“So, were those men part of a secret society?” Foudris propped himself up on his elbow, half-resting on his pillow as he regarded Zephyrin intently.

Zephyrin weighed his words carefully, considering how much he could prudently share with the young accomplice forced upon him by circumstances no less novel than unexpected. At least they could speak at their leisure now. The clinking of wineglasses, back-and-forth treading of servants, and muffled voices of men and women making merry had long since ceased, leaving in their wake and in the imagination unreal laughter and echoes of conversation. The apartment was silent but uncannily so, as if the very domicile had been disturbed by the scenes of revelry that had unfolded within its walls, and settled now only uneasily into slumber.

Its owner had been no less discomfited: as soon as the last guest had departed, Mlle. Huron had complained of feeling unwell and needed to be helped up the stairs by her maid. Zephyrin suspected that after years of relative seclusion she had become something of a stranger to the grueling demands of social events, and was severely fatigued in consequence. Rather than retire straight to her bedchamber, however, she had advised Zephyrin that he ought to forgo the frigid attic serving as a temporary guest room and sleep instead in Foudris’s room on the second floor.

The young noble had brightened visibly at the prospect of having a companion with whom to spend the night, and now Zephyrin found himself lying face to face with him as they were ensconced in multiple layers of thick woven linens in a moderately successful effort to stave off the worst of the deep midnight chill.

Aware that if not for Foudris’s help he wouldn’t have derived anything of import from the gathering, Zephyrin decided that a few generalities wouldn’t hurt. Besides, there was a chance that the minor noble was in the possession of other pertinent information. “A secret society… yes, you might call it that. Its members call themselves ‘the Incensi’. In their earlier incarnation they were known as ‘Fyrcræfters’.”

Foudris mouthed the first unfamiliar word silently. He thought for a moment, then asked Zephyrin, “What do they want?”

“Their objective is to usher in a new age, one ruled by the ‘True Sun’, of which they consider themselves the heirs. Presently the world is—according to their beliefs—weakly illuminated by the sterile light of the ‘False Moon’—by which they mean the Goddess and her guidance,” Zephyrin explained, seeing Foudris’s brow crease slightly. “Under the Goddess’s rule, they will tell you, the division between the high and the lowborn grows apace; injustice flourishes, and the masses languish under the yoke of the magically gifted aristocracy. The Incensi labor for the True Sun, whose ascension will herald the dawn of a golden age.”

“And this ‘True Sun’ is…?”

“A figure for justice. Every man must, they urge, kindle in his bosom a devouring fire for justice and equality, an imperishable sun, whose life-giving rays will allow his fellow man to bask in its warmth.” Long dormant memories from Zephyrin’s first life resurfaced with surprising vividity. He remembered how, after the assassination of a fellow monarch in Primæva, his alarmed grandfather had spared no pains in trying to root the Incensi out of Elysian society, while Zephyrin’s tutors and elderly confessor had wasted few opportunities to stress to him the unique dangers they posed to the civil order. He had thought such claims exaggerated; but now, after overhearing the plotting of two of their agents…

It was ironic, Zephyrin thought, that the goals of the Incensi coincided almost perfectly with those of his father, and that their failure would result in his rise and the realization of their aspirations in his policies. As Emperor in the original timeline, Narcissin had wasted no time in abolishing the rigid distinctions between class and the old restrictions barring basebloods from the officer ranks in the military. Independent of the background maneuvering of the Incensi, meritocracy had come to supplant aristocracy. Much of what they dreamed would soon become reality through the natural unfolding of events, rendering their incessant machinations superfluous.

“Are they trying to undermine the monarchy as well?” Foudris asked, breaking into Zephyrin’s thoughts. “Yes, particularly that of Gaulyria,” he answered. “Her monarchs have always acted as the Goddess’s temporal sword.” Zephyrin forbore from developing on what he knew of the latter part of their plans for Orbe; the boy would simply think him mad if he were to divulge the requirements of their utopia’s final stage. “By the way,” he said in nearly the same breath, hoping thereby to mask the clumsiness of his transition to another subject, “I was wondering about something one of the men said, about a speculator who’s still in the capital. Is he the same person as Viscount Everard?”

Foudris peered at Zephyrin through his bangs curiously for a moment, before shaking his head and clarifying, “No, no. He’s sightless, and though quite elderly in his own right is still a good two decades younger than the viscount. He’s actually Seaxlandish as well, not merely a resident like Viscount dy Valensis.” Foudris paused as he searched his memory for additional tidbits that might be of value. “I don’t know much about him. He’s a regular sight in the capital’s lower districts and rides a carriage around the docks pretty often, watching—well, not watching, but you know what I mean—for hours on end before finally leaving without uttering a word. No one knows what he’s waiting for. Or whom.” Foudris lifted a shoulder apologetically. “Sorry if this isn’t of any use.”

“No, it’s very helpful. Though I have to admit, I thought you referred to the viscount as the ‘Blind Man’ in your letter because of how he speaks of Mademoiselle Huron.”

This erroneous but not illogical deduction amused Foudris, the corners of his naturally upturned mouth becoming well-defined even in the feeble illumination of their shared bedside candle. “He is her most ardent votary, isn’t he!” Then a furrow formed on his brow as a thought struck him. “Wait, but if the men you overheard mentioned him…”

Zephyrin nodded, his mouth set in a grim line. “I think I know what our mysterious merchant is ‘looking’ for.”

Heavy bedsheets slid down Foudris’s torso as he raised himself up higher, his eyes searching. His expression matching Zephyrin’s in its seriousness, the other boy paid close attention to his explanation.

“The food and fuel shortages that are causing the lower classes to suffer so acutely in this bitter cold… they aren’t natural.” As his listener’s eyes widened, Zephyrin continued: “Some of the merchants stockpiling goods are simply motivated by greed, of course. But I suspect our two conspirators are cooperating with key individuals to buy up wood in order to aggravate the effects of this cold wave. Meanwhile, libelers are flooding the streets with attacks on the throne to stoke the people’s discontent until it reaches bursting point. Their objective is clear. And it isn’t their first time trying this,” Zephyrin added, as Foudris regarded him gravely. “The riots of ten years ago… they were almost certainly behind that as well.”

Though the memory was faded and somewhat compromised by his limited perspective in his adoptive mother’s arms, Zephyrin distinctly remembered that the spokesman of the marauding peasants in Estrelti had issued his ultimatum in a polished urbanite accent.

They were active in the south as well. All the pieces were falling into place. Except… there was something, he had to admit, that still seemed off. From what he had overheard of the conspirators’ discussion, chaos and bloodshed were most definitely not part of the plan. So what explained the paroxysm of terror and violence that would imminently hold the capital in its clutches…?

A fatal miscalculation. That was the most probable theory. Having failed to topple the monarchy in the years following Rudolf XII’s death and the accession of his son to the throne, they redoubled their efforts at sapping the foundations of the throne. And succeeded beyond their wildest imaginings. So effective were their methods of fomenting unrest that where a lit fuse would suffice to set off the chain reaction, they prepared nitroglycerin instead.

And the mastermind himself, ‘The Pyromancer’, whose identity Zephyrin was confident he had pinpointed… he would perish in the detonation.

Foudris seemed to read Zephyrin’s thoughts. “You know who’s behind all this.”

“As do you,” Zephyrin replied quietly. The other boy’s expression alone sufficed to confirm that he had surmised correctly.