“The Elements cling to the soul in life and afterwards. Life is a soul in servitude, death its releasement. Shanyara says: live wholly and die fully. Nothing sticks to the soul like sin. Aethyric or daimonic, each spirit is a death denied.” – The Abridged Plenamortic Codex, Toranaha Scholars

  The main campus of the Institute of Arcane Inquiry stretched from Western Eisenstadt toward the Parvas mountain range. Though not quite part of the outskirts, it marked a cooling point where the density of the city began to scatter and the street noise thin. Here the roads were neat but not clean; the buildings spacious but unadorned. An easygoing guard waved Stravinsky and Rivash through after checking their badges. Behind the gate and cherry trees, vast grounds extended into gently sloping terraces, winding gravel paths and managed arcoflora. Rows of glasshouses glittered between the cultivated thickets, holding blurred similes of their outdoor kin. An occasional roof or tower poked out between.

  “Not how I imagined it,” said Rivash, reviewing the surroundings. “We would have lost Lowry in no time, with all this greenery around.”

  “It’s confusing,” agreed Stravinsky. “But I remember where the hall is.”

  “You must have been here plenty before, SI. Was it always packed like this?”

  “Only once that I can recall, maybe a decade ago. Think this area had a pond reserved for a few royal wyrms. Strange, elusive creatures.”

  They passed a long granite wall embedded with brass plaques, commemorating historical donations and major projects. Conference halls and a cafeteria waited behind them. Stravinsky pointed the way to the reception area. Inside, the Institute showed its fustiness and functionality. The ceiling was high and domed in rough plaster. A spruced up Vanaha woman at the front desk sighed as they approached.

  “We’re here to see Associate Researcher Tarash regarding a recent joint investigation.”

  “Kira’s at her usual place,” replied the woman, ignoring their credentials. “West Terrace, Enclosure K2. I’d find you a guide, but everyone’s out.” She slid two visitor cards across the counter.

  “We’ll find our way. Thank you.”

  The next trek took them uphill, past various biomes and into a broader garden of stubby fruit trees. Something chicken-like rummaged the low umbrages. Rivash smirked at the simple creatures and abundant nature while Stravinsky looked around. He stopped at a mesh fence and saw a sign with K3-K4 on it. A simple latch opened the gate around the corner. Inside, the gently sloping terrain was interspersed with stone outcroppings and sand pits. They spotted her sitting on a foldable chair near one of the burrows, a notebook in her lap and a thermos in her hand. Not unlike the state they had originally found her in a week ago. One of the pups grubbed the earth nearby, trailing dirt clumps behind it in dusty bursts. She saw them approaching and responded with a “Hello.”

  *

  Tarash led them into a ventilated observation tower after Stravinsky requested they talk indoors. It was a compact space, paneled in worn pine and full of records, mugs, containment gear and various spare furnishings. From it, they saw all four of the surrounding enclosures.

  “Apologies for the state.”

  “It’s fine,” Rivash said, searching for a seat. “Feels like a nerdy tree house.”

  Stravinsky, now peering down at the habitat from the window, remarked, “They seem to have grown rapidly. Especially the female. Are they showing signs of behavioral divergence?”

  “Yes, you could certainly say that. I was just telling Harun – JI Rivash, sorry – about Aaru’s avariciousness. Although all three are playful and constantly active, she is the most social and trainable one. Chilly and Miles are far from feral but prefer to spend their days in the loam and mud, calling for her when they find something.”

  “Looks like they really like the earth. Is the geophagy essential to their metabolism?”

  “Hard to tell. They didn’t respond well to our original housing plans and ate worryingly little. Their appetites improved dramatically after we moved them outside.” She handed Stravinsky a stack of papers through Rivash. “These are the logs. Note the peaks in aggression during indoor containment. They tried to bite through the bars. But as soon as we moved them here, the outbursts and resistance stopped.”

  Stravinsky skimmed the sheet. “They prefer dirt to steel and concrete. Unorthodox for luxury pets.”

  “Earth, mud, shade. They’re omnivorous, but their feeding patterns are more consistent with scavengers. They ignore live rodents but devour dead rootstock. Anything composted or decomposing. It could just be a part of their digestion: a way to manage the extra acid.”

  Rivash continued with the questions while Stravinsky read the logs in detail. “Since it seems unlikely they were meant as showpieces, we should consider other options. Is it possible they were meant as fighting animals or hounds?”

  “The pups are territorial, but not necessarily violent. They get nervous and are easily frightened, even from just standing too close or leaning over them. Their scent is excellent, as you would expect, but they ignore most lifeforms. It’s unlikely they were meant for either.”

  “And the acid? Initially we assumed that only one of the specimens produced it. Yet all three of the pups produce it, right?”

  “The acid sacs are a part of their digestive tract. Enough to burn the bark off a tree, maybe score plastic. We haven’t seen any offensive use, or even defensive. But it’s there in all three, yes. Only complicates things further, I know…”

  Stravinsky set the logs on the edge of a round table. “Anything else we should know?”

  Tarash nodded, smiled awkwardly and scratched her hair. “Two things. Not sure how relevant they are. First, their frame is purely canid, although there is considerable vulpine and beetle admixture in them. But overall, they look and move more like jackals. Low, wiry, cautious. In more remote places, in fact, they are commonly mistaken for foxes.”

  “Makes sense if their source is in the Southern Continent. The second thing?”

  “Well… Umm, yes. It might not be wholly relevant, but they’re also unnaturally tidy. No accidents anywhere. From the first day outside, they chose a single spot in the enclosure for their excreta. Usually by the entrance. You’d think they’d been trained, but it’s completely instinctual. The smell is… difficult. More rancid than vomit or carrion – and I’ve smelt plenty of both working here. Likely a byproduct of the acid in their gut. We’ve had staff refuse to handle the disposal.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” said Rivash in a concerned tone. “But good work, really. Bureau wouldn’t be able to house or handle them.”

  “That covers it. I’ll go see them up close again before we go. Thank you for your cooperation, AR Tarash.” She stood and offered to show him the way, but he raised a hand. “Alone, if I can.”

  Down in the enclosure, Stravinsky found suitable shade and stone, made himself comfortable and got his phone out. The pups glanced up from their holes at first but soon turned back to their own work. He turned a branchlet covered with scale-like leaves in his hand as the call connected. All the trees nearby were deciduous and glowed lush, whereas this scrap was dusty, silver-green. Lowry answered.

  “Still at the docks? No, not now. I can be there in three hours. We’ll compare notes as we drive to the farm. Meantime, I’ll send Rivash to… No, you can ask him yourself later. Meet you there.”

  The coniferous limb remained in his other hand as he slipped the phone back into his coat. He rubbed the rows of feathery scales with his thumb, listening to its dry rasp. Cypress? None on the way here. Prowling movement drew his attention. Aaru had padded close, acuminate ears forward. Absentmindedly, Stravinsky gave the branch a slight wiggle. She leapt quicker than he expected, jaws closing around her lanky prey. Before he could react, Aaru chewed scarcely, swallowed and trotted back toward her burrow without a sound. Rivash came down right after.

  They walked back along the gravel path and out of the enclosure. The pups showed no interest in them. Rivash kept pace at his side, typing a number into his phone. His amber eyes were rekindled, but his smile stifled when he noticed Stravinsky staring.

  “Is it working fine now?” asked Stravinsky. “Seemed like it was damaged when you fell into the water. I could barely hear you when you found the pups.”

  “Oh. Yeah, it’s fine now,” explained Rivash, relieved. “I was worried about it at first – barely made the call – but it was fine afterwards. Just some mud on it. They’re quite sturdy.”

  Stravinsky nodded. “About your observation considering their pelts: our first interpretation of it was wrong but made some sense in the moment. Slim chance those things were meant to be pets, knowing what we know now. However, it doesn’t make your input irrelevant. Do you know what image is printed on the thousand Eisenmark bill?”

  “The… Kenotaph in Central, right?”

  Stravinsky slowed and pulled out a folded rectangle from his wallet. He opened the oversized note between them. The colors and landmark were there, printed on thick paper that bent poorly. Along one edge ran a line of bold text marking it as a commemorative print. “From a tourist shop near Findrake’s,” he said. “You can get them for a fraction of the real cost. And yes, it’s an empty tomb for missing soldiers. The tilleul-silver isn’t accidental. Remind you of anything else?”

  Rivash, amused and awkward, took the banknote for a closer inspection. “Yeah. Something older and more reverent than the Eisenmark. And probably irrelevant. They’re the colors of shepherds and underworld guides, to most traditions of the Continent. It’s religion, not arcana.”

  “Superstition, then,” concluded Stravinsky. “Not spectacle. Although the two are not unrelated.”

  Rivash frowned and returned the mock bill. “Kira also mentioned a potential Necromantic or religious function when we first found them. Where does that leave us, Senior Investigator?”

  “Can’t say yet; we know nothing about who’s responsible for them, who ordered them and how they escaped. Once we determine their purpose, we’ll know whether this is a police matter and where to take the investigation next.”

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  They returned their visitor cards to the hall desk and walked into the front courtyard. “Oh, also,” said Rivash. “I asked Kira about the wyrms you mentioned earlier. She said she’s never heard of or seen them. And she practically grew up here. Her father worked at the Institute his whole life.”

  “I must have made a mistake, then. Maybe it was some other place. It’s good you’re double-checking what I say. I forget things often.”

  *

  Stravinsky and Lowry were coming down from the port. Wetlands opened up on their right, wider and flatter then they seemed before. On the left, fencing ran parallel to the road, enclosing sheds, barns and pasture. Beyond and amid all that, cattle grazed in idle clusters, their low calls carrying ahead of the smell of damp earth and dung. Rail and highway lines cut between these two worlds, linking Eisenstadt in the distance in front to the port behind them.

  Lowry turned the rental off the road and onto a gravel track. “Their container was shipped from Trnaxa. Registered under a shell company no one’s heard of. All paid in advance, paperwork and manifest immaculate. Port authorities suspect it was a front. Apparently, it’s not uncommon up there.”

  “What about the night they escaped? Any green people seen about?”

  “Cameras say no, but the sabotage seemed planned. Someone knew what was coming in and where it would be. Waited for it. The container they forced open was modified and full of soil. Nothing else was disturbed that night.”

  “Full of soil?” Stravinsky considered it. “Maybe they were shipped as juveniles in the substrate. It’s possible. The pups are displaying rapid growth.”

  They reached the wide gravel entrance where a burly Lomanaha man was waiting to welcome them. “Ah, Investigators,” he called as they got out of the car. “Welcome, welcome. I’m Sten Robinson. This is my farm, Robinson Farm… Ah, let me see – Stravinsky and Lowry. Welcome.”

  “Apologies we couldn’t make it earlier.”

  Robinson bobbed his head quickly. “No trouble, no trouble at all. You’re here now. That’s what matters. Although it’s mostly cleaned up by now. We follow a schedule, here.”

  “That’s understandable. We read the reports from the local police and saw the photographs. A routine survey of the grounds should suffice.”

  “Of course, maybe the goodmen missed something. They don’t have your knowhow, after all. I’ll tell you this much: it wasn’t natural. Eco-folk and wannabe-vigilantes, you know the type. They hate people like me, working men. Wouldn’t put it past them to set hellish beasts loose, just to make a point. They’re in league against us. But I’ll let you be the judges.”

  Robinson mumbled on as he led them to a bit of fence. The tunnel stretched just below the concrete base and the exit was covered with a few layers of mesh wire weighed by stones. It was almost wide enough for a slim person. Excavated soil was scattered on both sides into sunken mounds. He explained it to them while they crouched down, “I didn’t want to tamper with it before you got here but had to be plugged. Theres other pests around who might capitalize on the way in.”

  Stravinsky tossed aside the mesh and leaned his head into the tunnel. His knees and palms were stained from the wet grass and earth. “You did well,” he said, peering inside. After a few more goes with a flashlight, he got up and cleaned off what he could. Robinson offered him a handkerchief.

  “Lowry, try to get your nose in there. There’s a faintly sharp and sour scent in there, tell me if you feel it.” She frowned and took her time. He put his hand over his brow to shield his sight from the sunlight and looked around. “Got a silage pit close by, Mr. Robinson?”

  The man shuddered and checked for himself. “No, the silage pit we used is out back, behind all the barns and silos.”

  “What about that?” Stravinsky pointed to a low mound of drab concrete behind some short trees. Robinson followed the direction of his finger.

  “Oh, that – that’s the old pit. It hasn’t been used in years. We’re letting it settle and grow over before figuring out what to do with the space.”

  Lowry raised her head, coughing and catching her breath. “It’s sharp and sour, alright… And wetland-y. Amazing it still reeks.” She straightened and steadied, “What’s silage? Some countried sauce?”

  Robinson turned to her with sudden warmth, seizing the opening. “Cattle-feed, missy. Chopped maize and grasses, packed down and left to ferment. The girls thrive on it. It’s good you townies care to find out where your beef comes from.” He even gave her shoulder a quick tap and gave her the same handkerchief. “Now, about that barn. Or do you want another peek at the hole? I have some men waiting to fill it if you’re done.”

  The building was some distance from the tunnel. It was smaller than the main barns and visibly older compared to the other housing. All the individual pens faced the open and appeared to be in disrepair. Close by stood the newer and cleaner calf nurseries. “This is the calf unit,” announced Robinson, stopping at the front. “The old one, for our sick stock.” A heavy tarp curtain hung in place of pen doors, frayed and torn at the bottom. “They tore through the fabric, which I admit is getting obsolete, and had a field day with the calves inside. It must have been loud, since my dogs went berserk. That’s what woke me. I was on my feet the rest of the morning.” He stayed where he was as Stravinsky and Lowry stepped inside.

  The air was stale and faintly chemical. Rows of narrow pens lined the interior, empty now, their metallic dividers dull and scratched. The concrete floor was cleaned of straw and blood. Lowry opened her folder and compared the scene to the photographs. Stravinsky leaned over one of the central pens and looked down. “You told the police that three calves were mauled. Did you notice any further damage after that night? Anything else missing?”

  Robinson snorted softly. “Missing? No. They probably tried to but couldn’t leap out with their prey.”

  Lowry looked up from the folder. “There’s no proper description of the mauled animals in the report. You cleaned them up before the police arrived?”

  “I did.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they were done for. Sick calves, that’s why they were here to begin with. You don’t let animals like that go about. It’s an infection risk. Stress too. Once I saw what had transpired, I disposed of them. That’s procedure.”

  “At the time,” interrupted Stravinsky, “you assumed it was wildlife.”

  “Naturally. This unit’s always been a weak spot. Foxes, for instance, could get in. But that’s why we have an outer fence with a concrete base. It wasn’t until daylight, when Cleary found the other end of the tunnel, that I figured something stranger was going on.”

  “The report says Cleary suspected someone of dwarfish build,” Lowry said, reading from the file. “That they’d dug in to steal from you. Again. You’ve had trouble like that before?”

  Robinson waved a hand. “Cleary’s a storyteller. I told him to make the call, that’s all. He means well. Promised his mother I’d keep him on as a hand – although he isn’t exactly reliable. That enough for you?”

  “One last thing,” answered Stravinsky. “If you don’t mind, could you walk us through the timeline? From when you heard your dogs to when you moved the calves. Approximations will do.”

  Robinson stood resolute, his eyes darting between the two Investigators. “It was Tuesday morning. Last week. A long day before that. I turned in around half-nine, after making the rounds and checking everything’s in order. Dead to the world until just past two in the morning. The dogs set up a hellacious racket to wake me. I grabbed my light and rifle. Took me a few minutes to get dressed before I went round looking for the trouble, but it was quiet again. The dogs were away, probably chasing whatever it was. By the time I got here and saw the disturbed tarp, some fifteen minutes must have passed since they woke me up. No more.

  “I poked my head in, shining the light around the pitch black. Saw two of the calves in their pens. The third one was just below the pen door, neck mangled. Suppose they tried to bring it with them but couldn’t. Anyhow, I hauled them to the deadstock trailer. They got picked up the day after. I went back inside with a hose to wash off most of the blood and calm down the rest of the herd. I wasn't thinking about police then. They don’t usually waste their time over some calves. It was near three-thirty by then. I was exhausted.”

  “You just saw the remains, cleaned them up and went back to sleep?” demanded Lowry.

  “Kine get killed; it’s what they’re for. Continuing: then, around six, Cleary knocks on my door, all panicky. He’d seen the dug-up earth from the road while coming in. I went out with him to look, and there it was, that odd tunnel. There was some blood around it. That’s when I knew. This wasn’t just some audacious animal. I told Cleary to call the police right then and there. They arrived before seven. Told them what I told you now. They looked around, took some pictures of the nursery, agreed the tunnel was unnatural. Then someone radioed in, told them some strange animals were seen near the wetland roads. They went off after them then. Guess they found them, eventually. I heard shots in the distance around twelve.”

  “That’s very thorough, rounds things together nicely,” surmised Stravinsky and turned to Lowry. “Anything else you want to ask about, JI?”

  Lowry shrugged and Robinson smiled. They were back on the gravel and walking away from the rows of buildings and newer annexes. “That’s enough for today, isn’t it?” she sighed to Stravinsky. “I’d like to get back to civilization before dark.”

  Stravinsky didn’t answer her. Before they reached the path to the main gate, he pressed a hand against his stomach and grimaced. “Robinson, where’s the closest restroom?”

  Caught off guard and blinking, Robinson barked a laugh. “Closest is next to the lunchroom, past the equipment sheds over there. I can take you–”

  “No need,” he blurted, already stepping away. “I’ll find it.”

  Stravinsky finished retching, spat once more, and flushed. The sour taste was becoming routine. No new eyes… When he wiped his mouth and returned his glasses, the stall wall offered a crude hospitality: a drawing of an indulgent female torso with a row of exaggerated udders and swollen nipples. Someone else had added a cow bell just above the first row. He snorted, pushed open a door and then another.

  The hallway floor was wet and glistening. Stravinsky looked around and saw a Toranaha man in overalls at the other end. He was facing away and setting the mop back in its bucket. The stylized and gilded horns at his nape told Stravinsky he was young and not from around here. He looked back slowly, brown-yellow eyes confused.

  Stravinsky raised his credentials. “Got a moment?”

  “What for?” he blurted before seeing the unfamiliar blackbird staring back. “Yes, sir. Of course.”

  “Were you here early last Tuesday?”

  “No, sir. I usually get here around ten. Cleary told me what happened afterward.”

  “No one stays with Robinson after nine, right?”

  “I guess not,” the boy muttered. “We all clear out before eight. He never leaves, far as I know.”

  Stravinsky cleared his throat, swallowing the last of the bile. “Work treating you well?” he asked in a burned voice.

  “It’s demanding. Horrible, really. But at least I’m not here forever. I’m just filling in for a guy who ran away a while back.” His mouth tightened after saying it, as though he wished the words hadn’t slipped out.

  “You’ve been very helpful.”

  Lowry was where he left her, listening drowsily as Robinson descanted about poor staffing and shipping prices. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Robinson,” said Stravinsky as he rejoined them. “That’ll be all for today.”

  “Good,” said Robinson. “Safe travels.”

  They walked toward the main gate in tense silence until they were out of earshot. “Lousy excuse,” whispered Lowry, turning to make sure Robinson had gone back. “Found what you were looking for?”

  “I did. You believe any part of that story?”

  “Nope,” she answered, preparing her phone. “But I did learn what silage is. And that most people are lazy, thankless bastards. Local police can be here within ten minutes.”

  “We’ll need shovels. It shouldn’t take too long to dig up. I’ll get Bureau to send someone from ND.”

  The calls were made on the way to the rental. They drove a safe distance away and parked at an overgrown bus stop in disuse. With lowered seats and opened windows, they shared a novel pack of Port cigarettes Lowry had picked up. “So,” she said lighting up. “About Rivash. Think he has a chance?”

  *

  Crossing the service road, Stravinsky stepped down from the embankment and into the wetlands sunk into dusk. Two operatives from the Necromancy Division followed him, carrying a light each. One also carried a workcase, the other a shovel. The ground riddled with shallow holes and stagnant puddles. The reeds were lush and ornate with argent droplets. He moved carefully, guiding their steps in the right direction. They walked into the night, seemingly lost in a realm between days.

  Ahead, the low basin where the animals had nested lay dark and waterlogged. Their burrow had disappeared completely, flooded through with runoff from the stream. The surrounding growth stood taller now, closing their ranks. They widened the search radius, feeling for mounds with their boots. One of the operatives saw it and called for Stravinsky. A cluster of low mounds, a hundred meters upstream from the flooded burrow. They shone their lights over a mangled bicycle frame and chewed up cans strewn around.

  Stravinsky crouched and lowered his face close to one of the piles. The scent of peat and damp wood reached him immediately. It was threaded through with acrid and chemical notes. He coughed and stood. “Shovel,” he said. The blade set into the dense soil and scattered it with difficulty, revealing yellowed shards of bone and fibers of plastic. While he turned one fragment over with the shovel, the muck beneath shifted. A greenish patina flashed before dulling again under the film of moisture. Daimon. Equally convinced, the Necromancers gestured for him to step aside.

  He withdrew, leaving ample space and silence for their work. Only then did he notice the phone ringing feebly in his coat. He answered while keeping his eyes on a small stream creeping in the dark. The voice on the other end spoke in clipped, controlled phrases. The missing worker had been found, buried in the old silage pit. Robinson had resisted at first, then yielded and confessed. Most limbs accounted for, but torso nearly destroyed. Recovery ongoing.

  “Good work,” he said when Lowry concluded her report. “We also found him.”

  The phone crackled and the call ended suddenly. Stravinsky turned around toward the mounds as one of the Necromancers raised a filled metallic cylinder. The lid was screwed on and the whole thing lowered into their workcase. They called for him, not seeing him in the descended night. He led them back to the road.