“This isn’t working.” Renard cast another burnt stub of mistreed to the side, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. He had been through nearly a dozen of them, and his supplies were starting to run low. No matter which incantation he attempted, or how complex a summoning circle he designed, the spirit refused to appear before him. It was like he was trying to snatch up a ball of flame, whenever his fist closed around it the fire spluttered and died.

“Well. Is there anything I can do to help?” Vespia had settled atop one of the crates in the storage room, her cap nestled under one arm, ensuring she had a clear sightline out into the church proper on the off chance a priest or worshipper entered the room.

“I don’t think so, not unless you have experience with murderous spirits.” Renard remained squatting before his latest chalk circle, forehead creased in concentration.

“No, I’m afraid. That’s usually the kind of thing we leave to the Maces. Technically speaking, I should probably be relinquishing this investigation to them just now.” Vespia replied.

“Really? Why haven’t you?” Renard asked.

“Because the murder happened on my watch, not theirs. I’ll be damned if I let some walking suit of armour botch an investigation because they were too eager to bash some suspected summoner’s head in. Besides, I thought you were an expert on this kind of thing?”

“Ahem.” Renard cleared his throat, bringing a hand up to fiddle with his crimson tinted glasses. “A journeyman, technically.”

Vespia offered one of those typical, questioning arches of her brow.

“Wizardry is not like carpentry. One cannot perfect the art in a mere decade or so. I could research further into this. Othard’s Almanac of Spirits might have something in it that could help.” Renard offered, picking his cloak up from the ground and swirling it around himself as he clasped it back over his neck. “I can get it tonight.”

“If you’re going somewhere I’m going with you. I’m not letting the only chance I have to speak to this thing out of my sight. Once we get this almanac though and you’ve summoned up the spirit, we’ll need to bring all this to the Captain. Purple silk means one thing; nobility. And that never bodes well.”

“Well. My brother has the book, and he’s attending a small ball at the palace tonight. If you can stomach being amongst nobility, that is. I suppose we could stop by your home first, so you can pick up a dress uniform.” He offered.

“This is my dress uniform.” Vespia glanced down at her outfit, she was certain it would be more than stately enough for a palace ball.

Two figures clasping at thin tapered steel blades, each with wickedly sharp points, circled one another within the grand halls of the Emperor’s palace. One was thin, deathly pale and eagerly watching his opponent. The other had bright red hair, an extravagant military uniform and trembling hands.

What had meant to be a dull party marking some minor minister’s appointment had been filled with excitement after insults had flown, honour had been affronted, and the dance floor had been transformed into an impromptu duelling arena.

A tense silence filled the air as the two faced one another, the tips of their weapons touching lightly once or twice with a clang as they waited for an opening. Even the servants had ceased their usually tireless work to watch the matter. The pale opponent lurched his foot forward an inch, and the fiery haired soldier jumped back, eliciting titters from the gawking noble ladies and smirks from the men.

Then the dance began. Steel clashed against steel, the clatter of ringing blades echoed about the stately room. The battle of two had already begun to move in an obvious direction though. Where the soldier thrust, the pallid man parried. If the redhead slipped back in the hopes of forcing the other to pursue, his opponent remained in a defensive posture. When he thought he had the upper hand, an attack forced his footing into an uncomfortable position.

Finally, he overextended himself and the pale man took advantage, stepping to the side and clipping him with a ruthless flick of a rapier from nostril to upper cheek. The cut welled a deep scarlet, dripping with blood. It should have finished there, honour satisfied, but the soldier let out a roar of frustration and moved in for one more attack when he saw the smug look on the taller fellow’s face. Shocked gasps escaped the ladies, surprised murmurs passing the lips of the men. The soldier wasn’t sure exactly what had caused the commotion, until he glanced down at his gut and with a small ‘Oh’ realised he had just been stabbed through it. His weapon clattered to the marble dance floor, and he followed shortly afterwards.

“I hope that wasn’t your brother that just got skewered.” Vespia leaned over to mutter into Renard’s ear. There was a small part of her that was glad people were distracted. She felt entirely underdressed amongst such finery. The larger part flared up in the same revulsion she had felt when her father suggested she marry someone with a ‘pedigree’.

“No need to worry there. My brother was the one who did the skewering. Sigismund!” Renard said, clasping her by the arm and leading her off toward the pale duellist. He’d rather deftly stepped back from the crowd that gawked at his bleeding opponent, fetched a drink from a nearby servant and had been about to sip when he heard his name called.

“Ah, brother! I thought you weren’t going to be able to make it tonight? You really need to come to these more often. They’re usually much more boring without you, my man.” Sigismund clapped Renard on the shoulder, before noticing Vespia and inclining his head toward her. “A lady friend? Are you going to introduce me?”

“You know I hate parties. And this is Lieutenant Larue. I’m working with her on Svenja’s orders. We’re investigating something.”

“Really Renard, you know I hate how you call our mother by her name. She couldn’t make it tonight either, she’s been busy cataloguing some of her Elven new world relics.” He turned his attention to Vespia at that, giving her a courtly bow. “It’s a pleasure to meet you Lieutenant. I’m sure my brother has told you my name but nonetheless, I am Sigismund Voclain."

“Likewise.” She said sceptically, motioning toward the dance floor. “What was all of that about?”

“I offended the man's honour, and he demanded retribution. I told him his temper was going to get the better of him one day, in about as many words. It seems I was correct. To what do I owe the pleasure then, brother?”

The rich and powerful had short attention spans, and the general gaze of the crowd had started to fall from the defeated, and turn to the victor. Renard gathered his cloak up about him once more. “Maybe we can discuss this elsewhere? I was hoping you had a copy of Othard’s Almanac?”

“Well. Now you’ve got me interested. Let's make a sharp exit before the Heir tries to talk to one of us about magic again. I think I might have it in the study.”

Sigismund beckoned for the two to follow with a flick of his hand, before striding out of the ballroom with the swagger of confidence only a successful duellist could display. The group swept out into a lavishly appointed hallway, lined with portrait after portrait of Imperial notables, and the imposing statues of long dead heroes. Vespia leaned in toward Renard, nudging at him.

“The Heir?” She questioned.

“The Emperor’s son has a burgeoning interest in magic. Sigismund helps to tutor him.” Renard bit his tongue and didn’t add that said tutoring had been ineffective compared to his own, the Heir delved into only the theoretical aspects of magic.

Vespia made an effort to seem suitably impressed by Sigismund’s high status, in the name of politeness, and the pair followed him off the main hallway of the Palace, through a squat little hatchway that led into a narrow stairway which was barren of decoration. A few flights of spiralled stairs later and they had arrived at what Vespia was certain by now must be a tower; though with the only window in the stairway blacked out with paint she couldn't confirm her suspicions. However, the Lieutenant had always found she had the curious ability to know which way was north, or south. East, or west. Yet here, standing before a heavy oak door frame, she felt the strangest sensation she had ever felt in her entire life. As if she were facing some fifth, unfathomable cardinal direction, it made her think of Renard’s canvas comment. It was like she was looking at a part of a canvas that had been stretched just a little too far, still recognisable but distorted. Then Sigismund placed his palm up against the wood, the door swung open, and the feeling was suddenly gone.

The room they entered seemed more a library than any sort of private, humble study. The floors were panelled with sturdy pine, and the walls were lined by bookshelves engraved with startlingly realistic serpents, writhing and intertwining with one another all along the edges. A pair of open windows dominated the far side of the room and yet even when Vespia peered outward she could see nothing in the pitch darkness of the evening, not even the lanterns and oilwicks that surely lit up every windowsill in the city. It didn’t help her with placing the exact location of the room within the architecture of the castle at all.

“I have Othard around here somewhere, I’m certain.” Sigismund made his way to a reading desk, covered with scattered notes and scraps of parchment. “Perhaps you can tell me exactly why you’re looking for it, brother?”

“Mother asked me to help the Watch investigate a murder this morning in the Merchant’s District. When I arrived at the scene, I realised a spirit had killed the victim. Whoever summoned it was clumsy though, inexperienced maybe. The spirit had a strong aura, easy to track with a stick of mistreed.”

“You really need to stop using those. I’ve no idea where you even get it, mist dreams are dangerous for a–” Sigismund stopped himself, and sent a tight smile Vespia’s way. She arched her brow. “You followed the aura, then?”

“He did. And it led us to the Street of a Thousand Gods.” Vespia cut in, fishing out the piece of purple fabric. “We found this. Look at the filigree, real gold thread. It’s genuine.”

Sigismund’s eyes went wide, “That’s the Emperor’s colours. You mean to tell me this spirit was summoned by a member of the Emperor’s court?”

“From what we can tell. It was someone who was incompetent enough to cut their jacket on a blade, and not notice in time to return to the scene of the summoning and retrieve it. That means they probably did it the day of the killing. They must have called the spirit up at around noon, it’s the busiest time on the Street. There would have been plenty of other ceremonies for the magic to mix with, get covered up by. The Maces would have noticed otherwise.” Renard said, before clearing his throat and adjusting his spectacles. “I tried to summon the spirit again. But it resisted me, I thought Othard might have written something about it.”

“What’s the nature of the spirit?” Sigismund took the fabric from Vespia carefully, not that she ever let it escape her hawkish gaze.

“It’s an ocean spirit of some kind. It drowned the victim then removed his tongue. It stunk of death. Like it was bloated and rotting.” Renard said.

Sigismund ran a finger over the golden filigree that ran through the patch of silk.“Othard wrote about a few spirits similar to that, off the top of my head. There are only a few that a mage without the proper training could be powerful enough to summon though. We may not need the name though, I might be able to help you Renard. And the watch, of course, Miss Larue.”

“Lieutenant Larue.” Vespia corrected him.

“Lieutenant Larue. I think I can summon the spirit here, with this.” Sigismund held the court silks up. “As a conduit between it and I. If the previous summoner was really as incompetent as you suspect, then I should be able to overpower his bond with the creature. Renard, you’ll have to help me with the summoning circle, I have some chalk from Yilnar around here somewhere…”

Vespia stepped back as the two wizards erupted into a flurry of activity. Sigismund cleared a space in the middle of the study, squatting down and discussing the esoteric techniques Renard had already tried on the spirit, both started scratching out dizzying patterns of circles, runes and parallel lines onto the wooden panels beneath their feet. When they finally finished the design was an intricate piece of art, and though Vespia had no knowledge of the arcane even she could tell it was far more complex than any of Renard’s attempts in the Lancer’s Temple.

“Something I’ve been wondering about. When you’ve got the spirit summoned, it’s in front of you and such, what exactly is to stop it from drowning us too?” She asked.

“Once I’ve summoned the spirit it shall be in my power.” Sigismund explained,“It won’t be able to leave the circle without my permission, and I will be able to compel it to do as I wish it to. You’ll be able to ask all the questions you like.”

Renard came to a stop at Vespia’s side, nodding in agreement with his brother. “With the fabric, Sigismund should be able to summon it. It’s sort of ah, like there’s a piece of string connecting the silks to the spirit. With it, he can reel it in.”

“Well. That sounds good to me, take it away.” Vespia shuffled back an extra inch away from the circle.

Sigismund held a battered, well-thumbed notebook in one outstretched hand, and the piece of silk in the other, lips moving as he furrowed his brow in concentration and read the incantation he and Renard had devised. He kept this up for a few minutes, and Vespia arched a brow in Renard’s direction.

“Generally, if the magic looks awfully impressive, it is because the practitioner is lacking in skill or power. If sparks are flying and you can taste magic in the air, then the mage is probably mediocre.” Renard muttered the words quietly to her, saving both his brother’s focus and ego.

The chanting came next, Sigismund’s voice slowly growing in power and intensity until he was practically shouting. Then the smell hit them; like the ocean spray in the height of summer, like the rotting odour of a fisherman's catch left in the sun for too long, like the fetid, bloated smell of a waterlogged body caught amongst rocks and ready to explode into bits. In an instant a low thrum filled the room, a low thrum that made Vespia’s bones rattle, a thrum so powerful she was certain Renard’s spectacles were about to shatter. A shiver tickled its way up her spine and at the corners of her vision she could have sworn those engraved snakes started to drip with moist condensation.

At that moment an iridescent blinding light filled the room. So bright that only Renard - with his glasses tinted that deep red - saw the way the air shimmered, crackled and then split. Only he saw the paper thin crack in reality - the rip in the canvas - and the way dripping flesh forced itself through it, immediately burgeoning outward like a tide of blubber into the form of a decaying, half-rotted, ripened corpse. But this corpse could move, it could scan the room with handsome ocean blue eyes, and it could speak.

The spirit's words were like the crash of a storming ocean.

“Where am I?”

“You are now in the power of Sigismund the Red.” Sigismund had discarded his notebook, his index and middle finger thrust out toward the dripping spectre. “And you are going to answer my questions. What is your name, spirit?”

Its eyes were the most human part of the spirit, and they swam around the room. “This is not the proper way to summon me. You have no gi–”

It was cut off as Sigismund’s hand curled into a fist. The creature unshackled a scream of pain that made Vespia step back and cover her mouth as it fell to a knee in a show of wobbling dead blubber.

“Answer the question.” He released his fist, the spirit shook and heaved.

“Arsti. I am Arsti.”

“Very good, creature. I know if you are lying. I can feel it, every tiny little thought. Your entire being is in my service. I know that you are the one who killed Jacob Richter.” Vespia arched her brow, and Sigismund’s index finger twitched as he asked the next question. “Who ordered you to do this? What was their name?”

The spirit gulped, throat spasming as if it had never tasted air before. It licked at its jowls, dripping with watery slobber like a dog. “Merov Tyran. I was last summoned by Merov Tyran. He summoned me at midday, and he brokered a deal with me to kill the boy, in exchange for the boy’s tongue.”

Sigismund dropped his hand, and with it Arsti. The figure dropped fully to the floor, curling up into a bloated ball of rotting flesh. “Well, there you have it.” Sigismund turned toward Renard - who had draped a handkerchief over his nose and mouth - and Vespia. “It would seem we’ve found the man who is responsible for the murder. This is a difficult position though, Tyran is an important member of the Emperor’s court. The Emperor recently trusted him with levying tariffs on inter-planar goods entering and exiting the Empire.”

Renard nodded at that, clearly impressed with his brother’s display of magic. “It’s true, he’s also exactly the sort of person with the wealth and resources needed to play around with magic. And I’ll bet he’ll ask for a new jacket from the court soon. They only give one of those out per person. What do you think, Vespia?”

The Lieutenant nodded her head stiffly, “Yeah. That makes sense. I should speak to my Captain about this.”

“Oh there’s no need Miss Vespia.” Sigismund was quick to respond, wrapping the purple fabric around his hand. “Something as important as this should be brought to the Magistrate’s attention as quickly as possible. I can do it myself. I’ll ensure that credit is given exactly where it is due though. This has all been your and my brother’s work.” He snapped a finger, and Arsti disappeared in the blink of an eye, only sea water marking where it had once been.

Vespia suddenly felt like she could breathe again, gasping in air like…well. Like a woman who had been drowning.

“It’s getting late.” Sigismund offered them a sincere smile, “I’ll go to see the Magistrate, explain our findings to him. Clearly Tyran summoned the spirit in the Street Of a Thousand Gods at midday when it would be hardest to detect, and ordered it to kill Richter. And to think, if he hadn’t left this behind, we’d never have been able to summon the spirit.” He hefted up the purple silk. “Renard, why don’t you accompany Miss Vespia home? The streets are dangerous at night.”

Vespia returned the smile, entwining an arm with Renard. “I do feel awfully tired.”

“Huh? Oh, of course, yes.” Renard inclined his head toward his brother, “Thank you for the help brother. I wouldn’t have been able to do it without you. But yes, it’s late. We should get a move on.”

“Please, Renard!” Sigismund said, as he led the two toward the exit. “I couldn’t have done anything without you.”

The three made their way down those ancient steps - still as disorienting to Vespia as they had been before - and departed down opposite sides of the grand hallway. Sigismund to the Magistrate’s office, Renard and Vespia for the exit.

It was only when they were far from Sigismund, and in a hall deserted of servants and Imperial guards that Vespia leaned up to whisper into Renard’s ear. “We never told him the victim’s name.”