The Chronicle of the Worthy Son

Anonymity

Able found a letter in his journal. He'd smoothed the page he was about to write on and felt a lump under it. Now he sat staring at the tightly folded paper marked with his name in a hand he did not recognize. When and where had he left the notebook unattended?

He'd returned to Aimsby and settled into a routine of slipping through the western gate, the other side from the enforcer barracks, and into the Records building to do his research. He was also helping Faith to properly archive the crates of files that had been moved here from the defunct legislative halls—had in fact negotiated the stressed Mayor Rosefarm into paying him for this task so that he could afford lodgings in this city. He'd been combing through the legislative records for two weeks now—knew this because he wrote the date at the top of the next page of his notebook every morning when he sat down, as he had a few minutes ago.

Faith clearly hadn't written this letter, but she might have slipped it into his notebook for someone else...but why not just hand it to him? His nerves pricked all over his hands and mouth and the top of his head as he took a careful look around the old storage room, peering into the corners where the light from the single chandelier above could not reach. Satisfied that his only companions were sorted records and the infant catalog of them, he drew a steadying breath and unfolded the letter.

It has come to our attention that your interest in some of our older operations has born fruit. There are not many who know the purpose of the provider, and fewer still its fate. You have followed the careful journey to the place where it ended, yet you remain here instead of returning home. This does not surprise us. If you wish to finish what he started, spend an evening at the black horizon.

It took Able several breaths to return life to his mind. Did he want to finish what his father started? What...did his father start? What could possibly be left to finish?

Pa's aim had been to spare his sons and all other sons from the draft for a war eight years over now. Or had there been something else? Ma and Uncle Noble had certainly kept anything they knew from Able in effort to protect the family from any royal investigation. So either there was something he didn't know, or...the Sons of Justice had watched him long enough to bet on sparking his curiosity and letting him do the rest. No amount of swallowing was making his throat less dry.

The latch of the door gave its customary scrape to announce the contraption was about to swing open. Able swallowed one last time as he casually refolded the letter and he kept his eyes on the page in front of him. Faith shouldn't think anything of it.

"You should have told me you were in town," Daytime Green scolded playfully as she slid into the chair across the table from him. God's eyes.

"I—uh, hi." Able cleared his throat and fought to keep talking while his fingers congealed around the letter in his hand. "I didn't know you were in town to tell."

"Didn't ask about me then," her tone was unhelpfully enigmatic.

"Been avoiding Tanner." He quietly set the letter, potentially written by the very mole the enforcers were desperate to out, on his notebook while keeping his eyes trained on Day's face. "And by extension anyone who might mention me to him."

"Mm." She nodded, apparently appeased. "Maybe you shouldn't."

"I—no?"

She shrugged with half a smile. "He's on his way to Birchurst this very moment. Got a message and rallied his personal squadron on the spot. I wasn't briefed, but his countenance was dire, to put it mildly."

"What's in Birchurst?"

"Nothing, usually." She scratched her neck then set her chin in her hand. "It's a pretty big farming and logging community, one of the most stable in Borealund."