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The crow flapped from perch to perch, pausing atop lamp posts, fences and eaves to look back at the four Bishops as they struggled to keep up before flittering off into the gloom again. In the darkness and oppressive drizzle, the black bird was all but invisible except when it moved; keeping it in sight was a challenge.

“Once again,” Basra growled under her breath, “this had better be her. If we are chasing some random crow across the city…”

“Crows are clever enough to play complex games like this,” Andros noted, “but a mundane bird would not be out at this hour, or in this weather.”

“She could’ve said something instead of pulling this cockamamie pantomime,” Basra complained, then raised her voice. “Oi! Beaky! Do all elves lack basic social skills or just the creepy shamans?”

“Shaman,” Branwen said.

“What?”

“It’s ‘shaman.’ The plural is the same as the singular.”

“Are you sure?” Darling asked. “I always thought it was ‘shamen.’”

“I’m pretty certain—”

“Nobody cares!” Basra shouted. “Antonio, if this turns out to be a bust I’m blaming you.”

“Me?! What did I do?”

“She’s your elf.”

“She is not my elf! I’m pretty sure she’d object strenuously to being called anybody’s elf.”

“Yeah, well, you found her for us.”

“Actually, she found him,” Branwen said helpfully. She wasn’t quite panting, but was having more trouble with the pace than the rest of them, between having the shortest legs and roundest figure in the group.

“Whatever, don’t care,” Basra said, now grinning wickedly. “Blaming you. I’m permitted to be irrational. Woman’s prerogative.”

A silence fell while the other three exchanged glances. Hearing misogynistic jargon repeated by a ranking Avenist cleric was…jarring.

“Where is she leading us?” Andros demanded after a moment. They rounded a corner at high speed, Branwen slipping on the slick paving stones before Darling caught her.

“Hear that?” Darling said. “That snapping noise in the distance? Those are antennae. We’re in the northern factory district. They’re supposed to shut down in the rain—bad things can happen when you discharge lightning into a watery atmosphere. But it’s still just drizzling, and some industrialists will push every rule they can to the very limit. Anything to scrounge a copper.”

“It’s well past midnight,” Basra huffed. “Who the hell is still running a factory anyway?”

“Every copper. Production would shut down when they had to burn lamp oil, but fairy lights are practically free to run.”

They came to an abrupt stop, their guide having done likewise, perched atop a lamp post. Branwen leaned against it, catching her breath, while the other glared up at the crow.

“Well?” Basra demanded, planting her fists on her hips.

The crow turned around to point its beak dead ahead and let out a hoarse caw.

The street ended about a block in front of them, where another street running perpendicular fronted another row of factories, with one dead ahead. It was at this that the crow now stared. Like most of the buildings here, it was dark, though a faint residual glow wreathed the antennae atop the structure. As they watched a faint flicker of static sparked across one.

In some of Tiraas’s wealthier industrial zones, the factories were showpieces, architecturally pleasing, their interiors clean and spacious, often fronted by elaborate foyers through which common employees were not permitted passage. It was to these that visiting dignitaries were usually shown to be awed by the city’s sophistication and industrial prowess.

This was not a wealthier industrial zone. The factory toward which they were pointed was a squat, ugly building of reddish brick, four stories tall and most of its exterior lined by rows of square windows. That would be for light, the factory clearly having been built before fairy lamps were cheap and widely available; newer structures favored thicker, more solid walls that gave them better insulation. It was clean, at least. Only in the city’s poorest and shiftiest districts was filth and decay permitted to accumulate.

“I guess we’re here, then,” Basra said in a quieter tone. The crow ruffled its feathers, croaking softly in response. “Right, then. Standard tactics for fighting elves. Remember, they are faster, more agile and more stealthy than you, but not as physically strong. Do not engage them hand-to-hand; their speed and accuracy gives them a considerable advantage.”

“Speed and accuracy gives them an even greater advantage in ranged combat,” Andros growled. “Do you propose to bring down the Jackal with stern language?”

“Elves are faster, not better,” she replied, giving him a look of pure irritation. “Humans are stronger, as I said, and sturdier. Our main advantage is that the elvish frame is compact, has lighter bones, very little fat and less muscle. Plus, they heal at something like a fourth the rate we do. Not only are they quite prone to injury, but any injury is a much more serious matter to an elf. Thus, they are cautious. Don’t compete with him in finesse: use brute force tactics at a safe distance. Cause damage, scare him.” She grinned, waggling the wand she had taken from the Cathedral. “These little beauties make all the difference. Remember, we want him alive to answer questions, so shoot up the area around him. A consistently effective strategy is to create barriers of burning debris. Hem him in, make it more attractive to deal politely with us than get blasted.”

Above, the crow squawked, ruffling its feathers.

“Yup, that’s how we take down elves,” Basra said, grinning savagely upward. “Want a demonstration? Oh, but you’ve probably seen it a time or two, haven’t you?”

“Don’t antagonize her,” Darling said firmly. “This guy’s already way up the list from what we started out tonight prepared to take on. Let’s not have two angry elves to deal with. Bas, the main problem with your strategy is it involves busting into somebody’s factory and shooting it to hell.”

“These places are all insured to the rafters,” she said with a shrug. “Besides, we answer only to the Archpope, and this business is in defense of the realm. We’re fine.”

“All the people who work there won’t be fine when their jobs are wrecked tomorrow,” Branwen said worriedly.

“Eh. Omelets, eggs, you know how it goes. Forward march, people.”

“Keep a divine shield around you at all times,” Andros rumbled, a glow springing up about him as he suited his words with action. “We will not be able to sneak up on him anyway. If he cannot strike back against us, he’ll have little option but to surrender.”

“Or flee,” Darling pointed out. “Let’s not just charge in there. How many entrances are there?”

“Come on, do you see those windows?” Basra said. “It’s pretty much one big entrance. The Jackal has killed one priest tonight, and my files on him suggest an aggressive temperament. If he runs, there won’t be much we can do about it. I’m betting, though, he’ll think he can take us.”

“Antonio is right,” Andros said, his glow winking out. “It would be wise to reconnoiter.”

“For what?” she demanded, exasperated.

“To plan for more than the best case scenario,” Darling said. “Look, I know this district. Behind that row of factories is a canal. At this time of year the water level will be too low for him to jump into; it’s a painfully long drop into not enough water to cushion the fall. We should at least check out the factories to either side, see where the convenient entrances are. If the Jackal’s holed up in there, he’ll have scouted already; knowing where the bolt holes are will tell us which way he’s likely to run, so we can better stop him from doing it.”

“We don’t have—oh, fine,” Basra said with poor grace, throwing up her hands. “Do what you want. Ten minutes, no more, and for the gods’ sake keep quiet. Elves can hear like rabbits.”

“I will investigate the factory to the left, you take the right,” Andros said, nodding to Darling. “The women will wait here.” He strode off into the dimness without waiting for a reply.

“The women can make decisions, too,” Branwen said, frowning after him.

“Oh, leave him alone,” Basra snorted. “He thinks he’s being the alpha male. Let him, it’ll be funnier when he finds out how wrong he is.”

Darling didn’t bother to reply, already striding off toward the other building. He did, indeed, know this district, in the general way he knew all the city’s streets, but had never had occasion to familiarize himself with these factories in particular. In fact, his information network tended to encompass the highest and lowest elements of the city; factories were so uniform, so uninteresting, little enough went on there that mattered to him. They were useful for all manner of dealings when closed—as the Jackal had clearly found—but functionally interchangeable for that purpose. The people who ran them usually had interesting secrets, but those were better investigated in their homes and the places where they went to play.

There were no convenient fire escapes, external stairs or even drain pipes to shimmy up. That was annoying; he much preferred the vantage of rooftops for getting a good look around. These factories were so square and unadorned there was hardly anything to climb. The brick walls were too smooth to ascend without the proper enchanted tools, and anyway, he wouldn’t even care to try that with everything as rain-slick as it was tonight. While this wasn’t good for his view, it was tactically advantageous for this specific situation. Darling was no elf, but he knew how to monkey his way around an urban landscape. If he couldn’t find a way to ascend, the Jackal likely couldn’t, either.

The alley between the two factories wasn’t broad, but it was also clean. Darling slowed his pace as he entered; it was even darker in here, without the benefit of the city lamps, but enough dim glow filtered through for him to make out where to put his feet. Clearly, though, this had been deliberately cleaned, and likely that very day. There wasn’t so much as a broken bottle. He mentally filed this away to investigate later; keeping alleys spotless had certain advantages, but it was a resource-intensive task, and didn’t seem characteristic of the fat cats who owned these factories and paid their workers just enough of a living wage to keep them coming back every shift.

Just as clearly, the two buildings had been designed in tandem. They shared the same spartan architectural sensibilities, and the lack of any windows facing one another showed their designers had known there would be no natural light to be had from this angle. Still, he traveled the full length of the alley, giving due diligence to his task. There was one door in the side of the factory in which the Jackal was allegedly holed up, and two in the other, all three of them firmly locked.

Darling reached the end and poked his head out; a chest-high wall was all that separated him from the drop into the canal below. Both factories were built right against the edge, with no space on which to stand above the canal.

The factory on the right was a good story taller, so even if he made the roof, the Jackal couldn’t jump it. No climbing, no usable entrances… Their quarry wouldn’t be escaping in this direction. It was good to know, but Darling couldn’t shake the feeling he’d just wasted a chunk of time.

Turning to head back, he froze. Mary stood blocking his path, her form mostly in shadow.

“It seems,” she remarked, “I don’t strictly need to know which of your companions you find trustworthy. Perhaps we shall let them demonstrate for themselves, hm?”

“Is this really how you want to do this?” he asked mildly. “I enjoy gamesmanship as much as… Well, okay, a good deal more than the next man, but really, do we need to cultivate a hostile relationship?”

“If we had a hostile relationship, I would have removed you from consideration already.”

“Well, isn’t that reassuring.” He moved a step closer; she didn’t back away. “You know what I mean. You’re clearly interested in forming some kind of understanding. How about we agree to stop playing these games with each other?”

“You show me yours, and I’ll show you mine.”

He hesitated. She already had him over a barrel, given what she knew about Flora and Fauna. It would be so easy for her to explode his entire world… It made him instinctively reluctant to give her more information. On the other hand, that one secret was so potentially devastating she hardly needed more knowledge to scuttle all his plans, so what did it matter? On the third hand, it was a measure of control, giving her intel that she could use against him for lesser effect than completely wrecking his cover, and her “help” this far had been openly manipulative, verging on coercive. On yet another hand, trust was earned, and someone had to make the first overture…

Mary chuckled softly, and he realized he’d ruminated a second too long. “That is our dilemma, is it not? So let us see how this night plays out, Darling, and go from there. I will not betray you, you don’t turn on me. If we can trust one another this far…we’ll see.”

“Should we really be talking here?” he said, tilting his head to tap one ear significantly. “You lot have really sharp hearing, I’m told.”

“Oh, you needn’t worry about the Jackal,” she said dismissively. “He knew you were coming long before you did.”

The crow fluttered back down the alleyway, completely invisible in the darkness. Once its wings were out of earshot there was no sign it had ever been there.

“Right,” he muttered. “That’s a great way to build trust.”

Andros was already there when he jogged back to the others. The crow was not.

“The left flank is extremely porous,” the Huntsman said by way of greeting. “Two unsecured exits from our target’s nest, one into the building beyond.”

“Then we know which way he’ll go if he runs,” Darling replied. “The opposite side is a proverbial duck’s butt. Everything’s locked up tight.”

“Too convenient,” Basra noted. “Sounds like he’s set things up that way. A trap?”

“That’s worth considering,” Darling said, nodding. “I just had a little visit from our taciturn guide; she said the Jackal knows we’re coming.”

“And how does he know?” Andros growled.

“Maybe you made too much noise?” Basra said sweetly.

“No, he’s got a good point,” said Darling. “I don’t get the feeling Mary’s betrayed us, but…that’s just a feeling. She is most definitely working some angle here. We’re gambling that it’s in line with our own.”

“Um,” Branwen said hesitantly, “when the stakes is us walking into a probable trap with a dangerous enemy waiting… Maybe we should consider, uh, not doing it? Is anything about this urgent enough that we have to do it tonight?”

“Just that the Jackal is likely to get away if we don’t move now,” said Basra, then scowled. “Assuming the Crow isn’t in league with him. It wouldn’t be in character; they both work alone, according to my intel. But who knows with elves? Even normal elves, and these two are all kinds of trouble.”

“The Crow has no reason to play such elaborate games,” Andros rumbled. “If she wished us harm, she would simply do us harm. Her power is beyond ours. Besides, she swore an oath, and such as she do not do so lightly. It makes more sense to conclude she is sincere in her desire to help.”

“Into the trap, then,” Darling said grimly.

“Just so,” Andros nodded, then lit up again. “Shields.”

Darling and Branwen weren’t practiced at using the light for that purpose, but they managed. Basra and Andros took the flanks; they approached the factory side by side. Even considering the hour and the weather, the streets were eerily quiet. Between Mary and the Jackal, it seemed likely someone had cleared this area of people. By what means, he didn’t care to contemplate.

They had to break their impromptu formation to enter; the double-wide doors weren’t expansive enough to accommodate four people walking abreast. They opened, though, as soon as Branwen tugged the handle.

“Um,” she said quietly, “is it…normal for factories to be left unlocked after hours?”

All three of them looked at her.

“Right,” she mumbled. “Just checking.”

The lobby inside was as modest, utilitarian and generally ugly as the building itself: scratched and pitted hardwood floor, brick walls, a large old wooden desk just across from the entrance, behind which towered rows upon rows of pigeonhole shelves, most stuffed with papers of one kind or another.

Darling stepped forward and tapped the bell sitting on the desk. Its high, thin sound resonated through the stillness. Nothing happened in response, though.

He turned and smiled at the others, shrugging. “Worth a try.”

“Idiot,” Andros muttered. Basra just shook her head and led the way toward one of the doors along the back wall on either side of the desk.

They had to pass through this in single file, but beyond, they found themselves on the main factory floor. The space was cavernous, intimidating in the darkness. Half-seen shapes loomed around them, marching into the distance; the golden light the four of them put off was the only illumination present, and it only lit up their immediate environs, which largely consisted of boxes stacked against the front wall. Some dim light filtered in through the many rows of windows, but it did nothing to brighten the space, serving only to outline the windows themselves in a sullen glow.

They stood, looking about them, just inside the door, the only sound their breathing…painfully aware that their enemy could detect them clearly. Darling wondered if the Jackal could even hear their heartbeats.

“What does this place even make?” Basra asked. Her voice was impressively even.

Darling stepped to one side, picking up one of the boxes. “Looks like… Toasters.”

“Toasters? What?”

“They toast bread. Heh, that’s actually pretty nifty. ‘No muss, no fuss, perfect toast every time.’ I kinda want one, now.”

“Who needs a whole device to make toast?” Andros growled. “Do people in this city not have fire?”

“Are they expensive?” Basra asked.

Darling turned the box this way and that, studying its labels. “Hm, suggested retail is two doubloons. Not bad! Think I’ll get one for my Butler if we don’t all die in here.”

“Well, that’s something, anyway,” she said, grinning. “We’re already about to learn the limits of the Archpope’s power to get us out of trouble. Breaking and entering, and I foresee a heaping helping of property damage in our near future.”

“We didn’t break,” Branwen said defensively. “It was open.”

“Bran, love, I’ve yet to meet a judge who was impressed with that line,” Darling said with a wink.

“You would know,” Andros rumbled.

“My, my, does Justinian know how absolutely precious the four of you are?” They stiffened, peering this way and that; the voice echoed unnaturally in the vast space, seeming to come from every direction. “Did he select you for your vaudeville skills? But no, he’d have you on pulpits if you were only good for dramatic effect, not skulking around in the dark. Pity.”

“Show yourself!” Andros barked, the light around him intensifying.

A cold chuckle echoed through the darkness. “Well. Since you asked.”

Light bloomed all about them. Above, a row of hanging fairy lamps burned to life, illuminating the first few yards of the factory floor. Then another beyond them lit, then the next, and so on, light expanding from the front of the room to the far distance in a silent march. Half-glimpsed shapes became even stranger in the illumination; Darling recognized conveyor belts, towering glass tubes filled with enchanting dusts and hoses connecting them to various structures, and simple golems positioned to turn the belts and provide motive force in other places, but that was about it. The stacks of metals and other raw materials were fairly obvious, but the rest of the equipment, great abstract sculptures of brass and rune-carved iron, glass and exposed wires, was a mystery to him. Apparently making toasters was complex business.

A row of metal walkways lined the factory’s edges, two stories up. Immense chimneys, connected to every large piece of equipment by pipes and wires, would lead to the antennae atop the factory. The conveyor belts ran in two long rows down each side of the building, lined by equipment and stations for workers, with a long open space between them. At the far end of this stood the Jackal.

Darling was keenly aware of the disparity between human and elven vision. From where they stood, the Jackal was just a slender figure with blonde hair and a dark suit, but he could doubtless tell the color of their eyes. As they squinted at him, their eyes still adjusting to the sudden brightness, he spread his arms wide. Again, his voice echoed unnaturally through the chamber.

“Step into my parlor.”

Adros began moving instantly, striding forward at a good clip, with Basra next. The other two followed a touch belatedly, making their ranks a little uneven until they caught up.

“You will answer for the murder of the priest Hernfeldt,” Andros boomed, glaring at their prey.

“Well, yes,” he replied calmly. Rapidly closing on him, they could see him smiling now. He didn’t look like much, just an elf in a nice suit; he wasn’t even carrying any visible weapons. “Spend enough time in the dirty business, and you eventually have to accept that at some point, everyone answers for all they’ve done. The question we are here to decide is this: will I answer to you, tonight? Or will the four of you just become one more thing for which I must answer later?” He rolled his shoulders and adopted a wider stance, still watching them come.

Darling’s skin was fairly crawling. This was wrong; it made no sense for the elf to let the four of them, invulnerable behind their divine shields, get this close. He slowed his pace, finding the others doing likewise. Branwen was visibly frightened; Basra and Andros were glancing about, in between keeping tabs on the Jackal, clearly looking for the trap they all knew had to be there.

Focused as they were, only Branwen jumped when the great arcane furnaces hummed to life. Around them, conveyors began moving as the golems began turning their cranks. Almost immediately, toaster components started piling up into impromptu junk piles and magical machinery sparked and hissed, all of it operating without any of the people who should be there to oversee the process. In seconds the pieces sitting on the conveyors had been swept into heaps at the far end of the lines, and thaumaturgical equipment was casting a variety of charms directly at the empty belts, mostly to no effect. Things at various points started to spark and smoke, however.

“Is this all you’ve got?” Basra sneered. “Planning to burn the place down around us?”

The crackle of arcane energy was all around them now, unfocused. Darling was no enchanter, but he couldn’t help thinking all this stuff was working faster than made sense; at the speed those belts were turning, it would be prohibitively hard for even a well-trained team to assemble anything moving along them, and the charm-dispensing equipment was starting to emit shrill sounds of protest. Yes; watching, he could clearly see them accelerating. Why overclock the works? To what end?

“That must be it, yes,” the Jackal said equably, smiling at them.

“Surrender,” Andros barked. “You have no avenue of escape. You will be destroyed if you are encircled and give us no reason to hold our fire.” He raised his wand menacingly.

Something flickered through Darling’s perception, a peculiar sensation to which he was quite unaccustomed; it was like a momentary flutter in the divine light coursing through him. Branwen lifted her head, glancing about at the same moment. She had felt it too.

Sudden realization crashed down on him, and he slammed to a stop.

Encircled. The Circles of Interaction.

Even as he realized he was surrounded on all sides by an increasingly unfocused haze of pure arcane magic, he felt the flutter again, stronger; the sensation of divine energy faltering as it was gradually neutralized.

“Back up!” he shouted. “Away from the equipment!”

It was, of course, entirely too late. They were halfway down the length of the whole factory, right between two long corridors of arcane-powered equipment, which was running at an exponentially faster rate as the sabotaged golems cranked them ever more furiously. Sparks and crackles of lightning flashed across the aisle behind them, now; static filled the chamber, lifting their hair and snapping at their clothes.

Andros and Basra both fired simultaneously. Bolts of lightning arced away to the sides, smashing into chunks of machinery. The wands wouldn’t even shoot straight in this. As Darling began frantically backpedaling, dragging a frozen Branwen with him, his shield failed entirely. Hers had already vanished; Andros’s was flickering, and Basra’s had visibly weakened until it was barely discernible in the increasing haze of arcane blue light around them.

Then, finally, the Jackal flew into action.

Darling had, of course, seen elves moving at speed; he was in the process of training two. It had never happened with his life on the line, though, nor with an almost painful concentration of static tugging at him from all sides and lightning beginning to arc between pieces of machinery and various metallic structures all around. The Jackal was a black-and-blonde blur, darting among them. Darling had his grip on Branwen ripped away, then she went tumbling head-over heels with a yelp a split second before something slammed into his solar plexus, driving the breath painfully from his body.

He slumped to his knees, doubled over. Then Andros stumbled backward over him, bearing both of them to the ground, and Darling was effectively blinded, not to mention stunned and dazzled.

Well. This really wasn’t how he’d expected to go out. He’d have preferred something less…ridiculous.

Gasping, trying to force the breath back into his body, he couldn’t spare enough concentration to even try to get a grip on his surroundings—which mostly consisted of Andros’s considerable weight, anyway. But when the Jackal began barking curses in elvish, he did finally realize that the fierce crackling of arcane energy around them was starting to diminish.

He forced himself to breathe as Andros staggered to his feet. Yes, the machinery was shutting down, the power dissipating much faster than it had gathered. He lifted his head, blinking tears from his vision, in time to see the Jackal, standing on a conveyor belt that was slowing to a crawl, his face clenched in a snarl, holding a knife aloft in the act of hurling it.

Darling still couldn’t manage even enough breath to cry out.

Then another black blur sped across his vision, intercepting the blade. The Jackal stared, frozen in momentary surprise, which cost him; yet a third slim figure slammed into him from behind, pitching him forward off the belt.

Darling pushed himself laboriously upright, turning in a painful circle to take stock.

Basra was slumped against a conveyor, in the process of dragging herself up right and looking murderously angry. Andros had his feet again and was now aiming a wand at their foe. Branwen was still down, huddled on the floor with her arms over her head and her rump in the air, which might have made for a pleasing sight in less tense circumstances. Hell, it was a pleasing sight anyway, but he hardly had time to enjoy it.

The fight was already over by the time he managed to focus on it again. The Jackal slumped on the floor, dazed, while Flora efficiently tied his arms behind him and Fauna held his confiscated knife at the ready.

“More elves?” Basra spat, finally straightening herself up. “This is getting downright stupid. Did somebody plant a grove in this city without telling me?” She looked frightful, her short hair sticking up in all directions. Andros was likewise a sight, his already-bushy beard puffed up from static like a scared cat’s tail. Darling discreetly swept his hands over his own coif, smoothing it back into shape.

“How very curious,” Andros rumbled, turning to glare at him, “to find your housemaids here, Antonio.”

“What?” Basra turned to squint at Fauna, who grinned at her. “How can you… Holy shit, they are.”

“Is it over?” Branwen asked tremulously, lifting her head.

Darling sighed and helped her to her feet. “Well. Everyone, you remember Flora and Fauna, my apprentices.” He divided a grim look between them. “With whom I will be speaking later about blowing their cover.”

“You’re welcome,” Flora said acerbically.

“There is no cause for condemnation,” Andros said firmly, turning his stare on Darling. “They performed well, and their eagerness to protect you, even against your orders, speaks to your virtues as a teacher.” He dragged a hand over his beard, pushing it into a semblance of formation, and turned back toward the three elves. “You, however, should remember that you owe your master obedience. What if he had planned an operation that could be botched by well-meaning intervention? You would have ruined everything.”

They gave him matching sardonic stares, and Darling rolled his eyes. Andros’s repeated attempts to position himself as the patriarch of this group were getting annoying. It wasn’t going to work, for the simple reason that nobody here would have taken orders from a self-appointed patriarch, but he’d have to find time and a method to deal with it nonetheless. Andros wasn’t the type to give up just because his project was equally pointless and foolish; when this failed to work, he’d start looking for control in some other manner.

“Thanks for the help, girls,” Darling said, releasing Branwen to step over to them—and keeping a wary eye on the Jackal, who was now tugging experimentally at his bonds. Flora appeared to have mummified his arms together behind his back with a considerable length of thin cord; Fauna cleared her throat and brandished the knife as he shifted his legs. “Orders aside, you really saved our bacon. How’d you know how to shut down the machines?”

“Everything’s pretty clearly labeled,” Fauna said cheerfully.

“You guys actually walked past the master controls on the way in.”

“At first we thought this was some counter-strategy…”

“But then we realized, no, you’d just blundered into the trap.”

“So, sorry it took so long, we weren’t sure you needed help.”

“Next time we won’t give you so much credit!”

“Oh, goddess, they talk in tandem,” Basra groaned.

“Precious, isn’t it?” said the Jackal dryly, then shook his head. “I always suspected it’d be somebody cute who did me in. You four made me nervous enough; the addition of these two bits was the last nail in the coffin, I suppose.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Basra stalked over to him and kicked him in the chest, bowling him over backward.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Fauna protested, glaring. “Easy, lady!”

“Keep it in your pants,” Flora added, tugging the gasping Jackal back upright. “Elves are delicate. How’s he gonna talk if you smash his lungs?”

“Simple enough,” Basra said, holding out a hand. A warm glow extended forward, suffusing the fallen elf. “We can do this all night and he’ll still be fit as a fiddle when we’re done. Be a love and hold him up, I need to work off some frustration.”

“That is enough,” Andros growled.

“Yeah, leave off, Bas,” Darling agreed, noting but not responding to the significant look Fauna gave him. “Go out and get laid afterward like everybody else, we don’t have time for this.”

The Jackal actually laughed. “Ah, you lot really are just a rabble, aren’t you? Can’t even stand each other. It kills me how you’re dumb enough to think you’ll be the ones Justinian decides to keep around. There’s always a bigger fish, kids. Trust me, the final predators will be the ones who can work together without bickering or waltzing into obvious traps.”

“Let me clarify,” Darling said pleasantly. “It’s late, I’m tired, we’re all cranky, and nobody has any patience for your horseshit. You’re here to answer questions, succinctly and accurately, not to make villainous soliloquies.”

“Oh, by all means,” said the Jackal, grinning up at him. “Consider me humbly at your disposal.”

“Marvelous. To begin with, we know you had no reason to kill an Izarite priest of your own volition. Spit out the name of the person who hired you, and I’ll think very seriously about keeping you away from Basra until you’re safely in prison.”

“I never get to have any fun,” she muttered sullenly.

The Jackal was staring up at Darling. He looked… Actually, he looked shocked. Almost immediately, however, a grin blossomed on his face, and then he actually burst out laughing. Flora stepped back, glancing up at Darling uncertainly, as the Jackal fell backward, rolling about and kicking his legs in manic glee.

“I begin to see why this guy didn’t settle down to grow trees with the rest of his clan,” Basra said dryly.

“Oh come on,” Fauna protested. “Do humans really think that’s what we do?”

“Yeah, I’m done with this,” said Darling. “I take it back. Bas, kindly kick him in the nuts.”

“Yay!”

“Wait, wait!” their prisoner gasped, laboriously forcing himself back upright. Basra, who had started moving in response to Darling’s request, paused with one leg upraised. “I’m sorry, it was just too perfect. You didn’t… You actually didn’t know!” He shook his head, still chortling, and grinned up at Darling. “Who hired me? You poor, stupid assholes, we’re on the same team. I was contracted by Archpope Justinian.”

There was a moment in which the only sound was the Jackal’s continued chuckling.

“You’re lying,” Branwen said finally. She didn’t manage to sound convinced.

“I guess I probably am, from where you’re sitting,” the Jackal said gleefully. “That’s the logical conclusion, right? I’m in your power, so the only thing left for me is to sow distrust in your ranks. Hah! Go right ahead and believe that. You’ll never really know the truth until the next time Justinian decides to eliminate a group of unreliable lackeys who know too much. That’s you guys, by the way.”

“Actually, the Archpope did not send them here. According to the itinerary he was given, they would not have gone anywhere near you.”

The Jackal’s mirth vanished instantly and he glared past them at Mary, who now sat atop a still-smoking heap of arcane machinery. “You. You did this?! What did I ever do to you?!”

“Not a thing,” she replied serenely. “You’re merely a means to an end. It’s worth considering that I might have moved to protect rather than use you, had you taken any of the several opportunities I’ve offered you to be of aid to your own people. Yet…here we are.”

He spat a string of words at her in elvish, cutting off only when Fauna slapped him across the back of the head.

“Watch your mouth,” she said sternly. He glared up at her, but fell silent.

“You knew,” Andros growled, turning to face Mary.

“Of course I did,” she said, calm as ever.

“You could have said something,” Darling complained. “Hell, there are a lot of things you could have just told us instead of setting up all this rigamarole.”

“Could I?” She tilted her head. “What reason would you have for believing me? Better that you discover the truth for yourselves. Now that you know it… Well, I imagine you have some decisions to make.”

“Oh, we most certainly do,” Basra said grimly. “You two! Chat and Chew, or whatever it is. Drag that asshole along. We are going back to the Cathedral to have a little conversation with the Archpope.”

“But…” Branwen actually swallowed when Basra turned a glare on her. “But we can’t see him. He’s in seclusion!”

“Can’t we?” Even Darling shied back from Basra’s expression. A grin stretched across her face, pulling her lips to their very limit and baring a lot of teeth. Her eyes, though… It wasn’t that the smile didn’t reach them, but that it reached too well. Her eyes were almost painfully wide, their pupils narrowed to pinpricks. “I think he’ll make time for us.”

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“Here,” said Basra, trotting down the front Cathedral steps to rejoin them. She held a small handful of wands, mass-produced models with thick grips and shiny new clickers that suggested they’d never been used. To Darling she gave two; Branwen accepted one, looking somewhat bemused.

“The shrine of Avei in there has wands?” Darling said in surprise. “I thought you lot were all about blades and traditional enchantment and whatnot.”

“That’s what I’m carrying,” Basra said, patting the sword now buckled at her waist, “but with all due respect—however much is due—I’m not going to assume either of you can handle a real weapon. And no, the shrine doesn’t, but the Holy Legion’s armory is pretty well-equipped.”

“I’m not shooting anybody,” Branwen insisted, holding the wand as gingerly as she might a live snake. “Izarites offer harm to no one.”

“That’s fine,” Basra said condescendingly. “I’ve given you the thing, so when you die from not defending yourself nobody can say it’s my fault. All right, you!” She pointed at the crow currently perched atop a nearby lamp post. “Which way are we heading?”

Fortunately, at this hour, even the Cathedral’s main steps were deserted. Tiraas was a city that never stopped glowing, nor truly slept, but it was a city whose weather often didn’t encourage sightseeing and lollygagging after dark. This was one such night; fog that couldn’t seem to decide whether it wanted to be a gloomy drizzle had dampened everything, reducing the fairy lamps to fuzzy patches of disembodied glow and obscuring the architectural splendor of Imperial Square. There was probably nobody about but the local constabulary, and none happened to be close enough to see a Bishop of the Universal Church addressing a bird.

The crow ruffled is feathers, tilting its head to peer down at her inquisitively.

“Well?” Basra prompted after a moment, then scowled. “…is that her? That had better be her. If I’m trying to have a conversation with some random carrion-eating feather duster, I’m gonna stab somebody.”

“Well, we can’t have that,” said Mary, amused. As always, she didn’t visibly shift; she was just an elf now, and apparently always had been, standing on the toes of her moccasins atop the lamp post as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Those non-changing transitions were starting to give Darling a sense of vertigo. “At least, not before it’s time. For me to lead you directly through the city would garner more attention than I like, but I assume you can follow directions well enough. You should start with the attack site; the crime is still fresh, and undiscovered. The Jackal has made arrangements and is counting on it remaining so until morning. Get there now and you can begin disrupting his plans.”

“And where is there?” Andros demanded.

Mary grinned. “Go to the Temple of Izara. Ask for Hernfeldt, and when they try to stop you, insist.”

“Oh, no,” Branwen whispered, and took off at a near run. The others quickly fell into step behind her, Basra muttering irritably under her breath. Behind them came the flapping of wings as their guide disappeared into the night.

Branwen was in surprisingly good shape. Like most of the main temples, that of Izara wasn’t far from Imperial Square; the city planners, and/or whatever Izarites had lobbied them, had placed it prominently at another large intersection. Nonetheless, it was ordinarily a walk of fifteen minutes. They made it in five, with Branwen staying in the lead of the group and never growing so much as winded, despite her short stature and generally cushiony appearance. She didn’t visibly glow during the trip, but drawing on divine healing may have helped explain her sudden vigor.

“You know this Hernfeldt?” Darling asked as they went. He and Andros had long enough legs to keep up with her vigorous trot without breaking into a jog themselves. Basra was having a little more trouble, being forced to lope for a few steps every minute or so, and looked increasingly annoyed by it.

“Yes,” Branwen said, uncharacteristically terse.

“You don’t seem surprised to hear of this,” Andros rumbled.

She shook her head, neither slowing nor looking back at him. They passed a few people, now, some of whom recognized at least part of their group and bowed to them, but Branwen didn’t allow them to slow and engage in pleasantries. “No follower of Izara deserves…that.”

“All the so-called victims deserved what they got,” Basra said snidely from the rear of the group. “That’s what they all have in common.”

To this, Branwen made no reply.

The city’s layout being what it was, they actually approached the Temple of Izara from the rear and had to proceed along its whole length to round the building and reach the front entrance. Apparently there was no back way in, which struck Darling as odd… Or perhaps it was just on the other side, or maybe underground. Regardless, there wasn’t a visible break in the towering wrought iron fence that enclosed the temple grounds until they rounded the corner into the square ahead. The archway leading into the front garden was bracketed by two Silver Legionnaires on either side, who stiffened and saluted Basra as they passed within.

While the Cathedral and the main temples of Avei and Omnu favored towering spires and sloped roofs, the Temple of Izara had a softer look. Set well back from the street, surrounded by lush flower gardens well-illuminated with fairy lamps, the white marble structure might actually have looked rather squat and blocky if not for its several gilded domes, stained-glass windows heavily favoring pink, and the vines and climbing roses ascending many of its walls. Overall it had a gentle look, even in the darkness, which the four Bishops didn’t pause to appreciate.

Branwen took the steps up to the main entrance at a near run. At this hour, the large doors were shut, though of course they weren’t locked; the acolytes of Izara made themselves available at any and all times, which resulted in good-natured jokes about “love emergencies.” Two more Legionnaires guarded the entrance. They, too, were stiffly at attention in Basra’s presence, which deprived Darling of the chance to observe some interfaith tensions in action. He’d heard that guarding Izarite temples was considered a punishment duty among Avenists.

The main hall was a similarly soft place, lit by fairy lamps and some exterior light through towering pink windows. It was full of pillows, low couches, the sweet scent of incense and the sound of gently splashing fountains. A few people were about, sitting or strolling together, some talking in low voices.

“Bishop Snowe,” a tall, willowy blonde woman greeted them, gliding over from the shade of a huge potted fern. “Your Graces, this is a surprise. How can—”

“We need Hernfeldt,” Branwen cut her off.

The woman raised her eyebrows. “Brother Hernfeldt is in seclusion in his chambers this evening,” she said carefully, “communing with the goddess. He is not to be disturbed.”

“He’s been pretty well disturbed, if our source is correct,” Basra remarked.

“One’s meditations are not to be—”

“Now!” Branwen said sharply. “This is a matter of life and death, Zoe!”

The priestess leaned back in surprise. “I…if you say so, Bishop. I hope we are not disrupting him frivolously. Abdul, please take the door position?”

Leaving another priest to assume her post greeting visitors, Zoe led them to an arched doorway off to one side of the hall. Apparently she was, indeed, taking Branwen’s orders seriously; at least, she set as rapid a pace as she could without causing a disturbance in the great hall. There was probably not much running in a temple of the goddess of love.

“You two,” Basra said sharply to another pair of Legionnaires standing inside the front doors. “With us.”

They exchanged a glance. “Ma’am, we’re assigned to guard—”

“Did I ask for your opinion, soldier?”

“No, ma’am!”

Zoe led them through the halls of the temple, the four Bishops right behind her and the two Legionnaires bringing up the rear. They walked in tense silence, the priestess having quickly picked up the mood. Well, Izarites were famously empathetic, after all. The temple’s layout seemed somewhat obfuscatory, assuming Zoe was taking them on as direct a route as possible; they changed direction and seemed to have to backtrack as they climbed floors, no single staircase apparently continuing for more than one story. Annoying as it was, Darling could appreciate the tactical benefit; anybody not familiar with these corridors would quickly become lost. Of course, Izarites being as they were, they probably had different reasons, but he didn’t understand their worldview deeply enough to interpret their architectural choices.

Finally, though, Zoe brought them to a stop outside a thick oak door on an upper corridor. Branwen strode up to this and rapped sharply with her knuckles. “Brother Hernfeldt?”

“Waste of time,” Andros growled. “We were told it was already too late.”

“Too late?” Zoe looked back and forth between them. “What is going on?”

“It’s locked,” Branwen said, jiggling the knob uselessly. “Blast… He really was in seclusion.”

“Allow me.” Darling knelt beside the door, extracting lock picks from within his sleeve.

“Oh,” Zoe fretted, “I don’t think you should be doing that…”

Before he could start working, however, Basra bumped him heavily with her hip, nearly sending him sprawling; he barely managed to keep a grip on his tools with one hand, catching himself with the other. She took one step back and drove her foot against the door in a powerful snap kick, wrenching it open with a crunch of wood.

“That also works,” he acknowledged, getting up. Before anybody could say anything else, Zoe screamed.

There was a brief traffic jam as all four Bishops tried to crowd into the door to look. Branwen was ultimately bumped forward into the room itself, Darling and Basra filling the opening and Andros craning his neck to see over them.

Brother Hernfeldt’s room was not large, nor ostentatious, but in keeping with Izarite aesthetics, it was more comfortable than the chambers of priests of other faiths tended to keep theirs. A large bed predominated the space, along with a cushy-looking sofa lining one entire wall and a much more modest desk and low bookcase opposite. He had apparently liked quilts; they were draped over the bed, couch and desk chair. The large one on the bed was a predominantly white and pink pattern, which very well showed off the blood drenching it.

Hernfeldt himself was a dwarf, or had been. He lay with his feet toward the door, pinned to his bed with the poker from his small fireplace driven clean through his chest.

Darling frowned. This was, indeed, not the work of his girls; too sloppy, no touch added to signify a Wreath link. The Jackal, from what little he knew of the elf, could certainly have done it. But then, so could Mary. She was definitely playing some kind of game with him. How willing was she to sacrifice pawns to achieve her ends? What were her ends?

“The killings,” Zoe whispered, one hand over her mouth. “Oh…oh, no, Hernfeldt. I told him to leave the city…”

“What’s that?” Basra turned to her, arching an eyebrow. “You do know the killer’s been targeting the corrupt, then? What was this fellow about that drew his attention?”

“He…he had…” She swallowed. “…urges. He controlled himself, though! He would never have acted on… That is, the worship of our lady helps us to channel our desires, to emphasize what’s healthy over… Hernfeldt is—” Zoe choked on a sob, but continued. “He was a good man, he’d never have actually done…anything.”

“Uh huh,” Basra said dryly. “What was it, eh? Goats? Corpses? Little boys?”

“Enough, Bas,” Darling said firmly, pushing into the room and swiftly casing it. The Jackal—or whoever had done this—was good. The locked door meant he hadn’t gone in and out that way. There was one window, narrow, but big enough for a person to slip through. He crossed swiftly to this, studying it. Closed, but not latched. It wouldn’t latch from the outside.

“Pretty girls pissing on decoupage—”

“Basra!” he shouted, turning to glare at her. “Needle the Izarites on your own time.”

“Fine, fine,” she said, following him into the room. “Our perp is gone, I take it?”

“This was his exit.” Darling knelt, touching the thick carpet under the window. “Damp here… The rug’s color makes it hard to see, but these are footprints, not just splashing from a loose window. This is how he came and went. Look, there’s a roof right outside here… It’s almost too easy.”

“You two,” she said more curtly, turning back to the Legionnaires standing just outside the room. “This needs to be reported immediately. Notify your captain and have word sent to the city watch and the Church.”

The two soldiers exchanged another glance.

“And the High Commander, ma’am?” one prompted.

“Yes, yes,” Basra said impatiently, waving them off. “Go.”

They saluted in unison, then whirled and dashed back down the hall. Branwen had slipped out of the room and was now trying to comfort Zoe, who appeared nearly catatonic.

Darling pushed open the window and lifted one foot to rest on the frame. “I’m going to have a look, here, see if I can determine the route he used.”

“Foolish,” Andros rumbled, “to follow a badger into his den.”

“He’s in Tiraas,” Darling said grimly. “This isn’t his den. It’s mine.” He slipped nimbly through, splashing down on the stone outside.

Hernfeldt’s view had been somewhat obstructed by a sizable dome that terminated right outside his window, but it did make for a convenient escape route. Being a round roof on a square building, the dome left a lip of flat stone all around this section of the temple, widest at the corners and guarded by a low, crenelated wall. Just below this was another half-dome over a lower wing of the temple, providing an easy slide down—or, for someone as nimble as an elf, a path up. Right now, everything was slick with the spurting drizzle, but Darling didn’t doubt the Jackal could have made the climb.

Of course, climbing was a complete non-issue for the Crow…

He wasn’t terribly surprised when Andros and then Basra joined him outside.

“There,” he said, pointing over the edge. “Down that roof, and from there he could jump to that pillar in the fence. Flat-topped…not very good for keeping people out.”

“The Izarites don’t want to keep anybody out,” Basra said disgustedly. “Unfortunately for what’s-his-name.”

“Or he could have climbed the vines,” Andros said. “The pillar is too far to jump.”

“To far for us,” Darling corrected. “An elf could make that.”

“Elves are fast, but they are not strong,” the Huntsman growled. “Jumping a long distance requires muscular legs.”

“Look, I don’t presume to know how they do it, but believe me, I’ve seen firsthand what elves can and cannot jump. Trust me, one could get across that. I’m gonna take a closer look.”

“You’re gonna catch your death of three-story drop, is what,” Basra said. “Look, it’s not like you can—and there he goes.”

Darling vaulted over the edge, sliding neatly down the half-dome below to land on the lower rim of stone without losing his footing. Behind him, Andros slid down a little more carefully and less gracefully, but also without falling.

“Yeah, you two take the more dangerous route,” Basra called from above. “It’d be just awful if everybody failed to see how big your dicks are. I’ll meet you at the bottom.”

“Funny thing is,” Darling mused aloud, peering across at the thick pillar, “this is probably the one temple in the city where this isn’t the first time somebody’s said that.” Inwardly, he filed that away against Fauna’s theory about Basra. The heartless, as elves called them, were usually the most reckless members of whatever group they were in, and never the least. That was what got most of them caught.

“You are more adept on your feet than I expected,” Andros remarked.

“I’m not just a pretty face, Andros.”

“Hn.”

“You were right,” he said, peering over, “there’s a thick vine cover here. Hm… Also no lights nearby. This would be a perfect place to climb up.”

“It makes no difference,” Andros growled. “Tracking in the rain is hard. Tracking in the city is hard. Tracking elves under any circumstances is prohibitively hard. Together they add up to an impossibility. We are dependent upon that woman to tell us which way he went. Assuming she actually knows.”

“Makes you wonder, doesn’t it,” Darling mused, “what kind of game she’s playing. Seems to me that bringing us here to see all this first is just…”

“Wasting time.”

“Yup.” They exchanged a grim look. “Bas didn’t give you a wand. I assume you’ve got your own?”

“Always.”

“Good.” He slipped nimbly over the side and began to descend; the vines did, indeed, provide an excellent grip. Getting up this way would have been easy enough for him, probably as simple as a stroll through the meadow for an elf. “Don’t trust the Crow any farther than you absolutely must.”

“Obviously,” Andros said disdainfully, following him over. Though he was much bigger, his weight didn’t prove too much for the vines, and he was deft enough in his descent. Once he was relatively certain the Huntsman wasn’t going to fall on him, Darling didn’t give him any more attention for the rest of the way down.

Not trusting the Crow was, indeed, obvious, but he wasn’t just making conversation. Mary had all the knowledge she needed to turn the other Bishops against him with a few well-chosen words. He could choose words, too, and it was never too early to start cutting into her credibility.

---

 

She ruffled her feathers, scattering raindrops, watching the two men descend from a convenient roof across the street. They’d regroup outside, once they’d finished setting the Church, the Imperials and the Avenists on the Jackal’s trail. By the time she re-convened with the four Bishops to give them their next breadcrumbs, the forces set in motion would be great enough to make this his last visit to Tiraas even if these humans failed to deal with him themselves. It would be ideal if they managed, but if push came to shove, she could arrange for him to confess his involvements to whoever brought him down. It would be trickier to pull off, and carried less certainty that the information would lead to the result she wanted, but it would be something.

Could the Bishops deal with him? The Sister and the Huntsman were potent threats, and Darling was not to be underestimated. Even the Izarite had tactical use against a stealthy foe; it was very hard to sneak up on an empath. Still, she might need to give them a few nudges. Subtly, of course. It was important they think they’d done it without her help.

Mary felt the howling presence of dozens of maddened spirits even before she saw the two materialize on either side of her. Impressive. Invisibility was a parlor trick to eldei alai’shi, but few of them had mastered the subtleties of their expensive gifts well enough to hide from her.

“You should understand something, if you’re going to be leading Sweet around on adventures in the city,” Flora said in a pleasant tone.

“You have tacitly taken responsibility for his well-being,” said Fauna, her smile doing nothing to offset the tension in her frame.

“You know something of our…kind, I take it?”

“Of course, someone like you has dealt with headhunters before.”

“Every one I could find,” Mary replied calmly, in her elven form again.

Flora’s smile widened enough to show just the tips of her teeth. “Ever killed one?”

“I never tried.” She shook her head. “Pointless. You were dead the moment you walked into Athan’Khar. All that remains at question is how much time passes before you lie down and accept it… And how many you bring down with you.”

Fauna cocked her head to one side. “Interesting. What would you seek them out for, if not to kill them?”

“Because they were elves,” she said simply, “because they suffered, and because no one should have to be alone.”

The two exchanged a loaded glance that made her wonder about the nature of their relationship.

“So,” Flora drawled. “Think you could kill one?”

“Let alone two?”

“Aren’t you two supposed to be at home, asleep?”

“We’re supposed to do a lot of things.”

“Our teachers are very disappointed with us.”

“When they catch us.”

“Which has nothing to do with this. You were asked a question.”

“I really don’t have time for this tonight, girls,” she said mildly. “Kindly make your threats and be done before I have to resume guiding the humans. They’re clever, but I hate to leave them blundering around unsupervised with the Jackal in town.”

“Very well, if you’re in such a hurry,” said Flora, still with that icy smile. “You’re an impressive piece of work, but so are we.”

“Whatever you do, we can track you down.”

“And if it comes down to it, you are not a match for the both of us.”

“So whatever it is you’re planning for our Sweet, I suggest you be extremely cautious of his well-being.”

“We will hold you responsible for what happens to him.”

“If he comes back with so much as a stubbed toe or a bump on the head…”

“Whatever happens to him, will happen to you.”

“Twice.”

Mary kicked her legs idly over the edge of the roof. “Two of you…apparently a matched set. That’s only the beginning of what’s new and fascinating about you. Already you’ve made it longer than most, and you are more stable, more sane and well-adjusted, than any headhunter I’ve encountered. And…a great deal of the credit for that, it appears, goes to Antonio Darling.”

“Precisely,” said Flora, nodding. “Hence our attachment to him.”

“I’ve seen men try to control eldei alai’shi before,” Mary went on, still calm as though she weren’t bracketed by maddened avatars of death. “It ends quickly, and exactly as they deserve. With him, though… It’s not about control, is it? There is care there. He is not only invested deeply in your welfare, he has actually managed to secure it. Something that no one, even no elf, has ever thought to try. No… I don’t want Darling harmed. I’m not certain what to make of him, just yet, but I strongly suspect I’ll want to wait and see how he develops.”

“The curiosity of a scientist examining a specimen,” Fauna said coldly. “That’s not what we’re looking for. Do we need to repeat our warning?”

They tensed as she flowed swiftly to her feet, but Mary made no aggressive move. Instead, she placed one hand over her heart, bowing to each of them in turn. “An’shala nau selenai. Valthiis nau selenai.”

Both of them reared back from her in surprise, going wide-eyed.

“Does that satisfy you?” Mary asked dryly.

“I think,” Flora said slowly, “that will do.”

“Very good, I’m glad we could settle this. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must continue to oversee my humans, otherwise they’ll probably fall in a hole or something. They’re such children.”

She took off in a flutter of dark wings before they had a chance to respond, leaving the two headhunters to stare after her in bemusement.

“Could she really be serious?” Fauna asked. “Would she go back on her word?”

“No. Not that one. She’s as tauhanwe as they come, but firmly, proudly elf. A vow like that… She won’t break it.”

“Then… I guess he’ll be safe, after all, with her watching over him.”

“Oh, well then, we can just go home and sleep safe and sound in our comfy beds.”

“There’s no need to be snide,” Fauna said reproachfully. Grinning, Flora gave her a quick one-armed hug.

No one could have seen, in the dark and the mist, the two shapes that soared silently across the street, leaping farther than even elves could have.

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“Anyhow,” Darling said, strolling casually along the stone lip surrounding the roof, “a Hush means the subject isn’t even to be discussed. There are exceptions involved in patron-apprentice privilege, if the subject Hushed is relevant to your education. However, if it gets back to Style or Tricks that I’ve told you about this, I’ll have to explain why it’s relevant… Which involves the fact that I’ll need your help if Prin ever resurfaces, which I’d rather not have a conversation about. So…”

“Got it,” said Fauna.

“Mum’s the word,” Flora added.

“Why are you telling us, though?” Fauna asked. “I mean, I appreciate the trust, but it’s not clear to me how we factor into this.”

“Two reasons,” he replied, then turned and leaped across the gap in front of him, sailing over an alley and landing on the next roof over, a distance away that would have been impossible for him to jump except his landing spot was a good six feet lower. Darling savored the thrill that rushed through him as the four story drop passed by underneath. It wasn’t often, anymore, that he got to do stuff like this.

The two elves, of course, appeared almost to float across, alighting soundlessly on either side of him with barely a flex of the knees to betray any difficulty in the jump. By the gods, they were going to make fantastic thieves.

“Prin is still on that list of Basra’s, though she’s not considered a target or a suspect at the moment.” He set off at a right angle to the path they’d been taking before, again strolling along the decorative lip of stone rimming the roof. All the buildings in this, a newer and fairly rich part of town, were made in a style that proved very convenient for rooftop work. Flora and Fauna followed him on the actual sloping roof, appearing to have no trouble keeping their footing on slate pitched at forty-five degrees. “The list is about more than that, though. Justinian wants people to work for him, and this business of hunting the mysterious priestkiller sounds like an excuse. I think a big part of what we’ve been sent to do is to recruit anyone on the list who’s willing to serve the Church, and use them to take out the rest, giving him a monopoly on formerly independent operatives. It’s a good ploy in his position, since the priestkiller in question,” he grinned over his shoulder at them, “has beautifully succeeded in undoing his work in setting the Wreath and the Empire against each other. All my intel points to the same; the cults are more suspicious than ever of the Church, and any hostility the Wreath held toward the Throne has been handily redirected. Brilliant work, ladies.”

“Serial killer,” Flora said primly.

He paused and turned back to them, raising his eyebrows in surprise. “Pardon?”

“A priestkiller is a kind of demon,” said Fauna. “A gnagrethyct, in the infernal tongue.”

“Nasty critter,” Flora added. “Not a pleasant thing to have associated with you.”

“Duly noted,” he said dryly. “I’ll try to keep it in mind. The point is, even if Principia isn’t a target for elimination, she is a target for recruitment, and that would be a huge problem. Either Justinian might actually suborn her, which, given what I learned looking through her files, would be a nightmare, or we’d need to protect her from him. Which, frankly, I don’t think we can even do.”

“Bet we could,” Fauna said, grinning.

Darling snorted and turned to continue along his path. “A day may come when I set you loose upon the Church openly, but if it does, know that the end is near. That, girls, would be the very definition of a last, desperate act. No… I want your ears to the ground, physically and metaphysically. Don’t go hunting after Prin—there’s no need to create a trail that anyone else might be able to follow, especially since we don’t know what divinatory methods Basra or Justinian may have. But if she does turn up again, we need to know first, and be positioned to redirect any Church attention away from her.”

“Got it,” said Flora.

“Second reason,” he continued, “is that this actually is an educational opportunity. Consider what we found and how the Guild’s leadership reacted. Principia has clearly been conning the Guild itself on an unprecedented scale, and…no response. Thoughts on that?”

“Well, it’s like you said,” Fauna replied slowly. “It’s…a pretty epic con. I can see why the Guild would respect that too much to mess it up.”

“Uh huh, and I told you that right out. That’s a hint I’m not looking for you to spit it back to me as a critical thinking exercise.” He gave her a smile over his shoulder to take the sting out of the words. “Think deeper, broader. Think implications. What have I told you about cons and how they fail?”

“Simpler is better,” Flora said immediately. “The more possible ways a con has to fail, the more likely one of them is to happen.”

“Bingo, you’re on the right track. Now consider what Prin was doing. How huge it was, how many things had to line up for it to work. You’re seeing the discrepancy?”

“Yeah,” Fauna said, growing excitement audible in her voice. “She’d had to have bribed basically all the accountants, there’d be no way to ensure none of them would compare notes if they were just filing reports as always…”

“That’s still really complex,” Flora said thoughtfully. “Ooh! What if it was just one accountant she got on her side? I bet slipping things into the files is a lot easier than taking things out.”

“Simpler,” Darling conceded, “but still missing details. Girls, if anybody had come to me proposing this con I’d have refused to have anything to do with it. The records are far from the only thing she’d have to control. Think how many people might send in reports about her, how many places she’s been, how many of her schemes could have crossed someone else’s and provoked a response… It’s just too damn huge.”

“I give up, then,” Fauna said testily. “How did she do it?”

Darling shrugged, not looking back. “Your guess is as good as mine, I expect. Like I said… I could never have plotted out something like this, much less carried it out. There’s a reason we were all so damn impressed.”

“I, uh, think you lost us,” said Flora hesitantly. “What’s the lesson here, then?”

“Think,” Darling admonished. “We have this massive scheme, clearly indicating the Guild’s inner enforcement has been compromised on multiple levels by one of its members, most of them completely unknown, and the Boss not only refuses to investigate… He forbids anyone else from doing so, either.” He stopped and turned to face them. “Why?”

They exchanged a glance. “The Boss is in on it?” Fauna suggested.

Darling shook his head. “It’s all about motivations, about values, girls. Even I think Odds’s record system is ridiculous, but I totally understand where he’s coming from. The fact is, girls, though we do stand for certain principles, the kind of folk who are attracted to join the Thieves’ Guild are not necessarily good people. They are very rarely nice people. We don’t all get along, and a good many of us work together only under duress. So what’s holding this Guild together? The rules?”

“Loyalty.”

“Faith?”

“What’s the opening of the catechism?” he countered.

“All systems are corrupt!”

“All governments and all laws exist to benefit those in power!”

He held up a hand to stop them there, suppressing a grimace. They even did that in tandem. Well, at least the answer was satisfyingly prompt, and enthusiastic.

“Exactly right. All laws. All governments.” He stared at them intently. “All systems.”

In unison, their eyes widened, his implication sinking in.

“But…” Flora sounded almost betrayed. “But the Guild?”

“What your fellow thieves will rarely tell you,” he said, beginning to move forward again, “is that systems, laws and governments are a necessary evil. Without them it’s just anarchy, the strong preying on the weak—exactly the thing we don’t want. Remember, though, that the Guild itself is one of those necessary evils. In order for Eserites to be effective as a group, we need some organization. But we never place our faith in systems, in structures. Be very cautious about placing faith in people—only specific people who have earned your trust and respect, never people in general. I told you the Assumption of People?”

Fauna cleared her throat and recited, “The average person’s stupidity and incompetence is the only thing holding their malicious intentions in check.” Her grin was audible, even from behind.

“Exactly. You can have faith in the Big Guy himself, so long as you don’t expect him to solve your problems for you. What you should have faith in is yourself, and your skills. Never the Guild or any organization. And that is what the lesson of Principia Locke so abundantly demonstrates. The fact that she twisted and abused and weaseled around the Guild is not only not a hostile action against her fellow thieves, it is damn well laudable. It’d earn her a standing ovation if we let it be known.”

He hopped over a much smaller gap onto another roof, this one flat, and cut straight across it. “That’s how it is in the Guild. People are always trying to get around the rules, not to mention conning each other. Or, depending on the branch in which their skills lie, cracking each other over the head, so to speak. We expect, understand and even depend on that friction; it’s a big part of what keeps us all sharp. Over time and with exposure, you’ll build rep and gain respect, assuming you make yourself worthy of it—which I have every confidence you will. You’ll make friends who you can count on to have your back. But I expect you to become very familiar with the Guild’s codes governing what you are and are not allowed to do to fellow members. Partly so you’ll know where to place your own steps, but largely so you’ll understand where the lines are drawn and don’t get taken by surprise when somebody screws you over while still obeying the letter of the rules.”

“Sounds…stressful,” Flora murmured.

“Would you rather be bored?” he said airily.

“What keeps people honest, then?” Fauna asked. “Or loyal, anyway. You make it sound like everybody should be at each other’s throats, but the Guild’s always seemed… I dunno, kinda warm and open, to me.”

“At the end of the day, we are a cult. We serve a living, active god. Odds told me that it’s Eserion himself who warns the Boss of attempts to embezzle Guild funds, which I hadn’t known. It didn’t happen under my leadership. But I certainly did know that the Big Guy steps in whenever real treason is brewing. He knows what’s in your heart, girls. You don’t need to worry about that; he’ll keep it to himself…unless you turn on the Guild. Then, expect the Big Guy to send your fellow thieves after you.”

“Huh,” said Flora. “Well, that just makes this whole mess harder to understand.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” Fauna chimed in, “If the Big Guy spots traitors and tells the Boss, how come Tricks seemed to think Principia was a traitor and then changed his mind?”

Darling had just hopped another small gap and nearly lost his balance as he landed. Flora arrived next to him and grabbed his collar; she didn’t have the upper body strength to lift him, but he only needed a momentary steadying. He nodded thanks to her, but distractedly so.

“That,” he said slowly, “is an excellent question.”

Bloody hell, it really was. Something didn’t add up, and more than the missing details of Principia’s scheme. What was Tricks playing at? Ruefully, Darling reminded himself to pay attention to his own advice about Guildmates. Tricks hadn’t earned his tag by being straightforward.

“Well, in any case, here we are.” He forced himself to push the matter to the back of his mind, pointing at the next building over. “You know your instructions. Take up your positions, ladies; you won’t be able to keep an eye on me directly, but you’ll spot my accomplices first, followed by the target.”

“On it!” Flora said cheerily, and they both bounded away, seeking good vantage points from which to view the surrounding alleys.

Darling marshaled his thoughts as he pulled out the thin packet of fabric from within his coat. The slippery material of the cloak folded beautifully; it could be reduced to a truly tiny package. He had led them to a point a little bit distant from his eventual goal, but this rooftop had a perfect exterior staircase, which would spare him the indignity of shimmying down a drainpipe. He strolled calmly down the steps, swirling the cloak around his shoulders as he went and vanishing from view.

---

 

Looking like he did, it wasn’t often that Oz had such good luck with the ladies. Usually, he had to go to a Temple of Izara in order to get his hands on a woman, and he tried not to make a habit of that. The priestesses had a way of getting a man to talk about what was on his mind…more than he might with any bedmate, even. And sacred duty or no, some of them might feel the need to report some of what he admitted in the afterglow to Imperial authorities. Granted, that had only happened once and in the long run he’d been more let down by the look on the girl’s face than the minor (and familiar) inconvenience of having to skip town barely ahead of the Marshals, but the whole experience had been enough to make him wary.

Still, it was the fact that priestesses of Izara were the only real love he’d sampled in many a year that drew him toward this girl—even more than her pretty face and build. Well, maybe not more than the build. She had just about the most impressive bust he’d ever seen, and framed it in a dress that was pleasingly tight and far from excessively high-cut. Still, though, it had been her brooch that was the clincher, the pink lotus sigil that marked her as a devotee of Izara. Probably not a very good one, considering that she was clearly wearing makeup, but still. Izarites, laypeople or clergy, were all about openness and love. And hell, if she was hanging around in a dive like this, she probably wasn’t stodgy enough to go for the constables if he let down his guard a little.

And indeed, she hadn’t turned away when he approached, even giving him a warm smile and a flirtatious look up through her lashes. She really did have the prettiest blue eyes. Furthermore, she actually seemed to be into him—mashed nose, scarred face, cauliflower ear and all. Oz didn’t even remember the cheesy line he’d used to get her attention. He’d been into the whiskey for a good two hours already by that point, and it wasn’t one of his better ones, but it was for precisely that reason that he was encouraged when it didn’t immediately scare her off.

Branwen was, indeed, an Izarite, and seemed fascinated to hear the details of his life. He had no shortage of exciting stories—Oz the Beater’s reputation was well-earned, and with her encouragement, he’d gone into details he normally wasn’t in a hurry to share. Brushes with the law, stints in prison or work camps, run-ins with wild elves and frontier witches, excursions into old temples and occasional jobs working with members of the Thieves’ Guild, or sometimes outlaw bands (while they lasted before the Guild crushed them). He’d led an exciting life, after all. And since it hadn’t made him any richer, why not use it to cash in with the ladies, when one seemed interested?

He’d lost track of time and how much he’d spent on drinks, but it was going very well. Branwen was snuggled neatly up under his arm, one hand on his broad chest, looking up at him more adoringly with each anecdote. Oz was very much aware of her full breast pressing against his side, under the ribs—she was pretty short—but somewhat oddly for him, he was almost enjoying her attention more than the thought of how much further he was going to get tonight. Sure, she was a lovely bit, he hadn’t had a woman in far too damn long and he had possibly never gotten his hands on a pair of tits like that, but still… Oz would never have admitted it, but being liked by a pretty girl was, in its own way, as satisfying as getting laid. Harder to achieve, too. He couldn’t remember the last time it had happened. If it ever had.

The other patrons in the dimly lit bar were giving him his space. Even those who didn’t recognize him or know his reputation knew well enough to let a man alone when he was working a girl. At least, a man of his size, with the kind of face that told of brawls beyond counting. The bartender was clear at the other end of the room, engrossed in a penny dreadful by the light of an oil lamp—this run-down hole was too cheap for fairy lamps, even the flickery old-fashioned ones. Oz and Branwen had a little island of relative privacy at one end of the bar.

Coming to the end of a story, he basked in her delighted laughter, but let the silence drag on a bit afterward. Gulping the last of his whiskey to cover for it, he inwardly cursed at himself. What the hell was this? Was he nervous? He was Oz the Beater—he was afraid of nothing! But… Damn it, he liked this girl. Still, he didn’t aim to spend the whole night serenading her with old stories in a dive bar.

“So, uh,” he said, then trailed off, cleared his throat and tried again. “I got a room, not too far from here.” Slowly, almost gingerly, cursing his sudden inner weakness, he let the arm draped around her slide downward, finally letting his fingers graze her butt. “You, uh, maybe wanna…”

Branwen grinned up at him, and suddenly there was something warm, something heated in her eyes that caused his head to go even fuzzier than the whiskey made it.

“I’ve been waiting for you to ask for the last half hour,” she purred, slowly rubbing her hand up and down his chest. “Not that you don’t tell great stories, Oz, but you should learn to tell when you’ve got a girl’s attention.”

“Well, ya got me,” he admitted easily. Emboldened by the sudden elation coursing through him, he squeezed her bum firmly; when she giggled and snuggled in closer, he gave her a quick, one-armed hug. “Hope you’ll excuse me bein’ a little slow, honey. Ain’t every day I meet a lady as pretty as you. Hell…ain’t any day. I keep thinkin’ you’re gonna wise up any minute an’ ditch me for somebody in your league.” Too late, he clamped his mouth shut. Stupid. Why’d he have to go and say a thing like that? Now she was gonna—

Branwen reached up to place her fingers over his lips, and suddenly there was a simple sincerity in her expression that made his heart ache oddly. “Don’t,” she said softly. “Don’t do that. You deserve happiness just like anybody else.”

Maybe the gods had a few rays of light to shine on old Oz after all.

He cleared his throat roughly. Despite the whiskey lubricating his tongue, words just weren’t there. “Well, uh… Shall we, then?”

She was all smiles and giggles again when he helped her into her coat, even when he fumbled slightly with the differences in their height, but he had to chortle along with her. Some girls would’ve laughed at him—well, okay, most girls—but she made him feel included. He felt so on top of the world he was barely conscious of anything but her as they stepped out of the bar and into the dank alley leading to it. Hopefully he could remember the way to the room he’d rented…

“Oswald Terrence Chamberlain.”

The voice out of the shadows up ahead jolted him to a stop. He hadn’t even seen them; two people stood on either side of the alley, not blocking the way physically, but clearly presenting themselves as a barrier. A slim, dark-haired woman and a bearded man, taller even than he, though not as burly. Oz blinked, refocusing his vision, but the spectacle refused to change. She wore a white robe with a bronze breastplate over it, not full Legionnaire uniform but the light armor they sometimes used on non-combat missions. The man was in fur and leathers, carrying a longbow and with the bow-and-wolf pin prominently displayed at his shoulder.

A Huntsman of Shaath and a Sister of Avei? Together? That was insanity. Surely he wasn’t that drunk.

“More commonly known as Oz the Beater,” the Sister continued, eying him over and looking unimpressed. “Might we have a word?”

“No,” he growled. “I’m busy, as if you couldn’t fucking tell.” He patted his girl on the hip. “Now move outta the way. You’re crowdin’ the lady.”

“We insist,” the Huntsman growled back. Oz noticed that he was carrying a ceremonial longbow, but hadn’t lifted it. Well, the thing wouldn’t do much good in these close quarters anyhow… But the traditional leaf-bladed short sword he now realized the woman had was another matter.

“If you know who I am,” he snarled, “you know don’t nobody fucking insist with me. Now get your asses outta my way!”

“Wait.” Branwen spoke soothingly, placing her hand against his chest as if to hold him back. “Just listen to them. It’ll be worth your while.”

He looked down at her, confused. She didn’t seem alarmed at being accosted, nor even surprised.

Oz wasn’t really a thinker at the best of times, and he was a little drunk… But after a few seconds’ deliberation, even he got it. The most surprising thing was the little ache that opened up in his chest.

“Oh…Bran,” he sighed, and carefully removed his arm from around her. Funny thing how he didn’t even want to punch that pretty face, which was what he usually did to people who manipulated him. Well, this’d teach him, good and proper. Maybe a man could trust a woman, generally speaking, but a man who looked like him probably couldn’t trust a woman who showed him any interest.

“Wait,” she pleaded, and seemed so genuine he had to harden himself anew. “Please, Oz, just listen. We can still…pick up where we left off. But this is important.”

“Nah,” he said gruffly,” shaking his head. “Think I’m done. No hard feelin’s, honey doll, you gotta do what you gotta, but I—”

“How’d you like a job?” the Sister interrupted.

He blinked, then squinted at her. Those were words he’d learned to value. “What…kinda job?”

“Long-term,” she said, smiling. It was not a pleasant smile, made him think of the tense half hour he’d once spent eye-to-eye with a rattlesnake, afraid to move, till one of his companions had come back to camp and shot the creature. “In fact, you might say we’d like to put you…on retainer.”

Oz narrowed his eyes. “I don’t work for no man. You got somethin’ needs doin’, we can talk, but ain’t nobody gonna put a shackle on me.”

“Well, see, that’s a problem,” she said, still with that chilling smile. “If you’re not with us, you’re…maybe not against us. But a loose end.”

“The time of adventurers is over,” growled the Huntsman. “There’s a new order rising, one that doesn’t tolerate armed loners and malcontents stirring up trouble. This is charity we’re offering you, boy. Join the future, or be crushed underneath it.”

“I don’t take well to threats,” he rumbled. “I’m outta here. Now are you movin’, or am I movin’ you?”

The hand that appeared around his shoulder came literally from nowhere. It seemed actually disembodied…or, more likely, as if the body to which it was attached was invisible. Oz didn’t spare this phenomenon much thought, however, being more concerned with the knife clutched in that hand, which was pressed firmly against his jugular.

“Should take the deal,” said a male voice from just behind his ear. Oz considered. He could probably clock the bastard with an elbow, but that would just push the knife into his own neck. He could grab the hand and pull it away… But could he do it fast enough? Damn it, he was too drunk for this bullshit…

“Three years ago,” the man behind him went on, deadly quiet. “Silver Falls, in Calderaan Province. You took a stagecoach job run by a member of the Thieves’ Guild. Faisal Alfarsi; you may have known him as Claws. He turned up a week later with a knife through the heart. We caught one of the other members of the gang, who was persuaded to tell us exactly how that happened.”

“What of it?” Oz growled. Yup, he remembered that. Always knew it was gonna bite him on the ass one day.

He grunted at the blow to his torso, staggering backward; the man caught him, struggling momentarily under his much greater weight, then pushing him forward again. Only then did he notice the sword sticking out of his chest, the woman’s hands still on its hilt.

Son of a bitch. He hadn’t even seen her move.

“I just thought you should know what that feels like,” the main said glibly, stepping away. The woman laughed, a low, throaty sound that might have been alluring under other circumstances. Then she gripped him by the shoulder to yank her sword out, followed by a gush of blood, and Oz found himself crumpling to his knees. His limbs wouldn’t work properly.

“This was disappointing,” the Huntsman growled. “This is what we’ve come to? Thugs in alleys?”

“Oh, don’t get your beard in a twist,” the Sister said dismissively. “You knew we were starting at the bottom of the list. This clown’s fully mundane, but he’s pretty much the top thug-for-hire in the Empire.”

Oz felt a very peculiar rush of gratification at the acknowledgment. Blood was pouring out of him at a really alarming rate, taking the strength from his limbs as it went. He’d seen too much death to have any illusions about what this was.

They continued to talk over him as if he weren’t there. Insulting, but he couldn’t really take it personally; he’d done the same enough times. Branwen, though, was looking at him, a hand over her mouth, real pain on her face. That made him feel good. It showed he did matter to her on some level. After all, why should she bother lying to him at this juncture?

He’d always known it’d be something like this, a blade in some alley, he reflected, his vision fading. But hell, they were worthwhile opponents, it was revenge for something he’d actually done… And there at the end, a pretty girl had cared about him for a while.

Yeah. This would do. This was pretty good.

---

 

The elves, watching from perches on either side of the alley above, drew back from craning their necks to peer downward, letting the tension ease from them. As with so many things, they did this in perfect unison.

“Messy,” Flora murmured, “and altogether unpleasant.”

“Doesn’t seem like much of a loss,” Fauna said with a shrug.

“Well, no. I just feel… That would be an appropriate thing for us. But he’s better than this. Is that weird?”

“A little,” Fauna acknowledged, then grinned slightly. “But I do feel what you mean. You’re not wrong. Keep in mind what he’s better at, though. Sometimes, you have to do unfortunate things.”

“I guess we should know that better than anyone, huh.”

“Yup.” Fauna lifted her gaze to stare at the third watcher. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

The crow studied them, tilting its head to one side, then ruffled its feathers and emitted a very soft croak.

“Fauna,” Flora warned.

“What? We see her, she sees us, and I’m getting tired of this game. Well?” she added directly to the crow. “Anything to contribute? If you’re not going to be sociable, I suggest you learn to stay out of our business.”

The crow made a guttural chuckling noise, and abruptly took flight. Both girls watched it flap away; it vanished quickly among the forest of chimneys in this district.

“That’s going to be trouble,” Flora murmured.

“Yeah,” Fauna said with a sigh. “I think we’d better warn Sweet as quickly as possible.”

“Agreed.” She leaned over again, then stiffened, staring at the three figures striding away from the alley, leaving the cooling corpse behind. Nowhere was the telltale distortion of the invisibility cloak, its inherent magic rendering it obvious to the spirits that watched from behind her eyes. “Wait. Where is he?”

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