Prologue
āRemember tonight, for it is the beginning of always.ā āDante Alighieri
Late April was a temperate time of year in London, chilly evenings and nights paired with cool, but not intolerable afternoons and mornings. The rain and fog, of course, were ever-present, greying out the surroundings like a dull filter over all visual sensation. The hours of midafternoon were among the busiest, as those with business at locations relatively far from their homes hurried to get it concluded as soon as possible, and others packed the public trains for their commutes back to whatever district they lived in. None, or at least, relatively few, wanted to be about after dark. Being out-of-doors after sundown was no more a death sentence than being indoors at the same time guaranteed safety, but people took comfort in the illusory sanctity of locked doors.
And, perhaps, at least somewhat in the knowledge that there were those who would defy the instinctual human need for security to ensure that those doors and locks could actually mean something. That the illusion of sanctuary could, at least a little, reflect the underlying truth of things, even if the doors and locks themselves had nothing to do with it.
It was not just anyone who would take on such a burden, to be sure, and those few who counted themselves members of the mysterious Order of Mismar were, generally speaking, quite unusual indeed. It took something of a deviant psychology to grow accustomed to the kind of work that involved hairsbreadth escapes, nocturnal hunting, and the constant risk of not merely dying, but being actively rent asunder by creatures so foul most could not look upon them without being overcome by the heady paralysis of fear.
Still, there were some things to recommend it. Asher, his hood pulled up over his head as usual, leaned back in his chair, crossing an ankle over a knee, picking up the water-spotted tumbler in one gloved hand and swirling the amber-colored contents about, releasing the distinctive fragrance into the musty dank of his surroundings. Apparently a century ago bars had been nighttime establishments, as had brothels and casinos. To be fair, some of those places did still run into the dark hours, but with the expectation that the patrons would make use of the communal housing offered in the back rooms, upstairs or in basements. It was a habit of the disenfranchised, however, or the very rich, not the people in the middle. For most everyone else, these things were evening routines, ways to brace oneself for the night to come.
For Asher, thisāa sole lowball glass of single-malt, free of ice or any other accessoryāwas a way to prepare to face the oncoming hours of wakefulness, not bid them farewell. With the foot still planted on the ground, he tilted his chair back, until he was balanced rather precariously on the back legs alone, and watched the bar patrons go about their business from under the dark cloth of his hood. He didnāt look so out of place here; this was Outer London, after all, and not one of the nicer parts of it, either. Generally speaking, one found the more upscale (and cleaner) bars the closer in one got to the Opal Quarter, but this place was a dive, and it stank like one. Still, nobody so much as glanced twice at the lone man in one of the corners, nursing his drink with a slow savor, and he relished perhaps more than he should in the anonymity. Nobody looking meant nobody saw, and such a state of affairs was one to be drunk in with no less reverence than the scotch. Given his proximity to the wall, all it took was a small movement, and his head rested back against the smooth painted surface. He closed his eyes, for just a moment, choosing not to immediately open them when she came back into his awareness.
āYouāre going to fall over that way, you know,ā she said, her tone lacking any true reproach. It was, rather, given to a certain note of mistiness, a wisp that most peopleās voices lacked. Then again, most people were fully in this world, except perhaps when dreaming. Imogen seemed to be half-dreaming all the time, one foot here, one foot somewhere else, somewhere few people could reach.
Heād never felt the sense of that with other witches. Maybe it was just her, or maybe she was the only one he knew well enough.
She answered his next question before he could ask it. āItās done. The worm is in the ears, I think they say?ā He cracked the lid of his good eye to look over at her with a vague sense of confusion, raising a brow. āOr was it whisper? I can never remember.ā Asher supposed it didnāt matterāsheād done what she needed to do, and the next part was out of their hands.
Several days prior, he and Imogen had been dispatched from the Orderās headquarters in Rome to the Free Republic of London with a very specific mandate: bolster the number of active Mismarians by recruiting and training as many as they could. In reality, he didnāt see that being any more than five, but there was no mistaking that the number of interested parties would be considerably higher than that. The Order had a tendency to attract, partially because of the repute it hadāthere were few nobler professions than hunting, at least according to the Church. That did not mean, of course, that most properly understood what that really meant.
Which was where the rest of the process came in. The Order needed people who were clever and resourceful, and so weeded out those who were not so by choosing to announce the presence of the recruiters in a much more subtle way, one that made them difficult to find or contact. Rumors in the right ears and on the right tongues, and it would not be long before most people in London knew they were present, but not where they were or even who. Finding them after that would be the hard part, and while there were several ways to go about it, none would be possible without cleverness, charisma, or valorāall traits which Mismarians needed anyway.
So until their trail was followed, they would remain, and conduct their business as usual. Once theyād allowed a few days for the interested parties to discover them, a more formal process of trial and elimination would begin. How it happened had been left to his discretionāand Imogenās, to an extent. But Asher was the senior Mismarian, and the decisions about how to handle things and who to recruit would ultimately be his. It was the first time he had been given such a task, and recruitment was usually left to much more experienced members of the Order. But a few disastrous hunts over the past year had left them in severe need of new blood, and recruitment was now on all mindsāmeaning that even the junior Brothers and Sisters were being given the responsibility involved. Frankly, he didnāt think he was much expected to succeed, which would explain why theyād been sent with little support to London, a populous place, but one with relatively little Church influence and historically slim pickings for any branch of the Many-Oneās devotees.
Most trainees perished within the first year of the process. If they could make it past that stage, their odds of surviving went well up, but no matter how many years one had, the chance of dying of old age in this profession was well-known to be next to nothing. A Hunter lived his or her vocation, and he or she was expected to die in it, too. It was more a life than a job, and Asher was not so disconnected from other people that he could fail to understand why that was unattractive to so many. Butā¦ if he could get a few, even just a couple, and get them past that first year under his care, then he would consider himself successful.
āDonāt worry,ā Imogen said, folding her hands in her lap and smiling over at him. āYouāll do fine.ā He wasnāt sure if that statement was meant to carry the weight of her talent or just reassurance. She often left this unclear on purpose, perhaps to bolster his confidence without deceiving him. It was her way of trying to be helpful, he supposed.
āIf you say so.ā
And, perhaps, at least somewhat in the knowledge that there were those who would defy the instinctual human need for security to ensure that those doors and locks could actually mean something. That the illusion of sanctuary could, at least a little, reflect the underlying truth of things, even if the doors and locks themselves had nothing to do with it.
It was not just anyone who would take on such a burden, to be sure, and those few who counted themselves members of the mysterious Order of Mismar were, generally speaking, quite unusual indeed. It took something of a deviant psychology to grow accustomed to the kind of work that involved hairsbreadth escapes, nocturnal hunting, and the constant risk of not merely dying, but being actively rent asunder by creatures so foul most could not look upon them without being overcome by the heady paralysis of fear.
Still, there were some things to recommend it. Asher, his hood pulled up over his head as usual, leaned back in his chair, crossing an ankle over a knee, picking up the water-spotted tumbler in one gloved hand and swirling the amber-colored contents about, releasing the distinctive fragrance into the musty dank of his surroundings. Apparently a century ago bars had been nighttime establishments, as had brothels and casinos. To be fair, some of those places did still run into the dark hours, but with the expectation that the patrons would make use of the communal housing offered in the back rooms, upstairs or in basements. It was a habit of the disenfranchised, however, or the very rich, not the people in the middle. For most everyone else, these things were evening routines, ways to brace oneself for the night to come.
For Asher, thisāa sole lowball glass of single-malt, free of ice or any other accessoryāwas a way to prepare to face the oncoming hours of wakefulness, not bid them farewell. With the foot still planted on the ground, he tilted his chair back, until he was balanced rather precariously on the back legs alone, and watched the bar patrons go about their business from under the dark cloth of his hood. He didnāt look so out of place here; this was Outer London, after all, and not one of the nicer parts of it, either. Generally speaking, one found the more upscale (and cleaner) bars the closer in one got to the Opal Quarter, but this place was a dive, and it stank like one. Still, nobody so much as glanced twice at the lone man in one of the corners, nursing his drink with a slow savor, and he relished perhaps more than he should in the anonymity. Nobody looking meant nobody saw, and such a state of affairs was one to be drunk in with no less reverence than the scotch. Given his proximity to the wall, all it took was a small movement, and his head rested back against the smooth painted surface. He closed his eyes, for just a moment, choosing not to immediately open them when she came back into his awareness.
āYouāre going to fall over that way, you know,ā she said, her tone lacking any true reproach. It was, rather, given to a certain note of mistiness, a wisp that most peopleās voices lacked. Then again, most people were fully in this world, except perhaps when dreaming. Imogen seemed to be half-dreaming all the time, one foot here, one foot somewhere else, somewhere few people could reach.
Heād never felt the sense of that with other witches. Maybe it was just her, or maybe she was the only one he knew well enough.
She answered his next question before he could ask it. āItās done. The worm is in the ears, I think they say?ā He cracked the lid of his good eye to look over at her with a vague sense of confusion, raising a brow. āOr was it whisper? I can never remember.ā Asher supposed it didnāt matterāsheād done what she needed to do, and the next part was out of their hands.
Several days prior, he and Imogen had been dispatched from the Orderās headquarters in Rome to the Free Republic of London with a very specific mandate: bolster the number of active Mismarians by recruiting and training as many as they could. In reality, he didnāt see that being any more than five, but there was no mistaking that the number of interested parties would be considerably higher than that. The Order had a tendency to attract, partially because of the repute it hadāthere were few nobler professions than hunting, at least according to the Church. That did not mean, of course, that most properly understood what that really meant.
Which was where the rest of the process came in. The Order needed people who were clever and resourceful, and so weeded out those who were not so by choosing to announce the presence of the recruiters in a much more subtle way, one that made them difficult to find or contact. Rumors in the right ears and on the right tongues, and it would not be long before most people in London knew they were present, but not where they were or even who. Finding them after that would be the hard part, and while there were several ways to go about it, none would be possible without cleverness, charisma, or valorāall traits which Mismarians needed anyway.
So until their trail was followed, they would remain, and conduct their business as usual. Once theyād allowed a few days for the interested parties to discover them, a more formal process of trial and elimination would begin. How it happened had been left to his discretionāand Imogenās, to an extent. But Asher was the senior Mismarian, and the decisions about how to handle things and who to recruit would ultimately be his. It was the first time he had been given such a task, and recruitment was usually left to much more experienced members of the Order. But a few disastrous hunts over the past year had left them in severe need of new blood, and recruitment was now on all mindsāmeaning that even the junior Brothers and Sisters were being given the responsibility involved. Frankly, he didnāt think he was much expected to succeed, which would explain why theyād been sent with little support to London, a populous place, but one with relatively little Church influence and historically slim pickings for any branch of the Many-Oneās devotees.
Most trainees perished within the first year of the process. If they could make it past that stage, their odds of surviving went well up, but no matter how many years one had, the chance of dying of old age in this profession was well-known to be next to nothing. A Hunter lived his or her vocation, and he or she was expected to die in it, too. It was more a life than a job, and Asher was not so disconnected from other people that he could fail to understand why that was unattractive to so many. Butā¦ if he could get a few, even just a couple, and get them past that first year under his care, then he would consider himself successful.
āDonāt worry,ā Imogen said, folding her hands in her lap and smiling over at him. āYouāll do fine.ā He wasnāt sure if that statement was meant to carry the weight of her talent or just reassurance. She often left this unclear on purpose, perhaps to bolster his confidence without deceiving him. It was her way of trying to be helpful, he supposed.
āIf you say so.ā