“Why do you smell exactly like her?” Air trapped itself behind Senzhi’s ribs. The heavy stench of copper and dried slaughter rose off Tarkhan’s brocade, thick enough to coat her tongue. Her mind sorted through possible lies. Vault dust had already failed. She considered blaming the incense from the nearby Shrine of Whispers, but Tarkhan’s nose was notoriously sharp. A stray thought, chillingly clear, crossed her mind: had Rupi’s baby powder somehow transferred to her clothes? She’d been so careful, scrubbing her hands raw after every diaper change, burying her son’s soiled linens in the deepest corners of the parchment bins. Yet the Emperor, a man who claimed he could track a stray droplet across a desert, was now sniffing her collar. “Your Majesty,” Senzhi croaked, her throat scraping like coarse sand. “It may be the lingering fragrance of your own chambers. I attended the morning audience.” It was a desperate, flimsy excuse. She had indeed been in his antechamber, but only for a moment, and certainly not close enough to brush the sovereign's shadow. Tarkhan’s gaze, however, did not waver. His pupils, black as obsidian, seemed to bore into her. He leaned in further, his voice dropping to a guttural whisper that vibrated through the stale air. “Her scent,” he repeated, his fingers, still stained crimson, closing lightly on her shoulder. A chill pinned her in place. “It clings to her, a faint sweetness, like the first bloom of a desert rose. And it clings to you, Senzo.” He released her just as abruptly, turning away to stare at the wall of records, his posture dead still. “It is a scent I would follow to the ends of the Zha-Khar,” he murmured, his words a chilling promise, not a casual observation. He then clapped his hands, the sharp sound echoing through the cavernous vault. “By my seal! A full lockdown of the capital. No one enters, no one leaves. Every merchant, peddler, and seamstress who sold female attire or child’s swaddling in the last lunar cycle faces interrogation. Bring me all purchase ledgers, cloth scraps, and spools. Search every dwelling. If one stitched shirt for a babe is found, drag the buyer and the cloth before my dais.” Senzhi felt the blood drain from her face, leaving her skin clammy. A baby clothes manhunt. This was worse than anything she could have imagined. Her son’s tiny swaddles, hidden so carefully within the cursed record bins, suddenly felt like beacons. Rupi, oblivious, gurgled softly from his hiding spot, a tiny, tell-tale sound that Senzhi prayed Tarkhan’s obsession would deafen him to. “Your Majesty,” she managed, her voice barely audible. “Such an edict will spark panic across the stalls. The guilds—” “Let them panic,” Tarkhan cut her off, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. “My wife has been seen. A spy, a reliable one, reported seeing a woman matching her description buying robes for an infant in the market district of Veridian Gaze just this morning.” His eyes narrowed to slits, scanning the vast, dimly lit archive as if expecting his runaway wife to materialize from behind a scroll tower. “She is here. I feel it.” Her pulse pounded against her temples. *A spy? In Veridian Gaze? Had she been so careless?* She rarely left the vault, and when she did, it was always heavily disguised, Rupi bundled so tightly he was practically invisible. The sheer audacity of Tarkhan’s surveillance, even outside the palace walls, made her stomach churn. “Bring Bane,” Tarkhan commanded, his voice now a low growl. “Bring him to the Vault. He will find her. He always does.” Senzhi felt a cold dread spread through her veins. Bane. The Emperor’s personal hound, a monstrous beast with amber eyes and a nose that could pick out one drop of spilled wine from a banquet hall. A shaggy, scarred war dog the size of a small pony, infamous for tearing apart anyone who displeased its master. But also… a dog she had once fed scraps of roasted fowl beneath the royal dining table, long ago, when she still held court beside him. Minutes crawled by like hours. The air in the vault crackled with tension. Senzhi tried to busy herself, rearranging a pile of ancient tax ledgers, her hands trembling. Every scrape of her shoe on the stone floor seemed deafening. Then, a low, guttural whine echoed from the main entrance, followed by the heavy clanking of paws on stone. Bane. The beast appeared, a lumbering shadow, its massive head low, sniffing the ground with intense concentration. Two palace sentries, their faces pale with effort, struggled to hold its thick leather lead. Bane’s amber eyes, usually filled with a predatory intelligence, swept the room, taking in Tarkhan, then the rows of scrolls, then… Senzhi. Its tail, thick as a wrestler’s arm, gave a tentative twitch. Senzhi froze, every muscle screaming at her to run. But where? The vault was a trap. Tarkhan’s gaze was fixed on the dog, a cruel hope flickering in his eyes. Bane took a step, then another, its nose twitching. It ignored Tarkhan, ignored the guards. Its massive head lifted, fixing straight on Senzhi. A low rumble emanated from its chest, not a growl, but a sound of deep, excited recognition. Then, the beast surged forward, snapping its lead from the startled guards’ hands. It covered the distance to Senzhi in three powerful bounds, its powerful frame nearly knocking over a precarious stack of historical records. Senzhi braced herself for shredded flesh, for the sovereign's fury, for the end of her masquerade. Instead, Bane let out a joyful bark, a sound utterly out of place in the grim vault, and began to enthusiastically lick her face. Its coarse tongue swiped across her cheek, covering her with slobber, its tail now thumping against the floor with the force of a battering ram. Tarkhan stood frozen, mouth parted in disbelief. The sentries stared, paralyzed. High Scholar Munjal, who had watched from the shadows of a towering cedar shelf, let out a soft, dry cough that quickly morphed into a stifled chuckle. Senzhi, coated in dog slobber and strangling an urge toward hysterical laughter, could only stare at the ruler, whose expression shifted from shock to a calculating glint. Later, in the cramped, dust-filled break room, Senzhi attempted to scrub the last vestiges of dog drool from her face. Rupi, having been extracted from his hiding spot, was happily gnawing on a dried apricot Munjal had mysteriously produced. The high scholar watched her, his ancient eyes twinkling with an unnerving amusement. “A curious reaction from Bane, wouldn’t you say, Senzo?” Munjal remarked, his voice a low rasp. He poured himself a cup of lukewarm herbal tea, the steam doing little to clear the air of musty parchment. Senzhi dabbed at her chin with a scrap of linen. “It may be that the beast mistook me for a kitchen boy who once tossed it scraps, Your Excellency.” It was a desperate lie, but what else could she say? Munjal merely hummed, a soft, tuneless sound. He took a slow sip of his tea, his gaze never leaving her. “Or,” he mused, setting his cup down with a deliberate clink, “it recognized the scent of its former mistress. The one who had a fondness for tossing roasted pigeon under the royal table for the then-young pup.” Senzhi froze, the linen clutched in her hand. Her eyes darted to Rupi, who had momentarily paused his apricot assault to look up at Munjal with wide, innocent eyes. “And,” Munjal continued, his voice softer now, almost a purr, “that same mistress, if I am not mistaken, also had a peculiar fondness for a certain delicate floral essence. The very same essence that, despite your valiant attempts at cross-dressing and grimy archivist work, still clings faintly to your skin, Senzo.” He leaned forward, his ancient face close to hers, his eyes piercing. “Or should I say… Senzhi. And your son, Rupi, is quite the charming little fellow, isn’t he?” Her lungs seized. Exposed. Her stomach plummeted. Before she could form an objection, Munjal slid a neatly folded roll across the table toward her. It was thin, tied with a simple twine. Her name, Senzhi, was scrawled on the outside, unmistakable. She picked it up, her fingers trembling, and unfurled it. Her eyes scanned the elegant, looping script. It wasn’t a summons. It wasn’t a denouncement. It was a contract. A contract detailing a mandatory two-hour rest schedule for all Zha-Khar archivists, effective immediately. And at the bottom, in a bold, chilling hand, ran a stark warning: *Failure to comply will result in the immediate transfer of the child, Rupi, to the High Hall.* “Forging state mandates is a grave offense, Your Excellency,” Senzhi managed, her voice hollow. “Punishable by—” “Death, yes, yes, I know,” Munjal interrupted with a dismissive wave of his hand. “But forging one for a mandatory resting hour? That, my dear Senzhi, is a service to the realm. And I assure you, my connections are extensive. Far more so than an exhausted clerk, or a runaway wife, could ever imagine. Now sign, Senzhi. Or tell me, how well do you think Emperor Tarkhan would receive a new, rather energetic, court ward?”

The Baby Clothes Manhunt