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“Ravana! We need more power crystals!”

Fortunately, Fross’s sudden entrance occurred after the discussion had mostly wrapped and the group in the solarium had begun to break up. Ephanie and McGraw had already arrived, summoned by Yancey at Trissiny’s request, and Szith had come with them, the two soldiers having apparently been sparring. Now the several separate conversations into which the sunroom had fallen came to a halt as everyone turned to stare at the pixie.

“Really?” Ravana asked pointedly. “I am the last person to object to more firepower in principle, Fross, but as of the last report I had, the problem was not capacity, but stability.”

“Yes! That! Exactly!” Fross punctuated her excited words by bobbing up and down in the air and emitting melodic chimes. “The whole system is designed to facilitate maximum output but we’re having a heck of a time getting the current steadied enough that it doesn’t blow out all the conduits. See, we’re using those huge power crystals designed for Imperial mag cannons—”

“How did you get those?!” Trissiny demanded, and was ignored.

“—and they’re meant to produce short but intense discharges, not the steadier current we need, and also they’re not built to be linked together. Really, something like this needs its own customized power source, but designing properly calibrated crystals would be an R&D project of months and we don’t have that, so it’s a matter of overcoming the complications caused by working with repurposed components! Anyway, Maureen had the idea to swap out several of the cannon power crystals with the kind used for zeppelin thrusters—also high-power, but meant for longer-term, steadier usage. Billie thinks the resulting loss of firepower should be negligible, assuming we can integrate the two power sources properly, and if it works it should do a lot to stabilize the power network!”

“I see,” Ravana replied gravely. “Very well, then. Zeppelin thrusters? FI manufactures those, I believe. Yancey, please join Fross and the others at the project site to ascertain their exact needs, and then reach out to Geoffrey and Marguerite. Spare no expense.”

“My lady,” he said, bowing, then turned and glided after the excitedly chiming pixie, who had already shot back out through the door.

“Trissiny,” Natchua said quietly just as the paladin herself was turning toward Ephanie. “A word? In private.”

Trissiny hesitated, furrowing her brow. “What’s up, Natchua? We were just about to move out.”

“Sorry, it shouldn’t take but a minute.” She glanced sidelong at Embras Mogul, who was lurking near the door; he grinned at her. “This was the other half of the reason I brought…him. In light of Ravana’s big idea, it suddenly seems more important.”

Trissiny shot a displeased look at Mogul, tightening her jaw, but nodded. “Very well, I suppose it can’t hurt to hear you out. If he’s involved, though, I can’t promise to like it.”

“I didn’t,” Natchua agreed, grimacing. “But…there’s sense in it.”

“Sorry,” Trissiny said to Ephanie and McGraw. “I’ll be with you in just a moment.”

“We promise not to start withoutcha, boss lady,” he said, tipping his hat.

“Szith,” Ephanie said quietly a moment later when Trissiny had followed Natchua and Embras out into the hall, “please tell me if this is awkward, or…too personal. I don’t mean to put you on the spot.”

“By asking first, you’re doing better than most Imperials,” Szith said with a ghost of a smile. “We Narisians do have different ideas concerning privacy, but I promise I shall take no offense at the question itself.”

“I know you’re a classmate of General Avelea’s.” Ephanie tilted her head toward the door momentarily. “I feel silly asking this, but…what is she like?”

“In…what sense?” Szith asked carefully.

“I’m not even sure I know,” Ephanie muttered. “It’s…complicated. On one level, there’s a very refreshing lack of ambiguity. She’s a senior officer, top of the chain. I know what to do with one of those.”

Szith nodded in immediate understanding.

“But she’s… Well, there’s her relationship with Locke, which is…complicated. Everything around Locke is complicated and this is additionally complicated once removed. Plus, the…paladin thing.”

“I fear I am ill-equipped to understand that,” Szith admitted. “We do not have paladins in Tar’naris. At Last Rock I am aware of all of them, as… Perhaps equals would be overstating it, but all three seem very down to earth.”

“I guess that’s my answer,” Ephanie murmured, frowning. “I was at Puna Dara when… I mean, I got to know the other two, the boys. Yeah, they’re good lads. But then she showed up, just… Exactly like a figure out of a story. Charging out of the storm with those wings up and…”

“Well,” Szith said with a faint smile, “Trissiny and I are not close, but with all due respect to your chain of command, I think you would find her rather personable, if not for the distance of rank. I do understand, though. Your relative positions are…both complex, and intimidating. And there is something about a woman with a commanding aura and a sword.”

Ephanie glanced at her. “If you do say so yourself.”

“There are several to whom the description may apply,” the drow said innocently.

Ephanie’s pale complexion made even her very faint blush stand out vividly.

McGraw had already casually wandered a couple of yards distant and turned his back, busying himself by fishing a cigarillo out of the slim case he always carried, though he did not light it up in Ravana’s solarium.

“General,” Ephanie said quickly as Trissiny strode back in, wearing a scowl. “Trouble?”

“I…no,” the paladin replied, shaking her head slowly. “No, just…complication. Ever heard something that made perfect sense and sounded reasonable but still made you instinctively recoil?”

“Vividly and often, ma’am. I work for Principia Locke.”

Trissiny gave her a fleeting smile, but her expression quickly sobered. “Natchua’s just returned home to Veilgrad. Mogul…will be enjoying Ravana’s hospitality for a while longer, as discussed. Lieutenant…”

“I’ll keep an eye out, ma’am,” Ephanie said in a low voice. “My ability to intervene may be limited, but…”

“I don’t want you tangling with that man,” Trissiny warned. “It is in no way belittling your capability to say that he is above your pay grade. There are likely to be some generally weird goings-on around here, and Ravana…may very well be the source of them rather than the victim. But I’m coming to realize that she needs the support of friends more than castigation.”

“Specifically,” Szith clarified, “friends who will not hesitate to argue with her. Yes, we figured that out fairly early in our first semester.”

“Good,” Trissiny said, smiling. “I’m glad you two are hitting it off. If anything…untoward goes down and your team aren’t accessible, get Szith or Iris. They can support or interfere with Ravana as the situation requires.”

“But not Scorn,” Szith added. “She’s an enabler.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Ephanie said warily.

“All right, Elias, sorry to keep you waiting,” Trissiny said in a more brisk tone, turning to face the old mage. “Let’s move out.”

“Not to worry, ma’am,” he replied, grinning and tucking away his cigarillo. “Keepin’ people waiting is one o’ the perks of bein’ in charge. Off we go, then!”

With a short glimmer of blue light and a sharp snap of displaced air, they were both gone.

When she shadow-jumped right into their midst, Hesthri jerked in startlement, then a tiny frown tightened her eyes in annoyance at herself for still not being used to that, which Natchua couldn’t help but find adorable. Jonathan turned smoothly to face her, surprised by nothing and smiling at the sight of her, which never failed to make her feel warm inside. As one, both stepped forward with arms open, and she moved immediately into the double hug.

“That bad, huh?” Jonathan asked as she slumped against them with a muffled groan.

“Not…really. I’m just indulging in a little melodrama, you know how I like that. Least I managed to ditch Mogul; he’s Ravana’s problem for the rest of the day. How’s everything here?”

“It’s been calm,” he said, stroking her hair once. “We’re keeping an eye on things, obviously, but so far the city doesn’t seem about to explode. Tensions are high, but people around here are able to manage themselves.”

“It helps that Justinian has a lack of loyalists in Veilgrad,” Hesthri added, “and even those who’re irate at the revelations about the Empire’s involvement with the Tiraas incident are minding their manners. Going out of their way at their demonstrations not to seem like they’re siding with the Church.”

Natchua pulled back just enough to look at their faces. “You’ve kept well-informed.”

“Credit to Mel for that,” he said, grinning. “It’s only fair, and also let’s not have her slinking around feeling slighted.”

“You people keep tiptoeing around like I’m going to start murdering everybody in their beds if I get bored,” Melaxyna huffed. “That’s the other one. Some of us have coping skills.”

“Oh, please,” Kheshiri scoffed. “I’m twice the—”

“Hush,” Natchua barked, stepping fully away from the embrace. “Knowing what succubi are like and accommodating your needs are about more than just keeping you two out of trouble. Or would you prefer it if we let you get bored?”

“I really can’t see that happening around you, mistress,” Kheshiri simpered.

“You button it. Go on, Mel, anything else from the city?”

“Hes covered the situation in the city pretty well. I’ve also checked in with Lars and Malivette, who appreciates you seeking input before doing anything. She didn’t add ‘for once,’ but the absence of it was very loud.”

“I’d accuse you of adding that gratuitously, but it’s way too easy to hear Malivette doing it,” Natchua grunted.

Melaxyna grinned. “Yes, well, her Grace the Duchess Dufresne courteously requests that you keep yourself out of any public demonstrations until things in the city calm down, and if approached by reporters, confine your statements to platitudes about staying the course and such.”

“When approached by reporters,” Jonathan corrected. “There’ve been three at the manor gates just in the couple of hours you were gone. I don’t think they actually believed you were out, but whether they did or not, you know they’ll just keep coming back.”

“Ugh, was it that fool with the hat?”

“No, but the young lady from Stavulheim was one of them,” Hesthri said. “You like her, right?”

“All right, thanks for keeping on that, Mel. I’ll handle them as gently as possible. Now then! Kheshiri, what the hell are you doing here? I gave you a job!”

“And I’ve done it!” Kheshiri chirped, beaming.

Natchua paused, then narrowed her eyes. “Bullshit. That fast? There’s no way…”

“Why, mistress, if you don’t want things accomplished perfectly with preternatural speed, what’s the point of employing the best in the world?”

“How did you manage to rumble spies that quickly?”

“Okay, presentation aside, I should add a few qualifiers,” Kheshiri admitted, her expression growing more serious. “I rumbled a spy. For a group that size, one seems about right, but I can’t yet rule out the presence of others. At this point it’s a matter of clearing the rest individually, which will take more time. And also, while I am amazingly good—seriously, just the best imaginable—in this case who I’m dealing with was a factor. These Narisians are more sneaky than surface elves, but their background works against them here. They have highly acute senses and a cultural imperative toward discretion, and being surrounded by humans with neither, they seem to think that’s enough. Which tells me we’re not dealing with professional spies, here.”

“It’s an open question whether the Confederacy even has any of those,” Jonathan commented. “It would only be the Narisians, if so.”

“How, specifically, did you identify the agent?” Natchua asked impatiently. “And who is it?”

“Nimin din Afreth yed Dalmiss. Which I believe makes him a cousin of yours?”

“Never heard of him, and Houses don’t work that way. Get on with it.”

“So,” Kherhiri said with mischievous relish, “these elves, like most elves, tend to think themselves invulnerable to stealth, blissfully unaware of the invisible onlooker who knew how to defeat those ears before any of them were born. It wasn’t even that hard, mistress, I simply had to evade them while they cycled in and out of the temporary housing they’re set up in while they go to and from the government offices—Imperial immigration paperwork is so helpfully time-consuming. It’s almost disappointingly prosaic, but I just rifled their belongings. Hardly took any time at all, they have barely anything to their names. And our boy Nimin, in particular, has a two-way communication device. That by itself is beyond the level of Tiraan enchanting—I’ve seen Imperial spies with handheld magic mirrors, but this was even smaller and seems to be strictly audio. It also had no discernible power source. So it’s way more sophisticated than the Imperial state of the art. That means Qestrali.”

“Did you turn it on?” Jonathan demanded, suddenly tense.

“Yes, that’s right, Jonathan,” Kheshiri said, her voice dripping poisonous sweetness. “I activated the communicator and called Nimin’s handlers to blow the whole operation, because I am a brain-damaged howler monkey who was born this morning.”

“If you didn’t, then how do you know what it was?”

“Very helpful labeling,” she said. “It has two buttons, marked ‘transmit’ and ‘receive’ in elvish.”

“Then…he’s a Confederate agent,” Hesthri said grimly, “not just someone from Natchua’s old House sent to keep an eye on her.”

“Maybe,” Natchua mused. “But I think it’s too soon to assume that. Everything I’ve seen of the Qestrali in person, plus what I’ve heard from Ravana and the refugees, paints them as proud but kind of inept and naive. They’ve been isolated for thousands of years and just don’t know how to deal with other people. It honestly would shock me if Narisians haven’t already bought, stolen, or wheedled a bunch of high elf enchantments they’re not supposed to have. Further, we can’t assume Nimin is an actual spy; if his handlers are House Dalmiss, it’s at least as likely they have some kind of leverage over him. Well done, Kheshiri.”

“You needn’t sound so surprised about that, my mistress. You know I only do the very best work.”

“Yes, forgive me. I’m afraid I have an unfortunate tendency to unfairly devalue your contributions just because you aren’t wanted here and everyone hates you. I’ll work on that.”

Kheshiri laughed lightly; meanwhile, monitoring the direct display of her emotions through their unique magical bond, Natchua saw the pulse of genuine hurt, followed by a swelling of satisfaction at the emotional pain and an intense surge of affection toward herself.

Of all the…problematic details about her new life, it was her handling of Kheshiri that she hated most. Because it turned out that Natchua knew precisely how to maintain a succubus’s attention and interest: by treating her with aloof indifference most of the time, randomly interspersed with sudden outpourings of affection or vicious cruelty.

Exactly the way Natchua’s mother had treated her for her entire life. It was manipulative and controlling; a cruel, disgusting way to relate to anyone, and she loathed it on every level. But it was working, because Vanislaads had very particular needs, and Kheshiri was less skilled at self-management than Melaxyna—and so incredibly skilled in so many other areas that allowing her to become bored or disinterested would be a disaster. Succubi craved experience and sensation; pain and pleasure were more or less the same to them, and both as essential as air. So Natchua strung her along and emotionally abused her, and it kept Kheshiri…happy.

It had not come up in words and she was extrapolating from being able to observe the demon’s emotions directly, but Natchua strongly suspected Kheshiri knew exactly what she was doing, and appreciated her for it.

“Thank you for reporting this,” she continued. “You know what to do next, I assume. Continue your investigation, find any other agents if they exist, and focus your attention on this Nimin. Figuring out his real situation will tell us how to handle him.”

“Worry not, mistress,” Kheshiri said gleefully, “I have never disappointed you and I never shall. This one won’t even be a challenge.”

“In the short term,” Jonathan said, “remember how Mel was talking about hiring some more staff for the house?”

“I think I see where he’s going with this,” Melaxyna chimed in, “but that aside, Natch, this needs to be on the agenda anyway. Three hobgoblins can’t keep up with a place this size, even after the renovations are finished and they have nothing else to do. A manor this size needs a staff. Caretakers are what prevent a place like this from turning into… Well, what it was when we found it.”

Natchua considered her, then turned back to Jonathan. “You want to hire Nimin.”

“Several of the drow,” he clarified. “We can’t let him notice he’s being singled out. But we need the staff anyway, and those refugees are prime candidates: they want work, they want to be close to you, and most of them specifically lack the kind of entanglements that may come with Imperial citizens. Dalmiss aside, the other Tiraan Houses will try to plant agents in here; Houses putting spies among each other’s servants is a tradition as old as aristocracy itself. And for Nimin and any others who give us cause for suspicion…”

“Keep your enemies closer,” she murmured.

He nodded. “Putting enemy agents right under the eyes of two succubi is downright unfair. Look how easily Kheshiri caught this guy, in just an hour. Here in the manor, the girls can practically control the opposition outright.”

“Practically, he says,” Melaxyna snorted.

Natchua exhaled heavily. “All right…fine, yeah. I see the sense in it. Sorry, I’m just… A part of me rebels at the idea of having servants.”

“You’re a lady now, lovely,” Hesthri said, pulling her back into a one-armed hug and lifting her face for a quick kiss. “It comes with the territory. Don’t lose that groundedness, it’s part of why I love you. But yes, there are compromises to be made with your situation.”

Natchua pulled her close and rested her chin against her forehead plate for a moment. “All right. Good plan…and good work, everybody. Now… Nobody yell at me, but after today’s meeting, I… Well, I have a particularly insane idea.”

Nobody yelled at her. Jonathan and Hesthri just nodded, giving her expectant and encouraging looks. Melaxyna made a wry face but kept her peace; Kheshiri gasped in theatrical delight.

If nothing else, Natchua reflected, at least she had better friends than Ravana.

This was not even close to the scariest story Carter Long had ever taken on. No, after spending a night in terrifying proximity to warlocks and a truly amazing number of demons, he didn’t think anything else would ever take that title from his Black Wreath story.

But intimidating, that was a different quality. The demons had been frightening, but they’d been under control. Mostly. Probably as much as demons could be. Nobility, though? Nobody controlled the nobility. There was absolutely no telling what a powerful noble might decide to do; the only certainty was that they’d get away with it. And this noble in particular seemed to have made a recent point of proving she was more unpredictable than most.

The sudden summons to Madouri Manor which had arrived at his office at the Herald was intimidating by definition, polite as it had been. The chauffeured carriage sent to pick him up even more so, for all that it was a gracious gesture, especially given that it came with an armed guard. Being deposited in front of the ancient demesne of one of the Empire’s oldest and most powerful houses, most of all; the place was bigger than any cathedral he’d ever seen, practically a city in miniature right in the heart of Madouris.

After all these progressive layers of intimidation, Long’s first impression of the Duchess was…incongruous.

“The cane doesn’t help you if you just hold it!”

“Oh? I assumed you gave it to me as some sort of fashion accessory, since you know very well there is nothing wrong with my legs.”

“The doctor said to rest. If you’re going to turn up your nose at that nice chair Yancey brought out—”

“I refused to be wheeled around my own home like some sort of invalid!”

“I don’t know why you insisted on doing this out here instead of a room with a fireplace, of which you have hundreds. The great hall is freezing in this weather.”

“I assure you, I’m fine.”

“It’s not a sign of weakness to tuck your shawl in, you know. Would you like a cup of—”

“Iris, if you pour any more of that wretched tea down my gullet, my kidneys will explode.”

“Excuse you, that tea is delicious.”

“After five cups in twenty minutes, the novelty rather wears off.”

“It’s good for energy and recuperation, and you’re wildly exaggerating.”

He actually heard them before he saw them clearly. The grand entry hall of Madouri Manor was absolutely colossal—so much so that from its entry, two relatively small figures standing at its opposite end were hard to make out, but the acoustics were incredible. Their voices were not raised, but Carter had a lot of professional experience in picking out hushed words. Fortunately he had at least as much experience in controlling his expression. He just silently and discreetly followed the Butler down the path in the center of the long, towering, museum-like chamber. Omnu’s breath, his entire apartment building could fit inside here…

They fell silent by the time he had come halfway, which was the point at which he could see the pair relatively clearly—and also about the mark where an average listener could have clearly made out words spoken at a conversational tone. In addition to his hostess, whom he’d not seen in person but whose description he of course knew well, there was another young woman: a Westerner in a striking white dress, whom he took for some manner of lady-in-waiting, given the familiar tone she used with the Duchess.

The Butler stepped diffidently to the side as they entered conversational range, and Carter bowed deeply as the man introduced him.

“Mr. Carter Long, star reporter of the Imperial Herald.”

“Mr. Long, how very good of you to come, and on such short notice. House Madouri welcomes you, and appreciates your agreeability. I earnestly hope this visit proves to be worth your time; rest assured I would not have presumed to summon you so abruptly were I not confident that it would be so.”

“It is entirely my honor, your Grace,” he said, rising at her gesture. So far, so good; she was certainly more gracious than a lot of nobility he’d encountered. Ravana Madouri was as diminutive as they said, currently swaddled in a thick winter dress with a fur collar and a heavy shawl draped over that. He carefully ignored the carved walking stick she held loosely at her side. “Please forgive me if this is impertinent, Duchess Ravana, but it’s a great relief to see you looking so well. Reports of the injury you suffered have been rather horrifying.”

“I am quite well, as I keep having to remind various members of my household,” she said, her smile taking on a slightly sardonic cast. “A dryad’s kiss is an absolute counter to poison of any kind. There were simply some side effects—”

“You suffered a massive seizure!” exclaimed the girl beside her. “Your blood was temporarily transmuted into infernally-tainted tar!”

The Duchess closed her blue eyes. “Iris.”

“You should be sitting down, at the very least!”

“I am blessed to have friends who care more for my well-being than public decorum,” Ravana said, opening her eyes again and putting her smile back on. “According to my doctor, I shall be right as rain with only a bit of rest. In any case, Mr. Long, you have my assurance I did not bring you all the way out here to observe this byplay, amusing as I am sure your readers would find it. I believe I promised you an exclusive.”

“My Lady, by invoking that magic word you would render me happily accommodating in the face of far less polite treatment than you have offered. Please, consider me entirely at your disposal.” He kept his own ingratiating smile in place even as he produced his notebook and pencil. “If it would reassure your friend, I’m more than willing to proceed to more comfortable surroundings, though for my own part I’d be just as pleased to stand out in the snow.”

“I’d like to think my House can provide an honored guest with better hospitality than that, but your willingness to accommodate is appreciated nonetheless.” Fortunately, to judge by her expression, she found him amusing rather than presumptuous. It was a gamble, with aristocrats; they could abruptly swing the other way. The young Duchess had a reputation as a woman of the people, however. “But I fear the necessary discretion of my message has given you an incorrect impression. Pray forgive me this little subterfuge. An exclusive you shall have, Mr. Long, but not from me; it was at the behest of another guest that I called upon you.”

“Oh?”

“Carter, my boy! It has been a veritable hound’s age! Delighted to see you’re still pounding the old beat, eh?”

He didn’t jump, barely; he did spin about at the unexpected sound of a familiar voice he had never thought to hear again.

And there he was, having appeared seemingly from nowhere—a thing he was, of course, quite capable of literally doing. The man was exactly as Carter remembered him, from his white suit and wide-brimmed straw hat to his stork-like gait and eerily wide grin.

“Embras Mogul,” he said in disbelief. “This is…a surprise.”

“It’s been a surprising day for us all,” Mogul agreed. “Believe me, ol’ top, when I got up this morning this household was the last place on our blessed earth I expected to find myself. What fascinatingly complex lives we all lead, eh?”

“It’s certainly a revelation to me that you are…acquainted,” Carter said with all the caution he could muster, glancing between the leader of the Black Wreath and the head of House Madouri.

“On that I have no comment,” she said pleasantly. “I am sure Mr. Mogul will explain the broad strokes as he is sharing his perspective on the Archpope’s recent allegations. My own public comments will be held tomorrow, Mr. Long, and while you will of course be welcome to attend my press conference, on that front I regret that I cannot offer you an exclusive of my own. If you will settle for a quote, however, I have one.”

She tucked her hands under the dangling ends of her shawl, holding the cane horizontally in front of herself, and smiled a ruthless little smile.

“The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”

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“Ah, perfect.” Mogul calmly adjusted his lapels as he stepped out of the shadows onto the latest rooftop. Carter landed beside him, for once without stumbling, and had to repress a moment of pride at how well he was adapting to shadow-jumping.

Their new perch was an especially narrow structure four stories tall, facing what had clearly once been a park before being piled with trash and the debris of preliminary deconstruction of some of the district’s buildings. The piles of rubbish were short, though, affording them a view of both the street leading to the bridge out of the empty district, and a side street which intersected it, down which a small party of people was now moving at a good clip.

“That’s them?” Carter asked, stepping up to the edge of the roof. He couldn’t see identifying details at this distance, but it pretty much had to be. The only other people around were Wreath warlocks, who were in hiding, and the four were clearly fleeing away from or toward something.

“Mm hm,” his guide murmured in reply, turning his back to the scene below.

“You called?” said a new voice from behind them. Carter embarrassed himself by jumping in surprise, then whirled to face the speaker. He might as well not have bothered; it was another figure shrouded in the gray anonymity of their ceremonial robes. Definitely male, possibly of a large build.

“There you are,” Mogul said, cheerful as ever, leaving Carter wondering by what mechanism he had called the man. “How’s it look out there?”

“You can see the Bishop and his servants nearing the square,” the warlock replied, nodding his hood in the direction of the street beyond. “There’s also activity just over the bridge. Looks like reinforcements coming to meet him.”

“All expected,” said Mogul. “What’d he bring?”

“His Butler, a pair of elves in…what I guess might be Eserite garb, or maybe they’re just stupid. Also two Huntsmen of Shaath.”

“That is interesting!” Mogul sounded delighted. He turned to look at Darling’s group and then at the bridge. Carter couldn’t see figures at that distance, but he wasn’t about to make assumptions regarding the warlocks’ capabilities. “Why, this is all shaping up marvelously. The timing is impeccable! The Lady smiles on us tonight. All right, you know the plan. Get started. Unleash the demons at both groups. Carefully, stagger the attacks so as to give them a sporting chance. If it isn’t too difficult to manage, do try to time it so that they meet up about as the demons run out.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” The robed figure put his hands together; there came a soft clicking noise, and he vanished in a swell of darkness.

“How many of those talismans do you have?” Carter asked.

“As many as we need, and a few extras to play with.”

“I must say that’s…oddly generous. That bit about giving them a sporting chance. These are your enemies, aren’t they?”

Mogul half-turned to give him a knowing smile. “And why waste a perfectly good enemy? I’m just getting to know this one. As soon as you kill the bastard you’re used to, you’ll find yourself hip-deep in an unknown quantity. Anyhow, I am taking the opportunity to…clean house a bit.” He turned back to watch the street. Darling’s party had slowed as they neared the square; suddenly there were flashes of fire and the white sparkle of wandshots from their vicinity. Infuriatingly, their path had taken them behind as shattered old clock tower, leaving Carter with no idea what was happening.

“The demons I’ve brought to this little hoedown are…troublesome sorts,” Mogul continued, idly gazing down on the street as if he could see the action. Nothing was visible except the odd flash of light. “Some of the more animalistic ones who just aren’t taking their training… Some sentients who seem determined to use the Wreath to scheme toward their own ends. Exactly the sort of thing we are on the mortal plane to put a stop to. Of course, we have our own methods, but when fortune gives me a squad of bloodthirsty Church enforcers, why waste the opportunity?”

“I see,” Carter said, frowning.

“Come now, Mr. Long, why do you imagine I really allowed Darling to finish his little obstacle course and get himself set up where he wanted to be? He needs to be in a position of strength if I’m to let him get out of this alive.”

“In that case…I’m afraid I don’t see,” Carter admitted.

Mogul laughed. “It’s all about expectations. As I told you earlier, I want to have a few words with Mr. Darling this evening, but following that, he can go home and do whatever it is Eserites do when not cutting purse strings. If I simply offered them the chance to leave unmolested, they would either suspect a trap and attack, or see it as a sign of weakness…and attack. If they’re going to attack anyway, I’d rather they be tired out mowing down the fodder first. Then we’ll have a nice, polite little stand-off and they can leave believing they forced us to a truce.”

“You’re that certain they’ll be so aggressive?”

“I am, as I said, cleaning house.” Mogul gave him a considering look. “I began this sequence of events by sending some of my less reliable members to visit the Church. Warlocks who, like the demons below, have been scheming on their own to amass personal power through the infernal arts, at the expense of their duties. Now, we attract all manner of miscellaneous oddballs and I’m quite indulgent of eccentricity in the ranks, but abuse of power is absolutely not to be tolerated. Ours is a sacred calling. So off went the ne’er-do-wells, and not a one came out alive. That’s what the servants of the Pantheon do when they catch someone who doesn’t bend knee to their power.”

“I’m not aware of Church personnel behaving that way, as a rule,” Carter said very carefully.

Mogul grinned bitterly. “I encourage you not to take my word for it. Look into the events of warlocks being killed by Bishops recently. They have floated the official story that the Wreath attacked them, and frankly I doubt there will be any contradicting evidence left intact. But have a long, deep look at the histories of the Bishops in question. Things may become more clear to you then.”

“This is all…absolutely byzantine,” Carter said, shaking his head.

“Demons are a responsibility, and an occasional means to an end,” Mogul replied. “They’re not the point of our faith; we serve the goddess of cunning. Who, through no fault of her own, was consigned to a dimension full of demons by her own family, and even still took it upon herself to defend the mortal world by disposing of the last hostile Elder Goddess. You don’t think it interesting that the only other deity who bothers to keep Scyllith away from our civilization is Themynra, who also is not of the Pantheon?”

Carter frowned, deep in thought. Below, Darling’s group moved out from behind cover, at a more cautious pace than before, but he barely saw them.

“Welp, looks like matters are coming to a head,” Mogul said cheerfully. “Come along, Mr. Long. Let’s go have us a chat.”

 

The third and final katzil demon rebounded off the wall against which Weaver’s wandshot had smashed it, emitting an aimless puff of flame from its mouth at the impact. The feathered serpent shook itself, barely staying aloft, and opened its fanged maw to direct another blast at them.

Joe fired a bolt of light straight down its throat. Soundlessly, the creature flopped to the pavement, where it immediately began to crumble to dust and charcoal, as the other two had.

“You seein’ what I’m seein’?” Joe asked, warily scanning the streets with his wands up.

“I see fucking demons!” Peepers practically wailed. She was trying to hide behind Darling, who had a throwing knife in each hand, but had let the two men with wands take the lead against the onslaught.

“Yeah,” said Weaver. “Small groups, one at a time. No warlocks, just demons. Not hitting hard enough to herd us away… We’re being softened up. Wonder what’ll be at the end after we mow down the disposables.”

“Hard to say what is and isn’t disposable with these guys,” Darling noted. “This whole thing started with them sending twelve trained spellcasters to their certain deaths. It’s odd that they’d do this now, when we’re close to the edge of the district. That’s not a smart place for the Wreath to set up a confrontation. Any ruckus kicked up in sight of the public will bring the Army down on them.”

“So, basically, we don’t know what the fuck is going on,” Weaver snorted. “Situation normal.”

“Standard procedures, then!” Darling proclaimed. “Forward! There’s a somewhat reasonable chance we’ll be having help soon.”

“Hate you so much,” Peepers growled.

“He’s right, to the extent that we can’t exactly stay here,” said Joe. “Exit’s just up ahead. How’s it look, Weaver?”

“Actually…” The bard tilted his head in that way he did when listening to his invisible friend, then smiled. “Well, fuck me running. Looks like Twinkletoes’s non-plan is actually working.”

 

“Stay back,” Price said in a clipped tone, simply striding forward, the clicking of her shoes on the pavement lost in the thunder of the charging demon’s footsteps.

“You can’t—”

“What can two little elves do about this?” The Butler gave Flora a sharp sidelong look before returning her attention forward as the baerzurg reached her.

She sidestepped neatly, allowing it to charge several steps past. Roaring in fury, the hulking, bronze-scaled brute rounded on her, striking out with a ham-sized fist. Price calmly stepped inside the swing of its arm, grasping it as it went past. Her hands looked absurdly tiny against its forearm, which was as thick as her waist. At that moment, however, there came a tiny golden flash as the creature stepped on the small holy charm she had dropped the second before. With a bellow of pain, it staggered into the impetus of its own punch.

The movement of its body momentarily hid the Butler from view; they didn’t see exactly how she did it. In the next second, however, the huge creature had been spun to the side, staggering back against the bridge’s railing. This came only just past its knees, and scarcely served to stop the baerzurg. It teetered at the edge, flailing with its arms.

Price took two running steps forward and vaulted, landing lightly with both feet against the demon’s massive chest.

Roaring, it toppled backward, grasping at her and just missing as she hopped lightly back down to the bridge’s surface. Behind her, the bellowing demon plunged into the canal. Price pause for a moment to straighten her tie.

“Whoah,” Fauna muttered.

An arrow whistled above their heads, and a second later there came a squawk of protest. A flying katzil demon dropped to the ground, a quivering shaft still embedded in its neck.

“We will create a path through these trash,” Andros growled, stalking past the two elves with Tholi and Ingvar flanking him. “Your agility will be needed against the warlocks when we near them. Stay behind us.”

Another arrow, fired by Ingvar, brought down a sshitherosz that spiraled upward, apparently seeking a higher vantage from which to strike. The next creature to charge forward was a grotesque abomination of tentacles and claws that looked like it would be more at home underwater. It faltered as an arrow from Andros’s bow, glowing gold, thudded into its upper chest. Then Price had darted forward and past it, reaching around to rip a small knife across the creature’s throat. Blue-green fluid sprayed forth and it dropped.

The next moment, Price had to dodge backward as a sinuous, crocodile-headed khankredahg snapped at her. She bounded onto the bridge’s rail, then back down, retreating from its powerful jaws. For being built like an elongated bulldog, it was awfully fast.

Tholi was there in moments, striking out with a hatchet. The beast paused, maw gaping open to hiss threateningly as the Huntsman and Butler moved to flank it.

“Hsst,” Flora said, joining Fauna on her side of the bridge. “Tell me you see it too.”

“One at a time, never enough to push us back,” Fauna replied, nodding. “Something’s up.”

“Let’s get behind the lines.”

“Remember the rules…”

“Oh, come on, we’re still elves.” Smirking, Flora switched to elvish. “If we can’t sneak past this lot without teleporting, we don’t deserve the name.”

Exchanging nods, they separated and dived over the bridge on both sides. In the next moment, while their companions pressed forward through a sequence of demonic attacks, they were clambering horizontally along its decorative stonework just below the level of its surface.

 

“There, and there,” Darling said, pointing at two side alleys. “Uglies coming out, attacking in both directions, but not trying to block the way. As a strategy, it’s so ineffective I have to assume it was meant to be.”

Even as he spoke, the latest khankredahg collapsed with a piteous groan, incidentally bearing down the young Huntsman who had charged forward, thrust his arm into its open mouth and driven a knife into its brain. The lad cursed at being dragged down, though he was free almost immediately as the demon began to disintegrate into ash.

“Good evening, your Grace,” Price intoned, striding forward. “I trust the results of tonight’s excursion have been to your satisfaction?”

“Ask me again when I’ve seen the results,” he said cheerfully. “Excellent timing, by the way, Price.”

“Yes, it was. If your Grace is seeking comfort in reminders of the familiar, I also have red hair.”

There came a scream from above, and a figure in a gray robe plunged from a second-floor window to hit the street with an unpleasant thump. A second behind, a slim figure in black leather dived down, landing nimbly beside him.

“Oh, don’t be such a baby,” Fauna told the groaning warlock. “You’re barely broken.”

“More summoners over here!” Flora reported, leaning out a window in the structure opposite. “They shadow-jumped away as I got here, though.”

“Oh?” Darling turned to her, raising an eyebrow. “It’s not like you to give warning of your approach.”

“I’m gonna let that pass because I’m really glad to see you’re okay,” she shot back. “And no, they were already in motion by the time I arrived. Whatever they were up to, it looks like their plan is still going forward.”

“Then it is time we were gone,” Andros rumbled. “These are the two gentlemen you mentioned?”

“Indeed,” Price replied.

He studied Joe and Weaver for a moment, flicked his gaze across Peepers and visibly dismissed her from consideration. “Very well. The force we now have assembled is sufficient to repel a considerably greater threat than we have faced thus far. While they are in retreat, we should do likewise.”

“But we have them on the run!” Tholi said, practically panting in eagerness. “Now is the time to press on and finish them off!”

“Listen to your superiors,” Ingvar snapped. “And to your scouts! The Wreath has planned this, all of it, and it’s gone as they intended. We are in a snare. It’s time to flee.”

“I quite agree,” said Darling, tousling Flora’s hair fondly as she rejoined the group. “C’mon, once across the bridge we’re—”

“Too late,” said Joe, raising both his wands.

The ten of them clustered together, unconsciously forming into a circle in the center of the square. Behind them was the bridge back to the lights of the city, before the desolation of the condemned neighborhood, but all around, there were suddenly shadows rising from nowhere. They appeared in windows, out of doors and alleys, on rooftops, some seeming to rise up from the very pavement. Surges of darkness swelled, then receded, leaving figures in gray robes standing where they had been. Some carried weapons, a mix of wands, staves and clearly ceremonial (to judge by their elaborate design) blades, quite a few accompanied by demons of various descriptions. In seconds, a dozen ringed them; in seconds more, their numbers doubled, and then continued to grow. The Wreath pressed forward, flanking them from behind, not quite cutting off escape but edging into their own path out of the district.

“Hmp,” Weaver muttered, “damn. I forgot to tell you so. Now I can’t say it.”

“These are pups that have cornered bears,” Andros snarled. “If they will not let us leave in peace, crush them.” Tholi growled in wordless agreement.

A final surge of shadows rose up from the street directly ahead, depositing two men in front of the group.

“Now, now,” Embras Mogul said reprovingly. “There you go, offering to solve a puzzle with a hammer. Honestly, how you get dressed in the morning without strangling your wife is beyond me.”

“Are you really still hanging out with these guys, Carter?” Peepers demanded.

“I’m just here to observe,” the journalist said, licking his lips nervously.

Ignoring a hissed warning from Flora, Darling stepped forward out of the circle. “Well, this has been a grand little chase, Embras, but we all have better places to be, don’t we?”

“Quite so.” Mogul stepped forward to meet him, placing each foot with a care that made him resemble more than ever a wading stork. “My people have suffered no end of abuse at your hands already, Antonio, and you’ve worn yours down with your ill-conceived antics.”

“Not to mention that I’ll have to spend my whole day on paperwork tomorrow if I’m party to shooting up a whole district, condemned or no,” Darling replied easily. “I just can’t spare the time. There’s a social event in the evening to which I’ve been looking forward for weeks.”

“Then it’s all too obvious how we handle this, isn’t it?”

They came to a stop less than a yard apart. The priest and warlock stared at one another, grim-faced.

“Indeed,” Darling said softly. “None of you interfere. This is personal.”

“Are you crazy?” Fauna shouted. Price held up a warning finger in front of her face.

“We settle it like gentlemen,” Mogul said, equally quiet.

“Man to man.”

“One on one.”

“To the death.”

There was a horrified silence. The Wreath stood motionless, robes fluttering in the faint night breeze, several of their demon companions shifting impatiently. Darling’s party held weapons at the ready, staring at the pair in disbelieving fascination. The light shifted, faltering, a cloud scudding across the moon and leaving them momentarily illuminated only by the distant glow of the city itself.

And then Mogul and Darling simultaneously burst into gales of laughter.

While the entire assembled crowd stared, utterly bemused, both men roared in mirth. Mogul slumped forward, bracing his hands against his knees; Darling reached out to steady himself against the other man’s shoulder.

“Fuck it,” Weaver said loudly after this had gone on for half a minute. “I say we shoot them both.”

“Oh, my stars and garters,” Mogul chortled, straightening up. “Thanks, old man, I needed that.”

“Hah, makes me wish we could do this more often! Price never lets me have any fun.”

“I admit I’m impressed! For a second there I really thought you were serious.”

“C’mon, Embras, how long have we been at this tonight? Give me credit for a sense of fun.”

“Yeah, I particularly enjoyed your little street-writing display.”

“Oh, you caught that! Better and better. It gets so tedious, running mental circles around people all the time. Sometimes I feel like nobody really gets me, y’know?”

“Tell me about it. Some days I’d trade it all for some intelligent conversation.”

“I hear that.”

“What the hell is going on?!” Peepers shrieked.

“Well, anyway, I’ve got cranky little ones to take home and put to bed,” said Darling, pointing a thumb over his shoulder at the group. “Are we just about done here?”

“Yeah, this seems like a good place to call it a night.” Mogul patted his shoulder, still grinning. “Good game, my man. Mr. Long!” He turned to beckon Carter forward. “I realize this has been more excitement than you planned on seeing. We’ll not detain you if you would rather head back into the city with these folk, but I encourage you to keep in mind what I said about the Church.”

“You’ve said a lot of things,” Carter replied warily, looking as confused and nonplussed as Darling’s allies.

“At the moment,” Mogul said, stepping back from Darling, “you’ve not done anything to earn the Archpope’s ire. Matters will be different if you decide to publish your story, though, and you can certainly expect these folk to lean on you about it one way or another. The Empire’s another matter. Lord Vex is too canny to disappear an inconvenient member of the press and set your entire profession yapping at his heels. Sometimes I kind of miss his predecessor.” The warlock grinned reminiscently. “I could make that guy chase his tail across the city and back, all from the comfort of my rocking chair.”

Carter stared at him, then at Darling, then glanced around, at the warlocks, the assembled mix of Huntsmen and Eserites, the demons. “I, um…”

“Careful,” Mogul cautioned. “You’re thinking with your emotions, remembering who your upbringing has taught you to trust. That’s fine and dandy for an opinion columnist, but if you decide to play the game on the level at which this story will place you, you’ll need to be more careful. Think in terms of whose interests align with yours, not who you happen to feel fondly toward.”

“That is excellent advice for a variety of situations,” Darling said, nodding. “Just keep in mind that telling the truth is the most valuable weapon in a good deceiver’s arsenal. You understand that better than most people, Carter.”

Long’s face grew blank as he clearly marshaled his expression through sheer will. “I…appreciate the reminder, Bishop Darling,” he said somewhat stiffly. “Mr. Mogul, do you think you can drop me off at the offices of the Imperial Herald?”

“Not within it or too close,” Mogul replied. “Your superiors very wisely keep their wards updated, and the whole place had a recent and thorough Pantheonic blessing. We can put you down in the neighborhood and keep watch till you’re safely home, though.”

“I would appreciate it.”

“Very well, then,” Mogul said, grinning widely. The expression he turned on the Bishop was subtly triumphant. “This has been just a barrel of laughs, but…time marches on.”

“Mm hm,” Darling replied mildly, his own face open and affable. “See you next time, Embras.”

With a final, mocking grin, Embras Mogul laid his hand on Carter’s shoulder and vanished in a heave of darkness. All around them, the rest of the Black Wreath followed suit, demons and robed cultists disappearing in a series of shadowy undulations, till in seconds, the small group were clustered alone in the deserted square.

“Either someone is going to explain to me right damn now what just happened or I will begin stabbing people at random,” Peepers threatened.

“You don’t have a knife,” Joe observed.

“I will improvise.”

“Simple mathematics,” Darling said, strolling back over to the group. “They had the numbers, but we have the power, pound for pound. After watching all of us in action, Mogul knew it. A real fight would have left the area in ruins and cost lives on both sides. Neither of us wanted that.”

“I did,” Tholi muttered sullenly. Ingvar rolled his eyes.

“There will be another time,” Andros rumbled. “Did you at least learn what you set out to, Antonio?”

Darling grimaced in annoyance. “We bloodied their noses, cost them some tame demons and I have a few more little pieces of the puzzle to slot into place. For all the general fuss and bother this evening has been, though… I can’t say we’ve gained as much ground as I would have liked. But we drew them out of hiding, got a sense of how much manpower they’ve got in the city, and faced them down. That’s not nothing.”

“It will be worth reporting in detail to his Holiness,” Andros said, nodding. “But I agree. We must make more progress, quickly.”

“I’ve a few more ideas to mull over,” Darling replied, then rolled his shoulders. “Well, anyhow! What say we haul ass out of this depressing dump? I don’t know about any of you, but right now I would kick a nun into the canal for a brandy.”

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6 – 30

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“Are you sure you should be confronting this guy?” Carter asked as they strode rapidly along the rooftop. “And no, I’m not making a tactical suggestion; this is in my professional capacity of looking for information.”

“Duly noted,” Mogul said with a grin. “I’m curious about the question, however. This chap and his various lackeys have attempted to spy on our interview and then assaulted and killed my personnel when confronted about it. While I happen to have a miscellaneous handful of warlocks and demon thralls in the area, this seems like an ideal opportunity to have a word with him.”

“But the djinn strongly advised you not to. I’m just puzzled that you’d ignore his advice after summoning him to ask for it.”

There came a pause in the conversation when they reached the edge of the building. The darkness swelled around them, and then they were stepping onto the next roof over, two stories up and thirty feet away across a broad street. Carter stumbled again, but less dramatically; he was growing more accustomed to the disorientation.

“Mr. Long,” the warlock said as they resumed walking, “I’ve just spent much of the afternoon making the case to you that the Black Wreath are not at all as you believe them to be. With that established, let me just emphasize that demons are every bit as dangerous as you’ve always been told, and worse. That is why the Wreath is important, because believe me, no one else who tries is adept at handling them without creating a mess. Making allowances for individual personalities, they are highly aggressive. Infernal magic has that effect on any form of life it corrupts. Now, djinn aren’t able to physically interact with the world, which doesn’t diminish their propensity to cause trouble; it only limits the methods by which they can do so.”

The roof along which they were walking wasn’t another flat top like the previous one; their path was a lip of stone along the edge of a steep incline shingled in ragged old slate tiles. They came to the corner, where the path was interrupted by a decorative finial, and Carter had to accept a hand to navigating his way over the smooth slope and back onto even ground on the other side. It was an apparently L-shaped structure, to judge by the long distance it stretched out on the side ahead. Embarrassing as it might be to be handed about like a lady in silks and slippers, Carter wasn’t too proud to admit he needed the assistance. Despite the excitement of this assignment, he was keenly aware of being out of his element. His avuncular suit and briefcase didn’t lend themselves to nocturnal rooftop shenanigans.

“Ali and I have a well-negotiated contract,” Mogul continued as they moved on again. “He doesn’t lie to me and answers direct queries with a minimum of obfuscation. But beyond the simple answers to my questions, in the realm of his personal opinions and asides? You’re damn right I ignore his advice. It’s calculated to trip me up, without exception. Either with the goal of weaseling out of our contract, or just to create general mayhem.”

“But…if he can’t lie…”

“And what did he say, exactly?” Mogul grinned and winked. “That I would learn humility? Come on, what does that mean? You have to be eternally on guard when negotiating with demons. Any demons, but particularly the crafty ones. Sshitherosz, djinn, Vanislaad, all the schemers. They’ll promise you your own doom in a frilly dress, and you’ll step right into it if you make the mistake of paying too much attention to the frills. The exact wording gets you every time.”

“That sounds…exhausting,” Carter mused.

“Warlocks and lawyers, Mr. Long,” Mogul said cheerfully. “Warlocks and lawyers. Ah, here we are. You may want to keep back, we’re about to have some company.”

They had come to the end of the building, where there was a small rooftop patio. Raised beds held sad-looking old dirt and the twisted skeletons of small shrubs. Mogul hopped down from their improvised walkway and positioned himself against the bannister looking over the square below, beckoning Carter over to join him.

In the next moment the shadows gathered and took shape in the lee of the overhanging roof, then receded, leaving two figures standing there. One, dressed in obscuring gray robes, was hunched over with an arm across its midsection, supported by the other, which was clearly some kind of demon. Armored plates covered its forehead and limbs.

“Ah, still breathing,” said Mogul. “I’m glad to see that.”

“I had to confiscate her potion belt,” noted the demon. “She may have already taken more than the safe dosage.”

“It hurts,” the robed figure rasped, her voice taut with pain. “Inside. Bricks landed on my back… Think I have ribs broken. And lower.”

“That’s bad,” Mogul said, frowning, “especially if you’ve been chugging potions on top of internal bleeding. You know better, Vanessa. Hrazthax, get her to a healer. You two are out of this evening’s events.”

“You sure you won’t need me here?” the demon asked.

Embras waved a hand. “She’s urgent, and by the time you got back this would all be over. Be careful, though. Speak to Ross on your way out and have him pass along the word: anyone with a Vanislaad thrall needs to send it away, and everybody watch for holy symbols popping up in surprising places. There’s a reaper on the loose.”

Hrazthax frowned heavily. “A reaper? A real one? Just on patrol, or… It’s not good if Vidius is taking an interest in this.”

“You let me worry about that,” Mogul said firmly. “Take Vanessa’s talisman and get her to help. And when you find Ross, tell him to get everyone organized; our quarry is heading to the intersection of 31st East Street and Alfarousi Avenue. Don’t impede them; get everyone set up and ready to spring at that location, on my command.”

“Got it,” said Hrazthax, nodding. “But what about—”

Vanessa groaned and slumped against him.

“Go.”

The hethelax nodded to Mogul once more and took something from Vanessa’s hand, which she relinquished without argument. There came a few soft clicks as he manipulated it one-handed, and then the shadows welled up again, swallowing them.

“Busy, busy,” Mogul said, straightening his lapels. “Ah, well. When things go the way I want them to, I have the damnedest time keeping myself entertained. Ironic, isn’t it? This way, if you please.”

One shadow-jump later, they were on yet another rooftop across the street, and heading toward…Carter didn’t know what. The district was like an island of quiet and darkness. On all sides, not too far distant, the lights of Tiraas blazed like a galaxy come to earth, and at this altitude the sounds of carriage traffic and periodic Rail caravans were audible, but immediately around them was desolation. He doubted he could have navigated this jumble of broken-down structures even with the streetlights working, but Embras seemed to know where he was going.

“What’s a reaper?” Carter asked, regretting having put his notebook away. Ah, well, he wasn’t great at writing while walking at the best of times, and would likely have broken his neck trying to do it while navigating rooftops.

“Grim reaper,” Mogul said as they moved, “soul harvester, valkyrie. You’ve surely heard of them under one name or another.”

It took the journalist a few seconds to gather his thoughts before he could reply.

“Well… I must say, this night is going to leave me without things not to believe in.”

Embras grinned at him. “Oh, they’re very real, but you can be forgiven for not knowing it. The Vidians don’t encourage people to ask about them, and really, nobody on the mortal plane is likely to interact with one at all unless they dabble in necromancy. It’s the reapers who usually get sent to shut that down. Oh, and Vidian exorcisms? All theater. If the death-priests want a spirit laid to rest, they put on a big show to make you think they’re being useful while a valkyrie quietly gets rid of it. Warlocks only need to know about them because they have the same authority over incubi and succubi—which, as you may know, are human souls who are not supposed to be on this plane.” He shook his head and chuckled. “Vlesni is going to wring every ounce of pathos out of this anecdote she possibly can. I hear tell getting sent back by a reaper is…uncomfortable.”

“Do you really think you can intercept your opponent if he’s got an invisible spirit working with him?” Carter asked, glancing around somewhat nervously.

“Intercept him? I’m going to do no such thing.” Mogul stopped at the edge of the current roof, one long leg raised with the foot propped on the low wall surrounding it, and grinned at him. “We’re meeting him at the end. The man’s going excessively out of his way to spell out a message. I really ought to let him finish it, don’t you think? That’s just good manners.”

“Where the hell are we going?” Weaver snarled. “And don’t feed me that bullshit about just wasting time. You keep insisting on taking specific routes!”

“Lang—“

“Child, I swear by Omnu’s hairy third testicle I will shoot you right in the fucking mouth.”

“Settle down, good gods,” Darling reproved. “And yes, Weaver, you’re right, we are heading for an intersection a few blocks up.”

“Great, well, you should know there are warlocks and demons moving parallel to us in the same direction. We’re either walking into an ambush or being escorted by a mobile one.”

“Okay, how do you know this stuff?” Peepers demanded. “Where are you getting intel?”

“He’s got a spirit companion,” Joe explained.

“I want one. You have any idea how valuable that would be in my line of work?”

“You wouldn’t get along,” Weaver grunted.

“Don’t even ask,” added Joe, “it just gives him an opportunity to be standoffish and coy about it. He loves that.”

“About how many?” Darling interrupted.

Weaver cocked his head as if listening for a moment before replying. “Nine warlocks. Six of them have companion demons of various kinds. No incubi or succubi. And…a guy in a white suit almost straight behind us on the rooftops. With Peepers’s friend.”

“He’s not my friend,” she said with a sigh. “Never was, probably sort of hates my guts now.”

“Shame,” Weaver said, grinning nastily. “He was cute. Ah, well, guess you’re destined to be an old maid.”

“Joe, please shoot him in the foot.”

“Maybe after we deal with the demons.”

“You’re not wrong,” said Darling, “we are heading somewhere. There’s a small square up ahead close to the bordering canal of this district. That street leads straight to one of the bridges out.”

“The ones you said not to go near because they’d be guarded?” Joe asked.

“Yup!” Darling didn’t slacken his pace in the slightest; none of them were having trouble keeping up, though Peepers was starting to look a little haggard. “But it’s been enough time, approximately. I hope. I chose this particular bridge to approach because it leads to the most direct route toward the main temple of Shaath.”

“And…that is relevant…why?” Peepers asked.

“This must all be part of that plan he doesn’t have,” said Weaver, rolling his eyes.

“The Wreath has both oracular and divinatory sources of information,” Darling said lightly. “Many warlocks can use enough arcane magic to scry, and there are demons who trade information for favors. Any plans we made could be found out and countered, heading up against what we were.”

“There are methods to block both of those,” Joe noted.

“Yes,” said Darling, nodding, “and when I have time to arrange a real campaign against the Wreath, with Church and Imperial support, you better believe I’ll be using them. On the fly like this, though, there’s a loophole that can be exploited: they can’t scry a plan that doesn’t exist.”

“Not having a plan doesn’t strike me as a great plan,” Peepers muttered.

“I know the board,” Darling said more quietly, “and I know the pieces. I set in motion the ones most likely to lead to the result I want. Plans are nice, kids, but sometimes they’re a luxury you can’t afford to count on. If you know what’s going on, and if you’re a little lucky, you can tell more or less how things are going to play out. Even arrange them the way you want, sometimes.”

The other three glanced at each other.

“This is not how I wanted to die,” Peepers sighed.

“Oh?” said Joe. “How did you?”

“Of sex-induced heart failure on top of a gigolo in my eighties, wearing a fortune in jewels and nothing else. And drunker than any woman has ever been.”

He flushed deeply and didn’t manage to form a reply. Weaver actually laughed.

“And,” Peepers said in a more subdued tone, “certain my little brother was going to be taken care of…”

“He’ll be fine,” said Darling soothingly. “We will be fine.”

“You are so full of it,” Weaver snorted.

“Yeah.” Darling glanced over his shoulder and winked. “Luckily I keep enough of it on hand to throw into my enemies’ eyes. It’s always worked so far.”

“Ew,” said Peepers, wrinkling her nose.

“I think that metaphor got away from you,” Joe added.

Weaver shrugged. “Eh, they can’t all be winners.”

“Oh, shut up, all of you. We’re almost there. Mouths shut, eyes open, and be ready to fight or flee.”

“Of course,” Andros rumbled to himself, staring across the canal at the darkened district up ahead. “What better place? I’m a fool for not thinking of it.”

“Holy shit, that all looks abandoned,” Flora marveled. “How long has it been like this?”

“Less than a week,” said Savvy. “It’s not going to be left this way long, but while it’s there… Yes, it really is an ideal venue.”

They had stopped in the shade of two warehouses flanking the road which became a bridge into the condemned district. The spirit wolf had come unerringly here, then halted, glaring ahead with his hackles raised. He growled quietly until Andros rested a hand on his head.

Ingvar and Tholi immediately set to prowling around, investigating, with Flora and Fauna following suit after a moment. The elves, after peering in every direction, nimbly shimmied up lamp posts and perched improbably atop the fairy lights, peering ahead into the district. The two Huntsmen kept their attention chiefly on the ground, tracking back and forth.

“Cities,” Tholi muttered disparagingly. “Nothing leaves tracks.”

“Not easy tracks,” Ingvar said in a more even tone. “And the rains wash away what little there is very quickly. These are not elk, Tholi; be sure you are not following the wrong kind of spoor. Look.”

He had crossed to the foot of the bridge and knelt, drawing his hunting knife and carefully scraping it across the pavement.

“Infernal magic isn’t useful for stable area-of-effect spells, unlike arcane wards,” Ingvar said, holding up the knife. “It is anchored to something physical. In this case, the paving stones.”

The tip, where he had dragged it against the ground, was now spotted with rust. Even as they all stared, the reddish stain crept up the blade another half an inch.

“Infernal wards cause rust?” Fauna asked, frowning down at them.

“The weapons of Huntsmen are blessed by the Mother,” said Andros, glaring over the bridge.
“They do not decay, nor suffer damage from the elements. Heat, cold, moisture… Such an effect is the result of magical corruption. They are here, and they have warded this bridge against intrusion.” He began to glow subtly.

“What mother?” Flora asked.

“Honestly,” said Savvy, pointing at the wolf. “Have you ever seen divine magic used for anything like that? Most of the Huntsmen’s arts are fae in nature. I really need to explain this? I was almost certain you two were elves.”

“I don’t like you out of uniform,” Fauna announced.

“Enough,” Andros growled. “What can you see from that vantage?”

“Movement,” Flora said, peering into the dark district. “Through windows and gaps in walls, mostly. There’s activity directly ahead, hidden behind things. People moving inside buildings.”

“Without lights,” said Ingvar, nocking an arrow to his bow. “That’ll be the Wreath. Once we go in there it will be increasingly hard to track our quarry. They won’t appreciate our presence.”

“Let them come,” Tholi said, grinning savagely. Behind him, Ingvar rolled his eyes. “I just hope the Eserite we’ve come to rescue isn’t dead. If he’s running around in there with warlocks and demons after him… Doesn’t look good, does it?”

“Darling would die swiftly in our wilds,” Andros said, “but we fare almost as poorly in his. The man is adaptable and this is his city. He chose to enter there. I will believe he has fallen when I’ve buried him. We proceed.”

“Agreed,” Savvy said crisply, deftly smoothing her hair back with both hands. She shrugged out of her coat, reversed it and swept it back on, and just like that the illusion vanished, leaving the immaculately attired Butler straightening her tie.

“Uh,” Fauna asked, “what was the point of that, then?”

“Camouflage,” Andros said, nodding approvingly. “There are few enough Butlers in the city that some know all their faces, and their masters. Best not to advertize that Bishop Darling has run into trouble.”

“Wait!” Flora said suddenly, straightening. “I see people coming into the square— It’s him! And the others!”

“And more coming out of hiding,” Fauna added. “In robes. With demons.”

“Then this is the time,” Andros declared, starting forward and raising his bow. The spirit wolf stalked at his side. “Ingvar, Tholi, strike down the demons. I will attend to any infernal arts used against us.”

“And the people?” Ingvar asked. “The warlocks?”

Before he had finished speaking, Price strode forward onto the bridge, gliding smoothly down its center. Flora and Fauna leaped from their perches, landing on either side of the Butler. The three of them walked without apparent hurry, but at a pace that devoured the distance between them and Darling.

“That,” said Andros with a grim smile as he stepped forward after them, “appears to be attended to.”

Teal staggered slightly upon materializing, but quickly caught her balance and straightened, self-consciously smoothing her coat.

“That’s a neat trick,” Sarriki noted, pausing as she slithered past with a tray of empty mugs, bound for the bar. “You shouldn’t be able to teleport into here. Are you even a wizard?”

“Not using arcane magic, no,” the bard said with a smile, holding up a waystone. “But the Crawl’s methods work just fine.”

The naga cocked her head to the side. “I thought you kids couldn’t afford to buy from Shamlin.”

“Shamlin has decided to return to the surface,” Teal explained. “As such, he was quite interested in Tiraan bank notes. Where’s Professor Ezzaniel?”

“Here,” he said from the second level of the bar. “And what are you up to, Miss Falconer? It is not generally wise to split up the party.”

Teal tilted her head back, staring mutely up at him for a moment. “It’s funny how you’re supposed to be evaluating our progress down here, yet you haven’t been around for any of it. You just sit here drinking and chatting with the other patrons.”

“Since you make such a point of my absence, what makes you think you know what I’ve been doing while not under your eyes?” Ezzaniel leaned one arm against the railing and smiled down at her.

Teal stared at him thoughtfully, then glanced at Sarriki, who chuckled and set about pulling herself up the steps.

“It’s not like you to nakedly evade a question like that, Professor,” she said quietly.

Ezzaniel raised an eyebrow. “I assure you, Miss Falconer, everything is attended to. Professor Tellwyrn has made appropriate arrangements for you to be graded fairly.”

“I don’t doubt she has. Where is Rowe?”

The Professor shrugged. “I don’t much wonder about him when he is not in front of me. He is entertaining company, but in a rather exhausting way. One does get tired of always keeping a hand on one’s purse strings.”

She turned from him and bounded up the stairs in two long leaps, then paused, glancing around. The Grim Visage was fairly quiet at the moment. A lone drow man was nursing a drink in the far corner; he nodded politely to her as her gaze fell on him. A small party of five goblins were conversing quietly next to the fireplace. Not far away, Sarriki was clearing dishes and trash off an empty table.

Teal squared her shoulders and strode past the naga, straight through the curtained doorway next to the bar.

She paused only momentarily in the kitchen beyond, quickly taking in its meager furnishings and stored food at a glance, then stepped across the floor to study the door opposite the exit. It was secured with multiple locks. Unlike most of the rusted, battered and apparently recycled equipment the students had seen in most parts of the Crawl, these looked new. Clean, strong, and highly effective. Teal didn’t need to start tampering with them to know there was magic at work, too. This door would not be opened by someone who wasn’t entitled.

“You know, you’re not supposed to be back here.”

She turned slowly to look at Sarriki, who stood framed in the doorway, her arms braced against it on both sides.

“My friends are going directly to Level 100,” she said quietly.

“Oh?” The naga smiled, a bland, languid expression. The light framing her wasn’t bright enough to make her features difficult to see, but it was sufficiently darker in the kitchen than in the bar that the contrast made for good dramatic effect. “Excellent. I had a feeling, you know. And I’ve just won a bet. If they manage to beat the boss, I’ll be absolutely rolling in it.”

“The going theory,” Teal went on, “is that the final boss of the Descent is the Naga Queen.”

“Interesting idea. My people mostly live far below, you realize. It’s rare that any of us climb to this level.”

“Mm hm. It would fit, though, wouldn’t it? She’s easily the most formidable personality in the Crawl… One possibly powerful enough the Professor Tellwyrn wouldn’t want to leave her running around at liberty.”

Sarriki shrugged. “Whatever. Your friends are hard-hitters; they have as good a chance as anyone. I’m fairly confident of my odds.”

“You have more at stake here than a bet, don’t you?” Teal asked softly.

The naga’s eyes hardened. “Little girl, it is seldom wise to stick your nose into other people’s business. Now, if you’re hungry, kindly come back out front and I’ll make you something. This area is not for patrons.”

“Where’s Rowe? It’s odd for him not to be around. With Melaxyna placing bounties on his head, it’s not exactly safe for him to leave, is it?”

“Child,” Sarriki said sharply, “I’m losing patience. There’ll be no fighting in here, but you’ll find there is a lot I can do to make your stay in the Visage and the Crawl unpleasant if you disrupt the peace in my bar. Now, for the last time, out.”

“Actually,” said Teal, stepping aside and pointing at the locked cellar door, “I need to get through here.”

Sarriki actually laughed, loudly. “Oh, you silly little thing. That is not going to happen.”

They were familiar with the drill by now, after making extensive use of Melaxyna’s portal and waystone. Immediately upon landing, the students unlinked arms, Fross zipping out from under Ruda’s hat, and fell into formation, weapons up, eying their new surroundings carefully.

It was definitely the Descent. The distinctive proportions of the room were right, and the staircase behind them was just like those they had seen dozens of times before. It was the contents of the room that made them all straighten, staring.

“Well,” Toby said after a moment, “I don’t know what I was expecting.”

The wall were covered with masterfully painted murals, all depicting in exquisite detail their adventures through the Crawl thus far. The scenes blended one into the next as they marched around the walls, but everything was familiar, if portrayed somewhat more dramatically than the events had actually occurred. Juniper laughing in delight as she hugged a capling, Trissiny standing at the foot of the throne with Melaxyna smirking down at her, the whole group in disarray and being chased by boars, Gabriel studying an invisible maze with an expression of intense thought while the others ostentatiously bickered around him, the group lined up facing a row of chessmen. The scenes continued, wrapping around the chamber and showing the details of every step of their journey through the Descent, though they did not portray anything from before or after that. Nothing of the Grim Visage, the complex of dream-inducing mists, Shamlin’s grotto or the Naga Queen’s shrine.

There were statues, too, nine of them. Towering marble depictions of the students lined an avenue straight toward the opposite end of the chamber, each over eight feet tall even without the plinths on which they stood. At the far end, rather than another staircase downward, there was a semicircular indentation in the wall, in which stood an even larger statue, this one of the Naga Queen.

Of the Queen herself, there was no sign.

“I kind of wish I had one of those lightcappers,” Juniper mused. “Remember, from Tiraas? I mean, just look at these portraits! Makes me feel kinda proud, y’know?”

“Maybe we can come back with one?” Gabriel suggested.

“Unlikely,” said Fross. “This was all arranged for us on this visit. I bet it’ll all be blank as soon as we leave.”

“Experience is by nature a transient thing,” Shaeine said quietly.

“Only one direction to go,” Trissiny said, stepping forward. Ruda fell into step right beside her, the others quickly following suit.

They came up short a moment later, before they’d gone ten feet, when the sound of clapping began to echo throughout the chamber. Slow, rhythmic, and coming from only a single pair of hands, it resounded sourcelessly from the stone on every side, leaving them peering around again, weapons raised.

He materialized then, fading from invisibility into view atop the Naga Queen’s statue, where he was perched on her stone shoulder. Rowe continued to applaud, smirking down at them.

“Well done, kids. Well done. I congratulate you on your highly improbable victory.”

“Son of a bitch,” Gabriel murmured, not noticing the sour look Trissiny shot him. “Teal was right.”

“I have a theory,” Teal said, drawing the snake flute from within her coat. “One I’ve been working on since we came here. A lot of the pieces to the puzzle were hard to find, but several of the more important ones fell into place for us just recently.”

Sarriki had fallen still, eyes fixed on the flute. Her expression was purely hungry. Teal raised the instrument toward her lips.

“Let’s see if we can come to an understanding, your Majesty.”

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6 – 29

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They made excellent time; the Butler was half a head shorter than the elves and had shorter legs to match, but she stayed in the lead the entire time, not quite compelling them to rush. Not being the swiftest members of a group was an unfamiliar experience for them. It wouldn’t have been wise to run, though. Three women walking through the city was not a sight interesting enough to draw attention, but matters became different when two of them were elves, and more different still when one of the elves wore a sweeping cloak and the other a suit of black leather with ostentatiously displayed daggers. Running would have set the police on them.

“You are two Thieves’ Guild apprentices,” Price said as they rapidly crossed one of the city’s oldest districts under a darkening sky. She kept her eyes straight ahead and her voice to a bare whisper, but of course they could hear perfectly. “You are elves. That’s all. No matter what we end up seeing tonight, you will keep a sense of context in mind. Show the world anything beside what they expect of you and it’ll create trouble for all of us. Especially the Bishop. The kind of trouble from which there’s no coming back.”

“If it comes to an emergency—” Flora clamped her mouth shut as Price half-turned her head to give her a flat look.

“Why are we coming here?” Fauna asked in audible disgust.

“The Bishop has made it clear that with regard to the business at hand, the Guild can’t be considered reliable,” Price replied flatly. “And it should be obvious why we’re not going to the Empire for help. If you have a better idea, the time to say so was when we were leaving the house. Now hush.”

With that, she set off up the long staircase to the city’s main temple of Shaath, in bounds that consumed three steps at a time. The apprentices fell silent as ordered, following her.

At the top, a bearded man in ceremonial leathers, carrying a longbow, nodded politely to them. “Welcome, girls. Can I help you with—”

“Nope,” Price said curtly, sailing past him. He raised his eyebrows, turning to watch the three women vanish inside, but made no further comment and didn’t pursue.

“Odd how polite he was,” Flora murmured. “I’d have expected—”

“Hsst!” Price snapped, making a beeline for the only group of people present. The dim, barbarically ornate sanctuary was quiet at this hour, with only two Huntsmen in attendance. They stood at the far end near the large wolf statue, apparently doing nothing but talking quietly, their poses relaxed. Either they were simply stopping for a chat or Shaath didn’t require much formality from his ceremonial guards.

Both turned as the Eserites approached, expressions curious but not unfriendly. The older one had no beard; the younger had only the earliest scruffy stages of one, and appeared not much past fifteen. The beardless elder opened his mouth to speak, but Price beat him to it.

“I need to speak with Bishop Varanus.”

“All right,” the Huntsman said, in a deep but evidently female voice. “Why is that, and who are you?”

“You can call me Savvy, and it’s about Bishop Darling. There’s a problem. An urgent one.”

“Mm.” The Huntsman eyed her up and down, then flicked a cool gaze over Flora and Fauna. “I see. Tholi, go find the Bishop and bring him here with all haste.”

The boy took one step toward the rear door of the hall, then hesitated. “And…what shall I tell him?”

“The truth,” replied the Huntsman, giving him an irritated look. “There are three Eserites here asking for him, and it’s to do with that blonde poof.”

“Got it,” he said with a grin, then darted off.

“You’re Brother Ingvar?” Price—Savvy—inquired.

“Mm hm. So he remembered my name? I’m surprised.”

Savvy shrugged, took three steps backward and leaned against a carved pillar, producing a coin from within her sleeve, which she began rolling across the backs of her fingers. “Everyone makes mistakes, Huntsman. Only a fool doesn’t learn from them.”

“That’s very wise,” Ingvar replied in a completely neutral tone. “Can I get you ladies anything while you wait? It won’t be long, but I would have guests be comfortable in our lodge.”

“Thanks, but I’d rather not be comfortable,” Savvy said, keeping her gaze on the coin. It flashed in the dim light of the braziers as she manipulated it. “I’ll be comfortable when all this is settled.”

“As you like,” Ingvar said mildly, turning an inquiring gaze on the two elves. When they shook their heads, he nodded to them politely and folded his arms, staring down the length of the hall at its opposite door.

“I’m a little surprised by the reception,” Fauna said after nearly a minute’s silence. “I expected…subdued hostility.”

“Oh, and why’s that?” Savvy asked quietly. Ingvar flicked his gaze over to them, but didn’t join in the conversation.

“Well, it’s not as if our cults get along,” Flora said.

“And everyone knows how Shaathists are about women,” Fauna added.

“Apparently you don’t. Shaath always needs women.” Savvy made the coin vanish into her sleeve and straightened up, dividing a long look between them. “Your training has been mostly on practical matters, but you need at least a basic grasp of the theologies of the other cults. Particularly the ones we tend to butt heads with. The Huntsmen are always looking to recruit women. A successful man in this faith is one who can afford to provide for two or more wives; just by the numbers, they need to have more women than men in their ranks. The bar is set accommodatingly low for female converts to Shaathism, but men have to prove a great deal before being allowed to join a lodge from outside the faith. You can walk into any Shaathist lodge, anywhere, and if you don’t mind a generally condescending attitude toward your faculties, you’ll have no cause for complaint about your treatment. Now, if you marry a Shaathist, your ass is his to do with as he pleases. But for an unattached female, a lodge is probably as safe a place to seek shelter as an Avenist temple. Creepy and not pleasant, but safe.”

“Huh,” Flora said, sounding flummoxed.

“Relating to that,” Savvy added with a faint smirk, “spend any amount of time around here and you will be courted. Aggressively.”

“Tholi is newly raised to the rank of Huntsman,” Ingvar chimed in with an amused smile, “and looking for his first wife. Give him an hour or so to decide which of you he wants and you’ll see what she means. It’s a rare honor for a Huntsman to claim an elf maid for his own.”

“Him and what army?” Fauna said, baring her teeth and placing a hand on the hilt of her dagger. Ingvar laughed.

At that moment, the rear door opened again and Bishop Varanus himself emerged, crossing to them with long strides, Tholi trailing along behind. Andros wore traditional leather, with a pelt of some spotted animal hanging from his shoulders like a cape; he carried a longbow in one hand, and a heavy knife and hatchet hung at his belt. He came to a stop next to them, studying the three.

“What is this about, then?” he asked without preamble.

“Bishop Darling went off about four hours ago with a companion, tracking two other allies of his through metaphysical means,” Savvy reported crisply. “The two in question were pursuing a nest of the Black Wreath. He left instructions to seek help if he wasn’t back by dinner, which he was not. So here we are.”

Andros drew in a long breath through his nose and let it out quickly. “How many Wreath? Of what potency? With what demonic allies?”

“Everything I know, I’ve just told you,” Savvy said evenly.

“And you cannot go to your Guild with this?”

“The Guild’s skills are not most applicable here,” she replied, “and besides, the Bishop believes they are compromised by the Wreath. I have no idea where he is, only that he is certainly in some trouble. We need trackers.”

Andros grunted in agreement. “Antonio is a dismal excuse for a fighter. What possessed him to chase a bear into its den?”

“The allies he’s with are far from weak.”

“Allies?”

“Gravestone Weaver and the Sarasio Kid.”

Tholi’s eyes widened and he bit back a curse. Ingvar simply lifted an eyebrow, watching Andros.

The Bishop himself stroked his beard once with the hand not occupied with his bow, frowning. “There is a limit to what powers the Wreath can bring to bear within the city. Hn…very well. If Antonio has been delayed, he is presumably in danger, and requires assistance. Hopefully those allies will suffice to hold out. Come.”

He turned and strode off toward the front door. Price immediately fell into step behind him, followed by Ingvar. Tholi and the elves brought up the rear, eying one another warily.

“Is this…all?” Flora asked. “This is the only help you’re bringing?”

“There are few Huntsmen in residence, and mustering them will take time we cannot spare,” Andros replied curtly. “Ingvar is one of the lodge’s finest, and Tholi…can run ahead, beating the bushes.”

Ingvar grinned, and Tholi devoted a self-defeating amount of effort to not looking sullen.

“And what about you?” he countered, glaring at Flora. “Three women is the only thing you offer your Bishop in a time of need?”

“This woman is a Butler,” Andros said.

“I don’t see a uniform,” Tholi snipped.

“You don’t see the world,” Ingvar replied calmly, and the youth fell silent, flushing.

“And these two are only partially trained,” Andros continued, “but you should know that elves are never to be taken lightly.”

Sweeping outside, he paused at the top of the steps, turning to face them. “I need something of Antonio’s.”

Price instantly produced a strip of cloth from inside her coat, handing it to him. The four Huntsmen, including the one watching the door, paused to regard the paisley silk scarf with identical expressions, then Andros raised two fingers to his mouth and let out a long, sharp whistle.

A shape formed seemingly out of thin air, a bluish-white discoloration upon the world, as if it were an invisible presence wreathed in frost. It was a wolf, standing waist-high on the Huntsman who had summoned it, eyes glowing like blue candle flames and a faint but steady mist trailing off its fur. Andros held the scarf in front of its nose.

“Find this lost friend,” he said softly, tucking his bow under his arm to stroke the ghostly animal’s neck.

The wolf made a soft whuff, then whirled and bounded down the steps. It paused at the bottom, looking up at them, its aspect clearly impatient.

“And now,” Andros said with a grin, “we hunt.”

 

Joe fired off another warning shot, blasting a spray of rubble from the corner of the building up ahead. “I confess it’s downright liberating, doing something like this in a civilian-free landscape for which I won’t be held financially liable.”

“Yeah, something about this city is just asking to be shot to hell,” Weaver said tersely; he held a wand in one hand and his flute in the other. He’d not distributed earplugs, so hopefully he was planning to rely on the former, not the latter. “Did you get it?”

“Nope,” said Joe, keeping his gaze on the now-smoking corner around which the demon had retreated. “Just scared it off.”

“Means there’s a warlock behind it somewhere,” said Darling. “Katzils are smart, but not sentient; once on the hunt it wouldn’t retreat unless ordered to.”

“Cat and mouse it is, then,” Joe murmured, tearing his eyes from the corner to peer warily about.

“Guys, we might all die out here,” said Peepers solemnly, “so…just so we don’t go out with any unfinished business, I want you to know I hate you all.”

“Aw, somebody’s not having fun,” Darling said, grinning at her. “Relax, Peepers, we’re gonna be fine. Think of it as a great game—the great game. You know your catechism, surely.”

“I’m fully comfortable thinking of theft, espionage and extortion as games,” she snapped. “That I was trained for. I did not apprentice myself to the Thieves’ Guild because I wanted to be chased around by fucking demons.”

“And warlocks!” Weaver said helpfully.

“Hate. You. All.” She viciously kicked a chunk of fallen masonry out of the road. “Except maybe Joe. Mostly because he’ll let me slap him upside the head if we survive this.”

“Excuse me?” Joe said, affronted. “What did I do?”

“Come now, vaudeville while we move, please,” Darling said, setting off for a side alley.

“Let’s keep going to the next alley,” Weaver said. “That one’d put us straight down the line of sight of that demon’s last known position.”

“Oh, it could be anywhere by now,” Darling breezed. “Worry about the demons when you see them. This really is a game, guys. It cannot go on long and it can’t involve a huge amount of force. It’s only a matter of time and not much of that before the Empire or the Church realizes this district is blockaded with infernal magic. The Wreath doesn’t deal in brute force tactics; whatever they’ve fielded against us will be fine for chasing around a ragtag band of misfits, but not enough to stand against an Imperial strike team or squad of Silver Legionnaires. Keep moving, keep alert, and we’ll get through the night just fine.”

Weaver actually walked backward a few paces as they proceeded down Darling’s selected alley, peering up the street where the katzil demon had last been seen. “Fine, whatever. I still think going straight would have been safer. We’re backtracking toward where we shot at that guy with the staff. Likely to be more Wreath in the vicinity.”

“When we don’t know where the Wreath may be, assume they could be anywhere!” Darling said cheerfully.

“Hate you so much,” Peepers growled.

“Then why this alley?” Weaver demanded.

Darling turned his head and grinned at him.

 

Carter staggered as the latest swell of shadows deposited them on another rooftop, bracing himself against the low wall surrounding its edge. A figure in gray robes, accompanied by a hulking, crocodile-like demon—a khankredahg, that’s what they were called—prowled the streets below.

“How’re you holding up, Mr. Long?” Embras Mogul asked solicitously. “Shadow-jumping itself is perfectly harmless to the body and spirit, I can assure you, but I know any kind of rapid teleportation can be disorienting. Particularly if one isn’t used to it.”

“I’m…fine,” Carter said, straightening and taking a breath, and finding that he more or less was. “This is…well, not what I was expecting.”

“We aim to entertain,” Mogul said with a grin and a bow. “And now, if you don’t mind a momentary respite from the action, I’m going to offer you the chance to see something even most warlocks never manage to behold.”

“Oh?” Carter reflexively pressed himself back against the wall. It was a four-story drop, but he’d never had a problem with heights. He had what he felt was a perfectly reasonable aversion to demonology, though.

“All this running around, stalking shadows and shooting around corners is very exciting, to be sure,” Mogul said, reaching into his inner coat pockets. He produced an ancient-looking clay bottle and set it upright on the flat rooftop, then pulled forth a handful of fine gray powder, which he trailed around it, forming a circle. “However, I find that I’ve somewhat lost my taste for playing games for their own sake as I grow older. Our visitors are proving to be exactly the kind of delightful challenge I enjoy when I don’t actually have anything that needs to get done, but this isn’t the night for it. Here we are, wasting your valuable time and keeping me from my beauty rest. So! I’m arranging a little shortcut. It’s cheating, really; takes a lot of the fun out of the game. A man must do what he must, though. You know how it is.”

As he chattered, he had knelt beside the bottle and its boundary of powder—which was lying remarkably flat despite the light wind over the rooftop—and begun augmenting the circle with a piece of chalk, adding glyphs and embellishments whose meaning was completely lost to Carter. He flipped to a new page in his notebook, though, and began making a sketch, leaving out the glyphs. Writing down demonic symbols, especially summoning symbols, seemed like an invitation to trouble.

“Since we have a moment to breathe,” he said while they both worked, “may I ask about what we saw in that alley? That was obviously the symbol of Vidius, who isn’t known to be very proactive in combating Elilial. Or, at least, he doesn’t have that reputation among most mortal laypeople. I guess everything looks different from the Wreath’s perspective. What could create an effect like that, if there wasn’t a Vidian priest nearby?”

“Well, for starters, that neatly answered the question of what happened to my succubus,” Embras mused, continuing to draw on the floor. “This has been a night of firsts for us all, Mr. Long. Suffice it to say there are much more dangerous things than demons prowling this night. But not to worry! You and I are perfectly safe. I don’t have much to fear from holy symbols, which are about the worst that Vidius’s little pets can throw onto the mortal plane, though I don’t fancy trying to walk through one and having to replace most of my personal effects as a result. It’s all terribly inconvenient, though. Now I have to re-summon Vlesni, and she’s always such a pain about it.” He looked up at Carter and winked. “She’s a sweet girl, really, just can’t resist the opportunity to be a pain in the butt. The children of Vanislaas are like that, as you may have heard. She’s forever trying to sneak her friends through, as if I need extraneous demons cluttering up the place. Believe me, Mr. Long, you never want a demon around that you haven’t fully planned for, and prepared the means to both control them and get rid of them when you’re done.”

“I must say the most surprising thing to me is how responsible you seem to be about diabolism,” Carter remarked. “The last time I heard this much talk about safety measures I was interviewing a professional wandfighter.”

“Betcha I have more reason to worry than he did,” Mogul said glibly. “Worst thing you can do with a wand is kill somebody. All right, now, prepare to feast your eyes!”

With a dramatic flourish, he plucked the lead stopper from the upright bottle and stepped back.

A thick mist immediately poured out, curling upward and filling the air with the scent of spices and an ocean breeze. The smoke coalesced, rapidly taking the shape of a man—or at least, the upper half of one. Below the waist he trailed off into a swirling funnel of smoke, the tail of which poured into the mouth of the bottle. Above he was shirtless, muscular, and bald as a melon. And, at the moment, grinning broadly.

“Finally,” he said, his voice resonating as though heard down a long tunnel.

“Getting antsy, are we?” Mogul said, grinning in return. “Now, you know how I like to solve things for myself. If I weren’t in such a hurry—”

“Oh, Embras, you know I don’t care about that,” the smoke-creature interrupted. “But I do keep an eye on you, and I did so desperately want to see the look on your face when this one was explained to you.”

“Is that a djinn?” Carter breathed.

“It most surely is,” Embras said brightly. “Mr. Long, may I present Ali Al-Famibad, an old acquaintance and colleague of mine. Ali, this is Carter Long, noted journalist.”

“Indeed, I quite enjoyed your column, when it was circulating,” the djinn said, bowing elaborately to Carter, which was a very peculiar sight given his lack of legs.

“I…you… Well, it’s news to me that the Herald is distributed in Hell,” Carter said weakly.

Ali let out a booming laugh. “My good man, I am, after all, a djinn! Knowledge is what I do. Knowledge is what I am. And I rather miss your opinion column, I must confess. Naturally the position as reporter makes better career and financial sense from your standpoint, but when dealing with the facts you tend to suppress that sly wit of yours. ‘Tis a loss to the world.”

“Why…thank you,” Carter said, bemused.

“Glad as I am to see you all getting along,” Embras interjected, “I have a little problem, Ali.”

“Ah, yes, your Eserites.” Turning back to him, the djinn grinned broadly, an expression with more than a hint of cruel mockery. “I have advised you time and again not to antagonize Eserion’s followers—they play your little games as well as you, and with less courtesy. As a case in point, you’ll be wanting to know where the good Bishop Darling and his friends will poke their heads up next, yes?”

“Quite so,” Embras replied, then turned to Carter. “By the way, Mr. Long, Ali and I have a long-standing and fully enforceable contract. Should you ever find yourself in a position to ask a favor of a djinn, or any sentient demon, don’t. The loopholes will get you every time. It’s not only a joke that lawyers make the best warlocks.”

“I can’t really see that coming up,” Carter said, “as until two minutes ago I thought djinn were a myth. But thanks for the advice.”

“Here it is, then,” Ali boomed, and dissolved. He swirled about above the circle as a cloud of smoke for a moment, before resolving his shape into a visual representation of the district. The demon’s voice echoed sourcelessly out of the diagram. “And here is the path taken from your meeting point by the Bishop.”

A golden mote flared to life near one edge of the diorama, which did indeed resemble the nexus of streets where Carter remembered seeing them, or so he thought; it was very hard to align the map with his recollection of the area from the ground. The mote moved off rapidly down the tiny streets, leaving behind a glowing thread of gold tracing the path taken by the Bishop and his party.

Its form almost immediately was apparent. It was somewhat distorted by the angular nature of the paths they were obliged to take, conforming to the street grid, but there were enough alleys of various dimensions to give Darling enough free reign, it seemed. The golden thread traced out, in oddly blocky cursive script, a brief message.

“Well,” Mogul said after a moment of silent perusal. “I do say that seems rather…gratuitous.”

“How does he know the streets that well?” Carter marveled.

“It says ‘fuck you!’” Ali crowed from within the diagram. They didn’t need to see his face to know he was grinning. “Or it will when he gets to the end.”

“Yes, I can read Tanglish, thank you,” Mogul said dryly.

“How does he know the streets?” the djinn continued. “He is the streets. You’re one of the best operators it has ever been my privilege to know, Embras, but you’ve let your perceptions of Antonio Darling be colored by your first encounter with him, in a tiny town where you were in your element and he was wildly out of his. You’ve skillfully sealed off this district, which is the only way for you to safely tangle with that man in the streets of Tiraas. Know this, Embras Mogul: the next time you do, you’ll learn humility.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Mogul said solemnly. “So the question is, does he expect to be intercepted at the end of his little script? What trick might be prepared there? Or… You know what, no.” He shook his head. “You can drive yourself nuts playing ‘does he know that I know that he knows.’ No, I do believe I’m fed up with this foolishness. Come Mr. Long, let’s bring this to a conclusion.”

The three-dimensional map dissolved back into smoke, and then re-formed in the shape of the djinn’s upper body. Still smiling unpleasantly, he bowed again. “I have rendered my advice, Embras Mogul. Thus is our contract upheld. Ignore my counsel at your peril.”

“Thank you, I believe I shall.” Mogul bent forward and stuck the plug back in the bottle. Above it, the djinn dissipated instantly into the air, taking with him the exotic scent of whatever incense it was. “After all,” the warlock added, picking up the bottle and straightening, leaving the summoning circle inscribed on the floor, “life without peril is just too easy to be worth it. Don’t you think so, Mr. Long?”

Carter very much did not agree, but found himself with no safely polite way to say so.

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The alley behind the apartment was less dim than its interior, albeit not by much. Above them, the sky was fading rapidly to orange, though not much of that light penetrated into the narrow space backing the crumbling edifice. Two smaller structures sat behind it, with another thin sliver of navigable space between them, which Joe glanced longingly down as they crept past it. The space was only a yard wide, and it was liberally seasoned with trash. Being Tiraas, the layer of detritus on the floor of the alley had been wet enough long enough to become a layer of homogenized, ill-smelling sludge, with crunchier bits of broken wood and windblown paper sprinkled here and there along the top.

Like an apple cobbler. Peepers had seemed pleased with this metaphor, and even more pleased with Joe’s lack of amusement.

She crept along in near silence, while his boots alternately squelched and crunched; quiet moving had not been part of his education. While Joe kept his wands out and eyes roving, turning frequently to glance behind, above, and at windows they passed for any possible threat, she remained intent on the building they had just exited, peering upward and counting windows.

“Here,” she said softly, coming to a stop. “Straight up.”

Joe didn’t bother to ask if she was sure. He put his back to her and kept moving his eyes, certain they were about to come under some kind of attack. It made no sense to him that the succubus might be the only guardian in the building.

“You can climb it?” he asked, half-expecting nothing but a snarky comment in reply.

She surprised him. “Gods, I hope so. The windowsills help, as does the bad state of this stone… But this was a pretty smooth surface, once. Be sure to glance up now and then, I may need to be caught.”

“If you need to be caught,” he said darkly, “we’ll need to run. Unless you can fall a lot more silently than anyone I’ve ever heard of.”

He glanced at her in time to catch her grin, and then she was off. With one bound she got her feet on the sill of the window. It was bricked up, as was the one on the second floor—apparently there had been ground-floor views when this structure was built—but the third floor, her target, was high enough to see out over the sloped roof of the building behind, and its window was covered with nothing but dilapidated wooden shutters which had once been painted green. Peepers had to press herself flat against the surface; the surviving windowsill gave her a few inches on which to plant her fingers and toes, but nothing more. She stretched upward, groping experimentally toward a crack in the stone above.

“All right, I believe that’s enough of that nonsense.”

He whipped up his wand, aiming at the speaker, and immediately Peepers spoiled his shot, lurching backward off the wall in her surprise and barely managing to land on her feet, right in his line of fire. Beyond his companion’s crouched form, he beheld a person in an all-concealing gray robe, pointing a wand at him.

He had not heard her approach.

“I suggest you put that down, ma’am,” he said. Politely, but firmly.

“No, no, dear, that is not the situation. I am not the one needing to protect a bystander, here.” She adjusted her aim, pointing the wand at Peepers, who froze.

Joe didn’t move, studying her. The robe had a cowl that kept her face in full shadow, but the hand holding the wand was expertly manicured, its nails painted an excessively flashy shade of pink. Her voice was low, and deliberately sultry in a way that was starkly inappropriate in this context. She would be pretty under that hood, he knew. He’d grown up around enough prostitutes to know the type. Even if nature hadn’t blessed her looks, this was someone who would have an expert grasp of cosmetics.

“Ma’am,” he said, “I can disarm or kill you if your finger tightens a fraction. I’d prefer not. Please drop the weapon.”

A throat was cleared behind him, and Joe flattened himself against the wall, bringing up his other arm and aiming his wands in both directions down the alley. Another figure in a gray robe had materialized several yards down, cutting them off. He also was carrying a wand, a mass-produced model with a standard clicker, like his fellow cultist.

Materialized was the word. There had been no sound, nothing to warn of their approach until they were there. Shadow-jumping, then; these were either warlocks or had Wreath talismans.

“Now, young man,” the woman said condescendingly, “you can’t fight in both directions, especially if you’re trying to protect—”

She broke off with a hiss of surprise and pain as a beam of light lanced out from Joe’s wand, ripping the weapon from her hand. A second shot from his other wand simultaneously disarmed the robed man, who actually yelped and stumbled backward.

“Wouldn’t think so, would you?” Joe said. “I did warn you, ma’am.”

“Holy shit,” Peepers breathed.

“Language,” he said automatically. “There are ladies present.”

Peepers glanced at the robed woman, now cradling a singed hand against her chest, and back at him. “Yeah? Where?” He sighed.

Then came the stomping.

“You probably should have surrendered,” the woman said smugly.

Peepers pressed herself back against the wall; Joe didn’t budge, keeping his eyes forward so as to keep both warlocks peripherally in view. Neither of them moved, however, apart from nursing their hands. The footsteps echoing down the side alley were far too heavy to belong to anything human.

The thing that emerged bore out that analysis.

It couldn’t really fit in the alley; its broad shoulders scraped both sides hard, and it couldn’t even raise its arms in the cramped confines. The creature was very roughly humanoid in shape, albeit twice the size of any man Joe had ever seen, with a disproportionately broad chest and stubby legs. And it had no head, just a protrusion at the top of its shoulders; its face was over-large and located in its chest, its fanged mouth hanging below where the ribs would be. It was entirely covered in bronze scales, even its lips; a double ridge of pointed scales extended up over its mouth, making the interior seem a forest of fangs in the brief moment that it hung open. Then it clamped shut, glaring at him through disconcertingly tiny black eyes.

Joe shot it directly in the center of its mass.

The demon growled at him.

“Really should have surrendered,” said the female warlock with unmistakable satisfaction. “A baerzurg’s skin is utterly impervious.”

“Oh?” he said, raising his wands again. “Good. Thanks for the tip, ma’am.”

The next two wand shots took the demon right through what there was of its head. It emitted a hoarse grunt and started to topple backward, immediately wedging itself tight in the narrow alley. Its brawny arms hung limply; smoke drifted up from its eye sockets.

From behind it, the man squalled, “What happened? What’s wrong?”

The woman gaped in silence for three seconds, then raised her good hand. There was no visible effect, but Joe felt the temperature in the air lower slightly.

He pointed a wand directly at her head.

“Do. Not.”

She froze, letting her spell fizzle. In the next second she turned and scrambled all of fives steps away before the dimness of the alley itself seemed to rise up and swallow her.

“What is going on?” the other warlock demanded, kneeling in the muck to peer under the dead baerzurg’s armpit.

“She ran away,” Joe informed him. “In all modesty, you might wanna think about—there ya go.”

The man had risen awkwardly and retreated; in the next second he, too, vanished in improbable silence.

“Holy crap,” said Peepers, staring at Joe. “This really isn’t your first rodeo, is it?”

“Never had to deal with demons before,” he muttered. “I’d rather never again. Can we consider our cover blown and skedaddle, please?”

She sighed heavily. “Yeah, might as well. If they brought out the heavy wands like that, I don’t want to see what happens when they get desperate. C’mon, it looks like that way’s off the table.”

Peepers turned and started off down the alley away from the obstructing demon corpse, Joe right on her heels. They made it all of six yards before the shadows ahead swelled again, and two more figures materialized.

With more agility than he’d expected after seeing her tumble off the wall, Peepers whirled around behind Joe. He raised both weapons.

“I don’t see any need for another dust-up,” he said flatly. “We are leaving. Best for everyone involved if we don’t have to go through you.”

“This kid killed Vhakzud?” the figure in the lead said, craning his head to peer past Joe. “…oh. Oh, I see. That’s actually quite impressive, for several reasons. Anyhow, kid, no. I’m afraid your escape ends here.”

“Don’t let him shoot!” his companion, the woman from before, said somewhat tremulously.

The figure in the lead grinned, faint light glinting off his teeth. In fact, light glinted on other surfaces, along his forehead and shoulders, and lower arms, all of which seemed distorted. In the dimness, even Joe’s perceptions took a moment to make sense of what he was seeing. The fellow had outgrowths of some kind of armor, which seemed natural, or at least melded to his skin. It gleamed faintly like chitin. At any rate, it affected his posture; he kept his knees slightly flexed, his upper body angled forward and his elbows bent, hands dangling in front of him.

“Are you, by chance, another demon?” Joe asked.

“’fraid so,” the self-professed demon replied, still smiling. “Somehow I doubt you’ll take my word that you’re not getting by me the way you did Vhakzud. By all means, go ahead and shoot me.”

“By your leave, then,” Joe said politely, and fired a beam of energy directly into his eye.

“Ow!” the demon protested, twitching his head to the side. “You little twerp, that stings! It’s too dark in here for that kind of light show.”

Joe lowered his weapon a fraction, his own eyes widening. That beam should have been enough to bore a hole through a tree.

“Good trick, though,” the demon went on, blinking his affronted eye. “Baerzurgs have armored skin, so a shot through the eye socket takes out the brain. I am seriously impressed; we’ll have to talk about where you learned to shoot like that. But hethelaxi are just magically invulnerable—no tricks, no gimmicks. So, are we done here, or is there going to be a ruckus that gets you or your ladyfriend injured?”

“Ruckus,” Peepers said immediately. “The hell I’m going anywhere with demons and warlocks. I bet if you keep shooting you’ll find a soft spot.”

“Maybe,” Joe mused.

“I mean over his shoulder,” she said in exasperation, pointing past him at the woman hovering behind the hethelax. At this, she ducked down, concealing herself behind the demon much as Peepers was behind Joe. The two of them exchanged a wry look.

“I’m not much of a scrapper,” the demon confessed. “But the fact is, you can’t harm me, and you can’t stop me. All my employers will want to know is who sent you here and why. With that out of the way, you may as well just leave. Nothing you tell anyone will lead to us, and the Wreath is looking to increase its public profile anyway.” He leaned forward subtly, making no threatening moves. “A quick chat, we get our publicity, you get to spend the rest of your evening not being hexed and beaten on by demons. How is there a downside for anyone in this?”

“Well, you make a persuasive case,” Joe said, nodding.

“We have a deal, then?

“I’m afraid it ain’t really up to me,” he said apologetically. “I’m just the hired wand, I don’t make the rules. The rules are we don’t cooperate with the Black Wreath.”

“Well, that’s a shame,” the demon said with a sigh. “Now somebody’s going to get all mussed. I have to ask, what drives you to be so stubborn?”

“Sheer bloody orneriness, mostly,” Joe confessed, raising both his wands.

The hethelax crouched, bracing his arms apart as if to attack rather than defend against wandshots, but Joe wasn’t even aiming at him.

A spray of white bolts flashed out from each weapon, digging into the walls of the structures to either side of the demon and warlock. Fine beams of light sank deep into the crumbling stone, sending up small clouds of dust and tiny flecks, and followed a split-second later by heavier bursts of power that exploded within the holes just bored. Under the onslaught, the walls gave away, tumbling inward onto the pair.

The hethelax braced both his arms over his head; there came a short scream from the woman, quickly cut off. Empty rooms gaped on both sides of them now, their exterior walls reduced to fragments. Pieces continued to crumble off from above.

Joe turned back toward Peepers, quickly sheathing one wand to tip his hat. “Ma’am, I apologize for the language—”

“Just run!” she exclaimed, grabbing his wrist and dragging him forward.

They had to duck under the dangling arm of the slain baerzurg to get into the alley from which it had emerged, but in the next second they were clear, pelting down the narrow path toward the silent street ahead, neither of them imagining for a moment that this was over.

“What was that?” Carter exclaimed, jumping to his feet at the crash resounding from just below. The entire room shook slightly.

Mogul rose more languidly, stepping over to the window, and pushed up the sash then opened the shutters utterly without hurry. He leaned far out, looking down.

“Ah,” he said in an oddly satisfied tone. “We appear to be under attack.”

“We are?” Carter asked nervously, protectively clutching his notebook to his chest. “By whom?”

“Oh, the usual, I suspect,” Mogul said airily, ducking back in and straightening up. “Well, Mr. Long, it seems we are about to have an adventure!”

“Oh,” the reporter replied carefully, edging back toward the door, “I don’t think…”

“Forgive me if this sounds disrespectful to your profession,” Mogul went on, stepping toward him, “but words are cheap. I brought you here to learn the truth about the Black Wreath. Well, you’ve listened with great patience while I nattered on about this and that, for which I thank you, but you and I both know that my viewpoint is only that. You need facts; your editor will demand hard, objective evidence. Fortuitously, it appears the Church or some of its lackeys have provided you a chance to see them in action!”

“By ‘action,’” Carter hedged, “you mean…”

“I mean,” Mogul said with a canny smile, “you’ll get to find out what the agents of the gods really do to those who commit the egregious sin of not sharing their opinions. In fact, this is absolutely perfect; I couldn’t have asked for a better case in point. Don’t you worry, Mr. Long; you and your pen are far too important to me to take any unwarranted risks. Your person is sacrosanct, I assure you. We’ll not allow you to come to any harm.”

“Well…when you put it that way, this sounds like an opportunity I can’t pass up,” Carter said somewhat reluctantly, but with the eagerness of a hound on the scent beginning to rise again in his face and voice.

“Splendid!” Mogul said cheerily. “It would have gotten all awkward if I’d had to insist.”

The shadows rose and swallowed them up, and suddenly they weren’t there anymore.

“That came from around behind the building,” Weaver said, narrowing his eyes.

“So it did,” said Darling, pausing at the base of the steps up to the apartment’s front door. “Hm…now that we know where the action is, it doesn’t seem worthwhile to get ourselves cornered in this dark maze of hallways, does it?”

“Not that it ever did,” the bard growled. “I suppose you’ll want to go charging blindly into whatever cause that racket, then?

“Oh, don’t be melodramatic, your face’ll stick that way.” Darling hopped lightly back down the steps and brushed past him. “I don’t know these streets as well as some—hardly seemed worthwhile, with them on the docket for renovation. There’s a general grid to the neighborhood that makes a rough sort of sense, though. We’ll make a slightly wider sweep around and approach from a less expected angle.”

“Finally, something distantly resembling logic,” Weaver snorted. “Lead on, then, brigadier.”

“So, what kind of capabilities does your little bugaboo have?” Darling asked, moving down the street at a good clip. He passed the edge of the apartment building and kept going, making for the next alley. “Can’t physically interact with the world, but apparently you can get intel from it?”

“Bugaboo,” Weaver grunted. “Charming. Would you kindly stop with the ‘it’ bullshit? I know you’ve been screwing around with oracles enough to know better. No need to be excessively rude.”

Darling glanced back at him, pointing one finger at his mouth. “This is the face I make when I’m repressing the first six responses that spring to mind. Just for future reference.”

“Duly noted, though I try not to look at your face any more than absolutely necessary.”

“Anyhow,” Darling went on, turning down the alley, “your point is taken. I was simply staying in the habit of using vague terms out of respect for your privacy, but I guess it matters little between just us. So what can she do to aid us in this situation?

“Mostly just keep tabs on what’s up ahead,” Weaver said. “Joe and Peepers are currently running. They’ve—well, Joe has killed a baerzurg and dropped a wall on a hethelax, which I’m sure you know will only slow it down.”

“Attaboy, Joe!” Darling cheered quietly.

“And my companion took out a succubus earlier. No other demons nearby have revealed themselves, but the Wreath in this area are making heavy use of shadow-jumping. In addition to those demons there have been two warlocks that appeared basically out of nowhere. No way to tell what—”

“Wait, stop,” Darling interrupted. “I thought you said she couldn’t touch the physical world? How did she take out a demon?”

“It was a succubus.”

“Oh, good, thank you. Maybe if you repeat it a few more times it’ll spontaneously start making sense.” They emerged into a side street; Darling darted across it to another sheltering alley, Weaver trailing behind him.

“It’s about death,” the bard snapped when they were back under the cover of looming walls. “Most demons are just things stuck on the wrong plane of existence. A Vanislaad is a human soul that’s already died and been condemned to hell. Them being here is fundamentally against the rules. She can send them back. Works for ghosts and undead, too, not that that helps us any.”

“Hm,” Darling mused, filing that away. “Well, giving us a bird’s eye view of the situation is helpful. Speaking of which…?”

“We’ve actually gone past them,” Weaver reported, pointing at the wall. “Back that way, about half a block over. They’re just coming out of an alley.”

“Perfect, I want to come at them from another angle. Anything else she might be able to do? And willing, of course. You know how I hate to impose.”

“Uh huh,” Weaver said dryly. “Actually, now that you bring it up…”

They had just burst out of the long alley into the street when a startled voice sounded from behind them.

“Rupa?”

Joe and Peepers turned.

“Hi, Carter!” she said, waving cheerfully.

Two figures stepped forward into the light at the very edge of the alley, a dark-skinned man in a dapper white suit, and the reporter from the Herald.

“Why, Mr. Long! You know this young lady? Or is Rupa the lad? Forgive me for jumping to conclusions, but it sounds like a Punaji name.”

“She’s…my editor’s secretary,” Carter said slowly, his forehead wrinkling into a frown as he spoke. “Interim secretary, actually. The real one suddenly took sick…”

“Ah, I can positively see you putting it together,” Mogul said, grinning. He turned to study the two of them; Joe now had a wand pointed at his chest, which seemed to concern him not at all. “You’re a little young to be a Church lackey, my boy. Especially dressed like that. Fashionable, but clearly not a uniform; they typically like to brainwash their kids before anything so outrageous as a sense of personal style develops. And you, my dear! An Eserite? That would suit you being used as a plant. Or perhaps an Avenist? They can be crafty at need, contrary to popular belief.”

“Don’t talk to him,” Joe said, backing away.

“You think?” she shot back derisively.

“Well, now, I consider myself a reasonable fellow.” Mogul took a step forward, his smile growing brittle. “You’ve only murdered one of my companions this evening that I can verify so far. Possibly two, if Hrazthax didn’t manage to shield Vanessa from that little avalanche you created. What I would really like to know is…what happened to my succubus?”

“She just keeled over,” Peepers said honestly. “I think it may have been a heart attack.”

“Look into my eyes,” Mogul said quietly, the mirth fading from his face in an instant, “and take a guess as to how amusing I find that.”

He stepped forward once more, coming to the very edge of the alley.

Light flared up in his path.

Mogul stumbled backward as the glow blazing forth solidified, forming a shape hovering in the mouth of the alley. It was a two-dimensional symbol, a mask with a scythe running through it vertically. There it hovered, its soft golden radiance gently illuminating all of them, the symbol of Vidius cutting off the warlock and reporter from the two fugitives.

“Oh, my,” Mogul said, sounding positively delighted. “How fascinating!”

“C’mon,” Joe said unnecessarily, turning and heading off down the street at a run. Peepers kept pace with him easily.

They both drew up short, though, as they passed a side alley and a voice from within hailed them.

“There you are!” Darling said brightly. “Well done, kids, you’ve smoked them out.”

“This district is lousy with Wreath,” Peepers said accusingly. “I think we’ve walked into a trap.”

“Young lady, as the person who walked into it and forced the rest of us to come in and get you, I think you’re in no position to be taking that tone with me.” Despite his chiding words, Darling was grinning. “Now come on, this way. We’ll talk as we move.”

“Think we can make it back to the main streets?” Joe asked, nodding at Weaver as the four of them set off down the alley toward the next street up. “I bet they won’t get too aggressive with that many witnesses…”

“No, no,” Darling interrupted. “Tactics, my boy, basic tactics. This district is bordered by canals; there are a limited number of bridges in and out. Why chase us around when they can just control the exits? We won’t be on our own indefinitely, but for now, our best bet is not to try to escape. They’ll intercept us at the bridges. If we scurry around and stay hidden in here, though, it’ll be a little while before Embras loses patience and starts trying in earnest to ferret us out. Enough time to try a few tricks of our own, at least!”

“Tricks of what kind, specifically?” Weaver demanded. “Really, don’t keep us in suspense. I’m sure this will be just hilarious.”

“Embras Mogul is a living theatrical streak in a nice suit,” Darling said. In the lead of the party, he grinned ahead into the darkness. It was probably best that none of them could see his predatory expression. “And he has an audience. Hell, that reporter is a proxy for an audience of virtually everyone. I may not know his plans, here, but I know he won’t be able to resist putting on a show.”

“Oh, gods,” Peepers groaned.

“Yup, you guessed it!” Darling interlaced his fingers and flexed them, cracking his knuckles. “I wish we could’ve stopped for popcorn on the way here, kids. This is going to be a spectacle.”

Dinner was strained, awkward, and quiet, the empty place set at the table relentlessly drawing the girls’ attention. Price never set out more places than were needed; they could always tell whether Darling would be there for a meal by whether a meal was prepared for him. Yet, there it sat, growing slowly cold while they finished their own dinner.

Flora and Fauna, though they were encouraged to sit at the table for meals at Darling’s insistence, were still apprentices, expected to be put to work, and ostensibly housemaids to boot; as usual, Price set them to busing their own dishes back to the kitchen. She, as always, had not sat to eat with them. In fact, they had never seen her do anything as mortal as eat. With the master of the house not present, she had not silently presided over dinner, but emerged from the kitchen with her usual impeccable timing as they were finishing up to remove the untouched meal set out for him.

“I must leave you to your own devices for the remainder of the evening,” Price informed them, once the plates were cleaned and drying in the dish rack.

The two elves exchanged one quick glance.

“We’re going with you,” they said in unison.

Price very slowly raised on eyebrow, an expression they had learned to regard with fear, but they both squared their shoulders, staring right back at her.

“You think so?” the Butler asked mildly.

“He’s in trouble, isn’t he?” Fauna demanded.

“We can read between the lines.”

“If you’re going out to help him—which you are—”

“—you can’t be crazy enough to think you’re leaving us behind.”

“You realize,” Price said mildly, “that if you insist on involving yourself in this, you do so in contradiction of the orders of both your Guild sponsor and trainer, and myself, your superior in both the Guild and this household?”

“And you realize we’ll just follow you if you try to leave us, right?” Fauna shot back.

“So long as we are all on the same page,” said Price, then turned and strode into the hall.

The apprentices scurried along after her, grabbing their outerwear from the racks in the foyer in passing.

“This is now a Guild operation,” Price informed them, pausing just before the front door. “Tags only from here on.”

They glanced at each other again.

“Um,” Flora said hesitantly, swirling her cloak around her shoulders in a dramatic swish, “we don’t have tags…”

“And we don’t actually know your…”

Fauna trailed off as Price removed her tailed coat and deftly turned it inside out, slipping it back on. Whether that activated the enchantment or she had touched a hidden rune in the process, her entire outfit melted from the impeccable Butler’s uniform to a casual ensemble of patched trousers, tight blouse and a rakish leather jacket. Settling this back over her arms, she made one swift pass through her carefully coiffed ginger hair with both hands; when her fingers came away, it was slightly, perfectly disheveled, just the finishing touch the disguise needed.

“Savvy,” she said, then pulled open the door and stepped out. She bounced down the steps and crossed the garden in three rangy strides, leaving the elves to trail after her in bemused silence.

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6 – 26

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“I guess the most obvious question is, why now?” Carter settled back into the chair he had been offered, pencil poised over his notepad. His interviewee had perched on the edge of the bed, there being no other furniture in the little room. “Why is the Wreath suddenly interested in speaking openly?”

“Why, because you think this is unprecedented,” Mogul replied, steepling his fingers and smiling over them. It was a knowing smile, but not an overtly sinister one. That summed up his whole aspect; he didn’t threaten, but something about him always hinted at the level of control he had over the situation. The deliberate, slightly exaggerated way he moved his long limbs was evocative of a large spider. “There have, at various times in history, been enclaves of open Elilinist belief, whole societies dedicated to our faith, practicing their beliefs in broad daylight before their neighbors. Odd villages here and there in most parts of the world in most eras, but at times, entire kingdoms, and once, an empire worthy of the name. I don’t suppose you knew that, did you?”

“I did not,” Carter admitted, jotting down shorthand and refraining from saying he still wasn’t sure he knew it.

Mogul’s smile widened, his expression suggesting he understood what was in the reporter’s mind. “Let me begin by giving you some advice, Mr. Long. Once your paper has run your article, report immediately to Imperial Intelligence and turn yourself in for questioning. Once there, volunteer for any kind of mental scrying they want to do and positively fall over yourself to answer questions. I am not a source who needs protecting; hiding from my enemies is my entire way of life. You, on the other hand, will need to ingratiate yourself with the law.”

“Well, I’m not particularly worried about that,” said Carter. “The Writ of Duties—”

“Yes, yes, that is precisely my point. The Tirasian Dynasty makes it a point to be reasonable in its rule. Take advantage of that. If you fall, instead, into the hands of the Universal Church… Well, it’s likely that’ll be the last anyone sees of you.”

“The Church isn’t in the habit of accosting journalists,” Carter said with a smile. “Really, I appreciate your concern…”

“Rare is the journalist who has had the opportunity you are enjoying right now,” Mogul replied, that knowing smile still hovering around his lips. His eyes, though, were direct and intent. “You have no idea what the gods and their pawns do to people who truly threaten their interests. You don’t know because they are very good at doing it. Yes, right now you’re thinking this is exactly the kind of paranoid propaganda you would hear from a man in my position. Right?”

“In my line of work, one learns not to be judgmental,” Carter replied. “The point is to report on the facts, not to promote opinions about them.”

“Very laudable,” Mogul said, grinning now. “Here are some facts, then. Members of the Black Wreath set themselves up to oppose the greatest powers in existence, and live under the constant threat of imprisonment, injury and even death if exposed. Have you never wondered why?” He tilted his head, beginning to drum his fingertips against each other. “There’s no glory in what must be done in secret. There is assuredly no pay in it. Sure, one can accrue great power as a warlock, but the Wreath practice diabolism chiefly with an eye toward containing it; our summoners suffer a much lesser rate of damaging infernal corruption than those employed by the Church or the Strike Corps, or any other organization, for that matter. Chiefly because containing demons without permitting them to spread corruption is central to our calling. Why, then, do we do this?”

“You tell me,” Carter suggested, keeping his tone carefully mild. “That is why you asked to meet with me, correct?”

“I don’t oppose the gods because I’m a rebel, Mr. Long. I’m a rebel because I oppose the gods. Because once I understood the truth about the Pantheon, I could not live with my conscience while giving them the support of my prayers.”

Carter leaned forward. “And what is the truth?”

“The entire truth, I’m afraid, I can’t tell you. But there are things it is time for you—and your readers—to know. It is, as I’ve said, not without precedent for the Wreath to operate openly, though the Church has gone to great lengths to bury those facts.” He grinned, and winked. “But I encourage you not to take my word for it. The records may be destroyed or hidden, but there are living immortals who remember Elilinist kingdoms. There was one on this continent as recently as twelve centuries ago, in the foothills where Calderaan Province abuts the Stalrange.”

“Dragons and elder elves don’t have a reputation for being approachable,” Carter noted wryly.

Mogul grinned again and nodded. “True, true. But who better to approach them than a professional interviewer? If you want to start with an easier search, though, you might direct your attention to Last Rock. The good Professor Tellwyrn has some fascinating things in her University’s library, and she enjoys tweaking the establishment’s nose enough that she might show them to you. But for the moment, let’s focus on the here and now.”

He shifted, unfolding his legs and re-crossing them the other way, then settled himself with one hand on his knee, the other resting on the bed. His expression was suddenly much more serious.

“Four years ago, in locations scattered across the Empire, seven teenage girls spontaneously combusted. Only one survived. The Black Wreath was involved in creating this situation, for which we owe an apology to those poor children and their surviving loved ones. That is overdue, but the opportunity hasn’t exactly arisen before now. I hope you’ll convey it in your paper.” Mogul’s eyes narrowed. “But had our plans unfolded as they should, those girls would all be alive today. Alive, healthy, happy, and with nothing to fear from anyone, ever again. I believe the world, and especially their families, deserves to know the whole truth about that incident. If I knew which god of the Pantheon murdered those children to protect their secrets, believe me, I would tell you.

“Allow me to explain.”

“Your Grace, you have a—”

“Trouble,” Weaver announced, shouldering roughly past Price into the study. She gave his back a very calm look.

“Indeed,” the Butler said. “As I was saying, you have a trouble. It insisted upon seeing you immediately.”

“Sounds dire,” Darling remarked, removing his feet from the desk and setting aside the novel he’d been holding. In fact, he had been practicing his knife work, due to the lack of opportunities for proper exercise lately, and had affected an indolent pose upon hearing the footsteps approaching his door. “Is Peepers okay?”

“Last I saw her, probably,” Weaver said. “She’s gone off following some journalist who she thinks is going to an assignation with the Wreath. Or so I mostly put together, from what Jenkins said. This is third-hand intel. What I know is that she’s run off after this guy and Jenkins went off after her.”

“Hmm, that could be trouble indeed,” Darling mused. “Joe isn’t exactly trained for discreet operations.”

“Sounds like a good thing to have considered before assigning him to discreet operations,” Weaver observed.

Darling grinned at him. “Watching from across the street isn’t discreet operations, Weaver, it’s babysitting. Anyhow, it was always my assumption the Wreath would spot anyone we sent to tail them. Hence you two; if this was to be done through spying alone, I’d have just sent Peepers. I doubt they’re prepared for the Kid, if it comes to rough stuff. Where are they?”

“No idea,” Weaver said bluntly. “I can lead you to them in a more or less straight line, but you can probably guess where the line ends better than I. You know this city.”

“Ah, yes, your…that. Just a moment, let me think.” Darling frowned into the distance, drumming his fingers on the desktop while he rapidly sifted through facts, probabilities and options. Price remained as calmly aloof as ever; Weaver began tapping his foot in ostentatious impatience before half a minute had passed.

“All right, then,” Darling said abruptly, standing up and rummaging through his upper desk drawer for items which he began tucking into his coat pockets. “Let’s go give them a hand, shall we?”

“You want to… Just us?” Weaver frowned. “If they run into real trouble with the Wreath, it might we smarter to round up some of the others.”

“Time is more important than firepower,” Darling replied, tucking throwing knives into his sleeves. “It’ll take too long to gather McGraw and Billie. Mary might turn up anyway; I’m never sure when she’s watching, but it’s probably best to assume it’s just us. Anyhow, I’m not worried about that. We have you and Joe, remember?”

“Against an unknown force of possible Black Wreath warlocks and demons?” Weaver stared at him. “Who the hell knows what they’ve got waiting for us?”

“Only one way to find out,” Darling said breezily, stepping around from behind the desk and brushing past him. “Price, I’m going out.”

“Indeed, sir.”

“If I’m not back by dinner, you know what to do.”

“Very good, sir.”

He lengthened his stride in the upstairs hall and practically bounded down the steps, making for the front door. He was in one of the Bishop’s nicer suits, so it wouldn’t be too shocking for the neighbors to see him leaving this way.

Weaver followed at a slightly less efficient pace; Darling had to pause and wait for him at the end of the garden path.

“What’s the plan if we don’t come back, then?”

“Plan?” Darling shrugged, smiling vaguely. “I guess we’ll improvise.”

“Not us, I mean what contingencies did you set up with your Butler? That bit about her knowing what to do.”

“Oh, I haven’t a clue. There’s no plan, per se. Price always knows what to do, though.”

He’d have dearly loved to see Weaver’s face right at that moment, but he wasn’t about to spoil the effect by turning around to look.

Joe rounded the corner of the stairwell, slightly out of breath but doing his best not to pant or otherwise make needless noise. There was no telling who or what was lurking in the abandoned complex. Quite apart from the darkness and dust, if his quarry’s quarry had come for the reasons they suspected, there was certain to be something very dangerous here. Multiple somethings, in all likelihood.

Fortunately, Peepers was right in front of him, and had finally stopped moving. She was a good distance down the hall, partially shrouded in darkness, kneeling before one of the room doors and clearly trying to listen at the keyhole.

Glancing up at his arrival, she made a sideways slashing motion with her hand, then urgently beckoned him forward.

Joe paused, trying to even his breathing, before stepping slowly out of the stairwell, heading toward her. He decided to interpret her sign language as “be quiet, but come here,” for want of a better idea. She was once again intent on the door, apparently ignoring him. He approached with a blend of relief at having found her and annoyance at her antics, which in turn made him feel a little chagrined. She was, after all, doing her job; his was to watch her back. It might have been nice if she’d make it a little easier for him…but then again, it might not have been possible.

Peepers stood as he neared and stepped toward him, away from the door.

“They’re in there, all right,” she reported very quietly, barely above a whisper, “but I can’t hear a thing. They keyhole isn’t blocked, I can see through it, but no sound comes out.”

“What’s the plan, then?” he asked, just as softly. “I don’t suppose you can read lips?”

Her mouth tightened. “Can’t see them clearly enough.”

“Then…you want to back out? We know the guy’s meeting with the Wreath…”

“This isn’t evidence,” she whispered fiercely. “It’s some fellow in a white suit, not a Wreath robe. I need to hear what they’re saying in order to get what I need.”

“But you can’t,” he said reasonably. “And if we just hang around out here, we’re sure to be discovered. When they come out, if nothing else. If they just got here, they’ll be a while. I think the best thing to do is to go get reinforcements and try to take the Wreath guy into custody.”

“There’s a window in the room,” she said, turning and heading back toward the stairwell. “I’m gonna try to get to it and see if I can hear in.”

“Wh—if they silenced the keyhole, you don’t think they’ll have thought of the window?”

“It’s a third floor window. Probably why he chose this room. I’m a Guild agent; I can get up the side of a building, especially one as old and crumbly as this. Yes, Joe, I know what you’re going to say, but I have to try. If it doesn’t work, we’ll retreat, get Darling. Where’s Grumpypants, by the way?”

“Getting Darling.”

“Oh, well, then. Everything’s taken care of. C’mon.”

His exasperated sigh was cut off by, of all things, a soft giggle. They both whirled, and at what they saw, Peepers edged behind him and Joe whipped out both his wands.

She was a woman of incredible beauty, wearing an improbable leather bustier and a skirt that barely deserved the title, falling well short of her knees and slitted to the waist on one side. Joe appreciated a pretty girl as much as anyone—though he always endeavored to do so politely—but in this case, he was far more interested in her eerily white complexion, scintillating jade eyes, and the half-furled bat wings with which she blocked off the corridor.

“Oh, shit,” Peepers whispered.

“Are you children lost?” the succubus asked solicitously. Her sculpted lips were curved up in a gentle smile, but those eyes were far too wide, exhibiting a glee that verged on insanity. Joe edged back, pushing Peepers behind him and training his wands on the demon. “You shouldn’t root about in condemned buildings, you know. It’s dangerous. Why, the whole floor could fall right out from under you.”

“Shoot her,” Peepers hissed.

At that, the succubus laughed again, and abruptly vanished into thin air. Joe hesitated; he could fire at her position, but there was no telling where she would be. Did the room’s silencing work both ways? Were the soft hisses of his wands enough noise to get its occupants’ attention? He’d never had to use them under a need for silence before.

“Did you seriously just hesitate to kill a demon because it was a woman?” Peepers growled. “I never thought I’d hear myself say this to anyone, but if we survive tonight I am gonna drag your ass to an Avenist service, boy.”

Joe didn’t bother replying, scanning the whole hall rapidly. They could go invisible, check. They could shapeshift, which wasn’t really relevant here. Could they shadow-jump? Were those wings functional, and was there room for her to fly? For being on a job involving the Black Wreath, he had lamentably failed to study up on demons. He could feel the air currents in the corridor, enough to suggest there were bodies moving, but despite his mind converting perceptions into hard information, none of his senses were acute enough to pinpoint an invisible person. He’d probably hear and feel it if she tried to fly, but the hallway was wide enough for her to walk past if she was careful. He glanced back at the stairs, then back at the room. Peepers whimpered into his coat. The demon hadn’t carried any visible weapons, but…

The soft sound came from behind them, by the stairwell. They both whirled again, staring.

The succubus was visible again, no more than two yard distant, but she was gaping at them with a shocked expression. A small wound had appeared in the center of her upper chest, just above her bulging cleavage, trickling black blood. As they stared, the demon slumped forward, falling to her knees and then landing face-down on the ragged old carpet. Joe and Peepers hopped backward to avoid her.

There was silence for a long moment.

“Is it…is she faking?” Peepers whispered finally.

Joe could only shake his head. The succubus had landed gracelessly, with her wings flopping limply to either side; one was half-propped up against the wall. He couldn’t see any benefit to her in playing dead, unless she was just toying with them. Of course, the children of Vanislaas were known to do that. On the other hand, there was the wound in the center of her back, opposite the one in front and much larger. It looked a lot like a triangular blade had run her straight through. Even if it had severed her spine, though (and it appeared to have entered an inch to the left), that shouldn’t have caused instant death. He had seen how long it sometimes took people to succumb to mortal wounds. Or were demons different?

He stepped carefully around Peepers, ushering her back with one arm, and was only dimly surprised when she submitted to the protective gesture. Joe leaned closer, keeping one wand trained on the felled succubus, peering at the stab wound. The edges of it were severely discolored, blackened and peeling away, with dark streaks running visibly through her veins beneath. The whole area looked decomposed, as if on a corpse dead at least a week, rather than seconds.

He had seen wounds like this before.

“She’s not faking,” he said, straightening up and looking somewhat nervously around. There was no one and nothing visible in the dingy hall except himself and Peepers.

“What the hell happened?” she demanded.

Weaver’s familiar was supposedly unable to interact with things on the physical plane. Khadizroth had only run afoul of it by thinning the barriers between dimensions. Then again, demons were from another plane. Did they carry with them some trait which made them vulnerable to it? He knew nothing of demonology.

“I appreciate the help,” he said aloud, tugging his hat politely in what he could only hope was the right direction. “If you’re inclined to continue assisting, you may need to take point. I can finish most demons, I think, but not as quietly.”

“Who are you talking to?” Peepers asked, a note of panic rising in her voice. “What is happening?”

“Weaver’s invisible friend,” he said. “It can’t ordinarily touch things. Are demons different, maybe?”

She swallowed so hard he could hear it. “Taking this job wasn’t the smartest thing I’ve ever done, was it.”

“Well, I couldn’t really say, ma’am. What else have you done?”

Peepers huffed softly. “Well…we’re here. Let’s head down and around back.”

“You still want to try listening in? We know there are demons around now! What are the chances that was the only one?”

“Pretty good, I’d say,” she replied, creeping past him and stepping carefully to avoid treading on the felled demon’s wings. “We didn’t see any on the way up, right? And the Wreath clearly wants this to be discreet. An invisible shape-shifter is the ideal guard for an assignation like this. Keep alert, though, I wouldn’t want you to be taken by surprise again.”

Joe had to concentrate very hard to withhold the response that welled up. Following her to the stairs, he was a lot less careful about stepping on the succubus’s wing.

“I should’ve known,” Darling commented. “There are so many places in the city where you could hold a discreet meeting, it didn’t occur to me to choose the most obvious. People who live by subtlety don’t typically go for the obvious anything. On the other hand, this isn’t only about subtlety, is it? If something goes sour, an entire empty neighborhood makes for a great battlefield.”

“Do you never tire of hearing yourself talk?” Weaver growled.

“Well, not so far, but who can say what the future holds?”

He snorted, then lifted his arm to point. “Should be that one. The big building next street over, you can see the top above the roofs here.”

“The old tenement? Looks unsafe,” Darling noted cheerfully, adjusting his course toward a side alley.

“I seriously don’t get what you intend, here,” Weaver said, jamming his hands in his coat pockets and peering balefully around them. The neighborhood had been empty only for a few days, but was already severely dilapidated, not that it had been in sterling condition to begin with. With no residents, it was totally at the mercy of scavengers and vandals; it seemed that whatever wasn’t broken was covered in graffiti. Despite this evidence that vagrants had spent time here, there was no sign of them now, nor of anything living apart from themselves. The contrast, especially in light of what they were approaching, had chilling implications.

“We’re going to walk into a totally unknown situation, just the two of us,” Darling said lightly.

“Yes! That, right there! Would you kindly quit screwing around and tell me what you’re planning? This couldn’t more obviously be a trap!”

“First step in avoiding a trap is knowing of its existence. Yes, yes, I get what you mean. And yes, a trap is one possibility; the other is that our quarry doesn’t know we’re coming, and us strolling up to them will kick the hornets’ nest.” He glanced over at Weaver, his expression finally growing more serious.

“You want to provoke a confrontation?” the bard said, staring at him. “Again, I’m lost. You really want to pick that fight with nobody but us two, Joe and Peepers? Against a group of the Black Wreath with completely unknown capabilities?”

“You and Joe are probably more than they’re prepared to deal with,” Darling replied, “I was serious about that. Here’s the thing, though: there are traps, and then there are traps. You can lay out everything precisely so that your enemy experiences the effect you want them to suffer… Or you can calculate the general lay of the land, and lead them into a situation you can control. If the Wreath is prepared for us, we’ll be stepping into the first one. But we are bringing with us the second. Listen, if it does come to violence, I want you to focus on ensuring everyone’s survival. If they run, we’re not chasing them; if they come at us with something we can’t handle, then we run. But if it turns into any kind of pitched fight or hostage situation, what we’re going to do is dig in and hold out. Don’t fight excessively hard not to be taken prisoner.”

“You’re counting on a rescue,” Weaver said slowly. “That Butler? What is she going to do?”

“I don’t know,” Darling said with a grin. “And as such, any scrying directed at me can’t reveal it. But Price is resourceful—they don’t make just anyone a Butler. I also have allies in this city, lots of them. Both friends of my own, and when it comes to the Wreath, far more powerful forces willing to intercede.”

“A counter-trap.” Weaver sighed, scowling heavily. “Really, this is the big idea? Heading into a totally unknown situation against an unknown foe with a possibility of unknown reinforcements coming if we take too long about it? This is insane.”

“No, it’s a risk,” Darling demurred. “A calculated one, and believe me, I have not survived this long by not knowing what risks are worth taking. Bear in mind I also know things you don’t, here, and I have excellent reason for keeping those under wraps for the time being. Whatever you think about my regard for your safety, Mr. Weaver, you can trust I wouldn’t be putting my own skin on the line if I weren’t confident of my chances. Just remember what I said. Stay alive, and don’t get too hungry for blood.”

“If that’s what you want, spending our entire prep session pissing me off isn’t your best approach.”

Darling turned to him and winked. For just a second, he thought Weaver was going to shoot him.

They emerged from the alley into another empty street. The sun was sinking toward late afternoon; the street lights weren’t on yet (and probably never would be in this particular district), but the light was beginning to take on an orange tinge. The two men paused, glancing up and down the street. In the distance they could hear the traffic of Tiraas, but all around them was deathly silence. It was as if a patch of ancient ruins had been transplanted into the heart of the Imperial capital, so out of place was the quiet.

Weaver withdrew a tiny cage of mesh wire from within his coat, no bigger than a cigar case.

“Ladybugs?” Darling said, peering at it and raising an eyebrow. “That’s a new one. What are those for?”

The bard just gave him a contemptuous sidelong look, very carefully flipping open the small catch on one corner of the cage, holding his hand over it so as not to release the captives within. He jimmied the thing until he had dropped one ladybug into his palm, then shut it again. And with that, he crushed the insect against the side of the cage, lifting it to his mouth to whisper inaudibly.

“Gross,” Darling observed.

Weaver ignored him, ending his muttering, wiping his hand off on his coat and slipping the tiny cage back into his pocket. “All right, they’re in there, both of our people still alive. There was at least one demon, now dead.”

“Smashing!” Darling said cheerfully, setting off across the street. “Let’s go tempt fate, shall we?”

Weaver followed, muttering to himself. Audibly, this time. Darling was impressed by the number of languages in which he could curse.

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The newsroom of the Imperial Herald was exactly the kind of controlled chaos in which she thrived.

The bulk of the work being done was by various reporters and columnists scribbling away at their desks, which was on its own merits also the quietest thing happening in the room. It seemed to involve a lot of shouting back and forth, however, off-color jokes flying about with the same frequency as threats and insults, most of which were shrugged off. Along the inner wall of the big room, rows of taller desks, separated by wooden divider panels, were manned by more level-headed personnel, quietly plugging away at their arcane typesetters, converting the work of the journalists to something that could be delivered to the printing presses in the next room down. Aside from all the shouting, there was no end of running around; reporters dashed back and forth between the doors and their desks, between their desks and the typesetters, up and down the stairs that led to the editor’s office and to and from the kitchen with cups of tea and cheap pastries.

Six months ago, the staff of the Herald had discovered coffee. Two months ago, it had been added to the office budget and was now usually available in the kitchen. Evidently a lot more had been done each day since, though the jury was still out on how much of that “more” constituted work.

This had once been a factory, and the newsroom was one of the former production floors, with the presses occupying the other. At the far end of the newsroom from the front doors, a skeletal staircase of painted steel ascended to the office once occupied by the factory foreman and now the editor-in-chief, little more than a metal box suspended from the ceiling. It had glass walls, though, enabling him to gaze out over his minions at their labors like a deity on high, which pleased him to no end. Lakshmi’s desk was right at the base of the stairs.

Well, not her desk, and she was carefully leaving as little evidence of her presence as possible. Mr. Talivaar’s usual secretary had suddenly taken seriously ill and was out for two weeks, a fact which had initially made Lakshmi rather nervous about this whole enterprise, before Sweet explained that Razideh Aljaderad was not, in fact, sick, but canoodling in Onkawa with her married lover. All this was doubly impressive because he had arranged it without the support of the Thieves’ Guild and its resources…which, in turn, made an alarming suggestion about the capabilities of the Universal Church.

She glanced at the clock, rose from her chair and set off up the steps, keeping her pace sedate. The conservative dress she wore was driving her batty, and not just because of the corset, which made ascending stairs an exercise in breathless pain. It just wasn’t her. No Punaji should be caught in a contraption like this unless she were undergoing torture or something equally honorable. Only by constantly reminding herself it was a disguise did she cling to her sanity; disguises were part of her calling, and a feature of the game being played at a higher level than she usually did. Working with a man like Sweet on a job like this was an aspiration realized. It was worth being a little frumpy while on duty.

Would be nice if she could be frumpy and still breathe, though.

Lakshmi rapped gently at the frame of the open door to Mr. Talivaar’s office. He grunted, not looking up from his desk full of papers.

“Sir?” she said. “I’m heading out to lunch.”

At that, he did raise his eyes, scowling and chomping at his cigar. “What? Lunch?”

“It’s in my contract,” she said demurely.

He snorted. “Fine, whatever, go. Just be back on time for once, Rupa.”

“Yes, sir,” she replied meekly, turning to go without pointing out that she had not once been late.

On her way back down, she meandered into the kitchen and snagged a sticky bun (this place sprang for good pastries), wolfing it down before heading back out and making her way to the door. It was a long, slow way, a routine that as usual burned up a good chunk of her half-hour lunch period. She wandered in no hurry, gazing about wide-eyed at all the fuss and confusion, stammering and cringing when she had to dodge out of the way of reporters dashing to and fro on their various tasks. Most of them didn’t give her more than an annoyed look in passing. They didn’t care; Razideh would be back in a couple of weeks and then they’d see no more of their boss’s constantly befuddled, incompetent interim secretary.

In this manner she overheard her usual allotment of gossip, glanced at multiple projects being worked on, noted and analyzed the presence or absence of various members of the staff and slotted that intelligence into the mental picture she was building of everyone’s schedules. It had only been a couple of days, but she’d formed enough of an understanding to note the absence of one particular person who would ordinarily be here at this time. In the mess of unrelated stories and banal office politics she absorbed, that was the sole piece of interest.

“Hello, Rupa,” the receptionist said a touch too brightly as she wandered past toward the front doors. “Off to lunch?”

“Oh, yes,” she replied in her vague, slightly baffled tone. “Same time every day.”

“Mm.” Darsi raised her eyebrows. “Your…friend is out there. He seems to be waiting across the street for you this time.”

Lakshmi followed her pointed look, finding Joe lounging outside the cafe opposite the Herald’s office, clearly visible through the glass panels inset in the front door, and had to repress a grimace. Amateurs…

“Ah…look, Darsi, can you do me a favor?” she asked, lowering her voice and leaning subtly across the receptionist’s desk.

“Sure, whatcha need?” Darsi replied, keeping her tone carefully casual. Like most really good practitioners of her profession, she was an inveterate gossip hound.

“If he comes inside again, could you be, y’know, nice to him?” Lakshmi asked earnestly. “He’s a stoic kid, but… Well, since his sister died, he’s got basically no one. She was my roommate, so… It’s not the same as family, but I try to keep an eye out for him.”

“Oh, honey,” the receptionist said, her eyes misting up. “Of course, of course. You poor thing, I had no idea.”

“Thanks,” Lakshmi said with one of the vague smiles she affected in this role. “See you in thirty!”

“You take care, hon!”

She smiled again, turned and meandered out. Mindful of the glass doors and Darsi’s voracious appetite for juicy intelligence, she kept her pace sedate and her path slightly wavering all the way across the street. Rupa Singh, bumbling secretary, was no threat and not particularly interesting to anyone. There was no telling how a nest of journalists would react to the presence of Peepers, Thieves’ Guild listener, in their midst.

Joe straightened up at her approach, doffing his had courteously. “Ma’am.”

“Joe,” she replied, linking her arm with his and leading him a distance up the street, out of view of the Herald. “For your information, I am the roommate of your recently-deceased sister, which is why you’re hanging around me. That smug little weasel behind the front desk is getting snoopy, which we don’t need. And for all the gods’ sakes, keep Weaver away from the office.”

“That suits everyone just fine,” Joe replied with an amused expression. “He prefers lurking in the upper stories watching through windows. Doesn’t have to talk to anyone that way, which…again, is to everybody’s benefit. I’m afraid I’m not much for lying, though.”

“I am very sorry to have to impose on your sensibilities,” she said with such a total lack of sarcasm in her tone that her words practically dripped with it. That was a neat trick she’d learned from Principia.

“Well, there’s that,” he said, “but I’m mostly concerned that my lack of practice will throw off your game.”

“Hmm.” Lakshmi shot him an appraising glance sidelong. “Fair enough, then. The idea is for you not to have to tell anyone that story, but… I’m sure you’ve lost people you care about.”

His expression stilled immediately. “Everyone has.”

“Right. Well, the trick to telling a good lie is to keep the untruth to an absolute minimum. If you have to bluff it, call up that memory and say it hurts, you don’t want to talk about it. Anyone will respect that. And it gives us a story, if necessary. Frankly, I should’ve thought of something like this earlier. People like simple stories, familiar ones. The most likely explanation for me meeting a boy every day at lunch is made creepy by the fact I’m twenty-three and you’re…what, twelve?”

“Old enough to know when I’m being baited,” he said with a smile. “Any word today?”

“Possibly,” she said, frowning. “I’ve still only got the one lead that’s even remotely promising. Carter Long has been pursuing some story, and has pulled up reference materials on the Wreath and demonology in general. Honestly, that may not mean squat. If there’s anything like that going on in the city, it’s obviously newsworthy. The only thing at all suggestive is that nobody else at the paper seems to be looking into anything of the kind, at least not that I’ve found.”

“Hm,” he mused. “With the Wreath as active as Bishop Darling says they are, that does seem…odd.”

“Right. Look, Joe…” She glanced around casually; the street was busy at noon, but everyone was hurrying about on their own business, no one paying inordinate attention to one young couple strolling along arm-in-arm. “This may be nothing, but I’ve got a feeling…and I’ve learned to trust my feelings. I need you and Weaver to be especially watchful today.”

He tilted his head, looking quizzically at her. “How so?”

“Especially watchful,” she repeated firmly. “Not just keeping an eye open for signals or unusual activity. Long is out of the office at a time when he’s usually hard at work at his desk. That means he’s following up on a lead. If I haven’t missed the opportunity already… Well, something’s afoot. After days of nothing, I’m gonna get a little more aggressive. He makes a move, I’ll follow him.”

“So you need us to watch for you leaving, and possibly being unable to signal as you’ll want to avoid attracting attention,” he said, nodding. “You realize if you do that, one way or another, it’ll blow your cover.”

“And then, if this is a bust, we move on to a different newspaper,” she said flatly. “Because if this doesn’t pan out, there’s nothing here worth pursuing, and Darling has indicated we’re on a tight timetable.”

“Right, then.” He sighed softly. “You’ll want to keep your eyes on this guy’s desk. I guess this means you’ll be heading back? Without lunch?”

“Disappointed?” she asked with wry amusement.

Joe shrugged. “Well, it’s my turn to treat, is all.”

Lakshmi shook her head. “Joe, it’s not that I don’t love the chivalry, but have a care. Some Avenist is going to take offense one of these days. There’s a school of feminist thought that says holding doors and chairs for women is implying that they’re too weak to do for themselves.”

“It was a woman who taught me to shoot,” he said calmly. “I’ve known far too many to doubt their capacity. But in a world that doesn’t always fairly acknowledge a woman’s worth…” He shrugged. “I find it hurts nothing to remind ladies that they are valued.”

“Hmm.” Lakshmi gave him a thoughtful look. “You know what, Joe?”

“What’s that?”

“In about…three years, I want you to look me up.”

He gaped at her, a very satisfying lapse in his usual poise (which did not belong on someone so young). Then he blushed, which just made it better.

 

Returning to the office, she met Darsi’s excessively sympathetic smile with a sad one. Ah, well, it spared her having to make conversation with the silly piece of fluff.

And on the subject of fluff, the approach through the foyer made it impossible not to see the artwork of the Herald’s new patron saint, which she had enjoyed not having to look at on the way out. Journalists hadn’t a god of their own, though the newsroom contained more than a few small idols of Vesk, the god of bards, which was the closest match. They weren’t a particularly devout lot at the best of times, though, and in the last week had found a new idol to revere. The posters in the foyer were life-sized, and hung on the walls on either side of the receptionist’s desk.

Lakshmi hadn’t met Branwen Snowe, exactly, but had glimpsed her from the near distance, and could critique the likeness. They were recognizable, surely, all pretty, auburn-haired and demure, but somewhat exaggerated. She was about that bosomy, sure, but not nearly so wasp-waisted, nor as tall. Also, there was absolutely no way her Bishop’s robes would cling to her figure like that. Still and all, Snowe provided something for everyone; the (mostly male) rank and file certainly enjoyed eyeballing her likeness, and Talivaar was over the moon about what she’d done for sales. Apparently her advice was already quite well-spoken-of throughout the city, too.

Lakshmi managed not to roll her eyes as she passed under Bishop Snowe’s beatific gaze back into the newsroom.

Here, again, she made her aimless, cringing way back to her desk, not letting her interest show on her face upon noting the presence of Carter Long back at his desk. He was a slight young man with a dark Western complexion, a pair of horn-rimmed glasses perched on his nose and a predilection for cheap suits. Now, she observed, he was arranging papers, not writing or interacting with his fellow reporters.

She continued on her way, seating herself behind her own desk near the stairs, pulled an expense sheet in front of herself and set about pantomiming working at it with an un-inked pen. Glancing up every few seconds without raising her head was enough to keep her quarry’s activities under surveillance. A frisson of excitement darted down her spine. Finally, after days in this tedious hole, wasting her talents on these people and their silly gossip, she just might be getting somewhere.

That, or this was all perfectly innocent and she was wasting time even harder.

Long was very clearly squaring away his effects, the kind of activity that usually preceded an evening’s departure from the premises. Not all the journalists at the Imperial Herald were so precise; a good many of those desks remained in a state of greater or lesser disaster round the clock. This fellow liked things neat and orderly, though. That he was doing this now strongly suggested he did not plan to be back here before tomorrow.

It was just after lunch. Long was too dutiful to skip out on his job—she’d only been watching him a few days, but she was fairly certain of that assessment—which meant wherever he was going was work-related. Given the timing, it had to be something big. And he’d been reading up on the Black Wreath… She’d pulled some of the archives for him herself.

He rose, rather abruptly, carrying a briefcase, and Lakshmi gave up her pretense. He had a sheet of paper in his other hand. If he was just taking it to the typesetter to be transcribed…

Long wove his way through the mess of desks and coworkers, reached the end of the row adjacent to the long bank of typists…and turned left, heading down the side of the room.

Right for her.

She returned her attention to the sheet of paper on the desk in front of her. In seconds, he had reached her…and then passed, heading into the kitchen. With his briefcase?

From the kitchen, there was an access to the back hall which led to storage and cleaning supplies… Lakshmi had not had the opportunity to explore it fully, but it would make sense if there were a back exit from the building in there somewhere. In the context of this, it was the only thing that made sense. Carter Long had no business putting his desk in order and carrying his briefcase and notes into a cleaning closet.

Which meant he didn’t want anyone taking note of his departure. There were rules at the Herald against actively sabotaging a fellow reporter. Well, just one rule, really: you could only do that to reporters who worked for other papers. But a lot of the staff here had proven they weren’t above snatching a scoop from an in-house rival should the opportunity arise. Which, in turn, meant that whatever lead Long was chasing was big, and juicy.

She rose smoothly, turned, and followed.

In the kitchen, she caught a fleeting glimpse of his lean form vanishing through the rear door into the back hall. Lakshmi went right after him, silently as she could, and peered through. It was narrow and dim; if he happened to turn, there’d be no way for her to hide. On the other hand, she was the editor’s secretary; she might have any number of possible reasons to be rummaging around looking for supplies. Hell, if he caught her, she could ask him where something was.

Lakshmi stepped into the dim hall, following the furtive reporter at what she judged a safe distance. Thank all the gods for her premonition; at least Joe had been forewarned that something might be afoot today.

Those two hotshots had better be paying attention.

 

“Look alive,” Weaver said by the window. Joe was at his side in a flash, tossing down the novel he’d been pretending to read on the bed. The hotel fronting the offices of the Imperial Herald tended to cater to journalists, who, it seemed, did not expect much in the way of material comforts. It was cramped, shabby, and generally not a pleasant place to be cooped up. Especially with Weaver.

He reached the window just in time to see Lakshmi looking very pointedly up the general direction of their room before heading off down the street, right after a slender fellow carrying a briefcase.

Beside him, still watching the street below, Weaver had just finished crushing one of the captive ladybugs he’d collected and kept in a tiny mesh cage, whispering rapidly to the remains of the poor insect in his fist.

“I guess she was serious,” Weaver said aloud. “This could be the big one. All right…we’ll need to split up.”

“Right,” Joe said. “How will—”

“You stay on her, I’ll go get Darling. I’ll be able to find you.”

Joe grimaced, quickly discerning his unspoken plan. “Ugh… Tell me you’re not going to send that invisible death thing to sit on my—”

“Why are you still here?” Weaver barked, already heading for the door.

Joe clenched his teeth in annoyance, but had to acknowledge the rebuke was warranted. He darted to the other window—they, or rather Darling, had paid through the nose for a corner room—and was quickly out on the fire escape. Lakshmi was vanishing down the sidewalk all too rapidly; he didn’t take excessive care with his personal safety on the way to street level. It didn’t matter too much, as he could sense every detail of where to place his feet and hands to get down with maximum efficiency.

On the street below, he had to run to get close enough; this would all be for naught if Peepers managed to lose him in the crowd. The sight of a well-dressed teenager dashing pell-mell down the sidewalk definitely drew more attention than he wanted, but he had other concerns.

Like the danger Peepers might be walking into, and the…whatever it was…that Weaver had apparently sent to accompany him. He wasn’t sure which unsettled him more.

 

There were all sorts of districts in Tiraas, all sorts of neighborhoods, each home to wildly different types of people. They ran the full gamut of wealth and social class, and some could be quite dangerous—not all for the same reasons, either. At least one particularly ritzy district, inhabited chiefly by nobles, could be risky to walk down at night, not because of criminal activity, but due to overzealous House guards who had a reputation for mistaking pedestrians for spies.

In the whole city, though, there was really only one empty district.

It was empty only for this moment in time, a part of the city’s continuing evolution. The island city of Tiraas had no room to grow, so as the art and science of architecture advanced, it frequently had to clear out the old to make room for the new. This process was precisely at its midway point in the Mid-Lower Southeastern Ward, a small neighborhood bordered by canals which had been home to the less desperate poor until last year, and would be home to the tenuously middle-class once the old apartments had been knocked down and replaced with new houses outfitted with all available modern magical conveniences.

Carter Long didn’t for one moment believe that because this area was theoretically abandoned, it wasn’t dangerous. The people he had come to meet couldn’t have been the only ones who saw the potential in a district currently beneath the notice of the city constabulary. Even if no one else who happened to be skulking about here chose to bother him… Well, there was the fact that he was on his way to a face-to-face confrontation with some very bad people. He kept a hand free and tucked into his coat pocket, where he had a wand. Brandishing it would only lead to trouble, but he didn’t want to have to fumble for it, should it be needed.

Even so, he wished for the sheet of paper on which he’d written down the directions he had been given. It was tucked in another pocket at the moment, ready to be consulted if necessary. He’d carefully memorized it all, of course. Double-checking was simply a thing he did whenever possible, for the sake of thoroughness. And, truth be told, comfort.

The right building was easily found—the street signs and numbers were all still in place. Its front door was not only unlocked, but broken and hanging open.

The old apartment’s interior was every bit as shabby and unlit as he would have expected of a place such as this; Carter found himself wishing he’d thought to bring a fairy lamp. Obviously, there were no interior lights active; fuel-burning fixtures would be completely neglected, and anything as valuable as fairy lights would have been scavenged long since. The halls were lit only by windows at either end, which didn’t so much provide light as create spooky glowing spots in the dark distance.

Finding the right room on the third floor took some doing, given the lack of illumination. He had to really strain to read the numbers on the room doors, and many of those were missing, either in whole or in part. The stairwell was the easiest part of the whole trip; it ran along the building’s exterior, and had windows whose glass had long ago been smashed out, letting in sunlight and a refreshing breeze.

Eventually, though, he located Room 317, which he was unsurprised to find still had its attached numbers. There was no light from under or around the door, no smells, no sound. This might as well have been as empty a place as the rest of the old wreck of a building. Carter took a deep breath, steeled himself, and knocked.

The door opened instantly.

Room 317 was fully furnished, well-lit with modern fairy lamps and seemed quite comfortable. Not so much so that it would have stood out from its neighbors when the neighborhood had been occupied, but there was a slightly shabby hominess to it, right down to the apparently handmade quilt on the bed and lace doilies draped over an end table and the mantlepiece. Carter spared all of it only the most cursory of glances, though, fixing his attention on the room’s occupant.

He stepped back from the open door, wearing a broad smile, and bowed, doffing his white straw hat. The man was dark-skinned, old enough to have lines on his clean-shaven face, and dressed in an immaculate suit of snowy white.

“Ah, hello,” Carter said, trying for poise. “I was told to come to…”

“And you must be Mr. Long,” the man in white said, still smiling. “Here for the scoop of the century, of course! Do come in, sir. Let’s see if we can’t make you famous.”

Carter cleared his throat and did as he was directed, fighting back nerves. He was, after all, stepping into a room with…well.

“And…have I the pleasure of addressing…?”

“Embras Mogul,” his host replied, his warm smile jerking upward on one side to become a distinctly sly grin. “Mortal leader of the faith of Elilial. So, Mr. Long, I take it you have some questions for me.

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