Nin-šar met her gaze for a split second before turning back to the trembling messenger. “The Consecration of Stone… and Zababa’s kin?” “To the Outer Sanctum, my lord. The High Priest’s own guard escorted them. He proclaimed the commander must swear fealty and aid in the rites, or… they will be the first offerings to the Deep Sleeper’s awakening.” The aide’s voice cracked. “He waits for the Captain’s answer at the dawn-watch, in the Lesser Gatehouse.” Nin-šar dismissed the man with a curt nod, his gaze already sweeping the scattered parchments on the table. He shoved aside the ancient texts, pulling a fresh sheet of papyrus into place. “The Clay Blight, this ‘Earth’s Blood’… it is not merely petrifying. It must be a catalyst, an accelerator for something already present in the body. An organic agent, triggered by a mineral mix.” He muttered into his chest, thinking aloud. “We need to counteract the petrification, not solely block the flow.” Cholera, she thought as her pulse spiked. Dehydration was the immediate killer, but underlying toxins were the cause. If the ‘Earth’s Blood’ was indeed a catalyst, the reaction could be disrupted. “My lord, a strong acid? Or a chelating agent. Something to bind the metallic elements, or dismantle the mixture before it crystallizes proteins.” “Speak plainly, healer,” Nin-šar commanded, his reed stylus poised. “What can be found in this city that might create such an agent?” She dredged up years of biochemistry, translating formulas into the valley's raw stores. “The fullers keep potash and strong lye. Artisans have mineral pigments—copper vitriol, iron oxides. And brewers use souring mash. If we combine a dense alkali with an oxidizing agent… and salt from the caravans, boiled into a dense brine.” Nin-šar’s stylus bit into the wet clay of a fresh tablet, cataloging her terms into palace stores. “Lye, boiled brine, and… what of the scribes’ inks? Oak galls carry bitter astringents. Or the metal-casters, with their brimstone for purifying bronze.” He glanced up. “We need volume, delivered quickly.” “If the seepage enters the aqueducts, we pour the counter-agent directly into the primary sluice gate,” she said. “It must be caustic enough to strip stone.” They worked through the long night, Nin-šar dispatching trusted servants to gather the components, using his authority to bypass the normal channels. She guided the mixture, testing drops in shallow clay dishes along the study bench. The low psychic hum never stopped, buzzing in her dental fillings and cheekbones, but it offered no formulas. This was Mina Park, improvising an industrial neutralizer. By the time grey light reached the clerestory, they had a sealed jar of steaming sludge—lye, crystallized salt, and sulfurous dross secured from the foundry quarter. It burned the nostrils with fumes of vinegar and lye. “This cannot soften flesh already turned to shale,” she cautioned, wrapping the jar's neck in linen. “It will only halt active crystallization.” Nin-šar nodded, his face etched with fatigue but his eyes alert. “Then we must strike at the source, at the great sluice gate, before the flow becomes irreversible.” The cedar door creaked back. A cloaked figure stepped onto the tiles, shedding clods of river mud: Zababa. His bronze breastplate was gone, replaced by coarse woolen homespun, his shoulders sagging beneath dark wool. “Zababa,” Nin-šar said, voice flat. “Your household?” The soldier stared at the cedar planks between his sandals. “Alive, my lord. For now. Anu-Mer laid down his terms. I take the watch at the Grand Processional. My garrison stays barred in their barracks.” His voice droned, devoid of cadence. “My wife and boys sit in the Outer Sanctum. Protected, he claims, when the silt rises.” She stepped closer to the table edge. “Zababa, the sluice gate… where is the primary release? The bronze gear that feeds from the central vault?” He looked up, gaze deadened. “Beneath the Whispering Spire, girl. Deep within the bedrock. A carved stele, drowned in the gray seepage. It needs an opened throat and the priesthood's syllables to trip the counterweights.” He spoke as if reciting inventory. “I cannot lift a blade for you. My blood is in his hands. I swore the oath. I hold my station.” Nin-šar set down his stylus and inclined his head. “You have chosen.” Zababa nodded once, jerkily, then vanished down the unlit corridor. She gripped the linen-wrapped jar. “He yielded.” “He chose his sons,” Nin-šar said, strapping a short bronze blade to his belt. “Most men would. We proceed without the guard. The procession draws the temple hierarchy above ground; the lower conduit is ours.” A shadow cut across the lantern light. Zababa leaned against the door jamb, teeth bared in a grimace, flanked by two veterans with copper-studded belts. “Did you take me for a gelded dog, physician?” Zababa’s growl returned, rough as scraped gravel. “My wife and lads are clear. Hauled through the dry cistern shafts before the temple guards locked their chains. The archive scribes have them walled behind the ledger vaults.” He nodded to the two veterans. “My sergeants. Loyal to the city, not the altar.” His gaze swung to her. “The High Priest wants an offering. He will get an iron spike instead.”

The Traitor's Price