Free Antiphon by Ken Scholes

forcing himself back to the conversation. “These,” he said, “are a gift. But I can offer you something even finer in exchange for a bit of information.”
    Geoffrus looked to the stack of cloth and then back to Petronus. “What
finer
?” he asked. “What
information
?”
    Petronus drew in his breath. “What do you know about runners in the Wastes?”
    Geoffrus’s eyes narrowed. “Ash-Men do not run. Rainbow-Men run.
Renard
runs.” At the man’s name, he spit in the dirt. “And Geoffrus runs.” He licked his lips. “What
finer
for me and mine?”
    Petronus closed his eyes, only for a moment, but when he opened them the world had bent and twisted away. Once more he sat in his papal office. Outside, the smell of summer was heavy from the gardens below.
    He looked back to the table, and now, across from him, sat the man he’d seen the day before. He was bent over a large map that was spread out, and Petronus saw it was a map of the Churning Wastes. “Intelligence is problematic, of course,” the man said, “but we’re aware of runners here, here and
here
.” Each time, he pointed to a different section of the map with a chewed pencil. “They are magicked. We suspect blood magicks, though they do not appear constrained in the same way that the Marshers have been.”
    Petronus blinked again and tried to recall where he’d been just now. There had been heat. And smell, though nothing quite as lovely as roses on the wind. “Who are you?” he asked.
    The man looked up, his eyes hollow. “We suspect they’re looking for the same thing we are, but it could be worse than that.”
    “And what are we looking for, exactly?”
    The man studied Petronus before answering. “We’re looking for the mechoservitors,” he finally said.
    Mechoservitors.
The word held meaning for him, but in this context he could not find it. Still, something the man had said registered with him suddenly, and a new question spilled out before he could stop himself. “And if it’s worse?”
    “If it is worse, then they’re looking for the Homeseeker.”
    Another familiar word that he could not place, and Petronus glanced back to the map.
Here, here and here.
He felt something like an ocean swell pulling him back, and he closed his eyes against the sudden feeling of vertigo that seized him.
    This time, when he opened them again, he was lying on his back while hands held him down and still. He struggled at first until he saw Grymlis’s worried face as he knelt over him.
    Somewhere in the distance, he heard Geoffrus ranting and hooting. “Luxpadre has the madness,” he cried. “Luxpadre has the madness.”
    Petronus opened his mouth to speak but found no words, but the Gray Guard captain must have read the questions in his eyes. “You’re fine now,” Grymlis said. “You fell over.” Here, his brow furrowed with worry. “You were convulsing, babbling. Nothing coherent.” His voice lowered. “I think it was glossolalia.”
    Petronus winced.
Ecstatic utterance.
Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to lie still and recollect himself.
    Where had he been? He vaguely remembered a voice and a map.
Here, here and here.
    He dug at the memory, pried at it, and found nothing but noise that hurt his head and made the afternoon light unbearable. One final tug and he found the recollection he sought.
    “Runners in the Wastes,” he said, his tongue heavy in his mouth. He nodded to Geoffrus. “Ask him. Pay him.”
    Grymlis squeezed his shoulder. The firm hand felt reassuring to Petronus. “I’ll see to it, Father. After we get you to your cot.”
    Petronus wanted to protest, wanted to insist that he not be carried to bed as if he were a child. But as he opened his mouth, he suddenly felt the dampness of his robes, and the heat of shame flushed his face. His bladder had cut loose during the fit.
    Hoping no one would see that he’d wet himself, the Last King of Windwir let his ragged men lift him and carry him to his cot.
Vlad Li