose is around your neck?

In Urdo, Alabaster had seen what happened when slaves fought back. Some of the boys in his den had made a break for it once, going so far as to survive a week outside of the city, hiding themselves in the desert plains.

But they had only escaped once, and the slave-catchers had brought back a hundred runaways before them. There was no chance. Eight days after they'd gotten out, Alabaster saw them dragged back screaming and crying, begging to be lashed, promising they'd be good. There were five of them, and two had been allowed to live.

The things that were done to the other three made sure nobody tried to escape again.

In Kiberland, the King had offered a constitutional limitation, a pithy scrap thrown to whimpering dogs to shut them up. Better than torture, better than nothing, but not a real change.

Urdo, Kiberland, or Rennaire, it didn't matter, the owners would never give up what was theirs. Alabaster knew the King would rather see the whole country burn than give into the demands of the common folk. Worse, he knew he didn't have to. As powerful as a violent mob was, they did not have an army, or experience, or any kind of centralised command. When things got very bad, they'd start selling each other out too. Alabaster had sold out plenty of the other boys in his den, and he felt no shame in it.

The only way not to be crushed, was to become one of those who did the crushing. He believed that, no matter what fools like Leon Valoisier thought.

Still. Alabaster stared at a young sloth girl surrounded by her elders, both of her legs missing from the knees down. She was starving, and thanks to the twenty-third Angel, she was crippled now too. The old sloths were passing her food, insisting she ate it. There's no chance for these people. They're stuck in their hole just like we were. The second they try to walk on their own they'll be shoved right back down. I couldn't escape, why should you?

What would Leon say? Probably some glib feel-good phrase that was so painfully naive Alabaster wouldn't know how to respond. That said, the jaguar was nothing if not sincere. Alabaster saw the tears in his eyes back in La Tour de Sel, and that wasn't fake. That was real pain, something he hadn't thought noblemen were capable of.

A part of Alabaster – a deep, dark part – wished he could be more like Leon, wished he could believe the world was something that could change. But that's not my way. I am what we all are – what the world has made me.

And the world made him into a survivor.

Sincere or not, Leon was as doomed as these people; the Crown blamed him for the failure at La Tour de Sel. King Phillipe had thought Lazare's attack would frighten the peasants into submission, instead it only made everything worse. Apparently, that was Leon's fault.

“Citizen? Are you alright, monsieur citizen?" Alabaster blinked, turning to face a teenaged goat staring up at him.

How long were you standing there lost in thought? And why are you so fixated on Valoisier? He kicked himself internally, feeling the eyes of the room on him. Focus, idiot. Focus on the task before you.

The goat was still staring, eyes wide as plates.

“Oh," Alabaster cleared his throat. “Yes, sorry I… lost myself for a moment."

“He's a new arrival, André!" Cried the wolf from the front door. “Show him the way to the word!"

André burst into a wide grin. “Oh!" He exclaimed. “I know what you need! You need to hear the Speaker talk, monsieur citizen!" Before Alabaster could protest, the goat lunged forward and seized his corpse-covered claw, tugging. “Come now, I will show–" the teenager's voice trailed off as he frowned down at his paw, fingers sinking slightly into Alabaster's cold, fake flesh. People were looking, muttering questions to themselves, the last thing he needed was for this stupid boy to rip his 'paw' off in front of them.

André swallowed a lump. “Why's your paw so slimy, monsieur?"

Alabaster quickly pulled himself back, hiding the limb under his cloak. “I have a… an impairment." He leaned in close, narrowing his eyes as they met the boy's. “No more questions. Lead me to the Speaker." The hypnosis took him easily, and the goat nodded dumbly, turning away to plod up the lobby's middle staircase.

Breathing a sigh of relief as they left the lobby behind, Alabaster followed the young man up the steps and to the side, crossing a narrow mezzanine. The portraits of famous judges that lined the walls had been defaced, more pamphlets of Leon Valoisier stuck to every surface.

“I do not understand this," Alabaster said, gesturing to one of the flyers. “Did this General not promise safety, then allow everyone to die anyway?"

André scoffed, as if it were a stupid question. “No monsieur, the great citizen Leon Valoisier had nothing but true intentions! He seeks to give us a voice to the King, he does! It was the Church of the One God that tricked him, and the corrupt nobility, and the damned politicians!"

“How convenient."

“The Speaker says the Church is an insidious rot on this great land," the goat said proudly. “They control all the Angels, and so every nation has no choice but to bow to their influence. They speak of purity, but they're just as corrupt as any other bourgeoisie!"

Alabaster only grunted. Urdo had been outside of the Church's influence, and they had no Angels there. When Thorn had decided they wanted the spoils of the desert, the only thing that had been able to stop them was Rennaire deciding they wanted it more.

As they rounded the corner towards the major courtrooms, Alabaster heard an eloquent, articulate voice flowing through the halls.

“Apologies, we have missed the start, monsieur!" The goat rushed forward, flourishing his arms like a presenter on stage as he ushered Alabaster through the courtroom doors.

Oh no.

The room was packed full of commoners. They held flags, pamphlets, and tools repurposed into weaponry. A selection of slightly-better armed protestors stood at the edges of the room, captured muskets held awkwardly in their paws as they worked at their best soldier impression. Like every other part of the courthouse, the old-money portraits had been torn down, the courtroom pews smashed to bits, the walls slathered with slogans and symbols.

All eyes were on the judge's bench at the front, on the man Alabaster could only assume was the Speaker.

He stood atop the bench, looking down at them all proudly; a surprisingly young fox, broad-shouldered with brownish fur. He wore a long green greatcoat, a lop-sided tricorn hat, and had an abolitionist flag pulled tight around his shoulders like a cloak. In one paw he held a noose, in the other a pistol, waving both around to emphasise his points.

“–victims of generational usury, and we say no more!" He declared, firing the pistol into the air.

“NO! MORE!" The crowd punched the air, crying out their agreement in one voice.

The Speaker threw his arms wide as the crowd settled. “For too long we've bent our backs and emptied our plates for those who live in gilded cages! The King and his court, those bloated leeches, they grow fat on our blood and tears! Is this the life we were meant for, is this life even worth living? Toiling endlessly while they squander on silks and champagne?"

“NO! MORE!"

Alabaster's stomach turned as he looked around the room, and realised the fervent energy of the peasants. They were ready. Ready to fight, hell, ready to die for this man and his words.

The Speaker went on, words flowing effortlessly. “They call themselves nobles? Noble for what? For breeding more parasites to suck us dry? Their blood is no different than ours! They bleed when they're cut, they cry when they're hurt–" He pointed to a man sitting in the accused box at his right, an ageing bear beaten bloody, paws locked with manacles. “–they die when their precious necks are exposed! They are not gods, my friends, they are only men! Flawed, greedy men who have stolen our futures!"

The crowd knew what to say.

“NO GODS!"

“NO KINGS!"

The Speaker grinned. “ONLY MAN!" He cried, applause following. “Some might say they try their best! Yet, do you see them trying as famine tightens its grip? Do they share their bounty as our children waste away? No! They hoard their grain while we starve! They preach piety from their palaces while our loved ones lie cold in the streets! They send our children to war and kill us for daring to speak out! Where is their compassion?" He turned on the beaten bear beside him, who quickly cowered beneath the Speaker's glare. “Where is their fucking justice?"

“Puh-Please!" The bear called, his words muffled by his swollen lips and broken teeth. He raised his manacles up, the chains rattling. “I tried to be merciful! I did!"

Alabaster tried to keep his composure. Was that Judge Reinhardt? Are they going to execute him? He watched the crowd, there were far too many of them, and this time there was no golem to help him.

How do I get you? How?! He tried to rack his brain for an idea. A distraction? Something to pull them all away?

“MERCY?!" The Speaker roared, clutching his belly in a mock laugh. He suddenly shifted, brandishing the pistol at the bear, who cowered despite the fact it had fired its shot. “Where was your mercy on the Day of Salted Wounds?! I was there Your Honour, innocent men blown to pieces for no reason other than a King's wounded pride! You have no honour, you have nothing!"

The Speaker stood up straight, returning his focus to the crowd. “You have all come here because this city is crumbling! The old institutions cannot be trusted to uphold righteousness, and you are scared of being trapped on a sinking ship!

“But there is another way! We, the people, we are the true strength of Rennaire! Our calloused paws built this nation, our sweat watered its fields, our children's blood spills on its battlefields! We are the heart that pumps life into this land! Will we continue to be ignored, exploited? Or will we rise, a mighty storm, and demand what is rightfully ours?"

“WE!"

“WILL!"

“RISE!"

Alabaster was edging along the back of the crowd, trying to get a look at the front. The Speaker's words fell meaningless around him, his heart racing. Reinhardt was the last chance he had for answers, and now these idiots were going to kill him.

Had to go and get yourself captured, you damned fool.

“LIBERTY!" Cried the Speaker, shaking his noose. “FRATERNITY! EQUALITY! OR DEATH!"

“DEATH!" Echoed the crowd.

“This is our time, citizens! Time to throw off the shackles of tyranny! Time to build a Rennaire where every voice is heard, where every citizen has a say, where the rich and the poor stand equal under the law! Join me, brothers and sisters! Join me and together we will tear down the old world and build a better one! We will sentence the users, the nobility, and make every man, woman, and child in this great nation equal!"

The crowd was lost in a wordless cry of agreement, rattling their tools, stamping their feet, practically foaming at the mouth. Alabaster crept along the back, hoping nobody would notice him. He thought about trying to cast smoke, or somehow using hypnosis again, but there were just too many eyes to risk it. The second he looked like he was going for the judge, the mob would be on him.

I'll have to get to the body when they're done, he thought, praying they left his head intact.

“We start here!" The Speaker declared, holding the noose to his face and glaring down at the bear. “ROYAL JUDGE GUILLAUME JEAN-LOUIS DE AUGERNON!" He spun. “A royal name for a royal corpse!"

Alabaster frowned, the tension in his chest finally easing. That wasn't Reinhardt, there was still a chance.

If he's even alive. Reinhardt was the High Judge of this ward, a bigger fish.

“This man stands accused of many crimes!" Cried the Speaker, pointing. “Usury! Treason! Corruption! Cruelty!" He spun on his heel, pointing to Guillaume. “What say you, accused?"

“I… I…" The bear was bewildered. Alabaster could tell he was exhausted, confused and hurt. He knew there was nothing he could say the crowd would accept. “I tried my best! Really!"

“Your BEST?!" The Speaker screamed, shaking his head. “How many people were sent to the colonies under your best, Judge Guillaume? No! Better question! How many noblemen did you sentence during your tenure? How many trials of cruelty against the commoners did you prosecute? Not many, I wager? Now, please, enlighten me how many of us died for stealing bread in your watch?!"

“I was only following the King's laws, truly I had–" His words were cut off as a stone flew from the crowd, cracking across his face and drawing blood.

“WHAT SAY WE THE PEOPLE?!" Cried the Speaker, raising his arms.

“GUILTY! GUILTY! GUILTY!" Replied the crowd, jumping in place.

Alabaster watched as some of the better-armed guards grabbed the whimpering Judge Guillaume, dragging him from the box and down into the crowd. The protestors parted through the middle, allowing the Speaker to lead the accused through the courtroom and out onto the mezzanine.

Alabaster limped over the wall as the crowd followed suit, cheering after their new leader as Guillaume was hauled down to the gallows. He waited as the cries faded, the crowd moving downstairs, the last dregs of the mob filtering from the courtroom. It had been cramped before, but it suddenly felt massive, as if it would take days to cross to the other side. Alabaster released his breath, listening as he heard the shouts echoing up from the lobby. He held up his claw, now marked with two small indents where the teenager had grabbed him. Smoothing the sagging corpse-flesh over, he hurried towards the judge's bench, looking for a way into the back of the courthouse. He had to resist the urge to look over his shoulder every other second – if anyone came they'd have questions, and from the way the rest of the place was run they probably wouldn't be alone.

He's dead. Reinhardt was the first to go, along with any chance you had of finding the truth. Alabaster ignored that thought, opening a door that led into the back corridors of the courthouse and slipping through. You don't even want him to be alive, because then you'd have to save him. You know he deserves this, you know they all do.

“Shut up," he mumbled, checking left and right as he stalked the halls. Was the Speaker restricting access back here? If someone caught him, how would they react? The peasants were naive, but the image of them blown apart by Lazare had not left Alabaster's mind since that day at the prison. He didn't want to kill any of them if he could help it.

Pathetic. You think Leon's right, don't you?

“Never."

Try as he might, the man wouldn't leave his mind. They'd barely exchanged more than a few words, and yet his wandering thoughts always found their way back. What would he make of the Speaker's speech? The executions? Technically the jaguar was a nobleman himself, even if he did only come from the lower gentry.

Why are you so preoccupied with that fool? Alabaster shook his head, clearing his mind. Forget him. He never thinks about you, and by the time all this madness ends, he'll be gone anyway.

Judge Reinhardt was the one who mattered now. Alabaster had to find him before the mob came back and filled the halls once more. Unfortunately the raging peasants had either torn down or painted over most of the signage, and Alabaster just crept around stupidly, hoping to stumble upon the holding cells.

The courthouse was an oversized, fattened building, and the swollen lymph nodes of its innards seemed to stretch on forever and ever.

Up or down? East, or west? Every door opened into another ransacked office, the wake of chaos so pervasive it was actually getting boring. Is this what they expect their new world to look like? Alabaster wondered, stepping over a burnt pile of law books. Or do they think somebody else will come along and clean it up?

Everyone wanted a world with more mercy, but you made the best with what you were given. Slaves that fought back got killed. It was the clever slaves that learned to manipulate the owners, turn things to their advantage, and break free when the time was right.

And I suppose you think they should just lie down and die? The thought sounded like something Leon would say, and it gave Alabaster pause. What choice do they have? People are starving in the streets, they're sent to die in pointless wars, then taxed to hell to pay for it. You saw how fat the King is, you saw the waste and spoil on his dinner table. You really think that's right?

“Right has nothing to do with it," Alabaster growled, embarrassed to hear himself say it aloud. Leon's moronic thinking was infecting his own mind, no wonder this protest seemed to spread like a virus – it was one.

But what would you do?

“Whatever I had to." He deliberately ignored the contradiction in that thought. He'd found a sign now that pointed to a holding cell, passing by a few quiet commoners as he searched. They gave him a brief nod, but otherwise he was ignored.

Someone tried to hurt you. To disrespect you. And you'll stop at nothing to make sure they see justice. How are you any different to these people, at least they're willing to fight for something besides themselves.

“Shut up!" Alabaster whirled, aiming his fist at the wall. Wood crumbled as his claw punched through, the splinters scraping off the corpse-visage from his scales. “Stupid, fucking," he mumbled, examining his exposed claw. He'd have to hide it if anyone came along.

He pushed the thoughts down deeper. Forget Leon Valoisier. Forget everything but what you came here to do – get answers.

Mind clear, he finally found a step of grey brick stairs leading down into the dark. One claw braced on the hilt of his dagger, Alabaster skipped down quickly, checking once to make sure nobody saw him descend.

The stairwell opened up into a long hall of cells, six on either side. They were cramped, but still far more comfortable than any quarters he'd seen inside La Tour de Sel. A boar stirred behind a desk as Alabaster entered, blinking himself awake as the strange 'fox' approached.

“Citizen!" Exclaimed the boar, bowing slightly as he stood up. His words slurred slightly, no doubt a result of the half-empty wine bottle balanced on the desk before him. “What news have you brought?"

Alabaster sniffed. “The Speaker wants another judge."

The boar cleared his throat, chuckling as he turned to the cells. Less than half were full. “We're gonna have to go find some more if he keeps up at this rate, eh?"

“He wants someone in particular," Alabaster added. “Claude Reinhardt. The district High Judge."

The boar turned, a quizzical look on his face. “Not sure I know any of their names, citizen."

“You abolitionist bastards!" Cried a horse from one cell, spitting on the ground. “I'll laugh when the King finally comes down here to piss on the lot of you!"

“Shut your mouth!" The boar called back, raising a fist. He cocked his head at Alabaster. “Why's the Speaker want this Reinhardt in particular?"

“You think he told me?"

The boar narrowed his eyes, as if studying Alabaster's lopsided face. “Are you alright, citizen? You look… poorly."

“I am fine," Alabaster snapped, his patience thinning. “But the Speaker is waiting, are you going to help me or not? Citizen." He growled out the last word.

The boar shook his head. “I don't like this, all due respect, I think we ought to go back upstairs and check with him, just to see why he–" His words were silenced as Alabaster lunged forward, a claw seizing his leathery snout and shutting him up.

The boar tried to struggle but Alabaster's knife found his gut, the waved edges of his kriss sinking easily into the flesh. Floundering, the boar coughed around Alabaster's clamped claw, blood bubbling out from the sides of his mouth. One of his hands came up and grabbed at Alabaster's face, the fingers sinking into the weak corpse-flesh, dragging it out like fondant on a cake.

“Wh– Whaa?!" The boar cried out, words muffled, eyes widening in horror. Alabaster pulled out the knife, sticking him again. He yanked the dagger free and the boar swayed woozily, collapsing forward onto the desk with a thud, before sliding back onto the floor.

“Idiot," Alabaster muttered, dropping to a knee as he searched for the keys. “You couldn't just help me, citizen? You had to make me kill you." It was his own fault.

Something jingled as his fingers found the keys, quickly tugging them from the belt. Rising up, he turned to the prisoners.

“Which of you is Judge Claude Reinhardt?"

“Dead!" Cried the horse, rattling his cage. “You're all dead!"

“I hope it isn't you," Alabaster mumbled, stepping forwards. He checked each cell until he reached the last, where an old otter sat at the rear, head down. Grey peppered his muzzle, and a middle-age paunch clung to his gut.

“Reinhardt," Alabaster guessed.

The otter glanced up, blue eyes shining even in the gloom. Apprehension turned to fear as he stared at Alabaster's face, a half-melted imitation of a dead fox.

Alabaster tugged on the strings of other, allowing the visage to melt away like frost in the sun.

“Are you… the King's lamplighter?" Asked Reinhardt, rising to his feet as he tried to peer out at Alabaster. “I've been in the dark for days, I can't… Did you come to save us?"

“No. I came for answers," Alabaster said.

“Where is the guard?" The otter came forward, paws wrapping around the cell bars. “It's been nigh on a week now, I keep thinking… any day, any day the King will save us. Where is he? Where, Alabaster?"

“The King is triaging, block by block. You'll have to wait your turn, Your Honour."

“Get me out, please," said Reinhardt, pressing forward. “I can help you, we can restore order and give these people what they need. There doesn't have to be any more violence. I always tried to be fair and honest, but they won't listen to me, if we can just make them listen."

Alabaster proffered Sarento's arrest report, pushing it forward. “Do you remember sentencing a poisoner to La Tour de Sel? He was bound for the colonies, sentenced to keep him quiet about his part in assassinating the King's lamplighter."

Reinhardt's face fell slowly.

“Was that fair and honest, Judge?" Alabaster sniffed. “What about when you helped Minister Vardé illegally seize assets to help pad the King's spending?"

“You're one of them…" Reinhardt said, stepping back.

Alabaster lunged forwards, claw shooting through the bar as he grabbed the collar of Reinhardt's tattered robes, yanking him forward and slamming him into the bars. “I am not one of them. You helped someone kill me, Judge, I want to know who."

“So… let me out and… I'll tell you."

Alabaster only waited, staring.

Reinhardt broke first, sighing. “Fine. Fine! It was Lord Joachim! He came to me, told me he knew about the illegal asset seizures, and said he'd keep it quiet if I helped get rid of you. He said I was a patriot, that I was saving Rennaire!"

Alabaster released the judge, stepping back.

Joachim La Valette. It could have been any one of them, but part of Alabaster was glad. Now he had a reason to throttle that fucking bird.

“Why me?" Alabaster asked, glancing across at Reinhardt. “And why now?"

“You think he told me that?" The otter shook his head. “All I know is he wanted you out of the palace. Said you were clouding the King's judgement. I do know he… he's also the one printing those damned flyers."

Alabaster frowned. “What?" He looked down, to the pamphlet under his boot, a crude reprint of Leon Valoisier staring up at him. No wonder I can't get him out of my head, he's everywhere.

“Joachim owns nearly all of the printing presses in the city."

So he's the one inciting this chaos? That made no sense. What does he have to gain?

He had Alabaster poisoned and buried.

He was inciting the protests.

And when Alabaster turned up alive, he was the one to set him on Leon.

The pieces were right there, but they didn't seem to fit together.

Joachim is a noble. How does protestors killing noblemen serve him?

Could Joachim have had something to do with the King setting Lazare Toussaint on La Tour de Sel?

It seemed like the kind of thing he would do.

“He told me a change is coming," said Reinhardt. “Like in Kiberland, you heard about their constitution limiting the King's power? Joachim said if I helped him, the chaff would be cleared away, and I could move up to the palace. You can't blame me, look at this place, Alabaster, they haven't even bothered saving it yet! We're forgotten out here! Abandoned! Joachim promised me that my tide would rise if I came along with him, it was nothing personal, you understand, tell me you understand."

“Oh I understand perfectly, Judge Reinhardt," Alabaster said.

Joachim started this carnage, he felt it coming. The Minister had always had wet fingers, ready to sense the shifting winds. He built up the fire, and put Valoisier at its centre.

The puzzle clicked into place. Joachim would stoke madness until the very worst moment, and then he would offer Leon up to the King on a silver platter. Some dramatic show to silence the people by 'exposing' their hero. Leon would be executed, the protestors would be pardoned, and the King would have no choice but to sign a constitution like in Kiberland – except this time Alabaster would not be a part of it, and Joachim would become the second most important man in the country. It was the only option that made sense.

He wanted me out of the way because I'd catch him. I was always too close to the King, hearing his dreams, his thoughts, treating his son's illness. I might have noticed, nobody else would, they're all too focused on themselves.

The bastard. Alabaster almost admired him – it was a good plan, and that infuriated him more than anything.

“Now let me out!" Reinhardt whined, throwing himself on the bars. “Free me Alabaster, and we can go tell the King together and end this madness!"

Alabaster stepped away, shaking his head. How could he outmanoeuvre Joachim?

I have to get to Leon first. That was Joachim's biggest mistake, when I came back he saw an opportunity to be rid of Leon, to leverage the wedge he built between the King and I. Such an arrogant fool, he'd get what was coming.

Alabaster grinned. How sweet a victory it would be to steal Joachim's plan out from under him.

Destroy Leon. Get him out of my head.

Humiliate Joachim. Get him out of my way.

Rewrite the constitution, codifying the lamplighter as a royal pillar. Then he would never be afraid again.

“Alabaster!" Reinhardt reached through the bars, fingers flexing as he tried to get free. “Come now, we had a deal, mystic! Get me out and we can both go free!"

The dragon shrugged. All he could think about was Reinhardt's name on those seizure reports. The otter was no better than Joachim or Paul Vardé, he was happy to take whatever he could, from whoever he was able.

Alabaster thought of Urdo, the slave pits he'd grown up in. Would you let an owner go free?

“I am a cold blooded man, Judge," Alabaster said slowly, backing away. “But even I believe people should be given a chance. You had yours, and you used it to help Vardé steal from these people. Now… it's time they got their chance to steal from you."

“ALABASTER!" The Judge's cries echoed as he left the cells behind, the captive judges all joining in on cursing him out, rattling their cages and demanding he let them out. “ALABASTER! YOU FUCKING HERETIC! IF I GET OUT I'LL FIND YOU!"

Leon might've been a fool, but Alabaster couldn't deny a part of him was excited at seeing the corrupt judges getting what they deserved.

What a pity, just when I find something we might actually agree on, Alabaster thought, heading back up the stairs. I have no choice but to destroy you.