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“Oh, it’s only been the last two days,” Branwen said modestly. “Believe me, I’m more surprised than anyone at how quickly all this has taken off! Fortunately his Holiness has assigned me a staff to help with the project, or I’d never have been able to stay on top of it.”

“The runaway success of Branwen’s new role as motivational columnist is evidence of that plot’s original purpose,” said the Archpope, regarding them over his interlaced fingers.

“Plot?” Basra said sharply, looking up from her perusal of one of the newspapers Darling had brought to the meeting.

“Indeed,” Justinian said gravely. “For all that it has unfolded so quickly, it is a rather circuitous route that has brought us to this development. To being with, I took the unconventional step of consulting the resources in the Chamber of Truth with regard to our current dilemma.”

“You specifically cautioned us that those weren’t of much tactical value, your Holiness,” Andros noted.

“Indeed,” said the Archpope, nodding. “Generally the attempt has resulted in confusion and annoyance more than anything. However, I felt our lack of useful data in this situation warranted a gamble. In fact, oracular divinations, while rarely conducive to acquiring facts, are an excellent source of wisdom. In this case, the gamble paid off. Some of the prophecies I obtained were indecipherable, but several directed me toward, and I quote, ‘the singers of songs and the tellers of tales.’”

“That specific phrase is usually a reference to bards,” said Darling, frowning.

“Historically, yes,” agreed the Archpope. “But in the context of other hints the Chamber provided, suggesting that I consider things in a modern rather than traditional context, I decided to make inquiries among the modern world’s answer to the archetypal traveling storyteller.”

Basra ruffled the paper she was holding. “The newspapers?”

“Precisely.” Justinian smiled grimly. “And that is where matters began to become…interesting. Throughout the city, in the offices of all five widely-distributed newspapers, there have been, in the last few days, culminations of very unlikely sequences of events leading to…openings.”

“Openings?” Andros prompted.

The Archpope nodded. “It appears there has been some competition among the papers, as is only natural, and specifically rivalries among their advice columnists.”

“People can find the pettiest nonsense upon which to waste their energies,” Andros grunted.

“Over time,” Justinian continued, ignoring him, “these columnists have become de facto stand-ins for their respective papers with regard to this increasing competition for readership and distribution. All of the major Tiraan papers are now published across the Empire; most ship their stock out via Rail on a weekly basis, but two have managed to publish their daily editions from coast to coast by beaming out the contents thereof via telescroll and printing them on site.”

“Fascinating,” Basra said in a disinterested tone, again reading the paper before her.

“Various editors have used these columnists as major selling points. They have become public personalities, almost celebrities.” Justinian paused, then went on in a more grave tone, “and in the last week, two were killed in accidents, one perished of an aneurysm in his sleep, one retired unexpectedly, and the last was promoted to the position of editor-in-chief of his paper when the individual who previously held that post abruptly stepped down to tend to a family emergency.”

“Well,” Darling said, “that’s good and suspicious…”

The Archpope nodded. “And it tracks with the Wreath’s evident aim. Their actions have been toward improving the public’s perception of them while cutting down that of the Church and the gods. By subtly increasing the profile of certain newspaper columnists and then replacing those individuals with their own people, they position themselves to dramatically increase their ability to disseminate their message.”

“And that’s more characteristic of them than what we’ve seen in the last week,” Darling added. “The long, slow, careful plan.”

“This makes no sense,” Andros growled. “If they could do this, why not plant their agents over the long term? Creating these vacancies all at once, now of all times, is too overtly suspicious.”

“No, it makes perfect sense,” Basra argued, looking up again. “Any newspaper columnists spouting Wreath propaganda would have been silenced long since. Even if they tried to lay low and not actually…propagandize…until this event, the longer they had someone in place, the more chance any number of things could happen to that person. Look how easy it apparently was to make accidents happen to five such columnists at once. By waiting till now, after the recent debacle where the cults embarrassed themselves pursuing the Wreath too roughly, they have the perfect opening. Now of all times, all of us and even the Empire will be hesitant to do anything too ham-fisted in the name of suppressing the Black Wreath. The populace is already agitated about that.”

“A worthy observation,” Andros grunted, “from one of the hammy fists in question.”

“To keep this on point,” Justinian said swiftly, “upon learning of these events, I acted quickly, first to cut the Wreath off from the newspapers. Agents of the Church were sent to the offices of each, both here in Tiraas and to all their facilities on the continent, to bless them. Thoroughly. The Wreath may be adept at evading the detection of the gods, but a warlock or hidden demon will still burn when doused in an indiscriminate deluge of holy power.”

“I’m impressed you got all those organizations to go along with it,” Darling remarked. “I’ve worked with the newspapers a bit myself. Journalists don’t like outsiders mucking about with their offices.”

“Few turn down a free and thorough blessing from the gods,” the Archpope said wryly. “Some were, I think, suspicious of the Church’s motives, but they acquiesced when it was broadly hinted that their organizations were suspected of harboring demons.”

“You’ve noticed that, too?” Darling said with a grin. “Amazing the results you can sometimes get by just being honest with people.”

“Quite so,” Justinian replied, smiling benignly at him. The two men locked eyes for a long moment, both wearing placidly friendly expressions, before the Archpope continued. “In any case, this seems to have effectively barred the Wreath from moving into the positions they had just opened. Our next step was simply to place our own agent there. Bishop Snowe is now a syndicated columnist, her column distributed by every major paper published out of Tiraas. In the weeks to come, we shall see about getting her into various lesser publications throughout the Empire, as well. And even beyond it.”

“It remains to be seen how the abrupt loss of their competition among columnists will affect distribution,” Branwen said modestly, “but with all the prestige they’ve poured into the position, now that I’m being published in all of them, well… Instant celebrity. I’m afraid I don’t deserve any credit for it.”

“This is fantastic stuff,” Basra said rather dryly, reading again. “A guy walks away from the Vernisite faith of his parents and feels lost and directionless; you tell him to spend time in reflection, gain self-knowledge, and decide which of the gods best matches his own aptitudes. A housewife is bored and restless with her children gone from the nest, and you tell her to find purpose by cultivating her own talents and making a difference in her own world. A bullied kid doesn’t know how to stand up to his tormentors; you advise him to spend time in rigorous self-improvement and find a way to confront them on ground where he’s strongest. I’m sensing a theme here.”

“Again, I cannot take credit,” Branwen said, a picture of humility. “This is, needless to say, a secret, but I haven’t actually written these. I’m to serve as a public face, a personality; his Holiness has people providing the actual words.”

“We must not sacrifice our long-term goals for the sake of the short term,” Justinian said calmly. “Remember where this all ultimately leads, my friends. We strive for the elevation of humanity. It is never too early to urge that they elevate themselves. That, indeed, is the best possible use of our resources. In this case, it was convenient; the theme of self-improvement and empowerment has been increasingly trendy among the papers’ editors. The Wreath has been building this nest with great care.”

“Is it slightly disturbing to anyone else,” Darling asked grimly, “that we fit so neatly into a Wreath-shaped hole?”

“The Black Wreath’s theology, like all truly terrible ideas, has its roots in a good one,” Justinian replied. “Their rhetoric is filled with talk about human potential and human empowerment. That only becomes the disaster it is when married to their nihilistic hatred of the gods and predilection for diabolism.”

The others exchanged a round of silent looks. Basra finally laid down the papers and pushed the stack away from herself across the table.

“Moving forward,” the Archpope continued more briskly, “let us consider our current situation. This is the first decisive victory we have gained in this round of confrontations with the Wreath; this stage of their plan is undone, and in fact repurposed to serve our aims, but it would be naïve to consider this over. Placing newspaper columnists sympathetic to their goals is far too humble an aim to have been the entire point of this campaign, considering the resources they have already expended upon it, and I am reluctant to assume that having interrupted this step in the chain will throw their entire plan into chaos. The Wreath is characteristically too careful to let themselves be unmade by a single defeat.”

“Then that leaves our next moves to be made from much the same position as before,” Andros rumbled. “We do not know what they ultimately intend, much less what they will do next to achieve it.”

“Not quite,” Darling said thoughtfully, rubbing his chin. “This bit with the papers… Something that involved and long-term will have left trails that can be followed.”

“Precisely!” Justinian said with a broad smile. “Even assuming that some infernal craft was used in arranging this state of affairs, by far the most of it must have been the result of mundane manipulations. The Wreath are careful, but this is too broad a project for every trail leading from it to have been covered. That brings us to the now, and our next moves.”

“Well, Branwen’s role in this game is obviously settled,” Basra said wryly.

“Yes,” Justinian nodded while Branwen looked demure. “Which leaves the rest of you. Antonio, your particular skills are immediately relevant in following the trails from the newspaper offices. You are the master of information-gathering, particularly in Tiraas. May I leave this in your hands?”

Darling leaned slowly back in his chair, frowning pensively into the distance. “…I will do what I can, your Holiness. There’s a complicating matter I hadn’t had a chance yet to report on.”

“Oh?” Justinian raised an eyebrow.

“I’ve been following up with our various cults, as directed,” Darling continued. “I have…disappointing news from the Thieves’ Guild.”

“I shall try to contain my shock,” Basra said solemnly.

“Really, Bas,” Branwen protested. “Must you?”

“Tricks acknowledged having played into the Wreath’s hands with his actions following the warlock attacks,” Darling said, ignoring them. “Where it gets dicey is that he says this was on the specific orders of Eserion himself.”

There was momentary silence while they considered this.

“Is it possible he himself is compromised?” Andros asked finally.

“Andros!” Branwen exclaimed, scandalized. “That is a high priest you are talking about!”

“It’s okay, Bran,” said Darling, giving her a fleeting grin. “It’s a fair question. And to answer it, the possibility exists. We should assume that anyone might be compromised. However, it’s my policy not to reach for outlandish explanations when a simpler one makes more sense. The Boss of the Guild being in with the Wreath is a major stretch; Eserion playing a game of wits with Elilial would be entirely in character.”

“Hm,” Justinian said pensively. “I can attempt to inquire, of course. The gods are not obligated to speak to me, however, and Eserion in particular has never held much regard for mortal authority.”

“Just so,” said Darling, nodding. “So, to bring this back around to the issue at hand… I’ll certainly do my best, but with regard to this situation, I think we had better regard the resources of the Thieves’ Guild as unavailable to us. Trying to make use of them right now will put us at cross purposes with Eserion’s gambit, whatever that is, and presents the risk that our efforts will get back to the Wreath themselves.”

“How severely does this hamper you?” Justinian asked.

“I built the Guild’s current information network,” Darling said with a grim smile. “I’m still me; I can get information as needed. However, with much of my customary toolbox off-limits, it will take…longer. I’m not sure how much time we have to work.”

“Then it is vital that we not sit and wait for you to complete this project,” Andros said firmly. “It is an important one—perhaps the most important—but we must proceed with other avenues while you carry it out.”

“What’d you have in mind?” Darling asked mildly.

“In the last several days, we have continuously erred on the side of aggression,” the Huntsman said, folding his hands atop the table and leaning forward to stare at them. “This has been to the Black Wreath’s advantage, and apparently a cornerstone of their strategy. I propose that we continue to accommodate them.”

“Interesting,” Justinian mused. “Go on.”

“The hunt must suit the quarry,” Andros said. “The Wreath are subtle; subtlety is needed in pursuing them. They will expect such subtlety from us and be prepared to counter it. I believe we have, here, an opportunity to outmaneuver them by playing to their expectations.” He turned to stare at Basra. “The actions of the Silver Legions were by far the most ostentatiously aggressive in the aftermath of their attack. If this continues, it will force them to adhere to their strategy of attempting to use it to discredit the Sisterhood. Meanwhile, my Huntsmen will undergo a more careful, more effective search for demons and warlocks active in the city.”

“I can’t help noticing,” Basra said flatly, “that it’s my cult which will bear the bulk of the effort and the backlash for this plan of yours.”

“I would not ask that it be done that simply,” Andros rumbled. “Whatever issues there are between our faiths, against the Wreath we are ancient allies. These matters, I confess, are somewhat over my head, but is there not something the priests of Izara can do to turn the tide of public opinion?”

“In fact, we are very well suited for that,” Branwen said with a smile. “I will speak to the High Priestess about this. It should be possible to counter the Wreath’s propaganda efforts against the Sisters and the Huntsmen while this is going on.”

“No,” said Andros, shaking his head. “Only against the Sisters. We should do as much as possible to focus the Wreath’s attention on them, including the direction of our damage control efforts. I assure you, my faith does not suffer in the least from being disliked.”

“Historically speaking, that appears to be the plain truth,” Darling said cheerfully.

“And so,” Andros went on, “while the Thieves’ Guild engages in whatever campaign it is playing, the Sisters belligerently pursue the Wreath with the full backing of the Church, and the Huntsmen more quietly and carefully cut down demonic forces, there will be so many balls in the air that Antonio’s pursuit can, with the blessing of the gods, proceed unnoticed.”

“Excellent, Andros,” Justinian said with a smile of simple approbation. “It is the basis of a solid plan indeed.”

“I think I can enhance it form my end, too,” Darling added thoughtfully. “It shouldn’t take much effort to create the impression that I’m involved in the Guild’s operations. The simplest way to do that, of course, is for me to be involved, which the Boss will expect anyway. Only downside is that means I’m going to have to chase the Wreath from a distance, via proxies.”

“Can you?” Basra asked archly.

“I think so,” he said, nodding slowly. “Yes. I believe I know just the people to tap for this job. This should work out well; Embras Mogul engaged me personally in Hamlet. There’s a link there; I’ll make a pretty good scarecrow to hold his attention.”

“I may have a problem on my end,” Basra said darkly. “The High Commander was not appreciative of my efforts. My authority with regard to the Legions has not been impeded as such, but if I try to send them out to do more of the specific thing she ranted at me for doing last time…there will be trouble.”

“There should be a path around that obstacle,” Andros said somewhat dismissively. “You flying off the handle and flailing with your sword is a very different matter from you exercising your authority on behalf of a Church-sponsored campaign in pursuit of a definite goal.”

Basra stared flatly at him, sliding her hands off the table so they couldn’t be seen. Branwen sighed heavily and planted her face in her hand.

“Andros,” the Archpope said quietly, with gentle but definite reproof.

“Forgive me,” Andros said, completely calm, and bowed slightly to Basra from his seat. “I am prone to speaking in haste. I should not let old animosities so guide my words.”

“Mm hm,” she said, not dropping her cold stare.

“Needless rudeness aside,” Justinian said, still regarding Andros reproachfully, “it is a point of some merit. This plan proposes to make direct use of the Silver Legions; we should not even consider attempting to do so unilaterally. Obviously High Commander Rouvad must be included in this plan, as well as Grandmaster Veisroi and High Priestess Delaine. Circumstances being what they are, it seems regrettably necessary that Boss Tricks can’t be brought on board. Or do you think he should, Antonio?”

“All things considered,” Darling said ruefully, “I don’t think any good would come of that. So long as the Guild is pursuing its own ends, we should assume anything Tricks knows will be used for his purposes before ours.” He sighed heavily. “For the record, I’m not comfortable with this. It’s been my long experience that Eserion invariably knows what he’s doing. If he’s using the Guild in a play against the Wreath, it’s certain to be a good one.”

“I have little personal experience with your god,” said Justinian, “but I am amply versed in the history of the Church and its member cults, and I concur with your assessment. I also believe that, whatever the Boss does or does not know, Eserion will be aware of the players moving and accommodate their actions in his own plans. As is my general policy in dealing with the gods, I think it is incumbent upon us to do our best and trust them to do theirs. Have faith in your deity, Antonio,” he added with a smile. “He knows your own worth, and will not condemn you for taking action outside his own cult.”

“Oh, that’s not what worries me,” Darling said with a smile. “The Big Guy knows what he’s about, no question. It’s just a new and uncomfortable perspective for me, regarding the Guild’s activities from outside.”

“I fear we shall all gain new and uncomfortable perspectives before this is over,” Justinian said solemnly. “But I believe we are equal to the task at hand. Remember who you are and what we are to achieve.” His smile was calm, serene, and utterly confident. “We are only human, yes, but when we are done, the word ‘only’ shall never again be applied to us.”

Darling, obviously, kept his many doubts to himself.

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“Well, what did you think was going to happen?”

The man sitting across the table from Darling hunched in his chair, glaring sullenly. He was a relatively prosperous-looking fellow, pudgy enough to suggest he lived quite comfortably, but not overly fat. His suit was of relatively good quality but fit him too imperfectly to have been tailored. Balding, middle-aged, his only calluses on his fingertips, he might have been any clerk or banker to whom no one paid a moment’s attention until they needed his services.

That was precisely what made his presence here so intriguing.

“It’s the signs, you see,” Darling went on, leaning back in his own chair and grinning easily, which caused the other man’s glare to deepen. “’Mortal world for mortal races,’ I like that. Catchy. It sort of falls apart when you think it through, though, doesn’t it? I mean, were you guys protesting the gods?” He chuckled aloud. “I’ve got to figure you were counting on them not to notice you. You lot certainly weren’t prepared for what would have happened if one of them had.”

The man’s sullenness increased, slightly but visibly, and not for the first time during this interview; Darling had been winding him up for a little while now.

“That’s not even the best one, though,” he went on merrily. “’Better the Wreath than the Wrath.’ Come on, what does that even mean? It might interest you to know that that piece of poster board is currently on display in a local city watch barracks in the mess hall. Or anyway, it was an hour ago; the captain’ll probably make them take it down sooner or later. At least the troops got a good laugh, though, right? You can’t say your day was completely wasted.”

“We didn’t make the signs!” the man burst out, then immediately clamped his lips shut, firmly folding his arms across his chest.

“Who did?” Darling asked mildly.

The suspect glared at him. “Did you just bring me here to make fun of me? Have you nothing better to do?”

“Have you?” Darling countered, grinning. “But no, actually, I didn’t bring you here. I’m just the first in a long line of people who ask the questions.”

He grunted. “I know the law. You can’t keep me here forever.”

“Well, sure, there’s that,” the Bishop went on glibly. “You’re not guilty of anything worse than disrupting the peace, which is a day in a cell at the most. You’ll note I’m presuming you are not actually a member of the Black Wreath. As is Imperial Intelligence. For the simple reason, you see, that no member of the Wreath would have been out doing something as toweringly boneheaded as protesting. In dramatic black robes, no less! Did you know their actual ceremonial robes are gray?” His grin widened at the man’s expression. “Aw, you really didn’t, did you?”

“If I’m being charged with creating a disturbance,” he grated, “I would like to be formally charged, please, and proceed to my cell.”

“Ah, I’m afraid that brings us to a sticking point,” said Darling, leaning forward and folding his hands on the table between them. “You see, nobody cares about your little protest, Anders. May I call you Anders? How about Andy? Smashing. Seriously, though, a handful of kooks in robes making a mess in the street? Bah. Frankly, I suspect if you get before a magistrate for that, most of ’em would consider your rough handling by the Silver Legions adequate punishment and send you off with a stern talking-to. The issue is that you’re not being held as a criminal; you’re being held as a source of information. You, Andy, know something that could lead to the capture of actual Black Wreath agents.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you,” Anders said woodenly, putting on an ostentatiously stubborn expression.

Darling heaved a sigh. “Well, then, you’ve got yourself a problem, Andy. Y’see, as a suspected source of information on a declared enemy of the state, you’re being held on military grounds. You are a prisoner of war in an active conflict. Which means you are going nowhere. You will sit in that cell until Imperial Command decides you’ve given them every little scrap of information you possibly can. Then you’ll probably be released, unless they decide you’re an authentic threat to the security of the state, which isn’t likely, seeing as…well, look at you.”

Anders had grown more wide-eyed and pale as Darling spoke, and finally jolted up, slapping his hands on the table. “You can’t—”

Instantly, both the soldiers standing next to the room’s small door shifted forward, aiming their staves directly at him. Anders froze, looking first at one, then the other, then very carefully sank back down into his chair.

“Look, Anders,” Darling said calmly. “I know and you know that you’re not a rebel or heretic. You’ve got objections to the Empire’s way of doing things? Welcome to citizenship. You have a quarrel with some or all of the gods? I think you’d be amazed how very common that is, even within the Church. You had a little lapse in judgment and created a fuss in public? You and every university student in history. Meanwhile, whatever Black Wreath agent set you and your chums up with those robes and masks is running around, free as a bird and up to the gods only know what. Shamelessly using you as a distraction and a fall guy is the least of what they’ve likely done in the meantime. The last Wreath agents I encountered in the city had just murdered a harmless old woman who happened to get in the way of their attempt to murder an Izarite priestess.”

He remained quiet for a few heartbeats, letting that sink in, watching the uncertainty growing on his subject’s face. Anders had a very open face, at least to someone like Darling.

“The thing that puzzles me,” he finally said quietly, “is why you would protect them?”

Anders dropped his gaze to the table, clearing his throat. “If…um… If I help you…I can go?”

“Each broke more easily than the last,” Darling reported. “None of these folk had the slightest training in handling interrogation, nor any experience at it; not so much as a criminal record among them. Imperial Intelligence found no links of any kind to Wreath or dissident activity before yesterday, with either divination or mundane methods. They’re just average citizens. Tradespeople, clerks. Hence Lord Vex letting me handle the questioning.”

“So it is with the common folk,” Archpope Justinian said gravely. “I fear too many of the systems of our society are designed to keep people complacent. It has the side effect of making them vulnerable to such manipulations.”

“With respect, your Holiness, I’ve found the opposite is true,” Darling said, frowning thoughtfully. “Average sorts living from one payday to the next tend to have a very solid handle on the immediate practicalities of their lives. They might get swept up in events, but they don’t just up and do stuff that’ll cause them trouble. That’s the key, here; none of these protestors had any kind of record. It’s as if they all decided to drop whatever they were doing, put on some robes and try to irritate the Pantheon. People don’t act so rashly unless under duress, or severely provoked. None of them were provoked.”

“Hm,” Justinian mused, falling silent as they walked. They were strolling along one of the Cathedral’s more beautiful settings, the Hall of the Falls. The dais and pulpit of the huge main sanctuary was backlit by a semicircular array of stained-glass windows. Behind this was another, larger circle of plain crystalline glass, subtly lensed, that gathered and magnified the light from outside. Sandwiched between the two arches of glass was a half-moon-shaped walkway, from under which water constantly streamed in a short fall to a pool below. It was a brilliantly lovely piece of architecture, and also a favorite place for conversations which needed to be private. The arch of the walkway was shallow enough that one could not approach unseen, and the constant roar of water made it hard to hear a normal speaking voice more than a few feet away.

They were escorted, as always now, by two of those heavily-armored popinjays from Justinian’s Holy Legion, with two more at each of the Hall’s entrances. Privately, Darling thought that even his Guild streetfighting would be a match for one of them, and he wasn’t really a fighter. A lone Silver Legionnaire could probably cleave through this whole squad.

“It was my understanding,” the Archpope finally said, “that Vex’s investigation had eliminated the possibility of any magical duress placed upon the suspects.”

“He determined there was no evidence of any such duress, using the best and most modern methods available,” Darling replied, “which in my opinion gives us a far more valuable avenue of investigation than the paltry intel we got from the suspects themselves. The Wreath was too careful to let any agents be identified or traced, and disguise spells are too easy nowadays. However, read between the lines: all of these people exhibited totally uncharacteristic aggression under strange circumstances, strongly suggesting that they were magically influenced. There were zero lingering traces of any such influence. The Black Wreath is known above all for its ability to hide its workings from perception, even that of the gods. Now, the key here is that in all the Wreath’s history, there are no hints they’ve ever been able to use infernal magic to influence emotions. That’s fairy magic, characteristically. If they’re using their infernal technique to hide it, then it’s infernal spellwork, which means they have a new trick. Well, another new trick.”

“Hardly encouraging news,” Justinian said gravely.

“Well, no, but useful,” Darling replied with a smile. “Aside from the fact we now know they can do it, Elilial does not just spin new spells out of the ether. It has been eight thousand years—she’s taught her followers pretty much whatever she’s going to by this point, and in fact by a point long ago. New spellcraft is a mortal innovation. It means they’ve been conducting research. Research means materials and equipment procured, which, given modern economics, means there’ll be evidence of it somewhere, no matter how well they hide their tracks. Research means byproducts that would need to be disposed of, magically volatile trash of the kind that leaves scryable residue. It means, furthermore, they’d have been working with unknown magical quantities, so their usual concealment spells couldn’t have been applied consistently. The Wreath having a new spell means that somewhere, there are traces of its development. We just have to find it, now that we know what to look for.”

“Excellent!” Justinian said, turning to face him and clapping a hand on Darling’s shoulder, beaming. “Truly excellent work, Antonio! Each day I am increasingly grateful to have your aid.”

He was so perfectly sincere that despite the thorny hedge of unspoken maneuvering between them, Darling couldn’t help but feel pleased at the praise. Damn, but the man was good at what he did.

“I have news of my own,” the Archpope continued, releasing Darling and turning to resume their leisurely stroll. “Information, in fact, that should be quite interesting to Lord Vex, as a fair trade for his willingness to let you share the results of his investigation with me.”

“Something he doesn’t already know?” Darling asked with a wry smile.

“Quite possibly,” Justinian said seriously. “My queries have led me to Svenheim; the dwarves are displeased to the point of hostility with Tiraas in the wake of the Narisian Treaty, and have developed a tendency to block official government actions. I am accorded somewhat greater respect when I ask for cooperation.”

“I understood that the dwarves were mostly pagan…”

“Quite so,” said Justinian with a smile of his own, “but they are also mostly practical. The Pantheon is a reality that wise people do not ignore, as is its Church. I have only been obstructed outright in Themynrite lands, and that only after pushing the limits of the local judiciary’s patience.”

Darling filed that away for later investigation, nodded and made an encouraging noise in the back of his throat.

“This information is weeks old by now,” Justinian continued, “but after the suicide devices found on the Wreath’s attacking warlocks this week matched those from the Tellwyrn incident in Hamlet, I am convinced of its relevance. I tracked those syringes to the dwarven industrialist who owns the patent on that technology. She, of course, vehemently denies doing business with the Black Wreath, but confirms their origin. Most importantly, the brass-bound devices with the lavish engraving that the Wreath has used were promotional prototypes, given away in large quantity to various medical and alchemical organizations.”

“Hm.” Darling frowned thoughtfully. “That means it’ll be very hard to trace their paths…”

“All but impossible, I am assured. However, they were a limited run of products. All such bodies who now buy syringes from the firm in question purchase more modern ones, which are far plainer in design and made of either steel or a nickel/copper alloy rather than brass. Those prototypes which were used have been so, as of more than three years ago. We may assume that any such brass-bound syringes now found are a link to the Wreath.”

“That is good news,” Darling said with unfeigned enthusiasm. “Vex hasn’t mentioned any such thing, but of course he doesn’t tell me everything. I will pass it along, of course.”

“Of course,” said Justinian with a beatific smile. “And now, Antonio, unless you have urgent business on behalf of your own cult, I would like to take further advantage of your skills as an interviewer.”

“Of course, your Holiness. Anything I can do.”

“This may seem somewhat intrusive, but I assure you it is a necessary formality…”

“…and we’re just building the most complete possible picture of yesterday’s events,” Darling finished with a reassuring smile. “You’re not suspected of anything.”

“I’m relieved to hear that,” Branwen replied. “Though honestly, Antonio, it never occurred to me that I might be suspected of anything until you said his Holiness wanted you to question me.”

“Let’s avoid words like ‘question,’” he said with a grin, settling back in his chair. “It raises implications that just don’t apply here. Of course we know where you were during the demonstrations and the Legion’s response, that’s all academic. Really, the only blanks we need filled in are about what happened the night of the attacks.”

Her face fell, and she lowered her gaze to stare at the carpet between them. They were in one of the Cathedral’s small chapels, lavishly appointed and used by wealthy and important worshipers for private meditation—or sensitive discussions such as this. It was smaller than a bedroom, really, containing nothing but two comfortable chairs and an altar over which hovered a golden ankh, in what Darling considered a wasteful and ostentatious display of magical excess.

“I know how hard this subject is for you, Bran,” he said very gently. “Take all the time you need. Look, if you’re not ready to talk about it now, there is no rush. As I said, you’re not under any kind of suspicion. If you want to gather your thoughts in private…”

“No.” She shook her head, lifting her blue eyes to his. “No…thank you, Antonio, but I promised his Holiness that I would be ready to serve in whatever way was needed. What do you need to know?”

He smiled warmly at her. “I only have one question, really, but it’s rather broad. It’s about the kankhradahg demon; when I got there, it was evidently under your control.”

“Influence,” she clarified, but nodded. “I couldn’t have given him very specific instructions, but he was responding well to me.”

“Influence, then,” he said, nodding. “You realize that’s a very…remarkable skill for an Izarite cleric to suddenly display.”

“It had only a little to do with my own faith,” she said quietly. “Izara’s gift of perception was part of it, though. I could feel what the demon wanted, which was quite simply to be out from under the sway of his master, to strike back against them… And to feel cared for. They’re quite smart, really, kankhradahgs. Not sentient, but clever. About on the level of dogs.”

“I see.” Darling leaned back in his chair, still studying her thoughtfully. “And it had—forgive me—clearly already attacked Tieris. How did you wrest control of it away from the warlocks?”

“Warlock, singular,” she said with a soft sigh. “A simple demon like that is generally only beholden to one warlock. You are aware, of course, that the Church employs summoners?”

“Well…yes,” he said slowly. “I must say I never suspected you were one.”

Branwen actually laughed, softly and rather bitterly. “Oh, I haven’t that level of skill… But as a ranking agent of the Church, I do have access to some training. So do you, and to be frank, Antonio, you should think about taking advantage. It saved my life that night. Clerics cannot become warlocks; too much holy energy infusing our auras makes it impossible. It is possible, though, to bring demons across the dimensional barrier through arcane means, as we did in Hamlet. From there, they can be controlled to an extent with holy magic. Mostly with brute force methods and a lot less precision than an actual warlock has, but if you know where to put the barriers and where to apply the whip, holy magic can keep a demon in line.”

“Hm,” he said noncommittally, gesturing for her to continue.

“With a little coaching and experience, you can perceive demonic energies more clearly. And understand what they mean. Like, for instance, the bond between a summoner and his minion. I simply applied a blessing to that, like an ax to a chain.”

“And set the demon loose,” he said, nodding. “Lucky it didn’t turn on you.”

She shook her head. “He was angry at his masters; his first act was to turn on them. After that… As I said, Izara’s gifts help us in dealing with everyone. Even animals, even demons. The poor thing was badly in need of a little care. He responded quite well to it.”

Darling nodded again, his mind flashing back to what Flora and Fauna had told him about Branwen. She had a way of subtly influencing people’s desires, as opposed to just picking up on them as Izarites did. Allegedly that was the very habit that made her own cult nervous about her, but he could see how it had likely saved her that night. “I think I may just follow your advice, then. If we’re going to be wrestling with the Wreath, it sounds like useful knowledge to have.”

She smiled warmly up at him. “That particular trick wouldn’t work in all circumstances, of course. A more alert or powerful warlock could counter it. Also, a sentient demon is likely to have a more complex relationship with their summoner. Some might be eager to turn on the human who enslaved them, but others might remain loyal. It depends on the individuals and the circumstances.”

“Well, yes,” he said with a faint grin. “I’m sure we both know I’ll never have your knack for feeling out the truth in such situations. The kankhredahg was destroyed after all that, I take it?”

“Of course not,” she said, frowning prettily. “I made sure the Church summoners sent him back to his own plane. He was an animal, Antonio; an abused animal. There was absolutely no need to punish him any further. Everyone deserves a little compassion.”

“Of course,” he said soothingly. “Forgive me, I’m still growing accustomed to the nuances of dealing with demons. For so long demonology has been an academic interest of mine; something that occurred in history, not right under my nose.”

“Oh, I’m not blaming you,” she assured him, smiling again and even fluttering her lashes a little. “Like you said, none of us need to cast blame on each other. I assume, of course, you’re having these little conversations with the others, too?”

“Of course,” Basra said dryly, lounging back in the chair and crossing her legs in a rather mannish posture. “Questions are only natural. Don’t worry, I’m not offended; if Justinian suspected me of something, it wouldn’t be you doing the asking.”

“I’m glad to hear that, anyway,” Darling said carefully. “I’m still somewhat stuck on your little revelation, though. That was your idea? Forgive me, but I didn’t realize you had that much…pull with the Legions.”

“It’s a gray area,” she said with a smug little smile. “I’m not in the chain of command, per se, but due to the Church’s agreements with the Sisters of Avei, the sitting Bishop has certain prerogatives. Until Justinian put together his own adorable little legion, the Sisters provided the Church’s military arm, and the Avenist Bishop was always the link there. I can give orders to the Legion stationed in the city at need; Commander Rouvad can overrule me, of course—which she did this time—as can the officers directly in that chain of command. Funnily enough, most of the rank-and-file didn’t seem to have a problem with being sent out to crack Wreath heads.”

“Bas,” he exclaimed, “those weren’t Wreath you were rounding up! They were patsies being used by the Wreath, and by the way, I was watching one of those events. Your troops were a lot more casual about roughing up bystanders than I’m accustomed to seeing the Legions act.”

“Anyone who was injured was immediately offered healing the moment the combat zones were secure,” she said in a bored tone. “Why is this sounding exactly like the very tedious conversation I had with Commander Rouvad last night?”

“At a guess, because Commander Rouvad possesses basic common sense,” he said in exasperation. “You played right into the Wreath’s hands with that action, Basra. They couldn’t have asked for anything better if they’d been giving the orders themselves. In fact, until this little chat I was operating under the assumption the Wreath had got its fingers into the Third Legion somehow and you’d be able to help me figure out where.”

“So that’s it, is it?” she said very quietly. Her posture did not change, but there was suddenly an indefinable menace about her. “You think I’m a Wreath agent?”

“No,” he said without hesitation. “That isn’t even a prospect. I’m seriously questioning your judgment, but you being in the Wreath is an extreme explanation; there are much simpler ones.”

“Such as?” she asked wryly.

“Basic personality profile,” he replied in the same tone. It wasn’t a deception, either; the very traits that made Basra a likely traitor, at first glance, all but ruled out her involvement in the Wreath. She was a purely self-interested person, and someone like that did not join a cult that was at war with the gods and virtually every mortal society in the world. Wreath cultists came in two kinds: true believers and thrill-seeking fools who hadn’t considered what they were in for. Basra wouldn’t have lasted a week in either group.

She grinned, which wasn’t a pleasant expression, but the air of hostility had faded from her, at least. “I could take that amiss, Antonio. You think me unreliable?”

“I think you’re exactly the person I’d want on my side if we were alone and surrounded by Wreath agents, seen or unseen,” he said, leaning forward and regarding her seriously. “You’re dangerous and crafty, Bas.”

“Aw, you’ll make me blush!”

“But you aren’t sensible. I’m not in the habit of lecturing you, but seriously, you cannot afford to be this easy to manipulate. The Wreath is just getting started; they’re going to keep pushing our buttons, trying to work us into a corner. Please think before you do anything violent; thanks to your crusading they’re actually making progress toward gaining popular sympathy, which is completely without precedent.”

It actually wasn’t completely without precedent, but widespread Elilinist belief among a civilian population hadn’t existed anywhere in centuries. Basra didn’t need to know about it.

Basra shrugged; the motion was casual, but her dark eyes were fixed on him with a burning acuity. “If we’re going to be criticizing each other, Antonio, I would turn that one back around on you. The short term has your full attention and you’re not thinking of the long. Yes, yes, I know, you’re looking ahead of the specific street battle to the Wreath’s larger campaign, fine. I wasn’t thinking of their campaign, I’ll grant you that. What I’m thinking of is society at large, and what the Wreath’s actions will mean.”

“Are you?” he asked warily.

She leaned forward, mirroring his posture. “They are always testing us in one way or another, Antonio. And they’re always manipulating us. In dealing with the Wreath, you simply have to accept that now and again you’re going to get maneuvered into conceding one of their objectives. But over the greater course of history, what matters is that they know, for a certainty, that if they step too far out of line the repercussions will be swift and brutal. These aren’t people like you and me. Frankly, I would hesitate to call them people at all. I mean, how do you reason with somebody who’s out to kill us all and flood the world with hellfire? What is even going on in the brain of a person who acts that way?” She shook her head. “They’re all about destruction and pain. It’s the only language they understand.”

“You were speaking that language in a very public venue,” he warned. “It wasn’t just the Wreath that heard.”

Basra actually sneered. “If we’re going to be truly honest with each other, I can’t find it in me to fuss overmuch about a few scuffed knees. In the long run, Antonio, the rest of society is better off for such actions as well. The world can see that the Wreath and its like won’t be tolerated. How else are they to sleep soundly at night? Okay, a few folk were roughed up. They were also healed afterward. They got a direct show of the gods’ power, right on the heels of vivid proof that there is a Legion standing between them and the demons. Frankly, I’ll bet those who were at the demonstrations are feeling safer right now than anyone else.”

Darling could only stare at her. That was the moment when he realized this conversation was going nowhere. Basra was adept at motivating, at manipulating, at getting people to do what she wanted; her whole career was proof of that. But it was a mechanistic understanding. She didn’t truly comprehend how human beings thought.

Fauna, he realized, had been right.

She smiled again, an expression that was more than half smirk, and leaned back in her chair, clearly taking his stunned silence of acquiescence. “Anyhow,” she drawled, “I’m not sure you’re in any position to be throwing stones. From the reports I’ve been getting, your cult was out very deliberately and literally twisting the arms of anyone who’s been near a warlock in the last year, and not offering so much as a ‘sorry’ to those who obviously had nothing to do with this.”

“I’m not my cult,” he said automatically. He leaned backward himself, gathering his thoughts; it was no time to look scattered or especially to reveal that he’d just been thinking too deeply about her. In fact, it was starting to look like showing any kind of weakness in front of Basra would be a bad idea. “Believe me, I’ve got some questions for a number of people in the Guild. Their actions are looking very much the way the Legion’s did to me originally: somehow the Wreath’s got levers to pull inside the organization.”

“Are you convinced the Legion doesn’t, at least?”

“No,” he said immediately. “Don’t scowl at me, Bas; the Wreath’s whole mode of operation is to infiltrate and influence. I am always working under the assumption that they have people in any organization I have to deal with. The Guild is tricky, though; we operate in much the same way. In a sense that’s lucky, as all I have to do is out whatever Wreath agent exists there, and the rest will take care of them without me needing to lift a finger.”

“Very neat,” she said with an approving smile. “It leaves you the problem of finding them, though.”

“Yeah…which is also made harder because, well… How do you spot a zebra in the tallgrass?”

“…what the hell is a zebra?”

“Nevermind, it’s a long story,” he said with a grin. “Point is, I’m gonna have to ponder this one, but please don’t get any ideas. I will handle the Guild; if you try to ‘help,’ a perfectly upstanding non-Wreath thief is likely to slit your throat.”

“Do I look like an idiot?” she scoffed. “I’m not going near your cult, especially after they showed up my Legions for brutality yesterday. That’s not to express disapproval, mind you, and I don’t know if I agree that they’ve been infiltrated. It sounds to me like your Boss understands exactly how the Wreath needs to be dealt with. I could wish Rouvad had such foresight. But, you’re clearly the expert.”

“Mm hm,” he mused, rubbing his chin. “In the meantime, I’m just left with Andros and the Huntsmen.”

Basra laughed aloud. “Best of luck with that.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

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Having some time to himself, in hindsight, had been too much to hope for. Not just because he was up to his ears at the best of times between Imperial business, Church business, Guild business and the various games he had to play to pit those interests against each other and keep them from tipping out of balance—or smashing him for being the meddling interloper he was.

It was a lovely day, the first such in quite some time, the sky clear and the air warm enough to dispense with scarves and gloves, though still with plenty of bite. Spring always came late to Tiraas. As such, it seemed everyone who didn’t have a good and specific reason to be indoors was out enjoying the relative warmth. Couples, families and miscellaneous individuals strolled the streets with the lackadaisical gait of people on no particular business.

Not that Sweet minded the crowd, aside from the added difficulty of navigating through them, but as an inveterate people-watcher, it was a challenge to get from one point to another without being distracted. The Guild mostly ran his spy network these days; it wasn’t as if going on his city rounds could truly count as business anymore. He kept himself in circulation through the city because he loved doing it, because it was personally satisfying and made him feel grounded. Today, though, he found himself caught up watching a hundred little tableaus in passing, rather than making his way to any of his stops with any kind of efficiency. After an hour or so, he gave up and just strolled like everyone else was, enjoying the humanity as much as the sunshine.

And maybe, subconsciously, he knew it would be his last opportunity for a while; there was just too much going on. Some people—most people—who had recently been targeted by Black Wreath assassins might have feared to be out in public alone, but in truth, Sweet was more at home on the streets than in the fancy townhouse which he regarded as little but a prop in his role as the Bishop. Just let anyone try to take him on in his own streets. It was nearly a disappointment that not even a hint of such hostility emerged.

It was a nice hour, while it lasted, but then the world caught up with him. So much for his day off.

He sighted the disturbance from a block away, being closely attuned to the currents of the city. Sweet turned down the street in question, making his way toward the fuss without hurry. It didn’t seem like the kind of thing that required hurry, anyway. Not much was evident from that distance except for a forming crowd and raised voices, but he could clearly see the steeple, topped with an ankh, of a Universal Church chapel right at the thick of things.

As Sweet approached the upraised voices gradually became clearer, though he couldn’t make much sense of what they were saying. The last few feet he had to actually push through onlookers, which he did as gently as possible, with smiles and murmured apologies; soon enough he was standing at the very edge of the cleared space surrounding the disturbance.

There, he had to stop and just stare, his normal aplomb fleeing.

“What…the…hell.”

The demonstrators wore black robes—cheap ones, apparently dyed sackcloth. Somebody had thrown those together at the last minute, clearly. They contrasted starkly with the masks, which were identical and clearly well-made: each person wore the plaster face of a woman with red skin, surmounted by twisting horns. They carried signs with a variety of slogans: SHAME; ONE EMPEROR IS ENOUGH, JUSTINIAN!; BETTER THE WREATH THAN THE WRATH; MORTAL WORLD FOR MORTAL RACES. The seven people present appeared to be trying to chant, but weren’t making much of a go at it, each spouting their various phrases and tripping over each other’s lines.

“How long has this been going on?” he asked aloud.

“Less than ten minutes,” said a voice at his elbow. Sweet was too old a pro to visibly startle at being addressed, however much it surprised him. He half-turned to regard the speaker from beneath an upraised eyebrow.

“Grip. Dare I ask what you’re doing in the thick of this?”

“I’m not in the thick of it,” the half-elf said dryly. “I’m on the outskirts, where it’s safe. To answer your question, virtually every enforcer in the city is hunting Wreath after they came knocking on your door. I was staking out a magic shop known for peddling diabolist supplies when these ducklings came along.”

“Are they…Wreath?” he asked carefully.

Grip snorted. “Cavorting in the street like that? Hell, no. I’d dearly like to know who they are and where they came from, but the actual Black Wreath doesn’t do shit like this, as I should think you know. It evidently organizes shit like this, however. These clowns were at the shop collecting those robes, masks and signs.”

“Hmm.” Darling stroked his chin, studying the protestors through narrowed eyes. They certainly weren’t garnering any sympathy from the crowd; the onlookers were watching this display with expressions of revulsion and derision, some beginning to be openly hostile. Even as he watched, a thickset man shouted at the demonstrators to crawl back in their holes, quickly echoed by another voice.

Behind them, a Universal Church chaplain was standing on the steps of the chapel being protested against, looking more puzzled than alarmed. Darling couldn’t blame him. As Grip had pointed out, the Black Wreath just didn’t do things like this.

The enforcer cleared her throat softly and tugged his sleeve. “I suggest we get a more appropriate vantage, yeah?”

“Good idea.”

They slipped carefully back through the crowd; it required more pushing, as thick as it had grown, but the spectacle was arresting enough that nobody bothered with them. From there, it was the work of moments to slip into an alley, up piles of refuse, drain pipes, and window shutters to land on the flat roof of the shop across the street from the chapel. A wall kick was necessary to make it all the way up; thankfully he didn’t stumble in front of Grip, but Sweet had to reflect ruefully, as he caught his breath, that he was getting to be out of practice at this.

“This can’t go on much longer,” he said. “If they’re not Wreath, they’re clearly sympathetic to them. I’m amazed the whole lot haven’t been rounded up by soldiers already.”

“As to that, I have a theory,” Grip murmured. She planted a foot on the short parapet and leaned on her knee to look down, but was peering in both directions up the street rather than at the robed protestors. As usual, she wore striking black, with prominently displayed knives strapped to her in various places and a cudgel hanging at her belt. Most Eserite thieves would have rightly disdained such ostentation, but Grip’s line of work was about inflicting fear more than inflicting pain. You couldn’t be an enforcer without breaking fingers and kneecaps as needed, but the scarier you were, the less you had to do it. A trail of rumors was much more efficient than a trail of blood; tails of blood were useful only because they started rumors. “It’s the reason I followed these guys rather than busting up the shopkeeper who was supplying them per the Boss’s orders. Call it a hunch, but I suspect a parallel between… And there we go. My timing is as flawless as always, it seems.”

Sweet followed her pointing finger to the opposite end of the street, where an entire phalanx in bronze armor had rounded the corner and positioned themselves to completely wall off the avenue. Grip then pointed the opposite way, to a second phalanx taking position.

“No,” Sweet breathed, staring at the Silver Legionnaires. “They wouldn’t…”

They were, and they did. The spears didn’t come up, but the two walls of shieldmaidens began to sparkle as divine shields formed over the front ranks, cast by the priestesses embedded in their formations, and they started closing in on each other. Seeing them come, people turned and tried to flee, including one of the black-robed figures.

“No, no, no!” he said in agitation, clenching his fists as he watched panicked city dwellers rebound off the phalanx, finding no place to slip through. “Not against civilians! And not just the Wreath, they’re hitting everyone! Rouvad, what are you thinking?!”

“They’re not hitting anyone,” Grip murmured, watching closely. “No weapons, see? They’re just…oop, I’m wrong.”

Another robed protestor had tried to flee, pressing himself against the wall of a storefront in an attempt to slip past the phalanx. The Legionnaire on the edge had broken formation momentarily to slam him against the wall with her shield. Sweet couldn’t hear the crunch from up there, but he winced, feeling it. Moments later, the front line had passed them, and two more Legionnaires gathered up the fallen man, none too gently.

They were not being so rough with the townspeople caught up in their trap, but they also weren’t letting them through the formation. People began forcing their way into shop doors and alleys to escape the press; Sweet clearly heard a window being broken. Two Legionnaires, one from each side, had slipped through the phalanxes from behind and now were taking position across from the robed protestors with shields and lances out, pushing them back as they attempted to bolt to an alley across the street.

From there, it was over in a few seconds. Abandoning their signs, two of the robed demonstrators fled up the short path into the very chapel they’d been agitating in front of; the black-robed priest stepped aside to allow them in. The rest surrendered and were quickly rounded up by Legionnaires. The phalanxes broke up, soldiers assuming guard formations, and the priestesses fanned out. In moments the street was lighting up in flashes as they administered divine healing to people injured in the scuffle—including to one of the protestors.

“And that’s why the guards didn’t come,” Grip said in a satisfied tone. “Imperial duty or not, most soldiers are at least nominal Avenists. If the Legions want to claim a prerogative, a watch commander will find reasons to delay dispatching his troops. As I thought, our cult wasn’t the only one that felt insulted by the Wreath’s roughhousing.”

“Oh, gods,” Sweet whispered, understanding dawning on him. Not the full details, of course; there was too much about this that made absolutely no sense. But the shape of it… “It’s another provocation.”

“Another?” Grip turned to him, raising an eyebrow.

“None of the Bishops were hit with anything nearly strong enough to take us out. The Wreath is playing a longer game. They’re trying to stir something up.”

“Mm.” She turned back to watch the soldiers securing the street, ushering the remaining civilians out of the way. “This is a bigger something than they usually go for.”

“A great doom is coming,” he murmured, then pointed at the chapel, where the priest was arguing vehemently with two Avenists, a woman in bronze armor and one in simple white robes. “What’s going on there?”

Grip laughed bitingly. Like most halfbloods she didn’t much care to be reminded of her heritage, but those ears were too useful in their line of work to be ignored. “Apparently those two assholes have claimed sanctuary in the chapel, and he’s choosing to honor it. Gotta admire the man’s pluck if not his judgment. Well, legally he has the right of… Yup, there they go.”

The Legionnaire and priestess had turned and retreated, looking so disgusted that Sweet could clearly read their expressions even from this distance. Not that he had the attention to spare for them.

“They’re actually trying to incite the population against the gods,” he marveled.

“That’s a new one,” Grip commented. “I can’t imagine they’ll get far with it.”

“In the long run? Hell, no, the Pantheon’s worshipers are far too entrenched. But if they play it right, they can stir up enough trouble over a short span of time to accomplish…”

“What?” she asked after he trailed off.

Sweet scowled, shaking his head. “If I knew, I’d be out putting a stop to it. Bloody hell, though, they’re doing it well. Rouvad must be mad to have allowed this; the Legions are usually a lot more careful around civilians.”

“Hnh,” she grunted. “Makes you wonder what the Huntsmen are out doing. Bet it makes this look like a Sunday picnic.”

“Makes me wonder what pins the Wreath set up for them to knock down,” Sweet muttered. “Clearly, the demonstrations were not the point. They’re creating just enough agitation that the offended cults have easy targets on which to vent their ire, in just the right places where innocents will be caught in the…” He stopped, his eyes widening. “Grip, did you say you were watching a shop?”

“I did,” she said slowly. “I mean, I was…”

“Tricks sent enforcers throughout the city, targeting known Wreath locations?”

“Well, we don’t know any actual Wreath locations, or we’d have beaten them down a long time ago. But there are all kinds of suspected contacts in the city…”

“You mean to tell me that right now, all over Tiraas, Thieves’ Guild enforcers are out smashing limbs and property of people who might have some connection to the Black Wreath? Some of whom—most of whom—assuredly don’t?”

She looked up at him, the blood draining from her face, then down at the scene in the street. “Oh, shit fire.”

“Get back to the Guild,” he said, already moving back toward the alleyway from which they’d ascended. “Get in to see Tricks, use my name and break whoever’s leg you have to if he claims not to have time for you. Get him to put a stop to this.”

“He can’t!” Grip protested, following him. They paused at the edge of the roof. “Sweet, everyone’s already in motion. All over. This was a massive strike, sent out to crush every fingerhold the Black Wreath has in the city. It’ll take every warm body left in the Guild to even get to all the targeted locations… If there’s anybody left at the Guild who actually knows where everyone went, it’ll be too late to stop it all, and—”

“Damn it, woman, we don’t have time for this!” he shouted. “Go try! I have to get to the Cathedral to try to stop the rest of the cults from playing into the Wreath’s hands!”

She obeyed without another word, slinging herself over the edge, bouncing off the wall below and catching a grip on a drainpipe, which shook with the impact but held. Sweet followed with a little more care, his brain churning so hard it threatened to damage his concentration on the task of climbing.

The Guild was, right at that moment, sending a very strong message to exactly the wrong people, which the Wreath had assuredly already made preparations to spin into the narrative they were going to sell to the general public. Doubtless there were more demonstrations like this being set up to bait the Sisters into making similar blunders, all over the city. The gods only knew what the Huntsmen were doing. And what about the Izarites? A more harmless group of people had surely never existed, but if there were a way for them to be manipulated into making a mistake, the Black Wreath were the ones to do it.

And what was Justinian doing?

“There is little I can do,” the Archpope said gravely. “Captain Ravoud, take a message to High Commander Rouvad; inform her of these developments and Bishop Darling’s theory. She, at least, has the communication networks in place to call back her Legions before they make this situation any worse. Have someone dispatch a similar message to Grandmaster Veisroi. See to it personally, Captain.”

“Immediately, your Holiness,” Ravoud said crisply, saluting, then turned and dashed off back down the hall. The Archpope, at this time of day, was busy; Darling had actually called him out of a prayer meeting for this. It was a rather sensitive discussion to be having openly in the halls of the Cathedral, but he had chosen to value speed over secrecy in this case.

Ravoud was a name he remembered from recent events in Lor’naris. The man now wore his Imperial Army uniform with insignia removed and the coat left unbuttoned, which was common enough for ex-soldiers. Clearly he was working for the Archpope now, though he wasn’t in Holy Legion armor. Darling filed away this piece of whatever puzzle it was to be worked at later.

“That, unfortunately, is the extent of my immediate power here,” Justinian said ruefully, his face a mask of patrician concern. “It is only the structure and nature of the Avenists that makes even that much possible; the cults of Eserion and Shaath are far more proactive. Commander Rouvad can, at least, rein in her people.”

“I’ve sent a runner to the Boss with the same warning,” said Darling, “but I’m afraid it’s not going to be in time to accomplish anything.”

Justinian nodded. “And even if we could reach them in time… As I have mentioned, I cannot actually require any of the Church’s member cults to do anything. At most, I can intercede with their deities to ask that the cult leaders be overruled, but… That takes time and considerable effort, will have far-reaching consequences and may not even be necessary.”

“In most cases, I don’t think it would be,” Darling said with a frown. “The Shaathists might consider their vendetta more important than the strategic realities of the situation…”

“I’ve heard Shaathists and Avenists alike say similar things about Eserites,” Branwen noted, smiling and placing a hand on Darling’s arm to soften any sting in the words. She had, fortuitously, been with the Archpope when he had arrived; they now had the hall to themselves, aside from the two Holy Legionnaires who escorted Justinian everywhere.

“Let us not start that debate, please,” Justinian said firmly. “At present we don’t know what the Huntsmen may have done or will do. Veisroi, though as devoted to the principles of the wild as any Shaathist, has proven amenable to compromise in the past. He will listen to my messenger.”

Darling drew in a deep breath and let it out in a rush. “Which leaves only whatever his cult has already done. I can’t escape the feeling the Wreath has manipulated each of us from within, too. It’d be the only reliable way to ensure the cults reacted the way they wanted. We’ve always taken it as given that our cults have been infiltrated. Those Legionnaires… That operation just didn’t seem characteristic of them.” He turned to Branwen. “This may be a little out of line, for which I’m sorry, but is there any chance the priests of Izara might do something…rash?”

“Such as what, for example?” she asked archly.

He shook his head. “I don’t know, Bran. All I’m sure of is that we’ve all been played.”

“It is a fair objection,” said the Archpope, “but also a fair question. I will send a messenger to High Priestess Delaine. Whether or not she has taken any action, she deserves to be kept in the loop. I think we can consider the disciples of Izara a lower concern, however; it is not in their nature to offer aggression of any kind.”

“We’ve lost this one, haven’t we?” Branwen asked glumly.

“Second in a row,” Darling added, surprised by the bitterness in his own tone.

“Despair is a sin, my friends,” the Archpope said firmly. “To presume that hope is lost is to presume knowledge of the future that we mortals cannot possess. Trust in the gods. More importantly, trust in the better aspects of our own nature. The Wreath’s nihilism may cause untold damage in the short term, but in the long, I truly believe that humanity is better at the heart than they would make us out to be.” He came to a stop, turning to face them. “You are right, Branwen; we must consider this engagement lost. Steel yourselves to face further losses in the immediate future; the Wreath has planned deeply and prepared well, and we must assume they will be prepared for our next logical moves. Therefore, we shall place our focus upon a depth of future action beyond what they can foresee. Branwen.” He placed a hand gently on her shoulder, gazing solemnly down at the much shorter woman. “I have a plan, which will require me to lean heavily upon you in the coming days. I know your wounds are still raw. If you do not feel yourself up to this task, there will be no recrimination of any kind… But I must know now. Once it is begun, it will be too late to change course.”

“You can count on me for whatever you need, your Holiness,” she replied, meeting his gaze with uncharacteristic steel in her own. “I won’t let you down. And I will not let them win, or escape consequences.”

“Good,” Justinian said with a grim smile of his own. He nodded to Darling. “If you would, Antonio, please stay at the Cathedral for the time being, at least until we know what is happening with the other cults and can bring the immediate situation under control. There will be subtler currents moving; I will be counting on your mind to spot them and form appropriate plans.”

“Of course, your Holiness,” he said. “Anything I can do.”

Justinian nodded again, releasing Branwen. “Come, then, we’ll retire to my study to lay plans. I must also summon Basra and Andros; in the immediate days, I will be relying on each of you to interface with your own cults.”

He continued talking, setting out ideas as they walked; Darling listened enough to be aware, but did not give the Archpope his undivided attention. It wasn’t even that he had strategies or questions distracting him. It was still too early in the game for those to have taken a meaningful degree of form, for all the uncertainties that surrounded them.

No, what tugged at his mind was excitement. The Wreath, finally, was making their play. Elilial was making her play. While she lurked in the background, there was little he could do but wait.

Now, after all his years of seeing to what the Church wanted and the Empire wanted and the Guild wanted, and his recent days of managing what his team of adventurers wanted, to say nothing of rogue elements like Tellwyrn and her gang of teenage meddlers, he could finally see about getting what he wanted.

Elilial was the goddess of cunning, after all. He had to wonder if she would see him coming.

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6 – 3

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The upper levels of the Crawl were disappointingly plain. The rooms were square, unadorned, and empty, connected by simple doorways. Now and again there would be side rooms whose entrances were covered by iron gates, but Professor Ezzaniel ignored these, leading them through a sequence of chambers cut from the granite of the mountain and lit by occasional torches.

Ezzaniel himself was uncommunicative, to which the students were accustomed; even in class, though he could be quite snide with uncooperative pupils, he did not speak unless he had something in particular to say. The freshmen were mostly too groggy to make conversation anyway, and trooped after him in silence. Fortunately, he seemed to know where he was going. The dungeon thus far seemed more tedious than ominous, but the interconnecting identical square rooms with multiple doors would have been a very effective maze if one did not know the path.

“It’s clean,” said Teal after several minutes. “…too clean.”

Ruda groaned.

“I’m serious! Look, there’s no dust, no cobwebs. No mouse droppings or dead insects… See the torches? No soot marks on the walls or ceiling above them, no ash below. And who’s keeping those burning anyway? This does not look like the kind of place that’s been locked behind a heavy door and metal grate.”

“Maybe Stew cleans in here, too?” Gabriel suggested, half-heartedly smothering a yawn.

Fross chimed excitedly. “The Crawl, like most adventuring dungeons which are classified as such, is a self-regulating genius loci subject to massive magical interference with objective natural law. Among other things, it’s apparently self-cleaning!”

“Can somebody please put that in Tanglish for me?” Gabe asked.

“That was Tanglish!”

“He’s making a joke, Fross,” Teal explained. “It means—”

“I know, I’ve heard that one before. I reject the joke because I was speaking quite plainly and Gabriel is an arcane arts major who really should know all those terms!”

“First, it’s stupid o’clock in the morning and my brain is not awake yet,” said Gabriel irritably. “Second, I’m a first-year arcane arts major and haven’t been putting in nearly as much study time as you apparently have, because I do need sleep, and also a social life.”

“Porking the resident dryad whenever she isn’t too busy does not constitute a social life,” said Ruda, grinning.

“Up yours, Punaji, I have other friends.”

“Who’s porking?” Juniper demanded shrilly. “I haven’t—I would never— The only pork I eat is actual pork! I don’t know where this ‘long pig’ thing got started but I wish people would stop throwing it in my face!”

The group staggered to a stop, everyone staring at her. Ezzaniel got a few paces ahead and paused in the doorway to the next dim chamber, turning to look back at them with a raised eyebrow. Juniper folded her arms defensively around herself, her eyes darting back and forth.

“Oh, what are you all looking at?” she demanded huffily, then turned and stalked off after Ezzaniel. The others trailed after somewhat more slowly.

“Right. Well. Anyway.” Toby cleared his throat. “For those of us who aren’t arcane majors, Fross, can you put it in layman’s terms?”

“Layperson’s terms,” said Gabriel, grinning and nudging Trissiny with his elbow. “Amirite?” She gave him a disdainful look.

“All right, well, I assume you all remember Professor Yornhaldt’s class last semester?” Fross said, buzzing about their heads and casting her glow in erratic patterns around the chamber through which they were passing. “The difference between magical and non-magical physics is the difference between subjective and objective reality. Right? That was our very first lesson.”

“Right,” said Toby when nobody else replied.

“Okay, so! A genius loci is a place that has totally subjective physics! The very rules of reality themselves are completely different there!”

“That is deeply disturbing,” Trissiny muttered, glancing suspiciously around at the apparently empty room through which they were passing.

“So,” Fross nattered on, “it needs two things: an absolutely massive abundance of raw magical energy, and some kind of guiding intelligence. This results in places like the Golden Sea and the Deep Wild, where the rules are just plain different. It’s also the case in the great dungeons.”

“Wait, stop,” said Ruda. “You’re telling me this place is intelligent? Holy fuck. I’m seriously tempted to take the F and bug out.”

“What? You? Run away?” Gabriel turned to grin at her. “And me without my lightcapper.”

“Get fucked, Arquin. I’ll fight anything that lives, but being fucking digested by a giant sentient dungeon… Shit, I wanna go home.” She peered nervously around at the blank walls.

“It’s probably not that bad or Professor Tellwyrn wouldn’t have sent us here,” Fross said consolingly. “I mean, there are intelligences and then there are intelligences, y’know? Generally they don’t even think in anything like the way we do, so it’s not like we could actively communicate. People have tried. And they’re all different! Most of the dungeons are the result of things the Elder Gods did at various times. More recently, there’s Athan’Khar, which is powered by the residue of Tiraan superweapons and the dead souls of all that died there. As far as I know, nobody’s sure who or what is running the Golden Sea or how it happened, but the Deep Wild is Naiya’s domain. So…different rules in all!”

“Right,” said Teal, nodding. She seemed to have become more alert over the course of the discussion. “So the Golden Sea has several predictable rules and doesn’t get nasty unless people try to screw with it, like the centaurs do. Athan’Khar, on the other hand, pretty much wants to kill everyone who sets foot in there. I’m guessing Tellwyrn wouldn’t have sent us in here if the Crawl was quite that hostile?”

“Ex-fucking-cuse me?” Ruda snorted. “Which Tellwyrn are you talking about?”

“Well, this mountain was once the stronghold of an Elder God before another Elder God destroyed it,” Fross said cheerfully. “I don’t figure it’s too friendly. But yeah, students go in here every year and rarely die. We’ll be fine!”

Trissiny sighed loudly.

The group came up short, several of the less attentive colliding with others. Professor Ezzaniel had stopped ahead of them, studying a blank surface of stone.

“Welp,” said Gabriel after a moment. “That sure is a wall.”

“It seems to have shifted again,” Ezzaniel noted. “The upper rooms are usually fairly stable, but the Crawl does like to change things around. No matter, it’s always fairly straightforward before you descend the main stairs. Excuse me.” They made way as he moved back through the group, exiting the way they’d come and turning left in the next chamber.

Lacking anything better to do, the students trooped after him.

“Pardon me, but does this mean you don’t actually know where we’re going?” Gabriel asked.

“I have the basics of an idea,” Ezzaniel said calmly from up ahead, his voice echoing in the semi-lit chamber. “As I said, the upper Crawl is quite benign, and I’m accustomed to it. Incidentally, I will only be guiding you through this initial stretch. Once we reach the actively dangerous areas, you will be responsible for finding your own way.”

“Lovely,” Gabriel groused. “What the hell is the point of all this, anyway? I mean, this is like learning to churn butter by hand. That shit isn’t relevant anymore. Nobody goes dungeon-delving!”

“Gnomes do,” Trissiny noted.

“So does the Empire,” Toby added.

“Right, sure, fine, but that’s because they own all the dungeons! Is anybody here planning to join an Imperial strike team after graduation?” Gabriel divided a pointed look among the rest of them. “Anyone? Yeah, me either. I don’t see what the purpose is of teaching us how to be an adventuring party. This is stupid.”

“Have you shared that opinion with Professor Tellwyrn?” Ezzaniel asked mildly.

“Do I look immolated to you?”

The Professor chuckled. “Arachne, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, is rather more laid back than I in many respects. She doesn’t mind being yelled at, cursed at or even threatened—convenient, as she has a tendency to inspire those responses in people. She would be quite offended if you questioned her intelligence, however. I advise you not to learn firsthand what her offense looks like. Her methods may be confusing, but nothing Arachne Tellwyrn directs you to do is pointless.”

“What could we possibly gain from this?” Gabriel exclaimed. “Hell, five years ago I’d have thought it was the most awesome thing possible, to be on an actual dungeon dive. Okay, yeah, fine, it’s still sort of awesome. But right now I’m more concerned with the fact that I could die and it’d be for no purpose except learning how to have a successful career three hundred years ago.”

“The adventuring party enjoys a prominent place in Tiraan culture and legend, I have observed, and perhaps rightly so,” said Shaeine. “If nothing else, this will be an excellent lesson in teamwork.”

“And in appreciating history!” Teal chimed.

“Bah.” Gabriel stuffed his hands in his coat pockets and slouched sullenly. “Screw this place.”

“Okay, let’s not take it out on the place,” Ruda said nervously. She gently patted the stone frame of a doorway as she passed through it. “Good Crawl? Nice Crawl?”

“The Crawl is an excellent teacher,” Professor Ezzaniel said calmly. “Ah, here we are.”

The last square chamber they had entered had, instead of a wall opposite the door, an opening, from which a wide staircase descended. Two torches bracketed the entrance.

“Well, that’s good and ominous,” said Gabriel.

“Yes,” Ezzaniel said equably, stepping to one side. “All right, in you go. The path from here is quite straightforward. It will lead to the place from which the remainder of the expedition will be launched. You have officially moved beyond needing a guide. Go on, then.”

“Right,” said Trissiny, stepping forward into the gap. One by one, the others followed.

“Should we take the torches?” Toby asked.

“We’ve got Fross,” said Teal. “And several of our group can make light if needed.” She smiled at Shaeine.

“Two of those would harm Gabriel in doing so,” Trissiny pointed out.

“I think we’ll be fine,” Gabe said, trooping down the stairs. They descended just far enough that the topmost step was out of sight of the bottom, then terminated in a square landing and turned left, continuing down. Torches hung at the landing, too, but it grew quite dark near the middle of each flight. “Fross glows normally, Shaeine can make light that won’t hurt me. So can Vadrieny, for that matter.”

“All right,” Fross said briskly as they turned the corner onto the second stretch of steps, “we should discuss our strategy. Trissiny! Sponge or deepsauce?”

“…what?”

The pixie chimed sharply and bobbed twice in the air. “I’m talking about damage. Are you output or mitigation?”

“…what?”

“Uh, Fross,” said Teal, “have you by any chance been reading the old bardic scrolls?”

“Yes I absolutely have!” Fross said excitedly, zooming back to flutter around her. “Professor Tellwyrn likes to change up the timing so it’s a surprise, but there’s always a Crawl expedition in the second semester of the freshman year, so I’ve been studying up to be prepared for weeks now!”

“Uh huh,” Teal said with a smile. “And…you found Findlestin’s glossary of adventuring terminology, didn’t you.”

“Yes! It was very informative!”

“Which edition?”

“Well, all of them, but of course I made sure to study up on the most recent one.”

“Right. Fross, hon, the most recent edition of Findlestin was printed in 1031. It’s a hundred and forty-seven years old.”

“Well… I mean, yes, we all know adventuring parties as a formal institution are kind of outdated…”

“The thing is, if you’re talking about slang—which that stuff was—slang is by definition defined by popular use. If there isn’t any popular use, it’s not slang; it might as well be a foreign language. Nobody’s going to understand it.”

Fross drifted lower till she was fluttering along at about the level of their knees. “But…but…I memorized it. The whole thing.”

“Sorry, little glowbell,” said Ruda. “History isn’t always as useful as Tellwyrn likes to think.”

“That’s okay, though!” the pixie declared, rallying and zooming back up to her usual altitude just about their heads. “I’ll walk you all through it in layman’s—I mean, layperson’s terms, sorry, Trissiny—and we’ll all have it down in no time!”

“Oh,” said Ruda. “Good.”

“So! Trissiny! With regard to inflicting harm,” Fross continued, zipping forward to hover in front of the paladin, “would you consider yourself more of a harm-inflicter or someone who prevents the infliction of harm to herself?”

Trissiny came to a stop, staring at her. From the back of the group, Ezzaniel sighed heavily in exasperation.

“Fross,” Trissiny said after a moment, “what are you talking about? In any kind of fight you have to do both.”

“But this is how they did it! There are dedicated party roles, and—”

“Yeah, that’s really not gonna work,” said Ruda. “Do you not pay attention in Ezzaniel’s class?”

“Of course I do! But this is an adventure, and we’re a party. There’s a system.”

“It’s a hundred-year-old system that nobody uses,” Gabriel pointed out.

“That just isn’t true! Standard operating procedure for Imperial strike teams is based directly on the operating manuals written by the ancient Heroes’ Guild!”

“Imperial strike teams,” said Shaeine, “train for the purpose of operating as a single effective unit, relying on each other to act without the need for thought or communication. It is in a way a more intimate relationship than exists between family. Perhaps the adventuring parties of old operated in a similar manner, but… While I have enjoyed growing closer to each of you over the last several months, I would not consider us to be quite that tightly knit.”

“Shaeine, you have got the greatest knack for understatement I’ve ever heard,” said Ruda.

“Look, Fross,” Toby said firmly, “we appreciate your help, but this isn’t going to be functionally different from the Golden Sea, or Sarasio. We can operate as a unit, up to a point, and we’ve been getting better at it. But…it’ll have to be our way, not the way they did it in old-style adventuring parties.”

Fross let out a long sequence of soft chimes as if sighing heavily. “I’m just saying, they did it that way for a reason, is all.”

“Then be ready to consult on adventuring practices as needed,” said Trissiny, resuming her walk. “For the most part, though, Toby’s right. Better we stick to what we know.”

“So, we bicker and bitch at each other, generally fuck everything up and barely pull it out of the bag at the last minute?”

“That’s very helpful, Ruda, thank you.”

“You got it, roomie, I’m here for you.”

They descended for a good half an hour, the path remaining starkly the same. Left turns at right angles, going consistently downward. The group quickly lost any sense of how far they had gone; Ezzaniel offered no opinions, even when pressed.

“This is awful,” Juniper groaned, plodding along. She had fallen to nearly the rear of the group. “This is worse than the Golden Sea. At least there was life out there. Trees are not meant for hiking!”

“Well, you could try rolling down,” Ruda suggested somewhat snidely. “Logs roll, don’t they?”

“That’s a little insensitive,” Gabriel said with a grin. “A log is basically a tree’s corpse, right?”

“Corpses roll too,” she replied. “Downhill, at least. That is a scientific fact.”

“It’s not a bad idea, though,” the dryad mused, picking up her pace and pushing forward past the others. “Clear the way, please.”

“What’re you…” Trissiny stopped mid-step, her eyes widening. “Juniper, no!”

Disregarding her, Juniper rounded the next corner and hurled herself bodily down the steps, smashing down in a series of thumps and grunts. The others, with various outcries of alarm, rushed down the remainder of the flight they were on, regrouping at the landing to stare anxiously down.

“Juno?” Gabriel called. “You okay?”

“Wow!” At the next landing down, the dryad gathered herself and climbed to her feet, waving up at them. “That was actually fun! You guys have gotta try this! Oh, wait, no…you’d probably get hurt.”

“That’s not how you explore a dungeon,” Fross huffed quietly. “What if she springs a trap?”

“There are no traps up here,” said Professor Ezzaniel. “Still, it might be better if she didn’t—”

“Tallyho!” the dryad shouted, dashing forward and diving face-first down the next flight of stairs.

Trissiny sighed heavily, then raised her voice. “Just don’t get too far ahead!”

 

“I share your grief, Branwen,” the Archpope said, looking and sounding like he meant it sincerely. “I am grateful that you, at least, came through the night’s events uninjured. If you would like to take some time to heal…”

“Thank you, your Holiness,” she said quietly, with a faint tremor in her voice. “It would only be time to…to welter, though. I would rather be at work.”

“As you wish,” Justinian said, nodding. “Should you change your mind, you have only to say so. I’m glad you thought to go to her aid, Antonio.”

“I’m afraid everything was done by the time I got there,” Darling admitted.

“That, though, was beyond your control. It pleases me that you so quickly discerned the nature and motive of the attack and that your first action was to help your fellow Bishop.” The Archpope smiled at him, then turned to the two sitting along the other side of the opulent conference table, his expression growing more solemn. “I have heard the basics of what befell you two, as well, but would you kindly add your reports to Branwen and Antonio’s? It’s best if we are all on the same page.”

“The same pattern,” Andros said curtly. “Three warlocks, in robes. They carried, among other things, those syringes with death-drugs, though none of the three which assaulted my lodge had the opportunity to use them. I was meditating in seclusion, and was late to reach the scene of the confrontation. I was last to the battle and able to finish the remaining two warlocks. They entered my personal chambers and assaulted my wives.”

“Good gods,” Darling exclaimed, straightening up in his chair. “Are they all right?”

“They are recuperating,” Andros replied, smiling with such fierce pride that it was visible even through his heavy beard. “The healers tell me they will not bear permanent injury, though they are being given time to mend the various bruises of the battle. It is a common misconception among infidels that because Shaathist women are obedient, they are also weak. Nothing could be further from the truth.” He angled his head defiantly, as if to stare down his nose at the world. “There is neither honor nor satisfaction in dominating a dishrag.”

“I’m glad to hear that, at least,” said Darling. “Though let’s refrain from throwing the i-word around in mixed ecclesiastical company, yes?”

Andros grunted, which was likely as close to acquiescence as he was likely to get.

“Same here,” Basra said. “Three of them in standard Wreath robes. I was hosting the two Legion cadets I’m sponsoring at my residence that evening. I’m afraid they were both roughed up a bit in the action, too, but it was thanks to Elwick that things didn’t go a lot worse. The girl has a great deal of exposure to demons, and gave us warning that something was coming.”

Andros turned to her, scowling. “And just why does a Silver Legion cadet have great exposure to demons?”

“You remember events at Hamlet, I trust?” Basra said, giving him an unpleasantly cloying smile.

“Of course,” he growled. “It’s no stretch of the imagination to deduce that’s the cause of this attack.”

“Well, as you may recall, we appropriated several of the Wreath cultists’ children in the course of that. I’ve given the girl sponsorship in the Legions; she’s training with the Third right now. Elwick is actually quite promising; she’s certainly eager to put the errors of her upbringing behind her.”

“How fortuitous,” Darling murmured, wondering what Basra was up to. It was hardly like her to support the careers of others out of the goodness of her heart. Of course, there was also the question of what she was doing with two young girls at her home at four in the morning—girls whom she held in a vulnerable, subordinate position. At the intersection of both questions was a possibility; he made a mental note to find out whether she lived up to the Legionnaire stereotype with regard to her personal preferences.

“Indeed,” the Archpope intoned, looking directly at him. “Antonio, I suspect that your mind has brought you to the same conclusions at which I have arrived. I wonder if you would share with us your assessment of the Wreath’s motivations?”

“Of course, your Holiness,” Darling said, folding his hands on the tabletop and frowning thoughtfully. “To begin with… I think they won this round.”

“Won? Are you mad?” Andros snorted. “We slaughtered their entire attacking force with only one casualty, and none of their primary targets suffered harm!”

Darling was shaking his head before he finished speaking. “Think about who we’re dealing with, Andros. The Black Wreath serve the goddess of cunning; like all our cults, they take the aspect of their deity as their primary virtue. If this is in response to Hamlet, they’ve had months to study us, lay plans and make preparations. And you really think the result of all that would be a haphazard, half-hearted brute force attack? No… Killing the four of us was not the motive.”

“Whatever you think they were up to, they squandered the lives of twelve magic users to do it,” said Basra, frowning. “They either considered this hugely important or they’ve got a lot more personnel to draw upon than we realized.”

“Those are questions to which we can’t know the answers, I’m afraid,” said Darling.

“What is it you think they were after, then?”

“Think about what they did, or tried to do. Where they directed their efforts. Andros’s wives, Branwen’s servant and friend, Basra’s proteges. I have two live-in apprentices and a convalescing acquaintance at my home; I think they would have been the targets had my Butler not intercepted the Wreath at the door. And you two haven’t mentioned it, but I noted that at both my place and Branwen’s they used the front door.” He shook his head again. “This wasn’t an assassination. This was a provocation. They want us hurt, angry, and striking back.”

There was a brief silence while they all digested this.

“That, indeed, is how the matter appears to me,” Justinian agreed after a moment. “I’m glad to see I wasn’t alone in coming to that conclusion. It raises the very tricky question of what we must do now, however.”

“The obvious thing would be not to give them what they want,” Andros rumbled, “but in dealing with the Wreath, the obvious course is seldom the right one.”

“And that’s why I think they’ve got us good and proper, this time,” said Darling. He reached over to squeeze Branwen’s hand. “The Izarites aren’t interested in revenge, but the rest of our cults are another matter. The Sisters, the Guild and the Huntsmen will not take this lying down—and to be honest, we couldn’t make them even if we wanted to. It’s about to be all-out war on the Wreath.”

“In the streets of Tiraas,” Branwen murmured, visibly appalled.

“A witch hunt of the worst kind,” the Archpope agreed. “I can and will enforce moderation in the Church’s response, but you are right: the independent cults are beyond my control, and those three at least are not tolerant of such brazen affronts.”

“What could they possibly gain by calling down all that wrath on their own heads?” Basra exclaimed.

“I very much fear we’re about to find out,” said Darling. “The pertinent question is: what do we, the four of us, do? We’re in a dicey position; right at the center of this and tied to both the Church and our cults. We can’t really afford to break with either. Both we and whichever organization we sided against would lose face right when we need it most.”

“That can be mitigated by the nature of the Church’s response,” said Justinian, “which, I assure you, will be suitably nuanced. You will have my full support in this matter. As for what we are to do…” He drummed his fingers once on the tabletop, the ring of his office flashing in the light. “For the time being, we must wait and see what the Wreath is up to, along with the rest of the world. That does not mean we shall proceed blindly. In the first place, we will play along.”

“It is sometimes necessary to step into a trap,” Andros agreed, nodding. “The outcome may not be as the trapper wishes, if the prey knows it is there.”

“Just so,” said Justinian, then smiled. “And while we are allowing ourselves to be victimized by the Wreath’s plan… I believe there is a way we can use it.”

 

“Juniper,” Trissiny said, “don’t try to roll down these steps.”

“Well, obviously,” the dryad said reasonably. “I could fall!”

“Astute as always,” Ruda muttered.

It had been more than an hour of walking, and they were all sore in the legs and even more tired than when they had started out; unless the internal geography of the Crawl was truly unhinged—which was apparently not impossible—they were well below the surface of the prairie by this point. Professor Ezzaniel had refused to let them stop for a rest, insisting that the perfect place to do so was up ahead. No one had argued too strenuously, as what they wanted was breakfast, and no one had any food.

Now, they appeared to have reached their destination, or nearly so. The angular, spiraling staircase terminated into a truly vast open space, the size of a stadium in diameter and plunging down an impossible distance. Above were vaguely-glimpsed stalactites in a shadowed ceiling vastly far away; the floor of the cavern, if there was one, was too far down to be visible, but whatever was down there emitted a reddish glow that sullenly lit up the whole chamber. It wasn’t a vertical shaft, either; it plunged at a roughly forty-five degree angle. Almost as if it had been vertical before the mountain was sunk.

Directly from their feet descended another staircase, this one half as broad as the wide ones they had traveled thus far, and arching unsupported across a horrifying stretch of space. There were, of course, no guardrails. Similar stairs could be seen both above and below their level, going to and from points they could not discern. The steps before them ended in the far wall, in which a massive stone head at least four stories in height had been carved into the rock, angled so that it stood upright. The steps ran straight to its open mouth.

“All right, we should check for traps before proceeding,” Fross declared. “I have a statistical divination spell that can randomize outcomes on a scale of twenty reference points corresponding to magical threat levels. Once I code in the variables we’re checking for, it should warn us of any traps within an acceptable margin of error. This’ll just take a second.”

“Fross,” Gabriel said impatiently, “I may not be up to your study habits but even I know the Gygax Charm hasn’t been used in decades. Modern divinations are vastly more accurate.”

“It’s traditional!”

“There are no traps,” Professor Ezzaniel said wearily from behind them. “There will be no traps, nor enemies, until you have proceeded beyond what lies at the bottom of these steps. For heaven’s sake, students, get on with it. And watch where you put your feet.”

“You’re good with levitation spells, right, Fross?” Trissiny asked.

“Well, of course! That’s how I mostly interact with the world. You’d be amazed how much picking up of stuff is necessary in human society! Well, I mean, you would if you’d never actually thought about it, which I’ve noticed most of you haven’t. Uh, no offense.”

“None taken,” the paladin said gravely. “We’re all going to step carefully, but I need you to watch over the group and catch anybody if they fall.”

“Oh!” Fross zipped back and forth in excitement. “I can do that!”

“Good. All right, everyone…single file. I know it’s not that narrow, but let’s take no risks.”

She set off down the stairs, the others falling into line behind her.

The staircase was indeed broad enough that any of them could have laid down on the steps and neither their heads nor feet would have come near the edge. However, given the lack of rails and the staggering heights involved, it was still a nerve-wracking descent.

“What d’you suppose is down there?” Gabriel asked about halfway down. “Lava?”

“Can’t be,” said Toby. “The heat would whoosh up this shaft and cook us right where we stand.”

“Shut. The fuck. Up,” Ruda growled.

Trissiny stepped onto the small landing below the gloomy face’s nose with relief. In addition to being off those infernal stairs, from this vantage she didn’t have to see that huge thing scowling at them. The others clustered around her, several with soft sighs mirroring her reaction.

The face’s open mouth formed a short tunnel; set into the wall just in front of the was a wooden door with an iron latch. Next to it hung a sign, in Tanglish.

“The Grim Visage,” Teal read. “Well, it certainly is that.”

“Care to give us a hint on what lies ahead, Professor?” Toby suggested.

“Yes,” said Ezzaniel, deadpan. “If you open the door, you will find out.”

“This is gonna be one of those trips, isn’t it,” Ruda muttered.

Trissiny clenched her jaw, grasped the handle and pulled the door open. She stepped cautiously through, moving forward enough to give the others room to enter. They did so slowly, fanning out in a cluster just inside the door.

They found themselves in a room full of monsters.

An ogre sat in the far corner, his head brushing the ceiling even sitting down, clutching a barrel from which he drank like a pint glass. Near the door, three drow were clustered around a table, two women and a man; to judge by their “armor,” which was flattering but more decorative than functional, and the matching unpleasant grins they gave the students, they weren’t Narisian. A small group of gnomes were playing cards near a roaring hearth, two goblins were arm wrestling the next table over, and at the far end of the room, behind a bar, stood an improbably pretty man with pale skin and no shirt on. He grinned at the sight of the students, stretching spiny incubus wings. As they stood there staring, a naga slithered past them, carrying a tray of mugs.

The occupants of the room looked up at the new arrivals, and then mostly went right back to their drinks, games and conversations.

“Why is it,” Gabriel asked after a moment’s silence, “that wherever we go, we end up in some kind of bar?”

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5 – 31

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Mercifully, the sun was finally slipping toward the sea in the west, but it was still more than warm on the rocky plains outside Onkawa. He trudged along through the scraggly bushes and lone patches of stubborn tallgrass, coat thrown over his shoulder and only a pilfered straw hat to protect him from the rays. At least he was alone. The distant city had been built on the cliffs above the sea, along the tributaries of the river, deriving scant resources from its rocky environs. Onkawa’s livelihood was trade and fishing; no one attempted to use this land for anything else.

Shook stopped as he came to an old dirt road running north to south, looking warily up and down it. Beyond that lay the mountains toward which he was headed; this was the first sign of civilization he had encountered since fleeing the city, and anxious as he was to avoid anyone who might be pursuing him, it brought him up short. Still, the road was empty. There was no other sign of life except for an enormous monitor lizard sprawled on a nearby outcropping of rock, still soaking up the heat trapped in the stone even after the sun had faded away.

The creature half turned its head toward him and flicked its tongue out, tasting the air. It looked to be nearly as long as he was tall.

“Don’t even fucking think about it,” Shook growled, reaching for a wand with the hand not holding up his coat.

The monitor flicked its tongue again, blinking both sets of eyelids.

He was contemplating shooting it on general principles when movement from the corner of his eye caught his attention. Shook swiftly sidestepped, repositioning himself to keep both the lizard (probably harmless, but he was well past the point of making assumptions) and the approaching figure in view. As the airborne dot grew close enough to become more distinct, however, he relaxed slightly.

Kheshiri swooped down and came to a graceful landing a few feet away, beating her wings once to slow her momentum. The quick breeze it caused was extremely welcome, even if it did knock his hat off. It was a stupid hat anyway.

“Master,” she said, looking tense but relieved. “I was worried. Did you get use out of the supplies I—”

“I have spent the whole goddamn day plodding across this goddamn desert, and I’m not dead of dehydration or heatstroke. Yes, I made good use of the supplies; the potions should be enough to last us till the mountains, if you’re sure you don’t need any.”

She shook her head, watching him warily. His voice was a subdued monotone, and contained an uncharacteristic lack of threats and bluster. “I don’t have many physical needs. I’m just glad you didn’t get chased down. I didn’t want to leave—”

“What’d you find out?” he asked curtly.

Kheshiri pursed her lips, then sighed. “It’s not good, master. Saduko lived. Vandro’s calling in special healers to make sure she has a full recovery. Amanika’s fine, and apparently on a fast track to heading up the local Guild chapter house. Vandro is upgrading his security system.”

He just nodded. His expression was blank, exhausted; there was something empty in his eyes.

Kheshiri sidled closer, lower her voice to a gentle murmur. “We’re gonna be fine, master. You’re smart and tough as hell, and you’ve got me. We’ll get them all for this, I promise.” She tried to cuddle up under his arm, but he pushed her away, not nearly as roughly as he usually did.

“Took you that many hours to find that much out?”

“Most of it was travel time,” the succubus said, suppressing irritation. “And…I saw an opportunity to take Vandro out of the picture, so I went for it. It…didn’t pan out.”

He glared. “You tried to… Goddamn it, you stupid wench, he has a Butler. The man is never out of earshot. It’s a miracle you aren’t dead! It’d serve you right, doing a stupid thing like that.”

“Yes, he has a Butler,” she said in exasperation. “A servant! How was I supposed to know he’s some kind of martial arts genius?”

“It’s a fucking Butler!” Shook shouted. “How can you not know what a Butler is?!”

“How would I?” she shot back. “Last time I was on this plane of existence, a butler was a guy in a suit who served tea and looked fancy! Maybe I could be more useful to you if you’d explain these things instead of making fun of me!”

She broke off, breathing heavily. Shook just stared at her. Any moment now would come the tirade, possibly with a punch in the jaw for emphasis.

Any moment.

He sighed and turned away. “Ask questions, Kheshiri. We were in that house plenty long enough for you to start wondering. You don’t understand something, you ask.”

“Yes, master,” she said meekly. While his back was turned, she permitted herself a fleeting expression of gleeful triumphant. Oh, he was all but broken. Clay to be reshaped. “I’m…sorry, master,” she added hesitantly. “I messed that whole thing up. I smelled a rat from the beginning, but… I thought it was Amanika who’d turn on us. Vandro took me by complete surprise. Luckily my precautions were of some use.”

He opened his mouth to reply, then turned his head sharply, looking up the road. A carriage was trundling along the dirt track in their direction. Shook swiftly peered around them, shoulders tensing.

“No cover,” Kheshiri said tersely, shifting silently into her local girl appearance. “It’s okay. We’re just two people out…”

“For a romantic stroll through the howling goddamn wilderness at sunset?” He gave her a disparaging look.

“…we can play the lost travelers angle, maybe bum a ride?”

“Look at that old jalopy, Kheshiri,” he said, staring at it. “Needs painting, broken head lamp…scruffy and busted.”

“I don’t think we’re in a position to be picky, master…”

“Shut up. Look at it, but listen to it. Damn near silent. That’s not some farmer’s raggedy-ass old carriage, it’s a well-maintained modern rig running the best Falconer enchantments, made up to look like a farmer’s old carriage.”

He really wasn’t stupid. Fantastically dense on certain subjects, emotional and easily manipulated, sure, but once in a while he’d abruptly remind her that he was fully trained by the Thieves’ Guild.

“Think they’re here after us?”

“Be ready for a fight,” he said as the carriage drew close. “Maybe they’re passing by on the way to some other… Oh, god damn it. Why should we get any luck?” he added in a growl as the vehicle began to slow and then pulled over to the opposite side of the road. This close, they could see that it was driven by an elf in traditional forest attire, with the addition of a pair of tinted goggles protecting his eyes from road dust.

“Shift back,” Shook said quietly.

“Master, I—”

“We’re past the point of pretenses, here. Let’s make ’em think carefully about whether they wanna fuck with us.”

“Yes, master,” she said grimly, fading back to her true form and stretching her wings menacingly. They weren’t all that useful in a fight, but they made for fantastic dramatic effect. The monitor lizard, apparently unimpressed by the carriage, recognized a traditional “puffing up” display and shifted a few feet away from them on its rock, tasting the air again.

“Now, now, there’s no need for that,” said a voice from within the carriage, and another elf emerged, stepping down into the road. He wore a pinstriped suit and an obnoxious grin. “We come in peace! I have a business proposal, if you’d like to put down those—”

Shook fired a bolt of white light into the ground right in front of his feet, cutting him off.

“I have exactly no patience for whatever bullshit this is,” he growled. “Next thing you say had better be a damn good reason for me not to shoot your ass.”

“Okay,” the elf said, his smile widening. “I’m the Jackal.”

Shook eyed him up and down. “Bullshit.”

“What’s a jackal?” Kheshiri stage-whispered.

“Look at it this way,” the elf said brightly. “I’m either the Jackal or some idiot who’s going to get killed for walking around using his professional moniker. Which do you think is more likely to intercept you on a deserted road in Buttfuck, Onkawa Province?”

“…god damn it, I hate today,” Shook muttered. “That sounds like a pretty good reason to shoot you, frankly.”

“You’d have done it if you were going to,” the Jackal said merrily. “Still could, but… I’ll tell you up front, others have made that mistake. None twice, though.”

“Who is this guy?” Kheshiri demanded, an edge to her voice.

“An assassin,” Shook said curtly.

“Oh, good,” she purred, waving her tail languidly behind her. “I love killing assassins. They appreciate the irony so much better than average shmoes.”

The Jackal laughed. “And this must be the charming Miss Kheshiri! Delighted, my dear, simply delighted. Driving our humble conveyance is my good friend Vannae, and allow me to introduce your other new friend…”

Out of the shadows of the carriage’s interior stepped another elf, this one with flowing green hair, a thin strip of beard… And eyes like luminous, smooth-cut emeralds.

“Khadizroth the Green,” finished the Jackal.

“I hate my life,” Shook corrected himself.

Khadizroth studied him over, then directed a distinctly contemptuous look at Kheshiri before turning to the Jackal. “These are the people with whom you insisted on meeting? Very well. I am patient, but not infinitely. Speak your piece, please.”

“Right then!” the Jackal said with relish, rubbing his hands together. “Quite so, quite so, you’ve been more than patient. I have brought us all together to present a fairly simple opportunity.” He spread his arms, smiling like a salesman. “How’d you all like to work for the Archpope of the Universal Church?”

In the silence that followed, the monitor tasted the air again.

“I think he’s making fun of us,” Kheshiri said, sounding offended. “Let’s kill him.”

“Now, hear me out,” the Jackal said, laughing again. “Archpope Justinian has embarked on a bold new project to rally the world’s remaining adventurers under his own thumb. Eventually, the plan is to have what amounts to a Church-controlled army of people very talented in the fine art of causing destruction.”

“First of all, adventurers are washed-up losers,” said Shook.

“Commonly, yeah,” the Jackal replied cheerfully. “I’m referring to the couple dozen or so individuals who aren’t. And, not coincidentally, don’t call themselves—ourselves—adventurers in this day and age. But the reality is the same. Three hundred years ago, we’d have been wandering, campaigning, dungeon-looting heroes, all of us.”

“Not all,” Khadizroth said quietly. “Some of us would have been targets of the rest.”

“Okay, leaving all that aside,” Shook snapped, “this is the dumbest fucking idea I’ve ever heard.”

“You are young,” the dragon said dryly.

“More to the point, this is not something I think I like the idea of the Archpope doing. So no, you can count me the fuck out.”

“Oh, honestly, Thumper, do you think I want him doing this?” the Jackal asked condescendingly. “It’d be an unmitigated disaster. Nobody needs to have power of that kind, and if anybody does, it’s definitely not the Church. Gods, no, this has to be prevented at all bloody costs.”

“And yet, you’re recruiting for him?” Shook demanded.

“That’s right.” The Jackal tucked his thumbs into his belt and rocked back on his heels, grinning broadly. “I am.”

“What the fuck—”

“It’s because he doesn’t think he can kill Justinian,” Kheshiri said quietly.

The Jackal pointed a finger at her. “Bingo!”

Shook narrowed his eyes. “What?”

“Killing the Archpope is the most logical solution to this…problem,” the succubus continued, studying the assassin through narrowed eyes. “Failing that… To oppose him directly would be suicide. The Church probably has more resources than the Empire, considering it’s stretched across the whole planet. The only workable strategy for stopping this is to go along with it. Earn trust, get placed close to Justinian, then watch for or create an opportunity to sabotage it.”

“Hm,” Khadizroth said thoughtfully.

“The lady is dead on, and proving that I was right in picking you two,” the elf said, still as cheerful as if discussing the sunny weather. “I am, to be quite honest, the best there is at what I do, and I will tell you that killing a sitting Archpope is simply not in the cards. There are limits to what Justinian can do with his power, but the gods are watching over him. I don’t mean that as the passe benediction it usually is; the actual gods keep their actual eyes on him, at least to the point of protecting him from harm. It’s part of the pact that led to the Church’s formation. No, he’s here to stay. All that’s left to do is to unwork his plans before he can complete them.”

“And you chose us?” Shook looked expressively around at the little group. “You’ve got interesting taste.”

“He’s completely insane, is what,” Kheshiri said disdainfully. “I am, in case it slipped your notice, a demon. Me going near the Church is a death sentence.”

“It might interest you to know,” the Jackal replied with a sunny smile, “that while I proposed this roster of talents, each of you was personally approved by His Holiness.” He paused, letting that sink in for a moment. “Justinian is a very forward-thinking chap.”

“Indeed, this new Archpope seems quite permissive,” Khadizroth noted, “considering we were brought here by a Black Wreath shadow-jumping talisman.”

“The skills represented by this group are plenty impressive enough to warrant recruitment,” the Jackal declaimed. “There’s me, of course, and Khadizroth here is… Well, I’m sure I don’t have to delve into his resume to impress you. Kheshiri is a noted conniver and corrupter even by succubus standards, and our boy Thumper is a veteran of security at the central office of the Thieves’ Guild. He’s the lad they send to break kneecaps when the kneecaps in question are attached to someone most people don’t want to mess with.”

“What’s his story?” Shook asked, nodding at the elf perched in the driver’s seat.

“Oh, he comes with the dragon,” the Jackal said offhandedly. Vannae tightened his mouth, but remained silent. “Even better, each of us has a hook. Justinian likes to deal with people he can control—or thinks he can. Kheshiri is bound to a kind of soul jar. Shook is currently on the outs and on the run from his own Guild. Khadizroth has been placed under a curse that severely limits his options, magically speaking. And me, well, I’ve spent the last couple of years laboriously building up the impression for Justinian’s sake that he has me on a leash. So that’s why he approves the lot of you for his venture. What’s far more interesting is what’s in it for us.”

“Go on,” Khadizroth prompted.

“We four displaced villains have enemies in common,” the Jackal continued, his smile turning grim. “There’s Justinian’s own scheme, of course, but we’ve all suffered from the attentions of one man: Bishop Antonio Darling.”

“Wait just a goddamn minute,” Shook said. “I have no quarrel with Sweet. He’s always been straight with me. Helpful, even.”

“Oh, Thumper, open your eyes,” the assassin said disdainfully. “Think about what’s happened to you. You had one little difference of opinion with an errant member of your Guild, which stemmed from you being sent by them to bring her to heel because she was out of line. Next thing you know, you’re wanted and on the run, and Principia is welcomed back with open arms. Do you even know why?”

“How do you know about any of that?” Shook demanded.

“Oh, I have my ways; that’s not important. What matters is that Darling was the one who sent Principia to Last Rock in the first place. As I understand it, you were sent by the Boss of the Guild to take her to task and she turned outright traitor, yes? Then the Boss sent you out again to drag her back.” He smirked. “Next thing you knew, the Guild wanted your ass on a platter. What you don’t know is what happened in between, in Tiraas. Someone with the power to lean on the Boss of the Guild, and with a pre-existing tendency to favor Principia, stuck his fingers in. Do the bloody math, Thumper.”

Shook had slowly stiffened as the elf spoke, and by this point had clenched his fists so hard around his wands that they vibrated. His expression was a portrait of barely-held control.

“And so, here we are,” the Jackal continued. “United in threefold purpose: We need to cozy up to Archpope Justinian to undercut his plans, we need to find ways to dismantle the various shackles placed upon each of us, and we most especially need to administer some long-overdue comeuppance to Antonio Darling and his various lackeys. As a professional courtesy to one another, I think we can find time to deal with the two friends of his who have caused us the most grief: Mary the Crow and Principia Locke.”

“And what’s to stop you from stabbing us in the back?” Shook asked tightly. “You’re not exactly a trustworthy figure, and I note this whole damn thing is your idea.”

“Alternatively,” Khadizroth suggested, “Any of us could turn on you. Or each other. I see little, if any, cause for trust here.”

“Okay, let’s think that through,” the Jackal suggested brightly. “Say you gang up, kill me and run back to Justinian with the story of how I was setting up a scheme against him. Curry a little favor, remove some competition, right? Then whoever was left would be in exactly the same position: needing to secure their freedom and revenge, and with one less ally.” He shook his head, still smiling. “It just doesn’t make any sense. We’re all professionals, and we all know where our best interests lie; in this case, that’ll suffice in place of genuine trust between us. Hell, I’d venture to say it’s the closest thing to real trust anybody ever gets in this life.”

Another silence fell; the thief, the demon and the dragon regarded each other speculatively.

“I’ve gotten us started with a little good-faith effort,” the Jackal continued smoothly. “I recently helped our buddy Khadizroth here out of a jam caused by Darling’s little hit squad. Interestingly enough, Darling is officially in charge of the Church’s adventurer recruitment program, but Justinian apparently doesn’t trust him completely. Can’t imagine why, heh. So I was dispatched with orders not to let it be known who I was, since Darling and the Crow both know who I work for.” He smirked smugly. “I may have failed to execute that as carefully as I might. By which I mean, I made damn sure two of the would-be dragonslayers got a good look at me.”

“How in the hell is that a good faith effort?” Shook growled. “That’s helping Darling.”

“Sure is,” the Jackal said cheerily. “Specifically, it’s helping him see who his real enemy is: Archpope Justinian. It’s helping to place our two groups of enemies at each other’s throats. Let them wear one another down with schemes and counterschemes while we position ourselves. By the time they’re done with that, whoever’s left over will be ripe for the picking.”

“I find this entire affair distasteful, for countless reasons,” Khadizroth said, frowning. “…however, your logic is compelling.”

Shook nodded slowly.

“I don’t trust this, master,” Kheshiri said tersely.

“Good,” Shook replied. “You’d be a fool to. But…the enemy of my enemy.”

“That never works out in the long run.”

“Oh, I’m making no promises about the long run,” said the Jackal with a grin. “Right now, we’re at the point of making sure there is a long run for any of us. We are each other’s best bet of doing so.”

“I will join you,” Khadizroth said solemnly.

Shook sighed. “Hell with it. We’re in. Not like we have any better options.” Kheshiri lashed her tail furiously, but kept silent.

“Excellent,” the Jackal purred. “Pile in, then, my friends, and let’s get out of this dump. We could all do with some rest and a good meal. And in some cases, a bath.”

Full dark fell as the carriage, loaded with its new passengers, whirred smoothly off on its way down the road. The monitor lizard watched it go, flicking out its tongue to sense the air. It made no reaction to the departing carriage, nor to the disturbance that developed in the air nearby once the vehicle was nearly out of sight.

The air shifted, twisted and rippled, as though reality itself were putty being stretched and mashed in a child’s hands. Out of the distortion stepped a stately figure in absurdly ornate blue robes, allowing the illusion effect to fade behind him.

“Now, you see that?” Zanzayed the Blue asked the monitor. “I swear, every time I see him, Khadizroth has minions. He doesn’t even try. He’s just always got some bloody mortal to fetch and carry for him, even while he’s apparently cursed, blackmailed and guilty of a ridiculously villainous plot to overthrow the Empire through organized miscegenation. It’s just not fair.”

He sighed moodily. “Now, if I had minions to talk to instead of you, little cousin, I could get some real feedback here. They’d say, ‘Zanza,’—they’d call me Zanza, I run a pretty loose hypothetical ship—’Zanza,’ they’d say, ‘you’ve tried to keep mortal followers too, and you always lose interest after a few years and forget about them. Remember the time you left four girls in a tower and forgot to feed them for thirty years? That was just gruesome, that was.’ And I’d have to shrug bashfully and admit they’re right.” He huffed in annoyance. “Of course, the alternative is this thing right here, where I’m standing alone in the wilderness talking to myself. Maybe I should give it another try. Whatever, I blame Khadizroth. Thanks to him and his idiocy, now I have to go do actual work. Bah.”

In the falling darkness, he shifted, swelling, his luminous blue eyes rising skyward, first with the revelation of his greater form, and then as he beat his massive wings and took off.

The lizard, unimpressed by travelers, carriages, impromptu conferences and dramatic magical effects, was nonetheless very impressed by finding itself in the company of the ultimate apex predator. It whirled and scuttled away with astonishing speed.

Zanzayed, though, was already halfway toward the mountains, paying it no more mind.

Captain Ravoud couldn’t help being awed. He had been to the Grand Cathedral, of course, but never beyond the public spaces dedicated to worship. Its inner halls were stately, opulent, almost perfectly designed to make him feel glaringly out of place in his stark uniform.

The soldiers of the Holy Legion who escorted him only added to the effect. Resplendent with their decorative armor and elaborate polearms, they were stern and aloof, more rigid in their bearing than the Imperial soldiers whose company he was used to. Even Ravoud’s certainty that his troops would vastly overmatch this lot in any real action did nothing to assuage the intimidation he felt. These were an honor guard, a ceremonial unit. They existed for psychological effect. It was no more than natural that he felt it in their presence, or so he told himself.

It was almost a shock when they came to what was apparently the right door; it had begun to seem he would wander this extravagant maze forever, as if trapped in a dream. His escorts, however, smoothly shifted formation (with needless but well-choreographed stomping that made their armor clank in unison), two of them moving to flank the polished oak door. One knocked.

“Enter,” said a slightly muffled voice from within. The guard turned the knob, stepped aside and saluted Ravoud. The captain returned the salute (the other man did it wrong) and stepped through. The door was pulled shut behind him, separating him from his erstwhile guards.

This space was smaller, and impressively managed to seem somewhat cozy, despite being made of the same carved white marble as the rest of the Cathedral, illuminated by towering stained glass windows as well as modern fairy lamps. The furnishings were of very dark-stained wood, bookcases laden with old leatherbound volumes, overstuffed armchairs upholstered in deep burgundy, small cabinets and stands scattered in a profusion that seemed almost cluttered. A comfortable fire labored against the winter chill in an ostentatious hearth on the far wall. The whole effect conspired to seem comfortable, habitable, offsetting the grandeur of the office itself.

Ravoud gave it all scarcely a glance, immediately falling to one knee as the Archpope of the Universal Church himself approached him.

“Your Holiness,” he murmured, kissing the proffered ring.

“Captain Ravoud,” Justinian said with a beatific smile, and withdrew his hand. “Thank you for joining me so swiftly. Rise, my son.”

He obeyed slowly. “I…was surprised by your summons, your Holiness. I confess I’m not at all sure what it is I can do for you…”

“Well, we can discuss that presently,” said he Archpope, turning to face the far end of the long office, near the fire. “First, there is someone where whom I think you should meet.”

Ravoud turned, and instantly froze, the blood draining from his face.

She stood in front of an armchair, an afghan sprawled on the floor beside her where it had clearly fallen from her lap when she abruptly rose. She was thinner than he remembered, her hair longer, but there could be no mistaking that face. It had haunted his dreams long enough.

“Alia?” he whispered.

“Nassir?” he little sister replied hesitantly, stepping convulsively forward once, then stopping as if unsure of herself.

“Alia!” he cried, completely forgetting the exalted company in which he stood and rushing forward. She ran to meet him, bursting into tears, and in the next moment she was in his arms. She wept—they both wept, rocking slowly, wrapped around each other.

“I thought you were lost forever,” he whispered finally, when enough of his breath and mental faculties recovered to form words. “I was… I tried, Alia, I tried so hard to reach you, but they blocked me at every turn. I was so close to giving up…”

“I missed you,” she sniffled, nuzzling at his shoulder. “Oh, gods, Nassir, you have no idea. I thought if I could just see you again…”

“Have you seen Papa yet? Oh, Alia, he hasn’t been the same since we lost you.”

“Not yet, I’ve only been here in the Cathedral.” She drew back slightly to smile up at him. “Papa’s still okay?”

“He will be now,” Ravoud promised, cupping her face in his hands.

“Thank the gods,” she said, tears still brimming in her eyes. “It’ll be so good to see him before I go back.”

He froze. “…go back?”

“I’m not supposed to be out,” she said, suddenly nervous. “I’m going to be in so much trouble…”

“Alia, that’s all over,” he soothed. “You’re safe now, in Tiraas. We’re not going to let any drow get to you.”

She was shaking her head before he even finished. “You don’t understand… It’s not my place, Nassir. I know where I belong. Mistress is going to be so disappointed… I’ve got to make it all right, I didn’t want to come, but they made me…”

“Alia, what are you talking about?” he demanded, his blood chilling.

“This has been an extremely trying time for all of us,” the Archpope said smoothly, stepping up next to them. “We must take the time to discuss these matters fully; it needn’t all be done tonight. Miss Ravoud, of course you should reconnect with your family. Your mistress will understand a brief delay.”

“I…” She bit her lip, glancing between Justinian and Nassir. “I guess… I don’t have permission, is what worries me…”

“All will be well,” the Archpope promised, smiling gently at her. “You are very tired, I know; it’s been a long day. I need to have a few words with your brother, my dear, and then you two will have all the time you need to talk. Branwen, would you kindly take Miss Ravoud into the sitting room and see that she’s comfortable? I’ll send the Captain in momentarily to join her.”

“Of course, your Holiness,” said a new voice, and Ravoud only then realized there was another woman present. It was a testament to the distractions occurring that he hadn’t; she was exactly the kind of woman he usually spotted right off. Short, yes, but pretty, curvy, and with striking hair of a deep red. She smiled warmly, taking Alia by the hand and gently pulling her away. “Come along, honey, let’s let your brother deal with his business as quickly as possible, so you two have all the time you need to talk.”

“All right,” Alia said, reluctantly letting herself be drawn away. “Don’t take too long, though, Nassir? I really want to talk with you, and, and, I can’t be gone too much longer.”

He only managed to nod, trying for a smile. A lump of congealed horror in his throat blocked all efforts at speech.

“Oh, but maybe you can meet mistress!” she said brightly, her face lighting up at the idea. “I just know you’ll love her. Everyone loves her.”

He couldn’t even nod. Alia didn’t seem to notice. She let Branwen escort her to a side door near the fireplace, and then through.

The moment it clicked shut, he rounded on the Archpope.

“What is wrong with her?! A spell?”

Justinian shook his head, his expression grave. “Narisian drow do not waste energy on such effects when more mundane methods will do. The crude term is ‘brainwashing.’ There is a hidden compliment to your sister in this; she would not have been so dramatically…worked upon, were she not unusually resistant to them in the first place. The mind, Captain, is always growing, ever adapting. The essence of the technique, as I understand it, is to introduce the subject to sufficiently severe trauma that they are forced to adapt new ways of thinking to survive, and then guide that adaptation in directions that serve your purposes.”

Ravoud was barely conscious of being ushered over to a large desk and gently pushed into a chair in front of it. He bit his fist, gazing emptily into the distance in shock. “Can… You can undo it?”

“There is no going back, I’m afraid. Only forward. That is how the mind works, Captain; you cannot change what has been done.” Justinian placed a glass of brandy on the desk in front of Ravoud, who hadn’t even seen him pour it. He went on more gently, a calm smile wreathing his face. “But we will put her right. It will be many times easier than having so distorted her in the first place. She already knows how to be a free, independent person, and has memories of the habits and patterns that will enable her to do so. It is simply a matter of bringing them back to the forefront, giving her time to heal, and to forget the behavior modifications that were forced upon her. It is a process, Captain; you must understand this. There is no magic incantation. It will take time and expert guidance. Luckily, we have the best. A man named Orthilon, once a Narisian slave trainer and now a resident of Lor’naris. There is no better expert on their methods.”

“More drow,” Ravoud said bitterly, closing his hand around the glass. He didn’t lift it to his mouth.

“Some disdain to use the tools and weapons of the enemy,” Justinian said mildly. “Personally, I find there is no more elegant victory for the righteous than to unmake the wicked upon their own depravities. Orthilon is trustworthy and diligent; I will personally vouch for your sister’s care. I am also,” he continued, turning and pacing over to gaze out the window at the arcane-lit city, “working to extract Tamra Faroud, who I understand was engaged to your late friend Corporal Khalivour. This is taking time and substantial energy, but I am confident it will be done. Unfortunately, so doing will expend the last of my resources in Tar’naris; I likely will not be able to rescue any more of the enslaved unfortunates there. The drow city is in the grip of a pagan goddess. It is possibly the place where my influence is thinnest.”

Ravoud swallowed the lump in his throat. “I… I can never thank you enough, your Holiness. What have I done to deserve this favor?”

Justinian turned to face him, his expression calm, thoughtful. “Let me ask you a question in return, Captain. What do you think of my Holy Legion?”

Ravoud carefully removed his fingers from the glass of untouched brandy. “They are…very impressive, your Holiness. Very dramatic. Stylish.”

“Anyone could tell me that,” Justinian said with a faint smile. “I am asking you not as a casual observer, but as a military man.” When Ravoud hesitated, he added more gently, “I beg you to speak honestly, Captain. I can assure you that nothing you have to say will offend me.”

“Well,” Ravoud said slowly. “From a strictly military standpoint… I don’t see any use for them. At all. Almost no one fights with armor and bladed weapons anymore, and of those who do… Honestly, those men wouldn’t stand a chance against the Silver Legions. I just… Your Holiness, I assumed they were meant to be strictly ceremonial. You can’t send those men against any significant threat. They’d be slaughtered.”

He trailed off, afraid he’d gone too far, but the Archpope only smiled warmly. “You have the right of it, Captain. I fear I had to engage in distasteful maneuvering and expend a great deal of political capital to gain authorization for the Church to build a military force within the Empire’s borders. Making that force an obviously ceremonial token army with little practical value has been a necessary step in soothing the feathers that were ruffled in this process.”

Justinian folded his arms behind his back, his expression growing distant. “The world, alas, is not so blessedly simple as to let me carry on in such a fashion. The fate of your sister is an example of a persistent problem the Empire faces: all too often, the Emperor is constrained by politics and unable to act…or perhaps, simply lacks the will to do so. I would not presume to judge his heart; I can only analyze his actions. Then, more recently, events in Lor’naris have reaffirmed the concerns which prompted me to form the Holy Legion in the first place. The shadowy forces at work in that debacle prove the need for the Church to strike directly against evil when it arises. It is a capacity we must develop.”

“Are you… Your Holiness, have you managed to learn anything about the people who were trying to organize that uprising? The Army’s investigation hit an immediate wall.”

“Suffice it to say, Captain, that you will hear no more from the individuals responsible,” the Archpope said with a smile. “I can assure you of that personally. I do, you see, have some ability to act where needed. As these events prove, however, more direct and forceful action is often necessary. You may not have heard of it yet, but the Black Wreath is rising, the fae in the wild places are growing restless, and in all corners of the world are whispers that a great doom is coming. Where the Empire cannot or will not act, the Church must. And to that end… While those who would oppose us are calmed by my extremely pretty, entirely useless guards, I have a mind to put together a smaller but considerably more effective force to act on my behalf.” He paused, studying Ravoud thoughtfully. “I will need someone to lead it. Someone trained in modern military tactics, experienced in leading men… And, while loyal to our Empire, someone very personally aware that governments cannot always be counted on to act where action is necessary. The more I learn of you, Captain Ravoud, the more I begin to think I have found that man. I understand you have been offered the chance to resign your commission in the Imperial Army due to the recent events in Lor’naris. While this may have seemed a punishment to you at the time… Often, the gods have a greater plan for us.”

Ravoud barely waited for him to finish speaking. He practically lunged up from his chair, starting at the Archpope and nearly trembling with fervor as he replied.

“Your Holiness, I am your man. To the death.”

Justinian smiled kindly, reached out and squeezed his shoulder.

“I know.”

The Imperial Rail station in Tiraas never truly closed. Despite the end of standard running hours, there was often a need for various persons on Imperial or other urgent business to charter private caravans. One of these was just now departing a platform, laden with agents of Imperial Intelligence on some clandestine night mission. In the relatively quiet hours of the night, though the doors remained open and the lights on, the station was protected from loiterers, vagrants and vandals by a light but steady presence of soldiers.

By and large, they let people be. Various night owls wandered through the station on no particular business; it was also a popular spot for all sorts of assignations, being clean, well-lit and safe. By the very nature of the traits that made it attractive, the Rail station was not prone to hosting any gatherings that were illicit or illegal, so the soldiers patrolling its platforms rarely interfered with anyone who did not give them specific cause.

The guards certainly didn’t bother three men in Imperial Army uniforms, standing on a platform next to a station trolley loaded with an assortment of backpacks and small satchels, rather like the light luggage of maybe a dozen people or less. After the men had been there for well over an hour, though, just standing, one of the guards finally approached them.

“Evenin’, lads,” he greeted his fellow soldiers, finally getting close enough to note their faces. One looked amused, one furious, the third merely perplexed. “Need any help?”

“Brother,” said Rook with a grin, “you have no idea.”

“They can’t possibly have just forgotten us!” Moriarty burst out.

Finchley sighed heavily, turning to the mystified station guard. “Do you happen to know if there’s a telescroll office open this late?”

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4 – 20

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“Are you sure this is necessary? Or even a good idea?” Branwen huffed slightly, trying to keep up; Basra was setting an even more blistering pace back to the Cathedral than Mary had to the factory, and the shortest member of their group was actually having difficulty, now. Darling and Andros were both tall and long-legged; the elves, of course, had no trouble keeping up, even though one had his arms tied behind him and the other two were occupied keeping him under control. They marched right behind him, Flora holding an end of the rope lashed securely around his wrists, Fauna ready with an unsheathed knife.

“I’m with Ginger,” the Jackal said cheerfully. “It’s late, it’s damp, everybody could use a warm brandy. What say we call this a night and pick up in the morning?”

“We’ve got nothing but this guy’s word that his Holiness is responsible,” Branwen went on, ignoring him. “And even if he’s right, it’s not as if we were set up! It’s the Crow who sent us into this encounter. He has nothing to do with us!”

“Well, if I’m just getting in the way, here, I could toddle off,” said the Jackal helpfully. “Sounds like you lot have some things to discuss.”

“Justinian sent us out into the city to hunt adventurers,” Basra snapped, still stalking forward. She wasn’t quite running, but used the full length of her legs with every rapid step. “He conveniently failed to mention that he was employing them himself—to do the very thing he’d set us to hunt them for. How dense can you possibly be?”

“You don’t need to be rude,” Branwen muttered.

“Bah. Antonio, explain it to her.”

“That combination of factors made it pretty much inevitable his two groups of agents would blunder across each other, and likely start shooting as soon as they did,” Darling said grimly. “Not having sent us specifically after the Jackal only means he arranged himself plausible deniability.”

“All of this only matters if we are taking this oaf at his word,” Andros growled. “Why should we suspect the Archpope of this?”

“Because I do suspect him of it,” Basra snarled. “It’s too perfect. He’s got multiple teams in the field, involved in dirty work that he can’t have coming to the public’s attention. There’s no better tool to silence them than each other.”

“When you see him,” suggested the Jackal, “be sure to ask why Brother Hernfeldt needed to die. Not that I’m admitting anything, mind you. I may be privy to some interesting facts, however. Better yet, don’t ask the Archpope; do your own digging. Find out what the good brother was covering up for his Holiness.”

“You’re being awfully accommodating, considering you’re being marched to the gallows,” Darling remarked.

The elf laughed. “Oh, please. You lot aren’t going to kill me; I’m a source of information you very much need. Neither is anyone else, because you’ll find there’s a total lack of evidence connecting me to anything to do with that dwarf. All you’ve got me for is vandalizing a factory. I can survive a few months in jail.”

“Speaking of that, where are we taking this guy?” Flora asked. “It doesn’t seem like a great idea to march him into the Archpope’s office…”

“No,” Basra said sharply, turning her head as she walked to glare back at them. “Don’t put him in Justinian’s clutches where he can be silenced. We’ll put him in Imperial custody.”

“Bad idea,” said Darling. “Justinian can get to him there. Take him to the Temple of Avei, explain the situation. They’ll keep him secure.”

“All of this is just a wacky misunderstanding, you know,” the Jackal said, oozing sincerity. “I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“You’ve just admitted you were working with the Archpope!” Fauna exclaimed.

“Didn’t say doing what, now, did I? I am but a humble shoe-shine boy. His Holiness is very particular about his holy boots.”

“The Avenists are probably the best custodians for him for the time being,” Andros rumbled. “Funny how you didn’t think of that, Syrinx.”

Basra didn’t acknowledge him.

They emerged into Imperial Square and came to a momentary stop.

“Looks like this is our platform,” said Darling, turning to his apprentices. “Straight across to the Temple of Avei, girls.”

“What should we tell them?” asked Flora.

“Why, the simple truth,” he said serenely. They exchanged one of their glances.

“You guys are Eserites, yes?” asked the Jackal. “I dunno if you should try the truth. You might burst into flames or something. Not that I care, but y’know, one of you’s connected to me by rope…”

“Aren’t you hilarious,” Fauna said sourly.

Flora flicked his rope like a horse’s reins. “On with you.”

He carried on his good-natured jabbering as they escorted him across the empty Square to the Temple of Avei. The four Bishops watched them go for a moment. Then Basra snorted and began climbing the steps to the Cathedral. The others, after a moment’s hesitation, caught up with her.

They didn’t speak during their trek through the Cathedral itself, and she didn’t slow until they came right up to the doors to the Archpope’s chambers.

“His Holiness is in prayer,” one of the guards said. They both angled their spears to block her path to the door.

Basra paused, looking back and forth between them for a moment. The Holy Legion wore heavier armor than the Silver Legionnaires—and more elaborate, buffed to a luminous shine and etched with decorative spirals. Beneath the armor, their uniforms were all extravagant white and gold, and the two ceremonial spears bore enough ornamentation that they had to be too heavy to use effectively in battle.

“See, it’s fine,” said Branwen. “We can come back when—”

Basra punched the guard on the right in the throat. The other man wasted a precious half-second looking shocked; before he could even draw breath to cry out, she kicked him between the legs, hard. He crumpled with a hoarse gasp.

“Gap in the armor, there,” she said. “This whole pet project of Justinian’s is just ridiculous. These guys are recruited from the Army—they’re trained to fight with wands and staves, in light uniforms. Then he gives them armor and melee weapons. Feh.”

“Oh, no,” Branwen fretted, wringing her hands, her gaze darting about between Basra and the two felled guards, both of whom were clearly struggling to breathe. “Oh, dear, this is going to be trouble…”

Basra kicked open the doors, then bent momentarily to grab both guards by their heavy steel breastplates and stalked through, dragging them along. For being a woman of such compact build, she was remarkably strong.

The papal meeting chamber in which they ordinarily conferred with the Archpope was deeper into his suite. These main doors opened directly upon a chapel of sorts; the room itself was two stories tall and dominated by a towering staircase covered in thick red carpet, leading up to a dais above. Only a small foyer area sat at its foot, ringed by doors that led deeper into the complex. On the dais was an altar, surrounded by a trifecta of stained glass windows depicting the Trinity of Omnu, Avei and Vidius. All in all, the unusual chapel was more vertical than horizontal. It hadn’t been designed to host religious services; it was just for the Archpope’s personal use.

Justinian himself knelt before the altar above. Two more of the Holy Legion stood at attention at each side of the steps on the floor level; upon Basra’s dramatic entry, they sprang forward, leveling their spears at her.

“Wait.”

The Archpope didn’t trouble to raise his voice. The accoustics in the room being what they were, it wasn’t necessary. He rose smoothly to his full, imposing height, turning to gaze down at them. The two soldiers paused, not taking their eyes off the four Bishops now crowding in the doorway.

“What’s troubling you, Basra?” Justinian asked mildly.

“We need to talk,” she snapped.

“I gather this must be rather urgent, then. I do hope you’ve not damaged my guards unduly.”

“Plenty more were they came from,” she said dismissively, dropping the two men to the floor. Both were still clutching the injured portions of their anatomy, the one who’d been hit in the throat making ugly rasping sounds. Branwen shoved past Darling and knelt beside him, lighting up with a golden glow and ignoring the soldier who swiveled his spear to aim at her. After a few seconds of her attention, his breathing eased audibly.

“Thank you, Branwen,” the Archpope said, nodding down at her. “Gentlemen, would you kindly escort your comrades to the infirmary?”

“Your Holiness!” one of the men protested.

“It’s quite all right,” he said, serene as ever. “I have nothing to fear from my Bishops, and this must be very important indeed.”

They obeyed, visibly reluctant and with much glaring at the Bishops. Soon enough, though, they had helped the two limping soldiers out, and Darling pushed the great doors shut behind them.

“So,” said Justinian, still unruffled. “What’s on your mind, Basra?”

“We just had a fascinating conversation with an elf calling himself the Jackal,” she said, glaring up at him.

“Do tell?”

“He just murdered an Izarite priest by the name of Hernfeldt, in the Temple of Izara itself.”

“How deplorable.”

“And he insisted,” she went on, baring her teeth, “that you contracted him to do so.”

“I see.” Justinian appeared to ponder this for a moment. “My friends, would you join me, please? I hate to talk down to you so.” He stepped back and to one side, making room for them on the dais.

Again, three of the Bishops held back for a moment, exchanging uncertain glances, but Basra began climbing the stairs immediately. Darling followed suit once she was about head height above them, the others finally falling into step behind him. In short order they stood clustered around the altar; while they had ascended, the Archpope had stepped around behind it.

“So,” said Justinian, his expression serious, “in the course of your work on the adventurer problem, you apprehended an admitted murderer, who claimed that I had hired him. And…you believed this?”

“I didn’t,” Branwen said immediately.

“Oh?” He turned his gaze on her, open and nonconfrontational. “Why not?”

She stared back at him, her mouth open soundlessly.

“Forgive me, perhaps I misspoke,” Justinian went on, shaking his head. “I was not challenging your acceptance of this Jackal’s claim, merely calling your attention to it. I gather he offered you no evidence to support this, or you would have mentioned such in the first place. Yet the mere accusation was enough to send you marching back here, to mow down my guards and burst into this chamber.”

“Just for the record,” said Darling, “most of that was Basra.” She gave him a filthy look.

“Then I salute her initiative,” Justinian said with a faint smile. “Yet you all followed. Now, why is that?”

“Because,” Darling replied evenly, “it would be quite in character.”

If anything, the Archpope’s smile widened slightly. “And since you’ve been set loose upon the adventurers of this city, at least one of whom is a priest-killer of terrifying power, you are naturally somewhat perturbed at the thought that one might be working under the Church’s auspices.”

“It is a troubling idea, if true,” Andros rumbled.

“Troubling?” Justinian raised an eyebrow. “I should think it would be appalling.”

The four of them exchanged looks again; even Basra seemed confused, now. This was not going at all the way they had anticipated.

“I would like to show you something,” Justinian said with a small smile. Turning, he ran his fingers along the lower lip of the frame holding Omnu’s stained glass portrait, then reached under it. Silently, the entire window swung inward, revealing a spiraling staircase vanishing downward into darkness. The Archpope stepped through this. “If you would follow me, please? Whoever is last through, kindly push the window closed behind you.”

They looked at each other for an uncertain moment, in which he vanished completely from sight around the bend and downward, and then Basra grunted and set off after him, Darling right on her heels. Branwen followed, leaving Andros to come along behind and close off the secret passage.

It wasn’t a dauntingly long stairwell, though it was steep, narrow and generally uncomfortable. At least it wasn’t left in pitch-darkness; the lights came from the tiniest of fairy lamps, but they were frequently spaced, leaving the steps dim but not difficult to navigate. They descended perhaps two stories before the stairwell terminated and deposited them on the floor of a room much smaller than the chapel above.

It was a library, that much was obvious at a glance. For some reason, it was predominated by a fountain against the far wall, which produced both a soft, constant chuckle of falling water and a pale blue glow which was the only illumination in the dim room. It was barely enough to reveal the laden bookshelves lining both walls and low reading stand in the middle of the floor. Justinian stepped to one side, turning a knob mounted by the door, and fairy lamps came alight, bringing the illlumination in the room up to a pleasant, warm glow.

“This,” he said, “is one of the great secrets of the papacy. In that fountain is an oracular koi, a gift from Sifan.”

“An oracle?” Branwen breathed. “A real one?”

“Its powers are, of course, limited,” the Archpope admitted. “It does not answer questions pertaining to immediate tactical concerns, but rather those which touch upon a person’s path in life.”

“What’s the difference?” Basra asked.

“I confess it sometimes eludes me,” Justinian said with a smile. “It can be…frustrating…to work with. Luckily, there are other tools available.” He gestured to the shelves lining the left side of the room. “You may recognize some of those instruments as divinatory. All are relics; modern divination enchantments are quite specific in their application, but less powerful. The Church, of course, has access to such measures, and they are useful in their place, albeit quite easy to block with simple counterspells. These older, more powerful tools are, like the oracle, designed to reveal truth, not fact. They are likewise rather difficult to work with, and harder still to interpret. The same is true of the books,” he added, nodding to the shelves lining the other side of the room. “Every one old, and profoundly magical. These are the sort of tomes which are more than ink on paper; they reveal whatever truth they are designed to, which often depends upon the reader and the needs of the moment. Some of them, in fact, are quite full of personality. Some of those are particularly difficult.”

Smiling, he stepped forward, positioning himself in front of the reading stand, and spread his hands. “Welcome, my friends, to the Chamber of Truth. You are the first individuals aside from a sitting Archpope to set foot in this library. Here, generations of pontiffs have consulted these various tools to gain wisdom and perspective. And, to a lesser extent, knowledge, though as I have said, the creators of these devices were either unable or unwilling to grant access to the facts of the present-day world. I cannot, in short, identify the perpetrator of the murders, but I can obtain guidance toward the right direction in which to look.”

“Why show this to us?” Andros demanded.

“Why assume the Jackal spoke truth to you?” Justinian returned. He shook his head, his expression growing troubled. “Each of you is a politician, in your own way. You are here, as I told you when I formed this group, because your particular personalities are, in my opinion, well-suited to the kind of work I intend for you to do. But there must be thousands with such inclinations; you have brought yourselves to this point through your own cleverness and ambition. You know what the politics of this city are like. Mistrust is deeply seeded in you…and rightly so.”

“And?” Basra said skeptically.

“And,” Justinian replied, “that has placed us on uneven footing. You have always had to come to me as supplicants; you have always scrabbled for every scrap of information you could find, while I reaped the benefits of all these gifts, gathered by all those who came before me.”

He began to pace slowly around the room, frowning in thought as he studied various books and tools in passing.

“I am not satisfied with this. There are men and women…and then there are gods. What other steps do we need between?”

“There must always be sheep and shepherds,” Andros rumbled. Basra rolled her eyes.

“Quite so,” said the Archpope with some amusement, glancing at him. “Make no mistake, I am a man of many complex plans; it is not, for innumerable reasons, feasible for me to share every detail of my operations with you. But I want you, finally, to understand what it is that I mean to accomplish.”

“Which is?” Darling prompted when he fell silent for a moment.

Justinian stopped directly in front of the oracular fountain, staring at them intently. “Change. A more equal world. A world in which only the gods are above us. The world is evolving rapidly; institutions are failing. The Empire teeters, and the Church cannot claim to be faring much better. Individual cults cling to ancient ways that simply don’t function in the modern world. We have reached and passed the limit of what can be accomplished through reform. Right now, Elilial and her Black Wreath are preparing another mighty campaign against the mortal realm, as she has done several times in the past. This time, though, she has struck at a perfect moment; there are no more heroes or adventurers of a quality adequate to throw her back, and the institutions which should otherwise take up that burden are reeling from their own failure to adapt to reality, too weak and misaimed to take action. It falls to us, my friends, to break both the rock and the hard place. To bring humanity into the future.”

“That’s a lovely speech,” Basra said skeptically, “but I don’t see what it has to do with you hiring the Jackal to kill us.”

“I hired the Jackal,” said the Archpope evenly, “but not to kill you. To be frank, Basra, I did not plan or expect you to encounter him at all; he was not aimed at you.”

“Are you behind all the killings?” Darling asked.

Justinian shook his head. “Not even most. However, I have taken the opportunity they present to advance my goals.”

“How remarkably…forthright,” Andros said, narrowing his eyes.

Justinian smiled faintly. “I have brought you here and shown you this for a reason. It is time that there be greater trust between us. Up till now, you have moved in suspicion, uncertain of each other’s intentions, or mine. Now, we are on even footing: now, I have as much to prove as you. To be honest, I had not expected things to come to this pass so soon. Still, we adapt. I would have us be more equal, my friends. We must be, to work together. To save our world.”

He stepped to one side, gesturing around him with one hand. “This is the beginning. Going forward, I want you to have access to this library. You may find it takes some time to develop an affinity for it; extracting useful information from these various tools is something of an acquired skill. But you have proven yourselves trustworthy, at considerable personal risk. It is time that I do the same.”

“But…what are we doing, then?” Branwen asked tremulously. “Are we done chasing the murderers?”

“The Black Wreath’s retaliatory strikes are a lesser concern,” said Justinian. “I would not consider the matter dropped, but for the time being, it must become a lower priority. In any case, the killings are about to cease.”

“How are you able to ensure that?” Andros demanded.

“Because their pattern is quite particular, and because I have taken steps to identify all those who meet the criteria they have shown in picking their targets. They weren’t exactly subtle. There simply aren’t any suitable victims left.”

“So, you think they’re just going to stop?” Basra asked scornfully.

Justinian shook his head; the faintest grin tugged at his lips. “I think they are going to change tactics. We will deal with whatever comes next, but I fear we must acknowledge our failure to stop this particular campaign. However, it has set us on the right track. I intend nothing less than the dissolution of every corrupt, non-functional institution holding humanity back and leaving us vulnerable to Elilial’s advances. Obviously, to simply obliterate the political powers of this world would result in sheer anarchy, leaving us even more vulnerable than before…”

“So you’ll set yourself up as the power in Tiraas,” Basra said.

“No.” Justinian turned to focus the full weight of his gaze on her. “I will set humanity up as the power. And a necessary first step in that is to cull the last destructive malcontents who roam this world. Your work will continue, my friends. We must control or silence every powerful remainder of the Age of Adventures, and we have not much time in which to do it.”

Silence fell while they digested this, staring at him.

“You are talking about war on the entire damned world,” Darling whispered. “Treason against the Empire is only the start of this. You’d need to bring down the Church itself, the cults… The elven tribes, the remaining dragons, Tar’naris, Tellwyrn’s University… Everything which is a power in the world.”

“A daunting prospect, is it not?” Justinian said, smiling pleasantly. “To do this, Antonio, we will need to move beyond combative models of thinking. As you have implied, waging war on all these institutions simply isn’t a prospect—and if it were, we could not afford to leave the world so vulnerable to Elilial’s depredations. No, this will not be about destroying, but creating. We must lift up the people, grant them the power to seize their own destiny. We must create a world in which everyone is a power to contend with. In this world, no one can rule over or oppress the masses. No demon goddess can destroy them.”

“You’ll still have to bust a lot of heads to do that,” Basra mused, rubbing her chin and staring into space thoughtfully. “There are a lot of well-established institutions that won’t take kindly to losing their power.”

“Such as, for example, all of them,” Andros grunted.

“But we wouldn’t need to break every one of them completely,” Branwen added. “Just…prevent them from acting against us…”

“How, exactly, do you mean to elevate the human race like this?” Darling asked.

“Eight thousand years ago,” said the Archpope, “the beings we now call gods were mortal men and women. They rose up when the needs of their people demanded it, to seize power, to level the playing field, cast down the corrupt powers of their age and usher the mortal races into a new and brighter era. What has been done once can be done again. A great doom is coming. We will finish what the gods began, and lift up everyone.”

“If everyone is a god,” Darling said slowly, “no one is.”

The fountain splashed quietly, all of them staring, thinking, waiting.

“I can see why you need all the adventurers either working for us or out of the picture,” Basra said at last.

“It is a necessary first step,” Justinian agreed, nodding. “The question is: can you share my vision? Will you join me?”

“I will,” Branwen said immediately. She was gazing at him with something perilously close to worship. Andros nodded silently.

“Hell with it, I’m in,” said Basra.

“All right,” Darling said slowly. “All right…let’s do it. But!” He pointed a finger at the Archpope. “This business of running around chasing our tails after various adventurers isn’t going to work. We’ll just keep tripping over each other, scaring them off and provoking them to counterattack. We only stumbled across the Jackal because this project spooked Mary the Crow into intervening. If we do this, we do it smart. We do it my way.”

Justinian smiled. “I would have it no other way.”

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4 – 1

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The crow ruffled its feathers and shook itself, emitting a muted croak, but did not stir from its perch in the rafters. Just outside the awning, rain pattered down upon the streets of Tiraas, as rain so often did. It was a cool day, cooler than it had been recently, but not quite cold yet; not quite so bad that the oven and open lamps in the little pastry stand didn’t keep its inside comfortable, despite the fact that the entire front was open to the elements.

“Nice bird,” remarked the boy, peering up at it while rolling a coin across the backs of his knuckles. “Where’d you get something like that?”

“It’s not mine,” said the woman behind the counter. Her face was neutral, her tone polite—too neutral, too polite. They were alone in the stand at present, the rain not being conducive to much foot traffic in the market street, and the tension between them was almost tangible, for all that it ran one way. The young man seemed perfectly at ease. “I give it scraps sometimes and so far it hasn’t tried to steal any. I think it’s somebody’s pet, though. Doesn’t act like a wild crow.”

“You ought to do something about that, then,” he said lazily, then flapped a hand at the bird. “Shoo! Go on, you’re unsanitary!”

The crow hopped to one side, not even bothering to take wing, and tilted its head, watching him. With a shrug, he turned back to survey the hot pastries on display under the glass counter.

“Ah, the hell with it. Do something about it though. I don’t want to see that bird here next time I visit.”

“Anything for a customer,” she replied, her voice weighted with sarcasm.

He smirked. “A bit of an attitude today, eh? Just for that, I believe I’ll have a cream puff along with the meat pie. A little dessert’s just the thing to work off the hurt your sharp tongue has done to my feelings.”

“You know,” she said stiffly, not reaching into the pastry case yet, “I do have to make a living.”

“So do we all, cupcake,” he said, grinning. “A pastry now and then won’t bankrupt you.”

“One of my most expensive pastries every day, on the other hand…”

“Well, that’s what you get for overcharging,” he said glibly. “Chop chop, now. Some of us have better things to do with our time than loiter around a till all day.”

The crow emitted a loud, hoarse squawk, flapping its wings once without lifting off its perch. He half-turned to glance up at it in irritation, then started violently, catching a glimpse of the front of the stall. Two figures now stood there, silent as moonlight.

“Omnu’s breath,” he breathed, placing a hand over his chest, then grinned weakly. “You startled me, ladies.”

“Did we,” said the one on the left. They were elves, dressed in simple blouses and trousers of modest quality, damp with rain. Both stared at him with an utter lack of expression. His grin faltered.

“I… Eh, well, no harm done. I’ll be out of your way in just a moment, as soon as this slowpoke here hands over my breakfast.”

“Will you,” said the other tonelessly. As one, they stepped forward, twice. In the small space this placed them all in very cramped proximity. Ordinarily he’d have felt quite differently about being packed in so close with a pair of pretty, exotic young women, but there was a subtle threat in their cold demeanor.

“I think you can wait,” said the first, then looked past him to the woman behind the counter. “The usual, please, Denise.”

“Keep the change,” added the other, tossing something. Denise caught it awkwardly, clearly not used to such maneuvers, and then boggled down at the well-stuffed coin purse in her hand, its strings neatly sliced. She wasn’t the only one.

“I—wh—hey!” the young man exclaimed, more shocked than angry. “That’s mine!”

“Is it?” said the first elf mildly. “It appears to be hers, now.”

“Now listen here,” he said, outrage welling up on his features. “You don’t know what you’re meddling in, girls. I’m a member of the Thieves’ Guild!”

At that, they both grinned. Broadly. He flinched.

“Are you,” said the second elf.

“Whose apprentice?” added the first.

“W-what makes you think I’m an apprentice?” he stammered, trying to draw himself upright. The crow emitted a coarse chuckling noise, and he ruined the effect he was going for by flinching again.

“First,” said the second elf, “a full member of the Guild would know better than to abuse our privileges in the city. Shopkeepers toss us freebies because we deter pickpockets and cutpurses; a tidbit here and there costs them a lot less than a city full of ne’er-do-wells would. The system is there to benefit everyone. It is not carte blanche for you to walk all over people and do whatever the hell you please.”

“Second,” said the other, “a full member of the Guild would know better than to announce his membership, in public, to strangers.”

“Third…” The second elf leaned in close to him, her grin broadening to proportions that resembled that of a wolf. “A full member of the Guild who behaved this way would be dragged into the basement of the Guild headquarters and have things broken. Fingers, definitely. Possibly knees. You, clearly, are just some dumb kid who doesn’t yet understand how things work. They’ll probably be more gentle with you. Maybe.”

“I—I—I—”

“Fourth,” added the first elf in an especially silky tone, “and not to blow our own horns or anything, any active Guild member in this city would recognize Sweet’s apprentices. I’m told we’re sort of…distinctive.”

He swallowed, loudly.

“What’s your name?”

“Who’s your trainer?”

“I—I…” He gulped again, finding a small measure of courage. “I don’t know you two. How do I know you are…who you say? I don’t have to tell you anything.”

“We don’t have to ask nicely,” the woman on the right said, her expression growing grim.

Denise cleared her throat. “Um, could you please ask nicely? I really, really don’t need any trouble in my stall, Flora.”

“Of course, my apologies.” Flora nodded to her, then returned her stare to the boy. “It needn’t come to any rough stuff, anyhow. We can simply follow him.”

“Ever been stalked by elves?” the other one said lazily. “You’ve probably read stories about dramatic bison hunts. Bows, staves, unicorn charges, all that. That’s plains elves, though. We’re from a forest tribe.”

“It’s called tela’theshwa,” said Flora. “Persistence predation, according to the scholars who felt the need to name it in Tanglish. No violence at all. We just follow our prey, at a walk, until it drops dead from exhaustion. He’s a robust specimen, Fauna, but I bet he gets tired before we do.”

“You have to go home sometime,” Fauna told him in a singsong tone, grinning. “Us? We can go for days.”

“Weeks,” Flora corrected smugly. “We’re well-fed and well-rested.”

“Randal Wilcox,” he bleated. “I’m apprenticed to Grip!”

In unison, their eyebrows rose.

“You work under Grip,” Fauna said slowly, “and you do something like this?”

Flora shook her head. “Boy, you are almost too dumb to be alive.”

“He’d have been eaten by a cougar in the old country.”

“A cougar? Please, this numbnut would’ve been eaten by opossums.”

“Tell you what, Randy,” Fauna said. “Mind if I call you Randy? Swell. We’re heading back to the Guild ourselves, but not in any great hurry. We just stopped by for a bit of breakfast on the way.”

“I’m sure you noticed this stall is in a really convenient spot,” Flora added. “Nice place to grab a bite you can enjoy on a leisurely stroll.”

“It’ll take us a while to get there, is what we’re saying. Half an hour, maybe?”

“Eh, twenty minutes.”

“Aw, I wanted to feed the ducks!”

“I do not want to feed the ducks. It’s raining. The ducks are under shelter, like all sensible beings.”

“Spoilsport,” Fauna pouted. “Twenty minutes, then. That’s how long you’ve got to either get your ass back there, explain your fuck-up and hope Grip is in a reasonable mood for once… Or get out of Tiraas.”

“It’ll look better coming from you,” Flora added. “If they have to hear about this from us? Well, then Grip will be embarrassed on top of pissed off. Makes her look bad in front of Sweet. Rumor has it she gets really crabby when somebody makes her look bad.”

“Of course, if you—” Fauna broke off, dodging nimbly as Randal shoved past her and took off at a sprint.

“Heh.” Flora leaned out from under the awning to watch him go. “Wait for it, wait for…aw, he didn’t fall. Guess he knows where the slippery patch is.”

“I keep telling you, just because humans can’t see in the dark doesn’t mean they’re blind. Anyhow!” Fauna smiled winsomely at Denise. “Sorry about all that. Some people, right? I don’t mean to rush you, or anything…”

“Oh! Sorry.” Belatedly, the shopkeeper began loading a couple of meat pies into folds of waxed paper for easy carrying. “Got distracted by all the…well. Um, stop me if it’s not my business, but…what’s gonna happen to him?”

“Not sure.”

“Not really interested.”

“Not our problem.”

“I can tell you this much,” Fauna added. “If you ever see him in here again, it’ll be so he can deliver an apology, and possibly some monetary remuneration.”

“I wouldn’t make a claim like that against the Thieves’ Guild,” Denise said carefully, keeping her eyes on her hands as she folded the pies up neatly.

“Please,” Flora said earnestly, “make claims like that. That kind of crap makes us all look bad. The Guild doesn’t stand for it; we don’t pick on honest tradespeople who are just getting by. It’s bad for everyone’s business and bad for our rep.”

“I understand if you’re not comfortable going to the casino to talk to somebody,” Fauna said. “The Church is available for that, though. You can leave a message for Bishop Darling at the Cathedral; anybody ever hassles you like this again, do so and he’ll take care of it.”

“I wouldn’t want to be a bother,” she demurred, sliding their wrapped pies across the glass counter. “Here you go, girls.”

Flora caught her hand, gently, and held it until Denise looked up to meet her eyes. She was smiling, an authentically warm expression totally unlike the one she’d given Randal. “You’re safe with Guild members,” she said softly. “The only reason a Guild thief would harm you is if you’d done something to royally deserve it.”

“And, no offense, I have a hard time picturing you being so adventurous,” Fauna added, grinning.

“You’re even safer than most,” Flora said with a wink. “Because now we have something to prove to you.”

Denise gently pulled her hand back, managing a weak grin and an awkward little laugh. “Aha…well… Like I said… Yeah, you’re right, I’m not the pushy kind. I wouldn’t want to be a bother. I’ll tell you what, though, your next visit’s on the house.”

The crow chuckled softly to itself and finally took wing, flapping out into the rain.

“Nineteen,” said Archpope Justinian, “in the last month. I never held out much hope that Asherad’s murder would be an anomalous event; far too much effort had to have gone into it. In the lull that followed, though…” He trailed off, shaking his head.

The four Bishops assembled for his little cabal sat around the conference table in the Archpope’s private study, wearing grim expressions, as the subject deserved.

“I’d say we’re in the opposite of a lull now,” Basra said once it was clear the pontiff had finished speaking. “Four weeks of this is having what I’m sure was the intended effect. It’s getting harder and harder to get any kind of cooperation from individual cults that they don’t absolutely have to offer. They can tell which way the wind’s blowing.”

“And which way is that?” Darling asked. “I mean, what do the victims have in common? Is there a theme here? My Guild hasn’t lost anybody, but we’ve all but stopped operations in the city in the last week. The Boss thinks it’s too risky for any kind of cultist to be operating until something’s done.”

“There’s a theme,” Basra said, glancing at the Archpope. “It’s…sensitive. I’m sure you wouldn’t want—”

“The murdered all have two things in common,” Justinian said gravely. “First, they were individuals of such character that if the world knew what I know, there might not be so much an outcry at their deaths.”

“How can there be that many people like that among the cults of the Pantheon?” Branwen whispered, horrified.

“That many would have to just about cover it,” Darling ruminated. “There are rotten people everywhere, Bran, and not all gods are as compassionate as Izara. But…you’re not wrong, it strains credulity that every cult is so corrupt you can just walk in and kill somebody who deserves it. Which raises a whole host of other disturbing questions…”

“Indeed,” said the Archpope, nodding. “Which reflects upon the second point they had in common: each of these individuals was involved in a corrupt or shady program run by the Universal Church itself.”

There was silence for a moment.

“Such as?” Andros finally said, staring as sharply at the Archpope as he could probably get away with.

“I’ll make full documentation available to each of you if you request it,” said Justinian, folding his hands on the table before him. “However, before we delve into such details, let me pose a question. This is in line with your inquiry, Antonio. How much longer can this go on? Someone is clearly making a considerable effort to clean house. How much more cleaning, in your estimation, is required?”

“Corruption is a hard thing to pin down across different religions,” Basra said after a pause. “Antonio’s people do things as a matter of doctrinal obligation that’d get anyone thrown out of my Sisterhood.”

“And vice versa,” Darling said wryly. “In fact, we could go clockwise around the table and talk about how everybody’s faith is a tangle of depravity from the perspective of somebody else’s, so let’s take it as given and…not. I think that’s dodging the issue, though. Or, your Holiness, are these people really being targeted over doctrinal issues?”

“I can unequivocally say that they are not,” Justinian said solemnly. “The four slain this week included a known pedophile, and two individuals involved in a Church-run operation which has been financing actual witch hunts along the frontier.”

“People still do that?” Branwen said, aghast.

“In that case,” Andros growled, “perhaps this killer is doing us a favor.”

“Oh, please,” said Basra dismissively. “Making the bad people go away is a child’s solution to improving the world. You can’t fix societal problems through assassination.”

“Besides,” Darling added, “it’s fairly obvious that the thrust of this is to create a stir, not just to get rid of the individuals who’ve been…gotten rid of. A wedge is being driven between the Church and its member cults. I can’t imagine that’s anything but intentional, if not the entire point.”

“And,” said Justinian, nodding, “it carries an additional message to us, who know the secrets of those being targeted. Our foe knows these secrets too, and has the power to penetrate our defenses.”

“The Wreath,” Branwen murmured.

“It almost has to be,” Basra agreed, “but…how? Why now?”

“Why now seems obvious enough,” said Darling. “We just escalated the conflict with them considerably. Specifically those of us sitting in this room.”

“Okay, fine, but that leaves the bigger question,” she said impatiently. “How? If the Wreath had the capacity to do things like this, they’d have been doing them. For a very long time. What’s changed?”

“We changed the rules of the engagement,” said Andros. “It would be poor strategy for them to accept battle on our terms. They are altering the conditions in turn, forcing us to act on theirs.”

“Again,” Basra exclaimed, “how? We can talk whys and wherefores until we’re all blue in the face, but the hard truth is that somebody is slipping through the sturdiest magical defenses in existence and slaughtering people who should be powerful enough to prevent this from happening to them. That should be our biggest concern!”

“The issue,” said Justinian firmly, drawing their attention back to him, “is that in previous times, our engagements with the Wreath have always been that: with the Wreath. They’ve employed outside agents throughout their history when it served their ends, usually as a method of preserving their anonymity, but the actual campaigns of the cult itself have been carried out by Elilinist warlocks. Those are methodologies with stark limitations, which are very familiar to us. What has changed is that they are sending someone else, now. Consider what a temple’s defenses are meant to ward off. Could any of your strongholds deter, say, an Imperial strike team, with professional fighters wielding multiple systems of magic?”

“Most of mine could,” Basra said with a hint of smugness, then added somewhat ungraciously, “probably several of Andros’s, too.”

“But most temples in general, no,” said Branwen. “That being the case…why are we certain that the Wreath is behind this at all?”

Justinian spread his hands in a shrug. “Who else?”

“This was all kicked off by Elilial opening a new project,” Darling said, frowning thoughtfully into the distance. “We may have accelerated her timetable somewhat, but we shouldn’t rule out that some or all of this was planned from the beginning.”

“Just so,” said the Archpope, “and it is for that reason that we are going to continue to let it happen, for now.”

“Excuse me?” Basra said shrilly.

“Andros has raised a couple of extremely pertinent points,” Justinian went on, his calm a stark contrast to her agitation. “Whatever the additional effects, our house is being cleaned, and I would be dissembling if I did not acknowledge some relief. I inherited a huge bureaucracy in this Church, my friends, and some of my predecessors were… Well. Suffice it to say that the Throne does not hold a monopoly on political ruthlessness. Our enemy is hurting us, yes, but they are also destroying dead weight and counterproductive elements, not to mention relieving us of a moral burden by excising corruption. There is an incidental benefit to us in this.”

“You can’t be suggesting we don’t do something to deal with this,” Darling protested, then added belatedly, “your Holiness.”

“Indeed I am not, which brings me to Andros’s other point. The rules have been changed on us. I intend to change them again. The Wreath is managing to strike at our strength without engaging us directly; we shall do likewise. To that end, my friends, the time has come for us to put an end to the Age of Adventures.”

There was silence in the room. The Bishops glanced around the table at each other, avoiding the Archpope’s eyes.

“What, nothing?” Justinian actually grinned. “Antonio? Basra? Someone give us the obligatory witticism.”

“That seems a little…belated, your Holiness,” Basra said carefully.

“Quite so.” The Archpope rested his hands flat on the table and leaned forward at them, his face now focused and stern again. “And that makes this project doubly important. Recently, Antonio, your cult was peripherally involved in an engagement with Arachne Tellwyrn which was disrupted by one Longshot McGraw, is that not so?”

“It is,” Darling said slowly.

“McGraw and his ilk, which includes Tellwyrn herself, are the last fading echoes of a long dead era,” Justinian went on. “Civilization as it stands now is not tolerant of people who choose ‘adventuring’ as a career. Those who do so successfully manage because of the degree of their skill. They are, simply put, so dangerous that it is not worthwhile trying to rein them in, so long as they do not cause problems on a massive scale.”

“If you hope to exterminate free spirits,” Andros rumbled, “you will be frustrated.”

“You are quite correct, my friend, we shall always have such characters with us. But there are more of them now in the world than the world needs, and this is the resource the Wreath has leveraged against us.”

“You think this is being done by adventurers?” Basra exclaimed.

“Those who are actually good at that sort of work don’t call themselves such,” Justinian replied. “But…yes. Powerful, dangerous people who make their way in life by wielding that power. The Age of Adventures is long over. We don’t need them in the world anymore. Now, it seems some have allowed themselves to be used against the Universal Church. We will deal with this, solve a societal problem, and deprive the Black Wreath of the resource it is using to terrorize us.”

“The Wreath is a difficult foe precisely because they’re hard to pin down,” Darling said, frowning. “But at least they’re an organization. Adventurers…even the really dangerous ones…are barely even a community. It’s not like we can just round them up.”

“I was hardly suggesting a pogrom, nor would I if such a thing were feasible. Which, as you have rightly pointed out, it is not. We must act carefully. I am not jumping to conclusions, here, my friends; it is based on solid information that I believe the Wreath is contracting exceptional professional individuals to attack our cults. We will do two things: in the broader and longer term, change the environment of the city such that any such people will work at our behest or not at all. And, more immediately, we will identify the perpetrators of these crimes specifically and deal with them.”

“Splendid,” Basra said, smiling. Andros nodded sharply in agreement.

“That’ll stop this from happening, all right,” Darling said. “Assuming was can pull it off. And what then?”

“Basra was correct in that eliminating problematic people is a partial solution at best. I think, perhaps, we can find a better use for our enemies than the Black Wreath can. It certainly will be safest, I believe, not to approach them…confrontationally.”

He met the Archpope’s eyes, nodding slowly in acquiescence, the thoughtful frown on his own face unfeigned. Justinian’s visage was calm, open; his eyes were unthreatening, but glittered with intelligence. They revealed no hint at how much he knew.

“Man…I do not wanna ride this thing,” Gabriel groaned.

“Ask me how much I care what you want,” Tellwyrn said breezily. She turned to stare at him, planting her hands on her hips, and grinned. “Go on, ask. It’ll be funny.”

“Is it absolutely necessary for you to be a jerk?”

“In the long run, Mr. Arquin, you’ll find that few things are truly necessary or in any way meaningful. In the shorter term, I find being a jerk is often an effective way of accomplishing my goals. Now hop to, time and the Imperial Rails wait for no one!”

So saying, she clambered into the lead car of the Rail caravan waiting for them on Last Rock’s platform. Gabriel grumbled under his breath, but went to help Toby and Ruda finish stowing their baggage in the cargo car at the rear.

Trissiny drew in a deep breath, looking with some trepidation at the assembled caravan. Her own journey along the Rails was a vivid and uncomfortable memory. They had three cars to themselves, which was a little bit excessive with only nine people (one of whom was a pixie), but condensing their party into two would have been cramped indeed—and a cramped party on the Rails was a bad idea.

“I can’t decide if this’ll be better or worse than our last excursion,” Teal murmured, standing just behind Trissiny with Shaeine. “I mean…we’re going someplace civilized instead of into the wilderness…”

“Yeah, I’m worried about that, too,” Juniper admitted, chewing her lower lip. “In the wilderness you know what to expect. There are rules. Civilized people might up and do anything at all. But hey, we won’t be alone! We’ve got a teacher with us.”

“That, I believe, is Teal’s other concern,” Shaeine said, glancing at Teal with a raised eyebrow. The bard grinned back at her.

“You know me so well.”

“Well, anything’s bound to be better than Rafe,” Trissiny said grimly. “And Tellwyrn…isn’t without redeeming qualities.”

“Aww,” came Professor Tellwyrn’s voice from the open hatch of the lead car. “Dear diary!”

Trissiny sighed, gritting her teeth.

“Welp, that’s about all the procrastination we can squeeze into this,” Gabriel said, dusting off his hands as he rejoined them. “Everything packed away and nothing left to stop us from hopping into this demented death machine on our way to Sarasio. Wherever the fuck that is.”

“It’s a frontier town,” said Teal, “not so much like Last Rock and more like the ones you read about in cowboy novels. Cattle raids, attacks by tribes of wild elves, wandfights in the streets. All that good stuff.”

Gabe snorted. “And she expects us to what? Burn it to the ground?”

“I suspect we will learn her intentions in due time,” Shaeine said evenly. “Considering how much of our final grades are resting on the outcome of this expedition, I do not imagine it will be anything so…simple.”

“Not that we’d burn down a town anyway,” Toby said firmly.

“Of course.”

“All right,” said Trissiny, “given the makeup of our group, I think we should split up healers. Juniper, Shaeine and Gabriel should ride together; their healing won’t hurt him if he gets hurt, and they can heal each other or themselves.”

“I won’t get hurt anyway,” Gabriel grumbled. “I’ll just get motion sickness so bad I wish I was dead.”

Trissiny glanced at him, then at Shaeine, then at Teal. “Teal, you should go with that group. You’re also pretty durable…”

“Pretty much indestructible, actually.”

“…but if the unforseeable should happen, you’ll still be with the healers who won’t hurt Vadrieny by using their magic.”

“Sounds good!” Teal said with a broad grin, edging closer to Shaeine. “Shall we then?”

“That was nicely handled,” Toby murmured to her as the four of them trooped into the middle car and began ducking inside, one at a time. Even lowering his voice he was well within Shaeine’s earshot; the significant look he gave her and Teal was the only hint to Trissiny of what he really meant. She met his smile with a wink.

“Strategic planning isn’t new to me.”

“Aw, you mean you didn’t set this up just for more quality time with me, roomie?” Ruda said, grinning. “I’m hurt. Really, I might cry.”

“Eh, that’s kind of reaching,” Trissiny said. “You’re not at your most cutting this early in the morning, are you?”

“Oh, you are asking for it, kid,” the pirate shot back, but she was still grinning. “Welp, we’re the last ones out. C’mon, Fross, let’s grab a seat.”

“I don’t really need a seat,” the pixie said, fluttering along obediently behind her. “I’ve never ridden in one of these before, though! I’m very curious!”

“Me either. I bet it’s gonna suck!”

Trissiny smiled at Toby. “Well, then. Onward to glory.”

He laughed, and her smile broadened. His laugh did that to her.

Alone in the lead car, Tellwyrn was smiling, too. Fortunately none of them could see it.

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2 – 7

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Professor Tellwyrn’s office door opened without warning.

“Knock knock!” Principia sang, leaning inside with a cheery smile.

Tellwyrn stared at her over the rims of her spectacles for a moment, one hand still holding a quill poised above the papers on her desk. “Oh, this had better be good,” she said finally. “It won’t be, but it had better.”

“Don’t be such a grouch,” Principia replied, sliding in and shutting the door behind her. “We used to get along so well! Remember?”

“I remember paying you to do things you were going to do anyway to people I wanted you to do them to instead of the general public.”

“Uh…” She blinked. “You lost me about half—”

“I do know the basics of running a con, Prin. Trying to establish an emotional connection with your mark is amateur stuff. I’m very nearly offended; don’t I deserve the top of your game? Anyway,” she went on more loudly as the other elf opened her mouth to object, “you would be wise to say your piece before my tolerance wears out. You are specifically not supposed to be on my campus.”

“Yeah, well, there’s a difference between the letter of the law and the spirit of the law,” Principia said, edging closer to the desk. “We both know why you don’t want me around, and she’s not even on campus right now.”

“The fact that you know this isn’t helping your case. Spit it out, Prin.”

She sidled closer, letting the smile fade from her face. “I need your help.”

“Interesting. I’m leaning heavily toward ‘no.’”

“You haven’t even—”

“And it is not in my interests to even. I know how you operate; it’s not as if you’re terribly complicated. Whatever you may or may not be up to right now, I know your ultimate goal at this University, and you’re not getting that. Engaging with you is just a way for you to work a fingernail into some crack.”

“Arachne,” she said somberly, “I’ll give you my word that I’m not working any angle. I won’t swear that I might not change my mind and try to take advantage in the future…we both know me too well for that to be believable…but if you really think I’m nothing but self-interest, then I promise you that’s all this is. I might be in real trouble here. I’m asking for your help.”

“I have every confidence that you’ll manage to weasel your way out of whatever you’re into. Probably the same way you got into it in the first place.”

They locked eyes, Principia glaring, Tellwryn impassive. Finally, Prin heaved a sigh and shrugged.

“Well, if that’s how it’s going to be… I guess I’ll go throw myself out, then.”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” Tellwyrn said sweetly.

 

“All right, you’re down for two doubloons on the drow, despite my earnest advice.”

“Hey, I like me an underdog! Comes down to it, they’re the ones who fight hardest.”

“Whatever you say, Wilson. Ox, are you sure you want the dryad?”

“Positive,” the big man rumbled. “Put three doubloons on her.”

Hiram Taft, the owner of the town bank, shook his head and chortled even as he jotted down Ox’s name on the grid inscribed on the parchment rolled out between them. The men were clustered around an upturned barrel on the shaded front of the Sheriff’s office. Sheriff Sanders himself stood at the edge of the sidewalk with his back to them, working a toothpick and watching the comings and goings in the street.

“Well, I hate to take your money, Ox—”

“The gods frown on lies, Hiram.”

“—but if that’s the way you want it. Mind you, I’d have much stronger opinions about the green girl if I was twenty years younger, but there ain’t no way she’s a match for my demon.”

“’Your’ demon,” Sanders grunted, not turning around.

“That’s ‘cos I’ve read my Imperial Army encounter manual,” Ox rumbled. “Dryads are classified as a sapient monster race, neutral alignment, divine origin. Threat level of eight. I like my odds.”

“If you’re sure, then!”

“I have half a mind to go to Mayor Cleese,” Sanders said. “Or the council, or Father Laws. Hell, or Miz Cratchley. Somebody who’ll slap a ban on this foolishness so I can toss you galoots in a cell.”

“Aw, don’t be a spoilsport, Sam, it’s harmless fun,” Taft said jovially. “And who knows, the pool might actually pay out this year! You know there was a scrap between the Avenist and that half-demon boy already.”

“The pool has never paid out, and will never pay out,” Sanders grunted. “It’ll all go to the church fund like always, and you can all be damn glad of that. If the pool ever pays out, it’ll mean the freshmen have actually started takin’ blades to each other. And that will only happen if the whole place up there dissolves into complete anarchy, in which case this town is likely to be razed to its foundations.”

“What’s the harm, then?”

The Sheriff shook his head. “I live in fear of the day Tellwyrn finds out about this annual pool of yours. Dunno whether she’d knock all your heads together or join in. Frankly, I’m not sure which idea spooks me more.”

An enormous POP sounded a few yards away, sending a blast of expelled air in all directions, which lifted off the Sheriff’s hat and forced Taft to lunge after his suddenly airborne parchment grid. In the middle of the street, at the epicenter of the disturbance, Principia Locke appeared from midair, about two feet off the ground. She landed with catlike grace, peering about in startlement for a moment, then a scowl fell across her features.

“Oh, you smarmy bitch.”

“Prin!” Sanders shouted, straightening up with his errant hat in hand. It took him all of one second to do the math on this situation. “You wanna tell me why you were up there pestering Professor Tellwyrn?”

“Ah ah ah,” she scolded, wagging a finger at him as she approached out of the street. “Just as soon as somebody passes a law against me visiting old friends, that’ll be your business. Till then, you can just butt out.”

“Hmp,” he grunted, folding his arms and leaning against one of the vertical wooden beams holding up the awning. “On your head be it, then. I have it on very good authority that Tellwyrn does not like you at all.”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed. Ooh, hey, are you guys doing the annual pool? Put me down for three on the Hand of Avei.”

“Hah!” Taft chortled, grinning. “Any other year, sure, but you do know there’s a bona fide demon up there now? You’ve got no chance.” He did, however, mark her name and wager down on the appropriate spot.

“I like my odds. You whippersnappers may not remember what the world was like when paladins were running around willy-nilly, but I’ve seen the Silver Legions in action.” She leaned forward, peering over the map; three sets of eyes shifted momentarily to her low-cut bodice. “I see Ox is shafting you out of an honest ten doubloons, Hiram.”

“Bah! I have faith in my demon, even if she is attached to a bard.”

“Uh huh. I take it nobody’s informed you that demons are critically weak against high-level fae?”

“…wait, what?”

“Yup!” she said cheerfully. “Their magic just peters out, like a fire underwater. That’s why witches are almost as good as priests against warlocks. Your demon isn’t gonna do squat against that dryad.”

“That…you… Ox! You cheating son of a bitch!”

“No takebacks,” Ox said smugly.

Sanders shook his head, still not looking at them. Instead, he glanced up the street at the mountain, wondering at the source of the bad feeling he suddenly had.

 

They didn’t call it the Grand Cathedral because it lacked grandiosity.

Bishop Darling was fully in character: serene, aloof, smiling vaguely at all he passed in humble benediction. No matter how many times he walked these halls, though, he could never quite suppress the inner voice of Sweet as he passed gilded columns, rich tapestries, extravagantly wrought furniture, masterwork paintings and statues of gods, all decorating halls and rooms of the finest white marble. That voice kept repeating to itself, these guys are just begging to get ripped off.

They weren’t, of course. Anybody daft enough to try stealing from the gods—and there had been quite a few, throughout history—would soon find that stealing from the Church was an altogether different proposition. The gods, at least, were often inclined to be merciful.

Ascending a broad marble staircase with a red-and-gold rug cascading down its center, Darling nodded to the two Papal Guards keeping watch over the door at the top, smiling with a mild, smug satisfaction that he did not feel. It was highly unlikely that these two mooks would bother to interpret his expressions, much less report on them to anyone who mattered, but appearances had to be kept up.

They certainly were resplendent in their burnished silver breastplates over golden coats, carrying upright spears that were ornamented so richly he frankly doubted they would hold up in actual combat. These men were definitely showpieces, but well-trained, as they proved in the flawlessly precise simultaneous bow they gave him. Under any other Archpope, Darling might have suspected they were only to be kept for show. Justinian, though, had not gone to the trouble of assembling his own force of guards because he liked to look at shiny things.

He pulled open the great gilded oak doors himself, stepping into the Archpope’s private meeting room. Behind him, one of the guards pushed the doors shut, but Darling ignored this, striding forward with his attention on those before him. More stairs… The architecture of this place was not subtle, forcing any who would approach the Archpope to climb, emphasizing that they were beneath him except at his sufferance. At the top of another broad flight of deep marble steps, a room lined entirely by windows was adorned with high-backed gilt chairs and a massive table. Four people were present; Darling initially ignored all but one.

“Your Holiness,” he murmured, kneeling and pressing his lips to the proffered ring, a thick gold band with an absurdly-sized round-cut diamond within which an ankh symbol glowed with the golden light of the gods.

Archpope Justinian was well over six feet in height, with broad shoulders that suggested a more athletic lifestyle than his ecclesiastical duties required. In his later middle years but still handsome, he wore his brown hair a touch longer than was fashionable, with a neat goatee surrounding his square chin. Two wings of gray swept back from his temples, with a matching pair of thin stripes in his beard, all as precise as if painted on; the only lines of experience on his face suggested a lifetime spent smiling. Though his office traditionally involved rich, fur-lined robes, glittering jewels and a truly massive crown, Justinian wore the simple black surcoat of a Church priest, with a white tabard emblazoned with the Church’s ankh symbol in gold. Only that and his ring announced his office. His humility had done wonders to endear him to the people.

“Rise, my friend,” Justinian said with a characteristic smile, and Darling did so. The Archpope radiated power and calm in a way that had nothing to do with any divine energies. As a student of body language and theatrics himself, Darling always felt he was in the presence of a master when he met with Justinian.

“I apologize for my tardiness, your Holiness,” he said humbly, finally glancing over at the others in the room. Three fellow Bishops, people he knew—they weren’t a large community—but not well.

“Nonsense, you arrived well before the stated time,” the Archpope replied, turning to stride back to his thronelike seat at the head of the table. Darling followed.

“It’s all relative, your Holiness. If everybody else is already here, clearly I’m late.”

“What makes you think everybody who’s coming has arrived?” asked the slim, dark-haired woman nearest him, smiling faintly.

“Everyone important, then,” he said with a wink. She gave him a raised eyebrow, but the other woman at the table laughed obligingly. Darling was known for being somewhat irreverent. Obviously he kept it subdued in the Archpope’s presence, but acting too out of his established character would have created suspicion.

He glanced over them swiftly as he sat, noting that they were all regarding each other—and him—with the same wary curiosity. This, then, was not a group accustomed to meeting with each other, unlike the Imperial security council in which the Archpope had placed him.

Lean and sharp-featured, with a coppery complexion and a dominant nose that didn’t spoil her looks, Basra Syrinx wore the traditional white robes of a Bishop, as did they all, with a brooch in the shape of Avei’s golden eagle pinned at the shoulder to identify her cult. Darling knew relatively little of her, personally, but nothing he’d heard suggested that the Empress’s assessment—sneaky, mean and less than devout—was inaccurate. Directly opposite him sat Branwen Snowe, a woman who was strikingly beautiful in a way that she clearly was well aware of and spent effort on. That was actually unusual for disciples of Izara, but her fiery auburn hair had been wound into an elaborate knot that had certainly taken time and probably needed help, and she actually wore cosmetics. Skillfully enough that they might not be apparent to everyone, but Darling knew a thing or two about disguises. The fourth Bishop present, Andros Varanus, was a follower of Shaath and truly looked the part. With his thick beard, untamed black hair and deep, glaring eyes, he looked out of place in the sumptuous surroundings and uncomfortable in his white robe. Doubtless he’d have preferred to be in furs as his cult considered proper for a Huntsman.

“Since you mention it,” said the Archpope, smiling serenely at them from the head of the table, “everyone invited is now here, and as such, we may begin discussing our business. My friends, I have selected the four of you according to very particular criteria. Despite what you may believe, it has little to do with your various efforts to acquire my political favor.”

As one, they stiffened slightly, like youths caught out in some mischief: urgently wanting to protest, but not sure how to do so without challenging an authority figure and making the situation worse.

“There is neither shame nor condemnation in it,” Justinian said gently, his kind smile unwavering. “You were all sent here by your various cults in recognition of your skill at the great game of politics. Indeed, there are few within the Church who do not pay that game, and none at or near your rank who fail to play it skillfully. I have no shortage of clever operators at my disposal. What I need from you…what I believe you are uniquely suited to provide, is something different entirely.” He folded his hands before him, leaning forward and somehow holding all four of their gazes without moving his eyes. “Faith.”

“I do not lack faith in my god,” Varanus said in a tone that was perilously close to a growl. “Nor do any of my people. The faithless are not suffered in Shaath’s cult.”

“Faith is a decision,” replied the Archpope smoothly. “It is a choice of alignment, a determination to believe a given thing regardless of what evidence presents itself.” He paused, his smile widening as he watched them glance uncertainly at one another. To hear the leader of the Church give voice to what was beginning to sound like agnosticism put them all off balance. “Faith is perhaps the most crucial aspect of human existence. We have faith that our loved ones will not betray us, that our government will shelter us, that our partners in trade will deal fairly with us… That our gods will succor us. And no matter how many times each of these disappoints that faith, we hold to it. Because without it, we are nothing. We would be eternally at each other’s throats, trusting no one, never able to rest. Faith, friends, makes all human endeavor possible. It is the one thing that binds us together while all our other impulses seek to rend us apart.

“My concern is not the depth or sincerity of the faith you have in your individual gods, or in me. No, I have gathered the four of you, specifically, because of the nature of the faith you hold. After all, one does not have faith in a spouse or parent the same way that one has in a deity. I have watched all my Bishops closely, and selected the four of you on one basis.” He lowered his hands to his lap and leaned back in his great chair, eyes roving across their faces. “You understand that the gods…are people. And as such, they are far from perfect.”

Absolute stillness reigned in the room. For excruciatingly drawn-out seconds, the Bishops stared at their Archpope in shock, afraid even to glance at each other.

It was Darling who finally broke the spell. “I feel like the only safe thing I can do here is take a pratfall to cut the tension.”

Branwen tittered nervously; Andros gave him a scathing look. Basra was still staring fixedly at the Archpope.

Justinian, for his part, nodded, still smiling. “In point of fact, Antonio has the right of it. Before the gods, what are mere creatures such as we? We dance for their amusement. I do not mean to suggest that we attempt to elevate ourselves above our station. On the contrary,” he went on, leaning forward and gazing at the intensely, “it is my belief that we serve the Pantheon better by acknowledging their limitations. By not expecting them to tend to every little thing that takes place on the mortal plane. There are matters which it is ours, their servants, to address, so that they can be about the business of holding up the firmament and maintaining the order of the world.” Slowly, he panned his gaze around the table, meeting each of their eyes in turn. “One of these matters, which I have called you together to attend to, concerns the Black Wreath.”

Darling felt a shiver begin at the base of his skull and travel slowly down the whole length of his spine. Too much coincidence…too many people pointing him in this one direction, the same direction he’d set out to search on his own, first. Or had he? Was he being moved by the gods—his, or others? How much did Justinian know? Or Eleanora?

The possibilities grew more disturbing the more he wondered. He felt…elated. The game was on.

“That, of all things, would seem to be the gods’ concern,” Basra said slowly.

“It is an easy mistake to make, Basra,” Justinian replied. “Elilial most certainly is a threat for the Pantheon to address. The Wreath, however, are mortal men and women…like ourselves. What power they have is the gift of a deity.”

“Like ourselves,” Andros said, his eyes narrowed in thought.

“Just so,” the Archpope nodded. “And they are becoming more active in recent days. The Church’s capacity to contend directly with such threats is growing, of course.”

“We saw the new guards,” Branwen commented.

“Indeed. However, some wars are not meant to be fought by armies. Some cannot be fought thus. That is why I’ve assembled you.”

“I assume I am missing something,” Basra commented, “if you intend the four of us to fight the Black Wreath.”

“Not directly, or in its entirety, nor all at once,” Justinian replied. “As I said, I chose you based on mindset, on your willingness to act in necessity and not be excessively bound by the traditions of your own faiths. Your willingness to see members of other cults as colleagues rather than rivals. Unfortunately, the lack of that same willingness still chokes some divisions of the Universal Church, despite my best efforts. However, despite my selection of you on that criterion alone, I see the providential hand of the gods in the array of skills before me. Warrior, hunter, thief, persuader. I believe you were guided to this task by the Pantheon themselves.”

There came another brief silence, while they all studied each other speculatively.

“Intrigue,” Branwen said at last. “You are talking about espionage, not combat.”

“Just so. We will begin with specific, individual missions, pursuing certain leads that have come to my attention, and work up from there. Elilial, in the end, is distinct from our gods by circumstance, not nature. Whatever leadership she provides the Wreath, she is not running every aspect of its actions, any more than your own gods direct every step you take.” A note of wry humor entered his voice. “If my own Bishops can manage to trip each other up in the halls of this very Cathedral, how much more effective will four of you prove against a single target?”

“What target?” asked Basra.

“Small ones, at first. By necessity. But eventually… You will do what Imperial Intelligence, what centuries of counter-action by the various individual cults of the Pantheon, have failed to do.” The Archpope smiled. “For in the end, what is a faith without a high priest?”

 

The sparse crowd in the square was drifting toward and around the Ale & Wenches, in preparation for the traditional lunch rush, and Principia let herself be carried along with the throng after she stepped out of the scrolltower office. Her eyes darted across the people present, seeking out navy blue uniforms and paying little attention to those who didn’t have them. In this, she was quickly disappointed.

And then chagrined by her lack of attentiveness when a hand closed around her upper arm.

“Heard you ran into a mite of trouble up there on the mountain,” Jeremiah Shook said mildly, smiling down at her.

“Oh, how people love their gossip in this town,” she replied dryly.

“Every town, as I understand it. The smaller, the gossipier.” He glanced about quickly at the idlers and strollers in the square, and she quashed an urge to smack him upside the head. Nobody was paying them any attention; the surest way to attract attention was to act like there was something more going on than two people pausing for a chat. “Now, you wouldn’t have gone and blown our business here, would you? Maybe counting on Tellwyrn to protect you from…the consequences?”

Principia gave him her most scathing look. “No, Thumper, Tellwyrn is not aware that you are sniffing around her business. Know how you can tell? Because your ass isn’t dead. I was just…ruling out a possibility. I didn’t really think it would pan out, but it had to be tried, and now I can focus on more likely prospects.”

“And now she knows to watch you,” he said, his voice gaining an unmistakeable threat, though he kept it too low to be overheard.

“She always knows to watch me. Now, duckling, she’s watching for the wrong thing. She thinks I’m running some kind of con on her. So she’ll keep me at arm’s length and feel smug about it, while I can maneuver around more reliable sources of information without having to worry about her overhearing something awkward. This isn’t my first rodeo, y’know,” she added, smirking.

“What reliable sources?” he asked curtly.

“Gonna start with those three soldiers the Empire sent over. They come to town for meals and booze. Getting intel out of sloshed soldiers is like taking candy from three big, tipsy babies.”

“Those three tipsy babies are at the heart of all this,” Thumper warned. “Be careful not too get too clever, Keys. This is not a mission you want to blow.” As he spoke, he kept his hand on her arm, but began moving his thumb up and down in a soft, caressing motion.

“Aw, are you worried about little ol’ me?” she asked sweetly, reaching up to pat him on the cheek. “That’s so thoughtful of you. Tell me, since you’re clearly the expert: exactly how clever is it safe for me to be?”

“That,” he said quietly, “is too clever. Don’t push me, Keys.”

Principia let her smile drop. “Look, wiseass, you can be in charge and as threatening as you want. But if you want this job to succeed, don’t forget who the expert is. You want me to work?” She gripped his wrist and extricated her arm from his grasp. “Then let me work. Tricks will get his info, if there’s anything to get. If there’s not, I’ll get verification of that. And you, meanwhile, need to not get under my feet.”

He allowed her to remove his hand. “Fine, then. When are you going to corner the boys?”

“I was hoping to see them in town for lunch, but no dice today, it seems. I’ll keep trying that, but according to the local scuttlebutt they’re only reliably here in the evenings. My next night off is in three days; I’ll spend it at the A&W chatting them up if nothing better comes along in the meantime.”

“Your next night off?” He raised his eyebrows incredulously. “Are you seriously confusing your bullshit job slinging drinks at that run-down little rathole with what’s actually important here?”

“That bullshit job is my cover,” she said, forcing herself to moderate her tone. They were already pushing the boundaries of polite conversation; it wouldn’t do to attract any further interest. “Without that, I’ve got no reason to loiter around this town, and then I can’t do the real job. And the Saloon is not a rathole.”

“Keys, you’re going native.” He shook his head. “It’s almost tragic, a fine little piece like you, wasted on this dust bunny of a town. Fine, three days, then. I expect to have some good news waiting for me on the morning of the fourth.”

“Oh, I will be sure not to disappoint,” she simpered.

“Good girl,” he said condescendingly, reaching up to pat her on the head.

Principia smiled broadly, showing more teeth than was necessary, and turned on her heel, flouncing off down the street. He stood for a long moment and watched her go.

Behind him and high above, the orb atop the scrolltower began to flash, sending out a message.

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