The hour before dawn is the city's quietest moment. It is a thief's hour, a ghost's hour, a time when the gap between the living world and the one that lies beneath it feels perilously thin. For Captain Yorick of the Stǣl-witan, it was simply the best time to kick in a door.
He stood with his men in the narrow, stinking confines of Fishgut Alley, the pre-dawn chill doing little to cut through the street's permanent miasma of fish offal and cheap gin. Rain from the previous night still dripped from the sagging eaves of the tenements, each drop a slow, steady tick of a clock counting down to violence. Six of his best men, the hardest hands in the South-District watch, stood with him, their faces grim in the gloom, the steam from their breath pluming in the cold air.
"Alright, lads," Yorick said, his voice a low gravel that didn't carry. He addressed his sergeant, a tough, wiry man named Kael. "Go over it one last time."
Kael nodded, his eyes scanning the team. "The target is Silas Crowe. A known rabble-rouser for the 'True Men of Dunholm' reformist sect. Lives on the third floor, back room. According to the Walker's echo, our man is young, pox-scarred, and filled with a fire to burn the nobility. Crowe fits the description like a glove fits a hand."
One of the younger watchmen shifted his weight nervously. "Captain… we're sure of this? The Walker's word is all we have to go on."
Yorick turned his gaze on the man, his eyes hard as flint. "The Walker's word is more solid than the stone in the city walls, lad. Two years ago, when the alderman's son went missing? Every informant in the city swore he'd run off with a sailor. It was the Walker who touched the boy's discarded cloak and led us to the well where his 'friends' had dumped his body after a card game went bad. He gave us their names before they'd even sobered up."
Kael chimed in, his voice sharp. "And what about the Silk-Guild conspiracy last year? A dozen merchants claimed robbery, but the Walker took one look at a dead guard's gemynd and unraveled a plot of insurance fraud that went all the way to the Lord's Council. The echo sees what's real. It doesn't get confused by lies or politics. It's the purest evidence we'll ever get."
The younger man nodded, his doubts silenced. Yorick clapped him on the shoulder, a gesture that was meant to be reassuring but looked like a hammer blow. "The echo said the killer had pox scars and a serpent clasp. Our informants confirmed Silas Crowe wears such a clasp—the symbol of his damned sect. The pieces fit. We have our man. Now, let's go and collect him."
He looked up at the tenement, a dark, hulking shape against the lightening sky. "Stealth until the door. Once it's breached, it's all speed and fury. I want him in irons before he's had time to piss. Is that clear?"
A chorus of grunted "Aye, Captains" was his answer.
"Good," Yorick said. "Let's earn our pay."
They moved like shadows, their hobnailed boots surprisingly quiet on the slick cobbles. Two men stayed to cover the alley while Yorick led the other four into the tenement's dark, foul-smelling stairwell. The building was a hive of human misery, the air thick with the smells of boiled cabbage, unwashed bodies, and despair. They climbed the rickety stairs, the wood groaning under their combined weight. On the third floor, Kael pointed to a door at the end of the hall.
Yorick held up a hand, listening. There was no sound from within. He gave a sharp, single nod.
A massive guardsman named Borin, whose shoulders were as wide as the doorframe, stepped forward. He drew back his leg and kicked. The wood splintered with a sound like a gunshot in the sleeping building. The door flew inward.
"Stǣl-witan!" Yorick bellowed, rushing into the room with his cudgel raised. "Silas Crowe, you are under arrest for the murder of Tomin Fenn!"
The room was small and squalid, containing little more than a straw pallet, a crate for a table, and a collection of radical pamphlets. A young man, startled from sleep, was scrambling up from the pallet, his eyes wide with shock and fear. His face, pale in the gloom, was marred by the distinctive, pitted scars of the pox.
"What is this? By whose authority?" he shouted, his voice cracking.
"By mine," Yorick said, his massive frame blocking the only exit. He saw the glint of silver on the man's discarded tunic—a serpent clasp. It was him.
Silas Crowe saw the direction of Yorick's gaze and seemed to understand. His fear hardened into a defiant sneer. "So, the lords send their dogs to kick in the doors of those who speak the truth. I am a patriot, not a killer!"
"You can tell your story to the magistrates," Yorick growled. "Borin, Kael, put him in irons."
Crowe did not surrender meekly. He was wiry and quick, and he fought with the fury of a cornered rat, spitting curses about the tyranny of the noble houses. But he was one man against four. The fight was short, brutal, and ended with Silas Crowe face down on the floorboards, his hands bound tightly behind his back, a trickle of blood running from his lip.
As they hauled the struggling, cursing man to his feet, Yorick's gaze swept the room one last time. It was a squalid little nest, filled with seditious writings that advocated for the burning of noble property. A man like this, filled with this much hate, could easily have murdered an old weaver for refusing to take part in his cause. The echo was right. The case was closed.
Later that morning, in the relative quiet of his office at the South-District watch house, Yorick allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. Silas Crowe was in a holding cell, screaming himself hoarse about injustice. The murder weapon, a vicious-looking knife, had been found under his pallet. The serpent clasp was on Yorick's desk. It was a clean arrest. A good arrest.
Sergeant Kael entered the room, carrying two steaming mugs of what passed for tea in the watch house. He handed one to Yorick.
"The preliminary questioning is done, Captain," Kael said. "He admits to being a leader in the True Men sect. Admits to writing the pamphlets. He even admits to visiting the weaver a few nights ago, trying to recruit him. But he swears on the Old Way and the new that he didn't kill him."
"They all swear it," Yorick said, taking a sip of the foul tea. "His knife, his clasp, his face from the echo. The magistrates will have him on the gallows by week's end." He leaned back in his chair, the leather groaning in protest. "Still… the Walker. He unnerves me."
"He unnerves everyone, Captain," Kael said, leaning against the doorframe. "It's the eyes. Like looking at a calm lake and knowing a leviathan is sleeping at the bottom."
"It's not just that," Yorick mused, swirling the dregs in his mug. "He handles the stain better than his predecessor, at least. You're too young to remember Master Corvus."
"Heard the stories. They say he went mad in the end."
"Worse than mad," Yorick corrected, his voice low. "He got lost. Couldn't tell his own memories from the echoes he'd walked. Saw his own wife and called her by the name of a murdered prostitute he'd echoed a decade earlier. Tried to arrest his own reflection for a crime he'd witnessed in a gemynd. The Lord Regent had to have him… retired. Quietly." He shook his head. "It's a dark art, Kael. A necessary one, but dark."
"And Cædmon?" Kael asked, his curiosity piqued. "What's his story? No one seems to know where he came from."
Yorick took another long swallow of tea, gathering his thoughts. "He's not from here. That much is in the charter. It says he came from the Northern Marches about ten years ago. Grim country up there. They say the Old Ways are stronger, that the veil between worlds is thin. Maybe that's how he came into his power. Or maybe it's a curse."
He stared out the grimy window at the bustling street. "All I know for sure is that the Lord Regent himself granted him the charter and the title. It was after the 'Incident at Whitefall.' Best not to ask about that."
The name hung in the air for a moment, heavy with unspoken meaning. Kael knew better than to press. Some doors were meant to stay closed.
"Well," Kael said finally, "curse or gift, his word has closed another case. The Lords will be pleased."
As if on cue, another watchman appeared at the door. "Captain Yorick, Lord Valerius's steward is here to see you. He brings the Lord's… gratitude."
Yorick sighed. The political part of the job. He straightened up, putting on his official face. "Send him in."
A man swept into the room, his clothes a stark contrast to the utilitarian grime of the watch house. He was thin, precise, and his face held a look of faint disdain for his surroundings.
"Captain Yorick," the steward said, his voice smooth as oiled silk. "I am Silus, steward to the Lord Valerius. My lord was most… distressed… to hear of the plot against his house, and the unfortunate death of his master weaver. He is, however, greatly relieved to hear that you have the culprit in custody."
"The Stǣl-witan are efficient in our duties," Yorick said flatly.
"Indeed." The steward placed a heavy purse on Yorick's desk. The clink of coins was loud in the small room. "Lord Valerius sends his compliments, and this small token for the Watchmen's Benevolent Fund, in appreciation for your swift action."
Yorick looked at the purse, then back at the steward. He knew a bribe when he saw one, even one dressed up as charity. This was a message: The case is closed. Let it stay closed.
"Lord Valerius's generosity is well known," Yorick said, his voice devoid of expression. "Please inform him that the matter is concluded. The killer will face the city's justice."
The steward gave a thin, satisfied smile. "Excellent. It is so reassuring when the world makes sense, Captain. When there are clear villains and clear heroes, and justice is seen to be done."
He gave a slight bow and swept out of the room, leaving the scent of expensive perfume in his wake.
Yorick stared at the purse for a long time after the steward had gone. Kael looked at him, an unspoken question in his eyes.
"The world is never that simple," Yorick murmured, more to himself than to his sergeant. He thought of the look in the weaver's dead eyes, of the cold resolve of the Echo-Walker, of the screaming, defiant fanatic in his cells. It felt clean. It felt solved.
But deep in his gut, a place that had kept him alive for thirty years in the city's service, a tiny, cold knot of doubt began to form. It was all too neat. Too perfect. He pushed the feeling down. The evidence was absolute. The echo was infallible. The case was closed.
He picked up the purse. "Right," he said to Kael, his voice all business again. "Let's go and see how much benevolence the lads can drink."
But as he walked out of his office, the thought of Cædmon's grey, haunted eyes lingered in his mind. The Walker had given him the truth, but Yorick had the sudden, chilling feeling that the truth was a much larger and more terrible thing than a single murderer in a single room.
From the Rūn-hord: A Scholar's Note
On the Social and Legal Standing of the Echo-Walker
The office of the Echo-Walker is unique within the legal framework of Dunholm. The individual holding the title is not a member of the Stǣl-witan, nor are they affiliated with the courts of the Magistry or the temples of the Old Way. They are, in effect, a permanent, independent consultant retained by the city itself, their charter granted directly by the Lord Regent.
This unique position affords the Walker certain privileges and imposes significant burdens. They possess the authority to access any crime scene deemed necessary by the Captain of the Watch and their findings—the testimony of the gemynd—are granted the status of primary, irrefutable evidence in legal proceedings. This power is absolute and has, in the past, been the sole factor in the conviction or exoneration of dozens of individuals.
Socially, however, the Walker exists in a state of profound isolation. The common citizenry views the practice of Echo-Walking with a mixture of awe and deep-seated fear. To be able to touch the dead and commune with their final thoughts is seen as an unnatural art. The Walker is often regarded as "unclean" or "ghost-touched," a person tainted by the constant proximity of death. Children are hushed in their presence, and even hardened criminals are known to fall silent when the Walker enters a room.
This social ostracization is the unwritten price of their power. While legally sanctioned and essential to the city's justice, the Echo-Walker is condemned to a life apart, respected for their results but shunned for their methods. They are the city's most powerful tool for finding the truth, and its loneliest soul.