The wedding of Hayan and Arith was held at a vineyard on the spacious north side of Rema. Estates, lodges, and work-yards dotted a landscape of sapling trees and deforested, grassy hills. The chalet where they hosted the ceremony was decorated with white silk wall-drapes and floral arrangements that would have filled a dozen carts. Aralim wondered what deals Hayan had struck so far during his tenure as a Selected to afford such extravagance—others had assured Aralim that Selected were not paid because their jobs provided personal reward, though he, personally, had never seen any. He had no need for excessive capital.
Aralim arrived with Miresh, Riela, and Nill. Narr followed from a distance, of course. Their walk through the city streets had been long and relaxing, but Aralim was happy to be here. He watched the socializing guests—spotting other Selected mixing with actors from Arith’s company. He didn’t bother reaching out to anyone; he was more in the mood for listening today.
Riela and Miresh were in the middle of something. “I always thought it’d be on a mountainside,” the Hanez girl said. “This is nice, but I want to look down on a city or a valley or something.”
“I haven’t thought about… location,” Miresh replied. “I just think I would need to know the person a lot longer before saying the words.”
“Well, how long have Hayan and Arith known each other?”
Miresh shrugged. “Around a year, I think. I couldn’t decide to marry someone in a year—that’s bad decision-making.”
Aralim smiled. They were both tough girls for their age, but they had their moments of childhood fancy. He was glad Miresh still had those moments. Similarly, he was happy for Hayan’s success, both financially and romantically. He absently wondered if pride was good for the Path or not. As he progressed into the ceremony hall—a large dining room that had been similarly decorated—he found an assortment of coloured lanterns had been added to the floral decorations. A few hung over the dais where the betrothed would meet and be united.
Aralim sat with Nill and Miresh. Riela was called away to sit with her parents and her younger siblings. Hayan and Arith approached from different sides of the hall, each dressed in their finest clothes. Hayan wore a knee-length white robe and soft red linen pants. His bride was dressed in a silver gown with bunched layers around the waist and a wide, folded collar. She held her hands in front of her, while flounced sleeves hung around her forearms.
The betrothed exchanged vows only. In Radregar, brooches or necklace trinkets were exchanged as well. Here in Numa’nakres, the words themselves were believed to be spiritually binding. A member of the Aura stood along with a city official, to witness the ceremony. They made oaths of unity until the next life, and loyalty over all others, save the gods. Aralim had heard of beliefs of reincarnation since his arrival in Numa’nakres; many believed that Tag’na was the reincarnation of the Great Smith, so even the gods were believed to reincarnate.
After the vows, the guests and the newlyweds were greeted by servants carrying a variety of food platters, alcoholic beverages, and small social tables. Aralim decided to congratulate his friends, but his journey across the party hall was interrupted by Lyo, the Master of Ceremony for the Third Court. He praised Aralim’s successful adventure to Tal’lashar and back. “You should visit the Third Court, at your leisure,” he urged Aralim. “You’re still an honorary Selected, by the Emperor’s decree.”
Aralim smiled, humouring him. “I’m not sure if I was really ever very good enough at that job to warrant visiting. Has there been anything interesting of late?”
“Ruler Korthoss visited a few months ago. He is attempting to build the foundations of an alliance between Hawsi and Numa’nakres,” Lyo reported. He lowered his head to smell his wine, as he contemplated what else might intrigue Aralim. Then his eyes lit up. “Oh, the caravaneer. You spoke to her the first time she came before the Selected. Vaenuth was her name, I think. She spent nearly a full year in the Expanse and returned. She has since set out for another such venture.”
Aralim didn’t comment on Korthoss’ visit—no such alliance would happen, he suspected. But he certainly was intrigued at Vaenuth’s endurance. “Do you know when Vaenuth is due to return? I might visit then; she would have an interesting perspective on the wellbeing of our people.”
“Caravans that travel the Expanse don’t operate on predictable schedules, I’m afraid,” Lyo replied. “Especially those that range as far as hers. I could send someone to find you when she turns up again, if you would like.”
Aralim inclined his head. “You would have my gratitude.”
When he reached the steps to the ceremony platform, Aralim had to wait in a line to speak with Hayan and Arith. Friends of theirs he didn’t know milled about. By the time he could speak with them, Aralim had decided to only offer a few words. There would be more time to share excitement later. He congratulated them on a beautiful ceremony and told them he approved of the lantern decorations.
As he was stepping away, he heard commotion near the door. “Listen!” someone called. The hubbub of conversation quieted to curious ears. Aralim heard it at the same time as the rest of them—ringing steel. Fighting. It sounded miles distant, but it could not be mistaken for the sound of a blacksmith’s anvil.
“I’ll go,” he told Hayan and Arith. “It’s probably nothing major. You two should enjoy the rest of your celebration.”
“Are you sure?” Hayan asked, concerned.
“I’m sure,” Aralim said. He strode through the guests and gave Miresh a nod to put her at ease. Surrounded by alcohol-toting adults, she was hardly comfortable, but it would be better for her to stay. The hum of conversation began to return to the hall before Aralim had even left.
Though he had intended to set out alone, he found two Aura tailing him closely.
The sounds of combat had ended long before Aralim found their source. He asked a few concerned citizens which way they had heard the clamour, and continued onward. At last, Aralim rounded a corner and found the results of the battle. He had to press through a crowd of gawking civilians before he saw it.
Including two slain civilians, nearly twenty corpses littered the street. Most were guards, judging by their armour, discarded weaponry, and fallen positions. There were many places drenched with blood even without bodies, like one spot where a trail of blood led across the cobblestones to the side of a wall, only to end there without conclusion.
Four were still alive—three guards tended to a man sitting on a crate near a storefront. Aralim approached cautiously. The man sitting down wore a plain black tunic, but no armour. Aralim wondered if he was one of Tag’na’s undercover Aura.
But this man spoke—unlike the Aura. “Gods, that’s it,” he told one of the guards with a pained voice. “Quick about it, man!”
One of the other soldiers took notice of Aralim. “Civilian, this area is not yet secure. Please—oh.” He had spotted the Aura escort that came with Aralim and stood down.
The man in the black tunic looked around his protectors. Aralim could now see that they were stitching up a slash in his shoulder. “Ah, Ambassador,” the man called to Aralim. “A grisly sight for broad daylight, wouldn’t you say?”
The man recognized Aralim, but Aralim couldn’t place his face in a memory. “All the more reason to see how I can lend a hand,” Aralim said, stepping closer again.
“Indeed,” the man replied. His leg had also been bandaged, for a smaller wound—perhaps an arrow?
“What happened here?”
The man in the black tunic glanced around before replying. “An ambush—an ambitious one,” the man said, raising his eyebrows. “There were forty or fifty enemies, I think, surrounding us before we knew it. Whenever we killed one of them, unarmed men would emerge from behind the action to drag them away. All these bodies are our own…”
“I think we killed enough of them they had to retreat,” one of the guards explained. “They went into the alleys and the crowd. They were dressed just like civilians.”
Aralim glanced at the onlookers. “So, for all we know, they’re still in the crowd.”
“Could be,” the man in the tunic said. He stood up—the others had finished bandaging his shoulder. “They seemed to just… disappear.”
“Sounds like good mental warfare. Let’s get these men cleaned up,” Aralim said. They began checking for survivors and arranging the bodies in a respectful line. Reinforcements would soon arrive, and they would need to bring a wagon in to remove the dead.
As Aralim and the man in black moved a soldier who had been run through twice, Aralim continued his line of questioning. “Other than their ability to disappear, they fought normally? Did they seem well-trained?”
“Some of them did,” answered one of the guards. “But they didn’t have to. They overwhelmed us.”
“Fighting by numbers alone only works so long. You said you killed a good number of them?”
The man in the tunic shrugged as they set down their grisly load. “Yes, but that might explain why there’s months between each of their attacks.”
Aralim grimaced. “Which means they must be recruiting somewhere…”
“Wouldn’t someone have heard about that, then?”
To that, Aralim had no answer. It did seem unlikely that they could operate this stealthily with fresh recruits. “There are very few other ways to maintain these numbers,” he said, thoughtfully. They kept working.
Soon, guards and Aura aplenty came marching along the street. Reinforcements, at last, Aralim thought. The soldiers who arrived called the man in the black tunic, “Councillor,” so Aralim approached him for one further question.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t seem to put a name to your face. Have we formally met?” he asked the survivor of the attack.
“We have not,” the man replied. “I’m Soot, Councillor of the Second Court. I’ve only spoken to you once, when you first arrived in Rema and came before us with your little friend.”
Aralim nodded. Now he knew why the face was vaguely familiar. “A pleasure to meet again, then. Is it common for Court members to be caught in these attacks?”
“Not common. I believe this is the first attack against a member of the Second Court,” Soot said. “Master Ikara of the Third Court was the only politician to die, so far.”
“Do you think there was a reason you were targeted?”
Soot smiled. “I’m sure there’s a reason for everything,” he said, and strode away to speak with the commander of the reinforcements.
With a furrowed brow, Aralim watched him go. He knew already that Soot was quite smart, and he knew that Soot had criminal connections—but he wondered if there was a more complex motivation for today’s attack than Soot’s rank. He had a few appointments on the horizon and he resolved to make Soot one of them.