Death, in the Low City, is an inescapable part of… life. Of course, this is the case everywhere- everything dies, after all. But in the Low City it is more… all-consuming than is typical. Perhaps because the Low City lies in the remains of a dead world; perhaps because in such cramped confines there is no way to politely conceal the reality of things from those who would prefer ignorance, and most everyone has inadvertently seen a dead body or funeral procession at some point; perhaps it is because, due to the Low City’s rigorous… “recycling” policies, everything that anyone eats is fertilised, to some extent, by their departed dead. It is not uncommon for denizens to liken the Low City to an enormous mass grave, and while this is always a crass and heartless way of describing things it is rarely inaccurate; ironically, in times of plague, when this comparison is most apt, when entire families may be buried in their own homes simply by the collapse of their ceiling and the stricken dead are burned rather than used as fertiliser, the comparisons to a grave fall off markedly. Some things are just too on the nose.

 

While everyone in the Low City deals with death, and deals with it in their own personal ways, there are of course those who deal with it more directly than others. Surgeons, disposal facility workers… gardeners. Each takes part in the circle of death and decay at different points in its never ending cycle, as the same nutrients and particles go round and round, used by one and then ones descendent and on and on. But there are those who deal more directly in the matter of death. Law enforcement can result in casualties, as peaceful solutions to crises are not always possible if they are even attempted. Then there are the executioners- mostly employed among the Fallen, although on rare occasions the Lesh will execute those considered too repugnant even for their worst prisons, and the wardens of Grib labour camps rarely go a month without seeing a discarded body on their worklines. And then of course there are the criminals themselves, the murderers, whose relationship to death hardly needs to be explained. 

 

There is another vocation, however, which deals in death. Not exactly a job, like a Fallen Executioner- though they are Fallen. Not exactly criminals- though they do operate outside of the law. Certainly not surgeons, coroners, disposal facility workers, gardeners- though they do cut out tumours, deal with waste, prune weeds- from their perspective. They do not call themselves the Cult Alcedinidae- not least because such words do not exist in the Fallen tongue- but an approximation of that name is what is whispered in hushed tones whenever one of their victims is discovered, surrounded by the feathers that are their calling cards. A cult of assassins, in effect, though they would not call themselves that either. They are simply Fallen of a different breed, a different perspective on the nature of their eternal suffering: one that is projected outward, rather than in. To the members of the Cult Alcedinidae, the only path to forgiveness, to atonement, is to act as a sort of Sin Eater for others. They are already forsaken, lost, ruined, and so they perform transgressions, both mild and severe, to spare the souls of those who employ them for the task- as far as they are concerned, it seems, intent matters not at all for their employers, and hugely for them themselves. And, so they hope but will never admit, perhaps by taking on these additional sins and saving their employers at the cost of their victims, perhaps they will earn their way back into the light. It is a somewhat circular and incoherent philosophy, but then again its purpose is not to be coherent: its purpose is to provide a purpose, to let those who follow it burn out rather than fade away, perhaps even to strike back at a world which they have been told all their life is not for them.

 

None but the Cult Alcedinidae themselves know who is a member of the cult, nor how one becomes a member- whether it is by birth, by selection, by application, it is just one mystery of many. None even know where the name comes from, or whether or not the cult themselves use that name- of course, if they do they do not use precisely the word “Alcedinidae”, but the actual words they use are in various alien tongues, so a contextual translation is required. Much of what is known about the cult is “known” in the same way most details of a schoolyard tale or campfire boogeyman are “known”, but what is known is that very important people take the cult very seriously. Because, every few years, a very important person is killed, and the cult takes full responsibility- indeed, sometimes the killer themself admits to it, just before taking their own life to avoid questioning, their penance done, their confession akin to a prayer. With that in mind, even despite all the cloak and dagger tactics, the mythic tales and overblown accounts of the assassins’ skills, most important people accept that, at the very least, something like the cult as described in the rumours does exist. And of course there are those who know the cult exists, because they themselves employ the cult’s services.

 

Today, one of the Cult Alcedinidae’s favoured children will receive their final penance, their final reward: they will take a life. Funny how often “great honours” among the Fallen involve death. There has been a long road here, however, a road filled not with death but with a hundred lesser sins, each doled out with the conviction and piety of a priest delivering a sermon and each carried out as if it were the holiest of sacraments. Of course, to Eyes Narrowing and all of his fellow adherents to the Cult Alcedinidae, that is precisely what they are. To sin is to approach divinity, so long as the sin is committed to prevent another’s damnation. Eyes Narrowing has lied, cheated, stolen, sabotaged, threatened and worse. He has, for the bulk of his life, been an anonymous plague upon the good people of the Low City, part of a small group of Fallen who by themselves make up a hugely disproportionate amount of the Low City’s crime rate. He has little concern for his victims, little interest in the purpose behind his acts. He knows that his superiors within the Cult communicate with their clients on his behalf and pass along their requests, that his mentor likely chose this task for him based on skill alone, but he doesn't know or care who these clients are or what their motives might be. He doesn’t even know what payment is made in exchange for his services, and only knows that payment must be made in some form because he is fed and housed by the Cult Alcedinidae and therefore the Cult must have income of some form- on occasions where members commit thefts, they usually pass along any takings to their client. Eyes Narrowing cares not at all for whom he works, because in his heart he does not work for them: he works for himself, and his salvation, and on some dark days where he needs to convince himself just a little bit more of his sinning’s virtuosity, the salvation of the Fallen as a whole. This is not part of the typical doctrine of the Cult Alcedinidae: they teach their members that they seek their own salvation, as only they can take on the sins of others and so only they earn salvation. But there is some leniency in this matter, because otherwise the cognitive dissonance of the Cult’s teachings would become more apparent to those few who dare or care to consider such things. And those few tend to either fall in line, or simply stop being around.

 

Eyes Narrowing is walking through one of the city’s subterranean thoroughfares on the way to his ultimate goal. Note that he is walking, not stalking. While they are undeniably sinister when one knows their true face, part of what makes the Cult Alcedinidae so effective is that they never show their true face. They make themselves mundane, even pleasant- as pleasant as the typically dour Fallen tend to get, that is- and so make themselves beneath notice, beneath care, and ultimately beneath suspicion. Sometimes, in the aftermath of an incident, some might recall the anonymous Fallen who had been in the area. But more often than not they are scarcely noticeable enough to be remembered, and either way they are always long gone before such accusations could be made. This calls back to the origins of the cult’s name: while they do not call themselves the Cult Alcedinidae, as such sounds are not typically made by Fallen beaks, the name will be used here as a neat substitute for the cultural connotations of their true name, an ancient and long-dead family of avians which once hunted in forests and rivers which no longer exist. Like a Kingfisher, the Cultists do not need to conceal themselves: rather than using shadows or camouflage, they simply look pleasantly mundane as they wait for their prey to be in the right position, strike, then return to the perch to await the next opportunity. They do not force situations, mostly, but simply wait for matters to align in their favour and then strike quickly and without mercy. It remains to be seen if Eyes Narrowing will manage to achieve such a clean getaway on this, his greatest “incident” of all. It is unlikely; after all, his instructions make clear that he ought to make as much of a fuss of his kill as possible. Not through noise, mess, or witnesses: while these would undoubtedly make a splash, they do smack of unprofessionalism, and so they will be substituted for a shocking location instead. He does not know why such spectacle is asked for, nor does he care. He is of the Cult Alcedinidae, and this is his final penance. Reasons are for others. 

 

Eyes Narrowing nears his destination, and with it his goal: the Lesh Ministry. He does not know why his patron has tasked him with killing some Lesh Minister, and he doesn’t care: all that matters is his own purpose, his own reason for killing. Why would someone else’s matter? Whatever their cause, it is transient, bound only to this life and its petty needs. His goal, his purpose, is the purity of his immortal soul and the atonement he has worked toward all his life. All other matters are secondary. He is, to an extent, aware that this will be a momentous event. He can think of no other sanctioned killing by the Cult Alcedinidae where the target was so prominent, though due to the nature of the cult he knows of few killings which were definitely their doing. But everyone will know who is responsible for this. Nobody else would dare even attempt something like this, so bold, so mad, so catastrophic. The Low City will be forever changed by Eyes Narrowing’s actions today, though he knows he likely won’t be here to see it. He pays little attention to politics, or anything much other than his spiritual path and the penances to come, but even he has heard of Phlaighin, the Lesh Chief Minister, and the man whom he will kill tonight. Not since the dark times of the Low City’s first few years has someone like Phlaighin been murdered, as one of many hard lessons learned in those days was that the Low City is a deeply fragile place, and the chaos that could be unleashed by such an act will always far outweigh the potential benefit it might hold. The people who have paid for Eyes Narrowing’s actions today know this. Eyes Narrowing’s superiors in the Cult Alcedinidae know this. Eyes Narrowing knows this. But none of them care: Eyes Narrowing and his fellow cultists, because they believe that this is a necessary part of the path toward salvation, and their anonymous hirers because… Well. They don’t seem to care, and Eyes Narrowing doesn’t care why they don’t care. It is not for him to know. He is of the Cult Alcedinidae. 

 

The pass given to Eyes Narrowing by his mentor gets him past the Ministry guards without any issue at all. This did not surprise Eyes Narrowing, of course, as he trusted his mentor without question. With his life, no less. The pass worked because his mentor believed in him, yes, believed that Eyes Narrowing was capable of this task, but also believed in the importance of this task. The spiritual necessity of it. If there was also some more practical reason for this belief in the task’s importance, that was not for Eyes Narrowing to know. He walks into the spacious foyer to the Ministry- spacious here being a relative term, of course, but to most Low City denizens the ceiling being more than double their height is something to be marvelled at. To a Fallen such as Eyes Narrowing, who has grown up with the hauntingly, cruelly high ceilings of the Fallen Cathedral, it is nothing special. To those who once lived under an open sky it would scarcely bear noticing. Eyes Narrowing strolls confidently past security guards, past functionaries coming or going or having casual conversations, to a desk with a receptionist to whom he hands his pass and names the low-level bureaucrat whom he is not really here to see. He is the only Fallen in the room, but not the only non-Lesh, and Fallen messengers are not so uncommon after all. To members of the Cult Alcedinidae, confidence is key- but not too much confidence. One must seem like one belongs, but not like they own the place, like they know where they’re going, but not like they’re too hurried, like they have a reason to be there, but a boring one. Escaping notice is something Eyes Narrowing and his fellow acolytes have trained to do all their lives, and he is quite good at it. And so the receptionist thinks nothing of the matter, simply smiles and gives him some polite instructions he will not follow, to find the office where he will not go, to meet the bureaucrat who does not matter. As far as the receptionist is concerned, Eyes Narrowing is here to meet a sub-secretary to lodge an application for some sort of expansion or annexation to a Fallen conclave in contested territory. It is exactly as boring and mundane as it sounds, and Eyes Narrowing knows the ins and outs of it even though it will almost certainly never come up. Because, should he accidentally bump into the bureaucrat he is supposed to meet on the way to Phlaighin’s office, he needs to be able to discuss relevant matters until an opportunity presents itself to leave or- in a worst-case scenario- kill the bureaucrat in such a way that will escape notice until it is too late. He knows all about relevant zoning law, about soil consistency and rock density in the relevant region, he even knows a couple of geological jokes perfectly calibrated for the bureaucrat to smile at- but not laugh. A truly funny joke would be memorable, and Eyes Narrowing must be anything but. 

 

As he walks the halls of the Lesh Ministry- not stalking, never stalking- Eyes Narrowing subtly checks the tools he has been given for this task by his mentor: both concealed among his feathers, both in the shape of feathers, both tipped with a deadly poison with no known cure. The only difference between them is the direction they travel upon use, and thus their purpose: one is to be drawn, and thrust into the bare flesh of the target. The other is to be pressed sharply inward, into Eyes Narrowing’s own skin, where it will release that same poison and prevent him from betraying the Cult Alcedinidae. It is a precaution Eyes Narrowing understands, though he knows it is unnecessary: he would never reveal the cult’s secrets, although he supposes that he appreciates that suicide will spare him torture should he be caught. As he passes into the more secure areas of the Ministry he shows the guards at a checkpoint a pass- a different one to that which he showed the receptionist. The receptionist might have been familiar with Chief Minister Phlaighin’s schedule, and known that a meeting with some unfamiliar Fallen wasn’t on it, whereas these guards are not privy to such things. And besides, a little obfuscation can go a long way, should he need to make a rapid escape. His mentor has planned this task out well, her greater experience serving them both well as the guards wave Eyes Narrowing into the secure area without undue scrutiny. 

 

He is nearing his objective now, his salvation. His pace quickens slightly, in line with his heartbeat which flutters inside his feathered chest. He knows the precise room Phlaighin will be in, that he will likely be alone, that he will be all but defenceless before the wrath of an acolyte of the Cult Alcedinidae. His mentor has told him that the minister is between meetings at this hour, that he will be sitting alone in an office preparing his notes, sipping a cup of tea, perhaps not even looking up as the door opens quietly, assuming that an aide has come to refresh the pot or pass along a memorandum. Everything so far has gone to plan, but this is the part most up to chance. Any number of variables could intrude upon Eyes Narrowing’s work, his holiest of acts: someone could stop him in the hall, the minister might take an inopportune bathroom break or unscheduled meeting, the schedule could have been thrown off before Eyes Narrowing had even arrived. In that instance, it will become time to improvise, a path which will slightly reduce the cultist’s odds of completing his task and drastically reduce his odds of making it out alive after. The best case scenario is that Eyes Narrowing will simply kill Phlaighin quietly in his own office, then slip out before anyone comes along to find the body. Walking down the corridor toward the door he hopes- believes- that his target lies behind, he once more checks his concealed weapons, then deftly grabs a tea tray from a nearby trolley without breaking his stride. He narrows his eyes at a passing cleaner in the Fallen version of a smile, receiving a nod in return. Then he is at the door. This is where it will all change, one way or the other. He takes a breath, then turns the handle.

 

He freezes, midway through pushing the door open. Something is wrong. He has followed the instructions his mentor gave him perfectly, without variation, and yet something is wrong: this is not a small office, and while Phlaighin is sitting within he is not alone. The Lesh minister, his target, is sitting at the far side of a round table with seven other figures, some of whom he recognises from news stands though he can’t recall their names. He has arrived at precisely the time his mentor told him to, and yet despite this Phlaighin is not between meetings but in the middle of one. Understanding quickly dawns on Eyes Narrowing that he will likely not be making it out of the Ministry alive. Then, he narrows his eyes again and smoothly pushes the door shut behind him, moving forward to place down the tray and pass around some tea. Few of the people at the table have even registered his presence, and those who have- Phlaighin included- have already looked away, accepting that he is simply an aide here to deliver tea, each assuming that he must be in the employ of one of the others and this is why they don’t recognise him. Eyes Narrowing’s heart beats even faster as he begins pouring tea into a cup, a peppery fungal tisane of the Lesh style, steeling his nerve for the moment to come. That’s all it will be, just a moment, and his duty will be done, his penance done, his salvation achieved. The presence of these others changes nothing, because his death means nothing: it doesn’t matter if he dies, so long as Phlaighin dies first. All the swifter to his reward. 

 

But then something makes Eyes Narrowing freeze. His body tenses, heart skips a beat, if the tea could freeze mid-pour it would do so. His mind has been racing, calculating, almost panicking about the task at hand, such that it has taken him some precious seconds to register something he saw with his own eyes some seconds ago. He counted eight figures around the table when he opened the door, and he counted true. But as he closed the door, his gaze briefly passed over a shadow hidden behind it: a ninth figure, one cloaked in darkness, so utterly still that Eyes Narrowing didn’t even register their presence until now. A guard. Surely it can only be a guard, who else would stand so still and quiet in such an odd place. Eyes Narrowing’s odds are shrinking by the moment, and with every moment that passes the odds that this guard will find reason to accost him grow greater. The Fallen is well aware that his nerves are getting to him, that his unassuming and calm mask has slipped and that at any second one of the people at the table or the guard standing behind him will notice. He is out of time. He must act before the opportunity to do so slips away forever. He had planned to dole out the tea to each of the people at the table, steadily and unassumingly making his way around the table to Phlaighin at a pace nobody would think odd, an unnoticeable figure just as in the rest of his life until he was right next to his target, at which point he would pluck his false-feather and plunge it into Phlaighin’s neck and whatever happened after hardly mattered. But he can already see how his hands will shake as he passes along the tea, the rattling of cup on saucer drawing attention as he must never, one of the nine people in the room bound to notice that he is strangely nervous for a tea delivery, perhaps one would notice that they don’t recognise him, and then the guard would step forward and everything would turn to chaos. He cannot allow this. And so he must act decisively, must act now.

 

And then the figure behind him steps forward and, with a sudden cry of what sounds to Eyes Narrowing like shock and alarm, plunges a knife into the centre of the Fallen’s back. Cries erupt from the people at the table, their chairs scraping along the floor as they fling themselves away from the table onto which Eyes Narrowing collapses. He loses track of Phlaighin instantly, the Lesh who for a few seconds was the centre of his world passing out of the corner of his eye never to return. His vision is already fading, along with his hearing, along with all feeling. But still, a sound stands out to him. Among the gasps and shouts and running footsteps and the sound of the door opening as more help arrives, he hears a clattering sound close by, metal on wood. He knows his way around weapons, has trained with all kinds for all his life, well enough to recognise the sound of a knife. His eyes narrow with confusion; he cannot feel much, but he can still very much feel the knife that has killed him sticking out of his back. He rolls over on the table, a fresh pang of agony as he drives the knife further in, slicking his feathers with his own blood- so much blood- to look at this mysterious second dagger. And sees the one who has killed him. Recognises her. His eyes widen- or, well, no, they don’t. The lids simply won’t obey him, much as his legs won’t. But even through half-lidded eyes, even though for some reason the whole room is growing so dark- has someone doused the phosphor lamps? No, that isn’t it- even though the one he is looking at is pitch black in a darkening room, he recognises the shape of the one he has spent most of his life learning from, trusting, loving. His mentor is not looking at him. Instead she bows to the terrified occupants of the room, gesturing toward the dagger she has just tossed onto the table next to her apprentice, her victim. Saying that she is sorry for the fright and mess, but that she saw this stranger drawing a hidden weapon with ill intent and had to act. Eyes Narrowing wants to protest, to say no this is wrong, this is all wrong, but his beak won’t move. His lungs are empty, anyway, some poison on the knife in his back paralysing his muscles, perhaps even the same one he meant to use on Phlaighin. Just before everything goes black, forever, he hears a voice- perhaps Phlaighin’s, he can no longer tell- thanking his mentor, assuring her that she will be handsomely rewarded for saving them all. And in the last instant of his life, Eyes Narrowing sees his mentor lock eyes with him as she says that she was just doing her duty. And so, scared and confused and alone, an acolyte of the Cult Alcedinidae dies at his master’s hand, for reasons he will never know, having failed in the task his entire life was building towards.

 

But perhaps not. True, Eyes Narrowing failed to kill Phlaighin, or indeed anyone. But his purpose- his true purpose- was nonetheless met. Because it was not his purpose to kill, but be killed. The Cult Alcedinidae takes all kinds of tasks, from all those who can pay. The greater the task, the greater the pay, and for a task such as this the price was high indeed. Eyes Narrowing’s mentor, whose name he never knew, gave up her apprentice for this task, though she did so willingly. The task that she was given was not, however, to kill Eyes Narrowing. That was merely the way she best knew would achieve her employer’s true goal: to sow seeds of doubt, mistrust, cruelty, within the minds of the Lesh Ministry. Someone has just attempted to kill one of their chief ministers, and they certainly did so on another’s behalf. Whispers and rumours suggest the involvement of the Cult Alcedinidae, and so undoubtedly the other side in this matter is powerful, wealthy. Political rivals, insurrectionists, agents of some unknown other power, all will be blamed. There will be consequences for what happened today, and they will be felt all throughout the Low City for years to come. And that is precisely what the people who hired the Cult wanted. This was all just one part of a broader plan, and poor Eyes Narrowing just one stepping stone on the path to their ultimate goal. Things are about to change... But then again, they always are, in the Low City.