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Illegal Migrant Suspects In NYPD Attack Flip Off Cameras After Release From Custody
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Illegal Migrant Suspects In NYPD Attack Flip Off Cameras After Release From Custody

'It's wrong on all accounts'
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DeSantis To Deploy Florida State Guard To Texas In Unprecedented Move To Secure Border
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DeSantis To Deploy Florida State Guard To Texas In Unprecedented Move To Secure Border

Sending Florida State Guard members
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Long-Awaited Reunion Movie For ‘Community’ Is Scripted And Ready To Go‚ Donald Glover Confirms
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Long-Awaited Reunion Movie For ‘Community’ Is Scripted And Ready To Go‚ Donald Glover Confirms

'I was told that the script - literally‚ I was texting today - I was told that the script was done'
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Boy Whose IQ is the Same as Einstein Joins Mensa to Make Some Friends
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Boy Whose IQ is the Same as Einstein Joins Mensa to Make Some Friends

After receiving the same IQ score as Einstein and Stephen Hawking on a test‚ a young immigrant to the UK joined a pretty cool club to make new friends. Mensa is an international group for high-IQ individuals founded in 1947. The group welcomes children and adults in the 98th percentile of IQs worldwide in order […] The post Boy Whose IQ is the Same as Einstein Joins Mensa to Make Some Friends appeared first on Good News Network.
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SciFi and Fantasy
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Read an Excerpt From The Siege of Burning Grass
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Read an Excerpt From The Siege of Burning Grass

Excerpts Excerpt Read an Excerpt From The Siege of Burning Grass A dystopian meditation on war‚ nationalism‚ violence and courage. By Premee Mohamed | Published on February 1‚ 2024 icon-comment 0 Share New Share Twitter Facebook Pinterest RSS Feed We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from The Siege of Burning Grass by Premee Mohamed‚ out from Solaris on March 12. The Empires of Varkal and Med’ariz have always been at war.Alefret‚ the founder of Varkal’s pacifist resistance‚ was bombed and maimed by his own government‚ locked up in a secret prison and tortured by a ‘visionary’ scientist. But now they’re offering him a chance of freedom.Ordered to infiltrate one of Med’ariz’s flying cities‚ obeying the bloodthirsty zealot Qhudur‚ he must find fellow anti-war activists in the enemy’s population and provoke them into an uprising against their rulers.He should refuse to serve the warmongers‚ but what if he could end this pointless war once and for all? Is that worth compromising his own morals and the principles of his fellow resistance members? PART ONE ST. NENOTENUS’ SCHOOL FOR THE CORRECTION OF MINORS They locked him up while his leg grew back. Alefret considered this fair—generous‚ even‚ what with the wartime cutbacks‚ the effortful efficiencies‚ the general spirit of make-do and do-without that permeates a country in wartime. It was presented as a generous favour to a temporarily-inconvenienced friend: like offering a hospital bed instead of a field tent. No one spoke of his arrest or the charges against him. On Fridays executions took place in the quadrangle‚ from which it was convenient to remove the dead through the cloisters and to those hidden bonfires that Alefret could not see but could smell. All week the odour hung in the air from the single day’s work. He was mindful of the principles he had learned and taught to others‚ which exhorted him not to watch such things. Do not look. It is a small violence‚ but it is violence nonetheless. I know‚ I know that. Remember that what you see cannot be unseen. Yes‚ I know. He leaned on the windowsill to watch closely‚ as he did every Friday. How many Fridays had passed since his capture? He had lost count. The act of leaning felt good‚ as it took the weight off his ‘good’ leg (scarred‚ burnt‚ aching‚ but technically intact). Below‚ frozen breath rose smoke-slow into a sky the colour of teeth‚ and this morning all was the same hue: the faded uniforms of the executioners‚ and the scavenged prison weeds‚ and the torpid rats that waited in the corners of the quad‚ and the ice-rimed ground‚ and the clouds and the walls and the knives—one brisk movement and finally another colour appeared‚ splashing into the stiff grass. Buy the Book The Siege of Burning Grass Premee Mohamed Buy Book icon-close The Siege of Burning Grass Premee Mohamed Buy this book from: AmazonBarnes and NobleiBooksIndieBoundTarget Alefret did not look away. He was ashamed that his response to this sudden spilling of colour was hunger‚ always hunger; he was ashamed that this was why he watched. It made something in his body believe there was food in the belly. “Next! You‚ the ginge. Stand here. On the line. I said stand up!” Four today‚ dispatched with the exhausted economy of motion that was the only beauty in this place. Everyone had to save energy no matter what form it took: gas‚ wood‚ food—and whatever spark kept the body in motion‚ that had to be saved too. Alefret had noted the peculiar grace lent by efficiency to the soldiers and prisoners here; the way they walked‚ sat in chairs‚ opened doors. Nothing could be wasted. Or it might be more accurate to say that nothing remained to waste. Above the door‚ the lightspiders began to chitter‚ amplified by the curved glass of their enclosure; this was always in response to vibrations in the hallway‚ and so Alefret had enough time to push himself off the sill and sit heavily on the stone bunk as the interrogators came in. In the quadrangle below‚ another name must have been discovered on the list—and this fifth one‚ perhaps from surprise‚ was not going quietly. His shrieked pleas grew in volume and urgency until they began to stutter‚ and Alefret knew the man was struggling so that the knife could not be placed into a useful spot. The screams were so loud that for a moment neither Alefret nor his captors moved‚ as if ordered to wait for silence to proceed. Silence fell. They took Alefret by his arms‚ two panting men on either side‚ and dragged him unresisting down the hallway. They always interrogated him before the ministry of his wasps. Otherwise it would be a waste of good pain. At each session he said‚ I am innocent of all crimes‚ and invariably they replied‚ You are not. Always the same song‚ a call and response. Like the songs of his village‚ long-outlawed‚ blurred by recollection. “No. You cannot speak. Only write. Here‚ now. Now.” The walls of the room where they questioned him were still lined with schoolbooks and diagrams‚ kept (Alefret thought) only to retain what warmth was generated by the torturer’s brazier. The interrogators were cold too; sometimes their icy fingers were more startling than the instruments‚ though not often. The brazier itself was laughably small‚ like dollhouse furniture‚ and reminded Alefret of the jury-rigged stoves they had made in the city in its last days: you did not even have to chop wood‚ you fed the flames with broken-up pencils and the covers of books snipped into postage stamps. While they interrogated him he studied diagrams of eyeballs and skeletons‚ colour-coded hearts (in rushes the red blood; out the blue)‚ a plant cell as big as a bathtub‚ its jelly filled with things whose legends Alefret did not need to read. The nucleus‚ a chloroplast. A dropped shawl studded with beads: endoplasmic reticulum. The worst was a poster of pregnancy‚ everything luridly red and pink and bisected down the middle‚ from brain to knees‚ right through the tender breasts‚ the adamantine womb‚ which is stronger than any other thing. And a baby‚ neatly folded‚ eyes closed. As his blood spurted or his skin sizzled‚ Alefret often directed his thoughts to the baby: Don’t be born‚ little one. You will be born into war. Keep your eyes closed‚ face away. He often thought: I am only sorry that you must hear this during your impressionable time. I hope you are not too affected by it. He often thought: They will kill me. Don’t look. In practical terms‚ how did one incarcerate people out there on the wrong side of the front‚ whilst remaining unremarked-upon by the foe? Alefret never had cause to ponder the question (it seemed frankly ridiculous to throw your own people in prison when there were‚ to put it mildly‚ more pressing concerns). But the answer in which he was now ensconced struck him as surprisingly sensible. In strictly logistical terms‚ that is. St. Nenotenus’ School for the Correction of Minors: and he had guessed from the name that if you could not be corrected here‚ you would be buried out back. To reform you they would break your spirit or teach you to dissemble. One or the other‚ not both. In which case‚ perhaps it was for the best that it no longer held any students‚ only such persons as himself. He had been told many times‚ by many people‚ that he needed to be corrected. Reformed‚ rehabilitated‚ remade. Even in its abandoned state‚ Alefret could barely imagine the destinies of the pupils this school would have eventually matriculated. His mind’s eye conjured sickening generations of stranglers‚ despoilers‚ and frighteners; or (hopefully) something more banal‚ grim-faced little gargoyles rotating through life with the expressionless clack-clack of a brass cog. St. Nenotenus’ was never meant to create fine works of art from the raw material it was given. It would have broken children down to powder and reconstituted them‚ if they were lucky‚ into concrete. Something both useful and dead. His cell was cold and grey‚ intricately wallpapered with mould. In the capital‚ before the war‚ you would have paid a month’s salary for a pre-pasted roll of such elaborate design. Four child-sized shelves protruded an arm’s length from the dressed stone wall‚ too shallow to accommodate Alefret’s prone form. He could sit on them‚ but was forced to sleep on the floor. Having been imprisoned before‚ he had initially found the size and solitude luxurious; true‚ he slept on the floor‚ but there was room for at least another four or five prisoners‚ provided they were not built to his scale. Upon learning that he was under arrest he had expected to be crammed into a cell already full nose-to-nose. He had taken it as a kindness. Later he remembered that things began to happen to prisoners when they were locked up alone. They would know that. Things in the mind. Terrible things. So that soon enough he welcomed the executions in the quad‚ the visits to his doctor‚ even the interrogations‚ just to hear another human voice. He wondered whether the students would have called it a residence. A dormitory perhaps? Worryingly‚ the soldiers had not needed to modify anything when they arrived to appropriate it. Each room already boasted a stout iron door‚ gridded with thumb-thick bars. Hinges‚ handles‚ and locks unreachable from the inside‚ a flanged cup welded over the keyhole to prevent meddling from within. These had been prison cells long before they were prison cells. As autumn’s chill deepened‚ Alefret’s dispensary wasps grew sluggish‚ and dragged themselves about as if they too were at war. Unlike him‚ they were not imprisoned and flew freely in and out of their residence‚ a box bolted to the ceiling; they even flew outside sometimes‚ short flights‚ always returning in minutes‚ shivering. In the cold they hooked their claws into his skin and pulled with what seemed like silent groans of effort: infantry crawling through the mud of the battlefield. Now when they tasted his skin even their tongues were cold‚ like the brief lick of a draft. Then the emplacement in their ranks‚ more like artillerymen‚ the glossy abdomens rising‚ aiming‚ correcting angle and pitch‚ and firing a volley—the redhot agony of the sting. Slow spreading of false warmth as the envenomed drugs took effect. His leg was still cold‚ the wasps still cold; but warmth all the same. They all looked the same to him‚ though each had been marked with a dot of coloured paint on their thorax. He thought he had worked it out: one for antibiotics of some kind‚ one for the growth serum that was regenerating his leg‚ and one for a painkiller. Those stings made no inroads on the pain everywhere else (from the cold‚ from the isolation‚ from the questioning) and he was sure they were designed not to. But they did help the leg. The stump became stonily inert instead of a bonfire burning at his knee‚ or the riot of chewing sharks or razor-toothed lizards he sometimes hallucinated. When numb‚ it was manageable‚ and needed only to be transported to and from interrogations without weeping. The leg‚ that is. Not him. Though he also wept. On Mondays and Thursdays one of the interrogators took him to the infirmary to see the prison doctor‚ whose name Alefret had still not learned. Strange that no one had said it in his hearing. The doctor was short and slender‚ and very pale; with his gracile build and his black eyebrows sharp against his white forehead‚ he reminded Alefret of a birch sapling. The window behind the doctor’s narrow shoulders framed a beautiful thing: one last enemy city floating high on the horizon as a hawk. How had it not been brought down after two years of bombardment? It was a miracle—its every spire‚ every brick a miracle. “It is a powerful fortification.” The doctor brusquely yanked the bandages from what remained of Alefret’s knee. “But they have nowhere left to run. Go on‚ Alefret‚ stare if you like—imprint it upon your eyes.” “It is a miracle.” The doctor looked up‚ his eyes not blue or green but grey‚ as if camouflaging themselves against the stone walls. “I’m going to change your wasps. You are becoming loose in the head.” About a year ago he would have said‚ in his crisp‚ upper-class‚ urban accent‚ I shall report you for treason. But that had already happened and Alefret was already here. This was where you went if you were reported for treason. Here‚ now. And as far as Alefret could tell‚ the only reason he had not yet shared the fate of other traitors was because he was a miracle too. I am the man they blew up who did not die. I am the man he cannot kill. Not for lack of trying. During his interrogations‚ presumably at the nameless doctor’s orders‚ they avoided his stump. Everything else was fair game; and for a while Alefret had wondered why‚ if he was this medical miracle‚ the sole test subject who had survived everything hurled at him‚ the doctor had not asked them to stop torturing Alefret lest it affect the research. Later he had realized that he was not really a person to the doctor. Certainly nothing so grand as the man he cannot kill. Only an assortment of parts‚ some of which were of valid concern‚ some of which Alefret reckoned the pale man almost literally could not see‚ so that if he came into the room and there was a new bruise‚ or a fresh burn‚ anywhere except the site of the miracle-working‚ it did not register in his grey eyes. The doctor said‚ “Very good.” Was it? Alefret looked down at the stump: an ugly cut of meat‚ furiously crimson‚ ringed with the healed pinpricks of sting-delivered anaesthetic and the peppery speckles of glass and explosive and concrete and stone that had not been removed in those first frantic hours and were still steadily working their way inwards and outwards‚ like worms. The crisply-sewn seam at the end still wept‚ still sobbed its thick‚ transparent tears from the central bulging‚ bloodshot eye of the bone the doctor had assured him would grow back first‚ surrounded by the tufty gelatine that would one day be muscle‚ nerve‚ tendon‚ skin‚ even hair‚ just as before. Only the leg‚ thought Alefret‚ was the miracle. The rest of him was so much meat. A wasp hummed smoothly from its cage‚ sailed over his head‚ landed on his bare thigh. Iridescent blue and orange‚ like a hummingbird. The doctor nudged it away with the backs of his fingers‚ the only gentleness Alefret ever saw here; it was nearly enough to bring him to tears. The only thing capable of making him cry now was kindness. “Not one doctor in a thousand could have salvaged that mess‚” the pale man said‚ as he often did. “And never during a firefight… nor done this impossible thing‚ this regeneration. A word never before applied to mankind. An unreplicable combination of the wasp’s own venom and my years of research. All of medicine‚ perhaps all of science‚ will be forever changed‚ and you will again be whole. And still you will not thank us. Us‚ your countrymen‚ your protectors‚ your living shields against the horror of the enemy.” Your jailers‚ your torturers. In the face of the doctor’s proudly upraised chin‚ Alefret lowered his head‚ lower‚ lower‚ till his neck ached and his beard covered his breastbone. If you were part of the war effort‚ then you were proud of the war. The doctor‚ then‚ was proud in a way Alefret could not be and refused to be. Alefret could not even take pride in his own lack of pride. Excerpted from The Siege of Burning Grass‚ copyright © 2024 by Premee Mohamed. The post Read an Excerpt From <;em>;The Siege of Burning Grass<;/em>; appeared first on Reactor.
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History of Evil Trailer Proves That Even Sci-Fi Dystopias Can’t Escape Haunted Houses
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History of Evil Trailer Proves That Even Sci-Fi Dystopias Can’t Escape Haunted Houses

News History of Evil History of Evil Trailer Proves That Even Sci-Fi Dystopias Can’t Escape Haunted Houses Can the Dyer family survive a not-so-safe house? By Vanessa Armstrong | Published on February 1‚ 2024 icon-comment 0 Share New Share Twitter Facebook Pinterest RSS Feed Looking for a haunted house story set in a near-dystopian-future? If so‚ History of Evil has got you covered. The horror movie stars Paul Wesley (a.k.a. Captain Kirk in Star Trek: Strange New Worlds)‚ Jackie Cruz (Orange Is the New Black)‚ the young Murphee Bloom (Hit Man)‚ and Rhonda Johnson Dents (Renfield)‚ and centers on a family hiding in a safe house in the woods that is also‚ apparently‚ haunted! Here’s the official synopsis: In the near future‚ war and corruption have plagued America and turned it into a theocratic police state. Against the oppression‚ ordinary citizens have formed a group called The Resistance. One such member‚ Alegre Dyer‚ breaks out of political prison and reunites with her husband Ron and daughter Daria. On the run from the militia‚ the family takes shelter in a remote safe house. But their journey is far from over‚ as the house’s dark past begins to eat away at Ron‚ and his earnest desire to keep his family safe is overtaken by something much more sinister. The mashup of a sci-fi-esque dystopia with the haunted house trope is an interesting one‚ and the trailer below suggests that both factors will feed into the horrors that the poor Dyer family face. We’ll have to see how they fare (it’s never a good sign‚ however‚ when a small child sees another small child who just… isn’t there) when the movie becomes available for our viewing pleasure. History of Evil is the feature debut for writer-director Bo Mirhosseni. It will be available to stream on Shudder starting February 23‚ 2024. [end-mark] The post <;i>;History of Evil<;/i>; Trailer Proves That Even Sci-Fi Dystopias Can’t Escape Haunted Houses appeared first on Reactor.
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Read an Excerpt From Robert Jackson Bennett’s The Tainted Cup
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Read an Excerpt From Robert Jackson Bennett’s The Tainted Cup

Excerpts Excerpt Read an Excerpt From Robert Jackson Bennett’s The Tainted Cup A Holmes and Watson–style detective duo take the stage in this fantasy with a mystery twist. By Robert Jackson Bennett | Published on February 1‚ 2024 icon-comment 0 Share New Share Twitter Facebook Pinterest RSS Feed We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from The Tainted Cup by Robert Jackson Bennett‚ a fantasy novel with a mystery twist out from Del Rey on February 6. In Daretana’s greatest mansion‚ a high imperial officer lies dead—killed‚ to all appearances‚ when a tree erupted from his body. Even here at the Empire’s borders‚ where contagions abound and the blood of the leviathans works strange magical changes‚ it’s a death both terrifying and impossible.Assigned to investigate is Ana Dolabra‚ a detective whose reputation for brilliance is matched only by her eccentricities. Rumor has it that she wears a blindfold at all times‚ and that she can solve impossible cases without even stepping outside the walls of her home.At her side is her new assistant‚ Dinios Kol‚ magically altered in ways that make him the perfect aide to Ana’s brilliance. Din is at turns scandalized‚ perplexed‚ and utterly infuriated by his new superior—but as the case unfolds and he watches Ana’s mind leap from one startling deduction to the next‚ he must admit that she is‚ indeed‚ the Empire’s greatest detective.As the two close in on a mastermind and uncover a scheme that threatens the Empire itself‚ Din realizes he’s barely begun to assemble the puzzle that is Ana Dolabra—and wonders how long he’ll be able to keep his own secrets safe from her piercing intellect. The walls of the estate emerged from the morning fog before me‚ long and dark and rounded like the skin of some beached sea creature. I walked along them‚ trying to ignore the flutter of my heart and the trickle of sweat down my neck. A faint blue light glimmered in the mist ahead. With each step it calcified into a mai-lantern hanging above the estate’s servants’ gate; and there‚ leaning against the walls beside the gate‚ was the figure of a uniformed man in a shining steel cap waiting for me. The princeps watched me approach. He cocked an eyebrow at me‚ and it climbed higher up his forehead the closer I came to him. By the time I’d finally stopped before him it’d almost joined the hair atop his head. I cleared my throat in what I hoped was an authoritative manner‚ and said‚ “Signum Dinios Kol‚ assistant to the investigator. I’m here about the body.” The princeps blinked‚ then looked me up and down. Being as I was nearly a head taller than him‚ it took him a moment. “I see‚ sir‚” he said. He gave me a short bow—a quarter of a full bow‚ maybe a third—but then did not move. Buy the Book The Tainted Cup Robert Jackson Bennett Buy Book icon-close The Tainted Cup Robert Jackson Bennett Buy this book from: AmazonBarnes and NobleiBooksIndieBoundTarget “You do have a body‚ yes?” I asked. “Well‚ we do‚ sir‚” he said slowly. He glanced over my shoulder down the fog-strewn lane behind me. “Then what seems to be the issue?” “Well‚ ah…” Again‚ a glance down the lane behind me. “Pardon‚ sir‚ but—where’s the other one?” “I’m sorry?” I asked. “Other one?” “The investigator? When will she be arriving?” I suppressed a flicker of worry. I’d dealt with this question when working other matters for my master‚ but doing so when the situation involved a dead body was another thing entirely. “The investigator isn’t able to attend‚” I said. “I’m here to review the scene‚ interview the staff and any witnesses‚ and report back to her.” “The investigator is choosing to proceed with the investigation… without being present?” he said. “Might I ask why‚ sir?” I took him in. His short mail shirt glinted in the low light‚ each ringlet dabbed with tiny pearls of condensation. Very fancy. Ornate belt at his waist‚ slightly soft belly hanging over the buckle—a consequence of early middle age. Same for the thread of gray in his beard. Black boots highly polished‚ trim woven with seaweed-stained leather. The only standard-issue item on his body was the longsword in his scabbard and his dark red cloak‚ indicating he was an Apothetikal: an imperial officer responsible for managing the Empire’s many organic alterations. The rest of it he must’ve purchased himself‚ probably for a princely sum. All this told me that even though I was a signum and thus technically outranked him‚ this man was not only older and wealthier than me‚ but he’d probably seen more in his career than I could imagine. I couldn’t blame him for wondering why the investigator had sent this twenty-year-old boy in ratty boots to a death scene all on his own. “The investigator usually is not present at investigations‚ Princeps‚” I said. “She sends me to assess the situation and uses my report to make the appropriate conclusions.” “The appropriate conclusions‚” the princeps echoed. “Correct‚” I said. I waited for him to permit me inside. He just stood there. I wondered if I was going to have to order him to let me into the estate. I’d never given a direct order to an officer of another imperial administration before and did not entirely know how to go about doing it. To my relief‚ he finally said‚ “Right‚ sir…” and reached into his pocket. He took out a small bronze disc with a little glass vial set in the center‚ which sloshed with black fluid. “You’ll need to follow close‚ sir. This gate is a bit old. Can be fussy.” He turned to face the servants’ gate: a rounded aperture in the smooth black surface of the estate walls. Hanging on the other side of the aperture was a veil of curling‚ furred vines of a greenish-yellow color. They trembled as the princeps approached—a disquieting‚ juddering tremor—and fell back‚ allowing us to enter. I kept close to the princeps as we walked through the gate‚ leaning down so my head didn’t scrape the top. The vines smelled sweet and sickly as they tickled the back of my neck. Likely altered to seek out flesh‚ and if the princeps hadn’t been carrying his “key”—the vial of reagents in his hand—then the two of us would have been paralyzed‚ or worse. We emerged into the estate’s inner yards. Dozens of mai-lanterns twinkled in the morning gloom ahead of us‚ dangling from the gabled roof of the sprawling house set high on the hill beyond. A verandah wrapped around the home‚ rope nets blooming with bright decorative moss to shield windows from the morning sun. Floors wide and smooth‚ wood polished to a fine shine. A cushioned section sat on the eastern end—a miniature tea pavilion of a sort‚ but instead of a tea table there sat some massive animal’s skull‚ its cranium shaved off to be level. A rather ghoulish adornment for so fine a place—and it was a fine place‚ easily the finest house I’d ever seen. I looked at the princeps. He’d noticed my astonishment and was smirking. I adjusted my Iudex coat at the shoulders. They hadn’t been able to find one my size‚ and I suddenly felt terribly stupid-looking‚ packed into this tight blue fabric. “What’s your name‚ Princeps?” I asked. “Apologies‚ sir. Should have mentioned—Otirios.” “Have we identified the deceased‚ Otirios?” I asked. “I understand there was some issue with that.” “We think so‚ sir. We believe it is Commander Taqtasa Blas‚ of the Engineers.” “You believe it is? Why believe?” This drew a sidelong glance. “You were informed that the nature of his death was an alteration‚ yes‚ sir?” “Yes?” “Well… such things can make it tricky to identify a body‚ sir.” He led me across a small wooden bridge that spanned a trickling stream. “Or even‚” he added‚ “to identify it as one‚ sir. That’s why we Apoths are here.” He gestured at the fog beyond. I searched the mist and spied figures roving through the gardens‚ also wearing coats and cloaks of dark red‚ all carrying what one might mistake to be birdcages; yet each cage contained not a bird‚ but a delicate fern. “Checking for contagion‚” said Otirios. “But so far we’ve found nothing. No telltale plants have browned or died yet‚ sir. No sign of contagion on the estate grounds.” He led me to a thin fernpaper door in the estate house. As we approached I thought I heard some long‚ sustained sound within the mansion. I realized it was screaming. “What’s that?” I asked. “Probably the servant girls‚” Otirios said. “They were‚ ah‚ the ones who got there first. Still quite agitated‚ as you can imagine.” “Didn’t they find the body hours ago?” “Yes. But they keep having outbursts. When you see the body‚ you’ll understand why‚ sir.” I listened to the screams‚ wild and hysterical. I fought to keep my face clear of emotion. I told myself to stay controlled and contained. I was an officer for the Iudex‚ the imperial administration responsible for managing the high courts and delivering justice throughout the Empire. I was supposed to be at this fine home‚ even if it was filled with screaming. Otirios opened the door. The sound of the screaming grew far louder. I reflected that piss was supposed to stay in my body‚ but if that screaming went on for much longer‚ that might not stay the case. He led me inside. The first thing that struck me was the cleanliness of the place. Not just the absence of dirt—though there was no dirt‚ not a smudge nor smear in sight—but there was a sterility to everything before me‚ no matter how elegant: the dining couches were too smooth and unblemished‚ and the woven silk mats laid in squares on the floor were too unspoiled‚ perhaps having never known the tramp of a foot. The whole house felt as cozy and comfortable as a surgeon’s knife. Which wasn’t to say it was not opulent. Miniature mai-trees had been altered to grow down from the ceiling‚ acting as chandeliers—something I’d never seen before—their fruits full to bursting with the glowing little mai-worms‚ which cast a flickering blue light about us. I wondered if even the air was expensive in here‚ then saw it was: a massive kirpis mushroom had been built into the corner of every main room—a tall‚ black fungus built to suck in air‚ clean it‚ and exhale it out at a cooler temperature. The shrieking went on and on from somewhere in the mansion. I shivered a little‚ and knew it had nothing to do with the temperature of the air. “We’ve kept all the staff and witnesses here at the house‚ as the investigator directed‚” Otirios said. “I expect you’ll want to interview them‚ sir.” “Thank you‚ Princeps. How many are there?” “Seven total. Four servant girls‚ the cook‚ the groundskeeper‚ and the housekeeper.” “Who owns this estate? I take it not Commander Blas?” “No‚ sir. This house is owned by the Haza clan. Did you not see the insignia?” He gestured to a little marking hanging over the entry door: a single feather standing tall between two trees. That gave me pause. The Hazas were one of the wealthiest families in the Empire and owned a huge amount of land in the inner rings. The staggering luxury of this place began to make a lot of sense‚ but everything else grew only more confusing. “What are the Hazas doing owning a house in Daretana?” I asked‚ genuinely bewildered. He shrugged. “Dunno‚ sir. Maybe they ran out of houses to buy everywhere else.” “Is a member of the Haza clan here currently?” “If they are‚ sir‚ they’re damned good hiders. The housekeeper should know more.” We continued down a long hallway‚ which ended in a black stonewood door. A faint odor filled the air as we grew close to the door: something musty and sweet‚ and yet tinged with a rancid aroma. My stomach trembled. I reminded myself to hold my head high‚ to keep my expression scowling and stoic‚ like a real assistant investigator might. Then I had to remind myself that I was a real assistant investigator‚ damn it all. “Have you worked many death cases before‚ sir?” asked Otirios. “Why?” I asked. “Just curious‚ given the nature of this one.” “I haven’t. Mostly the investigator and I have handled pay fraud among the officers here in Daretana.” “You didn’t handle that murder last year? The sotted guard who attacked the fellow at the checkpoint?” I felt something tighten in my cheek. “The Iudex Investigator position was created here only four months ago.” “Oh‚ I see‚ sir. But you didn’t work any death inquiries with your investigator at your previous station?” The muscle in my cheek tightened further. “When the investigator arrived here‚” I said‚ “I was selected from the other local Sublimes to serve as her assistant. So. No.” There was the slightest of pauses in Otirios’s stride. “So… you have only worked for an Iudex Investigator for four months‚ sir?” “What’s the point of this‚ Princeps?” I asked‚ irritated. I could see the smirk playing at the edges of Otirios’s mouth again. “Well‚ sir‚” he said. “Of all the death cases to be your first‚ I wouldn’t much like it being this one.” He opened the door. The chamber within was a bedroom‚ as grand as the rest of the house‚ with a wide‚ soft mossbed in one corner and a fernpaper wall and door separating off what I guessed was the bathing closet—for though I’d never seen a bathing closet inside a house‚ I knew such things existed. A mai-lantern hung in the corner; in the corner diagonal from it‚ another kirpis shroom. Beside it were two trunks and a leather satchel. Commander Blas’s possessions‚ I guessed. But the most remarkable feature of the room was the clutch of leafy trees growing in the center—for it was growing from within a person. Or rather‚ through a person. The corpse hung suspended in the center of the bedchamber‚ speared by the many slender trees‚ but as Otirios had said it was initially difficult to identify it as a body at all. A bit of torso was visible in the thicket‚ and some of the left leg. What I could see of them suggested a middle-aged man wearing the purple colors of the Imperial Engineering Iyalet. The right arm was totally lost‚ and the right leg had been devoured by the swarm of roots pouring out from the trunks of the little trees and eating into the stonewood floor of the chamber. I stared into the roots. I thought I could identify the pinkish nub of a femur amid all those curling coils. I looked down. An enormous pool of blood had spread across the floor‚ as smooth and reflective as a black glass mirror. A flicker in my stomach‚ like it held an eel trying to leap out. I told myself to focus‚ to breathe. To stay controlled and contained. This was what I did for a living now. “It’s safe to approach‚ sir‚” Otirios said‚ a little too cheerily. “We’ve inspected the whole of the room. Worry not.” I stepped closer to look at the greenery. They weren’t really trees‚ but some kind of long‚ flexible grass—a bit like shootstraw‚ the hollow‚ woody grass they used to make piping and scaffolding. The thicket of shoots appeared to have emerged from between Blas’s shoulder and neck—I spied a hint of vertebrae trapped within them and suppressed another pang of nausea. Most remarkable was Blas’s face. It seemed the shoots had grown multiple branches as they’d emerged from his torso‚ and one had shot sideways through Blas’s skull‚ bending his head at an awful angle; yet the branch had somehow enveloped his skull above the upper jawline‚ swallowing his face and his nose and ears. All that was left of Blas’s skull was his lower jaw‚ hanging open in a silent scream; and there‚ above it in the wood‚ a half ring of teeth and the roof of a mouth‚ submerging into the rippling bark. I stared at his chin. A whisper of steely stubble; a faint scar on the edge from some accident or conflict. I moved on‚ looked at the rest of him. Left arm furred with light brown hair‚ fingers calloused and crackling from years of labor. The leggings on the left leg were stained dark with blood‚ so much so that it had pooled in his boot‚ filling it like a pot of sotwine. I felt a drop on my scalp and looked up. The shoots had punched through the roof of the house‚ and the morning mist was drifting inside in dribs and drabs. “Sticks out about ten span past the top of the house‚ if you’re curious‚ sir‚” said Otirios. “Shot through four span of roofing like it was fish fat. So—a pretty big growth. Never seen anything like it.” “How long did this take?” I asked hoarsely. “Less than five minutes‚ sir. According to the servants’ testimony‚ that is. They thought it was a quake‚ the house shook so.” “Is there anything the Apoths have that can do this?” “No‚ sir. The Apothetikal Iyalet has all kinds of grafts and suffusions to control the growth of plants—succus wheat that ripens within a quarter of a season‚ for example‚ or fruits that grow to three or four times their conventional size. But we’ve never made anything that can grow trees within minutes… or one that can grow from within a person‚ of course.” “Have we got any reason to believe it was intended for him?” “Inconclusive‚ sir‚” said Otirios. “He’s Engineering‚ moves around a good bit. Could be he accidentally ingested something during his travels or contaminated himself. There’s no way to tell yet.” “Did he visit anyone else in town? Or meet any other infected official‚ or imperial personnel?” “Doesn’t seem so‚ sir‚” said Otirios. “It appears he departed from the next canton over and came straight here without meeting anyone.” “Has there ever been a record of any contagion like this?” A contemptuous pucker to his lips. “Well. There are contagions all over the Empire‚ sir. Suffusions and grafts and alterations growing wild… Each one is different. I’d have to check.” “If it is contagion‚ it should spread‚ correct?” “That’s… the nature of contagions‚ sir?” said Otirios. “Then how did it happen to this one man‚ and nothing and no one else?” “Hard to say at this point‚ sir. We’re checking Blas’s movements now. He was on a tour of the outer cantons‚ including the sea walls‚ reviewing all the construction. The‚ ah…” He hesitated. “…The wet season is coming soon‚ after all.” I nodded‚ stone-faced. The coming of the wet season hung over the outer cantons of the Empire so heavily that ignoring it would be like trying to forget the existence of the sun. “No one visited the room before Blas arrived?” I asked. “Or touched anything?” “The servants did‚ of course. We only have their testimony to rely on there.” “And no signs of attempted entry?” “No‚ sir. This place has more wardings than the Emperor’s Sanctum itself. You’ve got to have reagents keys just to get close.” I considered this silently‚ recalling the number of windows and doors in this house. “It’ll be a fine thing if you can explain it‚ sir‚” Otirios said. “What?” I said. “A fine thing for a career.” Another smile‚ this one somewhat cruel. “That’s what you want‚ right‚ sir? Advancement? It’s what any officer would want‚ I’d imagine.” “What I want‚” I said‚ “is to do my duty.” “Well‚ of course‚ sir.” I looked at him for a moment. “Please give me a moment‚ Princeps‚” I said. “I will need to engrave the room.” Otirios left me standing alone before the tree-mangled corpse and shut the door. I reached into my engraver’s satchel on my side and opened it up. Within sat row after row of tiny glass vials sealed with corks‚ each one containing a few drops of fluid: some pale orange‚ others faintly green. I slid one out‚ removed the cork‚ placed it beneath my nose‚ and inhaled. The pungent scent of lye filled my nostrils‚ making my eyes water. I sniffed it once again‚ ensuring that the aroma lay heavy within my head. Then I shut my eyes and took a breath. I felt a tickling or a fluttering in the backs of my eyes‚ like my skull was a bowl of water full of fish flicking about. Then I summoned up a memory. The voice of my master‚ the investigator‚ whispered in my ear: When you arrive at the scene‚ Din‚ observe the room carefully. Check all manners of entry and exit. Look at everything the dead man might have touched. Think of missed places‚ forgotten places. Places the servants might not think to clean. I opened my eyes‚ looked at the room‚ and focused‚ the aroma of lye still loitering in my skull. I studied the walls‚ the floor‚ the way every item and every piece of furniture was arranged‚ the line of every shadow‚ the bend of every blanket—and as I focused my attention‚ all of these sights were engraved in my memory. The great and heavenly Empire of Khanum had long ago perfected the art of shaping life‚ root and branch and flesh and bone. And just as the kirpis shroom in the corner had been altered to cool and clean air‚ I‚ as an Imperial engraver‚ had been altered to remember everything I experienced‚ always and forever. I looked and looked‚ occasionally sniffing at the vial in my hand. Engravers remembered everything‚ but later recalling those memories quickly and easily was another thing. Scent was used as a cue: just like ordinary folk‚ engravers associated memories with an aroma; so later‚ when I reported to my master‚ I would uncork this same vial‚ fill my skull with these same vapors‚ and use their scent as a gateway to recall all I’d experienced. Hence why some called engravers “glass sniffers.” When I was done with the room I stepped forward and squinted at the clutch of shoots‚ walking around them in a circle. Then I noticed one shoot had bloomed: a lonely‚ fragile white bloom‚ but a bloom nonetheless. I stepped closer‚ mindful of the blood on the floor‚ and studied the bloom. It had a sickly aroma‚ that of sotwine vomit‚ perhaps. Inner petals bright purple and dappled with yellow‚ stamen curling and dark. An ugly little flower‚ really. Next I took out all of Blas’s belongings one by one and laid them out before me. A bag of talint coins; a small knife; a set of shirts‚ jerkins‚ leggings‚ and belt; his imperial-issued longsword and scabbard‚ complete with the ornate crossguard for officers; a light mail shirt‚ probably for emergencies‚ as real battle armor would be difficult to casually carry about; and‚ last of all‚ a small pot of oil. I sniffed it. It was aromatic‚ even in this foul-smelling place. Spice‚ oranje-leaf‚ wine mullings‚ maybe incense. My eyes fluttered as I searched my memories for a matching smell—and then I found something similar. Just over a year ago: Leonie‚ a friend of mine‚ had waved a little pot under my nose and said—Therapy oils. For massage‚ and other things. Not cheap! Yet this was a far fancier pot than that had been. I turned it over in my hand. Then I replaced it with his gear—yet as I did‚ I noticed something I’d missed: a small book. My heart fell. I slipped the slender volume out and flipped through the pages. The pages were covered with tiny writing that would have been barely legible to most people—but to my eyes‚ the letters danced and shook on the page‚ and I knew I would have great trouble reading them. I looked over my shoulder at the closed door. I could hear Otirios speaking down the hall. With a grimace‚ I pocketed the book. It was a major breach of conduct to remove evidence from a death scene‚ but I had my own way of reading. I just couldn’t do it here. Later‚ I told myself. And then we’ll put it back. Next I checked the bathing closet. It was a tiny room with a window set above the stonewood bathing basin. The window seemed too small for anyone to climb through‚ but I made a note to examine the grass below later for any imprints. I looked at the burnished bronze mirror on the bathing closet wall‚ tapping it and making sure it was adhered to the wall. I examined the shootstraw pipes‚ then stepped back and gazed at the wall and ceiling‚ wondering how they brought hot water in from the distant boiler to fill the stonewood basin. The marvels of the age‚ I supposed. Then I glanced backward and did a double take. Mold was blooming along the fernpaper walls‚ mostly at the top—little blotches of black here and there. I’d never seen fernpaper walls mold before. I especially wouldn’t have expected to find any on these walls‚ so clean and white and processed. People used fernpaper throughout the Outer Rim of the Empire‚ partially for their resistance to molds and fungus—and also because when the ground shook out here‚ and walls came tumbling down‚ it was better for them to be made of fernpaper than stone. I studied the mold and sniffed the lye vial again‚ ensuring that this sight was easily recallable. Then I looked at the body again‚ this half person frozen in an agonized scream. A drop of water fell from the hole in the ceiling and landed in the lip of his boot‚ sending a tiny fan of pooled blood dribbling down the leather. The lake of gore on the wooden floor widened by a shred of a smallspan. A twist in my stomach. I stood and looked at the burnished bronze mirror. Then I froze‚ staring at the face looking back at me. A very young man’s face‚ with a thick shock of black hair‚ dark‚ worried eyes‚ and the slightly gray skin of someone who’d undergone significant suffusions and alterations. I studied the face’s delicate chin and long nose. Pretty features—not masculine‚ nor rugged‚ nor handsome‚ but pretty‚ and how awkward they looked on a person so large. Not the face of an Iudex Assistant Investigator. Not someone who was supposed to be here at all. A boy playing dress-up at best‚ aping authorities he could never hope to command. And what would happen to this young man if anyone found out how he’d actually gotten this position? My stomach twisted‚ twirled‚ danced. I dashed to the bathing closet window‚ burst through it‚ and sent a spray of vomit pattering down to the grass below. A voice said‚ “Fucking hell!” Gasping‚ I looked down. Two Apoth officers were staring up at me from the gardens‚ shocked looks on their faces. “Ahh…” one said. “Shit‚” I spat. I stumbled back in and shut the window behind me. Not having a handkerchief‚ I wiped my mouth on the inside of my coat. I sniffed and swallowed three‚ four‚ five times‚ trying to suck the rancid taste and aroma back inside me‚ bottling it up. Then I stepped carefully around the puddle of blood‚ went to the bedroom door‚ and opened it to leave—but then I paused. Otirios’s voice floated down the hall‚ chatting with another Apoth guard. “…stuffy little prick‚ barely out of puberty‚” he was saying. “Think I’ve heard of him‚ from the other Sublimes. Supposed to be the dumbest one of the lot‚ nearly failed out a hundred times. I’m surprised to find him working for the investigat—” I walked forward‚ fast. “Princeps‚” I said. Otirios stumbled to attention as I strode around the corner. “Ah—y-yes‚ sir?” “I’m going to review the house and the grounds before I speak to the witnesses‚” I said. “While I do that‚ please place the witnesses in separate rooms and then watch them‚ to ensure they don’t talk among themselves. I’d also like your other guards to make sure the exits and entrances are covered—just in case there’s an unaccounted reagents key and someone tries to slip in or out.” Otirios blanched‚ clearly displeased at the idea of managing so many people for so long. He opened his mouth to argue‚ then grudgingly shut it. “And Princeps…” I looked at him and smiled. “I do appreciate all your support.” I was still smiling as I walked out. I had never given such an order before‚ but I’d enjoyed that one. For while I couldn’t really rebuke Otirios—he was part of another Iyalet‚ a different imperial administration—I could stick him with a shit job and leave him there for a long while. I walked throughout the mansion‚ occasionally sniffing my vial as I studied each hallway‚ each room‚ the insignia of the Haza clan always hanging over my shoulder at the door—the feather between the trees. The Hazas were able to afford a kirpis shroom for every major room‚ it seemed‚ but the one in the western end by the kitchens was shriveled and dying. Curious. I made a note of it‚ then kept moving‚ checking all the windows and doors—mostly fernpaper‚ I noticed. All milled bright white‚ and each probably worth more than a month’s pay for me. I crossed through the kitchens‚ then spied something below the stove: a tiny blot of blood. I touched it with a finger. Still wet‚ still dark. There might be many reasons for blood to be in a kitchen‚ of course‚ but I engraved it in my memory. Then I went outside. The gardens were very pretty and elaborate: landscaped streams crisscrossing the grounds‚ little bridges arching over them in picturesque places. A sight from a spirit story for children‚ perhaps; yet I didn’t find anything of interest as I wandered the paths‚ nodding occasionally at the Apoths still searching for contagion. I came to the place where I’d vomited out the window and searched the grass for any indentions or marks of a ladder or something similar. Nothing there‚ either. The last thing to look at was the groundskeeper’s hut. It was a quaint place‚ made of thin fernpaper walls‚ the shelves dotted with tiny plants the groundskeeper was apparently nursing along. Lines of merry little blooms‚ some fresh‚ some wilting. There was also a clay oven‚ quite large. I peered inside and noticed the ash in the bottom‚ then touched the brick there and found it was still slightly warm‚ like coals had been smoldering overnight. I made another trip about the grounds to confirm I’d seen all there was to see. Then I glanced around‚ confirmed I was alone‚ and slid the commander’s book from my pocket. I opened it‚ squinted at the shivering‚ dancing words on the page‚ and began to read aloud. “Wall s-segment… 3C‚” I mumbled. “Check d-date the fourth of Egin… two t-tons sand‚ two tons loam…” I read on and on‚ stuttering through the tiny script‚ and listened to my voice as I read. I had great trouble reading and memorizing text‚ but if I read it aloud‚ and listened to my own words‚ I could remember them as I could everything else I heard. I read it all aloud as fast as I could. It was mostly a record of the commander’s movements as he did his inspections‚ with entries like ck. Paytasız bridges in the north of the Tala canton—6th to 8th of Egin—all pass‚ and so on. He’d apparently been very busy just over four weeks ago‚ during the month of Egin. I had no idea if any of it was pertinent or not‚ but as an engraver‚ I was to engrave everything in my memory. I finished engraving the book‚ then began crossing the many bridges to return to the house. I had not interviewed anyone as a death witness before‚ especially not the staff of the house of a gentry family. I wondered how to begin. I caught a flash of my reflection in the water below‚ dappled and rippling‚ and paused. “Let’s not fuck this up‚ yes?” I said to my watery face. I crossed the last little bridge and entered the house. I pressed the servant girls first‚ being as they’d had access to Blas’s rooms. I started with the girl who’d been crying so hysterically—a little thing‚ narrow shoulders‚ tiny wrists. Small enough to make one wonder how she made it down the hall with all those dishes. It’d been she who’d responded to Blas when he’d started calling for help at eight o’clock‚ she told me‚ just before breakfast. “He called for help?” I asked. She nodded. A tear wove down her cheek to balance precariously in the crevice above her nostril. “He said he… his chest hurt. Said it was hard to breathe. He was coming down for breakfast‚ and he stopped and went back to his room. I came to him‚ tried to get him to lie down before… before he…” She bowed her head; the balanced tear spilled down her lip; then she started wailing again. “I’m suh-sorry‚” she sobbed as she tried to regain her composure. “Sh-should have asked… W-Would the suh-sir care for some t-tea?” “Ah… No‚ thank you‚” I said. For some reason‚ this made her sob all the harder. I waited for her to stop. When she didn’t‚ I let her go. I moved on to the next one‚ an older servant named Ephinas. She sat down slowly‚ her movements cautious‚ controlled. Someone used to being watched‚ probably. She corroborated the first servant’s story: Blas arrived late in the evening‚ bathed‚ went to bed; and all had seemed completely normal until he started screaming for help in the morning. She had not gone to him‚ so she didn’t know more than that—but she did come alive when I asked if Blas had stayed here before. “Yes‚” she said. “My masters let him stay here often. He is close with them.” “How was this stay different from other stays?” I asked. “Or was it different?” Hesitation. “It was‚” she said. “Then how so?” More hesitation. “He left us alone this time‚” she said quietly. “Probably because he never got the chance to try.” I coughed‚ snuffed at my vial‚ and hoped she could not see me blush. “Tell me more about that‚ please‚” I asked. She did so. From the sound of it‚ Blas was quite the absolute bastard‚ pawing at the servants the second he had them alone. She said she wasn’t sure if his advances had been reciprocated by any of the other girls‚ but she didn’t think so‚ though all of them got the same treatment. “What was the nature of his visit here?” I asked her. Her eyes dipped down. “He was a friend of the Haza family‚” she said. “He’s a friend? That’s the only reason why he stayed here?” “Yes.” “Isn’t it strange for someone to stay at someone else’s house while they’re not here?” This elicited a contemptuous glance. Her eye lingered on my cheap boots and ill-fitting coat. “It is not uncommon for gentryfolk.” Even the servants thought themselves worldlier than I‚ it seemed. But then‚ they were probably right. I asked her more‚ but she gave me less with every question‚ withdrawing into herself further and further. I made a note of it and moved on. I asked the next girls about Blas’s advances. While they corroborated the story‚ all of them claimed they’d never had a relationship with Blas beyond these unpleasant moments‚ and none of them had much else to say. “I didn’t hear or see anything before he died‚” said the final girl flatly. She was bolder‚ louder‚ angrier than the others. Less willing to quietly suffer servitude‚ maybe. “Not for the whole night. I know that.” “You’re sure?” I asked. “I am‚” she said. “Because I didn’t sleep much before the guest came.” “Why was that?” “Because I was hot. Very hot.” I thought about it. “Do you sleep near the kitchens?” “Yes. Why?” “Because the kirpis shroom is dying there. Could that be why you were hot?” She seemed surprised. “Another one’s died?” “They’ve died before?” “They’re very sensitive to water. Too much and they shrivel up and die.” “What kind of moisture?” I asked. “Any kind. Rain. Humidity. Leave a window or door open nearby—especially now‚ when the wet season starts—and they’ll get sick right away. They’re temperamental as hell.” I leaned back and focused. A fluttering at the backs of my eyes‚ and I summoned up my memories of searching the house‚ each image of each room flashing perfectly in my mind like a fly suspended in a drop of honey. No doors or windows had been open that I saw. So how might the kirpis have died? “Did you or anyone else in the house happen to close an open door or window before Blas died?” I asked. She stared at me. “After seeing what we saw‚ sir‚” she said‚ “we could barely stand‚ let alone do our work.” I took that as a no‚ they had not shut any doors or windows‚ and continued on. Eventually I ran out of servant girls‚ so I went hard at the cook‚ asking her about the blood in the kitchen. She was most unimpressed. “Why do you think there might be blood in the kitchen?” she demanded. “Did you cut yourself?” I asked. “No. Of course not. I am too old‚ and too good. If you found blood‚ I am sure it’s from the larfish I cooked for Blas’s breakfast—not that he ever got to eat it.” “Larfish?” I asked. I pulled a face. “For breakfast?” “It’s what he likes‚” she said. “It’s hard to get‚ out close to the walls‚ where he works.” She leaned closer. “If you ask me‚ he picked up something out there‚ at the sea walls. Some parasite or another. I mean—think of what the sea walls keep out. Sanctum knows what kind of strange things they bring in with them!” “They don’t get in‚ ma’am‚” I said. “That’s the point of the sea walls.” “But they had a breach years ago‚” she said‚ delighted to discuss such grotesqueries. “One got in and wrecked a city south of here‚ before the Legion brought it down. The trees there bloom now‚ though they never bloomed before. They weren’t trees that could grow blooms before.” “If we could get back to the circumstances of last night‚ ma’am…” “Circumstances!” she scoffed. “The man caught contagion. It’s as simple as that.” I pressed her harder‚ but she gave me nothing more of interest‚ and I let her go. The groundskeeper next. Fellow’s name was Uxos‚ and he was apparently more than just a groundskeeper‚ performing odd jobs about the house‚ fixing up walls or fernpaper doors. A most timid man‚ perhaps too old to still be groundskeeper. He seemed terrified at the idea of trying to fix the damage the trees had done to the house. “I don’t even know what kind of tree it is‚” he said. “I’ve never seen it before in my life.” “It had a bloom‚ you know‚” I said. “A little white one.” I described it to him—the inner petals purple and yellow‚ the sweet and sickly aroma. He just shook his head. “No‚ no‚” he said. “It’s not a flower I know. Not a tree I know. I don’t know.” I asked him about the kirpis shroom‚ and he said the same thing as the servant girl: too much water kills them. But how this one had died‚ he didn’t know. “Someone probably overwatered it‚” he said. “Dumped a drink in it. It’s expensive‚ but it happens. They’re very hard to care for. It’s a complex process‚ cooling the air. They make black fruit in their roots you have to clean out…” Finally I asked him about his oven‚ and the ashes of the fire out there in the hut. “I use the fire to clean my tools‚” Uxos said. “Some plants are very delicate. Can’t get fungus from one to the other. So I put them in the fire to clean them.” “Don’t they have washes for that?” I said. “Soaps and such for your tools?” “They’re expensive. Fire is cheaper.” “The Hazas don’t seem like people who care much about price.” “They care‚” he said‚ “if people get expensive. Then the people go. I try very hard not to be expensive. I don’t want to go.” A worm of worry in his eye. Too old to be groundskeeper by half‚ I guessed‚ and he knew it. I pressed him for more‚ but he had nothing more to give‚ and I let him go. Last was the housekeeper—a Madam Gennadios‚ apparently the boss of the whole place when the Hazas themselves weren’t around. An older woman with a lined‚ heavily painted face. She wore bright green robes of a very expensive make‚ soft and shimmering—Sazi silk‚ from the inner rings of the Empire. She paused when she walked in‚ looked me over with a cold‚ shrewd eye‚ then sat down‚ her posture immaculate—knees together at an angle‚ hands in her lap‚ shoulders high and tight—and stared resolutely into the corner. “Something wrong‚ ma’am?” I asked. “A boy‚” she said. Her words were as dry and taut as a bowstring. “They’ve sent a boy.” “I beg your pardon?” She studied me again out of the corner of her eye. “This is who’s trapped us in our house‚ the house of my masters‚ and won’t let us remove that damned corpse—a great‚ overgrown boy.” A long‚ icy moment slipped by. “Someone’s died in your house‚ ma’am‚” I said. “Potentially of contagion. Something that might have killed you all‚ too. Don’t you want us to investigate?” “Then where’s the investigator?” “The investigator isn’t able to attend‚” I said. “I’m here to review the scene and report back to her.” Her gaze lingered on me. I was reminded of an eel contemplating a fish flitting before its cave. “Ask me your questions‚” she said. “I’ve work to do‚ a damned ceiling to patch up. Go.” I inhaled at my vial and then asked her about the nature of Blas’s stay. She gave what might have been the smallest‚ least sincere shrug I’d ever seen. “He is a friend of the Haza family.” “One of your servant girls said the same thing‚” I said. “Because it’s true.” “The exact same thing.” “Because it’s true.” “And your masters often let their friends stay at their houses?” “My masters have many houses‚ and many friends. Sometimes their friends come to stay with us.” “And no one from the Haza clan intended to join him?” “My masters‚” she said‚ “prefer more civilized environs than this canton.” I moved on‚ asking her about the locations of the staff’s reagents keys. “All the reagents keys are locked up at night‚” she said. “Only I and Uxos are in constant possession of any during the evening‚ for emergencies.” I asked about replacing keys‚ how to duplicate them‚ and so on‚ but she was dismissive. The idea was impossible to her. “What about alterations?” I said. “Have your staff had any imperial grafts applied?” “Of course‚” she said. “For immunities‚ and parasites. We are on the rim of the Empire‚ after all.” “Nothing more advanced than that?” She shook her head. I felt a heat under the collar of my coat. I didn’t like how little she moved‚ sitting up so ramrod straight‚ shifting her head only to look at me out of the side of her eye like a damned bird. “Can you at least tell me the nature of the commander’s relationship with the Hazas?” I asked. A withering stare. “They were friends.” “How long have they been friends?” “I do not know the nature of all my masters’ friendships‚ nor is that for me to know.” “Do they have many friends in Daretana?” “Yes. In many of the Iyalets‚ at that.” Her eyes glittered at me. “And some of them are above you.” I smiled politely at her‚ yet the threat seemed very real. I asked her more‚ but she gave me nothing. I let her go. Then it was done: all witnesses questioned‚ all personnel accounted for‚ all times of departures and arrivals established. The only person who’d arrived in the past day had been Commander Taqtasa Blas‚ who’d come to the residence at just past eleven on the night of the twenty-ninth of the month of Skalasi. He immediately bathed and went to bed‚ awoke on the thirtieth‚ and then paused right before breakfast to die in the most horrifying fashion imaginable. Though I thought I’d made a pretty good job of it—except for my chat with the housekeeper‚ perhaps—I could make neither head nor tail of the scene: not whether Blas’s death was murder‚ or even suspicious. Contagion did happen‚ after all. Especially to those who worked at the sea walls. I stopped by the bedroom on my way out. To see the corpse one more time‚ yes‚ but also to replace Blas’s book in his belongings. It felt strange to slip his diary back in his bags‚ his frozen scream hanging over my shoulder. Despite all the mutilation‚ the pain of his expression remained striking‚ like he was still feeling all those shoots threading and coiling through his flesh. I walked out and thanked Otirios‚ and he led me across the grounds back to the servants’ gate. “Is it all right for us to remove the corpse for study‚ sir?” he asked. “I think so‚ but please keep all the witnesses here‚” I said. “I’ll report back to the investigator‚ and she’ll likely want to summon some of the witnesses to question herself.” “It was well done‚ sir‚” he said. “What was?” “Well done. If I might say so. All handled well.” He gave me a grin‚ beaming and big-brotherly. I’d only ever seen such smiles above a fourth pot of sotwine. “Though next time‚ sir—might want to be a bit friendlier. I’ve seen undertakers warmer than you.” I paused and looked at him. Then I turned and kept walking‚ down through the picturesque garden paths and out the vinegate. “But I’ve also got to wonder‚ sir…” Otirios asked as we passed through the vines. “Yes‚ Princeps?” I said. “What advice do you have now?” “Might this have been easier if the investigator herself had come?” I stopped again and looked at him balefully. “No‚” I said. “I can say with absolute honesty‚ Princeps‚ that no‚ this would not have been easier if the investigator had come.” I returned to the path‚ muttering‚ “You’ll have to trust me on that.” From the book The Tainted Cup by Robert Jackson Bennett. Copyright © 2024 by Robert Jackson Bennett. Reprinted by arrangement with Del Rey‚ an imprint of Random House‚ a division of Penguin Random House LLC. All rights reserved. The post Read an Excerpt From Robert Jackson Bennett’s The Tainted Cup appeared first on Reactor.
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How to get the Legendary Rocket Launcher in Palworld
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How to get the Legendary Rocket Launcher in Palworld

The Legendary Rocket Launcher is one of the strongest weapons in Palworld but would require you to do a lot of hard work to get it. How to get the Legendary Rocket Launcher Schematic in Palworld Screenshot: Pocketpair To craft the Legendary Rocket Launcher in Palworld‚ you will first need to collect the Legendary Rocket Launcher Schematic. This Schematic can only be found by defeating the Level 50 Legendary Pal Boss Jetragon. Jetragon can be found on the northeastern side of the Volcanic area on the southeastern corner of the map. Fast travel to the Beach of Everlasting Summer fast travel point and head towards the north direction to find this Legendary Pal at these coordinates: -787‚ -318. Being a Level 50 Legendary Pal‚ it is very hard to beat and capture Jetragon. However‚ with the correct technique and team‚ you can defeat any Pal boss in Palworld no matter how strong they are. Being a Dragon-type boss‚ Jetragon is weak against Ice-type P...
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All Twilight Fragment locations in Persona 3 Reload
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All Twilight Fragment locations in Persona 3 Reload

While you can earn Twilight Fragments in a myriad of ways‚ you can also find them out in the open while exploring the map. We’ll uncover all the Twilight Fragment locations for you in Persona 3 Reload. Twilight Fragments are useful items that allow you to unlock certain chests in Tartarus‚ among other things. Here’s where you can find some hidden Twilight Fragments. Persona 3 Reload: Where to find all Twilight Frament locations Since we’re still making our way through Persona 3 Reload‚ this information is subject to changes and updates. But for now‚ these are all the 17 Twilight Fragment locations that we can find in Persona 3 Reload. As a reminder‚ a few of these locations are locked until a certain point. For example‚ you can’t access Club Escapade until you reach level two Courage. Screenshots: PC Invasion Dorms Behind the garden on the Dorm Rooftop. Beside the lamp by the stairs on the fourth fl...
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How to make High Quality Cloth in Palworld
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How to make High Quality Cloth in Palworld

High Quality Cloth is one of the most useful resources you will need in the mid-stage of the game to craft different armors and technologies in Palworld. How to get High Quality Cloth in Palworld Screenshot: PC Invasion To make High Quality Cloth by yourself‚ you will first need to craft a High Quality Workbench‚ unlocked at Technology Level 11‚ which will require you to spend 3 Technology Points. Once you unlock the technology‚ you can build it using the following materials. x50 Wood x15 Ingot x10 Nail Once you have crafted the High Quality Workbench‚ reach Technology Level 36 to unlock High Quality Cloth. Now‚ to craft this item‚ you will need the following materials. x10 Wool Wool is pretty easy to gather in Palworld. You can either kill or capture these Pals to collect Wool from them: Cremis‚ Kingpaca‚ Ice Kingpaca‚ Melpaca‚ Swee‚ Sweepa‚ and Lamball. Moreover‚ you can assign Melpaca‚ Lamball‚ or Cremis to you...
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