The husker is obviously baffled by the whole thing. “If you say so, Aegin.”

Daian places the coins in his pocket and fixes the younger man with a hard stare. “Who told you to burn these bodies?”

“Who says anyone told me—”

“These men violated a private home in the Gen Circus and attempted to kill the mistress of that house and Gen!” Daian thunders at him in the voice he uses to interrogate witnesses and suspects. “It wasn’t your place to do anything but preserve them as needed for identification!”

The husker doesn’t say anything, but he’s clearly holding whatever he’s not saying just below the surface now.

Daian lowers his voice, his tone taking on a gentler mantle. “Listen here. Either this was your fault, or you were ordered to do it by the proper authorities and you are at no fault. Choose.”

Those words seem to register with the husker. He nods, albeit reluctantly.

“One of them Protectorate Ministry ghouls,” he confesses. “He came here. I’d never even seen one with my own eyes before. I’d only heard about ’em. He told me to burn the bodies right away. He said they were a… a ‘blight’ on the Capitol. On Crache itself.”

Daian knows the Ministry too well to be surprised by such a revelation.

“Thank you for your help,” he says to the husker. “You did nothing wrong, under the circumstances. You can forget all about this.”

That last Daian says pointedly, emphasizing the “forget” element.

Even the dim-witted young man is able to recognize the implications in the Aegin’s words.

Daian leaves The Dry House, waiting until there are closed doors between him and the husker to once again examine his discovery. He holds the coins up to the light of the afternoon sun and squints, eyeing every detail.

Eventually he gives up. Daian has to accept the coins themselves have told him all they will.

Fortunately, he knows someone who speaks far louder than burned copper, and that individual owes Daian several favors.

SCATTERING THE ASHES

SHE’S FELT THE WARMTH OF dawn seeping through the charred holes in their prolapsed tent for nearly an hour, but Evie insists they remain in hiding. The abject silence has lasted even longer. Not even the chirping of birds or the scuttling of insects underscores the morning outside. They never heard the Sicclunan night force march out of the camp; the chorus of clashing steel simply stopped, followed by the slow waning of tortured moans and agonized screams. They heard the final death throes, no mistaking the sound or what it heralds, several hours ago.

“Ashana, they’re gone,” Brio insists. “We should be using this time to our advantage. Let’s go now! Please!”

“Evie,” she reminds him, ignoring both his pleas and the logic of them.

Brio’s voice rises in frustration. “What difference does that make now? Everyone out there is dead!”