The governmental palace grounds were guarded, but entering was an easy challenge for Kvenrei. He climbed over the fence behind the greenhouse and walked around until he found a maintenance building. He followed his nose to the distinctive smell of sewers. The room for the plumbers was set aside, probably due to the odor, but more likely because they were the pariah class of workers. Kvenrei stole blue overalls, boots, a hood-like hat, and a plywood bag filled with tools he did not recognize.

  He hid the tools under a bench and packed his clothes in the bag. The plan had more gaps than solid parts, but improvisation had always been his strength. Kvenrei looked around and spotted a list pinned to the wall. The overwritten names implied frequent changes in the workforce, and Kvenrei hoped no one paid close attention to the people in the dirty clothes.

  The lower corner of the list had the name H. Vaal, and Kvenrei chose that one. Vaal was an Ainadu name, and H. was a general addition to serve the silly Southern custom of having two names. The Ainadu were not particular about whether the foreigners used their given name as the first or surname, and supplemented it with additional names or letters as they liked.

  Kvenrei had chosen the name Jonathan after the steersman on the ship he had sailed to the South for the first time. He had picked the surname ‘Byrd’ as his given name had meant a type of bird in the previous world. The spelling mistake was his own, but he had grown to like it.

  Kvenrei was on his way toward the governmental building proper when the hallway filled with workers. The dinner break was at hand, and people were hurrying to eat. Outside, Kvenrei noticed two men wearing similar overalls to the ones he had stolen. The pair was sitting on a turned wheelbarrow, smoking. Kvenrei avoided them and followed a woman with a bag of aromatic herbs and food stains on her apron.

  “You cursed lazybags!” a tall man shouted in the middle of the yard. He had a white shirt and no hat, and his eyes flashed as he marched towards Kvenrei. “You have exactly one break, and it starts half past, no earlier, and one of you will always stay available. Your supervisor will hear about this. Name?”

  “Vaal,” Kvenrei said.

  “Now, Vaal, listen carefully. There is a blockage in the second rise in the southern wing. Do not make a mess, and ensure that it stays open for at least a week.”

  Kvenrei nodded, following the tall man across the yard to a locked door and along a corridor where a guard was waiting.

  “The southern wing,” the white shirt said in a bored voice, and the guard nodded as if this had happened too many times.

  “Where will you start from?” the guard asked, leading Kvenrei to the staircase.

  “The second rise. Um, I am new here. The last time it was the first one. Do you know where this one is?”

  “Now that you mention it, that one has worked for almost a month straight. A damn record. Did Rogerio say which floor?”

  “Fourth.”

  “Shit. Literally. Send the girls to clean when you are done; the gents there will surely complain about the smell.”

  Kvenrei followed the guard up the servants’ stairs. The staircase was a recent addition to the renovated building, and its walls displayed a range of ugly paintings that had been hung for storage and forgotten. The guard stopped and kicked a cupboard, opening its door. Kvenrei picked a bucket with all kinds of equipment. He recognized a hose, but the long-handled spoon and sticks made his stomach churn. The smell didn’t help at all.

  The staircase opened to a brightly illuminated hall that showed the original, old building and the later additions. Metal arches merged with the age-darkened wood and the decorated windows in a combination rumored to leak during the rain. The furniture whispered of age, and minimal use, and the portraits of the past ministers circled the walls with an occasional military face or an Old sprinkled in between.

  A few pictures were dated before the end of the world: they were three-dimensional photos in breath-thin material, damaged and faded. The portraits in better condition were on display on the lower floors of the building.

  The guard opened the apartment door. “Good luck, you will need it. Access to the main pipeline is via the staircase. Don't make a mess.” The guard turned on his heels and left.

  Kvenrei entered the room, praising his luck. The apartment was empty, and he gave the guard a head start before returning the smelly bucket to the cupboard. He assumed there was a lot of time. The minister’s schedule was unknown, but at some point, Mendes was bound to return to his room and visit his hygienic closet if he trusted it was in working order.

  The apartment was spacious, and its furniture was a coordinated effort in harmony. There was the statue of Old Jotara guarding the windows against the radiation. The Old was easy to recognize for the lack of ears and a thin circle surrounding his skull. These statues and the other signs of the Olds were everywhere in Khem, spreading both protection and curses.

  The idea of people born over three hundred years ago still walking Watergate was unpleasant to Kvenrei. He had witnessed the madness years forged for everyone, including the dragons, and turning to such people for protection seemed insane. Still, the portraits he had painted of Olds had fetched good money, and Kvenrei nodded to the statue in approval. Preventing murders wasn’t included in Jotara’s reign, and Kvenrei had no intention to spread radiation, so the man considered that he and Jotara would tolerate each other.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  The closet was on the outer wall of the room, a dressing room given a new purpose. It had a window, a tiny table with a water jug, and a pile of small towels. They reminded Kvenrei of his home country. Such ways had been considered silly and unpleasant in the South earlier, but the habits spread and changed. Kvenrei put his bag by the window and took out the prepared matrix. Now he only needed to wait. Getting away after the murder would be a challenge, and Kvenrei touched the window, although it was out of the question, for the death was supposed to look natural.

  Kvenrei waited in an alert, but relaxed state, which he achieved only when writing the matrices or anticipating violence. His mind was keen on the present, patiently waiting for his target to appear. Blood flowed over the matrices in his bones, his subconscious preparing the nerves, the tendons, the muscle, and the bone, ready. His consciousness felt only relaxed warmth.

  ***

  A few hours later, someone entered the main room. A male voice spoke, clothing rustled, and there was the clinking of platters put on the table. A few more words followed, then a soft sound of the door closing, and after that, a silence. Kvenrei waited. A few more moments passed until the closet door opened. A brunette man entered, his eyes fixed on the papers in his hands, making no motion towards closing the door.

  Kvenrei moved smoothly, wrapping his right hand around the man’s neck and filling his mouth with the thick fabric of his sleeve, muffling the cries.

  The minister fought, but it was already too late. Kvenrei pressed the matrix in the middle of the man’s chest and triggered it with a scrape of his nail. The man bit him through the sleeve, raised his hands, and dropped limply to the floor.

  The dying minister looked younger and more handsome than Kvenrei had expected as he twitched in silent agony, dying from internal bleeding. Probably, the man had been one of the lucky ones with a genetic mechanism to stop aging, but it hadn’t helped him. A warm feeling of accomplishment filled Kvenrei’s chest. It was not about killing, but successfully carrying out a difficult task; the man on his feet was just one more casualty in the endless power games.

  Kvenrei kneeled to ensure no signs of his presence were left in the man’s mouth or under his nails. He left the body as it had fallen, took his bag, and stepped over the dead. The room had a dinner table set for two, but the food was missing. Kvenrei walked straight to the door and listened, but heard no sounds.

  He walked towards the staircase, carrying the plywood bag, when a door opened, and a young man entered carrying a tray piled with food. Kvenrei stared at the floor like a lowly worker meeting a better-class servant and entered the stairs. The young man stopped and turned.

  “You? What are you useless creature doing here?” the servant asked in the Ainadu language.

  Kvenrei glanced at the man and recognized the features and the curly, dark brown hair. The face had matured, but the look in the eyes had not changed; it was still decades older than the youngster whose body it used, and Kvenrei still had nightmares about what lived behind that gaze. It was Jenet. Not a random servant. Not Aldermei Veringe, but Jenet of Ardara, a memory come flesh.

  “I am fixing the sewers,” Kvenrei muttered and retreated downstairs. Jenet set the tray on the floor.

  “Somehow, I doubt your change of career, my dear.”

  Kvenrei ran for it. Jenet made a frustrated sound and followed. Kvenrei stopped thinking and panicked; he ran to the third-floor corridor and through the hall to a small terrace. The door was closed from the inside, and for a few panic-filled heartbeats, he pushed the wrong way. When the door opened, Kvenrei didn’t hesitate but took the two steps required to climb the rail surrounding the terrace, jumped, slipped, got a hold of a windowsill, and dropped to the ground still carrying his bag. Jenet followed, slower than Kvenrei, who had gathered lots of exercise despite his questionable lifestyle.

  Kvenrei hit the grass rolling, got to his feet, and stumbled into nothing that threw him on his face. Jenet had used his resonance, although he could not do anything obvious. Anything resembling Old Tarasten’s work was a sure way to get the guards’ attention, and resonance was among the top crimes. The unseen weight on the top of Kvenrei’s back pushed him down, but he struggled to his feet, feeling the weight shift like he was too slippery for it. The man felt the matrices in his bones sucking power, and for the first time, Kvenrei thanked his father for making them.

  There was a thump when Jenet connected the ground, but Kvenrei was already running. An agonized scream from upstairs cut through the night.

  “What have you bastard been up to…” Jenet cursed, panting when Kvenrei sprinted in the maze between the outbuildings. He turned a corner and climbed the first roof he could reach. Three heartbeats later, Jenet ran below him. Kvenrei evened his breath and let the panic pass. He must leave the palace.

  Kvenrei lowered himself back to the ground. He planned to walk inside one of the buildings to get closer to the border wall. He slipped into the carriage shed, for it was in a good location and lit only by the lamps outside. Kvenrei made it almost to the shed’s far end when something hit him in the knees from behind. He fell, turning the movement into a rolling dodge, but someone was already on him, the weight pushing the breath out of his lungs. Cold steel touched the side of his neck.

  “Stop that futile struggle,” Jenet said, pushing Kvenrei’s shoulders against the floor using only resonance.

  “You said you were not after me.”

  “I wasn’t, but you just caught my interest,” Jenet spoke without hurry, but he was panting.

  “Well, here I am. What do you want?” Kvenrei relaxed to conserve his energy. He needed a distraction to survive; the memory had been a difficult challenge when inhabiting a child’s body, and now that body had grown into an adult.

  “What were you doing in the palace? Your kind has no business there.”

  “A murder ordered by the dragon. Don’t tell anyone.” A smirk found its way to Kvenrei’s lips. He was a governmental agent after all.

  “Agiisha wanted it?” Jenet seemed to consider the words, his brown gaze locking into Kvenrei’s eyes, digging for the truth.

  “I work under Commander Anhava in internal security. I don't question my orders.” Kvenrei didn’t have to lie; Patrik just executed Anhava’s plans, and Anhava did what Agiisha wanted.

  “The dragons don’t fight each other.” The blade disappeared from Kvenrei’s neck, and Jenet stood up. He was a bit taller than Kvenrei.

  “Remember I was not here,” Kvenrei said, his grin hiding the terror. He wanted to run from the monster Jenet was.

  “I work for the dragons, and their ways are shrouded,” Jenet proclaimed. “Get out of here, amateur, and don’t meddle in my affairs.”