The Language of Lies

The Language of Lies

an Across the Broken Stars story
By Jed Herne

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 The Language of Lies

First published by Undergrove Press 2020

Copyright © 2020 by Jed Herne

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be

reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any
means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording,
scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the
publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website,
or distribute it by any other means without permission.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters

and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s
imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or
dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Jed Herne asserts the moral right to be identified as the

author of this work.

jedherne.com

First edition

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 The Language of Lies

N
o one wanted to talk with Drayton at the ball.
Oh, they’d approach his table, where he
hunched miserably against a stiff-backed
chair, clutching his drink. They’d sing praises of his
valour in the Reclamation War. They’d say how
relieved they were to have restored order to Paya’s
discs after all these centuries. They’d fawn over the
meaningless badges of honour pinned to his suit.
Those stupid badges. He would’ve thrown
them in the scrap heap a long time ago if it wasn’t for
all the free wine and food they earned him.
People talked to Drayton at the ball. But no one
talked with him. The instant they finished saying their
empty words, they made an excuse to get more food,
or visit the restroom, or return to the dance floor. He
was reminded of family gatherings when he’d been a

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child, where his parents kept bothering him until he

finally went to tell his elderly aunt about his schooling.
She’d never uttered a word. Or looked at him while he
spoke, for that matter. Drayton sighed. He’d gone from
being a twenty-six-year-old dashing soldier to an
eighty-something relic within the space of a year.
That was what happened when you were
crippled in the war. Seeing Drayton’s twisted leg, the
bone straining at the skin to make his limb a useless
appendage that dragged behind him when he walked
– it didn’t exactly align with how people imagined
their war heroes. Stories were so much more appealing
than the truth.
He watched a young Vahrian couple dance,
their smiling faces glorious in the chandeliers’ warm
light. They wove through the crowded ballroom with
ease, gliding over the marbled floors and winding
between the gilded columns that supported the
soaring roof.
That should’ve been Drayton and his wife. But
no – it wasn’t enough for his crippled leg to have
robbed him of any respect he’d once held. It had taken
his wife as well. She’d looked past the disfigurement,
as he’d expected, and he loved her for that. When he’d

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returned to his home planet, however, the gravity had

been crushingly painful – far too painful on his
weakened leg. He’d stayed as long as possible. Within
days, though, it became apparent he couldn’t live in
Vahria. He’d returned to Paya, to these accursed discs
orbiting his home planet, which they’d fought so hard
to win in the Reclamation War. His wife had stayed
behind. She had a life on Vahria and he couldn’t take
from her.
He’d been alone up here for months. Travelling
between the discs without purpose or passion, relying
on the hospitality of towns now ruled by Vahrians, or
ruled by Payans who were loyal to Vahria. Tonight’s
ball was one of many he’d attended. It felt strange, to
sit in a manor that belonged to a Payan, as their guest.
He’d spent so long fighting them. And, in the case of
one Payan, loving them.
Bitterness swelled in the back of his throat. He
couldn’t think about her. He couldn’t think about what
she’d done to him, how she’d broken more than just
his leg. Her punishment was coming. Drayton had met
a several inquisitors, and they all said the angels were
almost eradicated thanks to their successful hunts.

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Drayton looked around the room, trying to pass

the time. At least the ballroom was nice to look at. It
would make a nice painting. He closed his eyes, trying
to imagine how he’d capture the scene. A foreground
glowing with golden light from the glittering
chandeliers, with graceful blurs of dancers twirling
underneath. No faces. There would only be one face in
the painting. A sour-looking man, hunched in a dark
recess of the room, alone at a table. So glum, so tiny,
that you’d only notice him if someone showed you.
Yes, that would make a nice painting. It would go well
with the other drawings he’d made in recent weeks.
A scream shattered the air.
The violinists faltered and their music died.
Within seconds, the scuffling of dancer’s feet also
faded into silence. Drayton frowned. What was
happening?
A Payan man wearing a ridiculously long cape
stumbled into the ballroom. Lord Renwick had once
ruled this disc. He’d defected to the Vahrian Republic
during the Reclamation War, allowing him to retain his
title. Despite that, he was effectively a puppet to
Overseer Archibald Columbus, a stern-faced, balding
man with who rose from his table to glare at Renwick.

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“What is the meaning of this interruption,

Payan?” asked Columbus in a deep voice that echoed
through the silent ballroom.
Renwick swallowed. Drayton smirked. Only a
few years ago, Payan highborns like him would’ve
expected bows and fawning words from everyone they
met. Now, he might as well have been a peasant. It was
the punishment he deserved. It was the punishment all
Payans deserved, for casting the Vahrians’ ancestors
down to the planet Neebia.
“It’s my son, sir.” His voice wavered and he
stared at the marbled floor. “He’s been murdered by
an angel.”
Uproars exploded through the room. An icy
feeling spread through Drayton’s chest and sweat ran
down his broken leg. Lords like Renwick had been
powerful before the Reclamation War, but their power
had paled against angels. Adorned with wings and
trained from childhood, angels were supposedly the
envoys of the Payan gods. They’d been deadly during
the war, striking from the skies without warning, then
soaring back into space before Vahrians could retaliate.
If not for the Vahrian’s superior technology, the angels

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would’ve pushed them back to Neebia, and probably

razed their planet for good measure.
Their deadliness wasn’t why the mention of an
angel made Drayton’s skin crawl. No. The angels
hadn’t just killed his friends, his brother, his father.
One of them had broken his heart.
Lord Renwick sobbed. “His body ... it’s in the
Gallery.”
Columbus made a gesture. Soldiers left their
posts in the corners of the room to rush towards him.
“Lock down this disc,” Columbus said. “And
search this damn mansion. Captain Grimbald, Scribe
Hastings – with me.”
Captain Grimbald was a surly-faced woman
whose chain-mail armour looked out of place amongst
the dresses and jackets of the dancers. She was one of
the many soldiers Drayton had served under during
the war, and despite her lack of humour, she’d been a
strong leader.
Compared to her, Scribe Hastings was a
diminutive fellow. Aside from being Columbus’ chief
communications officer, he spent his spare time
penning tawdry romances that Drayton’s wife seemed
to know far too much about.

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Together, Columbus, Grimbald, and Hastings

followed Lord Renwick as he led them out of the
ballroom, crying. A tense silence filled the air. One of
the violinists started a tune, but the conductor stopped
him with an angry hiss. Drayton sighed. Being unable
to dance made it bittersweet, but he’d been enjoying
the music.
Groaning, he rose from the chair. Pain wracked
his body and he bit his lip to stop himself from
screaming. Everyone watched from the corners of their
eyes as he levered himself up from the table. With a
trembling hand, he grabbed his cane and got it
underneath him just in time to stop himself collapsing.
A small victory, but these days a small victory was the
only kind he could achieve.
He gave the crowd a jaunty smile, then shuffled
towards the exit. Perhaps he could help Columbus
examine the murder site. Perhaps he’d be useless.
Either way, it would be far more interesting than
sitting here and watching a room of panicked
partygoers.
His leg scrapped on the marble floor, sounding
horribly loud in the quiet ballroom. The dancers
weren’t bothering to hide their stares now. Damn the

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whole lot of them to hell. Once, people had cheered

when he entered rooms, and been eager to shake his
hand. Why had he been cursed with so much respect,
only for it to be wrested away? If only he’d started life
lowlier. Then maybe the fall wouldn’t have been this
excruciating.
A guard stepped across the door, barring him
from exiting. “I’m sorry, sir, but we were told to keep
everyone in this room.”
Several dancers gasped. Drayton smirked.
They’d been fine to stay in this room for hours. Now,
the blocking of the doors seemed to compress the space
into a claustrophobic prison. It was ironic, the freedom
people felt when they had options. It was only when
those options were stolen that you realised how
powerless you truly were.
“Do you think one of us is the assassin, guard?”
asked Drayton.
The guard’s eyes flicked to the side. He was a
young man. Fresh faced. Drayton guessed he’d never
fought anyone tougher than a drunk partygoer.
“Sorry, sir.” The guard swallowed. “Those are
the orders.”

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Sighing, Drayton held up one of those

meaningless badges pinned to his jacket. To him, it was
a useless scrap of coloured ribbon, affixed to a tiny
metal knife. To the young guard, it was the Blade of
Valour. Tens of thousands of Vahrians and fought and
died in the Reclamation War, but only eleven soldiers
had won the Blade.
Some had even been alive to receive it.
The guard stepped aside. “Your honour! I’m so
sorry, sir, please accept my apologies –”
“Consider them accepted, soldier.”
Drayton strode past him, heading into the
corridor. Well, it would’ve looked like he was striding
if both his legs were working. As it was, it probably
looked more like a hobble. For a moment, though, that
guard hadn’t seen him as a cripple. In that guard’s
eyes, he’d been a hero. A true Vahrian hero.
Drayton turned around the corner, heading
towards the Gallery. His leg collapsed underneath him
and he fell to the floor, slamming onto the hard marble.
Pain wracked his body. Cursing, he slithered to the
wall, stretched up with a shaking hand, then grabbed
the windowsill. With a strain of exertion, he pulled
himself up to lean on the windowsill, panting.

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A guard raced around the corner. “Sir! Are you

alright? I heard a fall.”
Drayton turned to look at the young man. “A
fall? Don’t be preposterous. I’m simply admiring the
view. Which, might I add, was far nicer when I was
alone.”
The guard backed away, cheeks flushing.
“Sorry, sir. I’ll – I’ll leave you to it.”
The guard raced out of sight. Drayton drew a
handkerchief from his jacket, mopped his brow, then
tucked it away and set off along the marbled corridor.
This time, he walked slower.
He smelled the stench of death before he
entered the Gallery. Drayton had developed quite the
nose for it, over the years. Sure enough, when he
entered the Gallery, a boy lay sprawled in a pool of
blood that stained a finely woven carpet. Shame. That
carpet looked expensive. Overseer Columbus, Captain
Grimbald, Scribe Hastings, and Lord Renwick stood
around the boy, along with five Payan guards who
lined the sides of the room.
Columbus looked up at Drayton, frowning.
“You’re from the ballroom. I told those guards to keep
you dancers inside!”

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One of the Payan guards moved towards

Drayton.
“I appreciate the compliment, but as I’m sure
you can tell, I am no dancer.” Drayton gestured to his
leg. “I served in the war and I fought several angels. I
may be of assistance.”
The Payan guard stopped beside Drayton. He
looked to Columbus for direction.
The Overseer frowned. “Is that a Blade of
Valour?”
Drayton sighed. Why was everyone so
concerned with symbols? Grudgingly, he nodded.
The Overseer grunted. “Can’t hurt. Come over
here. See if you can give us any clues about the angel
who did this.”
Drayton limped to the corpse. As he shuffled
across the room, he surveyed his surroundings. The
Gallery was a long room, panelled with marble and
wood. Art adorned the walls. Vahrian art, although
nothing original as far as Drayton could tell. It was all
copies of Vahrian classics: Passion of the People, Star-
Strewn Night, the Romance of Gillead, Gazer Upon a Sky of
Discs, and a half-dozen more. Drayton was glad to see
familiar paintings. He’d expected the Gallery to be

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filled with Payan artworks – Overseer Columbus had

better things to do than decorate a room. Lord Renwick
must’ve made the change himself.
At the end of the long room, a stained-glass
window overlooked the town. Or at least it had. The
window had shattered, with fragments of coloured
glass littering the ground. Blood stained several panes.
Resting amongst the panes were two angel feathers.
Drayton’s stomach twisted. Seeing them brought back
memories and none of them were good.
A fire smouldered at the other end of the room,
although why you’d need more heat on a disc as
humid as this, Drayton didn’t know.
After what felt like an age, Drayton reached the
corpse. He peered down. Renwick’s son looked about
fifteen, with the kind of long, gangly body that only
grew in the softer gravity of Paya’s discs. His green suit
jacket, worn in a surprisingly accurate Vahrian style,
was splattered with blood. A neat cut had slit the side
of his neck, opening the jugular. Not much you could
do against a wound like that. The boy would’ve bled
to death within seconds.
His pale hand was locked tight around a grey
angel feather.

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“Tell him what happened,” said Columbus,

nudging Lord Renwick.
Renwick dabbed at the tears glistening in his
eyes. “The guards ... they heard a crash, then came
running here.”
Drayton gestured to the five Payan guards
standing around the room. “These guards?”
“Yes. None of them have left the room since ...
since ...”
Several of the guards were crying. In a
household like this, they would’ve served Renwick’s
family for many years. To them, the dead boy must
have felt like one of their own.
“They saw my son on the floor,” said Renwick.
“Clutching his neck. Blood was spurting out of him.
The angel was running for the broken window, and
before any of the guards could do anything, she
jumped outside.”
A jolt ran through Drayton. The angel had been
a woman. He wondered if it could be her again, the one
who’d broken him. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d
killed.
“Did they see the angel leave the disc?” Drayton
asked.

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Captain Grimbald shook her sombre head. “The

guards saw her land in the streets. She couldn’t have
left the disc, or our airships would’ve seen her.”
Drayton nodded. That was logical. With so
many important Vahrians at this party, several airships
were stationed above the disc’s force field to provide
protection.
“The murder wound could’ve been made from
a kitchen knife,” said Grimbald. “It’ll be easy for her to
hide it, or throw it away in the streets.”
Columbus stroked his beard. “No use telling
soldiers to look for it, then. Close the ports and give the
order to search the streets. Task squads to do random
strip searches. Break down doors and tell them the
angel murdered one of Renwick’s own! That’ll get
them on our side.”
Captain Grimbald nodded. “Very good, sir.”
She strode towards the door.
“I wouldn’t bother with your search, Captain,”
said Drayton.
The Captain froze. “What?”
Drayton turned towards Renwick. “You said
the angel leapt out a broken window, yes?”
Renwick nodded. “Yes.”

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“And a few moments before that, they heard the

window smash.”
Renwick nodded again.
“So it is safe to assume the angel dove through
the window to enter, breaking it in the process, yes?”
Overseer Columbus frowned. “What’s your
point, soldier?”
Drayton paused. It felt strange to be called a
soldier again.
“My point,” said Drayton. “Is this: if the angel
smashed through the window to enter, why is all the
glass on the outside?”
Drayton limped over to the broken window.
Fragments of shattered glass lay on the floor, but the
debris didn’t match with how large the window had
been. Sure enough, when Drayton leaned through the
opening, he saw that a much larger amount of broken
glass had fallen to the rooftop below.
“In Menon’s name!” Scribe Hastings gasped.
“You’re right!”
Captain Grimbald narrowed her eyes.
Columbus stroked his beard and frowned at the
guards. “Which one of you heard the angel?”

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The guards looked at each other uneasily.

Eventually, a guard with a large, drooping moustache
stepped forward. If Drayton’s training instructor had
seen such a ridiculous moustache on one of his cadets,
he would’ve had a heart attack. Still, Drayton
supposed these guards weren’t true soldiers. They
were simply men-of-arms who protected this
household from common burglars.
“I heard angel, sir,” said the guard in badly
accented Vahrian. “But I not see her come through
window. Maybe she – she ...”
His words failed him. He turned to Renwick
and uttered something in rapid-fire Payan. Drayton
had learnt a little Payan over the years, but when
people spoke fast he had no idea what they were
saying. It was such a silly, flowery language, with none
of the crispness of the Vahrian tongue.
Renwick bowed to Columbus. “Apologies, sir.
Hector is not well-versed in Vahrian. He says he
assumed the angel entered by smashing through the
window, but he didn’t see it happen – he only heard it.
Perhaps there is another explanation. Perhaps she
attacked my son, and they struggled, crashing into the
window? Then she fled through it later?”

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“So the angel snuck into this manor,” said

Columbus.
“She must’ve disguised herself as one of the
servants,” said Grimbald. “Damn it, I knew we
should’ve had stricter searches. We don’t need another
Makrov happening.”
Drayton shuddered. In the months after the
war, a strange lull had fallen over the Payan discs. It
had felt strange to walk down their streets without
worrying about arrows flying into his head. That had
all changed three months ago, when an angel called
Beatris Clymene had set off a bomb, killing nineteen
innocent Vahrians. Vahria might control the discs, but
there were countless so-called resistance fighters like
her who sought chaos and death, unwilling to accept
the rightful rule of the Vahrian Republic.
“We should round up the servants,” said
Grimbald. “Interview them to see if they can identify
the angel.”
“Not necessarily,” said Drayton. “Renwick has
given us an explanation, but not the explanation.
There’s still too many holes.”
Drayton peered at the nearest painting. The
wood underneath the frame was darker than the wood

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beside it, indicating that a different picture used to

belong there.
“Who placed these artworks?” asked Drayton.
Renwick bowed. “I did, sir.”
“I thought so.”
Drayton let the silence linger. Renwick looked
from Columbus to Drayton, then back to Columbus.
Columbus watched Drayton with an unreadable
expression, but he didn’t tell Grimbald to go and talk
to the servants, which meant he was curious.
“What was here before, Renwick?”
“Payan artworks.”
“Originals?”
“Yes.”
“Painted here by some of your most talented
artists, I presume?”
Renwick nodded.
“Yet you discarded them,” said Drayton, “in
favour of these mass-printed imitations.”
Renwick swallowed. “I like them, sir.”
“Do you? Or do you wish to make Vahrians like
me feel more comfortable in your residence?”
“I ...” Renwick looked away. “I see no shame in
that, sir.”

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“Quite true. I see something else, indeed.”

Drayton drew a glove from his pocket, then tossed it to
the scribe. “Hastings, pick up the angel feather.”
The scribe blanched. “But – but there’s blood on
it!”
“Do it,” said Columbus.
Gulping, the scribe pulled on the glove, then
grabbed the feather. It made a squelching sound as it
slid out of the blood-slicked fingers of the dead boy’s
hand. Renwick squeezed his eyes shut. He’d done well,
all things considered, to stand the sight of his son’s
corpse.
Drayton slid his other glove onto his own hand.
Hastings gave him the feather. Drayton turned it over,
trying to ignore the memories pressing upon him.
They’d only made love twice, but he’d never
forget the purr she made when he stroked his hands
through her feathers ... Even after what she’d done, he
couldn’t ignore the joy he’d felt for those brief, glorious
days. As a captive in a prisoner of war camp, the last
thing he’d expected to find was love. Although, of
course, it hadn’t been love. She hadn’t meant the words
she’d whispered to him, late at night in room behind
the kitchens. She’d simply manipulated him.

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He’d won his Blade of Valour for surviving the

destruction of the Second Fleet. What no one knew was
that Drayton’s loose lips were responsible for the
Fleet’s demise.
“How long ago did this all happen?” asked
Drayton, wrenching himself back into the present.
“The guards heard the break-in twelve minutes
ago,” said Grimbald.
“And what was your son doing in this room,
Renwick?” asked Drayton. “Forgive me if I am
mistaken, but did I not see him dancing at the ball less
than half an hour ago?”
“Yes, sir. I needed to speak with him, so I took
him away from the ball to talk in private.”
“About?”
“It ... it came to my attention that he was
courting a girl, in secret.”
Scribe Hastings chuckled and tapped the side of
his nose with a knowing wink. Renwick’s lip stiffened.
Drayton frowned. Payans were far looser in their
morals than Vahrians. He would not have expected a
Payan father to be so ashamed of his son’s deeds, and
he would not have expected a Payan son to hide such
a matter from his parent.

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“What is the girl’s name?” asked Drayton.

“Delilah Hamilton.”
Interesting. That was a Vahrian name.
“Your discussion was ... fruitful?” asked
Drayton.
Hastings snickered.
Renwick’s face reddened. “Yes. We talked. We
sorted our affairs. Then I returned to the party. My son
stayed here until ... until ... oh, Karym’s Horns, why
didn’t I take him with me? He’d be alive if I’d just taken
him! If we’d walked together ...”
Fresh tears rolled down Renwick’s face. Captain
Grimbald scowled and stepped back from him, as if
worried the Payan’s emotions would infect her. It
always amused Drayton how sensitive Payans were. A
good Vahrian would’ve had the rigour to stay strong
at a time like this, where clear thoughts were needed
to catch the killer.
“Soldier,” said Columbus. “I appreciate that
you have many questions, but we must be moving on
with the search.”
“With respect, Overseer, there is no need,” said
Drayton. “If I may take but a few more moments of

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your time, I can tell you everything you need to know

about the killer.”
“You know who the angel is?”
“About that.” Drayton held up the feather.
“This feather did not fall from an angel. At least, not
today. It is faded, you see, and there is blood on it that
does not match the boy’s. My guess is that this feather
was retrieved several weeks or even a few months ago.
It was placed here to hide the real killer.”
Hastings pulled a journal from his pocket and
his eyes grew wide with excitement. Captain Grimbald
eased her sword a half-inch from her sheath. Overseer
Columbus stood with his hands clasped behind his
back, as firm and impassive as ever.
Renwick trembled. “My guards saw an angel.”
“Wrong,” said Drayton. “That’s what you told
them to say.”
Hastings furiously scribbled Drayton’s words.
Drayton sighed. This better not end up in one of the
scribe’s books.
“What are you suggesting?” asked Renwick in a
shaking voice.

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“I would’ve thought it was obvious, dear chap,”

said Drayton. “The person who killed your son was no
angel. It was you.”
Hastings gasped and dropped his pencil.
Columbus raised his eyebrows.
Renwick’s eyes widened. “How dare you say
that. I would never – I would never ... my son is dead
and you say this to me? How could you!”
Renwick broke into incoherent babbling. His
hands were clenched into fists and Drayton knew it
was taking all of Renwick’s self-control to not attack
him.
“You didn’t mean it,” said Drayton. “But it is
the truth. Allow me to explain. First, let us direct our
attention to the boy’s clothing. It is a rather dashing
suit, in the Vahrian style. Clearly he took great pains to
arrange his outfit, for this is not the garb I would expect
to find on a Payan, even one who belongs to a family
that has sworn loyalty to the Vahrian Republic. No.
This is not the outfit of a boy who merely wishes to
appease his Vahrian masters. This is the outfit of a boy
who wants to be Vahrian. Commendable, really. Now,
this thread seems weak, but it strengthens when we

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consider another strand. The boy was courting a

Vahrian girl.
“Tonight, Renwick discovered this fact. He
brought him here. And so the picture starts to form.
Renwick is loyal enough to Vahria, but his loyalty is a
façade – a necessary veneer to keep him safe. Look
upon these paintings. They are Vahrian, yes, but they
are perhaps the most generic ones you could find.
Renwick has no great love for the Republic. He simply
ordered mass-produced versions of our most well-
known artworks. His boy, however ... his boy can see a
new world, and he wants to taste it. Renwick tolerated
the Vahrian suit, but the Vahrian girl is too much for
him. He argues with his son. Words lead to blows.
Renwick shoves his son, sending the boy smashing
into the stained-glass window. He staggers away, back
towards his father. There is a cut on his neck from the
broken glass. He falls. Within moments, the sliced
jugular has drained him of his life.
“The guards storm inside. They see Renwick
kneeling before his son, sobbing. No one knows what
to do. Stricken by grief, Renwick forms a plan to blame
the death on an angel.”

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Renwick’s jaw clenched. The five Payan guards

looked uneasily at each other and spoke in rapid
Payan.
“There’s just one part of this that doesn’t make
sense,” said Drayton. “Your son’s death is a horrible
tragedy, of course, but why not leave it at that? Why
shift the blame onto an angel? Ah – I think I have it.
Your son found out something, didn’t he? He
discovered your loyalties to Vahria are far more of a
façade than even he realised. You’re a spy for the
Resistance, aren’t you?”
That last part was a complete guess, but judging
by Renwick’s flinch, Drayton was correct.
“My my,” said Drayton. “And here I was
thinking tonight would be boring.”
Renwick shouted something in Payan. The five
guards drew their swords with a rasp of metal and one
of them shut the door to the Gallery. So much for them
being loyal to Vahria.
Captain Grimbald unsheathed her blade,
touching the point to Renwick’s throat. Hastings
shrieked and dropped his notebook, which fell onto
the bloody corpse with a splat.

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 The Language of Lies

“It appears we have an impasse,” said Overseer

Columbus, frowning at the Payan guards.
“Unfortunately, we don’t,” said Drayton.
“Renwick is preparing himself to die. As soon as he is
ready, he will order his guards to charge. They will
orchestrate a second cover-up, perhaps claiming that
another dozen angels swooped inside to murder us.”
Renwick glared at Drayton. His hatred shone
like a flame. Drayton remembered what it was like to
stare into your enemy’s eye on the battlefield, knowing
that only one of you could survive.
And it wouldn’t be Renwick.
“However, he will change his mind,” said
Drayton.
Renwick spat. “A curse on your kind, Vahrian.
I will not bow to you.”
“You might want to hear what I have to say
first,” said Drayton. “That is, if you care about your
other children.”
Renwick’s face grew pale. “My daughters?”
“Before I came here, I ordered soldiers to take
them into custody. For their own protection.”
“What have you done with them?”

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 The Language of Lies

“Nothing, yet. But I gave those soldiers very

specific instructions. If I was found mysteriously
murdered – let’s say, by this imaginary angel returning
to the scene of the crime – the soldiers were to slay
them.”
Renwick gasped. “No ... this is a lie. You could
not have prepared this.”
“I survived a war, dear fellow. That tends to
make a man rather paranoid.”
“You’re bluffing! Y-you have to be.”
“Call it. It’s not my life at stake.”
Drayton and Renwick stared at each other for
what felt like an eternity. A strange thrill spread
through Drayton. He hadn’t felt this alive since before
he’d lost his leg.
Renwick sagged. “I ... I did this. Not my guards.
Hang me, but let them go.”
“Granted,” said Columbus.
Renwick said something in Payan. The guards
dropped their swords, which clattered to the floor.
Keeping her sword hovering before Renwick’s throat,
Captain Grimbald drew a horn from her belt. She blew
a long, low note. Within moments, a squad of Vahrian

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 The Language of Lies

soldiers marched into the room. They surveyed the

Payan guards, then looked at Columbus.
“Kill them all,” said Columbus.
“No!” shouted Renwick.
The Payans tried to grab their swords, but the
Vahrians were too fast. They attacked. Blood spurted
over the paintings and more Payan corpses joined the
boy sprawled on the marbled floor. Renwick shrieked.
Captain Grimbald knocked him to the floor, tied his
hands behind him, then cut off his screams by gagging
his mouth.
“Take him for interrogation,” said Columbus.
“See what he knows about the terrorists.”
“My daughters!” Renwick shouted. “You swore
to let them go!”
“Granted,” Drayton said. “Not that I had them
in the first place. ’twas simply a lucky guess on my
part.”
Lord Renwick’s cursed as Grimbald dragged
him along the floor, through the pools of blood, and
out of the room. Standing beside Columbus, Hastings
kept writing madly in his notebook. Drayton chuckled.
He’d expected a civilian like Hastings to be more
shocked by the gore. Instead, the scribe looked ecstatic.

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 The Language of Lies

“That was incredible.” Hastings snapped his

notebook shut. “Sir, may I interview you later? I think
it would help fill out this story a little more.”
“Hastings,” said Columbus. “Your interview
will have to wait. Send a report to the authorities. We
hang Renwick tomorrow at noon. I want everyone on
this disc to see it.”
“Oh. Yes, Overseer.”
Hastings ran out of the room.
Columbus turned to Drayton. “Well done. That
Payan scoundrel would’ve gotten away with it if it
wasn’t for you, Inquisitor.”
“I’m not an inquisitor.”
“Hmm. I am wrong again. At first I thought you
were a soldier, and then with this business I thought
you were an undercover inquisitor. What are you,
then?”
“You’re half right, sir. I used to be a soldier.”
“And now?”
Drayton stared out the shattered window at the
stars in the night sky. “I’m not sure.”
Columbus grunted. “Well, maybe you should
consider joining the Inquisition. I hear they have great
demand, especially for people with your talents. I have

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 The Language of Lies

a cousin who works for them, if you’d like me to write

to her.”
“Chasing war criminals is not my forte.”
Drayton gestured to his leg. “I’m afraid even a snail
could outrun me.”
“An Inquisitor’s tool isn’t his body. It’s his
mind. And you have a sharp one at that. But it’s your
choice, and it’s not my place to pressure you.”
Columbus shook Drayton’s hand. He turned to
leave, making sure to step over the blood pooling on
the floor. Drayton sighed. He’d have to be extra careful
not to slip.
Tiredness seeped into his body. All the vigour
he’d felt when he was exposing Renwick – it was all
fading.
“Sir,” said Drayton.
Columbus paused by the door, then turned to
look at Drayton. “Yes, soldier?”
“The Inquisition are the ones who ... who hunt
angels?”
“Amongst other criminals, yes.”
Drayton’s heart raced. That vigour, that passion
he’d felt in his contest against Renwick – it was slowly
returning.

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“In that case,” Drayton said. “It would be my

honour to join them.”
Columbus grunted. “Good choice, soldier. But
why the change of heart?”
Drayton looked down at the feather in his hand.
He released it, sending the feather fluttering down to
land on the boy’s corpse.
“I’ve been haunted by angels. It’s time they
were haunted by me.”

THE END.

The story continues in Across the Broken Stars, set 19

years after The Language of Lies. Click here to read it
now and continue exploring the world of Paya.

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