# Chapter 13: The Weight of It

Two bells. Maybe three. Time had gone soft around the edges, the way it does when the only thing marking it is someone else's breathing.

The room had emptied of strangers. The tanner had hovered for a while after bringing the water — decent man, worried man, the kind who checks on neighbors because that's what you do — but Mere hadn't needed him, and standing in a room where you're not needed is its own kind of misery. He'd left with a nod and a promise to be downstairs if we wanted anything. The neighbor woman had gone with him. She'd patted Mere's shoulder on the way out, and Mere hadn't noticed, which told me more about where Mere's head was than anything she'd said in the last two hours.

So it was the three of us. Four, if you counted the man on the cot, and I was counting him because the alternative was admitting I was useless.

Devod looked wrong.

The immediate, visceral wrong from when we'd first arrived had faded — not into comfort, but into something heavier. This was the slow wrong. The kind you noticed more as time passed, not less. His hair had been iron-grey with streaks of the original dark when I'd first met him. Now it was white at the temples and pale silver everywhere else, thin and dry against the pillow. His skin had gone slack in a way that wasn't about weight loss — it was about substance. Like someone had taken a version of Devod that existed twenty years from now and laid it on this cot, in this room, above a tanner's shop on Millford Street. The hands that had animated every one of his ten ideas, waving and pointing and sketching shapes in the air, lay flat on the blanket like they'd forgotten what they were for.

He was fifty-five years old. He looked seventy.

Mere worked.

That was the only verb that mattered in this room. She'd been cycling through compounds since the initial stabilization — pulse checks, temperature assessments, adjustments to the herbal preparations she'd laid out on the small table by the cot like a surgeon's instruments. Wrist. Throat. Temple. Each point touched with two fingers, held for a count of three, released. The rhythm of it had become the room's heartbeat. She hadn't spoken since telling me to say it later, and I hadn't tested that instruction, because Mere didn't issue instructions she didn't mean.

I watched her the way I watched magical workings. Not the content — I couldn't read herbal medicine any more than she could read a ward lattice — but the structure underneath. The pattern of her movements. The way she went back to the left wrist more often than the others. The half-second pause before each adjustment, where her eyes went slightly unfocused and I knew she was running comparisons against everything she'd ever read about vitality depletion.

(*Something was off. Beyond the room, the compounds, Devod's shallow-but-steady breathing — something underneath all of it. My Flaw Sight kept catching the edge of a presence around Devod, faint and blurred, like trying to read a word written in fog. Not a working. Not anything I could parse into structure or architecture. Just a hum I couldn't locate, sitting at the edge of perception where useful became maddening.*)

The knock came about an hour later.

Not at the door — Leon didn't knock at doors. He knocked on the frame, two knuckles, the particular rhythm that meant *it's me, don't get up.*

He stood in the doorway and looked at Devod, and I saw the information land.

Leon had sold the crystal. He knew this. I knew this. We'd both filed it under operational context, a fact that matters for the case but doesn't get to matter personally because personal gets in the way of solving things. That was before the crystal had been used on someone who mattered to someone who mattered to me.

He didn't come into the room. Just stood there, one hand on the frame, and I could see him running the chain of custody the same way I'd been running it for two hours.

(*Leon sold it to Harren. Harren sold it through Galden. Galden's money led to Cass. Cass put it in Kae's hands. Kae put it on Devod. Four links in a chain, and the math of blame doesn't distribute evenly — it never does. The person who pulled the trigger and the person who forged the bullet and the person who loaded the weapon and the person who pointed it all carry different weights, but the result lying on the cot doesn't care about the distribution.*)

"Ledger sent word," Leon said. Low, steady. Not asking permission to be here.

I nodded. Mere didn't look up.

The room held all of us in different kinds of silence.

* * *

Mere's hands paused.

It was such a small thing — a hesitation between one motion and the next, a break that wouldn't register if you hadn't been watching the rhythm for two and a half hours. But I had, because watching Mere's rhythm was the only useful thing I could do, and I'd calibrated myself to it the way you calibrate to a ticking clock. You don't hear the ticks anymore. You hear the silence when one is missing.

She was applying binding salts at his pulse points — wrists, temples, throat. Standard stabilization work, the same compounds she'd been rotating through since we arrived. The salts were a fine grey powder that she worked into a thin paste with distilled water and applied with her fingertips, two layers, precise coverage. At each point, the salts would darken slightly as they absorbed ambient magical residue — normal behavior, expected, the whole purpose of binding salts in a stabilization protocol.

The salts at his left wrist were darkening faster than the others.

Mere stared at them. Applied fresh salts to the same point. Waited. Watched.

They darkened again. Not dramatically — not the reactive flare of an active working — but faster than the right wrist, faster than the temples, faster than the throat. A difference you'd miss if you weren't looking for it. A difference you'd only catch if you'd been cycling through the same six pulse points for three hours and your brain was the kind that tracked patterns the way mine tracked flaws.

"Something is still pulling."

Her voice was clinical. Tight. The kind of controlled that costs more than shouting.

She didn't look at me when she explained. She looked at Devod's wrist, and she talked because saying it aloud helped her think — I'd seen her do it a hundred times with compound work, narrating the logic so her pattern recognition had something to chew on.

"The extraction should have stopped when the crystal was removed from contact. That's how draining works — the instrument creates a channel, pulls vitality through it, channel closes when contact breaks." She applied fresh salts to his throat. They darkened at the normal rate. Back to the left wrist. Fast again. "But there's still a draw here. Faint, but active. The channel didn't close."

(*Pre-Compact architecture. Of course. The Mallory crystal doesn't just extract — it anchors. I'd seen the anchoring structure during the drain in the warrens, that involuntary flash of Flaw Sight that had burned the crystal's architecture into my memory. The way it roots itself into a target, sinks threads into the vitality like a hook set deep in flesh. Pull the crystal away and the hook slides free on the crystal's side, but the wound on Devod's side — the place where those threads were rooted — that's still open. Still drawing.*)

"A drain echo," I said.

Mere's eyes flicked to me. Processing. Cataloguing. "That's a useful term. The crystal left a residual endpoint in his system. As long as it's open, his body can't rebuild — it's losing vitality faster than natural recovery can replace it. Not much faster. But enough."

She was already mixing. The mortar came out — the small stone one, no bigger than her palm — and she measured salts into it with the precision that turned a pinch into an exact quantity. More than standard. Significantly more. She added water, but less than before — the paste she was creating was denser, more concentrated.

"If binding salts dampen magical activity," she said, still narrating, "then a saturated application at the channel endpoint should close it. Standard concentration dampens. This—" she held up the mortar, "—should smother."

She applied the compound to Devod's left wrist. Thick, even coverage over the pulse point, pressed firm with both thumbs. Held it. Thirty seconds. A minute.

Leon had moved from the doorway to the wall just inside the room. I hadn't noticed him cross the threshold — didn't know if he had noticed either. He stood with his arms folded and his jaw set, watching Mere work with the particular intensity of a man trying to be useful by not being in the way.

Mere lifted her hands. Applied the diagnostic paste over the compound — a thin layer, standard concentration.

We waited.

The salts held their color.

She applied another layer. Waited. Held.

No darkening. No draw. The pulling had stopped.

Mere's hands went still. They just stopped, hovering over Devod's wrist, fingers slightly apart, as though the absence of something to do had caught her off guard. For two and a half hours she'd been in continuous motion, and now the motion was done, and her hands didn't know where to go.

She placed them flat on the edge of the cot. Pressed down. Breathed.

"Now his body can start."

Quiet. Beyond celebration, beyond relief — relief implies the fear is over, and it wasn't. But the worst fear — the one she hadn't said aloud, the one that lived in the space between "stable" and "not getting worse" — that one had shifted. Devod's body wasn't fighting a drain anymore. It was just empty. And empty could be filled.

I didn't say anything. There wasn't anything to say that her hands hadn't already said by stopping.

* * *

The corridor outside Devod's room was narrow and smelled like tanning chemicals and old wood. Ledger was leaning against the wall opposite the door, which meant he'd come back at some point during the last hour without announcing himself. He had a way of appearing in hallways like weather on the horizon — you couldn't point to when it started, but suddenly it was there, and it had probably been building for a while.

Leon was beside him. The two of them looked like the world's most uncomfortable portrait: the guild handler and the fixer's best friend, waiting outside a room where neither of them could do anything useful.

I closed the door behind me. Not all the way — Mere would want to hear if Devod's breathing changed — but enough to make the corridor feel like a different conversation.

"I know where Kae sleeps," I said.

That wasn't entirely true. I knew where Kae had been sleeping — the warrens tenement, the washing woman's ground-floor unit — and I knew he'd moved since our first contact. But I knew his patterns. The territory he hunted. The routes he took when the crystal's appetite drove him back to the streets. Leon knew them too, had been tracking movements since the stay-or-bolt conversation.

What I was saying, and what both of them heard, was: *I can find him. I can end this.*

Not with anger. That was the part that would have worried them if they'd been different people. I wasn't angry. Anger is hot and imprecise and makes you do things you regret. What I was running was colder than that — a task list. Find Kae. Remove the crystal. Remove Kae if necessary. Report to Ledger. Collect Devod's recovery costs from Cass's network. Move on.

It sounded like a work order. That was the problem.

"He's evidence."

Leon said it. Not gently — the guilt had burned the gentleness out of him somewhere in the last three hours, replaced it with something sharper. He was looking at me like a ward schematic — reading the structure, finding the flaw.

"Kae is the only person who can tell us how Cass operates. Who his people are. Where the money flows. How many crystals are in circulation." Leon pushed off the wall. "Kill him and we're back to chasing shadows. We've been chasing shadows for weeks. How's that been working?"

"The crystal that drained Devod," Ledger added, in the measured tone of a man presenting evidence, "is the same architecture as the one used on the Floundry victims. Pre-Compact. Mallory construction. Kae knows where it came from. Kae knows if there are more. Kae knows who Cass has lined up as the next target." He let that sit. "Kae is the most valuable piece of evidence we have, and he's walking around the warrens with it in his pocket."

(*They were right. The cold part of my brain — the part that runs calculations while the rest of me pretends to be having a different conversation — had already processed this. Had processed it before I stepped into the corridor, probably. Had been processing it while I sat in the corner watching Mere work, building the task list that felt clean and efficient and final, the one that ended with Kae on the ground and the case closed and nothing left but the debt. The cold part knew that killing Kae would feel like justice for about fifteen minutes before it became the reason Cass stayed invisible for another six months. The rest of me needed someone to say it out loud so I could pretend I'd been persuaded instead of admitting I couldn't have gone through with it anyway. Devod wouldn't want that. Mere wouldn't forgive it. And the part of me that was sitting in Devod's room because sitting was the hardest thing I could do — that part wouldn't have forgiven it either.*)

"Fine," I said.

Leon nodded. Not satisfied — he was past satisfaction tonight — but the tension in his shoulders dropped half an inch.

"That crystal passed through my hands, Phelan." His voice was steady in the way that voices are steady when steadiness is costing something. "I sold it. I didn't ask enough questions, I took the money, and now it's been used on—" He stopped. Reset. "Whatever we do next, I'm in it. That's not a request."

I looked at him. The guilt was there, the same guilt that had been building since he'd identified the crystal's signature from across a table in Chandler's Row. But something had changed in the last three hours. The guilt had found a shape — not self-pity, not the corrosive kind that eats at competence. Commitment. The kind that says *I helped make this, so I'll help unmake it.* Leon at his best was always transactional: clear debts, clear terms, move forward.

"I know," I said. Because I did. And because the only thing worse than Leon's guilt would be Leon's guilt without a direction to point it.

Ledger straightened. "The safe house is prepared. Medical contact will be there by morning — a healer with specific experience in life-force depletion recovery. Discreet, vetted, no Compact entanglements." He paused, and in the pause I heard the institutional machinery clicking into place — resources being allocated, channels being opened, the Guild of Necessary Services doing what it did when its people were hurt. "These resources aren't limited to this situation. They'll be available going forward."

Not limited to this situation. Available going forward. Which meant: when we find Kae, when we pull him off the crystal, when the withdrawal hits and his body collapses — there's a place for him. A safe house. Medical care. Not a prison, not a grave. A bed.

I filed that. Didn't respond to it, because responding would have meant admitting that ten minutes ago I'd been planning an ending, and now I was thinking about beds.

"Tomorrow," I said. "Scene assessment. Then we build this properly."

Ledger accepted that the way he accepted everything — with a nod that conveyed efficiency, approval, and mild institutional disappointment that I hadn't agreed to start immediately, all compressed into a single movement of his head. He left the way he'd arrived: precisely, without wasted motion, grey suit disappearing down the narrow staircase like a filing cabinet had learned to walk.

Leon stayed.

"Go home," I told him. "Get some sleep. Training's off tomorrow."

"I know." He didn't move. Then, quieter: "Is Mere—"

"She's working."

He understood what that meant. Everyone who knew Mere understood what that meant. He squeezed my shoulder once — hard, brief, the way men communicate things they can't say — and headed for the stairs.

I stood in the corridor for a moment. The tanning chemicals. The old wood. The sound of Mere's mortar grinding through the closed-but-not-quite door.

Then I went back into the room. Not to do anything. Not to help. Not to solve. Just to sit in the chair in the corner of Devod Fields' one-room life and be present while Mere worked and Devod breathed and the evening settled into night.

The anger was still there — cold, patient, efficient. It would keep. Anger like that doesn't spoil. It just waits until you know where to point it.

I sat down. Pulled the bracelet's charging thread steady — seventy percent, holding, warm amber-red. One more thing to manage.

The room was quiet.

I let it be quiet.
