It’s not a person, you can’t argue with it. No.

No. You’re not listening. It’s not a person. It doesn’t have a, it doesn’t have first-person locution. That’s not what it is.

It’s… it’s not that. It’s the Most High. It just thinks. There’s no body, there’s no ego, there’s nothing but the voice and the thinking. That’s what it is.

I don’t know. It’s been in charge for like a thousand years. They do what it says. It isn’t itself — I mean, it draws from the Dark well but it isn’t alive or Undying. I don’t think. It doesn’t do magic, the way aristos do magic. It’s an effect.

Tradition? Because that’s the way it’s been done forever? I don’t know. But you can’t argue with it. I know that.

Because everyone knows that. It’s disembodied. It’s just an idea. It’s a thing-in-progress they made back when the city was founded.

It’s a sovereign idea. It’s the idea of sovereignty. I don’t know.

No, because —

Well, fuck you too. But look. It’s already been decided. You walked out of the Tower with a Type Nine volume. You violated the Hoarding protocols and then you compounded it by getting drunk and singing a Type Eleven song in public. Case closed.

XXXXX! Nobody cares. Pelagic! Listen to yourself.

Maybe, but since I’m never going to see you again it doesn’t matter.

Didn’t they, I thought you knew.

You’ve been sentenced to the Quodrion.

I —

I said —

Forget it then. You sing a Type Eleven in an alehouse, they figure you want to go Quodrion. Dumbass. I’ll probably get in trouble now for telling you.


(Partial transcript of Vera Vera Ilermalken’s last conversation with XXXXX, dated 06/33/1486. Censored by order of the Most High.)

SEE ALSO: Hoarding of Secrets Act, Quodrion, Vera Ilermalken


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