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Darling threw his bag to the parquet floor, shoved the door shut with his entire body and then leaned heavily against it, closing his eyes and letting out a long, melodramatic sigh. For a much longer moment than usual he just leaned there, savoring the quiet and the dimness of his entryway.

He opened his eyes just in time to catch Price’s disapproving look at the discarded bag of luggage before she returned her gaze to his, schooling her features. That was undoubtedly intentional; her timing in all matters was preternaturally precise.

“Welcome home, your Grace,” she sad serenely. “I trust your trip was satisfactory?”

“A rousing success,” he said with a sour grimace. “We got the Archpope exactly what he wanted, and a dash extra.”

“I am sorry to hear it, your Grace. Brandy and scones are prepared in the downstairs parlor.”

“Bless you, Price,” he replied, heaving himself fully upright and striding past her.

Naturally, she made a point of stopping to collect his luggage before attending him, but Darling had far more pressing things on his mind than Price’s nitpicking, or scones, or even brandy, no matter how badly he felt the need for one.

The Wreath and the Archpope chased each other endlessly around in his head. Just who was Embras Mogul? It could be a false name, though Darling couldn’t fathom a reason for such deceit since he had only hunches concerning the man’s identity and purpose. Clearly he was highly ranked in the Wreath. Maybe Elilial’s own high priest? Justinian seemed to think so, which brought him to the other question of just what the Archpope was up to with the little circle of Bishops he’d assembled. They’d been sent there with oddly specific yet unexplained orders—why did it matter so much that they not identify themselves as agents of the Church? Not to mention that details of the Wreath’s (alleged) understanding with the other cults had been withheld from him. Did all of that add up to enough to warrant the attention of the Wreath’s high priest? What did it add up to?

Lost in his own mind, he had crossed half the parlor toward the table on which the tray was set before realizing the room wasn’t unoccupied.

Price had no doubt enjoyed dressing the two elves. Their slim, modest black frocks were of the very latest fashion for the servants of the well-to-do, and he noted immediately that their demeanor much better suited the uniforms than last time he’d seen them make the attempt. Both girls stood to one side of the room, expressions carefully blank and hands clasped demurely in front of them.

“Well, well!” he said. “You two look positively harmless; how delightful. I gather Orthilon’s lessons have been going well?”

“Indeed, your Grace,” Fauna said softly. Clearly, Price had also drilled them on the separate forms of address for his different identities.

“As did his partner, who runs the theater,” Flora added. “The acting lessons have been most instructive.”

“As has the incidental education in carpentry,” Fauna said without a hint of accusation. “Your Grace will be pleased to know that Lor’naris now has a functioning and fully open theater.”

“Well, that’s very good to hear,” he said solemnly. “I’m afraid developments have gone quite sour on my end. It seems I’ll have to terminate both your employment and your apprenticeships. It’s a very good thing you’ve picked up the beginnings of another trade.”

Neither of them reacted overtly, though the corner of Flora’s eye twitched.

“If that is meant to be some manner of test,” Fauna said, “your Grace will have to do better. Orthilon has been giving us worse.”

“On an hourly basis,” Flora chimed in, with merely the faintest hint of asperity.

“For the last week.”

“He has quite the imagination.”

“Ooh, that’s perfect!” Darling squealed, applauding with a girlish, fluttery motion of his hands. “So self-contained, with just the right soupcon of derision. And after only a week! Last time I saw you I swear you couldn’t have lied to a blind Omnist monk. You two are positively gifted! Don’t worry, there’s no way in Hell I’m letting such a pair of talents get away; you’ve got a place here as long as you want it.” He crossed to the table and poured himself two fingers of brandy, feeling an almost paternal satisfaction at their pleased smiles. “That’s something you’ll have to watch for, by the way; people will set you up to reveal something, you’ll spot the trap, and then when you’re feeling good about yourself with your guard down, zing! There comes the real trap.”

The smiles vanished; Fauna failed to repress the tiniest annoyed grimace before their blank masks settled again.

Darling flopped onto the settee just gently enough to avoid sloshing his brandy and took a sip. “Ah, that was so very needed. In seriousness, ladies, I hope it hasn’t been too bad. It’s intensive training, I know, but it’s better than practically any other apprentices get—which, by the way, is why you were asked not to mention it to them. I think you’ve a bit longer to go, but the last thing we want is for you to be burned out. We don’t drill our learners into the ground like bloody Avenists around here. You’re bearing up all right?”

“It’s actually been kind of fun,” Flora admitted, allowing her smile to creep back into place. “Exhausting, yes, but it’s satisfying to learn something new.”

“Satisfying to find out we’re good at it,” said Fauna, nodding. “And Orthilon isn’t so bad. He’s not gentle, but he seems to have a good instinct for knowing just how far to push. It only gets really annoying when he tries to play us against each other, but I think we’ve taught him not—” She broke off as Darling sat bolt upright, choking on his brandy.

“Against,” he coughed, then cleared his throat and slammed the glass down on the coffee table. “Play us against each other! Augh!” He threw himself backward, grinding the heels of his hands into his eyes and kicking both feet in the air. “It was right there in front of me the whole damn time! I am so very, very stupid!”

“I’m sorry to hear that, your Grace,” Price intoned solemnly, entering the parlor empty-handed after having done something with his bag. He didn’t actually know where in the house it lived. “Shall I arrange for a private tutor? Perhaps a stay in a sanitorium?”

“Fauna, you bloody little genius!” Darling bounded to his feet and across the room, seizing the surprised elf by the waist and spinning her around in the air twice. Fauna, to her credit, refrained from kicking him senseless, which was assuredly within her capabilities. She staggered slightly when he thunked her back down, but didn’t seem annoyed, merely bemused. “That was exactly the clue I needed—I know what Justinian’s doing! It was a false flag operation!”

He stared at them expectantly, grinning. Price raised an eyebrow; the elves exchanged one of those loaded glances of theirs.

“Sir?” Flora said hesitantly.

“That’s why we weren’t to reveal we were from the Church. I mean, it wouldn’t be hard to find out who the four of us are, but all of us have other allegiances—individual cults, and all except Basra have worked for the Empire in some capacity.” He began to pace up and down the carpet. “Elilial made her move directly against the Empire, but we know it was a diversionary measure, or the first stage in a more elaborate plan. The one simple thing about her is her goals are a foregone conclusion: she wants the Pantheon brought down, and has never done anything with anybody on the mortal plane that wasn’t part of a scheme toward that end.”

“Right,” Fauna prompted when he fell momentarily silent.

Darling paused before the window, staring out while he formed swirling thoughts into sentences. “So the Church, being an extension of the gods, is definitely her enemy, and the Empire is at least momentarily so. They should be allied against her. But! Not only does the Church have a central interest in thwarting Elilial, but Justinian has been angling for more political power since he took office, often against the Empire itself.”

“It’s a triangle, then,” Fauna said, frowning.

“Exactly! And Justinian is trying to fill in its third side! The Wreath has to know at least some details of their goddess’s plan, but they probably have even less direct guidance from her than most cults do—she’s usually not even on this plane of existence, so it’s not like they can run to her for confirmation on every little thing. They know the Empire isn’t the real target, and the plan has to take the Empire’s inevitable responses into account—Elilial is definitely clever enough to lay a scheme that elaborate. But if the Empire appeared to be escalating the conflict beyond what they expected, turning their sham war into a real one while Elilial has her fingers in some other pie…”

“Then the Wreath and the Empire would be at each other’s throats,” Flora said, her eyes widening. “It’s the oldest gambit in war: if you have two enemies, pit them against each other!”

“Yes!” Darling whirled to face them. “And so we were sent there, ordered not to reveal we were with the Church—and of course the Empire is the only other logical culprit for such an action—and not told to respect the ceasefire in place. Escalation of hostilities, and both Wreath and Empire would feel themselves the attacked party because neither was the one truly doing the attacking! Oh, Justinian, you magnificent bastard!”

“Then…everything’s explained,” Flora said slowly.

“Nothing’s explained!” Darling crowed, throwing his arms wide. “I still don’t know who that Wreath guy we met really is or what he was doing there. I don’t know whether this little cabal Justinian’s put together are trusted agents he can send into the field with incomplete intel or patsies he can afford to lose on a suicide mission, which means I don’t know where I stand with him, and therefore I don’t know what I can get away with or what I need to do with regard to him.” He had to pause for breath. “I have no fucking clue what Elilial’s plan actually is, much less how to begin unraveling it! This whole thing is an ungodly mess!”

“Congratulations, your Grace,” Price said serenely.

“Thank you!”

“His Grace is most at home under adverse circumstances,” she explained to the elves, who looked more baffled by the minute. “He tends to wilt under serenity.”

“I do know one thing, though, and that’s enough to start,” Darling went on, his maniacal grin fading to a grimmer, more cynical expression. “Ladies, it’s early yet, but I’m afraid your talents are about to be called upon.”

“Just tell us what you need.” Instantly, all training forgotten, both were on point, with matching expressions that put him in mind of a pair of cats about to pounce.

“I hope everybody’s feeling patriotic,” he said, rubbing his hands together and grinning fiendishly. “Looks like we have to save the Empire.”

 

The first hints of a storm were blowing in, and the citizens of Puna Dara were out in force to greet it. Everything was tied down and secured, loose objects brought inside and shutters and doors sealed, but while the inhabitants of most port cities would hide themselves away indoors when bad weather was coming, the Punaji became almost gleeful. There was a downright festive atmosphere in the streets, with knots of people standing around chatting excitedly, hawkers desperately peddling wares ahead of the downpour that would shortly drive them into shelter, and knots of children racing about underfoot.

It wasn’t a large city—it couldn’t be, with essentially no farmland, framed on three sides by stark cliffs and the harbor on the fourth, its only sources of fresh water a few mountain springs. Positioned at the northeasternmost corner of the continent, Puna Dara was accessible by land only through ancient dwarven tunnels, wide enough for merchant trains and used by such, but most of the city’s commerce was by sea.

There were some few mansions of the wealthy and privileged against the cliff walls, built on high above their poorer neighbors and well back from the dangers of the ocean and its fickle winds—and fickle goddess—just as the wealthy and privileged set themselves up everywhere, and had for all of history. At the very edge of the water, however, jutting into the harbor itself, stood the Rock, the massive square fortress in which had lived for centuries the family for whom Punaji was a name as well as an ethnicity. They lived in the very teeth of the storm, always the first to launch themselves into the sea, and the last to retreat from it—which, to date, they never had. The Punaji were a fierce people, and demanded fierce rulers.

The Mermaid’s Tail, like most of the structures in the city, was solidly built of stone and well able to withstand the onslaught of the elements, which was necessary as it was perched practically on the docks themselves.

The common room of the tavern was loud and stifling tonight, what with the press of people seeking shelter within, and the fact that the windows had been shuttered against the encroaching weather. The same carnival atmosphere reigned in the taproom as out in the streets. People talked, sang, joked and drank, men and women alike in heavy boots and long greatcoats over baggy trousers and brightly-colored blouses. It was a perfectly middle-of-the-road tavern: rough and rowdy enough that any sort of person might wander in and most would not look out of place, but not so much that one needed to worry about watching one’s pockets—or back.

It was McGraw’s favorite spot in the city. He always stayed here when he was in Puna Dara, and preferred to conduct his business here if the other party was amenable. The staff knew him and had managed to get him his usual circular table in the corner under the stairs, despite the hefty crowd.

He much preferred to be seated and out of the way, standing out as he did among the Punaji. His skin was as dark as theirs, but lacked the bronze undertone they had. Plus, they ran toward sharp features while he was obviously a broad-nosed Westerner, and stood head and shoulders taller than most of them. His coat and broad hat suited their fashion up to a point, though the suit beneath was clearly Imperial in style. It wasn’t that he minded standing out, exactly, just that when one was meeting with a business partner, it paid not to draw attention. Especially given the kind of business he usually conducted.

The waitress brought him his order, a platter of fried squid with a dish of curry sauce, big enough for two. He thanked her with a smile, and she accepted her tip with a flirtatious wink—which was all part of the job—and a grin of authentic friendliness, which was not. Getting on the good side of serving girls was as simple as showing respect, tipping well and not letting one’s eyes or hands wander. It constantly amazed him how few men seemed to manage it.

McGraw had ordered for two and gently nursed his rum, nibbling now and then on the squid. Curry wasn’t exactly his favorite thing, but he did love fried squid, and you just couldn’t get it inland. For the most part, though, he steeled himself to leave it alone, along with the second glass beside the rum bottle. Wouldn’t do to seem inhospitable. He didn’t bother trying to scan the crowd; in this press of bodies, he’d never see anyone approach before they were right on top of him. So he waited, ready to offer a polite smile or a barrage of fireballs, depending on what came out of the crowd at him.

Thus, despite the lack of forewarning, he was not particularly startled when Principia Locke materialized from a tiny gap in the press of bodies and slid into the seat across from him.

“Ma’am,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “Not that it ain’t a pleasure, but this is a long way from where we last met.”

“Oh, you can cut that out already,” she said with a grin, pouring rum into the empty glass. “The job’s over, and we are hell and gone from Last Rock. You can speak plainly.”

“Of course,” he said. “Pardon me, I figured it was safer to let you lead. You seemed determined to maintain the facade back at the town, even when we were alone.”

“When a job involves both a thief and an archmage, I don’t make assumptions about who’s in a position to overhear what,” she replied, pulling out a small leather bag and tossing it across the table. “Here you go, as agreed. Your performance was absolutely perfect.”

“Thanks,” he replied, catching it and tucking it inside his coat without bothering to count the coins within. “And I suppose that’s a wise policy. Now, with regard to the other part of my payment we discussed?”

“Hmm?” Principia dragged a fried tentacle through the curry sauce and raised her eyebrows innocently at him. “If you’d care to inspect the bag, you’ll find every copper accounted for.”

McGraw had been at this too long to bother getting annoyed. Some folk just liked to drag things out and be difficult; it was usually easier to indulge than oppose them. “You were going to tell me how you managed, on such very short notice, to bust into my scrying mirror, despite all my wards, and send me a message. I’ve been pretty anxious to get my hands on that little bit of spellwork.”

“Ah, yes,” she purred, then popped the bit of squid into her mouth, chewing smugly. Just to drag out the tension. McGraw waited, wearing a faint smile of amusement until she finished. “Well, as with most of a thief’s best tricks, it was all about strategy and had little to do with fancy tools. I’m a fourth-rate enchantress; you have to know there’s no way I could power through your magic.”

“That was my presumption, yes. Hence my curiosity.”

“The trick was that I’d set all that up far in advance, and it took the better part of a year. I’d been thinking I’d use you to get Arachne off my tail if things in Last Rock went sour. But then the Guild set Shook on me and I had more urgent concerns, so I had to blow my little failsafe.”

McGraw shook his head ruefully. Of course; he really should have thought of that. Anybody could crack any ward given enough time and persistence, which was exactly why it was smart to change them up regularly. He did have the unfortunate habit of leaving his unmodified for far too long. At his age, the enthusiasm for attending to piddly menial tasks just wasn’t there.

“So you were going to aim me at Tellwyrn?” he said mildly, letting the other matter drop. “That sounds downright…unfriendly.”

“Oh, don’t make faces at me,” she said with a cheeky wink, “it’s not as if I was plotting your demise. Honestly, there’s not a damn thing I could’ve offered you that would make you do something as daft as try to take on Arachne in a head-to-head fight, correct?”

“You better believe it. I’m way past having pissing contests with dragons.”

“Trust me, Arachne’s not so hard.” She chewed another bite of squid, face twisting in an annoyed grimace. “She isn’t subtle. If you understand how she thinks and have the right leverage, it’s fairly simple to distract her, or maneuver around her. I know her, and you could’ve provided the leverage. Not now, of course, since we’ve both gone and pissed her off. But those are the breaks.”

“It does seem you burned a few bridges over the course of this business,” he noted after taking a sip of his rum. “Feel free to shut me down if it ain’t my place to ask, ma’am, but is it wise to turn on your Guild like that? I can’t imagine they’d appreciate you bringin’ in an outside contractor to get rid of one of their enforcers.”

“No, that is pretty explicitly against the Guild’s codes,” she said wryly. “The penalties would be…significant. What the Guild doesn’t know won’t hurt me, though.” Principia stared at her glass, her expression sobering. “I do enjoy my little pranks and I’ll be the first to admit I’m not one to respect authority unless there’s something in it for me, but I’ve always been loyal to the Guild. Faithful. This…is a first for me, and I don’t mind telling you it sits poorly. No matter how necessary it was.”

“I didn’t get the impression Mr. Shook was an easy fella to work with.”

She laughed bitterly. “No, I decided he and I weren’t going to develop a solid working relationship about the time he declared his intention to rape me into submission if I didn’t get results fast enough.”

McGraw straightened in his chair, all the humor draining from his expression instantly. “Is that…typical policy for the Thieves’ Guild?”

“That’s the best part.” Principia lifted her eyes; her grin was utterly devoid of amusement. “Hell no, it isn’t. Last time one of our members did anything like that, our chief enforcer bent him in half so he could suck his own dick, stuffed him in a barrel that way and sent him over the Tira Falls. But, there is the issue of credibility. As I’ve mentioned, I’m a bit of a wild card and happily so. Shook, on the other hand, has built a career keeping his shittier tendencies in check when important people are looking, and hanging around the central offices of the Guild enough to have built up a solid rep.” She shrugged fatalistically. “I had no way to win. If it came to his word against mine, I would’ve lost that by default. It was either turn on the Guild or let that asshole treat me like his personal…” She cut off, turning her head to the side to glare at nothing. “Well. Let’s just say you were the lesser evil and leave it at that.”

“I’ve been fairly called much worse things,” he replied, taking a sip. “If my opinion holds any weight with you at all, ma’am, I’d say you handled the situation well. Truthfully, I was impressed by your ability to play a part. Ain’t often I’ve had such a professional to work with.”

“Ah, yes, the whole world knows of Longshot McGraw’s weakness for pretty girls in peril.” She turned back to him with a grin, her dour mood of the moment before apparently forgotten.

He coughed. “Yes. Well. S’pose it’d be disingenuous to deny it at this juncture in my career. Truth be told, I had it in mind to decline monetary compensation once we were settling up accounts… But there at the end, I did have to expend a very rare elemental evocation on your behalf. Had that sucker waiting for an emergency for years.”

“Yes, Mabel has that effect on everybody’s plans,” she said wryly.

“Well, all things considered, I’m just happy to have been of—” He broke off in shock, feeling a slippered foot slowly slide up his calf under the table.

Principia had leaned her elbows on the tabletop, resting her chin on her interlaced fingers and batted her eyes coquettishly. “Well, drat. With everything all paid for, I can’t use my line about thanking you properly. Now I have to be baldly forward like some kind of hussy.”

McGraw coughed again, for the first time in a long while finding himself utterly at a loss. “I, uh… I don’t… Ma’am, I’m not sure if…”

“You can call me Prin, you know,” she purred. “There are, in fact, a lot of things you can call me. We can go over that at some length, if you want.”

He gaped at her for a long moment, then jumped as her foot made contact with him again, even higher this time. Finally finding his tongue, McGraw decided to go with the simplest statement he could. “I am confused.”

“Let me tell you something about good-looking boys,” she said, still gazing up at him through her lashes. “By and large, that’s all there is to them. It takes time and experience to make a man into something interesting… Experience of a kind that leaves its own mark. I learned a long time ago to look past a lined face; learned a somewhat less long time ago to appreciate the face itself. Give me interesting men; they’re the only ones worth the effort.”

“I, um. Just to be clear, and I don’t mean to put you on the spot, but you are talking about…”

“Oh, Omnu’s breath,” she said, visibly amused. “Yes, Elias, I am offering to go to bed with you. Asking, even. If you’re having trouble with that, you can assume I’m trying to trick or swindle you or something. You can keep a wand pointed at my head the whole time if you like… That I’ve not done for a while. Might add a certain spice.”

“I’m…having a little trouble with this,” he admitted frankly. “You’re, uh… Well, a strikingly attractive young lady. It’s been a longer time than I care to acknowledge since any such found me worth…um, spending the time with.”

“Well.” She smiled, a catlike expression. “It’s something to do.”

McGraw had to laugh. “Well then, Prin… There, you’re speaking my language.”

Heading up the stairs, they passed the waitress who had brought the platter. She grinned and winked at McGraw, laughing when he actually ducked his head bashfully, before heading back down to collect their dishes and sweep them off to the kitchen. Like any good waitress, she had seen the signs of a pair of customers about to leave and made sure she was on hand to clean up promptly. At least, that was what she’d planned to tell the tavern owner if he gave her an earful for loitering on the balcony right above them.

She swished into the kitchen, casually deposited the dishes, and made her way over to the corner where a boy of nine sat on an upended barrel, shelling clams.

“Sanjay! How’s my favorite brother?”

“Your favorite brother knows very well when you want something. You’ve gotta work on that subtlety, y’know.”

“Fair enough,” she said, grinning. “I need you to run down to the wharfmaster’s office and carry a message to Rajur for me.”

“Storm’s coming,” he said, finally lifting his gaze to hers and matching her grin. “And I’m not your errand boy, Lakshmi.”

“Fine.” She stepped closer, lowering her voice and dropping the smile. “I need you to go take a message to Fang from Peepers. It’s urgent.”

“Oh ho! That’s another matter!” Sanjay’s grin widened and he hopped down. “Sounds like it’s worth some compensation, if you’re gonna be dragging me into Guild business.”

“Don’t get smart with me, little brother, you will always owe me for changing your diapers.” She leaned in closer, letting her smile return slowly. “There’ll be compensation for everybody; enough rep for both me and Fang to move up the ranks, maybe even to sponsor you an apprenticeship. This is gonna go right to the Boss in Tiraas.”

“That good?” He grinned up at her expectantly.

“That bad. It seems we have a traitor among us.”

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“And here we are!” Sweet proclaimed, coming to a stop. They stood in a small square in the predawn gloom; to the right, the street began to descend into another former quarry and current border district like the Glums. A surprisingly well-polished city street sign proclaimed this the Lower Northeast Ward.

They weren’t dressed for this part of town, Sweet in an expensively tailored suit of conservative cut, the two elves in simple, modest dresses. Privately, he suspected that Price enjoyed having girls to dress for once, though he wasn’t going to tempt fate by saying so. For his part, he’d not have come here in this attire, but his very full schedule for today wouldn’t permit time for a costume change between this errand and the next one. So, overdressed or not, he led the way with his customarily nonchalant swagger, Flora and Fauna trailing along behind.

He heard their light steps stop when they rounded the corner. Three men were leaning casually against the quiet storefronts just beyond the border into the Ward with the elaborately casual stance of people who were guarding something. They nodded to him, the one in the old Army coat even smiling noncommittally. Doubtless it was the third who startled his charges, though. They were probably not used to meeting drow.

“Mornin’, lads,” Sweet said easily, strolling past them. “Come along, girls! Left foot, right foot! We’ve got errands to see to, and we’re on a schedule.”

They darted to catch up; Fauna leaned in close to him, hissing, “That man was a drow!”

“Very insightful, Fauna. Those keen instincts will serve you well in the Guild. Welcome, ladies, to the Lower Northeast Ward, formerly known throughout the city as Freak Street, and more recently as Lor’naris!”

Even as they descended the sloping street, tenements rising on one side and the rocky exterior wall of the island on the other, Lor’naris made its differences from the Glums glaringly plain. It was clean, for one thing; there was no litter, no graffiti, no broken windows or other signs of vandalism. It definitely was not a rich district, as the repairs done to many buildings were a patchwork of obviously scavenged supplies, but significantly, the repairs had been done. The fairy lamps atop the light poles were often missing, but not haphazardly; one in three remained at precise intervals, leaving the street well-lit enough for human eyes to navigate, but dim.

And, despite the very early hour, it was occupied. Unlike most who thronged city streets after dark, the residents of Lor’naris wore the garb of working people on their way to or from jobs, or running errands. They were polite in passing one another or the three visitors, if reserved. And at least half of them were drow.

“The story of Lor’naris has its roots in the long, complicated relationship between the humans of the Empire and the drow of Tar’naris,” Sweet lectured his two charges as he led them along, deeper into the district. “For most of that history, you see, humans were something of a prized commodity down there. Drow ideas about beauty tend to focus on what makes them different from their surface-dwelling cousins: specifically, burly men and busty women. Well, guess who’s even brawnier and curvier than drow!” He half-turned as he walked to grin at them; the elves were clinging to each other, wide-eyed, staring around as if expecting to be ambushed any second.

“Obviously,” Sweet continued, “the formation of the Empire and its military might put a damper on that; once it consolidated its hold on this continent, Tiraas put its armies to work defending its various interior frontiers. The stretches around the Golden Sea and the Deep Wild, for example, various hellgates, and in particular the access points to the Underworld. Where Narisians used to be able to launch raids right from their front steps, as it were, about sixty years ago they found their door blocked off by Fort Vaspian, and a lot of well-disciplined troops wielding battlestaves from behind battlements. So, no more slave trade. And with the human lifespan being what it is, it wasn’t long before the remaining slaves were losing much of their pep. No more sexy, sexy humans to play with. It was very sad. Good morning, Cassie!” he called, waving.

Coming their way on the sidewalk was a woman of about thirty leading a child of no more than five by the hand. The little girl had shock-white hair and skin of pale gray, her ears subtly elongated but not pointed. She ducked behind the woman’s skirts at their approach.

“Morning, Sweet,” the adult said politely, smiling. “Look at you! What’s the occasion?”

“Oh, you know how it is,” he said breezily, tucking his thumbs behind his lapels and strutting a little. “Sometimes a lad just wakes up and wants to feel fancy. And who’s this? Is that Ezirel?” He bent forward, smiling more gently, and produced a wrapped lemon drop from within his sleeve. “My gods, you’re huge! You’d better stop growing, or I’m gonna forget what you look like.”

The child found enough courage to accept the offering before ducking shyly behind her mother’s skirts again.

“What do you say, Ezirel?” Cassie prompted with just a hint of reproof.

Two big, garnet-colored eyes appeared above a fold of fabric. “Thank you, Sweet,” she said dutifully, somewhat muffled. He laughed.

“Sorry I can’t stop to chat this morning, Cass, but I have a delivery to make.”

“Of course, don’t let us keep you. Always good to see you, though.”

“And you’re a sight to brighten up any day yourself. Cheers!”

Fauna let some distance accrue between them and the woman and child before speaking again, still in a low hiss. “These are the friendly drow your Empire is allied with? Those who used to prey on your people?”

“Ah, now that’s the meat of it exactly,” he said, wagging a finger over his shoulder without turning around. “There are drow and then there are drow, girls. The drow we know are Themynrites, servants of a goddess of judgment who very carefully seeded her cult among the drow city-states which controlled access points to the surface. All such cities, in fact, making them an effective plug in a planet-sized bottle of horrors. Y’see, the drow below that worship Scyllith, goddess of, among other things, cruelty. Those are the drow who practice infant sacrifice and fill their cities with random booby traps just for shits and giggles. The drow whose national sport is murder. It’s thanks to the Narisians and other Themynrite drow that those assholes don’t come boiling out of the Underworld like stylish, evil locusts. We get to live in prosperity and relative peace up here because of their eternal vigilance, and since most of humanity had no idea any of this was even going on for most of history, naturally nobody offered a word of thanks.”

He glanced back again, still grinning, to make sure his two charges were still following along, both in his footsteps and his story. They glanced about mistrustfully every time the threesome passed a slate-skinned pedestrian, but seemed to be attentive. They weren’t the only ones; he wasn’t moderating his tone, and several people, both drow and human, watched and listened as they passed.

“Anyway, it’s hardly surprising the Narisians developed a bit of an attitude about it,” he continued. “As I understand, the belief down there was that the difference between a human enslaved in Tar’naris and a human faffing around on the surface was that the slave, at least, was damn well pulling their weight. Sound about right, Vengniss?”

“Succintly put,” replied a drow woman behind a pastry stand, with a small, polite smile. “Good morning, Sweet.”

“Mornin’, sunshine,” he said cheerily, setting a small stack of coins on the counter. “Three, please!”

It was plain, Imperial peasant food, simple rolls of sausage, onion and cabbage with a dab of gravy in a heavy pastry, but the elves seemed to enjoy them. At least, they appeared less tense as they ate, continuing along in Sweet’s wake.

“So that brings us forward to the Imperial treaty,” he said after downing a few bites. “Now we have Imperial troops supporting the Narisian front lines against incursions from the deep drow, and a heavy Narisian presence in Fort Vaspian itself. Soldiers mixing with each other all the time, not to mention diplomats, the arcanists and others involved in the agricultural projects in Tar’naris, plus merchants salivating over the exciting new markets that have opened up, consultants and participants in new mining ventures… People from all walks of life, but the common thread is that they fall in two groups suddenly thrust into proximity: drow who remember when humans were a much-prized luxury items, and humans whose ideas about drow were full of lurid images of wild-eyed women dressed in scraps of spidersilk, brandishing whips. Two groups who each regarded the other as alien, mysterious, bizarre, and sexy as hell.”

He took another bite and winked over his shoulder at them. “Well, the inevitable happened. It happened frequently, and with gusto. Now, most of those liaisons were brief affairs, but people do fall in love, often to their own amazement. If you’re a drow/human couple, you’ve got two basic options. If your drow half is a sufficiently ranked member of their House, you can settle down in Tar’naris and nobody’s going to so much as look at you the wrong way. That’s a pretty shriveled minority of cases, though; most aren’t highly-placed enough in their Houses to gain any leeway, and I imagine several of those who are did not please their matriarchs by bringing home a round-eared albino with a hundred-year lifespan. So most of them came to the great Imperial melting pot of Tiraas…and from there, here. Thus: Lor’naris.”

“Why this district?” Flora asked quietly.

“Remember I said this used to be known as Freak Street?” He glanced back, nibbling at his pastry as he waited for them to nod in acknowledgment. “The Lower Northeast Ward has always been a gathering place for the racially unwelcome. Lizardfolk, half-elves, half-dwarves, half-thingies of all stripes, including a solid handful of demonbloods. If you couldn’t show your face on most of the streets of Tiraas without getting aged produce thrown at you, then you came here. What changed with the exodus from Tar’naris was the general tone of the place. Within a few years, there were more drow than any one other type of person, save humans, though there still aren’t more than a couple hundred in the whole city, if that. Nearly all of those drow came with a human partner, more of whom than otherwise were ex-soldiers; basically, the new Narisians were not people who were going to be pushed around, so they ended up setting the standard for the district. And it’s a very Narisian standard they set: clean, orderly, and safe. There’s basically no criminal element left in Lor’naris. It’s not a rich district by any means, but it’s a good place to raise your kids. The folks who settled here made it that way for that specific purpose. It doesn’t hurt that it’s practically underground, which was just more comfortable for them generally.”

“Fascinating,” Fauna murmured. He didn’t detect any sarcasm in her tone, but it could be hard to tell.

“Hang a right here, girls,” he said, leading them down a narrow side street where the buildings above met in the middle more often than not. It was nearly a tunnel; also lit by the occasional fairy lamp, but markedly dimmer, even in the gathering dawn.

Sweet finished off his breakfast pastry on the much shorter walk through the darkness. They met no more people here, but light beckoned from up ahead. The alley terminated in a small square cul-de-sac, illuminated by more closely-spaced fairy lamps hung from the surrounding walls. High above, the gray sky was just beginning to be streaked with pink. Despite the dingy, angular surroundings, it had the aspect of a secret grotto, with its darkened entrance and tantalizing glimpse of faraway sky.

The entire wall of the square opposite them formed the front of a shabby old theater, with freshly-painted posters advertising a play opening in a week. Sweet came to a stop in front of this, stepped to one side, and bowed grandly, gesturing the two elves forward to the doors.

“Ladies, we have arrived.”

It wasn’t locked. Sweet led them through a shabbily ornate foyer and through a set of double doors into the theater proper. This was the kind of place that, though spotlessly clean, seemed as if it should be festooned with cobwebs. The rafters above were lost in the dimness, but the worn old chairs had been carved elaborately when they were new, and ragged velvet draperies hung over ornate wall carvings.

“Yoo hoo!” Sweet called.

“Yes, I heard you,” said a man from behind them, making the two elves jump. “Right on time, Sweet. I gather these are my new project?”

“Ah, splendid,” Sweet said cheerfully, turning to bow to their host. “Girls, this is Orthilon. Orthilon, meet Flora and Fauna.”

“…seriously?”

“Now, be nice,” he chided, watching them study each other. The girls didn’t seem particularly happy at meeting another drow, though they muttered a wary greeting. Orthilon, for his part, looked them over carefully. It was an analytical, appraising stare, not the kind of once-over men tended to give women, but the two elves stiffened regardless.

“Ladies,” Sweet said, recapturing your attention, “you’ve been most patient with this enterprise so far, but I’m sure you’re eager to know why you’re here.”

“That would be nice,” Flora said.

“We have a bit of a problem, you see: you two can’t lie.”

“Yes, we can,” Fauna said, scowling. She scowled further when Sweet laughed at her.

“No, love, you really can’t. You can say the words, but… Hah, no. You’ve got the worst poker faces I’ve ever seen in my life. All that jumping and glaring on the way down here? You can bet everybody we passed knows how phobic you are of drow.”

“Well, what did you expect?” Fauna said testily. “If you’d warned us…”

“Now, don’t mistake me!” Sweet raised a hand to forestall further comments. “If you manage to open your minds and learn a few lessons in tolerance and understanding while you’re here…well, great, that’s fine and dandy. But honestly, I don’t much care. Eserion isn’t big on social justice. The problem is that when you dislike someone, it’s written all over you. Likewise when you try to deceive. This just won’t do, girls. If you’re going to get anywhere in the Guild, you’re going to have to learn to hide your feelings, and especially your intentions. Now, we have our ways of teaching those lessons, but they take time, and exposure. There’s merit in doing things the slow way, but I’m going to need you two shipshape in a relatively quick span of time, so an accelerated curriculum is needed. And lucky for us, we have the best possible thing for teaching a pair of bright-eyed youngsters the art of reserve: a whole district full of Narisians!”

“What,” Flora asked very carefully, looking at the smiling Orthilon, “do Narisians have to do with it?”

“Narisians observe a cultural ethic of restraint and respect,” the drow replied to her. “For millennia we have lived practically on top of one another in the darkness. While our Scyllithene cousins deep below address the tensions of Underworld society by viciously culling each other, in Tar’naris we have developed a society structured to keep us from rubbing against one another to our mutual discomfort. That is why my people do not commonly express emotion except among intimate family: it is seen as an offensive act, to inflict your feelings upon others. We learn from birth to govern our features and all expression of what passes across our minds.”

Fauna rounded on Sweet, her face twisting in disgust. “You want us to learn how to act like drow?”

“From what I’ve seen, there’s nothing about Narisian drow that you’d be worse off knowing,” he replied easily, “but no, I’m not looking to have you convert or anything. Just learn the specific lesson I’m sending you here to teach: reserve. Hide your feelings and your thoughts a bit better. Do you really think, girls, that you see the truth of what I’m feeling when I speak to you?”

That gave them pause. They frowned at him in unison, then glanced at each other, having one of those quick, silent conversations of theirs.

“That sounds like it would still take time to learn,” Flora hedged.

“That’s why I’m bringing you to Orthilon,” Sweet said cheerfully. “In addition to the fact that you’ll be hobnobbing with actors around here, he’s something of an expert, you see. Orthilon was in the human trade, back in the day.”

“He’s a slave trader?” Both elves shied away from the drow, who only smiled calmly at them.

“Trainer,” Orthilon clarified. “I worked with humans; I was not involved in their acquisition or sale. You could say that I am a…connoisseur of humans. They really are intriguing, delightful creatures.”

“Imagine you’re a Narisian noble,” Sweet explained. “You’ve just purchased a domesticated human for your personal use. Obviously, you’re gonna want your new acquisition to behave like a civilized person, instead of like…well, like a human. That’s where Orthilon came in! His job was to teach people not raised in Narisian culture how to get along in it, and he was damn good at his job.”

“I was the acknowledge master of my craft,” the drow said modestly. “My charges learned proper behavior in a matter of weeks, on average, and that beginning when they were most unwilling students. It is much easier, much quicker, working with volunteers.”

“So here’s the deal,” Sweet explained. “We have a little exchange of interest going. You two are going to help Orthilon with various projects over the next few weeks. They’re still renovating this theater ahead of the scheduled opening next week—it’s gonna be tight, and every able pair of hands is a gift. After that, well, there’ll be other stuff to do. The new locals are still cleaning up decades of damage caused by slum living. They’ve only been here five years or so; the place isn’t going to shape up overnight. In payment for your services, you get education. Your lessons stop when I personally am satisfied with the state of your poker faces.”

“You’re…leaving us here?” Flora said faintly.

“Oh, don’t be silly,” Sweet chided her gently. “You’re still living at my house, and you’ll still report to the Guild for your lessons. Style will have a new schedule for you, worked around your duties here. In the mornings, though, you come to Lor’naris to work; Orthilon will drill you while you do so. It’s gonna be a busy couple of weeks, girls, but I have every confidence you’ll come through just fine. If you need anything, Price or Style can see to it. I’m afraid I’m about to catch a Rail caravan myself; I’ll be out of pocket for a few days at least. Maybe longer.”

“Where are you going?” Fauna demanded shrilly.

“Now, now, mustn’t pry into things that don’t concern you. Don’t worry, ducklings, I promise you’re in good hands.”

They looked at him, at each other, and at Orthilon—still wearing his polite little smile—and did not seem at all reassured.

The house in Hamlet had once been owned by a prosperous merchant, somebody who’d made it good in the cattle trade. Cattle were really the only trade worth bothering in out here; the village wasn’t close enough to the Golden Sea to have any commerce from passing adventurers. It was two stories tall, which was positively grandiose for this little town, though its simple white paint and utter lack of adornment was almost shockingly plain to those accustomed to the grandeur and grime of Tiraas. There was even a white picket fence. Basra had yet to run out of jokes about that.

The four bishops had taken time, after arriving, to freshen up and settle in. It wasn’t a large house, so Basra and Branwen ended up sharing a room. Darling, who had been feeling out his traveling companions during their exhausting journey, was not sure how well that was going to go; he didn’t see those two becoming friends, but hopefully they were both professional enough not to snipe at each other. Branwen’s habit of flirting with every man she met seemed to antagonize Basra, but fortunately, the Avenist expressed her antagonism through smug superiority, rather than outright hostility. He had ensconced himself in a tiny servant’s room which was plenty adequate for his purposes, leaving Andros the other main bedroom.

Thoughtful neighbors had left them a pie and several congenial notes. The rental of the house had been undertaken by the Church through a real estate broker in Tiraas; nobody was supposed to know anything about it, but such things worked differently in little towns. The locals were an almost comically straightforward lot, failing utterly to conceal the curiosity about the new strangers in their town behind a facade of friendliness.

The four of them did not in any way resemble a family. They were all in fancy civilian garb rather than Bishop’s robes or the trappings of their respective cults; just suits and dresses such as would befit wealthy citizens and did nothing to hint at their ecclesiastical profession. Andros was as awkward stuffed into his starched collar as a bear in a tutu, and Basra was decidedly unstylish, having flatly refused to wear a corset, but overall they were not a distinctive or memorable group—or wouldn’t have been, in Tiraas. Just well-to-do travelers, not worthy of particular notice, but here, that fact alone drew attention. That was the idea.

Clothing aside, Darling was tall, lean and blonde, Andros tall, burly and dark-haired, with a wild beard and wild eyes. Branwen was similarly pale, but short and curvy, with reddish hair and blue eyes; Basra had an olive Tiraan complexion and a lean build. Speculation was bound to run rampant as to their identities and business.

Darling had quickly taken over dealing with the nosy neighbors; he could charm anyone, and these folk were easy. Branwen helped, here and there; by the unspoken mutual understanding of people who liked people, they collaborated in keeping the others away from the public. Basra’s sense of humor would likely not go over well in this town, and Andros didn’t seem capable of making a good impression on anyone. It didn’t help that none of them really liked one another that much. Andros, in particular, was still sullen and smarting over Darling having been placed in charge of their expedition.

Fortunately, pleading fatigue from the journey proved effective in driving away the curiosity seekers, and had the advantage of being quite true. They had changed caravans once; their first Rail line from Tiraas to Calderaas had been positively idyllic. The cars were larger, the seats were deeply padded and came with sets of buckled straps to hold passengers in place, and enchantments on the cars themselves minimized the forces acting upon their occupants. For the last leg of their journey to Saddle Ridge, however, they had been forced to take one of the older Rail cars that still serviced the frontier, the ones that had been designed to move troops and small parties of adventurers, rather than civilians. It had been a tense few minutes, to say the least; the four of them being bounced around in the spartan can of steel and glass, practically blazing with divine light to both shield and heal.

After that, there had been a five-hour carriage ride, which left them all stiff and out of sorts. Branwen and Darling had failed to keep any kind of conversation going. The stiffness, at least, was easily remedied by drawing on the light of the gods. For the other problem, the best they could do was retreat to different corners of the house under the pretext of settling in and avoid each other.

Darling had eventually taken a stroll around the picturesque little frontier town to escape the tension. Branwen had occupied herself cooking dinner; she’d actually been singing when he left. He didn’t wait around to see how Basra and Andros passed their afternoon. All he really hoped was that they didn’t rip into each other in his absence.

Dinner was similarly terse, though they were in a somewhat better frame of mind by then, and even more so after a meal. A full belly did wonders for one’s disposition. At least the discomfort of the trip from Tiraas to Hamlet had taught them a thing or two about dealing with each other. Three of the religions represented in their group had deep doctrinal conflicts, and Darling’s cult had a complex relationship with Basra’s, to say the least. Still, they managed to be civil, which gave him hope. The fact that they collectively hadn’t exchanged more than a few sentences all day was less encouraging, but perhaps it was the best that could be expected.

Now, finally, night had fallen and they were ready to get down to the business at hand.

“The house is secure,” Andros growled, descending the steep wooden step to join the others in the basement. It wasn’t a hostile tone; his normal speaking voice was a growl. “I’ve placed wards and charms at all entrances. I will know if anyone approaches.”

“We’re hunting the Black Wreath,” Basra chided. “The whole problem with them is that they can slip through—”

“I will know,” Andros repeated sharply, “if anyone approaches. The Wreath’s stealth works like an animal’s camouflage. We may not notice them in the wild, but when they step into one of my traps, it will go off.”

“Are you sure…”

“Let’s assume he’s sure, and that he’s right,” Darling said from the opposite side of the room, where he was studying an open spellbook by the light of the oil lamp that was the room’s sole illumination. “Have a little faith in your partners, Bas! Either we’re all competent and trustworthy in our respective fields, or we’re all about to be excruciatingly dead.” He looked up, grinning toothily at her. “Me, I prefer to be an optimist.”

“Antonio,” she replied, “at some point in your youth, someone allowed you to gain the impression that you’re funny. That person owes a great debt to the world.”

“Oh, like I’ve never heard that one before.”

“I have a very bad feeling about this,” Branwen said, then went more sharply as Basra opened her mouth to comment. “Yes, I know I’ve said that already, and yes, I know my reasons for it are painfully obvious. I believe it bears repeating, nonetheless. There are so many ways this can go horribly wrong.”

“Go upstairs and tend to the kitchen if you’re frightened,” Andros said, staring at her. He might have been glaring, or that might just have been what his face looked like. “This is the work of men.”

“Okay, let’s please agree not to start up with that,” Darling said soothingly. “We’re already a setup for a punchline as it is: an Izarite, a Shaathist, an Avenist and an Eserite walk into a basement to cast a spell circle, eh? I think it’d be a very good idea to avoid topics that we know are just going to lead to arguments.” The Huntsman grunted. Darling chose to take that for acquiescence.

“How’s this?” Branwen asked, stepping back from the circle she had just finished laboriously drawing on the floor in a selection of three different colored powders. Darling picked up the book in one hand and the lamp in the other, crossing over to her to study her handiwork.

“Excellent! Matches the diagram exactly.”

“Is this really all it’s going to take?” Basra asked skeptically. “It seems like there should be something…more. Just lines on the ground aren’t going to do much.”

“This is powdered dragon bone, blessed by the Archpope himself in the Hall of the Pantheon,” Darling said absently, pacing around the circle and comparing it to the diagram despite his pronouncement that it was correct. It looked right, but he shared the women’s nervousness. They were meddling with serious forces, here; there was no such thing as too much caution. “Fae and divine energies in considerable strength. That makes up for a lot; most practitioners would need a more elaborate circle to compensate for the lack of raw power. The glyphs provide the arcane boost we need, and as for the rest… Well, we’re coming to that. Anyone else care to double-check us, or shall we proceed?”

“Just get on with it,” Andros growled.

“Jolly good. Basra, how’re we coming along?”

“Oh, please, I’ve been done for twenty minutes.”

“Smashing! Let’s have a look!”

She crossed over to him, giving the circle a wide berth, and laid out five pieces of parchment on the upturned wooden crate he was using for an impromptu desk. Darling, with the same excessive care he’d given to the circle, laboriously checked each line against the illustrations in the book. He couldn’t read what was written—that language wasn’t spoken natively by anyone on this plane—but he could check the marks against each other.

“It looks good to me,” he said at last. “Branwen, come have a look, please?”

“Oh, honestly, you don’t think I—”

“Basra,” he said firmly, “I have the utmost faith in your penmanship. But when it comes to this, I am going to be unreasonably, excessively cautious, and I won’t apologize for that.”

“Fair enough,” she said with a faint smirk, crossing her arms.

“I agree,” said Branwen, peering at the book and the marked parchments. “If we must do this, let’s do it as carefully as possible. The markings match the book as far as I can tell.”

“Good. Andros, wanna quadruple-check us?”

Andros grunted.

“…so, no, then? All right.” Darling carefully stacked the papers up in the proper order and handed them back to Basra. “Each needs to be laid in one of those triangular glyphs spaced around the edge of the circle, in order. If we were speaking the spell, it would be one continuous thing, but none of us can pronounce any of this gobbledygook, so timing is going to be a factor. The actual incantation is supposed to take just under a minute, so…give it a slow count of ten between them.”

“Got it,” she said crisply, moving over to the circle. “Everyone ready?”

“No,” said Branwen. “Do it.”

Pausing only to grin at her, Basra bent and carefully laid the first parchment in place.

It was fortunate that she moved her fingers so adroitly, as it immediately burst into flame. The parchment burned with a painfully unnatural green fire, putting off neither smoke nor heat. The lines of powder on the floor began to glow, luminosity spreading out from that glyph like dampness through cloth, petering out about halfway to the point of reaching either of the next glyphs along the edge.

Basra’s timing was good. She set down the second, and the effect repeated itself; the slowly creeping illumination reached the same flat light from the other direction and doubled in intensity, two glyphs now alight, lines of brightness stretching between them.

They didn’t quite hold their breath as she stepped smoothly around the circle, laying down each piece of the spell in turn, but the tension in the room was palpable, increasing with each added component of the spell and subsequent increase in light level. Basra set the final parchment in place and immediately backed away. By unspoken plan, they had placed themselves in the four corners of the chamber, encircling the now fully illuminated spell circle.

As it burst into a brighter illumination than before and the five rune-marked parchments erupted in puffs of bluish flame, they reached for the divine light in unison. The glow filled the room with a much brighter light than the oil lamp could manage, illuminating the rough brick walls and dirt floor as clearly as the sun would have. Light coruscated against an invisible cylinder of protection cast upward by the spell circle, golden sparks marking out a line where the power of the gods was held back from a small piece of territory that now belonged to something else.

It rose up slowly from below, as though the dirt floor were fluid and it was breaching the surface, gasping for breath. The thing writhed in obvious discomfort at its passage, sliding headfirst up into the chamber over the long course of a minute. It was lifted bodily off the ground momentarily after breaking through, then fell back, its feet landing on the packed earth.

Everything about it was…wrong. It was humanoid, but could never have passed for human. There were the horns, the spiny wings, the lashing, barb-tipped tail and oddly gray-blue complexion, but more than that, it was simply shaped wrong. Too lean, too long. Its skull was grotesquely elongated, its facial features likewise; its limbs were spindly, its torso scrawny and skeletal. For feet it had birdlike claws, balancing upright on only two large toes; its hands were far too large for even its peculiar frame, dangling from bony wrists like overfed spiders. It was, somehow, the subtler inhumanities in its appearance that were truly disturbing, more than the ostentatious ones. Most disturbing of all were its eyes—its plain, gray, apparently human eyes.

It flexed its wings once, wincing when they sparked against the borders of the containing circle, then folded them around itself rather like a cape, concealing its figure. All it wore beneath them were tightly-fitted scraps of leather that looked reptilian in origin and concealed little of its emaciated flesh. Tilting its head in apparent curiosity, it turned in a slow circle, studying the four priests who had summoned it.

“Well,” the demon said at last. “This is different.”

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Sweet waited deep within the belly of the Guild. Off to one side of the training pit, perpendicular to the exit and the door to the Treasury with its shrine beyond was the Map Room, a chamber whose function was immediately obvious. The Guild had an institutional fondness for simple, descriptive names. Waist-high shelves lined two walls, filled with rolled up or folded maps which could be spread out on the circular table in the center of the chamber. Above the shelves, every stretch of wall was covered with permanently hung maps. The city, the province, the Empire itself, and various detailed portions of each were all depicted. The far wall, before which Sweet stood, was covered floor-to-ceiling by an incredibly detailed map of the city of Tiraas.

Legs akimbo, hands folded behind his back, head lifted to study the map, he made an impressive sight from the door, even (perhaps especially) in his slightly scruffy suit. That was the whole reason for his position. Truthfully, he was starting to get a crick in his neck; it was taking longer than he’d expected for those he’d summoned to arrive.

Finally, he thought as the door creaked open behind him. All the doors in the Thieves’ Guild creaked, otherwise people would tend to inadvertently sneak up on each other, which could result in…accidents.

He turned, slowly, starting with the legs but keeping his face aimed at the map for another second or two; it acknowledged those entering (initially ignoring them didn’t suit the image he wanted to project) while creating the impression that weighty matters occupied his attention, warring with his desire to greet them. Everything precise, everything calculated. When Sweet started really putting on a show, he often ran the risk of becoming distracted by how good he was.

Two elves slipped into the room, followed by a glowering Style. They still slipped and crept everywhere, as if afraid they were going to be thrown out; it had only been a couple of weeks and though Flora and Fauna were starting to settle in, there was a process. They had more to adjust to than most of the human Guild members. Dressed in simple shirts and trousers for training, better rested and more well-fed than when he’d first seen them, and best of all, smiling, they’d already come a long way from the two miserable streetwalkers he’d encountered outside the Pink Lady.

Well, aside from certain little details like what they were here to discuss.

“Ladies,” he said warmly, coming around the table to greet them. His smile was careful: he needed to be glad to see them, but not too chipper, in light of what was coming. The elves smiled back at him with a lot more enthusiasm. He was, after all, the one who’d not only sponsored their apprenticeships in the Guild but helped them settle in for the first few days. If not for Sweet, they would still be turning tricks in the Glums. That gratitude was real and counted for a lot. Or so he devoutly hoped.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been to see you more often,” he went on. “They’ve got me running all over the city doing the work of three men. How are you getting along? Anything you need help with?”

“We are very well,” Flora said, still beaming up at him. “There’s a lot to remember, but the work is not arduous.”

“Training is good,” Fauna added. “Very satisfying. It’s good to flex minds and muscles again.”

Still they smiled in simple delight at seeing him. After some initial uncertainty, he had decided there wasn’t a crush developing there. Among other things…well, they definitely weren’t twins, upon closer inspection, and probably not even sisters. When nobody was paying close attention, they sometimes gave off a vibe that was very much not sisterly.

“They have potential,” Style grunted from behind them, folding her arms and not relaxing her glare. She was dolled up in an Eastern barbarian outfit that was even more revealing than her Punaji phase of last month. It was all boiled leather, with brass studs and fur accents; above the waist all she had on was a kind of thick leather brassiere such as barbarian women were often shown wearing on the covers of penny dreadfuls and pretty much never in real life, because it was a stupidly impractical garment even in a much warmer climate than the Eastern mountains. Some women bared skin to be alluring; Style bared her square shoulders, trunklike arms and craggy abs to discourage people from giving her backtalk. It worked.

“I’m glad to hear it. And I mean it: I may not be around much, but if you need anything, you can get a message to me.” Sweet let the smile slip from his face, leaving his expression grave. “For now… I asked Style to bring you in here because I’m afraid I have some pretty bad news. You may want to sit down for this.”

The pair exchanged a glance, but at his gesture, slowly lowered themselves into chairs beside the map table, Fauna pulling one over so they could sit side-by-side. Behind them, Style pushed the door shut and positioned herself in front of it, then folded her arms and resumed glaring. This earned her a couple of glances from the elves, but Sweet quickly recaptured their attention.

“I know you weren’t exactly close, but I thought you should be informed that Missy, from the Pink Lady, died last night.”

“…oh,” said Flora when he paused. They didn’t glance at each other this time; in fact, both girls looked rather nonplussed.

“I’m afraid it was pretty bad,” Sweet went on, eyebrows creased together in his best expression of Bishoply solicitousness. “Really quite brutal, in fact. Her digestive tract was strung all around the room, without having been, ah, disconnected, first. There were glyphs of some sort written on all the walls, floor and ceiling in her blood and…well, other fluids. And,” he added gravely, “her head was missing.”

“How awful,” Fauna said, gazing up at him without expression. Her tone tried at regret without much effort. Oh, the rain isn’t letting up. Oh, it’s okra stew for lunch again. Oh, Missy was savagely butchered.

“As per the terms of her will, Rose gets the property and the business.”

“That’s good,” Flora said with a bit more enthusiasm. “Rose cares about the girls. She tried to help us. As much as…possible.” She trailed off, looking away; Fauna reached over to squeeze her hand.

“I’m sorry to have taken so long to get to you about this,” he said sincerely. “I’ve been out all day dealing with it.”

At that, their eyes widened a fraction and they did exchange a glance. “You had to deal with it?” Fauna asked, sounding more actually concerned now.

“Well, surely you don’t think someone like Missy actually left a will, do you?” He gave them a very careful hint of a grin, conveying a touch of gallows humor without undercutting the gravity of the situation. “Putting those girls in Rose’s care seemed the best thing I could do for them, since I can’t exactly move them all into the Guild.”

“Ah,” Fauna said.

“I’m afraid that little matter took longer than it ought to have, since I wasn’t able to give it my full attention. There was the rather more urgent issue of dealing with the Imperial interest in the case. Even in the Glums, a murder that, ah, extravagant draws their interest. I don’t mean to imply that the Imps give a damn about anybody living down there, but you just can’t have people doing things like that while you’re trying to carry on a civilization. It’s bad for business, you see.” He sighed heavily. “Unfortunately, the whole city’s in a tizzy over it, now.”

“It is?” Flora asked faintly.

He nodded. “The papers got wind of it. Now everyone’s in a panic about there being a headhunter in Tiraas.”

Both of them stiffened. It was slight, but perceptible. They very obviously did not look at each other.

“Headhunters are a myth,” Fauna said tersely.

“That’s right,” Sweet agreed, nodding. “The official stance of the Church and the Empire has always been that elven headhunters do not exist. Just a scary bedtime story mothers use to make their little ones behave. Of course, interestingly enough, Imperial Intelligence somehow knows exactly what a headhunter attack looks like, and has protocols in place to deal with it.”

“…they do?” Flora croaked.

“Keep that to yourself, though,” he went on. “I probably shouldn’t have told you. I am the Church’s liaison to the highest level of Imperial government; I learn the most fascinating things on busy days like today. Let me tell you, it kept me on my toes, working this thing around to keep the Imps from busting in here to haul you two little rascals away. Quite apart from the sanctity of our temple, I’m kinda fond of you.”

“Now, wait a minute,” Flora protested. Both of them had gone quite rigid.

“Don’t worry, it’s all taken care of. I was able to deflect attention to Rake. Elowe something or other…what was his last name, Style?”

“I always called him Treefucker,” she grunted.

“I guess it doesn’t matter now. He’d been passing information on our jobs to the authorities for months. A known traitor is actually a fabulously useful thing to keep around, ladies; you can feed them false intel to throw your enemies off the scent, and when a situation comes up where you need to throw somebody under the carriage—like today—you’ve got a ready-made scapegoat on hand. So the Guild is down one elf, and I’m sure poor Elowe was more surprised than anyone to learn he’s secretly a headhunter, but…so it goes.”

“We don’t have to listen to this,” Fauna snapped, leaping to her feet; Flora was a split second behind her. Both of them braced themselves as if for a fight. “You can’t just accuse someone of—”

“Girls,” Sweet said firmly, raising his hands in a peaceable gesture. “Please, think. I’ve just stated I believe you’re among the most dangerous creatures in existence, and were doing something unspeakably vicious about this time yesterday. Now, would I put myself in a room with you if I intended to piss you off?” He gave that a second and a half to sink in, then went on in a more soothing tone before they could begin forming more objections. “I am trying to help you. Please, sit down.”

They did, slowly, looking warily at him, around the room, and at Style, who was still leaning against the door.

“Now,” he continued, straightening up and folding his arms behind his back. “I hope you understand the problem we have here?”

The two exchanged another telling look. “We don’t have a problem with anyone in the Guild,” Flora said quickly. “Mis… That woman snared us into…into utter debasement. So she could make money. It was personal, and justified. We don’t want trouble with anyone else.”

“Ah,” he said, and shook his head. “I feared not. The issue is…how shall I put this…”

“You scrawny, knife-eared, pants-on-head psycho DUMB FUCKING TWATS!” Style roared, stalking toward them. Flora and Fauna again leaped out of their seats, backing against the table. “Do you ever stop to fucking think before you act?! This is not whatever fucking tree you swung down out of, this is motherfucking Tiraas! Did you actually think you could just strew someone’s guts around a room like she was a scarecrow and not bring the fucking Imps down on you? Down on all of us! So help me, if you ever put my Guild in this kind of danger again—”

“Style,” Sweet said sharply. “Enough. Please. Mistakes happen, we deal with them. These are apprentices; we’ll teach them, not box their ears. Girls,” he went on, again gentling his tone, “again, please, sit. You’re not in any danger here. I won’t say you’re not in any trouble.” He put on a more dour expression. “This is exactly the kind of thing we can’t just let pass; next time, you could do significant damage to the Guild.”

They looked at each other, then spoke in unison. “I’m sorry.” He believed it; both looked quite crushed as they slid carefully back into their seats.

“To begin with, I had to spread quite a bit of coin around today. That is being added to your apprenticeship debt. If you prove as skilled as I’m confident you will, you’re looking at probably an additional year of heavy tithing to the Guild after your elevation.”

“A year?” Flora said.

“Again, it was quite a bit of coin. I didn’t add anything for having spent an entire day of my time straightening this out, but you should know that next time you force a high-ranking member of the Guild to fix a mess you made…well, the consequences will depend on the situation, but they will be significant. Do you understand?”

They both nodded, then lowered their eyes to the ground. Between those big eyes, their pointed features and the presently downcast expressions, they seemed almost childlike. It was ironic; for all he knew, they were older than he. That, and they had spent last night festooning Missy’s entrails around her room like tinsel. From what he’d read about headhunters, in and around his various other tasks of the day, she had likely still been alive for part of that.

“Right…” He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I don’t want to make any prejudiced assumptions about elves…”

“Can I?”

“Enough, Style. But it’s obvious you two aren’t very familiar with city life. So, I am going to assume you’re more comfortable with the world of nature and try to spin a metaphor from that. I apologize for any insult given; it’s not intended.”

“It’s not insulting,” Flora said softly.

“Good, that helps me to know. Girls, you seem to regard Tiraas as a sort of hunting ground, that you can prowl through, strike your prey and retreat when you’re done. That about right?” He paused for them to glance at each other again and nod mutely. “It isn’t that you’re entirely wrong…but the matter is more complex. Hunting is an excellent description of much of what the Guild does, but… Well, think of the city as a spider’s web. Every touch you make resonates across the entire thing. Light enough touches to avoid attracting anything dangerous should be your goal. It grows more complicated from there, however. It isn’t just a matter of avoiding the attention of the very large, very hungry spider in the center. There are multiple spiders of various sizes, operating at cross purposes; multiple powerful organizations and agendas at work in the city, and you need to be intimately familiar with each before you go traipsing through their hunting grounds. The Guild is one such spider, one of the bigger ones, and that affords you some protection…but only some. You are also competing with millions of other little bugs, all doing the same dance, all trying to hunt one another without growing tangled in the web itself or attracting the attention of the spiders.”

“I think this metaphor is getting away from you, Sweet,” Style commended with a mirthless grin.

“Oh, shut it, I think I’m doing fine.”

“I think so too,” Fauna piped up. “It…explains some things. We…” She glanced over at Flora. “We didn’t think anybody would care. Nobody ever cared about any of us, or anything else that happened in the Glums.”

“And that is why you cannot just run around and do things,” Sweet said firmly. “You don’t understand who is active and powerful in this city. You don’t know what they care about, what will or won’t provoke them to take action. That’s not a criticism, ladies, it’s an analysis of your situation, and part of the purpose of your apprenticeship will be to rectify that ignorance. Until you have achieved this knowledge, though, you are two bugs with unusually big stingers which won’t do you a damn bit of good if you don’t know which are the sticky strands or where the other predators lurk. In fact…it’s those big stingers of yours that cause us some problems, now.”

“Can we stop with the bug metaphors?” Style groaned.

“Fine, I’ll speak more plainly. Flora, Fauna, you’re dangerous. I promise you, however, that you are not the most dangerous things lurking in this city. The Church and the Empire both have powers under their control that could crush you. If you act carelessly, if you give them a reason to do so, they won’t hesitate. And you are members of the Thieves’ Guild, now; your actions both reflect on us and involve us. Nothing you start up with a rival faction will affect only you. Today you got Elowe killed. That’s no great loss; he was, as I said, a traitor. Next time, it could be me. Or anyone else.” They both looked up again at that, alarm registering broadly on their faces. “Now do you understand the problem?”

Both nodded. “We won’t do anything else without your orders,” Fauna promised.

“Let’s not be too hasty,” he said, holding up a hand. “The worship of Eserion heavily emphasizes a love of freedom; you don’t want to be bound too restrictively to the Guild. This is a relationship; you’re not servants. But while you are still apprentices, I will hold you to that promise. And you will stay apprentices at least until I—and your trainers—am confident that you don’t absolutely need to be held to it anymore. Clear?” They nodded again.

Sweet leaned back against the edge of the table, folding his arms and turning his head to speak to them sidelong. “Now, as a rule, the Thieves’ Guild does not dispense death. It’s messy, irrevocable, draws very persistent attention from the authorities… It’s a lot of the things we most ardently avoid, is what I mean. However, if there is one truth all thieves can embrace, it’s that rules are not meant to be absolute things. There are times when…well, let me just say that people of your unique talents are useful to have around. Again, I don’t want you doing diddly dick out there in my city until I’m reasonably sure you’re not going to inadvertently screw the pooch again. To get us to that point…it looks like you’re going to need a somewhat more refined curriculum of training than most of your fellow apprentices.”

“Refined, how?” Flora asked.

“To begin with, you’ll be working closely with Style here.” They gave Style a very careful look; she grinned back in a way that showed far too many teeth to be friendly. “The finer points of causing pain you clearly have down; she’ll teach you about the blunter ones, which are more generally useful to our sort of people. She will also teach you how to carry yourselves so as to create the impression you need to for any given circumstance, and I guarantee you’ll find no better trainer in that art anywhere.”

“Your flattery isn’t getting you any closer to my bed, Sweet.”

“Baby, I quit fantasizing about that after you broke that guy’s back. Additionally, girls, I am going to break with my usual policy and take you under my personal tutelage.” At that, their heads snapped around in unison and smiled bloomed on their faces. “The reason I don’t take on apprentices is, as I mentioned earlier, I quite simply have too goddamn much to do. You’ll get a better idea how I spend my time as we go forward, because if you’re going to be underfoot demanding my attention, I assure you, you’ll make yourselves useful in the process.”

“We will,” Fauna promised.

“I know. That’s going to mean a change of sleeping quarters, I’m afraid, since it’s going to be a lot easier for you to commute to the Guild for daily training than it will be for me to get down here to train you. As such, you will be moving into my home. The cover story will be that you’re housemaids; I have a civilian identity to keep up, after all. My Butler will show you that particular set of ropes.”

“Your…a servant?” Fauna asked, frowning. “Can he be trusted with…Guild business?”

Style brayed in amusement, earning a pair of annoyed looks.

“Guild business, she says.” Sweet shook his head. “Girls, I’m a high-ranking priest of Eserion. I don’t employ anybody who’s not a member of this Guild in good standing. Don’t worry about that, you’ll get to know her in good time. For now, I want you to concentrate on training. What you’ll be learning from me is the subtle art of being a spider. Knowing where the strands are, how to navigate them, pluck them, make the web itself serve your needs. Tiraas is a living thing, girls. She breathes, she feels; she has moods. You have to romance her.”

“That would be disturbing even if you didn’t segue into it from more spider talk,” Style said, grimacing.

“I intend,” he went on, ignoring her, “for you to gain a sense of perspective. You’re going to learn how to get by in this city without dealing out death…and how to do so, if the need arises, with such circumspection that it doesn’t come back to bite you—and the rest of us—on the ass.”

Again, they exchanged a long glance, then Fauna looked back up at him with a particularly inscrutable expression.

“You want us to kill for you.”

“No. No.” He straightened, turning to face them directly and staring down with more intensity. “I want you to use your skills for your own best interests. As your sponsor and trainer in the Guild, that means my task is twofold: I need to prepare you to do so in this extremely complex world without causing unforeseen havoc, and I need to help you understand why the Guild’s interests are your own. Ours is not an authoritarian cult, ladies; the Guild retains the loyalty of its members because it earns that loyalty. In time, you’ll understand why, but for now, I just ask that you trust me, and trust the Guild, to have your back when you need it.”

“Like today,” Style snapped, “when Sweet ran his ass ragged all over the fucking town to fix your fucking screw-up, when we should’ve just given your fucking heads to the Empire, gift wrapped.”

“My ass is not ragged, thank you,” he said wryly. He words had their effect, though; the elves looked very suitably abashed. “But she’s not wrong. We look out for each other here. Now, do you have questions about any of this?”

Flora bit her lip and looked at the ground, but Fauna raised her eyes to gaze at him seriously. “Eldei Alai’shi,” she said, “what you call headhunters… It’s a very specific path. It involves…bargains, rituals, contracts with powers that… What I mean is, there’s reason we’re not welcome among our tribe, or any tribe. None of this is done lightly, and there are costs. Whatever happens in the future, you cannot expect us to serve as assassins. The spirits demand purpose, and challenge. The prey must be worthy—either because it deeply deserves to suffer, or because it will not fall easily. Preferably both.”

“We do not and cannot kill at a whim,” Flora added, “or none of those…men…would have survived laying hands on us. We cannot kill for…for business. It may not be possible for us to serve you the way I think you expect.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he mused. “It sounds to me like you may be precisely the thing I need.” Sweet glanced over at Style; behind the elves’ back, she grinned broadly at him. They’d done this routine enough times to have it down pat. Once, he had jokingly suggested that he could be the bad cop for a change; she’d laughed for nearly a full minute, then punched him. “As I said, the Guild doesn’t kill lightly. Ideally, not ever, but we’re not exactly idealists here. No, there are exceptional circumstances afoot, growing more exceptional faster than I can get a handle on them. I have something specific in mind that your spirits might find to their liking.”

“You don’t know the spirits,” Fauna remarked, and there was both bitterness and sour humor behind her voice.

“Perhaps,” he said. “Let them be the judge. Tell me… Have you two ever heard of the Black Wreath?”

Again, the two looked at each other, but this time much more slowly. Faces blank, they held gazes for a very long moment, communicating on some level he couldn’t grasp. Then, just as slowly, they both turned their heads face him again. Identical smiles blossomed across their faces.

There was nothing childlike about them now.

He smiled back.

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