Rewrite That Witch
CH228 · Rewrite
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Chapter 228: Faceless

The old woman retrieved the dagger, let the body fall, wiped the blade clean against her coat, and handed the vial back to the priest.

“Well done.” Ferry pocketed it. “Dispose of him.”

“Yes,” she answered in her husky voice, and dragged the corpse out with a strength that had nothing to do with the frame it came from.

Shattrath waited until the door closed. “Do you believe him, Your Reverence? That a caravan and witches are working together — and if I recall correctly, wasn’t Border Town the posting given to the Fourth Prince, Roland Wimbledon?”

“We’ll know after we send eyes to the walls.” Ferry moved to the table and sat. “But I think the man was telling the truth. A fabricated lie valuable enough to trade for Holy Elixir would be something harder to verify. He gave us a claim we can check from the city wall within the hour. That’s not the behavior of a man who invented it.” He turned the vial between his fingers. “Go. Come back and report.”

Shattrath bowed and left.

Ferry settled into the chair and thought it through.

He had believed the refugees were handled — arranged, managed. He’d sent people from the Dreamland organization into the camp weeks ago with a specific task: keep the refugees calm, give them hope, tell them the Church was coming. Endure. God sees you. Salvation is near. The Dreamland men were mostly infected themselves, which gave them a particular motivation — as long as they believed the Church would reward their service with Holy Elixir, they would do exactly as instructed. And the refugees, hearing that deliverance was days away, would wait. They would wait until the precise moment Ferry chose to appear, and when he arrived, the contrast between their despair and his presence would convert them completely.

If the information was accurate, that plan had been emptying since yesterday.

Furthermore: a witch capable of eliminating the plague was not merely a logistical disruption. If she entered the city openly and treated the sick in public view, every theological claim Ferry had been advancing for two weeks — the Holy Elixir as God’s unique gift, the plague as divine test, the Church as sole salvation — became a subject for mockery. He had been building something. Now someone was building against it.

A quarter of an hour later, Shattrath returned. “Your Reverence — the western camp is largely empty. Tents stripped, fires cold. The dock is dark; I couldn’t confirm whether the caravan has moved or simply shut down for the night. As for the witch in the air—”

“No need.” Ferry stood. “If they’re still transporting refugees, they haven’t run. We know what we need to know. Two witches at minimum — one who flies, one who cures the epidemic. The second is the serious threat. If she enters the city and works in the open, the whole apparatus we’ve built falls apart.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “We don’t use the Judges. Twenty men is insufficient, and pulling them from the distribution ceremony tomorrow would create exactly the disorder we’re trying to prevent. We give this to Dreamland.”

“The street rats?” Shattrath blinked.

“They’re numerous. Lack of formation doesn’t matter when you have enough bodies. Tell Fierce Teeth Tanis he has one day to gather as many men as he can — a thousand, more if possible. Tomorrow night, they take the dock.” He moved toward the window. “Don’t tell Tanis about the witch. Don’t tell him there’s another cure for the plague. Tell him to make sure no one escapes. His payment is a box of Holy Elixir. If he balks, remind him that his supply of poppy and sleep fern comes through us — and can be discontinued.”

“But the witches themselves? We know one flies. A mob of street rats won’t—”

“The rats don’t need to win.” Ferry turned from the window and crossed back to the center of the room. The woman who had re-entered behind Shattrath stood to one side with the stillness of something waiting to be used.

“There is no stranger here,” Ferry said to her. “No need to keep up that performance.”

“Yes,” she said.

She bent into a crouch and her body began to sound — a series of measured cracks, deep and deliberate, like joints articulating past their designed range. The grey at her temples ran black in the space of a breath. The loose skin of her neck and hands pulled taut and smoothed, became the skin of a woman in her late twenties: supple, alive. Her stature straightened and extended. When she was finished, the room contained a beautiful woman who had not been there thirty seconds before.

“Better,” Ferry said, with a satisfaction that had several things in it at once. He glanced toward the door. “This particular fellow — the one displayed at the eastern gate. He was hers, was he?”

“Yes, my Lord. Of the four, she was the one you spent the most time with.”

“You know exactly how to please me.” He pressed his lips together. “But Shattrath will be back soon, and we don’t have the time. And besides — you still have work to do.”

She bowed with precise formality, the gesture of someone who had learned it by close observation. “Give them to me. I won’t let a single fallen one survive.”

When Shattrath returned, he looked at the woman, looked at Ferry, and turned to his report.

The dock area was dark. The western camp largely vacant. No sign of fire or organized movement. He couldn’t locate the witch in the air. “I sent men with torches around the perimeter. Most tents are empty, no gear left behind. Whatever they’re doing, they’ve pulled their people inward.”

“As I expected.” Ferry gestured for him to be seated. “They haven’t fled — if they had, they’d have stopped the transports. They’re consolidating at the camp. Which means tomorrow night, they’ll still be there.” He walked to the woman and touched her face lightly. She held still. “The Dreamland rats draw attention, tie down the perimeter, keep the mercenaries looking outward. While the fighting holds the camp’s focus—” he smiled— “Faceless moves through the inside. And she makes certain that no witch comes out of that camp alive.”

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