Tag Archives: Embras Mogul

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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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6 – 24

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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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The island was little more than a huge boulder, an outcropping of black volcanic rock that rose from the choppy surface of the Deep Southern Sea. Constantly pounded by some of the world’s harshest weather, it had been carved by winds and waves over eons till the isle was very nearly artistic, an abstract shape of both sweeping curves facing the prevailing northern winds, and its original sharp edges and rough surfaces to the south and east. A kind of prow of weathered stone rose against the fury of the north, sheltering a flat surface below it. There was no harbor, natural or otherwise, nothing around the base of the formation except jagged outcroppings of rock. No one who visited the Black Isle came by ship.

In the lee of the stone, the bleak natural valley had been further carved out to form an amphitheater. Shafts sunk deep into the ground produced heat, reddish light and a constant scent of sulfur—not a pleasant effect, but sufficient to counter the frigid climate. The skies were overcast as usual, the wind fierce where it whistled against the northern bulwark and merely obtrusive where it eddied around and into the sheltered arena. Occasional spurts of rain and sleet splattered down, the latter quickly melting; what didn’t steam away in the heat of the shafts drained into slots cunningly worked into the floor against the walls. It was a serviceable place to meet, but not a comfortable one. The isle’s denizens did not expect, want or deserve comfort, as a rule.

The roughly two dozen people assembled around the amphitheater’s seats were a mixed lot, the only common point among them being the spell effect laid upon the island which obscured their faces. Looking at one another, they found the eye would simply slip away from features, leaving no memory or possibility of recognition; voices, too, were only so much neutral sound, conveying information but making no impression on the listener. It was for good reason that their identities were hidden from one another. They were a mixed bag, mostly humans with more than a handful of gnomes and even two elves, a male drow and a blonde woman with the horizontal ears of the prairie folk. Their costumes were eclectic, but among them were six in the gray robes of the Black Wreath, two in black Universal Church chaplain’s coats, and three in blue Tiraan Army uniforms bearing the insignia of the Imperial Strike Corps.

“Everyone you see here will die,” they were informed by the figure standing in the center of the amphitheater’s stage. “Not merely in the sense that all living things die. Statistically? The only question for a warlock is whether they are brought to a swift end by something they have summoned or provoked…or lived to be slowly destroyed from within by their own growing powers. Perhaps you will be the exception, the rare practitioner who cultivates control, restraint and mastery to the point that they never call up more than they can handle. You would not be here if you lacked the ambition, surely.” He smiled coldly and begin to prowl back and forth around the rim of the stage. “There have been a few, over the centuries. Several I have personally known, others of whom I have heard. It is not, however, likely. I would venture to say it is barely possible. No…by the numbers, you can expect to die before your time. Likely in agony.” He came to a stop, folding his hands behind his back and staring up at them. “Your success on this path will hinge on your refusal to accept this fact.”

The figures on the dais were exempt from the face-blurring effect. Two women were positioned at either end: stage left, a statuesque figure in a Sifanese kimono, altered to provide egress for her wings and tail, stood serenely at attention, still as a statue except when the wind tugged at her hair. At the opposite end, another woman sat in a wooden chair beside a glowing brazier, swathed in so many layers of furs that nothing of her was visible except for her angular features, olive Tiraan complexion and black hair. Beside her crouched a sshitherosz demon, diminutive and twisted, refilling her cup from a steaming pitcher when she gestured. At the back, not far from the succubus, a dark-skinned man in a dapper white suit lounged in a chair of his own, observing the lecture with a broad smile.

The speaker was a tall man with long crimson hair bound back in a high tail; despite the cold and the wind, he wore only a thin layer of black silk, his pants snug and ending above the ankle, his shirt ruffled and open all down the front, whipping around him with each gust. He wore no shoes. His eyes were as red as his hair, and featureless as the blank expanse of rock above him.

“It is an absurd and narrow line to walk,” he continued, beginning to pace again. “The moment you accept the reality of your own death, you may be assured that it will immediately rush toward you. The moment you presume yourself above such concern, the same. Habit and complacency are your enemies; caution and self-knowledge your allies, denial and aggression your weapons. Yes, this is every bit as impossible a combination as it sounds. That, my children, characterizes the path of the warlock. For a mortal to undertake it with any degree of success, they must be quite mad, and in exactly the right way. While you are here, you will learn to cultivate that madness, and to keep its more dangerous cousins at bay.”

His smile widened fractionally. “The infernal is the gift of Scyllith, never forget, and her gifts are each their own cost. She is the goddess of cruelty. Power she grants us, yes, but with it comes suffering. There is no cheating, students. The best you can achieve is to move the suffering you have earned onto your enemies rather than bearing it yourselves.”

Above the constant whine of the wind came a deeper rush of air, followed by another. Several of those attending the lecture tore their gaze from the speaker to look around at the sky. Aside from the gray banks of clouds that flowed by overhead, a heavy mist obscured even the near distance, wisps of cloud and sea spray making fantastic shadows against the anonymous gloom.

Then the source of the wing beats emerged from the mist, and the assembly devolved into panic. Students leaped to their feet, several calling up spells of fire and shadow, as an enormous blue dragon dived out of the darkness and banked, circling around the arena.

“PEACE!” thundered the man on the stage. “Discard those spells immediately!”

It was a testament to his authority that everyone obeyed, though not all quickly, and most with evident apprehension. The dragon made another circling pass, arcing out to sea and approached the island again from the south. This time he came in lower, beating his wings, and settled to the stone just above the lip of the arena.

Nearly all the warlocks by this point had risen and turned, facing the colossal shape that now loomed above them, folding his wings and arching his neck to stare superciliously down his long nose.

“And if this had been a live exercise?” said the speaker calmly. “What would have befallen had you been in the middle of calling up a bank of raw power? Of negotiating with a sshitherosz, casting the protections on a ritual circle? What if you had been so thoroughly distracted in the middle of creating the simplest shadowbolt that you drew more power than you could safely contain? Perhaps nothing. Perhaps a creeping cancer whose effects you would not have felt for years. Or perhaps you would simply have detonated on the spot. Each of those things has happened to unwary learners in this very stadium.”

Again he had the attention of his listeners, though many had settled for positioning themselves sideways, reluctant to turn their backs on the looming dragon.

“Control,” he said fervently. “You must cultivate control. Absolute control, at all times, in all situations! The world is not a classroom, children. You never know when a dragon will swoop down upon you, or anything else. Your means of dealing with these events are through a power that actively seeks to destroy you. Not by anything can you afford to be surprised.”

The blue dragon huffed softly—relatively softly for his size, which produced a booming exhalation that made almost all of the assembled warlocks flinch violently. On the stage below, the speaker sighed heavily, dragging his hand over his face in a pantomime of despair.

“This lesson is ended,” he said. “You will return to your cells and spend time in meditation; I will be testing you further in the future, and those of you who do not learn to face surprises with equanimity will not leave this island alive. On that note, it has come to my attention that several of you have been attempting to learn the identities of your fellow students.” He actually grinned at them, an expression that was far from kind. “I expect a certain amount of natural curiosity from students, just as I expect the various organizations who sent some of you to grab any opportunity to scheme against each other. I can afford to tolerate this affront to my neutrality because, I assure you, I know precisely who has done what, and how. Any of you who succeed in learning something you should not know will be dead before you can do anything with that information. Keep that in mind. You are dismissed.”

There was no conversation among the students as they filed out of the arena through narrow doorways cut into the living rock, though there were many furtive glances up at the visiting dragon. On the stage, the speaker waited impassively for them to clear out. The woman in the furs was also studying the blue dragon, though with apparent calm; she tapped her goblet with a fingertip and the sshitherosz hastened to refill it with steaming hot cider. The succubus remained stiffly aloof; the man in white grinned widely, tilting his head forward so the brim of his hat concealed his eyes.

“Your timing is execrable as always, Zanzayed,” said the man in black when the last of his pupils had filed out.

“I thought you handled that very well,” the dragon rumbled. “Working it into the lesson, even! Very adroit. It is, by the way, nice to see you too, Razzavinax.”

“Mm.” The red dragon tilted his head infinitesimally to one side. “What do you want?”

“Things are afoot,” said Zanzayed. “It’s time we had a talk.” He unfurled his wings and beat them once, launching forward; his massive bulk lunged at the stage with terrifying speed.

The woman in the furs shrieked, dropping her goblet and pressing herself back into her chair, but Zanzayed shrank even as he plummeted down on them, and also slowed. He drifted the last few yards like a leaf, his blue robes fluttering gracefully around him, and came to rest only a few feet from her.

She flinched again at his approach, but he bowed deeply and spoke in a much gentler tone. “Dear lady, upon my blood and my life, you have nothing at all to fear from me, nor any of my kin.” He straightened, turning to give Razzavinax a faintly reproachful look. “You’ve not explained it to her?”

“It isn’t a subject I expected to come up,” the red said dryly. “We are not, as you know, sociable creatures as a rule, and I in particular am unaccustomed to civil visits from our brethren.” He strode over to her chair, coming to a stop with his hand reassuringly on the woman’s shoulder. “Zanzayed the Blue, this is my consort, Maiyenn. May, this is Zanza, a fool and a reprobate.”

“And proud of my achievements in these fields,” Zanzayed said, grinning. “Razzavinax is right to imply he is less than popular among our kind, but that does not reflect upon you, my dear. By ancient compact, a dragon’s mother is sacrosanct, and owed the highest of respect from all of us.”

“Really,” she said, her voice a warm alto and showing no signs of her earlier fear. “I can’t imagine there are very many living at any one time.”

“Indeed not,” Zanzayed replied smoothly, “and thus even more precious.”

“If it should come to pass that you need aid of any kind and I am unavailable, my love, you can call upon any dragon,” said Razzavinax. “This, of course, I do not foresee. But as I was just telling the lambs…life is unpredictable.”

“I would have expected the others to seize the opportunity to prune a red’s bloodline,” Maiyenn murmured, freeing one hand from her enveloping furs to rest it against her belly. It was not immediately apparent in her swaddled shape, but this motion made clear the outline of her body, very heavily pregnant.

“Unthinkable,” Zanzayed said firmly. “A dragon may defend himself if you attack him, but even so it would be with the greatest care not to harm you. The rest of our kin would turn on any who failed to aid a dragonmother in need. That one of us might actively do you ill… It is simply inconceivable.”

“And he may not be a red,” Razzavinax added quietly, stroking her hair. “It will be a good many years before he need decide that. In any case, Zanzayed, I cannot imagine you came here to educate my mate on draconic etiquette. In fact, it strains my faculties to infer just what you are doing here. We have a notable lack of wine, music and silk cushions on this island.”

“I bet that contributes to all that going mad you were talking about a minute ago,” the blue said cheerily. “I believe I can feel it starting already. Yoo hoo!” he added, waving exuberantly to the man in white. “Embras, is that you? Fancy meeting you here!”

“Fancy is, I believe, an applicable word,” Embras Mogul replied, tipping his hat to the dragon and dragging his eyes pointedly over Zanzayed’s lavishly embroidered and bejeweled robe.

“We have dragon business to discuss,” the blue said, turning back to Razzavinax. “The kind that should be attended to in private. Obviously the lady has your trust, but Embras should go in search of something else to occupy his attention for the time being.”

“Everyone on this isle is here as my guest, Zanzayed,” Razzavinax remarked pointedly. “Some are less invited than others. Long experience has taught me that of all the fools who meddle in the powers of Hell, Elilial’s chosen are by a wide margin the most responsible, and the most concerned with keeping overall order in the world. Embras is a respected ally and someone with whom I often consult.”

“Be that as it may,” Zanzayed said rather grimly, “I’m afraid I’ll have to insist.”

Razzavinax stroked Maiyenn’s hair again and replied in a very mild tone. “You what?”

“Come on, have you ever known me to be pushy? Or, hell, to take an interest at all? This is important, Razz. I’ve already been to see Puff about this, and that clubhouse of his has got to be the only place on this green world even more tedious than yours. I assure you, when I’m done explaining you will be very glad we didn’t have this discussion in front of the Black bloody Wreath.”

“Does Ampophrenon know you still call him that?”

“Only when I do it to his face,” Zanza replied with a grin, “so yes.”

“Mm.” Razzavinax gazed contemplatively at the blue for a long moment before turning to face the others present. “Embras, I’ll have to ask you to resume our business later. Riz will escort you back to your quarters and attend to any needs you may have.”

“Well, it appears the world is increasingly interesting for everyone,” Mogul remarked, getting to his feet. The succubus bowed to him. “Till later, then.”

The dragons and Maiyenn watched as they disappeared through a curtained doorway at the back of the stage.

“I must say I’ve never seen a succubus who wasn’t…y’know, flouncing and smirking. Or so conservatively dressed. How did you manage to housebreak her?”

“Rizlith is an old friend,” Razzavinax said with a smile. “Last year I obtained a very rare artifact from one of the Deep Hells, a toy used by a demon species there to control the children of Vanislaas. Allegedly it commands absolute, unconditional obedience from them, several steps beyond what the Black Wreath have achieved with contracts and reliquary bindings. She’s testing it for me, seeing if she can work around it or break the effect within a year. The kimono is…shall we say, added incentive. She’s only got six months left, and no progress.”

“Three months,” Maiyenn said, leaning her head against his hand.

Razzavinax blinked, tilting his head to one side. “Why, you’re right, love. By Elilial’s horns, don’t let me forget to release her on time. There’ll be hell to pay if she’s in that thing an hour longer than agreed.”

“I have it well in hand,” Maiyenn replied with a smile. “There’s likely to be hell to pay anyway if you don’t stop putting her in silly costumes.”

“In any case.” Razzavinax turned back to his guest. “I’ll show you to my personal chambers, and then we can see what is so urgent.”

 

“I must say, it sounds very out of character for Khadizroth,” Razzavinax mused, standing by the window and gazing out at the storm-blasted sea. His chamber was enormous, big enough for him to assume his greater form, and much of it strewn liberally with his hoard. The riches piled in the cavern would have bought a kingdom; Zanzayed, of course, kept his eyes politely averted from it, taking care to stay oriented so that only the smaller nook to one side of the chamber was in his field of view. This was arranged to accommodate more human-sized luxury, complete with a lavish canopy bed, roaring fireplace, piles of embroidered rugs softening the stone floor and even modern fairy lights in decorative sconces. The expensive furnishings were all mismatched, though, as if gleaned from the hoard itself.

Maiyenn had ensconced herself in an armchair by the fireplace with another goblet of steaming hot cider, having dismissed her demon before they came indoors. There was only one window, and it was open to the elements; she kept as far from it as possible, though her gaze stayed unblinkingly on Razzavinax.

“It seems to contradict what you’ve told me about dragonkind,” she said. “And even I know Khadizroth’s name. I agree; it’s surprising that he would do such a thing.”

“Which is precisely why I didn’t take anyone’s word for it,” Zanzayed said with a hint of exasperation. “I did my own research, found the surviving Cobalt Dawn elves in their new homes—several of them, anyway, as I didn’t much feel like fighting with whole groves of elves just to verify somebody’s presence. Moreover, I saw him with my own eyes, which is how I learned the latter and more disturbing part of this affair.”

“Yes,” Razzavinax murmured, “that. So Archpope Justinian has a dragon at his command. That is…absolutely unacceptable.”

“Quite,” Zanzayed said firmly. “Which brings us to now. As I said, I’ve already been to see Ampophrenon. He is seeking out the others, those who can be found and who are willing to listen. As I’m sure you know, in the best-case scenario we’re not likely to rally more than half a dozen unless we start looking on the other continents. Even in the face of a crisis, dragons will be dragons. Naturally,” he added, grinning, “we mutually agreed that Puff was a better emissary for most, but it would be best if I came to speak to you.”

“How refreshing it is to be included,” Razzavinax said solemnly, turning to face him.

“Not just included. You’re… Well, let me put it this way. How the hell did you get all those people up there to sit quietly together? Nevermind them all being warlocks, the politics alone! By all rights that stadium should have been soaked in blood.”

“I assure you, it has been,” the red replied with a thin, humorless smile. “Your problem, Zanzayed, is the same problem that has reduced Ampophrenon’s vaunted Order of the Light to impotent anonymity. All the solutions you seek are through the exercise of power. More and more, the world does not respond to such an approach.”

“Yes, we all know how powerful the humans have become…”

“There! You’re doing it again.” Razzavinax crossed over to Maiyenn’s side, seating himself on the arm of her chair; she leaned against him, closing her eyes. “It is not about power, Zanzayed. It’s about understanding. The humans’ capacity to unleash destructive force is by far the lesser consideration, as they themselves learned when they wiped out Athan’Khar. Such dramatic actions demand a swift and brutal price. The developments that have most changed the face of the world are about connection. Everything is more tightly and intricately linked to everything else; the web expands all the time, even as it solidifies. We are accustomed to being able to act in a relative vacuum. Now, though, moving any one piece on this incomprehensibly vast board shifts them all, and it is simply not possible to foresee how.”

“What’s your secret, then?” asked Zanza.

“It’s hardly a secret; everyone operating in the mortal world has a handle on it—even your Arachne, which is truly astonishing to those of us who know her. If you would move among the mortals, you must move with care and caution, with precision, acting only where you can do so to achieve the effect you want without causing a great destructive shift in the whole interconnected world.”

“I have to say when you describe it that way it doesn’t sound terribly…possible,” Zanzayed said skeptically.

Razzavinax grinned at him. “Oh, it hardly is. In the old days, one simply slew the knight or wizard who came marauding into one’s lair. If they wouldn’t quit, one would go and put their kingdoms to the flame. That’s the approach suitable for dealing with vermin, after all. We cannot consider the mortal races as vermin anymore, Zanzayed. They’re as clever as we, they have new and complex powers, and their greatest strength, as I have said, is in the links they have cultivated with each other. Think of them as…very small dragons.”

“All of them?” Zanzayed asked faintly.

“Some more than others,” Razzavinax allowed. “But in general, yes. Beings with the will, the wits and the capacity to act effectively. Millions of them. The challenge is also the key to solving it: you focus on the connections between them more than the individuals themselves. It’s about manipulation. Politics. Cunning over force.”

Zanzayed sighed heavily. “And this is why I campaigned to have you involved, Razz. You’re right; none of the rest of us are accustomed to dealing with mortals in this way. Even Puff, whose flipping job it is.”

“And that’s why his Order is in decline,” Razzavinax said smugly.

“Are you in, then?”

The red sighed. “I will have to make arrangements for my students… But I don’t see how I can afford to leave this to Puff and…you. Yes, I will support you.”

“Smashing!” Zanza grinned broadly.

“I’m coming with you,” Maiyenn said firmly. “Don’t even try to argue.”

“My dear one,” Razzavinax murmured, lifting her hand to his lips, “why would you think I would permit anything else? I believe we can afford to wait for the little one to come; it shan’t be more than a few weeks.”

“That’ll be good and entertaining,” Zanzayed muttered. “What’s your plan, then? Since you are to be our designated human expert.”

“The Universal Church is a nut not easily cracked,” Razzavinax mused, gazing into the fire and stroking Maiyenn’s hair. “The exact nature of the Archpope’s relationship to the Pantheon is…difficult to tease out. Several of Justinian’s predecessors have engaged in activities that were decidedly against the wishes of the gods. As, certainly, has he. However, he unquestionably enjoys their protection. To come at him with force would be to rile the Pantheon, a thing which has never ended well for out kind. No… Before we act, we will have to investigate.”

“Investigate what?” Zanza demanded. “And how?”

“Why, haven’t you been listening?” Razzavinax smiled at him. “We must discern the nature of Justinian’s connections. Find out who is moving against and around him, and how; where his Church is strong and where it is vulnerable. We must suss out the currents within his organization to learn just how we can separate Khadizroth from his clutches. In short, cousin… It’s high time we paid an extended visit to Tiraas.”

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