Tag Archives: Mary the Crow

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“Hey, Sweet,” said the woman in the leather coat, stopping in surprise. “They’ve got you doing enforcer duty?”

“Nah,” Sweet said airily. “I have rank enough to get around the curfew, is all. I thought this would be a good educational opportunity for the ducklings.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at Flora and Fauna, who rolled their eyes in unison. Of course, he couldn’t see them doing it, but he knew very well they were.

“If you say so,” the Guild enforcer replied, shrugging. Beside her, her more taciturn partner tapped his foot impatiently. “I’ve gotta say I don’t see it, though. It’s not a good time to try pulling a job; everybody’s inside, where the loot is, and even if you pull something off the Boss and maybe the Empire would land hard on you for taking advantage of the situation.”

“Well, I concur with that analysis, Duster,” Sweet replied easily. “But no, we’re not looking to gather up stray valuables. It’s the situation, my friend. This is, to put it mildly, unusual. It’s in a crisis that you see what people are really made of. That’s why you should always find a moment to look around during a crisis. They never let you see it otherwise.”

Duster snorted. “Nothing’s gonna happen. The actual trouble is out on the frontier, where the soldiers are going, and that bawling herald has pretty well spooked everybody indoors. Just a night of creepy quiet streets.”

“Let us hope,” Sweet said gravely. “I’ve got a hunch, though.”

“And we have a route,” the second enforcer said pointedly. “Stay outta trouble, Sweet.”

“You too, Togs,” he replied with a grin. “Duster. Be safe.”

“You bet,” she said, winking, and the two continued ambling along their route. Sweet headed off in the opposite direction, Flora and Fauna pacing silently along in his wake.

“Do you actually have the Imperial rank to break a curfew?” Fauna asked.

“You know, I’m not really sure,” he mused. “Doesn’t really apply in this situation, as me being out in the streets tonight is all part of the plan. Something to wonder about, though.”

“I note that Duster didn’t wonder,” Flora remarked. “Or didn’t care.”

“Well, of course not. She’s a Guild enforcer; I’m a ranking member. Far as she’s concerned, as long as I’m not acting against the Big Guy or the Guild, I can do whatever damn thing pops into my head.”

“Handy,” Fauna grunted.

“Damn skippy,” he said cheerfully.

They fell silent, the only sound his soft footfalls on the sidewalk. Over the last year he’d grown more or less accustomed to the preternatural silence with which elves could move when they chose—which had helped him pick up on the subtle mockery they sometimes employed by slapping their feet down as loudly as humans—but the context brought back all the nervous uncertainty of the first few weeks of them being in his house, when he kept turning around and finding them suddenly there, without warning.

The city’s silence was oppressive. Tiraas was known as a city of lights, and the lights were all still on. In fact, they were even more on than usual; people were huddled together in their homes, and a lot fewer of them than usual at this hour were sleeping. Light blazed from nearly every window they passed, to the point that the streetlamps seemed superfluous. None of it helped. Tiraas, like all cities, was also a place of the constant, thrumming noise of people, and in the absence of it, a terrifying wrongness hung over the streets. The cheerful glow from all quarters only served to underscore how amiss everything was.

Sweet felt an urge to glance back and make sure the girls were still with him. He didn’t, of course.

“What are we doing here?” Flora asked at last.

“This is but the first stop on our evening’s itinerary,” Sweet replied, strolling across the empty square to the facade of the Rail station. “Up we go, girls. I want to show you something.”

Like many Rail stations, the huge structure was a blend of modern architecture—which was to say, enormous expanses of glass in wrought iron frames—and a faux-classical style, replete with ornamental stonework. The former was extremely difficult to scale, even with elven agility, and quite impossible to do so without being seen from within. The latter was an urban climber’s dream, but its odd proportions made it a challenge to ascend the narrow stretches of building that provided handholds while avoiding the huge window-walls. It took them a few minutes longer than was usual, and he had to accept a helping hand from his more nimble apprentices a couple of times, but soon enough they were ensconced on the roof of the station, peering in through another bank of massive windows at what was occurring within.

“I’m not sure why that was necessary,” Fauna commented. “I mean, look at the size of these windows. We could’ve gone up the fire escape on that factory across the street and seen in just as well.”

“Practice,” he said sternly. “You never know when you’ll have to climb a building like this.”

“Why would we climb a Rail station?” Flora asked curiously. “You told us not to try robbing Imperial—”

“Enough!” he exclaimed. “Just look!”

It was a sight worth seeing. As they watched, a caravan streaked away, shooting outward through a gap in the city walls and along the Rail line attached to the side of the great bridge arching between Tiraas and the canyon wall far beyond. Immediately, another caravan waiting behind it eased forward and began taking on passengers.

He hadn’t gone to all this trouble to show them caravans, of course. The station was thronged with Silver Legionnaires in full armor, filing into caravans and departing the city.

“I don’t understand,” Fauna murmured, frowning. “The herald said the Avenists were going to be taking part in enforcing the curfew.”

“Yes,” Sweet said glibly, “and tomorrow he’ll be saying how the Black Wreath took advantage of the city’s momentary weakness to launch an insidious attack. Governments, thieves and religions have two things in common, girls: they all steal, and they all lie. Think, now. Why send the Legions away?”

“…in an actual military crisis,” Flora said slowly, frowning in thought, “the Silver Legions would go where the danger is.”

“Especially danger like this,” Fauna added. “Responding to a demonic threat is exactly what they’d do.”

“Telling the populace the Legionnaires are guarding the city…it’s just propaganda. Crowd control. People trust the Legions, even after the ruckus earlier this year.”

“If they knew it’s just the Guild and the Huntsmen in the streets…holy hell, that by itself would start a panic.”

“You know, I haven’t actually seen any Huntsmen either,” Flora noted.

“Very good,” Sweet said, nodding.

“But… Why actually send the Legions away?” Fauna asked, frowning deeply. “Do they not know the gods don’t want them at Last Rock? I thought Avei herself was one of the gods who sent that message.”

“You’re on a productive track,” Sweet said approvingly. “Now continue thinking on it while we proceed to our next stop of the evening. Off we go, girls!”

“You mean, off we go down that difficult climb we didn’t really need to make in the first place?”

“Walk and think quietly,” he suggested.

 

 

The small group of five men and women in Universal Church robes with the golden ankh-and-chain logo of the holy summoner corps stitched into their tabards came to a stop in the empty intersection. For a moment, they only stood. Without any specific plan, they had drifted into two groups with a small gap between them; the three actual Church summoners, and the Imperial Intelligence warlocks.

“All right, like we practiced,” the priestess in the lead said finally. Even her hushed voice in the city’s eerie silence was unnerving. “Let us get started, and then you chip in. Bring them across slowly, make sure we can keep them under control.”

“Right,” one diabolist said tersely.

“Remember, our method isn’t like yours. We don’t have as much fine control, but for this we won’t need it, and the tradeoff is that we can keep tabs on more of them at once. The aim is to keep them from harming people as much as possible. Property damage is acceptable. If—”

“We have all been briefed,” the second summoner snapped. “If we’re going to do this lunacy, let’s get on with it before somebody faints.”

“We are not about to faint,” one of the other priests snorted.

“I might,” she said frankly.

“Look, just because you—”

“Enough,” the lead priestess said firmly. “She’s right. The time for talk is over. Slowly, carefully, and keep focused.”

She drew a deep breath and held out one hand. The other two clerics did likewise, all facing away from each other.

They didn’t draw conventional summoning circles; golden rings of pure light formed on the pavement before their outthrust hands, their glow diminished by the fairly lights blazing from all around.

For a long moment there was only more silence, while the clerics concentrated and the warlocks stared nervously.

Then, in the first of the circles, a shape began to emerge from the ground itself, hissing in displeasure at its proximity to the divine light.

More followed.

“This is madness,” one of the warlocks whispered, rubbing sweaty palms against her robe.

No one argued.

 

“That’s thirteen confirmed locations,” Bradshaw reported, turning away from the robed cultist who had rushed over to hurriedly whisper in his ear. Dismissed, the woman melted back into the shadows. “Small groups in Church livery, opening summoning portals and just…letting things wander through.”

“It’s a disaster,” another Wreath member breathed. “It’s insane. What do they think they’re meddling with?”

“All of them are following a consistent pattern,” Bradshaw continued. “The demons they’re calling are non-sentient. Mostly katzils and khankredahgs. Not by themselves a major concern, but they’re bringing them by the dozens. There is no way they can hope to keep them under control.”

“As for why, that is all too painfully obvious,” Embras said, not turning from his perusal of the silent city. The Wreath members were huddled on a balcony above an old clock tower. Ironically, the building below them had once been a Universal Church chapel before being deconsecrated and sold off. “Demons loose in the city? Soldiers conveniently absent from the scene? The Universal Church up to insidious trickery? This looks like a job for the Black Wreath!” He turned, finally, leaning backward against the stone rail, and grinned at his assembled subordinates.

“I did warn you,” Vanessa said reprovingly, lowering her cowl so he could see her scowl at him. “More than half the summoner corps has walked out in disgust over this; Justinian wasn’t shy about revealing his plan. He wants chaos so he can blame the Empire. As soon as the demons have had a chance to wreak some good, solid havoc, the streets will fill with Church clerics and the Holy Legion to restore order and discredit the Silver Throne. There’s no reason to for us to get caught in the middle of this.”

“Vanessa, Vanessa,” Embras said sadly, shaking his head. “For that to happen, the summoners will first have to hide. The Legion will have to muster. Bradshaw, have any of our people reported any such movements?”

“It’s early yet,” Bradshaw replied, “but the summoners are being absurdly brazen. It’s less like a covert operation and more like they’re…taunting. As for the Holy Legion… Not a peep out of them, no. Even if they did muster, those are modern Army soldiers trained to fight with battlestaves in light uniforms, now wearing impractical armor and carrying polearms. Hardly any of them are actually able to draw on the light. They’d do nothing against demons.”

“And that’s just logistics.” Embras winked at Vanessa, who was looking increasingly embarrassed. “One must also consider the personalities involved. Justinian is a spider; he doesn’t strike until his prey is fully ensnared in his web and tired out from struggling. This? This is ludicrous. It’s reckless, destructive and all but guaranteed to backfire on him horribly… If the goal is the one he’s floated to his summoners. No, he’s not making a move against the Empire. This is aimed at someone else who has an interest in demons running amok in the city. Sound like anyone you know, hm?”

“No matter who’s behind it,” Bradshaw said, “it’s awfully aggressive. It’s incredibly risky. There’s no way they can contain the damage this will cause. I’m not even sure how they’ll work out the propaganda afterward; almost any version of the story makes them look bad.”

“There’s a compliment in there somewhere,” Embras noted. “We’ve got them good and panicked, if they’re this desperate to flush us out. Now we just need to survive this little brouhaha with our own plans intact, and we will effectively have our enemies on the run.”

“If, if, if,” Vanessa said sourly. “How are we going to deal with this, Embras? If you’re right and they don’t plan to end it themselves… We can’t just let them do this to the city. Even if it is a trap… We just can’t. They’ve found the one bait we’ll have to spring for.”

“Mm, yes,” he mused, stroking his chin. “…but not in the way they expect. Oh, they have a cleanup plan, I guarantee it. That doesn’t mean we need to remain fully hands-off, though; you’re right, the Lady has given us an obligation, and we must take some steps, at least. Bradshaw! I want the cells spread out; send one to each confirmed summoner site.”

“You want to attack the summoners?” Bradshaw asked.

“Under absolutely no circumstances,” Embras said firmly. “They’ll be trying to keep whatever they call up under a modicum of control. They’ll fail, of course, but neither Church nor Empire—and I will eat my hat if both aren’t involved in this—would just summon up demons and turn them loose in the city. I want our people to let them have their fun and clean up after them. If a demon slips the lead, they’re to enact standard freerunner protocol. Coax the errant away from prying eyes, then put it down. Give the summoners no hint they’ve been seen. And above all, everyone must be cautious. This is just the opening play; there will be layers to this we’ve not yet seen. Avoid engagement with human foes at all costs.”

Vanessa raised her cowl, settling it over her dark curls. “One cell per site? That leaves a good proportion of our people to…what?”

Embras turned again to study the city, rubbing once more at his chin. A grin stretched across his features. “This, as I pointed out, isn’t like Justinian… Nor Sharidan, or Vex. Nor Eleanora, who’s the power behind both of those two anyway. But I believe I know somebody who would try something like this. When I get my hands on him, I mean to ask how he persuaded so many powerful people to go along with this raging insanity. But! Meantime, rather than indulging the Church in their little hoedown, I think it more fitting to teach them not to do such things in the future.” He turned his head to grin over his shoulder at them. “Don’t you?”

“I don’t like where this is heading,” Vanessa said warily. Bradshaw had already stepped away and was whispering instructions to a small cluster of robed Wreath. They began peeling away and shadow-jumping out.

Embras actually laughed. “While Bradshaw is coordinating that, Vanessa, gather up the remainder. We are going to Dawnchapel.”

She stiffened. “The holy summoner headquarters?”

“Yes, it is,” he said cheerfully. “At least until we get done with it.” Embras turned his gaze back to the skyline, his grin growing brittle, and spoke more softly. “I see your hand in this, Antonio. You do like to sign your name, don’t you? Nice try, my friend, but…not this time.”

 

“Aww, come ooonnnn,” Flora whined. “There’s nobody there! It’s perfect!”

“Girl, you had better be attempting to make a joke,” Sweet said severely, not slackening his pace. “I hardly know where to begin with what’s wrong with that. First that we are on a mission and you don’t stop for random jobs while working! More importantly, you don’t just up and roll a Vernisite temple no matter how much loot is in there or how unguarded it is.”

“That’s not a Vernisite temple,” Fauna protested, lingering outside the locked iron gates to stare longingly at the looming marble structure. “It’s a bank.”

“Pots and kettles, and you know it. Nobody touches a place answering to Verniselle unless their protection isn’t paid up. And even then, a job like that would go to a senior agent, not a couple of randoms.”

“You’re a senior agent!”

“A senior agent who is busy. Chop chop! Come on, get away from there.”

“You are no fun,” Fauna grumbled as they reluctantly followed him up the street.

“That is an insult and a damned lie, you ungrateful wench. Anyway, put it out of your mind, we have arrived!” Sweet ambled to a stop and leaned against a lamppost.

The two elves made a point of walking past so he could see them expressively gazing around at the completely deserted intersection.

“Very nice,” said Flora. “Quaint.”

“It’s a very classy neighborhood.”

“Still as empty and creepy as everywhere else, though. What are we doing here?”

“Oh, we won’t be long,” he said lightly. “This is just the rendezvous point.”

“Rendezvous with whom?”

A soft croaking sounded from the top of the lamppost on which he was leaning.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Flora grumbled.

The crow launched itself with a soft flutter of wings and glided in lazy spirals toward the ground. Mary flexed her knees slightly as her moccasins touched down on the paving stones.

“Mary, my dear!” Sweet exclaimed, straightening up and throwing his arms wide. “How lovely to see you! And my, don’t you look radiant this evening!”

She raised an eyebrow. “You are charming, Antonio. And you’re clever. Those are not traits I seek in a man. Everything is prepared as agreed.”

“Excellent, the others are all here?”

“As agreed,” she said wryly. “I will repeat it as many times as you require, but I thought time was a factor this evening.”

“What others?” Fauna snapped.

“The remaining members of our…team,” Mary said, glancing unreadably at Darling. “The Tinker, the Kid, the Longshot and Gravestone. I have shifted them slightly out of phase with this reality; they will not be discernible from the mortal plane, but they can move through and react to it, able to follow along until needed. I will call them back forth when we meet the enemy.”

Flora frowned. “Hm… Couldn’t the Wreath spot that? I mean, they’re summoners. Their whole shtick is crossing the planes.”

“The nature of the infernal arts creates a blind spot of sorts,” Mary said calmly. “Warlocks are especially vulnerable to otherworldly influences, unless they take rigorous measures to shield themselves, which all competent warlocks do. The Black Wreath does not employ any who are less than competent. They might, possibly, catch a glimpse of our compatriots in the brief moment of casting a summons… But the space between the planes is full of dimly-glimpsed things which are best ignored, as paying them attention tends to earn their attention in return.”

“That’s where you stuck your friends?” Fauna demanded.

“They are not all my friends. Anyway, nothing that lurks between the planes will challenge what lurks alongside them.”

“What does that—”

“Anyway!” Sweet said loudly. “If that’s all settled, we are ready to move out.”

“Perfect,” Flora sighed. “Where now, then?”

“Oh, nowhere in particular,” he breezed. “It’s just such a pleasant night for a stroll, don’t you think?

“Do you seriously believe you’re funny?

“You are mistaken.”

Sweet shook his head despairingly. “Girls, girls, you have got to learn to embrace the banter. It’s a vital skill in the business; no other Guildies will take you seriously if you can’t hold up your end of a pointless, irritating conversation. But since you are clearly under excessive stress already, I will explain. Walk and talk, ladies, walk and talk.”

Mary fluttered back upward without another word, and Sweet set off down the street at a lazy pace.

“Embras is far too clever an operator to blindly snap at the bait we’ve set,” he explained as they strolled along. The Crow drifted silently above them; Flora and Fauna kept shooting her dirty looks. “He won’t play the game I’ve set him up to play. No, in his position, the only thing to do will be to seize back the initiative and strike us where we don’t expect.”

“But you do expect?” Fauna asked.

Sweet grinned broadly. “It’s all about what he doesn’t know, my dears. There are two likely targets of his ire tonight, and none of them are our hapless summoner cabals. Both are alluringly undefended, or so it will seem to him. One is us.”

“Ah,” Flora murmured, glancing up at the Crow again. “Less undefended than all that, I see.”

“Exactly,” Sweet said cheerfully. “The other… Well, hopefully it won’t come to that, as it’ll mean more walking and an extra stop. Or not; I’ll need to finish this up at the prepared location anyhow, but there’s no point in… Ah, never mind, all that may not become a factor. For now, we are going to go visit one of the summoner cells.”

“Why?”

“Because near them there will be warlocks. And I think I know just the way to get their attention!”

He clenched his right fist, and with a flash of gold, a chain made of pure white burst into being, snaking its way around his arm all the way up to the shoulder.

Both elves came to a stop, staring at it. Above them, the Crow let out a hoarse caw.

“Whoah,” Flora said, wide-eyed. “When did you learn to do that?”

“Last week!” Sweet grinned hugely at her. “Branwen suggested I should take advantage of the free summoner training available to Bishops, and I’ve followed her advice. Something tells me it’ll come in very useful before the night is out.”

“So the plan is for you to make yourself a target,” Fauna huffed. “Thanks so much for inviting us along with you.”

“I’m glad you’re having fun,” he told her with a wink, then turned to resume his course. “I put the odds at fifty-fifty that Embras and company will swoop down on us. It’s not exactly the smarter of his two options, but…it may be the more tempting.”

“You and that guy are developing an unhealthy relationship,” Flora commented.

“Yeah, but maybe that’s the point,” Fauna added. “If he’s half as obsessive, he’s probably on the way here right now.”

“We’ll see,” Sweet murmured, staring forward into the brightly lit, silent night. His smile remained in place, but grew hard. “You know I’m here, Embras. I know you’re watching. Come and get me, you son of a bitch.”

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6 – 33

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The grate lifted seemingly on its own and Professor Ezzaniel pushed the doors open, letting in a rush of cool night air laden with the scents of earth and grass. The whole party pressed forward, and would have pushed him out of the way had he not stepped quickly aside. They straggled out and stopped, a unified sigh of relief rippling through the whole group, and all stood, faces up, savoring the coolness and the moonlight.

Only one person was there to meet them.

“Well,” said Professor Tellwyrn, planting her hands on her hips. “Well. We do very occasionally lose someone down there, but this… This is unprecedented, I must say. How exactly did you pick up gnomes?”

“She makes us sound like a case o’ hiker’s foot,” Steinway muttered to his companions.

“They were lost,” Fross reported. “In fact, there may be other things in the Crawl that aren’t supposed to be, these days. Rowe was doing something he shouldn’t in the Grim Visage, trying to get out.”

Tellwyrn raised an eyebrow. “Was? Did you ruffians kill my bartender?”

“He was alive the last we saw,” said Ruda with a leer. “He’ll probably stay that way at least a while. Melaxyna doesn’t strike me as the type to give out swift and merciful punishments.”

“You took him to…” Tellwyrn sighed heavily, rolling her eyes. “Ugh. Now I have to go trap another Vanislaad demon, or something equally sketchy. Leaving a succubus down there without competition isn’t on the table; she’d be running the place within a year. Shamlin, what the hell were you doing in my Crawl?”

“Making my fortune,” he said with a broad grin. “Oh, come on, don’t act surprised, Professor. It’s been two years; I’ve talked with every student group and faculty guide you sent. You had to know I was down there. Nice to see you again, by the way!”

“Well, here it is barely a week on, and here you lot are.” Tellwyrn adjusted her spectacles and fixed her eyes on Teal, who was carrying the long wooden box. “Only the third freshman group even to reach the objective, and you’ve absolutely destroyed the previous speed record. Let’s have a look.”

“I’m sure you already know everything, seeing as how you were here waiting,” Teal said, stepping forward as the others cleared a space. “I got a look at the apparatus in the basement of the Visage, the one that I gather students aren’t supposed to see.” She knelt, setting the box down on the grass, unlatched it, and lifted the lid. Within, in their custom-fitted grooves in the red velvet lining, lay the elven sword and dagger, gleaming lustrously under the moonlight.

Tellwyrn gazed down at them for a long few moments, her expression far away. Then, she blinked, shook herself slightly, and lifted her eyes. “Well! That’s the treasure, all right. Since you were lugging them around, Teal, may I assume the honor of the find was yours?”

“It was a group effort,” Teal said firmly. “I was the one to put my hands on them. We had to divide forces to make that happen.”

“She’s being modest,” said Gabriel, grinning. “Teal made the plans that led to us getting them at all. Fairly earned spoils, I’d say.”

“Well, I certainly cannot argue with results,” Tellwyrn said. “I’ll be reading Professor Ezzaniel’s report in detail, but frankly, you completed your assigned task with flying colors, and showed up every previous group to undertake it in the process. Unless you were transcendently stupid in your approach to every step thereof, which seems improbable, you not only receive an A, but a measure of extra credit for this. Right now, kids, I think you can consider last semester’s Golden Sea debacle obviated.”

“Yay!” Fross cheered.

“And we’ll find lodging for our guests, of course,” Tellwyrn went on, turning to the trio of gnomes, who had moved to the side with Shamlin. “I won’t send you down to the town at this hour; neither of the resident innkeepers would appreciate being roused after midnight. If you can bear with me, though, I’ll have to wake my groundskeeper and have one of the unoccupied student dorms opened up. I’m afraid they’ll be rather dusty.”

“Ma’am,” said Sassafrass respectfully, “we’ve been livin’ in the Crawl these last…what’s it been, lads?”

“Least ten months, I reckon,” said Woodsworth. “Me sense o’ time is understandably a bit off-kilter. I’d no idea it was night out.”

“Point bein’,” Sassafrass continued, grinning up at the Professor, “dust is nothing. If you can offer us a bit o’ somethin’ other than mushrooms and stringy ham, an’ a mattress not made o’ patchy leather, you’ll ‘ave gained three devoted slaves.”

“No, thanks,” Tellwyrn said with a wry smile. “The downside of slaves is having to feed them; they make expensive pets. Anyhow, I believe my hospitality can furnish a higher standard than that.”

“It’s a real honor to meet you, by the way,” Steinway said, grinning broadly.

“Yes, I’m sure. As for you.” Tellwyrn leveled a finger at Shamlin. “You may as well stay the night, too, though I’ll be wanting a prolonged word with you before you skitter off.”

“Uh oh,” he said, grinning.

“All right, that’s enough for now,” the elf went on briskly. “It’s an altogether ungodly hour and I have class in the morning. You lot are excused from tomorrow’s classes, of course, but that’s all the time you’ll have to reset your biological clocks. Education waits for no one.”

“Oh, come on,” Juniper protested. “You thought we’d be down there for three weeks! We should get some time off.”

“Juniper,” Tellwyrn said, staring at her over her glasses, “what have I told you about whining?”

“Um…well… Actually, nothing.”

“Mm hm. Would you like to hear my opinions about whining?”

The dryad crept backward a half step. “Actually, now that I think about it, no.”

“Good. All right, off with you. Emilio, have time for a cup of tea with me before retiring?”

“I’m just beginning my day, Arachne,” Ezzaniel said amiably. “I don’t look forward to classes next week. The young can spring back from these sleep cycle disruptions so much more quickly.”

“I have faith in you. Shamlin, the Wells is currently empty. I know you know where that is. Kindly escort our guests there, and I’ll send Stew along to spruce it up for you.”

“Oh, my,” said the bard, grinning. “But Professor, that’s a girls’ dorm!”

“When there are girls in it, yes,” Tellwyrn said acidly. “I’ll just have to trust you not to impregnate the dust bunnies. Move along, Shamlin.”

“Your wish is my command!” he proclaimed, bowing extravagantly. Tellwyrn snorted at him and strode off, Ezzaniel prowling along beside her.

“Welp, it’s been a right pleasure adventurin’ with you kids,” said Woodsworth.

“Aye,” Sassafrass agreed, “you be sure to pay us a visit before we ‘ave to head out.”

“Count on it,” said Toby with a smile.

They stood in silence, breathing in the clean night air and watching the other two groups vanish around corners into the shadows of the campus.

“Well,” Ruda said at last, “who woulda figured it was midnight?”

“I think I’ve had enough of being underground forever,” Juniper muttered. “No offense, Shaeine.”

“None was offered, even by mistake,” Shaeine replied, smiling. “I doubt I would fare well in your home, either.”

“Actually,” said Fross, “Crawl excursions are kind of a big deal at this school. We’ll probably have at least one a year. Maybe one a semester from now on.”

Juniper groaned.

“Here’s what I’m thinkin’,” said Gabriel. “The pubs down in the town are closed, and our dorms are spelled to keep out the opposite sex. But since we’re all awake, and we’ve been subsisting on Crawl food for a week…” He grinned wickedly. “Who’s up for raiding the cafeteria?”

“That is extremely out of bounds!” Fross said shrilly. “It violates multiple school rules as well as personal directives given out by Professor Tellwyrn, Stew, and Mrs. Oak! We could get in so much trouble, especially since we’re supposed to be going to bed!”

“Well,” Ruda began.

“So,” the pixie continued, “you’d better let me go ahead and scan for detector charms. Gabe, I may need your help with the locks!”

Chiming exuberantly, she buzzed off in the direction of the cafeteria.

“Well, blow me down,” Ruda said in wonder. “They really do grow up fast, don’t they?”

 

“I know how many of us suffer, day by day,” Branwen said. Her voice and expression were painfully earnest; the magical spotlight illuminating her was an expensive piece of spellwork that made her easily visible to anyone looking, as if she were standing right in front of them. The charm that made her words echo throughout the grand auditorium was a more conventional piece of magic. “The sad thing about the trials in everyone’s lives is how they can disconnect us, how they can distract us, encourage us to retreat into ourselves and become fixated upon our own problems. It creeps right up on you, doesn’t it? But if you look around you, at the people here tonight, at the people you pass on the street every day, even at the people you love, people you work with… Each time, you are passing another whole story, someone with his or her own struggles. They are different struggles than yours, but no one’s challenges are less important. What you should mourn is not that you face challenges, but what they can cost you, without you even realizing it. It’s the saddest thing in the world, not to see another’s pain.

“Because it’s in those challenges that we have our greatest opportunities. It’s in the connections we can form with our fellow human beings that we may find the simplest solutions.” She smiled, an expression so brimming with optimism and love that Darling, as a fellow artist working in the medium of facial features, found himself in awe of her mastery. Awed, and wondering just how deep those waters ran, considering her well-established facade of pretty uselessness. “It is natural that we should look upward, to the gods, in our most troubled times. But we must be careful. That can lead to despair when solutions do not come down to us from the gods. And that despair is a trick, played on us by our own minds. It’s not what the gods can give us, but what they have given us, that matters.”

She placed a hand over her own heart, a gesture that was totally innocent and yet drew attention right to her impressive bosom. The plain Bishop’s robes she wore, with the pink lotus pin of Izara at the shoulder, were far more carefully tailored than those of her colleagues, emphasizing her voluptuous figure in a manner that was just subtle enough not to be called out upon, while still pushing the envelope of ecclesiastical dignity.

“Each of the gods stands for something which they have bestowed on the world for our use. To cry out to them to solve our problems for us is missing the point of these precious gifts. The gods have given us the means to raise ourselves up. They ask that we have faith in them, because they have faith in us!” Her expression stayed solemn, though her eyes were alight with passion. “The gods believe in you. I believe in you. Whatever you face in your life, I know you can rise to meet it. You must believe in you!”

The mostly-silent crowd stirred at that, a smattering of applause and hushed voices rising up. It was a bit more exuberant than the last such; Branwen was working this audience with absolutely masterful skill. Darling had seen this done before, many a time, in his observations of religious ceremonies. There was a rhythm to it, a familiar pattern. It would be a while yet before she built it to its climax. Tonight’s festivities had only just begun.

He tore his gaze from Branwen to look around the darkened theater. She’d drawn quite a crowd, with the full resources of the Church and every major newspaper in the Empire pushing her forward to fame. The place was full of the hoi palloi thronging the cheap seats below, the slightly more upscale classes in the balconies and the wealthy few occupying boxes like himself. The arrangement tickled at his mind. It somehow seemed very appropriate to have used a commercial theater for this address rather than the Cathedral.

“Damn, but she makes a good speech,” Embras Mogul remarked, dropping heavily into the seat next to Darling and stretching out his long legs. “Fills out that robe quite exquisitely, too, doesn’t she? I have to say, that was a genius move on Justinian’s part. I wonder how long he’s been grooming her for this? Doubtless the lady has her own ambitions, but his Holiness doesn’t strike me as the type to catapult one of his underlings into power without spending a good long while sculpting them first.”

Darling was aware that he was staring, and didn’t bother to stop. “Well,” he said finally. “You’re not quite the last person I expected to see tonight, but… If Scyllith pops in here, too, I may just have to check outside and see if the world has ended.”

“If you encounter Scyllith under any circumstances, I think that’s a worthy concern,” Mogul said, grinning broadly.

“To what do I owe the honor, Embras?”

“Oh, this’n that. I thought you might be missing your tracking charm.” Mogul’s spiderlike fingers deposited a small metal object on the arm of Darling’s chair. It had been badly scorched and bent nearly in half. “Somehow it ended up under my collar. Funny, the way these little things wander off, isn’t it?”

“You said it,” Darling said easily, picking up the destroyed charm and making it vanish up his sleeve. “I owe you one, old man. I tore my whole study apart last night looking for this.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Mogul crossed his legs, lounging back in the plush chair. Below them, Branwen continued to soliloquize, but neither man spared her a glance. “After our little game of tag yesterday, I found myself mulling over your motivations.”

“I’m flattered!”

“And I’m curious. Here’s a man clearly playing both ends against the middle. Or all three ends, or more. The point is, you’re balancing far too many loyalties to be truly loyal to all of them.”

“It does seem to keep people on their toes,” Darling agreed solemnly.

“Loyalty, now, people don’t generally understand how that works,” Mogul mused. “It’s a lot less important than they think. What matters is motivations, those are what lie at the root of loyalties, and everything else. So I got to wondering, and decided to arrange a little test.” He leaned away from Darling and angled his body toward him so he could spread his arms wide. “Thus, here I am! The big, bad leader of the Black Wreath, sitting not a foot away, in a theater just crawling with the Church’s agents. A golden opportunity for you to raise the cry and try your luck at cutting off the snake’s head, so to speak!”

“This speech has the smell of an approaching ‘but’ about it,” Darling said wryly.

“Oh, I dunno,” Mogul replied, grinning broadly. “Or at least, that is what we’re here to find out, isn’t it? After all, you’d be pitting the assembled powers of the Church against whatever I have prepared to come to my aid, which you just know is gonna be something nasty. Obviously I’m a powerful player and I wouldn’t have come here unless I were pretty confident of my chances. On the other hand, Justinian wouldn’t have placed his newest, prettiest pet in such an easily shootable position without ample protections at the ready. Sounds to me like a pretty close contest! The only thing that makes it complicated…” He leaned forward, crossing his arms on the box’s low wall, and peered down at the rapt crowd below. “…are aaaallll those innocent people, just waiting to be pulverized in the crossfire. Priests and demons and the gods know what else, running amok in a crowded theater. Why, it fairly scalds the imagination, doesn’t it?”

“Innocent people.” Darling chuckled darkly, turning his gaze back to Branwen. “We both know there’s no such animal.”

“That a fact?” Mogul leaned back again. “Why not kick off the festivities, then, Antonio? Unless you’re bothered by the thought of unleashing hell on their heads.”

“Have you learned nothing about the modern world from this little campaign?” Darling said mildly, gesturing at Branwen. “Everything’s connected. There are a lot of reasons beyond the moral not to start a fire in a crowded theater.”

“Yes, and we could discuss in detail why the Church doesn’t need to worry about those matters, but that would be a tediously long back-and-forth and quite frankly, I believe we’re done here. At any rate, I’ve got what I came for.” Mogul smiled at him, a thin, smug expression. “So there is a core of decency motivating you, old fellow. Well, I must say, that is…fascinating.”

“I’ll be honest, this kind of gloating seems beneath you,” Darling remarked. “You can’t possibly be that bored. Are you really that sore about losing out to the Archpope on this project? I’m sure your pet columnists would have been valuable and all, but just look at her! Isn’t she adorable? A gift to the world, if you ask me.”

“Losing out,” Mogul mused, raising his eyebrows. “Maybe you can clarify that for me. I have a respected journalist setting out to present my perspective to the world. I have that bosomy little piece speaking what amounts to secular humanism, mortal ambition and self-empowerment—all the things the Wreath stands for. And frankly I have to admit she does make a better mouthpiece than anything I had lined up to do the job, and with the Church’s own credibility behind her, too! The people of this city and the Empire have begun questioning the line of divine bullshit they’ve been fed from the cradle. The cults that pose the greatest threat to me have lost face, while that scheming spider Justinian has gained power, and don’t even pretend you fully understand what he aims to do with it. So, what is it, exactly, that I have lost? I confess the point escapes me.”

“You know, I am trying to watch a speech. If you want to exchange taunts, we can do that in the heat of battle sometime. Butting in like this is rather rude.”

“Why, you are absolutely right.” Mogul stood, swept off his hat and bowed deeply. “My most sincere and humble apologies, Antonio. You enjoy the rest of the evening, now. It’s a great speech.”

“See you later, Embras,” Darling said, waving languidly at him, his face already turned back toward Branwen.

Mogul didn’t even try to move silently and didn’t shadow-jump out, simply pacing back to the curtained door of the box, whistling. Darling listened to him leave, ignoring Branwen for now. With his back to the warlock’s exit, he permitted his features to fall into a grim scowl.

 

Midnight had long passed and the moon was drifting toward the horizon when the doors to the Crawl eased open again. A wary, slate-gray face peered out, glancing left and right, before pushing them wider. The figure who stepped forth was followed by two others, all looking around in blended wonder and nervousness.

“Just as he said,” the lone male whispered in the subterranean dialect of elvish.

“We will go directly,” said the woman in the lead. “There are sure to be wards and defenses, and we are not out for a fight. Stay low, and—”

The soft pop was the only warning they got.

“Right on schedule,” Professor Tellwyrn said grimly, stepping out of thin air. “Congratulations! Most of your compatriots aren’t dumb enough to try this. You get the rare honor of being an example.”

The three drow had fallen to their knees before her as soon as she spoke.

“Arachne,” the second woman said breathlessly. “We’ve—”

“I don’t think I like hearing that from you,” Tellwyrn interrupted. “Well, the good news is, with Rowe’s nonsense at an end, it shouldn’t be too hard to find and plug whatever hole you lot are creeping out of. I do not need drow in my Crawl, except the ones I send in myself. Hm,” she added thoughtfully, frowning. The three kneeling elves flinched. “Now, there’s an idea. A Scyllithene priestess would be a worthy check on Melaxyna’s ambitions. If, that is, I could find one of a modest enough nature not to be an excessive pest. Doesn’t seem likely.”

“We are both priestesses of Scyllith,” the second drow woman said eagerly, not seeing or ignoring her companion’s frantic expression of warning. “I would be—”

“Well, not you, obviously,” Tellwyrn said with a grimace.

The flames were brief, lasting only a split-second, but more intense than the interior of a blast furnace while they burned. In the darkness and quiet after they had vanished, Tellwyrn dismissed the invisible shield over her and brushed drifting ash from her sleeves. A circular patch had been scoured completely clean just in front of the Crawl’s entrance, the upper layers of dirt melted to a puddle of still-steaming glass. It was rapidly hardening, cracking as it did so, the energy of the fire having been removed far more swiftly than simple physics would allow. Nothing was left, not even skeletons. They had not even had time to scream.

“Stew is going to gripe about this for weeks,” Tellwyrn remarked, wrinkling her nose at the hardening glass. “Ah, well. He loves griping.”

She stepped around the burned area to the doors, pushing them carefully shut, then paused. The Professor laid a hand against the dark wood for a moment, smiling fondly, before turning and setting off to wake the groundskeeper for the second time that night.

 

“Good evening, your Grace,” Price said serenely, taking his coat. “I trust the presentation was enjoyable?”

“Good morning, Price,” he said, yawning. “The presentation was fine, as propaganda shows go. I never object to staring at Branwen. Then I had to go to the Intelligence office and the Church and report on more Wreath nonsense. Brandy, please.”

“Of course,” said Price. “Your Grace has a guest, waiting in the downstairs parlor.”

“I have a— It has to be one o’clock in the morning!”

“Yes, your Grace,” she said calmly. “The Crow appears generally unconcerned with such trivialities.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” he muttered, stalking off toward the parlor.

“Ah, Antonio,” Mary said as he entered. She was sitting on the back of his favorite chair, her feet perched on one of its armrests, nibbling one of Price’s scones. “It seems I picked a poor moment to leave the city on business. You managed, though, did you not?”

“Mary, it’s an absolutely stupid hour of the morning and I’m exhausted. What do you want?”

She tilted her head. “You are unusually tetchy. I’m accustomed to seeing you more smooth under pressure. Was it really that stressful?”

“If by it, you mean the grand cavalcade of stalking and violence you missed, then no. It was actually rather fun. But I’ve just had my nose rubbed in it by the Wreath’s mortal head and had to explain all this twice, to two separate groups of superiors, so yes, I’m damn well tetchy. Even more so now that I find myself again having to repeat. What do you want, Mary?”

“Merely to discuss events,” she said, hopping lightly to the floor. “I waited, as I’ve found you generally amenable to holding late hours, but if you are unduly stressed I can return tomorrow. Would you like me to ease your weariness before I go?”

“Thank you, no,” he grumbled. “But do you happen to know a time travel spell? What I would like is to go back about a week and a half and warn myself not to get into it too closely with Embras bloody Mogul.”

“As I should hardly have to remind a Bishop of the Church,” she said evenly, “messing with time travel is an extraordinarily bad idea. Vemnesthis punishes such infractions without mercy. Even I don’t aggravate the gods in person. You might ask Arachne.”

“It was a joke,” he said wearily. “The last damned thing I need is Tellwyrn anywhere near anything I’m trying to do.”

Mary studied him in silence for a moment. “What happened?” she asked, her voice more gentle. “You are rattled. I confess it’s a little disconcerting, coming from someone so self-assured.”

“Yes, well, circumstances and other people’s bullshit I can cope with just fine,” he said. “Ah, thank you, Price.” Darling tossed back the proffered brandy in one gulp, then set the glass back on her tray. “It’s more disappointing when I screw up. I’ve been going about this all wrong, sneaking around, playing the thief against the Black Wreath. It’s been mentioned often enough lately—hell, I’ve had reason to comment that Eserites and Elilinists think very much alike. I should never have tried to match them at their own game.”

“Is that not also your game?” Mary asked mildly.

“Yes, and that would be the problem,” he said, striding past her to the window, where he pulled aside the curtain and glared out at the dark street. “The whole reason the Empire has done so well militarily is its doctrine of asymmetrical warfare. Not just the Strike Corps utilizing the Circles of Interaction to advantage, but leveraging different kinds of assets against different enemies. Hit them where they’re weakest. The Guild against the Wreath is just…attrition. For all the Church’s resources, Justinian is a schemer, too. He and Vex have been doing the same thing. We’re never going to get anywhere if we keep obliging their love for skullduggery.”

“What, then?” Mary inquired. “If the Empire were able to pin down the Wreath and use its military power against them, it would have done so long since.”

“I can pin them down,” he said. “Next time, I am going to hit the bastards with sheer overwhelming force.”

“You don’t have overwhelming force,” she pointed out.

He turned from the window, grinning broadly at her, a predatory expression that was not meant to be pleasant. Mary, unsurprisingly, seemed totally unimpressed, which didn’t bother him.

“I cannot fathom why people keep saying things like that to me,” he said. “New strategies or not, I’m still a priest of Eserion. When I need something, I’ll take it.”

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6 – 17

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Dusk was falling as she neared her destination, which meant that while most of the city was lulling itself to rest, Lor’naris was undergoing more of a shift change. No matter how acclimated they grew to surface life, the drow retained a preference for darkness, hence the diminished number of fairy lamps in the district. The street, never boisterous, wasn’t growing any less active with the last red stains of sunset fading from the sky, though the proportion of drow increased slightly with nightfall. Of course, not every business kept hours compatible with everyone’s personal schedule. The shop Lakshmi approached was locked, a sign in its window indicating it was closed.

She craned her neck to peer through the window, shading her eyes, then with a fatalistic shrug, rapped her knuckles on the door, following that with a half-step to the side—carefully leaving her still in view of the door, while also obviously trying to look through the gloom to see if there was any movement within. She did not look around the street behind her; that would have looked suspicious. She was just a late shopper distressed to find the Minor Arcana closed and hoping for late admittance, after all. So few people in the Guild understood that information people had to do as much playacting as con artists, if not more. At least a con artist could turn it off. If you wanted to see and overhear secrets, you had to be invisible, had to fade into the background, make your every action consistent with everyone’s perception of an “extra” person they couldn’t be bothered to notice.

No steps sounded from within, but after only a couple of seconds, the lock clicked and the door opened slightly. Lakshmi beamed into the gap, carefully not looking anything less than delighted to meet the store’s proprietess. She was tall and willowy—rather attractive, actually, if you got past the shield-like ridge of spiked bone rising above her forehead, the deep red shade of her skin and those feline, reflective eyes.

“You must be Peepers,” Elspeth said calmly. She had a surprisingly deep voice for such a lean wisp of a woman.

“Well, you’re too tall,” Lakshmi mused, “so yeah, I guess it must be me!”

The half-demon regarded her in silence for a second, and then a half-smile of muted but genuine amusement tugged at her lips. “You’re right on time. Come on in.”

“Thanks!”

Lakshmi ducked inside as soon as the shopkeeper stepped back to make room, pausing to look around curiously while Elspeth re-locked the door. She did not study her hostess, though she was by far the most interesting part of the scenery. People rarely liked to be examined, and instinct warned Lakshmi that this calm, aloof woman was perceptive enough to catch sidelong glances. There’d be time to pick up interesting details later, little bits here and there as they arose. Irritating her now would diminish those prospects.

“This way, please,” Elspeth said, leading her toward a curtained doorway at the back of the shop’s main room. They strolled past racks of enchanting paraphernalia dimly glimpsed in the relative darkness—only one of the store’s fairy lamps was active, dimmed to its lowest level—Lakshmi still peering around all the while. The facade was important, and one never knew when one might quite accidentally pick up on something useful.

Behind the door was a tiny hallway, with another door leading into a back room and a spiral staircase going both up and down, into mysterious darkness in both directions. The shopkeeper glided to this and descended, Lakshmi following her with a little trepidation.

The room at the bottom was clearly a storage space, much bigger than the shop up above; it apparently ran the whole length of the building. Half of it was cluttered with a miscellaneous assortment of crates and barrels, arranged around the walls to leave a somewhat cramped central area open. The other half, behind the iron staircase, was currently empty, though tracks on the floor and the general lack of dust suggested that objects had been dragged through it quite recently. Along one wall was a long rack of shelves, holding unboxed enchanting supplies very like those above, clearly ready to restock the storefront without requiring the effort of opening crates. In one corner was a square trapdoor, its proximity to a bank of vertical copper pipes suggesting it was a sewer access. The whole space was also much better lit, currently, than the main shop, as it was also currently occupied.

Lakshmi took in the details of the room with a single sweep of her eyes and then focused her attention on the people present.

Most of them were sitting around on various barrels and boxes, clearly waiting. There were two fellows in dark suits, a boy of no more than sixteen who rose and nodded respectfully to her and Elspeth, and an older man with a goatee and ponytail who gave her a single disinterested glance. Sweet was present, of course, in one of his slightly loud and slightly shabby suits; he grinned at her entry as if she were the most exciting thing he’d seen all day, which she knew very wall was just part of his shtick. There were also three elves, including Sweet’s two apprentices, the one in the ridiculous cloak and the one who wouldn’t stop playing with her knife. Lakshmi had never interacted with them directly, but in conversations with other Guild members had taken to pretending she couldn’t remember which was which; it usually got her a laugh.

It was the third elf who nearly made her lose her poise, though upon a second look it was not, in fact, Principia. Just another wood elf with black hair. Unusual as that trait was, it was increasingly obvious on closer inspection. Quite aside from the prairie elf buckskins she wore—in which Prin would never have been caught dead—the woman’s face was longer, the features subtly different, though elves in general seemed to have less variance in their facial features and skin tones that humans. Moreover, she was clearly one of the old ones. She had that characteristic stillness.

“Wonderful, everyone’s here!” Sweet enthused. “Everybody, this is Peepers. Glad to have you along!”

“Glad to be here,” she said glibly, grinning around at them. “I almost didn’t make it; only just got your message, Sweet. What’s up?”

“Well, first things first,” Sweet went on, crossing his legs and leaning back against the wall. He, like the brunette elf, had selected a perch two boxes high, so he loomed above most of the group. “I’ve heard good things about your work, which is especially impressive given you’ve not been in the city that long. And you nabbed us a Guild traitor! Well done.”

“Well, it’s just a matter of keeping my ears open,” she said lightly. “That was a right place, right time situation.”

“Of course,” he said with a smile, and Lakshmi forced herself not to tense. The lack of introductions had not been wasted on her. She was very much on the spot, being inspected by a roomful of silent strangers. Just what was he playing at? Sweet, by his rep, wouldn’t have lured a Guild member somewhere with any intention to harm them…but on the other hand, if he had wanted to do something like that, an intel guy like him would probably bring along extra muscle to handle the actual kneebreaking.

“And then I got an endorsement of your skills from no less a source than the Hand of Avei!” he continued brightly. “Very impressive, not to mention kind of unconventional. It’s not often that Avenists go out of their way to find ranking members of the Guild to report to, much less find something kind to say about one of our number.”

Damn…maybe that hadn’t been such a bright idea on her part. Too pushy? But she’s been in the city for weeks by then and was no closer to following Prin’s advice. Sweet was an approachable fellow, but he was highly-placed enough that he didn’t have time for everybody who wanted a slice of his attention.

“As for that, I may have asked her to put in a good word,” Lakshmi replied, carefully mixing a bashful grin with shameless delivery. “It’s not as if a person like that would’ve bothered if she didn’t think it was deserved.”

“Of course, of course,” said Sweet, nodding. “It’s just funny, the little turns life takes. Finding yourself on opposite sides of two generations like that.”

She blinked. “Um… What? I don’t follow.”

“Oh, you hadn’t heard?” he said, grinning. “Trissiny Avelea is the daughter of Principia Locke.”

What? She tried to fit that piece of information in with existing knowledge and came up blank. “She… What?”

“Prin didn’t happen to mention that?”

Immediately she was on the alert. “Uh, when would she have talked to me about something like that?”

“I’ve just been going over it in my mind,” he mused, idly kicking his dangling leg. The man in the black suit sighed impatiently and slumped back against his crate, grimacing in annoyance; everyone else in the room just watched her silently as Sweet carried on. “Not just what happened, but what went down afterward. I’ll spare you the boring details, but the crux of it is none of us at the Guild anticipated just how good Principia is at what she does. And then she goes and gets caught, this master conwoman with elvish senses. She just happened to be overheard by a young, inexperienced thief operating in a city where the Guild perforce has to keep its head down. You see why I’m curious?”

“Are you accusing me of something, Sweet?” Lakshmi asked as calmly as she could manage, folding her arms and raising one eyebrow. After discovering that this pose worked wonders on Sanjay, she’d tried it out in other situations and found that lots of people from all walks of life could be brought to a halt by the Momface.

“Peepers, hon, that’s not how we do things,” he said, his smile shifting almost imperceptibly to convey more compassion and less insouciance. Damn, but he was good. “If you were being accused, you’d be having this conversation at Guild HQ, with several enforcers present. Not in a basement with a bunch of assorted friends of mine. Aside from my apprentices, nobody here is attached to the Guild, or knows who I’m talking about.”

“I know who you’re talking about,” the woman in buckskins said serenely.

“I don’t,” said the man with the ponytail, “nor do I care. Are we going to drag this out much longer? Do I have time to go get a snack? I didn’t haul myself out at this bloody hour to help you intimidate some Punaji waif you found.”

Sweet gave him an irritated look before returning his gaze to Lakshmi and restoring his open expression. “Look, Peepers, you’re not in trouble; sorry if I gave you that impression.” The hell he was, she thought silently; this was a man who created precisely whatever impression he intended to. “Also, in case the word hasn’t reached you, Prin is not in trouble, though there are several things the Guild would like her to explain. What’s at issue is that…well, I’ll get to it in a moment, but suffice it to say there’s some complicated shit going on and trust is at a premium. I need to know who I’m working with. If you’ve got secrets to protect, by all means, keep ’em, and no hard feelings. With regard to just who you are and how you got here, though… I kind of need to see some cards on the table. Otherwise, we’ll have to bid you good evening.”

She chewed her lower lip, thinking rapidly. Prin had said to get in with Sweet; this was a golden opportunity. Even if, as he implied, she’d be allowed to walk away from it without repercussions, turning down such an opportunity was a near-perfect guarantee that she’d never be offered another one. There were other paths to advancing her career, of course, but none likely to be as ideal. She hadn’t uprooted herself and Sanjay from their ancestral home to waste her days lurking in market districts picking pockets and trying to overhear worthwhile tidbits.

“You are valuable here because you’re an outsider,” Sweet said gently, “without the kind of strings that can be exploited. And because I suspect that the thing you don’t want to reveal is a ringing endorsement from an extremely skilled thief.”

Hell with it; sometimes you had to take chances.

“All right, I consider myself caught,” she said with a grin, shoving her hands into the pockets of her greatcoat and affecting a cocky pose. “Prin wanted to be reported to the Guild. More than that I really don’t know; it was her scheme, and a good bit more complicated than anything I’d have tried. Frankly I still don’t get what she was going for or whether she pulled it off, much less how. Also, before you ask, I have no idea where she is; I haven’t heard from her since Puna Dara, a little while after sending in my report. But, yes, she advised me to come here and try to get in good with you, Sweet.”

“Hmm,” he mused, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “I never am sure with that woman…”

The dark-haired elf snorted softly. “You and everyone else.”

“Does that satisfy your curiosity?” Lakshmi asked, permitting herself a sharper tone. “Wanna know what color my bloomers are while we’re here?”

“If that’s on offer, I wouldn’t mind—” Ponytail Guy broke off with a curse as the teenager leaned over and slapped the back of his head.

“No, I think that pretty much brings us all up to speed,” said Sweet. “Thank you, Peepers. Well! We all know what you’re about, now, so why don’t I introduce you around?”

“Already?” she said dryly, to which he laughed.

“You’ve met Elspeth, of course, and probably were aware of her before now, since you’ve been involved in this district a few times.” The demonblood shopkeeper bowed when Lakshmi turned to look at her. “These are my apprentices, Flora and Fauna.”

“Charmed!”

“Delighted!”

“Okay,” Lakshmi said warily, nodding to each of them.

“And we have a few celebrity guests,” Sweet went on. “You have probably heard of these two gentlemen as Gravestone Weaver and the Sarasio Kid.”

Lakshmi blinked, looked at him, then at the two. “Are you serious?”

“Joe to my friends, ma’am,” the Kid said with a smile, giving her a nod that was nearly a bow.

Weaver grunted. “I’m accustomed to responding to ‘hey, asshole.’”

“I’m certain that’s convenient for you,” said the remaining woman.

“And this,” Sweet finished with a slight grimace, “is Mary the Crow, who I actually didn’t plan to include in this discussion but likes to invite herself places.”

“Joseph is still under my care,” Mary said calmly. “Very much on the mend, yes, but I will exercise a healer’s prerogative to observe.”

“…seriously?” Lakshmi repeated, studying Mary, and then the other two again. It suddenly occurred to her that nobody knew she was in this basement with this assortment of walking hazards. She unconsciously took a half-step toward the stairs.

“What’s going on,” Sweet continued, gazing at her with a much more serious expression, “is that the Black Wreath is on the move.”

“Everyone knows that,” she said tersely. “At least, everyone who reads the papers.”

“Yes, and you’re a little more on the ball even than that, aren’t you?” he replied, smiling. “Hence your invitation. The complicating factor here, Peepers, is that for the time being, the Guild can’t be considered a trusted ally.”

“Wait…are you saying the Guild is compromised by the Wreath?”

“Ah, ah, ah.” He held up an admonishing finger. “Everyone is compromised by the Wreath. That’s what the Wreath does. Most of the time you just have to grin and ignore it, and most of the time it doesn’t much matter. They rarely care enough to stick their little fingers into a given person’s business. However, right now, it matters very much. They are up to something big, and I aim to figure out what. Unfortunately, part of what they’re doing involves leveraging their assets inside various cults, and the only cult I know for a fact has culled their Wreath infestation are the Huntsmen of Shaath.” He grimaced. “For reasons I hope I don’t have to explain, I’m not eager to pin my hopes on their help. Until the current crisis has passed, we have to consider all cults and organizations suspect and potentially complicit. Anything they know may get back to the Wreath and be used against us.”

“So,” she said slowly, “you’re putting together an unaligned group to hunt them down. Hence all this extravagant muscle.”

“Never been called that before,” the Kid said with a grin.

“You have the gist of it,” Sweet replied, nodding.

“How do you know I’m not Wreath?” she asked.

“You’re not,” said Mary.

“Um…”

“I would know.” The elf looked her right in the eyes, face impassive, and Lakshmi found herself believing her.

“I actually had a plan to figure that out,” said Sweet, sounding somewhat disgruntled. “It involved props. But I guess having the Crow around is useful.”

“So…doesn’t that mean you can track all the Wreath and ferret them out?” Lakshmi inquired, tilting her head and studying Mary.

“This is a unique situation,” the Crow said calmly. “I made preparations. Were the Wreath so easy to hunt, they’d have been gone from the world long since.”

“Besides,” Sweet added, “if we theoretically did figure out who all their agents were and move against them, they’d either abort and bolt or do something very destructive. Possibly both. That’s a scenario we need to avoid. So for now, we play the game.”

“What is the game?” she demanded. “What are they trying to do, and what are you trying to do about it?”

“The answer to both questions,” he said with a slightly predatory grin, “is that we are out to figure out what they are up to, as a first step toward putting a stop to it. I have some leads on which to follow up, which is what you’ve been brought aboard to do. Elspeth has generously offered her premises as a safe, neutral space for us to use; with this shop under inspection by the Church and the Empire as often as it is, there’s little chance of it being compromised by warlocks.”

“Warlocks, in particular, are generally advised to stay away from my store,” Elspeth said calmly.

“Joe and Weaver, here, are our muscle,” Sweet continued, nodding to them. “I’ve actually got a couple more aces up my sleeve to that end, but they’re both too distinctive to move discreetly through the city. These two gentlemen, aside from cultivating a laudably generic sense of style, haven’t spent enough time around civilized parts that they’re likely to be recognized. As such, they’ll be able to lend you some protection from relatively close at hand. The bigger wands, including Mary, here, can be called upon at need, but the plan is not to goad the Wreath into any kind of confrontation, especially not with you or I. Our job is just to figure out what they’re doing, how, and why.”

“I see,” she said, frowning deeply in thought.

“Which brings us to the all important question, Peepers,” Sweet continued, grinning hugely. “You in?”

“…what, exactly, would I be doing?”

His grin widened. “Well, to begin with, I’ll need you to get a real job.”

She stretched her lips into a distasteful grimace. “What else you got?”

 

“Well, first things first,” Radivass said, carefully inspecting the necklace. “It’s pretty.”

“Yes,” Trissiny replied, deliberately keeping her tone neutral. “I can see that. Its magical properties are what interest me.” And what she was paying the enchantress to explain, she did not add.

The drow pursed her lips, tilting the piece this way and that so it glimmered in the ruddy light. “Can I ask where this came from?”

“It was a level reward,” said Trissiny, “from the Descent. It appeared in the chest we got for clearing it, along with several other bits and bobs.”

“Mm.” Radivass glanced quickly at the golden eagle sigil on Trissiny’s breastplate, then back at the necklace, which was worked into the same form. Hanging from a twisted chain of steel links, it was a disc of white crystal a little bigger than an Imperial doubloon, inset with the eagle of Avei in gold. “What level?”

“Level 7. The Circle Chessboard.”

“You got that on Level 7?” Radivass looked up at her and whistled. “Damn. Shamlin said you kids were hard-hitters. I guess the Crawl isn’t…well, that’s neither here nor there. On this level, did you in particular do something impressive?”

“We basically used it as a training level,” Trissiny said slowly, frowning. “Practicing our tactics and getting used to fighting together. I was organizing it, I guess.”

“I see. Well, to begin with, this thing is old.”

“How old?”

“That I can’t tell you. I could try, if you want to spend the coin, though in all honesty I can’t guarantee my divinations would be able to pinpoint its age or origin. The Crawl messes such things up, and so does divine magic. I mention it because there’s some uncertainty over where those level rewards come from. Some of them—well, a lot of them, probably—the Crawl actually creates. Some, though, are things that were left down here by other adventurers. The old things, the powerful things, it occasionally gathers up and bestows upon worthy individuals.”

“Worthy individuals?” Trissiny raised an eyebrow.

Radivass grinned. “For a given value of ‘worthy.’ It’s hard to say exactly what the Crawl approves of.”

“It doesn’t seem to like cheating.”

“In the Descent, no, it doesn’t. In other places…different rules apply. Let’s just say there are several reasons I stay up here in the Visage. Anyhow, whatever you did it clearly judged worthy of reward, so…here you are.”

“I see,” Trissiny mused.

“As for what this does,” the enchantress went on, “it’s actually laden with fae magic, not divine. The specific blessings upon it are designed to draw on its fae energy—which, by the way, is considerable—and transmute it into holy energy. Basically it boosts your powers by giving you an extra source aside from your goddess. Whether that’s a good idea is…debatable. Most deities will let their followers draw on as much power as they safely can without burning themselves out. This might have extra protections to increase your capacity. That would make sense to me, but unfortunately I can’t tell for sure. I deal in mostly arcane magic; I can tell you the gist of what this piece does, but the magic on it is more complex than that. You really need to have a witch look it over to be certain.”

“I was told,” Trissiny said slowly, “that the specific effect you’re talking about can’t be worked into a talisman or passive object. Transmuting one kind of power into another requires a conscious spellcaster.”

“You were told correctly,” Radivas replied, nodding. “This little beauty is keyed to some high-level fairy or other; it draws on their power and will to work. Fae and infernal magic are prone to such charms, using fairies or demons as…arbiters, so to speak.”

“Can you tell what fairy is involved?”

The drow shook her head. “Again, you need a witch. I can tell you they’re either friendly toward Avei, to be attached to this thing… Or maybe the exact opposite of that and are enslaved by it.”

“I see,” Trissiny murmured, shifting to glance around the room at her classmates. Juniper and the boys had gone up to the Visage’s main room in search of food; the rest of her classmates were clustered around Shamlin’s stall. “Thank you. I believe I’ll keep this for later.”

“I think that’s smart,” the drow agreed, nodding. “You being who you are, and Avei’s sigil being on this, it’s probably safe for you to use. But it’s a good general policy not to mess with magical objects you don’t understand.”

Trissiny sighed, accepting the pendant back from her and tucking it carefully into one of her belt pouches. Part of her wondered how much of her hesitation was due to the last golden eagle necklace she’d been given. “If only I could get through life not messing with things I don’t understand. Someday, maybe I’ll understand enough to go a whole day without stumbling into some nonsense or other.”

“If you ever accomplish that, you let me know,” Radivass said, the twinkle in her eye belying her grave tone. “You’d be a scientifically significant case.”

 

Rowe carefully pulled the door shut and systematically re-armed each of the charmed locks securing it. After all the times he’d done this routine, it was in danger of becoming exactly that, which he could not afford. People going through a routine forgot to pay attention; people who didn’t pay attention made mistakes. A mistake, here, wasn’t an option.

“They made it to Level 17 today,” said Sarriki, slithering into the kitchen and storeroom behind the Grim Visage’s main bar. Aside from the water pump, stove and counter, there wasn’t much back there except barrels of mushrooms and racks of booze, most of it distilled from mushrooms. At this hour, the kitchen had been cleaned and its unnecessary supplied put away. All the good stuff, the meat, fruits and vegetables, was down in the secure storeroom he had just locked up.

The naga glided over to him, grinning smugly as he turned to face her. “Second day, and they’re almost a fifth of the way down! Shamlin says this is the most overpowered group he’s ever seen. Even their bard is apparently all but invincible. Of course, they’ll slow their pace as they get deeper and start facing the hard stuff, but still.”

Rowe simply raised an eyebrow in silence, giving her a patient stare.

“It’s dear Melaxyna who makes this interesting,” Sarriki cooed, beginning to slither around him in a circle and gradually coiling her long, serpentine body about him as she went. “Finally, she’s got all her pieces lined up. That portal of hers is working, she can make waystones and the Crawl itself appears to be allowing her to play her own game. Between their firepower and Mel’s help, this is looking like the group that’ll reach the bottom.”

“Who’s tending the bar if you’re floofing around back here, pet?” he asked mildly.

“Oh, please, it’s stupid o’clock at night. There’s nobody out there but the University kids, and they’re all set up with a pot of stew.” Grinning, Sarriki twined her arms around his neck, leaning in to nuzzle at his collarbone. “How about a little squeeze and cuddle while it’s quiet, boss? For old time’s sake? After all…you may not be around much longer.”

“Ah, Sarriki,” Rowe said, extricating one of his arms from her coils and reaching up to caress the fins trailing from her head. She purred in pleasure, flaring them slightly and allowing him to get a firmer grip. “This is a new side of you, poppet. So assertive.” He tightened his fingers in her fin. “So smug, so confident and in control.”

Rowe increased his grip until he was pulling her head back and to the side, forcing her to look up at him. He toed the line right to the iota, his grasp of her sensitive fin hard enough to be uncomfortable, but not violent enough to trigger the sanctuary effect. Sarriki’s expression stilled when she beheld the hard look in his eyes.

“It doesn’t suit you,” he said softly.

They stared at each other in silence for a moment, then he released her head. Immediately, she loosened her coils, and backed away, still staring at him warily.

“Go tend to our guests,” he said in perfect calm. “Do your job.”

He turned his back to her, rustling his wings once and then folding them more tightly, listening to the soft rasp of her scales against the stone as she departed the kitchen without another word. Rowe stared at the locks on the cellar door, frowning.

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“Well, I don’t know what surprises me more,” Tricks said dourly. “You bein’ here on the orders of the Church, or the fact that you’d accuse me of such a thing right to my face.”

“Whoah,” said Sweet, taking a step back and staring at him in consternation. “Where did that come from?”

Behind Trick’s shoulder, Style grimaced, tightening her crossed arms, and Sweet’s bad feeling intensified. There was something very off in the vibe here. They were meeting, as usual, in the counting room beneath the Casino, but there the routine ended. Tricks looked worn out and bitter, Style was being uncharacteristically silent, and now he was on the defensive.

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” he said more quietly. “And this is much less about the Church than it is about the Guild. They’re just questions, and let’s be honest, pretty obvious ones. What’s happening, Boss? You have to know you played right into the Wreath’s hands, sending out the enforcers that way.”

Style let out a lungful of air through her nose, her grimace intensifying, and Sweet started to actually worry. Not about himself—she’d be glaring at him if he were in trouble—but about the whole situation. As the least emotionally contained member of the group, Style was something of a barometer, and her unhappiness was infectious.

“You’re right,” Tricks said wearily, slumping back into the overseer’s chair and propping his head up with one hand. “Sorry, Sweet, that came out more confrontational than it needed to. Yeah, I know. It was pretty damn obvious what the Wreath was playing at; that move was subtle by the standards of the general public, but not by their standards, or ours. If anything, it was weirdly aggressive.”

“So…” Sweet frowned. “…you were weirdly aggressive right back?”

The Boss stared up at him in silence for a moment before speaking. “You’re worried the Guild has been infiltrated.”

“Tricks, I’m almost positive the Guild has been infiltrated, and that’s got little to do with the current crisis. That’s a standing assumption and you know it. The Guild is decentralized enough that it’s not usually a major concern; there’s a limit to the damage a given spy can do. I’m worried that the Wreath’s infiltration has got far enough in to start affecting policy. And now you tell me this wasn’t due to anyone’s influence, but entirely your idea? Boss…you didn’t walk into their trap, you charged headlong.”

“And that makes me Wreath?”

“Dammit, Tricks…”

“No, no, I know. Sorry. You’re right.” Tricks waved a hand as if shooing away gnats. “I’m sorry. This has been… Y’know, you once told me that this had to be the cushiest job of its rank among any of the Pantheon’s cults, because the Guild all but runs itself and the Big Guy basically never has any orders to hand out. Remember that?”

“Sure,” Sweet said hesitantly. “Is that somehow relevant to…”

“I’ve gotta ask, Sweet.” Tricks leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, and stared up at him almost pleadingly. “Were you just fucking with me? Was that some kind of tradition I have to pass on to the next poor asshole?”

“…Tricks, what’s going on?”

The Boss just stared at him. Style looked down at Tricks, her forehead creased in consternation, but held her silence.

“No,” Sweet said finally. “It was the plain truth as I experienced it. The whole time I was Boss I had to seek out the Big Guy’s opinion exactly twice, and got orders from him three times, in that entire span of years. None of it was hugely complicated, though it was never pretty.”

Tricks grimaced, leaning back again. “Well. Dunno if that makes me a better Boss than you were or a shittier one. And no, don’t ask; the Big Guy’s edicts are private, as you damn well know.”

“I think…it may or may not have to do with you,” Sweet said slowly. “There’s also the situation. Shit’s going down, Boss. Justinian’s making a play, Elilial’s making a play, Tellwyrn’s butting the fuck in, the Empire is faltering on multiple fronts… And then there’s shit like Principia’s whatever-she’s-doing. I think you just have bad timing.”

Tricks grunted sourly. “You want your fucking job back?”

“I really, really do not,” Sweet said fervently. “…but, man… If that’s a sincere offer, I think I might have to take it. Dunno if I’d cope any better than you are, but you’re scaring me, Tricks. I hate seeing you like this.”

Style gave a wordless grunt that conveyed emphatic agreement.

Tricks just heaved a sigh. “Nevermind me, I’m just bitching. It’s been two days since I slept and I’m overdue for lunch.”

“You’re overdue for fucking breakfast after the day you skipped lunch,” Style said quietly.

Tricks blinked, twisting his head around to look up at her. “What day is it? No, never mind, doesn’t matter. Soon as we’re done here I’ll eat something, get drunk, find someone to boink my brains out and get some sleep, I promise.”

“You better,” she warned. “I will enforce that. I’d do it myself, but damn…look at you. I’d break your spine.”

“You never have learned to be gentle, huh?” Sweet asked with a faint grin.

She smirked at him. “You will never know.”

“To drag this back in the general direction of the original point,” said Tricks, straightening in his chair, “no, Sweet, this was not my idea. This came down from the highest level. That much you may feel free to take back to Justinian.” He folded his arms loosely in his lap. “Whatever Wreath have wormed their way into the Guild are not in control. But in the short term… Eserion operates much the way Elilial does, and I can say without breaching his confidence that while he doesn’t take care of our business as a point of principle, he is willing to stir himself to deal directly with her. You said it, Sweet: shit’s going down.” He shook his head slowly. “This is not the first time I’ve been directed to play along with a Black Wreath ploy, and I would love to tell you I expect it to be the last, but I’m just not that optimistic.”

 

“Master Jenkins, you have a visitor.”

Joe carefully finished tucking the last throwing knife he had just pulled free from the target board into his palm before turning to fact the house. He hadn’t actually cut himself yet, but his introduction to the world of bladed weapons had begun with a long lecture on the safe handling thereof, delivered by two elves who were casually playing with knives like a pair of circus performers the whole time. As in most cases, he had decided the safest policy was to compliment Flora and Fauna on their artistry and then take them at their word.

On the other side of the small, walled garden, Price stood at attention next to the townhouse’s back door, from which Longshot McGraw was emerging, giving him a friendly grin.

“Joe, my boy,” the old mage said amiably. “How’re you holding up?”

“In all honesty, chafing under my house arrest,” Joe replied with a matching grin. “I feel entirely as good as new. What brings you by, Elias?”

“Oh, this is an attempt to ferret information out of our employer, clumsily disguised as a social call,” McGraw said blithely. “But, as the good Bishop appears to be out, I’m glad enough to actually socialize. You get to be my age, and the glittering attractions of the big city start to look less attractive and more annoying; give me a quiet drink with a friend any day. Unless, of course, I’m imposing.”

“Not in the least, I’m goin’ stir-crazy myself,” Joe replied, strolling back over to him. “Sit a spell, Bishop Darling’s stated on record that you and the others are always welcome.”

“Indeed,” said Price. “If you gentlemen would care to make yourselves comfortable, I shall bring refreshments.”

“Very much obliged, ma’am,” McGraw said courteously, pausing in the act of taking out his cigarette case to nod to her.

Price flicked her gaze briefly but deliberately to the case. “It is rare that we have such pleasant weather in Tiraas. By all means, don’t waste the opportunity to pollute the air outdoors instead of in.”

She slipped back inside, leaving McGraw staring after her, not moving.

“I do believe I’ve just received a hint,” he said ruefully, tucking the case away.

“Nah, that just means she likes you,” said Joe with a smile, pulling out a chair from the small wrought-iron garden table set up on Darling’s back patio. “It’s an expression of familiarity and comfort, or so I’ve chosen to believe. I knew I was part of the family the day I left muddy boots in the hall and received a four-second passive-aggressive character assassination that plumb drove the breath outta me.”

“Well, call me overcautious, but I’ve met enough Butlers in my time that I’ve developed a policy of playing it safe around ’em,” said McGraw, seating himself as well. “Learning a new trick, are we?”

Joe sighed, setting the knives carefully on the table. “The girls were kind enough to show me the basics. I’ve been getting in some practice. I think this is the longest I’ve ever gone without practicing with my wands, but…”

“I don’t reckon the neighbors would much appreciate that,” McGraw noted.

“Exactly,” Joe nodded. “The Bishop is a generous host; I rather suspect he would supply me with a magically shielded target if I asked, but… My wands are quieter than the mass-produced variety, but not silent, and there’s really no way to dampen the flash. Besides, you never know who in the surrounding houses might be an arcanist or witch, and would sense the discharge. All it’d take is one of the idle rich to learn some kid was shootin’ off weapons behind the Bishop’s house and there’d be no end of trouble.”

“Indeed,” McGraw said, a twinkle in his eyes belying his grave tone, “you might have to tell ’em all just which Kid you are and become a local celebrity.”

“Only in my nightmares,” Joe muttered.

“You know, Tiraas does have shootin’ ranges. Not my scene, but I’ve had occasion to visit a few, here and there.”

“I’m aware,” Joe said with a sigh, “and I do plan to frequent them if we’re to stay in the city over the long term. Sadly, my caretaker deems that an unsuitable degree of excitement for me. It’s not so bad, really. Turns out I’ve got a knack for throwing knives, too. The more skills a body has, the better.”

“That’s true, and a wise observation,” the wizard said, nodding. “I must say you seem hearty enough. Why the short leash, if you’ll pardon my askin’?”

Joe shrugged. “Believe me, I’ve asked the same thing. And it’s not like Mary’s shy about explainin’ herself. It’s just…she gets going, and I get lost. I have worked out from context that ‘cardiovascular’ refers to the heart and blood vessels. A cardiac arrest means a heart attack, which apparently I’m still at risk for, or so she claims. There’s also ‘pulmonary,’ which I haven’t quite puzzled out yet.”

“Seems to me there’s a simple enough solution to that,” McGraw said mildly.

“Yeah,” Joe replied, grimacing. “But when she first started in on it, I was too prideful to admit ignorance in front of the legendary immortal. By the time I got more comfortable around her, well… At what point can you fess up to playin’ smarter than you really are for weeks?”

McGraw actually laughed. “These things have a way of runnin’ away with you, I’ll grant. Forgive me for exercising an old man’s prerogative to dispense advice, kid, but the sooner you get over choking on your pride, the happier you’ll be in the long run.”

“I believe you,” he said ruefully. “But it’s not as if I’m under poor care. I grew up a stone’s throw from an elven grove. In my experience, elves know what they’re talking about, especially the elders, and most especially a shaman. Soon as I’m free to roam, I think I’ll go pester the Nemitites for some definitions.”

A soft croak commanded their attention; both turned to behold a crow perched on the garden wall, watching them.

Joe grimaced. “…ah.”

The bird launched itself into a shallow dive, and then Mary landed lightly on the grass, her moccasins making no sound.

“’Pulmonary’ refers to the lungs and their operation,” she said with a faint smile. “Ask questions, Joseph. Ignorance is a fault only if you refuse to correct it.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, chagrined, and only belatedly remembered to stand. By that point she had reached the table, and placed a hand on his shoulder, pushing him gently back down.

McGraw half-rose, doffing his hat to her. “Ma’am,” he said respectfully. “Always a pleasure. I’ve been makin’ a point of keeping in touch with the others, but I hadn’t run across you since we reported back from the mountain.”

“I make it a point not to be run across unless I have specific reason,” she said mildly. “But I, too, have been keeping watch over all of you, and over our host. You came here to inquire when we will be expected to move, yes?”

“That was the idea,” he said with a faint grimace. “I don’t personally feel a great urgency to go out and cross wands with whatever passel o’ horrors we’ll be called on to deal with, but there’s only so much sittin’ around I can take. Most particularly when I know what I now know about what’s loose in the world.”

“I have seen many apocalypses come and go,” she said, calm as ever. “These things happen. Darling is being diligent in his pursuit, but it is, at this stage, a waiting game. To rush it is to court ruin.”

“I think we all understand that,” Joe said with a sigh. “Doesn’t mean it’s driving me any less crazy. Seems like I went straight from being cooped up in a bordello for weeks to being cooped up here. If this is gonna be the pattern…”

“You were cooped up where?” McGraw asked in a tone of great interest.

“Oh, that’s right, I hadn’t told you the story. That was Billie; she’s come to visit every few days. Well, a while back I had occasion to meet the new paladins, along with an assortment of other mightily interesting folk…”

The back door of the house opened at that moment, and Bishop Darling himself strolled through, looking more tired than usual. “You should be glad for your currently limited amount of social contact, Joe; you seem to attract interesting people. They won’t always come with the likes of Tellwyrn or myself to keep them in line.”

“Interesting people do have a way of tearin’ up the scenery,” McGraw said gravely.

Darling pulled out one of the remaining chairs and plopped himself down in it. “Elias, good to see you. Why do I suspect you didn’t bother to come in through the door, Mary?”

“At a guess, because you are a swift learner,” she said serenely. “Welcome home. Have you learned anything interesting?”

Price had emerged from the house behind him, carrying a laden tray. She set this down on the patio table and began pouring tea and parceling out cucumber sandwiches in silence while they talked.

“Interesting,” Darling said with a sigh, “in the sense of raising more questions than answers, and answers only of the alarming variety. Joe, I know you’ve been somewhat forcibly isolated from events. Are you all aware of the recent ruckus in the city?”

“I do read the paper,” said Joe, nodding. “Several, in fact, to get a balance of editorial slants. I’ve gotta say, it seems out of character, how the Legions acted. There’s a lot of fuss kicked up over it.”

“To say nothing of the Guild’s actions,” Mary added, watching Darling closely.

“That’s not spoken of as openly,” said McGraw, “and certainly not in print, but I’ve not managed to escape the rumors myself. Can’t say I’ve managed to overhear much that’s in favor of the Black Wreath, but a number of the major cults have smudged their good names in comparison recently.”

“I’m operating on the assumption you’re all intelligent enough to work this out for yourselves, but I’ll spell it out anyway,” Darling said grimly. “This—all of it—is a Wreath plot. It’s not yet unfolded enough that I can see where it’s going, but the early stages suggest an effort to discredit the Pantheon’s cults. What troubles me is I can’t envision an endgame to this. In the long term, there’s just no way Elilial can win back the hearts and minds of the general public. If that were on the table, she’d have done it at some point in the preceding eight thousand years.”

“She has, in fact, done so several times,” Mary noted, “sometimes on a fairly considerable scale. I agree, however, that in the current climate, such an outcome is highly unlikely. Which suggests that this is not her long-term goal, but a more immediate one.”

“Which means,” Joe said slowly, “there’s something else coming. Something big.”

“That’s where we’re at, yeah,” Darling agreed, scowling. “And I’ve got Justinian doubtless trying to spin this to serve his own plots, the Guild and the Sisterhood having royally embarrassed themselves, and no one apparently reliable to back up counter-Wreath efforts but the bloody Huntsmen of Shaath.”

“The provincial attitude of the Huntsmen has often overshadowed their effectiveness,” Mary noted. “This would not be the first time the Wreath has underestimated them, either. If I may point it out, you also have us.”

“You lot are, indeed, an ace in the hole,” Darling agreed. “But we are all left in Joe’s position at the moment: stuck waiting. In order to make good use of this massive collection of firepower I’ve so carefully lined up, I need a target, and an environment in which I can safely fire at it. Otherwise I risk furthering the Wreath’s agenda yet again. To the best of my knowledge, they don’t know about the five of you, but I’m not naïve enough to bank on that assumption.”

“Wise,” Mary said, nodding.

“In my experience,” said McGraw, crossing his legs and lounging back in his chair as he sipped his tea, “the defensive is a bad place to be. Being stuck in a waiting position is the proper time to look into unconventional ways to seize the initiative. Something the enemy won’t anticipate.”

“I am, in fact, exploring several possibilities,” said Darling. “Once again, there is you lot; shifty situation or no, you may end up being the tiebreaker. It’s also a good time to research new skills. How’s your knife-throwing coming along, Joe?”

“I daresay I’m very nearly enough to have another contest with Fauna and not quite as severely humiliate myself,” Joe said gravely.

“Mm.” Darling gave him a sidelong look. “Just for your edification, if she finds out you let her win, she’s gonna kick your ass.”

Joe froze, blinking. “Um…pardon?”

“I know only the broad strokes of how your ability works, but it’s not at all a leap to figure out that knife-throwing of all things would come as naturally to you as breathing.” Darling grinned at the Kid’s abashed expression. “Anyhow, I’m looking into branching out myself. It was recently pointed out to me that the Church has a holy summoner program, and training is available. With the Wreath bopping around, maybe a little demonology would be worth picking up.”

“You as a warlock?” McGraw mused. “…I could almost see that.”

“Thanks,” Darling said dryly. “Anyhow, not a warlock, obviously. I’m not much with the divine flash, but I’m still a priest. Too much holy magic stored in the aura makes that impossible.”

Instantly they all turned their heads to him, identical frowns falling across their faces. Darling looked from one face to another and back, his eyebrows climbing in surprise.

“What? What’d I say? What’s that look for?”

“Who told you that?” Mary asked evenly. “About holy magic in the aura.”

“Someone who’d taken advantage of the aforementioned training,” he said slowly. “Why?”

She raised one eyebrow. “I’m afraid they misled you.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s just…startling,” Joe said carefully, “hearin’ that from a priest. Usually magic-users of any stripe are better versed in the Circles of Interaction.”

“I’m an Eserite,” Darling said, a note of impatience creeping into his voice. “My god does not encourage the use of magic when mortal skills will suffice. Would someone care to explain the issue, please?”

“You two mind if I take this one?” McGraw asked, setting down his tea and straightening. When they both nodded to him, he turned to face Darling. “Specializing in one form of magic can inhibit you in learning the others, but not to any great degree. Except in very rare cases, magic is something you do, or have, not something you are. All four schools have in common that magical power grows with time and use, which is why the older casters are nearly always the stronger. But the nature of that barrier is different for each school. What you describe, storing power in the aura…that’s arcane magic that works that way. Storage capacity’s like a muscle that gets stronger the more it’s flexed. With divine magic, the barrier’s in handling the power safely.”

“Users of holy magic do not store or produce it themselves,” Mary said, “but rather channel it from an outside source. The divine burns if drawn upon too deeply. You build up a tolerance, not a capacity, and that tolerance does not inhibit the use of other schools. I have seen Scyllithene priestesses hurl shadow blasts from behind sacred shields, and call upon divine light to heal their wounded demon thralls.”

Darling’s frown had grown progressively deeper as she spoke, and he switched his gaze from an abstract contemplation of the distance to her face at that last. “You meet a lot of Scyllithene priestesses?”

“Hardly a lot,” she said calmly, “but I have lived a long time, and been many places.”

“Whoah, hang on,” Joe interjected. “Doesn’t holy magic kill demons by nature?”

“You confuse nature with source,” she said. “The holy magic to which you are accustomed would, because it is channeled through the gods of the Pantheon. Their rules demand that their power be harmful to demonkind. Clerics of other gods, for example Themynra, have fewer restrictions. Then, too, the dwarves are often able to call on divine energy without the aid of any god. There are many ways to drink from that well.”

“So…that might not have been completely wrong?” Darling asked thoughtfully. “Given the source of the power I’d be using, having it around could inhibit using infernal magic?”

“Only if you tried to use them concurrently,” said Mary. “And by the way, while I do advocate a broader understanding of demonology, I strongly suggest you stick to learning theory and whatever practical applications you can use via divine methods, which are several. Please do not attempt to handle infernal power directly.”

“I’m not an idiot, Mary.”

“No,” she said evenly, “you are a man who has safely picked up weapons that others feared to touch in the past. The infernal is not a weapon, it is a poison. The barrier to its use is, as with divine magic, in handling it safely.”

“That’s why you never meet an elderly warlock,” McGraw said with a grin. “You can pull down any amount of hellfire you want on your first try, provided you’d bonded with a powerful enough demon. It’s just that you’ll find your body and spirit so badly twisted by the effort you may not be able to feed yourself afterward, much less bust out more magic. Difference is, the gods’ll usually stop their servants from burning themselves out. Demons are typically divided between those who don’t care if their warlocks riddle themselves with cancer and mutation, and those who find it hilarious when they do.”

“I am beginning to rethink this whole enterprise,” Darling said solemnly.

“Do,” Mary agreed, nodding. “At the very least, until you acquire more accurate information. It might also be worth determining whether your source intentionally set you up for that fall. If not, they themselves may be in danger.”

“Mm…” he mused. “I doubt Justinian would let one of his favored servants make that kind of mistake. On the other hand, I can’t think of any motive Bishop Snowe would have for letting me do so, especially when…”

“You know Bishop Snow?” Joe cut in, straightening up and smiling. “Think you could get me her autograph?”

Darling stared at him. “…I’m sorry, what?”

“I didn’t realize y’all were acquainted,” McGraw added. “That’s one sharp lady. You hear she’s got a book coming out?”

“What?!”

“Of course, I read her column,” Joe said, nodding. “Planned to get a copy, assuming I’m allowed to visit something as exciting as a bookstore.” He gave Mary an accusing look.

“Bookstores are not, generally speaking, stimulating environments,” she said calmly. “Matters become different when a local celebrity is launching a debut book.”

Darling could only gape at them.

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5 – 30

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He couldn’t remember if he dreamed. The next thing he was conscious of was her face again, swimming into focus above him. It was a few seconds before he realized he’d actually opened his eyes.

The focusing continued, however, the haze on all sides resolving into the dim light of a room with its curtains half-drawn, and her face changed till it wasn’t her. The features shifted, the hair faded to black. Mary.

“Wh—!” Memory crashed down on Joe and he tried to sit upright. He was in a bed, drowning in pillows. “Is everyone—”

Mary planted a hand in the middle of his chest, gently preventing him from rising. “Everyone is fine,” she said soothingly, “with the possible exception of you. Be easy, Joseph, and take your time. There is no urgency. Decide how you feel and what you feel ready to do about it.”

He paused, slumping backward, and she removed her hand. “I feel…weak,” he said grudgingly after a few moments of following her advice. “And restless, but sleepy.”

“Not uncommon, after having been in bed as long as you have,” she said with a glimmer of amusement. “The weakness—”

“Joe!”

Apparently, the door had been left open; at any rate, Billie didn’t need to push through it before bounding onto a nearby chair and hurling herself bodily at Joe, arms outflung for a hug. Mary snagged her by the back of her shirt, holding the struggling gnome bodily off the ground.

“Do not assault my patient, please,” she said firmly.

“Unhand me, y’great bully!”

“Hi, Billie,” Joe said with a smile.

“Hey, you’re up!” McGraw appeared in the doorway, grinning, then stepped inside, admitting Weaver behind him. “It is damn good to see you alert again, son. You had us right worried.”

“I’m glad to see all of you, too,” said Joe, while Mary set Billie down on the floor with a murmured warning. “But what happened? Last thing I remember…” He trailed off, and swallowed heavily. “Well, it was no fun, and it left me with a good few questions. For starters, where are we?”

“You’re at my house,” said the newest arrival, poking his blond head in. Bishop Darling wore a conservative suit rather than his ecclesiastical robes, and seemed more relaxed than when Joe had previously seen him. “Which, by the way, you may consider your own until you’re back on your feet. I, uh, think you’ll find the room a lot more comfortable when it’s a lot less populated.” Indeed, it was suddenly quite cramped in the modest bedroom, but Joe didn’t spare a moment’s attention for that.

“What? We’re in Tiraas? But… You’re not supposed to move injured people by Rail. Unless…” He began trying to sit up again. “How long was I out?!”

“One day,” Mary said quietly, this time helping him up and arranging the pillows behind him for support. He needed it; it was hard to breathe, and the act of getting his torso upright wiped him out. “And we did not travel by Rail. McGraw brought us here via magic.”

“Really?” Joe turned his gaze to the old wizard. “You can do that?”

“There are exactly two places in the world to which I can teleport five people,” said McGraw, “and one is the Wizards’ Guild sanctum here in Tiraas. They’ve got a permanent portal focus on a major ley line nexus, to which all initiates are attuned.”

“You shoulda seen their faces when we all popped in,” Billie said, grinning. “Someday I wanna do that again when I don’t have a partner bleeding to death on the floor so I can properly enjoy it.”

“I really can’t tell you how relieved I am you’re comin’ through,” McGraw added solemnly. “I was right there, so busy catchin’ my breath I had no idea anything’d happened until that guy spoke. And then… Well, he was gone before I could even get a proper look, and there wasn’t a thing I could do for you. I’ve seldom felt so useless.”

“Despite our assurances that he wasn’t at fault, McGraw has seen fit to give himself a bad case of mana fatigue in getting us back here so expeditiously,” said Mary, a portrait of calm. “Portal nexus or no, that five-person teleport coming on the heels of his exertions in the crater had its price.”

“Are you okay?” Joe asked the old man worriedly.

McGraw waved a hand. “Feh, few weeks’ rest and I’ll be good as new.”

“Mana fatigue is a minor ailment,” Mary said, “provided the patient refrains from using magic until his system recuperates. Otherwise, he risks triggering a variety of permanent degenerative conditions, including anemia, hemophilia, diabetes, autoimmune dysfunction—”

“Lady, I know what the risks are,” McGraw said patiently.

She arched an eyebrow at him. “I have observed that men usually benefit from being reminded of the risks, whether they theoretically know them or not. Which brings us back to my other patient.” She gently smoothed Joe’s hair back from his forehead, an almost motherly gesture that took him aback. “Joe, you were stabbed directly in the heart. That is not a small thing. I reached you within moments; even so, I have lost patients under similar circumstances. I fear my magic might not have been sufficient if not for Billie’s aid; she administered a health potion via some kind of…device.”

“Hypodermic syringe,” Billie chimed in, beaming up at him. “Hottest shit out of Svenheim!”

“In addition to the wound itself,” Mary continued, “that knife was coated with a poison which appears to have been a carrier for raw infernal magic. You are extremely lucky that we didn’t have a priest with us. Most healing done these days uses divine magic; that would have reacted violently with the poison, causing massive internal hemorrhaging wherever it had spread and blasting a fist-sized hole at the knife wound itself.”

Joe swallowed again, heavily. “That…seems unnecessarily cruel.”

“Yes,” she said grimly. “As it is… Shamanic healing neutralizes infernal magic as a matter of course, but the damage was done; the venom spread throughout your bloodstream before I was able to purge it. The wounds are healed and I suspect you will recover fully—provided you follow my advice in the weeks to come—but for the time being, your cardiovascular system is in a state comparable to that of a sixty-year-old obese man recovering from a heart attack.”

“So,” he said wryly, “you’re saying I’m not gonna be attending any hoedowns in the next couple weeks.

Mary smiled, brushing back his hair again. “I’m saying I’ll put you back to sleep if you try. In fact, getting exercise will be vital to your recovery, but it will be gentle, supervised exercise, especially in the beginning.”

“Hey, you’re not alone in being useless,” McGraw drawled. “Without magic, I’m just an old man with questionable fashion sense. We can sit on the porch together complaining about kids on the lawn.”

“I have a finite amount of space,” Darling pointed out.

“Okay, but…what happened?” Joe demanded. “I mean, who was that guy, and why did he butt in? And what happened with Khadizroth after I—um, you know.”

There came a pause in which everyone’s expression grew grimmer.

“He is a professional assassin known as the Jackal,” Mary said finally. “Someone I neglected to kill when I last had the opportunity, for which you have my apologies. I assure you I will not repeat that error.”

“Khadizroth got away,” Weaver added. “Which was apparently the point. The Jackal got everyone to cluster around you instead of around the dragon, and spirited him off.”

“Weaver was the only one who stayed on point,” said McGraw, nodding to the bard. “He tried to apprehend Khadizroth, but…”

“But even a diminished dragon is more than I can handle on my own, it turns out,” Weaver said dryly. “I gave it a try and in two minutes was running for my life. In hindsight, it’s lucky I didn’t get a knife in my own back; I never even knew that asshole was there until I found you on the ground with the others.”

“So, you put aside your concern for me and stuck to the mission,” Joe said, grinning. “Good man.”

“I’m sure you’d have done the same for me,” Weaver replied offhandedly.

“Well, I sure will next time.” The bard actually laughed, sounding more relaxed and cheerful than Joe had ever heard him. “So, uh… How did you mean, diminished?”

“I bound him,” Mary said simply. “A dragon is a creature of shifting forms, as you know. Its larger shape is often called its true form, which is a misnomer; both are natural and intrinsic. In his full size, however, he has a larger aura to accompany his larger mass, and thus greater access to his powers in addition to muscle, armor and natural weapons. The spell I laid upon Khadizroth restricts him to his elven form, which greatly limits his options. Even so, as Weaver pointed out, he is effectively a shaman of nigh-matchless power in his current condition. So while we did not achieve our objective, it was not an unequivocal loss, despite the Jackal’s intervention. Khadizroth will be that much easier to deal with next time.”

“Yeah, well, considering we dealt with him last time with a wild-ass gambit that really should not have worked,” Weaver groused, “and in the future he’ll be on the alert for us, not to mention having a brand new assassin buddy… Forgive me, but I’m not gonna chalk this up as a win.”

“How long will your spell bind him, Mary?” Darling asked quietly.

“It has no limit on duration,” she said, shifting to face him. “I am confident that Khadizroth himself, in his current state, cannot free himself from it… But what can be done can be undone. The greatest impediment to him freeing himself at this time is that he will not be willing to appear vulnerable in front of any of the people who might help him. Nearly all of those are other dragons.”

“Okay,” he said thoughtfully, nodding. “The other thing you all should be aware of is that the Jackal, when he was last seen, was in the employ of Archpope Justinian.”

That brought another momentary silence.

“Doesn’t mean he is now,” McGraw said reasonably. “That Jackal’s a blade for hire, everyone knows that.”

“Ask yourself why he would have stuck his hired blade into that particular situation,” Mary said darkly. “Why follow us to Khadizroth? Why care? No one has an interest in this matter except Darling, the Church and the Empire.”

“And the Imps would have sent their own people,” added Darling. “They’d also have killed the dragon while they found him vulnerable, not helped him escape. No, this leaves the Archpope as the only other person who even knew what was happening out there, and the question is…why would he care? He’s not the vengeful type, and with Khadizroth’s Cobalt Dawn scheme broken up years ago, the dragon is no threat to his interests.”

“What remains,” said Mary, her face falling into a baleful stare, “is Archpope Justinian’s plan to gather powerful adventurers to his side, which you are allegedly to oversee, Antonio. Khadizroth in his current state is a very rare thing: a dragon powerful enough to be a potent force, but vulnerable enough that he may have no choice but to accept terms.”

“Hang on,” Billie objected. “I thought we were the ones working for the Archpope, here?”

“On paper, yes,” said Darling. “But when I look back on it, Justinian handing his adventurer program over to me came at a moment when he had to give me something to keep me loyal. I’ve asked him since you lot reappeared, and he claims the last he heard of the Jackal, the man was rotting away in the Sisterhood’s custody.”

“So it’s like that, is it,” Weaver said grimly. Darling nodded.

“Excuse me, it’s like what, exactly?” Joe asked.

“There are now two Church-sponsored initiatives to control adventurers,” Mary explained. “We represent one, the Jackal clearly being another. The Archpope has to know that Darling knows of his second group, but at the moment, I assume they are unwilling to confront one another.” She turned to raise an eyebrow at Darling.

“Do you really think anything good would come of that?” Darling asked dryly. “I’m in no position to take him on, and he doesn’t benefit from rocking the boat. None of this is particularly out of character for Justinian. He’s used his own agents to winnow each other down before—in fact, that’s what he was doing with the Jackal when I last crossed paths with him. I suspect he’s not shy about surrounding himself with people he knows are working against him, either. It’s a classic technique; keep your enemies closer, as the saying goes. This is a reminder that he is still in control, that he still holds all the cards.”

“Does he?” Weaver asked, staring intently at him.

Darling actually grinned. “He may hold them, but I very much doubt he understands what they do. The nature of individuals such as yourselves is chaos. That’s the specific thing adventurers are known for: succeeding when they should not. Justinian’s a planner and a manipulator; chaos is the one thing he’s least suited to handle. There’s also the fact that his other group are presumably operating under some kind of duress. They wouldn’t be adventurers in the first place if they were sympathetic to anyone in Tiraas looking to control him. No…for the time being, this game continues. Politely.”

Weaver folded his arms, his chin jutting out challengingly. “And that raises the issue of whether we want to continue playing.”

“Of course, you’ll still get paid for this expedition,” Darling said smoothly. “And Justinian has not blocked my access to his room full of oracles; I am still working on the answers I promised you.”

“Also, we’re not feckin’ idiots,” Billie added. “We’re all still in. Don’t give me that look, Weaver, you know damn well we are. None of us is gonna sit still while Justinian puts a collar ’round our necks. It’s either join him, try to ignore him, or stick with Darling and undercut him when we can, aye? Tell me none of ye are daft enough to think that’s even a choice.”

“All this can be discussed in more detail in the days and weeks to come,” Mary said firmly. “Right now, Joe needs rest.”

“I’ve had nothing but rest for the last day, apparently,” Joe complained.

“You were stabbed in the heart,” she said with a touch of asperity. “You will not be recuperated in a matter of hours. Or weeks.”

“Feh, don’t listen ta her,” Billie said cheerfully. “She’s older’n dirt’s granny. We’ll give you all the miracles of modern alchemy, have you back in shootin’ shape in no time at all!”

Mary gave the gnome an extremely level look, but offered no comment.

“Well, if we’ve got a little downtime,” Billie prattled on blithely, “sounds like a good opportunity to spend some quality time gettin’ ta know each other! And seriously, I’ve got questions. Like, Joe, how the hell did you manage that with the portals and that ridiculous shot you pulled off? And you!” She pointed accusingly at Weaver. “Just what the hell manner of beastie is it ye got sittin’ on yer shoulder, eh?”

Silence descended, in which they all peered warily around at each other.

Then Darling laughed out loud. “Well, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful partnership. All right, I have to go tend to a political situation in the city. Try not to kill each other, please. At least not in my house.”

 

“So how was brunch with the Emperor?” Gabe asked as the group descended the steps into the Rail terminal.

“’bout as boring as I anticipated,” said Ruda. “We sipped tea, nibbled delicately on frou-frou little cakes and communicated entirely in mincing doublespeak. Got the job done, though, no one’s bearing any grudges, our great nations are still friends, yadda yadda, and everybody politely avoided mentioning how your great nation could pulverize mine with a good sneeze. Gotta say, though, I like your Empress. I think that lady is constitutionally incapable of taking anybody’s shit.”

“Well, that’s kind of true,” he said with a grin. “I was half expecting you to come back beheaded.”

“I’m not an idiot, Arquin. I don’t talk to people who matter the way I do to you.”

“Oh, so you don’t stab everyone you meet?”

“You are just never gonna let go of that, are you?”

“I cannot think of a single damn reason why I should.”

“Isn’t it kinda late?” Fross asked, rising upward a few feet to get a better view around the station. “Are we gonna be able to get a caravan?”

Afternoon had passed into early evening; there was still sunlight, peering through a rare gap in the Tiraan cloud cover, but it was reddish and streaming in from the west through the large plate glass windows which illuminated the Rail station. Indeed, the place seemed nearly deserted, the Rails themselves silent and the only people still present pushing brooms along the platforms in the near distance. The Empire was large enough that the sun didn’t occupy the same place in all its skies—by now it would be fully dark in Puna Dara and still late afternoon in Onkawa—but evidently it was past the hour when people were expected to be traveling.

“I think you kids have made quite a sufficient spectacle of yourselves for one week,” said Tellwyrn, bustling along in the head of their group. “There’s a reason I left you here all day rather than hopping the first available caravan. We have a special charter taking us back to Last Rock. They don’t usually like to run this late, but someone at ImCom agreed with me that the less attention we garnered, the better.”

“Well, it all works out,” said Gabe lazily. “I got to hear Trissiny’s speech and visit my dad. Nice, easy day after the week we’ve had.”

“It’s a shame you didn’t get to have brunch with our beneficent rulers, though,” Toby said with a smile.

Ruda snorted. “Now him she would’ve beheaded. Me, I was only worried about missing the paladins getting reamed out now that Her Professorship has graciously decided to rejoin us. The suspense is killing me.”

Tellwyrn glanced over her shoulder. “You’re a sadistic ghoul, Punaji. Anyone ever tell you that?”

“Not so much since I left home. I kinda miss it. Nobody pitches a yelling fit like my mama.”

“No one’s getting reamed out,” said Tellwyrn, facing away from her again. “You lot mostly did well.”

“Seriously? They practically got the place burned down.”

“Ruda, must you?” Trissiny asked wearily.

“I don’t must, strictly speaking. It’s mostly just for my amusement. You may have noticed I’m kind of a bitch.”

“Failure wasn’t really a prospect,” said Tellwyrn, coming to a stop and turning to face them. “As I told you up front, this was a lesson, not a test. Toby and Trissiny, it seems, did the best job of learning it, perhaps because they caused the most incidental trouble. And the lesson was…?”

The two paladins exchanged a wary look.

“Pick your battles?” Trissiny said finally.

“More or less,” Tellwyrn nodded. “Minor variations for your specific cases, but yes. I could indeed make a speech about the importance of not trying to slay every monster you come across, but as I said, you seem to have gotten the point on your own. You two did exactly what I expected you to do; you soaked up the lesson better than I’d hoped, though. Well done. Arquin, Fross, you weren’t in a position to be tested very thoroughly on your own terms, but you seem to have done well in assisting your classmates while not causing collateral damage. Punaji, of course, understood this well going in and very properly refrained from getting involved where her involvement would have done no good. And, of course, Falconer and Awarrion performed much the same, though I wonder if either of you are willing to look me in the eye and claim your chosen actions were due to a careful analysis of the needs of the situation and not you taking the opportunity to hold hands and canoodle on a romantic holiday in the big city.”

Teal and Shaeine glanced at each other, then Teal lowered her eyes, blushing. Shaeine met Tellwyrn’s gaze evenly, but said nothing.

Tellwyrn grunted. “Remember, inaction is a course of action; it’s only the right one in circumstances when it specifically is the right one. Most of the time, it’s one of the worst things you can do. And you.” She turned a baleful stare on the last member of the group. “I am not impressed, Juniper. Sheltered and naïve you may be, but there are limits to how much of your denial I’m going to tolerate. You are too powerful and too important to be allowed to stagger aimlessly around the world with your head up your ass.”

Juniper, who had been subdued and glum for days, slumped her shoulders and dropped her gaze, saying nothing in reply.

Tellwyrn grimaced, peering around. “And now, where the hell is the special caravan I chartered? They’re late. I swear, the more modern conveniences get installed the less anything runs on time… Hang tight, kids, I’m going to go terrorize the station master for answers.”

“Um, Imperial Rail personnel aren’t supposed to give out schedule information…”

“Yes, Fross,” Tellwyrn said patiently. “You have never see me bored enough to terrorize someone without good and specific reason. It is goal-directed terror, I assure you. Be right back.”

She swished off in the direction of the ticket office, leaving the students staring after her.

Gabriel stepped over to Juniper and draped an arm around her shoulders. “D’you…wanna talk about it?”

“No,” she mumbled.

He nodded, drew in a breath and said very carefully, “You, uh, heard her, though. Eventually you’re gonna have to talk about it.”

“Not right now,” she said with an edge in her tone. “Okay?”

“Okay.” He rubbed her shoulder soothingly. After a moment, she leaned against him; he staggered before catching himself and bracing one leg.

“Well, look who thought they were gonna slip away without saying goodbye!”

The group started in unison, swiveling around; Flora and Fauna had appeared behind them, wearing identical grins.

“Gah!” Gabe exclaimed. “Don’t do that! In fact… How did you do that? There’s no cover in here!”

They exchanged an amused glance. “We’re Eserites.”

“We’re elves.”

“Honestly, Gabe, try to keep up.”

“It’s not that complicated.”

“I’m just so glad you decided to come visit,” he grumbled. Fauna laughed, stepping forward to ruffle his hair.

“I didn’t get a chance to ask,” said Trissiny with a smile. “How are you two? Last I saw you, it seemed like the Bishop was annoyed with you.”

“Oh, he’s always annoyed about something,” said Flora, waving dismissively.

“It’s all part of his charm.”

“He loves us, don’t you worry.”

“I think we’re actually gonna miss you, though, and not just because keeping tabs on you gave us an excuse to avoid studying.”

“I knew it,” Ruda exclaimed.

“Well, yeah,” Flora said with a grin. “You do realize we don’t always hang around seedy inns in Lor’naris, right?”

“Seriously, though, it was fun,” Fauna added, smiling with a little less mischief. “Someday we’ll have to do that without a riot brewing. I feel like we barely got—”

A thunderclap sounded right in the middle of the group; Flora and Fauna were bodily hurled across the platform, slamming into the far wall.

Tellwyrn reappeared in their midst, planting herself between the students and the two felled elves. Her body was encased in a suit of armor that seemed formed of pale blue light; she held a gold-hilted saber in each hand, both in a ready position. The crackling blue sphere of an arcane shield surrounded her; three orbs of lightning orbited her swiftly, emitting sparks and the sharp smell of ozone.

“What the hell?!” Ruda squawked.

Flora and Fauna surged to their feet, glaring at Tellwyrn with bared teeth.

“I will say this only once,” the Professor declared, her voice resonating hollowly from within her magic armor. “You are not my business. These students are. So long as you don’t move to combine those two things, I look forward to forgetting I ever saw you. Understand?”

“Do you really think you can—” Fauna broke off as Flora gripped her firmly by the shoulders from behind.

“It was good meeting all of you,” she said firmly. “Come on, Fauna.”

Fauna glared at Tellwyrn a moment longer, then sneered, whirled and stalked away toward the stairs out of the station. Flora lingered a moment, giving the students a sad look, then turned and followed her fellow apprentice, cloak billowing behind her.

Tellwyrn held her position until they were out of sight out the doors before straightening from her combat stance. Armor, shield and lightning balls faded from view, leaving behind only the telltale scent of ozone; she twirled both sabers once and then sheathed them at her waist. Or made motions as if doing so, anyway, despite the fact that she wore no scabbards; the blades vanished as if sliding into sheaths, and when she took her hands away, the hilts were gone too.

“Allow me to emphasize and elaborate on my initial question,” said Ruda. “What the fucking hell?! I liked them!”

“I don’t believe in coddling,” Tellwyrn said flatly, finally turning to face them. “You need to face the world in order to learn about it, and I’m not shy about sticking you into risky situations if it furthers your education. So on the rare occasions when I refuse to explain something, it’s because something is going on which doesn’t concern you, would fruitlessly endanger you to get involved with, and which even knowing about would necessarily involve you.” She dragged a hard stare around the group, making eye contact with each of them. “I am refusing to explain this. Understand?”

The students glanced around at each other.

“Understand?” Tellwyrn said insistently, this time getting a few muted acknowledgments.

“Wait,” said Juniper, “is this because those two are—”

“Juniper! You are not, now or at any time in the future, to discuss this with anyone unless I specifically tell you otherwise!”

“Um,” the dryad said meekly, “okay.”

“As for the rest of you,” Tellwyrn went on firmly, “If you ever encounter either of those women again, you are to immediately get as far away from them as you can, as fast as you can, and find me as quickly as possible. Is that clear?”

This time, she waited, staring them all down, until everyone had agreed.

“Good,” she said finally, turning away from them to the Rail, which had begun to glow and sparkle. “And…ah, there we are. Better late than never.”

The students stood in silence, staring at her back as she waited for the approaching caravan to come to a stop, her arms folded, tapping one foot. The doors hissed open, emitting no passengers, and Tellwyrn was the first to step through.

“I, uh, hope nobody saw that,” Fross said a little belatedly.

“The janitors are gone,” said Gabriel. “I guess that’s just good sense, with an archmage having a fit nearby.”

“Let’s just get out of here,” said Juniper, ducking into a car. One by one, the others followed her, arranging themselves inside.

Trissiny was the last to enter the caravan; she paused on the threshold, half-turning to look out at the station and the distant view of Tiraas through its huge windows, and sighed softly. Then she stepped in, pulling the door shut behind her.

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5 – 27

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Khadizroth roared, rearing back on his hind legs and beating his wings furiously. The four of them took the opportunity to bolt in different directions, stumbling slightly with the sudden air currents. McGraw vanished with a faint arcane crackle; the rest of them were stuck with their own legs.

The blast of dragonfire that followed spurred them to move faster.

Weaver hurled himself forward into a roll, vanishing between the spreading roots of an oak tree. He moved with surprising agility for someone who’d allegedly spent the last few years in a library. Also, he wasn’t carrying his guitar case; Joe hadn’t seen him remove it and didn’t have time to wonder about it. Billie simply vanished, skittering off into the dark.

Joe let loose a carefully timed barrage with his wands, not activating their full bolts but sending off tunnels of ionized air, along with the slightest push of kinetic force to get the air moving through them. Sure enough, when he chanced a glance backward, the spray of pencil-thin air channels had become lines of fire, drawing away the heat of Khadizroth’s attack.

Still, the blast hadn’t been aimed at them, but merely a reflexive outburst that went mostly over their heads; Joe’s trick (proud of it though he was) wouldn’t have drawn away anything but the outermost fringes of a full burst of dragonfire.

Khadizroth slammed his front feet back to the ground, stone crunching under his massive talons; even his inhuman face wore a very readable expression. Also, it wasn’t so much as scorched. Evidently, his roar had been of anger, rather than pain.

Joe skidded, turning even while moving, brought up his arms and fired. His aim was true as ever; he would have taken the dragon right through both eyes had his target not moved. The wandshots, powerful enough to pulverize oak and pit granite, splashed harmlessly against emerald scales.

A boulder smashed into the dragon from his right side, followed by a barrage of smaller rocks; McGraw was a will-o’-the-wisp of arcane blue flashes as he teleported erratically through the scattered trees, levitating chunks of the scenery as he went and hurling them. The first boulder knocked Khadizroth off balance, the rest serving to keep him unstable, though he didn’t seem to be suffering any harm from the attack.

Khadizroth staggered to the side, arranging one wing to deflect the stones being flung at him. This placed him very close to a willow tree—not bioluminescent but very out of place in the crater—which suddenly sprung to life, wrapping its trailing branches around the dragon’s form. They weren’t long enough to fully entangle him, but served to pull him further off his center of gravity, then seemed to harden in place. The whole tree, in fact, withered to a blackened husk that, unlike normally rotted wood, appeared much stronger than in its healthy state.

Not strong enough to withstand an irate dragon, of course. Roaring, Khadizroth pulled the whole thing up by the roots and hurled it, fragments of blackened wood flying in all directions.

Joe couldn’t see Weaver, but he had to wonder just what kind of magic the man was using.

Another hefty boulder hit the dragon directly on the side of his head, staggering him. Joe took careful aim and fired both wands, punching considerably more power than normal into the shots; he felt his weapons grow uncomfortably warm. The boosted beams didn’t burn through the scales around Khadizroth’s claws, but apparently gave him a serious hotfoot. His roar abruptly climbed an octave in pitch and he yanked the targeted foot away, causing himself to tumble over on his side.

Immediately a rain of ice slashed down from above, plastering the fallen dragon. Joe kept moving; he couldn’t see any of his teammates and was waiting for his wands to cool before firing them again, so he tried to circle around the caldera, giving the dragon a wide berth while angling to get behind him, and trusting Billie to seek him out when it was his turn in the plan. He couldn’t help feeling a surge of elation. This actually seemed to be working!

Then Khadizroth surged to his feet, pumped his wings and shot skyward.

Reflexively, Joe dived for cover, which in this case was an overhanging ledge of rock. The ground out here was full of such protuberances, for which was thankful, at least until half a second later when he realized how thoroughly he had just cornered himself.

Sure enough, there came a blast of fire from above—though, thank the gods, not at Joe’s hiding place. He wriggled back out, dashing toward a thicker stand of trees and offering a brief prayer for whoever had been the target of that attack. In the next second, he decided to worry about himself instead.

Khadizroth landed very nearly on top of him.

The ground shook hard enough to throw him off his stride; Joe caught his foot in a hidden pothole in the cracked earth and tumbled to the ground, the massive presence nearby filling his awareness even so. He only caught a glimpse of huge claws nearly close enough to touch; he couldn’t see the dragon’s wings, head or tail, but when those legs shifted, the math of it warned him. His mental construction of the dragon found a purpose in that change in position, and he rolled frantically rather than wasting precious seconds trying to get up again.

The spaded tip of Khadizroth’s tail was apparently harder than stone, to judge by the way it punched into the rock right where Joe had been laying a split-second before.

Joe’s roll brought him nearly up against one of those massive claws. Lacking any better ideas, he shot it again.

The dragon actually yelped, staggering away from him.

“Stop doing that!” Khadizroth bellowed, shaking the offended digit and glaring down at him.

Joe managed to roll to his feet, raising both weapons; he was far too close. A blow from that tail or those claws would finish him. If the dragon chose to bite or breathe fire, though, he’d have to open his mouth, which would provide a weak point.

Khadizroth swung around, actually increasing the distance between then, but twisting to bring up that tail in position to launch another scorpion-like strike. Apparently a dragon didn’t live as long as he had by making such obvious mistakes.

Not being given an opening, Joe made his own, by way of shooting at the dragon’s eyes again.

Khadizroth snarled in protest, but twisted his head out of the way. He also went ahead and jabbed with the tail, but it was now a blind stroke which Joe avoided. Barely; he felt the wind of it disturb his coat.

Belatedly, he activated every one of the defensive charms he was carrying, spending the extra power to do so mentally rather than trying to fumble for their various switches. They were intended to deflect, redirect or absorb wandshots; the whole lot of them would be pulverized by one hit from those claws or a good blast of dragonfire, but hopefully they’d give him just enough protection to survive it.

Despite how it had seemed for those tense few seconds, he wasn’t in this alone. No sooner had Khadizroth opened his eyes again than a cloud of grit and dust swept up from the rocky ground blasted him right in the face. Retching and actually coughing up bursts of smoke, the dragon backpedaled, shaking his head furiously and beating his wings to drive away the befouled air. Joe still couldn’t see anyone else, but at least McGraw was still alive and working. Even as he had the thought, another boulder smashed the dragon in the side, right below his wing, followed by a second hail of ice, which almost instantly steamed away to nothing in a clumsy burst of fire.

“What?!” Khadizroth snarled, rearing up on his hind legs again to shake his front claws. There seemed to be something dark oozing over his scales. Joe squinted, trying to get a closer look, and suddenly a hand grabbed his shoulder and the whole world vanished in a sharp flash of blue light.

He was disoriented only momentarily, mostly thrown off by the sudden teleportation, very quickly getting his bearings. He was now behind the dragon and a more comfortable distance away.

“Thanks,” he said feelingly. “I don’t think I was about to get far enough from him on my own power.”

McGraw nodded, panting for breath. “Weaver’s doin’ something… Can you tell what?”

“Not from back here. Looked like something climbing up on him, but it’s too dark…”

McGraw placed a fingertip to his temple, narrowing his eyes, and Joe felt a tingle as the wizard silently invoked a spell. “It’s…bugs,” the old man said, frowning. “No, wait… Bugs and vermin. Dead vermin. Holy shit, it’s all dead stuff. Snakeskins, rodent skeletons, dead bugs, all crawlin’ up on the dragon.”

“Will that…hurt him?”

“Can’t see how, but it’ll upset him. Which is as much as our best weapons are gonna do to him, so that’s as good a tactic as any, I reckon.”

“Why, are green dragons offended by dead things? I know they use life magic…”

McGraw lowered his finger, turning to give Joe a sardonic look. “Son, how would you like to have a carpet of dead vermin crawlin’ over you?”

“Ah. I see your point.”

The dragon went aloft again, bathing his own claws in flame. “I see you, Gravestone Weaver!” he thundered, circling above them. “And I see the chains by which you’ve bound that familiar of yours. You are not the first mortal to seek power over death, and won’t be the last. Those many stories have only one ending! Let’s see how you fare when the creature you’ve entrapped is set free!”

“Uh…should we run?” Joe asked nervously. “I mean, do you know what kind of a thing Weaver’s bound to him?”

“Not a clue,” McGraw replied, “there’s a host of rumors around that man, but no solid facts. It’s not gonna be anything pretty, though. Nothing that uses death magic is.”

“So…run?”

McGraw shook his head. “No way we’d get far enough. Wands up, Kid, we may be fighting on two fronts in a moment.”

The dragon had landed, far more gracefully than before—at any rate, he didn’t shake the earth this time. He flared his wings, however, lowering his head to stare at a clump of trees in which Weaver, presumably, was hiding.

Then the world tilted.

Or so it felt to Joe; his sense of forces and numbers told him nothing had changed, but his stomach dropped as if the ground had become a wall and he ought to be tumbling out into space. The light took on an odd, greenish tinge, and seemed to be thicker. As if everything around him were slightly blurred.

“Easy,” said McGraw, clasping his shoulder again. “I’ve seen this, though not often.”

“What’s he doing?!”

“Thinning the barrier, reaching through to subtler levels of… Well, this is the first step toward summoning something, an’ now you know why that’s usually done inside spell circles. Don’t use any magic until it stops if you can help it. Might accidentally burn a hole through the planes, and we do not need random demons introduced into this.”

“Summoning?” Joe said weakly, trying to hold his stomach down. Khadizroth had reached out with one front claw, seeming to clasp at something invisible in midair before him.

“Don’t think that’s what he’s after,” said McGraw. “I think he’s attacking whatever links Weaver to his invisible…familiar. Don’t, kid,” he added when Joe raised a wand. “Magic includes wandshots. You distract him right now and he may lose control of that effect, and then who knows what’d happen.”

“But…Weaver’s in danger!”

“Don’t assume we’re in any less danger,” McGraw said grimly. “Just a mite less immediately, is all.”

Abruptly, Khadizroth released whatever invisible thing he was gripping, letting out a shrill cry. He staggered backward, pivoting around and incidentally giving Joe and McGraw a clearer view of him from the front. Distant as they were, he was large enough that they could clearly see something had cut him. The slash across his chest was bordered by broken, blackened scales, as if something had burned through the nigh-impervious dragonhide.

No, Joe realized, peering closer at the discoloration. It wasn’t an even or sharp effect, and the scales near the wound were deformed in shape as well as darkened, festering. Not burned. Rotted.

The good news was that the disturbing effect of Khadizroth’s reaching across the planes diminished sharply, restoring Joe’s vision and sense of equilibrium, though the sky above seemed still to have a green cast.

Khadizroth yelped again, twisting aside, and another black slash appeared across his cheekbone.

“That wasn’t a chain, you unbelievably pompous jackass,” said Weaver’s voice from out of the darkness. “It’s a relationship. Y’see, some of us don’t have to brainwash kids from the cradle to get competent help. I don’t think my ‘familiar’ appreciated your little rescue attempt,” he added smugly as a rip appeared in the edge of the dragon’s wing sail.

Khadizroth backpedaled frantically away from whatever invisible thing was attacking him, rising into the air again. Joe and McGraw watched, fascinated, uncertain whether to try to intervene.

Moments later, Weaver himself appeared beside them, limping slightly.

“Not to pry into your business,” said McGraw by way of greeting, “but what manner of thing, exactly, is he fighting up there?”

“Something not usually found on this plane of existence. Something that could seriously hurt him,” the bard said in a tone of malicious satisfaction. “See how he’s constantly backing up? Trying to get space to finish canceling that dimensional effect, not fighting back. It’s not the sort of creature you can kill.”

“Uh, okay,” said Joe. “Should we press the attack? I don’t think we’re ever gonna see him this vulnerable again.”

“Hold it, kid, we’re just here to keep him diverted while the plan plays out,” McGraw said firmly. “Let’s be honest, nothin’ we got is gonna do more than distract and annoy that dragon. He’s already plenty distracted; I think we’re better served takin’ the opportunity to catch our breath.”

“What’s the matter, old man?” Weaver asked, grinning. “Little too much exertion for you?”

“I get that it’s probably a waste of breath to ask you not to be a jerk,” said Joe, “but this isn’t the time.”

“And speakin’ of time, you’re up!”

All three men jumped at Billie’s voice. She popped up next to them, grinning.

“Wh—that wasn’t nine minutes,” said Weaver. Joe kept his mouth shut. It had felt like considerably longer, but a quick replay of events in his head suggested it had actually been quite a bit shorter.

“Yeah, I had to do less tinkerin’ than I’d figured,” said the gnome. “Had the tripods all ready to go, just had to detach ’em from another project and screw in the portal focus stones. Also, I’m feckin’ awesome. Here ya go!” Beaming, she handed Joe a wallet-sized leather bag.

“Um…are you sure this…”

“Oh, honestly, boy, ain’t you ever seen a bag o’ holding before? You have to have, they’re flippin’ everywhere. Trust me, what you need’s all in there. Now it’s time to back up your boasting.”

“Right,” he said uncertainly, then squared his shoulders and added more firmly, “Right. Okay, just keep him off me. I’ll make it as quick as I can.”

“So, what’s our boy doin’ up there?” Billie asked, cocking her head to peer up at the dragon who was flapping in ungainly circles around the caldera, causing sudden outgrowths of plant life below him as he threw fae magic around, healing up the wounds inflicted by Weaver’s mysterious familiar.

Joe didn’t bother to listen to any of the responses, peering around the caldera. He could see the shape he’d need to set up in his mind. Like a nautilus shell. The network of portals would have to be arranged with exquisite precision, each turn at precisely the right angle, spiraling outward from the initial launch point, the space between them increasing as the angle widened. That was the easy part. It had to fit in the space available; the spiral had to be arranged with the portal points near the ground so as to establish the tripods, there couldn’t be any obstructions between them, and he had only half the space of the caldera in which to work, given that it had to fire Khadizroth toward the spot Mary had indicated near the center. He slowly turned in a circle, mentally shifting the invisible spiral this way and that, trying to find a place where it could align properly. The darkness didn’t help; what light there was came from the eerie vegetation.

There.

Joe was moving at a run as soon as the mental diagram clicked into place. He skidded to a stop next to the starting point of the portal and reached into the bag, pulling out the first tripod.

Billie’s handiwork was starkly utilitarian, but sturdy. The portal stone was an oval amber gem, a faint light swirling within; Joe had never seen one in person, but they were amply described in the enchanting literature he’d studied. The tripod was a collection of steel rods, hinges, rubber stops, braces and springs. It was intimidating to look at for a split second before everything mentally snapped into place for him. All the parts were exposed; seeing how they fit together was as good as an explanation for their use.

Very carefully, he arranged the tripod’s adjustable legs against the ground, twisting and pushing at the whole thing with increasing annoyance. He could see the angle, see just where it needed to go to fit in the spiral diagram, but the realities of putting it there slowed him down. The ground was uneven and its composition irregular; Joe had to repeatedly readjust things as the legs first shifted in loose dirt, then caught on a piece of rock he’d failed to see.

When it hit the right spot, though, it clicked in his mind; he could almost see the lines and angles he’d painted on the backs of his eyes light up when the portal stone settled in exactly the right position. Hardly daring to breathe lest he disturb the perfection of its placement, he touched the activator runes on each of the tripod’s legs, triggering the sticky charms that affixed them firmly in place.

It had likely been less than a full minute, but that was still frustratingly long. Finally, he stood, brushing off his hands on his coat, and turned toward the next spot, setting off at a careful run. It wouldn’t do to break his leg stepping in a hole; this turf would have been poor ground for running even in broad daylight.

“Where do these portals lead to, that makes them such useful power amplifiers?” Weaver asked, jogging alongside him.

Joe gave the man a sidelong glance. “Nowhere. They’re unstable portals; that’s what causes the effect. Think of two portable holes fixed back-to-back.”

“…that gives me a headache just to imagine.”

“Yeah, the feedback it causes is what amplifies the shot. Also what makes this dangerous, and why you’ve probably never heard of the maneuver; it’s not something people do unless they’re desperate or a little crazy. What’re you doing, exactly?”

“I’ve been designated your bodyguard,” Weaver said with a grin. “The other two are going to draw the dragon’s attention away once he finishes with… Yeah, that’s likely to be any moment, he’s making headway. All he needs is an uninterrupted second or two to finish nixing this dimensional effect and then my partner can’t touch him. So…chop chop.”

Joe ignored this last comment, having already slid to a stop on his knees to begin placing the second portal rune.

He actually managed to get that one placed and was in the middle of affixing the third when the light changed again. Joe didn’t need Weaver’s warning to understand that Khadizroth was done being inconvenienced by the backfire of his own dimensional rift.

The distance between portal points increased with each one placed. It was nerve-wracking, having to count on his partners to keep the dragon occupied while he worked to arrange a portal stone in just the right spot, but he had longer and longer periods in which he only needed to pick his way to the next position, and then could spare the attention to glance up at the others. Billie and McGraw appeared to be doing their job well, insofar as they were keeping Khadizroth well away from Joe. The dragon’s bulk was unmistakeable, even when partially obscured by trees, but all he could discern of the action was roaring, flashes and thumps, interspersed with other spell effects and Billie’s taunts.

Joe had just stood up from placing the fourth stone when Khadizroth, who had been circling aloft sending fire blasts at a series of decoy flickers McGraw had launched to hide his teleportation, suddenly diverted, settling to the ground and tilting his head, peering at something there. Joe’s stomach plummeted. The dragon was looking right at the first of his carefully-positioned portal stones.

Would Khadizroth even know what it was? He was a green dragon, not a blue, and portal stones were arcane. They were also a relatively recent invention, and it was a well-known weakness of older immortals that they tended not to keep up with developments that were outside their specific interests. And even if Khadizroth knew all that, could he possibly anticipate their plan? The plan was crazy enough that even Joe could hardly believe they were trying it, and it had been his idea.

It was a moot point, of course. Khadizroth, whether or not he knew the significance of the portal stone, had to know who had placed it there and that they meant him harm. He slammed his claw down, obliterating it.

Weaver drew in a breath through his teeth. “Well, there goes that,” he spat.

“No,” said Joe, calculating rapidly in his head. “No…plan’s still on.”

“What? Boy, you’re not thinking of—”

“Plan is still on. I can adjust; this can still work. Get to Billie and McGraw, tell them so, make sure they don’t surrender or something. And keep him too busy to go looking for the others!”

“I don’t think that gnome knows the meaning of the word ‘surrender,’” Weaver muttered, but he took off without further protest. Joe noted that the man moved much more deftly across the darkened terrain than he himself did.

He had no more energy to devote to wondering about the bard. He could still make this work…maybe. There were unknown and unknowable variables; he could increase the output of the shot easily enough. His original calculations had presumed it would be a standard wandshot launched at the first portal, and his wands were versatile enough to put a lot more power into it. The first portal jump was the sharpest angle and represented the weakest increase in the longshot’s power. But still… Exactly how much energy did it take to daze a dragon? Khadizroth had been shot, iced, entangled, bashed and even wounded by a vengeful spirit, and the sum total of it had done nothing more than anger him.

And, of course, if he found and destroyed any more of the stones, the whole thing would be over.

He forced that worry out of his head, did his best to ignore the sounds of battle not far away, as he carefully placed the fifth—now fourth—and final portal stone.

That done, Joe stood and bolted toward where the first had been put, the spot from which he would now have to make his shot.

McGraw teleported next to him just as he arrived. The old man immediately hunched forward, leaning heavily on his staff with one hand and resting the other on his knee, gasping for breath.

“You gonna be okay?” Joe asked worriedly.

“Yeah,” McGraw panted, nodding. “Jus’ a sec.”

Joe turned to study the scene of battle. Billie and Weaver were both pelting the dragon with wandshots, apparently having given up on trying more complex magics. Khadizroth’s scaly green hide seemed to suffer no ill effects from repeated lightning strikes, though he did twitch his head aside when one came too near his eyes. The dragon was mostly focused on a third figure, though, a glowing blue knight with a shield and sword of light. As Joe watched, the dragon bashed the knight out of the way with a sweep of his tail, which would have utterly pulverized any human being. The figure simply bounded back to its feet and charged again.

“Nice summon,” Joe commented.

“Been savin’ it,” said McGraw, straightening up. “You know how it is. You cling to a rare and valuable piece that’s only got one use, always afraid you’ll need it just after it’s gone. End up takin’ it to your grave. At my age, a man starts lookin’ for reasons to spend that savings.”

“Got your breath back?”

“Don’t you worry about me, I’m good to go.”

Joe nodded. “And you can sense the focus stone locations?”

McGraw grinned at him. “Ain’t my first rodeo, son. Just might be the craziest, though.”

Joe himself felt the crackle of energy as each of the four remaining stones came to life. He couldn’t see the portals; they didn’t give off light. He felt them, though, and had a strong suspicion that he wasn’t the only one. Whether or not he was attuned to arcane magic, Khadizroth was too magical a creature not to be aware of the energy those unstable portals were suddenly putting out.

He was almost in the right position. The dragon absently swatted the glowing knight away from himself again, lifting his head as if to sniff the air. His gaze turned toward the closest portal.

Billie and Weaver, having maneuvered around, unleashed a concerted barrage, blasting his entire left flank with lightning. The dragon snarled, turning to face them and letting out a burst of fire. The flame, strangely, dissipated in midair, no doubt due to an effect one or the other of them had thrown up.

It was a good bluff, Joe thought as the dragon turned and stalked toward them and the two fled. The attack looked like they’d been trying to herd him in the opposite direction, but they had positioned themselves so that Khadizroth’s pursuit was drawing him closer to the sweet spot.

If “pursuit” weren’t too vigorous a word. The dragon moved like a prowling cat, either sensing trouble or just drawing out his approach.

“Time’s a-wastin’,” McGraw grunted, his voice tense with effort. “Longer these portals are up, more likely one’ll go nova on us…”

“I know,” Joe said tersely. “Just a few more seconds…”

Khadizroth slowed, then stopped, just short of the right position, turning his head to stare directly at Joe and McGraw.

“Oh, come on,” Joe protested.

Then the glowing knight, charging from behind, stabbed the dragon’s tail.

Khadizroth let out an embarrassing yip, bounding into the air and whirling to face his attacker. The motion swiveled him so that most of his bulk was right in the line of fire.

Joe was already forming the angles in his mind, had already positioned his body in a slightly awkward pose so that his wand was aligned with the center of the first portal at precisely the right orientation. He drew deeply on the power crystal, judging to the finest iota the precise amount of power the wand could channel at once without blowing up, and fired.

The beam was brighter than any he had ever shot. And that was just on the first leg of its journey.

Moving at nearly the speed of light, there was no dramatic buildup, just a sudden angular spiral of light blazing across the floor of the crater, between trees and boulders, growing hugely in intensity every time it shifted direction. The massive beam which burst out from the final portal smashed into the dragon with titanic force, bearing his mighty form to the ground.

Khadizroth let out a screeching, inhuman wail of pain as he was pinned to the rock by a column of sheer destructive force. Only for a second, though; as swiftly as it had come, the light vanished.

Joe’s wand was so hot in his hand it was nearly painful to hold. At his side, McGraw actually slumped to his knees, hanging his head and laboring for breath.

“YEE-HAW!” Billie screamed, leaping spastically into the air and pumping both fists. “Eat science, bitch!”

The rim of the crater blazed with green light.

Like ripples in a pond spreading in reverse, the circle rushed inward. Joe felt his hair try to stand on end as the wall of light washed over him, collapsing to the point at its center where the stunned dragon lay. It reached Khadizroth’s prone body, then soaked into him.

The dragon shrank down to his elven form, leaving him only a slim, sad figure sprawled insensate on the rock. Mary’s spell had done its work.

“Well, good night in the morning,” Joe said aloud in awe. “We actually pulled it off.”

The only warning he got was the sudden and inexplicable collapse of every one of his shielding charms.

Joe straightened up, looking around in alarm, and something slammed into him from behind. Despite all his senses, physical and arcane, he hadn’t heard or felt anything approach.

Then he became conscious of the pain. Something had struck him hard in the back, but it wasn’t a blunt kind of pain. He suddenly understood it a lot better when the knife was yanked back out.

He lost his balance, stumbling to his knees. The agony…every beat of his heart was like being stabbed anew. Joe’s unnaturally precise senses had never been turned inward that he could remember, or perhaps he was just too accustomed to the workings of his own body to pay them any mind. Funny how that completely changed when the body was no longer working as intended. He was precisely, excruciatingly aware of the spread of fluid in his chest cavity where fluid should not go, of the tortured twitching of the muscle pumping his blood—or trying to, having now been punctured.

A figure stepped around into his field of view, calmly wiping off the wicked-looking hunting knife with a lace-trimmed handkerchief. Of all the preposterous things, it was an elf in a pinstriped suit.

“Impressive,” the man said to him with a pleasant smile. “I mean that sincerely, kid, that was mighty fine work. Sorry about killing you, and all. Just business.”

If he said anything further, it was drowned out by the roaring in Joe’s ears. That, he though distantly, would be the shock and blood loss setting in. My, but it came quickly. He noted the way his view was reorienting itself, indicating he’d fallen onto his back. He could barely tell anymore with the blackness creeping up on his vision. The sound of wings was impossibly loud, even through the noise in his ears.

His last thought was of her face.

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5 – 25

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Chief Om’ponole took a different approach to security than Vandro. There was a walled and fortified section of his grounds near the center, but it was surrounded by several acres of decorative garden, open on all sides to the streets which bordered it. Not that the estate was undefended; guards in ceremonial Onkawi armor patrolled the outer boundary, as well as the paths that meandered within. Their armor appeared to be silk and painted wicker, of all the ridiculous things, but the modern battlestaves they carried were not the least bit ceremonial.

Once onto the grounds, though, there was ample cover for intruders. Shook figured that amid that riot of flowering shrubs and fruit trees, he could have found a safe route to the palace even without the benefit of Kamari’s directions and map detailing the safest path to avoid the patrols. He wondered how often local street urchins snuck onto the palace grounds to steal low-hanging pomegranates and oranges.

Not that this particular neighborhood probably housed any urchins. He and Saduko had been forced to find a vantage point over a block from Om’ponole’s grounds, due to the prevalence among his neighbors for similarly open-planned estates. Aside from the lack of cover, people loitering suspiciously in a neighborhood this ritzy would have been intercepted by police within minutes, if not by private guards. Police would be better; they answered to the regional governor, who answered to the Tiraan Empire. House guards of aristocratic families this far from the capital had a tendency to make annoying people vanish.

The only cover they had found was a delivery wagon parked against the outer wall of an estate one lot distant from their target. A faint trickle of glittering dust seeped continually from one of its axles, blowing away in the light breeze as it fell, indicating a failed wheel enchantment; they were lucky this had happened so late in the day. Even among the wealthy classes who doubtless resented such a common sight parked among them, the relaxed attitude of the Onkawi meant the wagon was likely to stay here until regular business hours rolled around again and somebody could be summoned to fix it.

Saduko was fiddling with what looked to Shook like an extravagant timepiece, something like a pocket watch with a tiny hourglass attached, the latter filled with purplish enchanting dust rather than sand. He didn’t lean over her shoulder to watch her manipulate the device; he wouldn’t have understood anything he saw, and she had made it plain she did not enjoy his proximity. While he might otherwise have resented being thus rebuffed, he found Saduko admirably well-behaved for a woman. That was to say, polite and quiet. Between Kheshiri and Vandro’s groupies, he didn’t feel an urgent need to get laid; he could deal with her frigidity. Besides, after having led the way through Onkawa’s darkening streets as a good enforcer should, it was pleasant to be positioned to have a view of her cute little butt. She favored snug trousers.

“All is in order,” she said quietly, flipping shut the lid on the watch-like portion of her device and slipping it into a pocket. “The frequencies match Kamari’s intel; I can get us past the wards unnoticed.”

“What matters is the guards’ timing, then,” he said, stepping up to stand beside her. “Ready for that?”

“Of course.” She produced a tiny, spiky piece of brass with a small blue gem inset. “Your finger, please.”

He offered it silently and didn’t so much as wince when she pricked his fingertip with one of the gadget’s points, nor when the resulting droplet of his blood was sucked into the gem in the center. She transferred it to her other hand, where it joined a second identical object, no doubt primed with her own blood.

Shook offered her his arm; face impassive, she slipped her free hand through it. He led her out into the street and they set off toward the Om’ponole estate at a leisurely pace, just a couple of foreigners out for an evening stroll.

He kept his eyes on the roving guards, watching their progress, counting steps and seconds. “Match my pace and follow my lead,” he murmured. “I have the pattern down; I’ll get us to the insertion point at the blind spot. Be ready with your stuff.”

“I know my role,” she said calmly. Any of his fellow Guild operatives, especially one who didn’t like him, would have been snippy about it. She was just calm. He made a mental note to see about acquiring a Sifanese ladyfriend if he ever had to get rid of Kheshiri; they apparently raised them wonderfully respectful over there. Hopefully they weren’t all as flat in the chest as Saduko.

He saw one of the passing guards notice them, and gave no sign of it, bending his head toward his companion and putting on a fake smile. She kept her own eyes demurely downcast, and after a suspicious but cursory glance, the guard went about his route without giving them further attention.

This was far from Shook’s first caper; he timed it precisely. Their insertion point was an arbor twined with grapevines which formed an archway leading onto a hedge-lined path; they reached it just as the guards walking to either side were out of sight behind other stands of greenery. This occurred exactly according to the schedule Kamari had provided, which meant it was part of their assigned route. The fact that the route included such a hole at the border showed what amateurs Om’ponole’s people were. This plan would never have worked on any of the nobles’ estates in Tiraas.

Saduko tossed the two little brass stars to the street as they ducked into the shade of the arbor; instantly, illusory doubles of herself and Shook were strolling on at right angles to their original path, where they would be spotted by the guards walking away from the estate and back into the warren of the city’s streets. They might cause some commotion when they abruptly vanished in ten minutes, but that shouldn’t matter. At this hour, they might not even be seen.

She slipped her hand into her pocket, fiddling with one of her enchanting tools, and nodded to him. The wards were bypassed; they were in.

The route prescribed was a winding one. After only a few feet up the paved path, they slipped through a gap in the hedge and took a circuitous course through the upward-sloping grounds, avoiding patrols of guards and making maximum use of available cover. Saduko seemed tense enough to vibrate, but in truth this was laughably easy. Shook figured he could’ve made the approach even on his own, but having memorized Kamari’s map and directions, it was a literal walk in the park.

Keeping their pace careful, it took them less than ten minutes to reach a nook at one corner of the estate’s outer wall, where a small service door was hidden from view of the streets by a stand of lemon trees. It wouldn’t do to let the commoners outside see that Om’ponole’s flawless gardens required such mundane things as gardeners and tools. That would spoil the image. They really did not take their security seriously here.

Saduko knelt beside the door, placed her hand against it and closed her eyes, concentrating. “…as indicated. It is a standard enchantment, several years out of date, in fact. Quite sturdy; there must be a potent energy source supporting this estate’s network. But not complicated. I can circumvent it.” She fell silent, but her lips continued to move rapidly.

“Don’t need your little tool for that?” Shook asked. He began to be annoyed when she didn’t immediately respond, but quashed it. She wasn’t disrespecting him; she was working. He approved of professionalism.

“The focus was necessary to thwart a ward network of the size that covered the whole estate’s perimeter,” she said finally, opening her eyes and smoothly standing up. “To deal with such a small barrier, any decent enchanter needs only her mind. I’m afraid the lock is beyond my skill, however. That is your area.”

On a whim, he reached out and turned the knob. The latch clicked and the door swung smoothly inward on silent hinges.

“Amateurs,” Shook muttered, slipping inside. Saduko followed on his heels.

It was dark within. According to the plan, Kamari would meet them here; the outside door led to a shed built into the wall, housing tools and supplies for the gardeners. It had been dim outside; the decorative little lamps adorning Om’ponole’s gardens hadn’t been enough to wreck his night vision. Still, he couldn’t make out anything beyond the shapes of heavily curtained windows and murky shadows that might have been anything. He wasn’t about to go blundering around in the darkness.

Saduko carefully pushed the door shut behind them, and they waited in silence for a few tense moments.

“He’s supposed to meet us here,” Shook breathed to himself in annoyance, then raised his voice to a hoarse stage whisper. “Kamari? It’s us.”

Light exploded in the room.

It was too much, too fast; Shook was all but blinded, throwing up a hand to shield his eyes. Even in that first instant, however, he could already see that everything had gone wrong.

Kamari knelt in the middle of the floor, right in front of them, slumped forward so that his face was hidden, his hands obviously tied behind his back. He had clearly been placed there for dramatic effect; Shook allowed himself to hope the man was a prisoner, but only for a moment. Kamari was bruised, lacerated and abraded badly in multiple places, his ripped servant’s uniform heavily stained with blood. It was no longer dripping, however.

Shook had put enough holes in enough bodies during his career to know that living ones bled when you did so.

He could spare poor Kamari no more concern, however, because they were far from alone in the room. It wasn’t a large space, but plenty big enough to contain the six guards lining the walls. Shook suddenly found himself respecting their ceremonial wicker armor a lot more, and not just because of the staves now pointed at him. They did not look pleased to make his acquaintance.

“And here you are,” said a seventh man, well-dressed enough almost to be a minor noble himself, in the colorful fashion of Onkawa, with one of those silly little flat-topped hats they liked around here. He smirked unpleasantly at Shook. “How very punctual you are! I am pleased to see that our Kamari’s directions served you well. We might have altered the guards’ patrol to let you pass, but I refrained; I wished to see whether you knew enough to truly penetrate the estate’s outer defenses. I would applaud Kamari’s diligence in this, but…well, you know.”

Casually, he kicked Kamari’s shoulder with one sandaled foot. The lifeless servant slumped over onto his side. Mercifully, he landed in a position that still kept his face hidden from them. Saduko, pressed against the door, made a strangled noise in her throat.

“And you are?” Shook asked flatly, refusing to give this asshole the satisfaction of looking frightened.

“You have not earned my name,” the man said coldly. Some kind of higher servant, maybe a steward or personal assistant to the chieftain, likely. “Suffice it to know that you are now mine, and will remain so for the time being. Ah, yes, and our very helpful acquaintance! I apologize for this brutish reception, Saduko-san, but barbarians such as this understand no other language. Please, step this way; you are owed a great reward. My master lavishes honor upon those who serve him well.”

Saduko gasped. “What?” she squeaked, naked emotion audible in her voice for the first time since Shook had met her.

He wasn’t impressed by it. The rage that suddenly boiled up in him demanded outlet. How dare she? How fucking dare she spit on Vandro’s hospitality and his own loyalty?! Red tinged his world; he couldn’t even think beyond the overpowering need to inflict vengeance.

“You backstabbing little whore!” Shook whirled and lunged for her.

He didn’t hear the crack of lightning, but he felt it. Only for a second, though.

Mary and McGraw acted simultaneously; a rough wall of black igneous rock thrust upward between the group and the dragon, instantly reinforced by a glittering shield of pure arcane energy. Not a moment too soon; a torrent of dragonfire immediately blasted the barrier. Rock turned scarlet at the edges, beginning to drop off in globs under the onslaught. A shrill whine filled the air as the blue shield turned white and nearly opaque, flickering. McGraw gritted his teeth, clutching his staff as if he were hanging from it.

Joe could spare them no attention. More throwing knives flashed at the group, aimed at each of them; even with all his gifts, shooting them down tested his skill well beyond what he’d been prepared for. It was fortunate that he didn’t have a moment to question his capability. There was no time; there was only instinct. Angle, gravity and force told him trajectories; his hands moved on their own in minute adjustments, his mind flickering out to touch the enchantments in his wands with split-instant precision. Small knives fell harmlessly to the ground, bent and punctured by bolts of energy.

Weaver had drawn a wand from within his own coat and returned fire while Joe was still on the defensive. That put a stop to Vannae’s attack—fortunately, as Joe wasn’t at all sure how long he could have kept that up. Gifted or no, no human moved as quickly or precisely as an elf. Vannae was forced to dodge back from them, bouncing like a greased jackalope.

Joe and Weaver both pressed their attack while he was off-balance. Joe had seen elves in motion, of course, even in battle, and even before the confrontation with the White Riders in Sarasio. He had never had occasion to shoot at one, though, and was finding it a frustratingly fruitless experience.

Behind them, the dragonfire slackened off, and Joe angled his body to give himself a look at their companions without letting Vannae out of his field of view. McGraw was kneeling on the ground, panting; Billie stood beside him, laboring feverishly at a squat tube she had placed on a tripod on the rock. The stone barrier had been reinforced into a small mountain nearly as thick as it was stall, molten and still glowing at the edges, but not penetrated. Heat sufficient to melt rock should have roasted them all from sheer convection; either Mary or McGraw must have counteracted that somehow. Likely the former, given the latter’s apparent condition.

He returned his attention to the elf, trusting his companions to deal with Khadizroth. He and Weaver weren’t making any headway, however. Vannae even found time to hurl a tomahawk at them; Joe easily shot down the much larger missile.

“I thought you were some kind of crack shot,” Weaver growled.

“I am!” Joe protested. “Something’s not right. The math isn’t working!” He was beginning to grow truly alarmed; his instincts, his sense of angles and numbers, was telling him the shots he was firing should be striking flesh, no matter how the elf bounded. He had begun by aiming for arms and legs as was his usual pattern, but as Vannae continued to slip around his shots, had switched to what should have been lethal hits. It made no difference; he hit nothing but air and stone.

“The math?!” Weaver roared. “Boy, when did you find time to scarf down a glittershroom?!”

“He’s doing something,” Joe realized. “Magic! He’s messing with reality somehow.” Even as he said it, he realized how unlikely that was. Such alteration took enormous power, not the kind of thing even an expert shaman could do while jumping around evasively and not appearing to concentrate. Using magic to alter his perceptions, though, was extremely basic witchcraft.

“Oh, really,” Weaver said grimly, holstering his wand. “Keep him busy a bit longer.” The bard drew out his flute, raised it to his lips, and blew.

Uncomfortable as they were, Joe was suddenly very glad of his magic earplugs.

His ears told him he was hearing the sweet, high tone of a flute; all the rest of his senses suggested he was standing next to a just-rung bell the size of a haycart. The whole world seemed to vibrate, the very air resonating. He could feel the earth humming in response.

Vannae staggered, sort of. It was only a momentary lapse, and elven agility enabled him to recover immediately. It was a moment, though, and Joe brought his wands to bear again.

This time, the elf simply managed to move faster than he had expected. He only clipped Vannae on the upper arm and thigh as the elf spun out of the way. Whatever Weaver was doing had canceled out his magical advantage.

Weaver ran out of breath, though; the sound of the flute ended, and there as a second’s stillness. The elf stared at them, wide-eyed; the two adventurers stared back, panting.

A roar sounded from behind them, and something flashed blindingly blue against the darkness.

Joe chanced a glance over his shoulder, just in time to see Khadizroth’s massive form hurled bodily backward. The dragon actually flew over a hundred yards, slamming into the outer wall of the caldera and tumbling to the ground, apparently stunned.

There was a circular hole burned through the center of Mary’s rock wall, and Billie’s device was belching smoke and appeared to have spontaneously rusted to scraps.

“YEAH!” the gnome crowed, pumping a fist in the air. “Suck it, scaletail!”

Joe sensed movement and responded with a wild flurry of small energy bolts. Vannae had started to charge them, but had changed his course at Joe’s reprisal, again barely dodging. His buckskins were scorched where the Kid had grazed him, but if he was in pain, it wasn’t slowing him down. Worse, he had clearly reinstated whatever spell he was using to interfere with Joe’s aim. A further barrage of shots all went wild. Barely so, but barely was enough; he was making no progress against the elf.

“Finish him off!” McGraw rasped behind them.

“I’m out, I’ll need a bit to set up another weapon,” Billie replied, and then whatever else was said was buried under another blast from Weaver’s flute.

This time Vannae staggered much less gracefully, favoring his hit leg.

Moving faster than thought, Joe put a bolt of white light through his other knee. The elf screamed out in pain, stumbling to the ground. Two more blasts pierced each of his hands, and he collapsed to the rock floor.

Weaver’s flute trailed off and the bard gasped for breath. Behind them the others were chattering; Joe tuned them out, unwilling to take his attention off the elf again. Wounded or no, elves were slippery and quick. He approached slowly, both his weapons trained on Vannae. His opponent seemed to pose no threat, however; he lay there curled around himself, shuddering.

“Well,” said Weaver with satisfaction. “One down, just the big one to go.” He raised his wand.

“Stop!” Joe barked, stepping in front of him.

“Are you—get out of the way, kid,” Weaver snapped, trying to step around him. Joe kept moving, keeping himself positioned to ruin the bard’s line of sight without letting Vannae slip out of his peripheral vision. Even with the elf doing nothing but laying there, it was tricky.

“He’s down! You are not going to shoot a fallen, injured man who poses us no threat.”

“The only enemy who poses no threat is a dead one, and you can’t always assume that about them. Boy, I do not have time to indulge your naivete. This is real life; sometimes you have to do ugly things with far-reaching consequences. Now move it!”

He stepped forward, as if to push Joe bodily out of the way.

Joe raised his wand.

The bard stopped, staring at the tip of the weapon from inches away.

“…do you really think that’s wise, boy?” he asked quietly.

“No,” Joe replied. “I think it’s ugly, and likely to have far-reaching consequences. I surely do wish you’d left me with a better option.”

They stared each other down across the wand for a silent moment.

Then, the rush of wings, the tremendous thump of the dragon’s bulk landing on the other side of the fallen elf. Immediately forgetting Weaver, Joe whirled, aiming both wands. They were the best modern enchantment could produce, but he had no idea if they could penetrate a dragon’s hide. Billie’s peculiar weapon sure hadn’t. It seemed he was about to find out, though; there was nothing between him and the dragon but one prone elf.

Khadizroth, however, merely stared down at him, tilting his head to one side as if puzzled.

“I am pleased to have met you, Joseph Jenkins, however briefly,” the dragon rumbled. “You evince a sense of honor I had begun to think extinct among your race.”

Slowly, very carefully, Joe lowered his weapons. If the dragon wasn’t going to attack, he wasn’t about to be the one to start the violence up again.

“I think there’s enough perfidy and virtue everywhere to satisfy anyone,” he replied. “If you’re only seein’ one or the other, maybe that says something about the company you keep.”

The dragon emitted a booming huff accompanied by a gout of black smoke; Joe whipped his weapons back up before he realized Khadizroth was laughing. “And wise, for a child.”

“Something my pa once told me,” he said tersely, forcing himself to lower his wands again.

“Indeed. I would prefer not to destroy you, Mr. Jenkins, if it can be arranged. Your society badly needs the influence of your ideas.”

“We can still come to an agreement,” Joe said. “This doesn’t have to be any uglier than it has been already.”

“Have you something to offer that you neglected to mention initially?” The dragon moved his whole head on his serpentine neck, swiveling his gaze around their group; Joe glanced back to see the others forming up beside himself and Weaver. McGraw seemed to be refreshed, likely thanks to Mary’s aid. “No? Then we remain at the same impasse. I ask that you grant me a momentary reprieve, however, to tend to my friend.”

“You’ve gotta be joking,” said Billie.

Khadizroth lowered his head to stare down at her, featureless green eyes expressionless, the expression on his scaled muzzle—if any—totally inscrutable. “I give you my word, Billie Fallowstone, I shall only move Vannae to a safe place and set a healing upon him. Then I will return, having made no further preparations to battle you, and we may resume from here.”

“What I’m having trouble with is that’d be a goddamn stupid thing for you to do,” Weaver said. “I really can’t see you as being an idiot.”

“Sometimes, Gravestone Weaver, honor must precede reason. If this is the price you demand for allowing me to tend my friend, I shall pay it.”

“We accept those terms,” said Mary.

“Wait, we what?” Billie demanded.

Khadizroth, however, nodded respectfully to her. “Thank you. I shall return anon.” With astonishing tenderness, he carefully lifted Vannae’s twitching form in his massive front claws. Then, giving a mighty pump of his wings, he was aloft, gliding swiftly out of the light of his glowing garden over the caldera’s rim.

“There’s no way he’s just tending to that elf,” Weaver exclaimed. “Gods only know what tricks you just gave him the chance to pull out!”

“He won’t,” Mary said evenly. “Khadizroth the Green prizes his honor, and his reputation for upholding it, above almost everything else. He will do exactly as he promised.”

“But that’s crazy! He’d be handing us a free chance to plan something against him!”

“Then let us by all means use that chance instead of complaining,” she replied, a bite in her tone. “I can neutralize him, but not alone. I must make my preparations. You see that spot, the small clearing between those three glowing maple trees?” She held out an arm, indicating a spot near the middle of the caldera. “He must be brought there, on the ground, stunned or momentarily incapacitated. Can the four of you do this?”

“We’ll make it happen,” McGraw promised, nodding.

“Good.”

There was a flutter of small wings, and the crow vanished into the surrounding darkness.

“And we’re gonna do that fucking how, precisely?” Weaver demanded.

“Language, there’s a—”

“Joe, I appreciate it, but you can give that a rest,” said Billie with a grin. “Been a long damn time since I could fairly call myself a lady.”

“What about the long shot?” Joe asked, turning to McGraw. “Your signature move, isn’t it?”

McGraw was already shaking his head. “No good, kid. There’s not room in this crater to set it up. I’d need at least three times the space to get one going strong enough to put down a dragon.”

Joe frowned. “How many gates would it take?”

“I said—”

“Hypothetically, then. Indulge me, please.”

McGraw snorted. “Hypothetically? Hell, I can give you precise numbers. Five jumps will magnify a standard wandshot to roughly the power of an Imperial mag cannon; one of those was once used to bring down a dragon. But, as I said, there’s no room. We could set up maybe two in here, at most.”

“Somebody wanna let the rest of us in on the joke?” Weaver asked.

“They’re talkin’ about dimensional amplification,” said Billie. “You pump a burst of arcane energy through a series of unstable dimensional portals. If you do it right, your shot garners up loose energy from the portals and grows more powerful with each one. Exponentially. So yeah, about five jumps’d turn a basic wandshot into fuckin’ artillery fire. Y’know how battlestaves are longer than a wand? Same basic principle. I was tryin’ ta do something similar with my gizmo that I just blew up taking down Khadizroth.”

“That sounds like half a dozen things in a race to see which can go catastrophically wrong first,” said Weaver in awe.

“Well, yeah, you may ‘ave noticed it blew up. There’s a reason Imperial mag artillery units don’t try this on battlefields.”

“You can angle the portals, though,” said Joe, making a spiral shape in the air with his fingertip. “Like a nautilus shell. Get the angles exactly right, and the portals will naturally redirect the shot. We can fit them into the crater that way.”

“Joe, that’s pure theory,” said McGraw. “What you are talking about… You’d need to set up those portals with a degree of precision that’d take a whole platoon of engineers a week and a mountain of blueprints to achieve. And that’s in a laboratory, not out here. And then you’d have to land your shot into the portal array with a precision that just ain’t humanly possible.”

“I can do both.”

They all stared at him.

“Kid, I get that you’re eager to please,” Weaver began.

“Look,” said Joe impatiently, “we don’t have time for my whole biography. Will you just trust that I’m not fool enough to risk all our lives on a boast I can’t back up? There’s a reason I’m the best wandfighter in my province.”

“Be that as it may,” said McGraw, “you aren’t a mage. You can’t conjure a dimensional portal.”

“Mm,” Billie mused, stroking her chin thoughtfully. The tufted tips of her ears twitched rapidly. “If I can supply you with portal focus stones, can you set ’em up properly?”

“It’s the angles that are the problem; the ground out here is badly uneven,” said Joe. “Can you compensate for that?”

She grinned broadly. “How about fixing ’em to tripods with adjustable legs? Then you can set ’em up to make any angle you need in three dimensions.”

“That could work,” Joe said, unable to contain his excitement.

“You’ve got equipment on hand for that?” Weaver exclaimed.

“Laddie boy, I got equipment on hand for shit you ain’t crazy enough to imagine.”

“All right,” said McGraw, thunking the butt of his staff against the ground for emphasis, “it’s a plan. Joe, are you sure you can do this? Because you are quite literally gambling our lives on it.”

“I make my living gambling; I know what it looks like.” Joe met the old man’s steely gaze, willing him to believe. “This ain’t a gamble. As long as Billie’s, uh, tripods work the way she says, it’s just math.”

McGraw drew in a deep breath and blew it out hard enough to ruffle his mustache. “All right. Billie, how much time you need to get those things ready?”

“Uh… Gimme seven minutes. No, nine, I’ll need to find a corner to tuck myself in where the dragon doesn’t fry my ass.”

“Nine minutes.” McGraw nodded. “We’ll have to distract the dragon that long; he’ll be back any second, most likely.”

“Healing spells work that fast?” Joe asked, surprised

“With something as powerful as a dragon working ’em, they do. Then Billie hands the stones off to Joe, who’ll have to place ’em around the crater properly while the rest of us distract him more. Then the moment of truth: Weaver and Billie maneuver him to the right position, I conjure the portals at the focus stones, Joe takes his shot, and Mary springs her trap.”

“We are just so indescribably boned,” Weaver said fatalistically.

“It’s a plan, though,” said McGraw, “and it beats the lack of one.” He turned to stare at the dark rim of the caldera; they all fell still, listening to the approaching sound of wingbeats. “And we are out of time.”

“Just remember, each of us has a role to play in this, so whatever you do, don’t get killed during your turn at distracting him,” said Billie. “Except Weaver, who is purely a diversion and thus expendable.”

“You can all go straight to hell,” said Weaver, incongruously sounding more cheerful than Joe had ever heard him.

Then they had no more time to talk, for the dragon had swooped down on them. The blast of his wings blew off their hats and shoved them backward as he beat down, slowing his descent, and still struck the ground with enough force to noticeably shake it.

“So,” Khadizroth rumbled. “Are you prep—”

Weaver shot him in the face.

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“Elf candles.” Weaver pointed to a small stand of conical flowers nodding in the faint breeze.

“Versithorae,” Joe corrected.

The bard turned to frown at him. “What?”

“They’re called versithorae in the elvish. Plains tribes discovered them long before any humans moved into the area. Obviously, they didn’t call them ‘elf candles.’”

“Joe,” said Weaver with ostentatiously thinning patience, “are you just trying to be a pain in the ass, or do you seriously imagine that bit of trivia to be in any way significant?” He turned his back on Joe and the versithorae and resumed picking his way up the slope. “Elf candles in terrain like this are a sure sign we’re entering a green dragon’s territory.”

“How’s that?” Billie asked.

“Really?” He grinned down at her. “You, the famous adventurer who knows all the continent’s dragons, don’t know how to spot dragonsign?”

“First of all, ponytail, I know the names of the dragons on this continent because I had a good, solid gnomish education. Second, I’m a city girl. You point me at something you want dead and I’ll deadify it before you can finish givin’ the order. But the workshop is my fortress and the back alleys my stalking ground. I know bugger all about tracking diddly anything out here in the howling wilderness.”

Mary fluttered her wings, disembarking from Joe’s shoulder, and in the next moment was walking alongside them as though she’d never been anywhere else. “Versithorae are a lowland plant, native to the Golden Sea and the surrounding Great Plains. They do not like altitude. Powerful users of fae magic frequently cause the germination and growth of plants that would otherwise not thrive in a given environment, either by design or as a byproduct of their workings. Versithorae, however, need more than magic; they need ash. They only grow where the ground has been burned. Thus, Weaver is correct; seeing them where they should not grow is a near-certain sign that a green dragon lives nearby.”

“Well, how ’bout them apples,” Billie said cheerfully.

“Glad to hear it,” McGraw grunted, pulling himself resolutely along with his staff. “I’ll be happy to leave off all this hiking and tend to something more relaxing, like duking it out with the dragon.”

“Is this the part where you grouse about how you’re getting too old for this?” Weaver asked with a grin.

“Ain’t my policy to point out the obvious, sonny boy. Leads to people takin’ a dim view of one’s mental faculties.”

Joe gave him a sidelong glance, but kept his mouth shut. In fact, he was a little worried about McGraw. Mary had spent the hike from Venomfont perched on his shoulder—he still wasn’t sure whether to feel honored or alarmed—and Billie seemed to be a bottomless fount of energy, but the rest of them were clearly feeling the effects of the day-long uphill walk, particularly McGraw. Several times the old man had surreptitiously tossed back vials of some alchemical solution, and Joe had repeatedly felt the faint buzz of arcane magic being activated around him, but despite whatever preparations he invoked, the old man was still breathing and sweating more heavily than any of them, leaning much of his weight on his staff.

Keenly aware that he was the least experienced member of the party, Joe had been somewhat relieved that he wasn’t the only one struggling. Even Weaver was moving more stiffly this late in the day…but then again, he’d apparently spent the last few years lurking in some library. The trip through the Golden Sea hadn’t prepared him for this. Grateful as he was to have been prepared for the reality of blistered feet, uncomfortable behind-a-bush toilet breaks and a diet of jerky and flatbread, there was a great difference between hiking across mostly flat territory and hiking up into a mountain range.

“Anyway, no great surprise we’re seein’ dragonsign,” Billie said, taking out the map again and unfolding it. She held the expanse of paper in front of her face as she walked, somehow not slackening her pace or losing her footing despite completely obstructing her own view. “This here is Mount Blackbreath itself, an’ we’re not far from the caldera.”

“Should we think about settling in for the night and continuing on tomorrow?” Joe suggested, glancing around. The sun was long out of sight; climbing westward as they were, it had vanished not long after noon.

“Bad idea,” said Weaver, shaking his head. “We don’t want to be camped and vulnerable this close to a dragon’s territory. In his territory, most likely. They have differing ideas about visitors, but they do not like trespassers. Settling in crosses that line.”

“Seems like splittin’ hairs,” said McGraw.

Weaver shrugged. “I don’t disagree, but it’s standard practice for approaching a dragon. Anyhow, there’s also the basic tactical concern that he can get the drop on us if we’re asleep. Even if we post a lookout, the rest of the group will have to wake up and get their pants on if he chooses to attack. Better to face him while we’re a little tired than to risk that.”

Mary made a lifting motion with one hand and murmured a few indistinct words. Instantly, Joe felt his weariness ease, leaving him alert as if he were freshly rested. Even better, the growing soreness in his legs, which had reached nearly excruciating levels, vanished completely. The group paused in unison.

“Much obliged, ma’am,” said McGraw fervently, tipping his hat to her. Mary nodded in return with a small smile.

“Here.” Weaver had taken advantage of the brief stop to reach into his coat and pull out what appeared to be a small cigarette case. From this he removed pairs of wax earplugs and began passing them out. “These are attuned to my instruments. They won’t impede your hearing, but they’ll protect you from the effects of spellsong.”

“At the risk of soundin’ paranoid,” said McGraw, bouncing his pair on the palm of one hand, “it occurs to me that if you planned to turn against the group, puttin’ these things in our heads would be a great first step. Being that we don’t know what spells are on ’em, that is. I can tell it’s fae magic, and not much else.”

Weaver shrugged, tucked away the case and turned to continue on. “Fine, leave them out, get bespelled as soon as we go into combat. Learn how much I care.”

“They do precisely what he says they do,” said Mary, putting her own pair of earplugs in one of her belt pouches. “Don’t be so suspicious, Elias; a betrayal from within the group isn’t likely, and would damage us less than if we spent all our time watching one another. In any case, Weaver, I have my own methods.”

Ahead of her, just behind Billie, he shrugged again. “Could everyone keep an eye out for bugs, please? I need to catch one.”

“Bugs?” Joe frowned, confused.

“Bugs,” Weaver repeated patiently. “Spiders, insects… A small lizard will do, if necessary.”

“Any preferences?” McGraw asked dryly.

“Non-venomous, not prone to stinging or biting, ideally. If I can’t have my druthers, though, all that’s necessary is that it be alive.”

Joe glanced around at the others; if they thought this as odd as he did, none of them gave sign. He wondered whether it was just standard adventurer aplomb, or if they knew something about Weaver’s methods that he didn’t. As they continued on, he slipped the plugs into his ears, grimacing. True to Weaver’s promise, they didn’t impede his hearing in the slightest, which didn’t make the sensation any less odd. If anything, it made it worse. Unnatural.

He had time to grow accustomed to them as they pressed on. The Wyrnrange was mostly bare, craggy stone, the kind of rocks that resulted in scrapes or even cuts and punctures if one slipped. As they ascended, greenery began to appear in increasing abundance, mosses and lichens predominating, but there were also flowers—including more versithorae—and small shrubs, even a few stunted saplings.

It was another half hour before they rounded a jagged heap of boulders and came to a stop, the path—such as it was—having ended.

“Welp,” Billie drawled, “this is the place, all right. Now what?”

Ahead there was an obvious pass, a wide crack in the towering rock wall before them. They couldn’t see what lay beyond, however, and not just because of the gathering dark. A thick network of vines, bedecked with mismatched flowers and bristling with evil-looking thorns, crisscrossed the opening, obstructing it completely.

McGraw held out his staff, and a clean white light glowed from the large crystal set into its head. The illumination didn’t help much; there was nothing to see except bare stone and the arboreal blockage.

“Used to run around with a witch back in the day,” he mused. “Had a pixie familiar. Damn annoying little thing—they’ve got the intellect of a two-year-old and the personality of a puppy, as a rule. Still, it was, among other things, a hovering lamp. Very handy at times like this. Now, I’m no expert on witchcraft, but is that barrier as magical as I think it is?”

“That and much more, I suspect,” said Mary, stepping forward to examine it. “This is no mere deterrence; Khadizroth seems quite serious in his desire for privacy. Oh, and Weaver…here.” She turned and gestured toward him; as if thrown from her hand, a large white moth fluttered out of the gap above the lattice of vines, drifting toward him. She smiled as he carefully caught the insect in his cupped hands. “I couldn’t find a butterfly, but that is close enough. It seems to suit you better than something that skitters.”

“I can’t imagine how you came to that conclusion. Thanks, though, this is perfect.” He held the helplessly fluttering moth up to his face, whispering inaudibly.

“So!” Billie said brightly. “What’ll we do about this, then? Blast it open?”

“Excellent way to die,” said McGraw. “It’ll be enchanted not just to resist attacks, but to react to them. Dragons are very serious magic users, as you know very well.”

“Bah! Problems I can’t solve with brute force are beneath my notice.”

“I can unravel it,” said Mary, peering at the vines from inches away, “but it will take time, and the process will surely alert the dragon to our presence, if he does not already know we’re here.”

“Best to assume he does,” McGraw opined.

“I concur. Be on your guard. Tampering with his gate may encourage him to come let us in, or it may prompt an attack. This could take… I am not sure. Hours, possibly.”

“May I?” Weaver asked. As they all turned to look at him, he crushed the poor moth between a thumb and forefinger, murmuring something to it. In the pale light of McGraw’s glowstone, Joe thought the man’s expression seemed oddly tender as he killed the insect; he dismissed the notion. Weaver was hard enough to figure out without adding in weirdness like that.

Brushing his fingers clean of moth guts on his coat, the bard stepped up to the barrier, Mary making room for him. He withdrew a wooden flute from within his coat, lifted it to his lips and began to play.

The first note seemed to resonate in Joe’s very bones, its tone far deeper than such a little instrument seemed like it should have been able to produce. Weaver played on, however, and the pitch climbed, forming a slow, mournful song. A dirge that seemed to cry with a nearly human voice. The others stepped unconsciously back away from him, Billie grimacing, her ears twitching violently amid her mass of curly hair.

The vines began to die.

It started slowly, a black rot appearing like a fungal disease on the green, but the more widely it grew, the more quickly it spread. Vines shriveled, thorns dropped off, flowers wizened away to nothing and disintegrated. A faint rustling began, then grew, the green barrier reduced in the course of a minute to a collapsing net of pitiful dried husks.

Weaver blew the final notes of his lament. In the silence immediately afterward, the others stood around him as if frozen. Finally, he tucked his flute away carefully, then casually kicked what was left of the vine barrier.

The whole thing collapsed.

“Life magic,” Weaver said dismissively. “The bigger they are, the harder they fall.”

“May I just say,” Billie said, “that that was fuckin’ terrifying.”

“How did you do that?” Joe demanded.

Weaver turned to grin at him over his shoulder. “You’ll have cause to ruminate on this when you get to be forty and people are still calling you the Kid. The fact of the matter is, Joe, we adventurers don’t get to pick the moniker we get known by. Those are elected by the ignorant masses and the bards who shepherd them. Believe me, I campaigned to be called Glittergiggles Weaver, but for some reason they stuck me with Gravestone. Go figure.”

He turned back, straightened his coat, and stepped through. The others, after a moment, followed. There didn’t seem much else to do.

It wasn’t a tunnel or even a canyon, merely a break in the wall of the great crater. In the darkness, little of the huge space beyond was visible, the light of McGraw’s staff not penetrating far. The five of them trailed into the caldera, pausing not far beyond the break to peer around. Trees made dimly-perceived shapes at the edges of their vision, hinted at only by the farthest reaches of the light. It was overcast, denying them moonlight by which to see, but at least it wasn’t as windy as a mountaintop ought to be. Air currents whistled above them, rustling in branches, but the walls all around sheltered them.

“We are being stalked,” Mary said quietly.

“The dragon?” asked McGraw.

She shook her head. “An elf.”

“Darling mentioned an elf servant,” Weaver noted. “Well. Should we…what? Introduce ourselves?”

“We have entered Khadizroth’s domain,” said Mary. “He would have greeted us if he intended to. As he has not, it appears we shall have to disrespect his wishes.”

“How do you propose to command a dragon’s appearance?” Joe asked.

“Hm,” she said noncommittally, peering around.

“Oh! You leave it to me!” Billie sat down on the ground, unslung her pack and began rummaging around in it. “I’ve got just the—ah! Here we go. Behold the wonders of modern enchantment!”

She pulled out a complicated apparatus that looked like the offspring of a telescope and an enchanted sewing machine, brandishing it and grinning broadly.

“Nice,” said Weaver sarcastically. “Unless that’s a dragon detector, I don’t see the point.”

“Don’t be daft, you can’t just detect dragons. Aside from the usual means, of course. Giant shadows, roaring, fire, all that. This is a gold detector! Me own design!”

“You can do that?” Joe asked, fascinated.

“Oh, aye!” she said, nodding enthusiastically. “These babies are essential in modern mining operations.”

“Dragons have hoards,” McGraw mused. “Messing with their hoards is the surest way to get their attention. Yeah, that’d work, if we’re willing to risk provoking an immediate attack. If it does work, that is. Seems likely Khadizroth would have enchantments laid over his treasures to prevent people doing exactly what you’re proposing.”

“Aye, but I spent last night tweakin’ it while you louts were snoring. See, I’ve rigged out the focusing lens with a holy charm to help penetrate his nature magic, and significantly boosted its operational range and spell penetration by way of amping up the power source to ridiculous, even dangerous levels!”

She flicked a switch on her device, grinning insanely, and a low hum sprang up around them, along with an electric tingling in the air that made the fine hairs on their arms stand upright. All four of them immediately took three steps back away from her.

The sound of powerful wings was the only warning they got. A massive shadow swept past above them, blotting out the very dim glow of the cloudy sky; the pale light of McGraw’s staff glittered briefly across viridian scales before the huge shape vanished beyond its range. The dragon settled to the ground some thirty feet distant, rearing up against the night. In the darkness, he was only a faintly perceived shape, towering like a church steeple, the only thing visible his intensely glowing green eyes near the top.

“That will not be necessary.” Khadizroth’s voice was a peculiar sound, a light tenor that was so deep from the sheer power of its projection that Joe could feel it through the stones beneath his boots. “Kindly turn off your device.”

“Aw,” said Billie. “But I was really hopin’—”

“Billie,” Mary said firmly, “please do as he asks.”

“Pooh,” the gnome pouted, but flipped the switch back. Immediately the arcane buzz was silenced, and she sullenly began packing it away in her satchel.

“Khadizroth the Green, I presume?” said McGraw, tipping his hat politely.

“You presume a great deal,” replied the dragon, “but in that, at least, you are correct.”

His darkened silhouette shrank, seeming to disappear entirely into the ground beyond. However, footsteps crunched on the stony ground, rustling in occasional patches of underbrush, and within moments a human-sized figure stepped into the circle of light.

Khadizroth, in this form, was a tall elf in entirely typical costume for a forest tribesman: tight vest and baggy trousers in matching brown, with a blousy-sleeved shirt of dark green and simple leather boots. His hair, likewise, was green, slicked back and falling past his waist behind him, from what could be seen of it fanning out around his lower back. In the manner of the oldest elves, he had a slim beard adorning his pointed chin. Those eyes were the same, though, the distinctive draconic eyes like glowing, smooth-cut gemstones.

“Mary,” he said, bowing to her. “You honor my residence; I apologize for the state of my hospitality, but I was not expecting visitors.”

“In fairness,” she replied equably, “we clearly forced our way in.”

The dragon actually smiled at her, before turning to the others. It was discomfiting, being unable to follow his gaze, but the lack of pupils hid the direction his eyes were looking. “Of the rest of you I have, of course, heard, though we have not met. With one exception, however.” He turned his entire head this time, making it clear he was looking directly at Joe.

“Joseph P. Jenkins, at your service,” he said, tipping his hat.

“Ah, Jenkins. That name I do know; you are well thought of by the elves near your town. Welcome.”

Khadizroth spread his arms, and light began to blossom in the crater.

It began with the flowers, but spread, pale shades of pastel accentuating bright silver and white. Stands of tall mushrooms, luminous flowers, vines twined through trees, even some of the trees themselves; it seemed fully a third of the plants occupying the crater were bioluminescent, and they came to life at their master’s command. Light rippled outward from Khadizroth, till it reached the edges of the caldera. It was like a meadow, trees, bushes and flowers scattered artfully across the stony ground, stands of tallgrass waving faintly, all illuminated by soft organic lights.

“Wow,” Billie breathed. “Oh, hell, that’s gorgeous.”

“I am glad you approve,” said the dragon, sounding actually sincere. “But you have not come all this way to admire the view, and it is not my custom to be excessively sociable with assassins.”

“Well, now, that’s a mite unfair,” said McGraw. “We’re not necessarily assassins.”

“We’re strictly unnecessary assassins,” added Weaver, grinning when McGraw nudged him with the butt of his staff.

“Indeed, let us to business and have done with it,” said Khadizroth seriously. “You are here at the behest of Antonio Darling, are you not?”

“We are,” said Mary, nodding.

“And am I correct in assuming that he desires my death?”

“No.” She shook her head. “He desires a cessation of hostilities between you. Your death is one way that could be accomplished, yes, but any number of others would be preferable. An arrangement, for instance.”

“In fact, I sent my servant Vannae to offer the Bishop exactly that,” said the dragon, his face growing stern. “He saw fit to assault my man and issue insults to be delivered back to me.”

“He did?” Billie asked delightedly. “Well, that ol’ poof has more balls than I gave him credit for. You go, Darling!”

“Will you kindly button it, you little freak?” Weaver exclaimed.

“Oh, so it’s only funny when you do it?”

“I should further note,” Khadizroth continued, ignoring both of them, “that while I sent one individual presenting no threat to offer a civil conversation, Darling has sent back five individuals representing significant destructive force. I question his good faith.”

“If one must send mice to consult with the cat,” said McGraw, “one doesn’t send the smallest or weakest, and certainly not one alone.”

Khadizroth smiled thinly. “You are not without a point, Longshot. The fact remains, though, that your master and I have little to discuss.”

“You could always renounce your claim on those two elf girls,” suggested Weaver. “That’s really all he wants.”

Khadizroth was shaking his head before the bard finished speaking. “I must take it as given that my security is compromised; that proverbial pigeon has flown the coop. The matter does not end there, however. If Shinaue and Lianwe wished to leave my company, they had only to do so. Instead, they chose to abduct every member of the family I had laboriously built up, hiding them away among elven groves where I may not safely retrieve them, turning the elves and now the humans against me in the process. Quite apart from the damage they have done to my long-term plans… It is not in my nature to lightly tolerate such betrayal.” His face grew ever grimmer till he was outright scowling, and Joe fought down the urge to back away from him. “There shall be reprisal for that. Darling, in assaulting, unprovoked, my last loyal servant, has invited further vengeance upon himself. Tell me, what has he offered as recompense for these various affronts?”

A pause fell; the five of them exchanged a round of glances.

“So,” the dragon said grimly. “Bishop Darling does not seek to bargain, but to intimidate. He sends killers and so-called ‘heroes,’ and offers nothing toward earning my favor. It seems, as I initially said, that we have nothing to discuss.”

“You’re quick to place blame, sir,” said Joe, stepping forward. “With all respect, perhaps you should consider whether you’ve brought this treatment down on yourself.”

“That’s right, let’s taunt the dragon,” Weaver mumbled to himself.

Khadizroth raised an eyebrow. “You presume to judge me, boy?”

“My judgment is as flawed as anyone’s, I suspect, but it’s all I’ve got to work with,” said Joe. “Unless we’ve been badly misled—which ain’t impossible, I’ll grant you—the plan was for you to breed yourself an army of loyal dragons… Using girls taken from their tribe for the purpose.”

“Rescued from disaster at the hands of the Tiraan Empire,” the dragon said firmly. “Raised in the shadow of my wings, willing to pursue the duty I required of them.”

“You can dress that up any way you choose,” said Joe coldly. “There’s not a one that makes it seem a respectful way to treat ladies.”

The dragon stared at him in silence for a long moment. Joe stared right back. The weight, the sheer force of personality pressing outward from those featureless green orbs was almost enough to push him physically backward, but he refused to yield ground. His companions stood silently around him, seeming not even to breathe.

“I accept your condemnation,” said the dragon at last, nodding deeply in a gesture that was very nearly a bow. “I wonder, Mr. Jenkins, whether you have yet faced a situation in which your principles were tested against one another, and against grim necessity?”

Joe opened his mouth to reply, but his voice caught in his throat. He suddenly couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

“It is an agonizing position,” Khadizroth continued. “Faced with the growing depredations of the Tiraan Empire, the reality of the threat it represents, yet lacking a good means of throwing it back. There are only poor methods available of accomplishing this vitally necessary task; I assure you, I have looked for better and found none. The best I could do was to carry out my plan with the greatest kindness possible toward those upon whom it depended. Even so, I confess to as much relief as disappointment that I was denied the opportunity to bring it to fruition. For all the wasted effort, all the lost years, even despite the heartache of losing those I have come to regard as family, I shall emerge from this with my integrity undamaged. I was prepared to mourn its loss. For that, my retribution upon Shinaue and Lianwe shall be mild indeed.

“However, the initial problem remains. This new Empire is a disastrous thing, a teeming cauldron of evils waiting to be tipped out upon the world—again. The carnage of Athan’Khar must not be forgotten, and that was only the greatest ill in a long and endlessly-growing list. I remain in opposition to this Empire, more certainly so now that my errant girls have evidently begun to set humanity against me. I reject the judgment of Tiraas and all its agents, and in particular that of Antonio Darling, a man who has exhibited neither respect nor courtesy, whatever his aims. I will not be pressed by his lackeys.”

“Will you not?” Mary asked quietly. “You suggest confidence in your powers that may not be warranted.”

“If you are counting on the ancient respect you are owed to stay my hand, Mary,” he said, “you will find the matter changed entirely by the fact that you have come to me offering violence. I have no animosity toward any of you; should you choose to turn and walk back down this mountain, you may go in peace, and with my blessing. But whether I win or lose any battle you offer, I shall not yield to the corruption you serve.”

“And there you have it,” Weaver said in disgust. “History, politics and adventuring in a nutshell. You can work around the selfish and the depraved in a thousand different ways, but all it takes is one idiot with principles to throw everything into chaos.”

“Indeed,” Khadizroth said quietly. “Will you leave, then? Or strike first?”

“Sure there’s nothing we can say to change your mind?” McGraw asked, tightening his grip on his staff.

“Oh, the hell with all this,” Billie snorted, pulling a pair of wands from her belt. “Let’s just burn him down and get outta here.”

“So be it,” said the dragon, spreading his arms again. This time, instead of a show of lights, he rose up, swelling in seconds to his full form, and despite himself, Joe backpedaled frantically.

Khadizroth the Green in his true shape was over three stories tall, reared up on his hind legs. He was a serpentine symphony of scaled muscle, massive claws digging into the living rock, his enormous wingspan blotting out the sky before them. He opened his fanged mouth, drawing in a deep breath, and telltale flickers began to form around his jaws.

Joe was distracted by the tiniest sound from behind him. Instinct snapped into play and he whirled, whipping out his own wands.

A tomahawk was speeding toward his head; reacting without conscious thought, he blasted it out of the air. If the elf—Vannae, that was his name—was surprised or intimidated by this, he gave no sign, pulling a wand of his own and leveling it at the group, his face resolute.

Elf and dragon attacked simultaneously, catching the party right between them.

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5 – 18

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The caravan eased to a stop, Rails sparking beneath it, and the car doors were unsealed with a soft hiss. One popped open and Billie leaped out, landing on the platform beyond with her fists raised exultantly in the air.

“WHOOHOO!” she bellowed. “Aw, man I love those things! I need to get one, buy myself a patch of land and build a Rail that just goes around in a big circle. How expensive d’ye think that’d be?”

She turned to grin at the others as they disembarked. McGraw leaned stiffly on his staff; Joe stepped very carefully, concentrating on keeping his balance and keeping his breakfast down. Weaver staggered out, arms wrapped protectively around his guitar case, and squinted balefully down at the gnome.

“Y’know what?” he said. “I really hate you.”

“Don’t care,” Billie said cheerfully. “Welp! Here we are, then.”

Their caravan had been slightly better equipped than most of the frontier lines; not that it possessed all of the rumored “safety features” being installed on the interior Rail lines, but it did at least have seatbelts. Those were not optional. This particular line passed into hilly territory at the base of the Wyrnrange—in fact, these hills were the same formation that rose gradually into the rounded old mountains of Viridill, far to the south. Here, they were little more than decoration around the much younger, craggier Wyrns, but were still plenty tall enough that riding over them at the speed at which the Rails traveled (digging through the hills had apparently not been in the Imperial budget) would have dashed passengers’ brains out against the roofs of their caravans without some restraints.

The crow fluttered her wings, detaching herself from Joe’s shoulder, and an instant later Mary stood beside them, calm and inscrutable as always. “We can rest for a time in this town, if you wish,” she said. “Some recuperation might not be amiss, and in any case, the divinations that will lead me to Khadizroth will take time.”

“How much time, if I may ask?” McGraw inquired. He still leaned heavily on his staff, though only with one hand, now.

“The magic in question is very like tracking a creature through the wilds,” she replied. “The trail ends when it ends. I expect it to be hours…possibly days. It does not seem likely that our quarry will have settled near human-occupied territory, and Darling’s intelligence was not able to place him more precisely than ‘the Wyrnrange.’ That is not a small region to inspect.”

“Lovely,” Weaver growled.

“Yeah, let’s call that Plan B,” said Billie. “I got a better one. There’s a gnomish settlement not too far from here, ’bout half a day’s ride up the hills. I guaran-damn-tee they’ll know the exact whereabouts of any dragon livin’ in their territory, probably be able to tell us all about his movements, how widely he ranges, who’s with him, how many sheep he eats fer breakfast an’ what are his favorite kind.”

“Why would gnomes care about a dragon?” Weaver snorted.

“Lad, how utterly daft is it possible for ye to be? What sort a’ feckin’ imbecile wouldn’t care about a dragon?”

“You know your accent gets thicker the farther from civilization we get?”

“Aye, too much comfort make me allergies act up, gets the nose all stuffy.”

“That is a good plan,” said Mary. “I have found gnomes to be reliable sources when it comes to dangers in their territory. At the worst, if Khadizroth has evaded their detection, we will be closer to the mountains and I can still try my…” She glanced down at Billie. “Plan B.”

“Right, then!” the gnome declared, sitting down right on the platform and reaching into her pockets. She evidently had formidable bag-of-holding spells on her various pouches, to judge by the sheer quantity of wood, metal, tools and enchanting equipment she now began to lay out around herself. In moments, the pile was more massive than she.

“What in the fell hell do you think you’re doing?” Weaver demanded. “This is a public Rail platform.”

“Oh, quit yer bellyachin’,” Billie said dismissively, fastening lengths of steel rods together. “Nobody cares. Not like they do a brisk business around here in… Anything, from the look of it.”

Joe had been carefully checking the other people nearby at every mention of Khadizroth’s name, but no one was paying them any mind. Billie’s performance now garnered a few curious glances, but nothing more. Hollowfield was a considerably larger settlement than Sarasio, big enough to be considered a small city, for all that it was only a few decades old. Evidently, the crush of people here was enough that one did not expect to be involved in the business of one’s neighbors, for all that it seemed sleepily quiet at the moment.

Situated far to the warm north, Hollowfield was a trading and mining establishment—the two were heavily mixed, as close as this was to the dwarven kingdoms. To the southeast, the land gradually flattened into the Great Plains, though they weren’t close enough to the frontier to see the Golden Sea itself. The foothills rose to the Wyrnrange to the west, the spiky mountains forming an oppressive wall running from the south to the north, blocking the whole horizon from view. Far to the north, across more prairie, was the distant rise of the Spine, the ancient mountain range that stretched across the entire northern coast of the continent, with nowhere a harbor or beach—nothing but cliffs and treacherous rocks. Those mountains housed the dwarven kingdoms beneath them, and the homes of the reclusive high elves above.

Hollowfield itself was a rather drab expanse of square, stone structures, but standing here and looking around, Joe couldn’t help but feel he was at the intersection of several distinct realms of adventure. That, of course, was a silly thought in this day and age. The dwarven kingdoms were teetering on economic disaster and had been since the Narisian Treaty, the Great Plains saw farms and herds of cattle where once there had been nothing but nomadic elves, and the Wyrnrange was industriously mined and quarried; it had been decades since anyone had seen a yeti or direwolf come prowling down from their heights. Trying to bring his flights of fancy to heel in this way only made him feel slightly melancholy, as if he’d been born half a century too late.

He looked back over at his companions and had to blink and shake his head. Billie had already expanded her construction to a wood and metal frame about the size and shape of a small wagon and attached heavy sheets of canvas to its floors and sides. It was now upside-down; she was installing axles. Four wheels, made from bolted-together lengths of curved steel, sat stacked nearby, next to a heap of enchanting materials. Joe recognized power crystals, a golem logic controller and a runic spell interface. He was no carriage buff, but it wasn’t hard to piece together what she was doing.

“A carriage?” he said, fascinated. “You carry a collapsible enchanted carriage in your pockets?”

“Nah,” she said brightly, tightening bolts. “I carry a bunch of scraps suitable for piecin’ together into whatever configuration I need. Today, it’s transportation! Trust me, we don’t wanna hike into those hills, and the hell I’m shellin’ out whatever it takes to rent mounts out here. She won’t be a Falconer, but she’ll get us there.”

“I’m gonna go find us something to eat,” said Weaver, turning and stepping away toward the far end of the platform, where several vendor stalls had been set up to serve Rail travelers.

“How can you think of food after that ride?” McGraw asked, grimacing.

“Something that’ll keep for later,” Weaver clarified. “No, I’m not hungry either, but it beats standing around here like a goddamn tourist while she puts together that rattletrap.”

“Language,” Joe said automatically.

“Kid, that was barely cute the first time. You are padding my list of reasons to shoot you in the back.”

Joe watched him slouch off. “How serious do you reckon he was?” he asked finally.

McGraw chuckled. “Don’t pay him any mind, son. That one’s a complainer. Adventurers don’t live long enough to earn a reputation like his by casually murdering their companions.”

“In fact,” Mary said pleasantly, “some make their reputations that way.”

“Boy’s all talk,” Billie said brightly, grunting as she tipped the now-wheeled vehicle over to sit right way up. She worked with truly astonishing speed and efficiency, now clambering underneath it and beginning to install the enchanting components that would make the wheels move.

“With all due respect,” McGraw noted, “that thing doesn’t look awfully…sturdy.”

“Well, I wouldn’t take ‘er on a drive from here to Shaathvar or nothin’,” Billie grunted, “but she’ll get us to Venomfont safe enough.”

Joe, who was again peering around at the scenery, whipped back to stare down at her. “Wait, we’re going where?”

 

It was actually Joe’s first ride in a horseless carriage, so he lacked a basis for comparison, but from Weaver’s very educational complaints he learned that Billie’s hastily-assembled contraption lacked several features that were considered essential, such as shock absorption enchantments. Indeed, it was a very bumpy ride; there apparently were no roads leading where they were going, forcing them to ride up and down scrubby hills, running over rocks and small bushes and detouring around anything too big for the cart to overcome. There weren’t many of those; this was a singularly barren landscape.

Billie sat up front on an elevated little platform bolted to the cart’s frame; the control interface, rather than being attached as any carriage’s would be, was connected to the axles by wires. She held it in one hand, pressing runes as needed with the other, and Joe fervently hoped she knew where they were going. “Toward the mountains” wasn’t difficult, but the mountains, as Mary had pointed out, were enormous.

Mary saved them some precious passenger space by remaining in bird form; she seemed to have chosen Joe’s left shoulder as her default perch. Being appropriated as furniture by a legendary immortal was so surreal he hadn’t bothered to work out how he felt about it. Joe and McGraw sat side by side with their backs against the front of the cart, Weaver slouching opposite them. There were no benches, and it was short enough that their legs tended to entangle in the middle, altogether not a very comfortable way to ride. Weaver had taken out his guitar and was plucking aimlessly. He had tried, briefly, to actually play, but the vehicle’s bouncing and jostling had proven too severe to allow that. It was hard to tell how disappointed he was by this; the man was so perpetually grouchy it was pointless to wonder about what.

“This is that moment,” Joe mused aloud.

“Well, it’s a moment,” McGraw ruminated. “Can’t say I expect to look fondly back on this one as one of my favorites.” Mary croaked softly.

Joe shook his head. “It’s…a literary device that’s started cropping up in modern adventure fiction. Your heroes will be in the middle of something tedious and uncomfortable, and will comment about how it’s never like that in the stories, and someone more experienced will say most of adventuring is the long, boring stretches between the action.”

“Read a lot of adventure fiction, do you?” Weaver asked, arching an eyebrow superciliously.

“There’s not a whole lot to do in a frontier town once the bandits are driven out,” Joe said somewhat defensively. He wasn’t about to tell the man he lived in a bordello.

“It was a rhetorical question,” said Weaver, openly grinning now. “We’ve all met you.”

“Happens to be true, though,” McGraw noted. “I doubt there’s any job or path in life that’s all excitement, all the time. Nobody could handle it if there was.”

“Anyhow, I don’t think it’s wrong to be thinking in terms of stories and sagas,” Joe added. “We’re on the way to fight a dragon. It’s just about the most traditionally mythic thing a person can do.”

“Don’t romanticize it, boy,” Weaver said, looking even grimmer than usual. “This is a political dispute between two powerful individuals over two women. We’re a group of thugs who are being well-paid to rub out one of the parties. Nobody’s gonna write a saga about this, and you should be thankful for it.”

“I think you’re oversimplifying a little,” said Joe, frowning. “You heard the Bishop about what that dragon was doing with those elves.”

“Yeah?” Weaver plucked a discordant arpeggio. “What was he doing? Rescuing a group of refugees who likely would’ve faced internment camps or summary execution if the Empire had caught them? Starting a family?”

“Using women as breeding stock!”

“Yeah, that’s fairly sinister,” Weaver allowed, “assuming Darling told us the full story about that, which I doubt, and assuming he was told the full story, which is pretty much unthinkable. And even if so, how is Khadizroth the villain in this tale? I’m a librarian and former bard; I know about stories. The best ones force the protagonist to confront his own ethics and make painful choices. Khadizroth the Green is known for being honorable to the point of stupidity. He has also lived to see fractious human kingdoms be absorbed into an all-devouring Empire. He was alive when that Empire unleashed hell itself on Athan’Khar. If you saw the mice in your walls take up enchanting and start burning down your neighbors’ houses… What might you be willing to compromise to stop them?”

“I… Still think you’re oversimplifying,” Joe said, somewhat subdued.

“Am I?” Weaver grinned unpleasantly. “How?”
“He’s not entirely wrong,” Billie said from behind them, sounding not particularly concerned. “This is why I make a point never to delve into the motives and values of every person in a dispute I’m hired to intervene in. That shit’s for diplomats and priests. If ye make yer living by cracking heads and blowin’ shit up, understanding why everyone’s doing what they’re doing is a handicap, not an asset. Everybody’s got their reasons.”

“But…he’s a dragon,” Joe protested. “You know what they’re like. Especially about women!” Mary ruffled her feathers and cawed sharply, startling him.

“Yeah,” Weaver mused. “And what’s so terrible about that?”

Joe boggled at him.

“Some time ago, before I got out of the business, I was along with a group kind of like this one, including a priestess of Avei,” Weaver said, gazing unfocused at the passing horizon. Seemingly of their own accord, his fingers began plucking out a dour tune, jangling here and there as the cart bumped over the treacherous ground. “We were sitting around a campfire one night and I happened to make a comment very much like that. I don’t even remember how the conversation got around to dragons; I mostly just remember the way she lit into me. Tell me, Joe, have you ever given any thought to dragons and women, and why everyone gets so worked up about it?”

“I would think an Avenist of all people would be disgusted by the subject,” Joe said.

Weaver shrugged. “What do they do? They’re an all-male species; they mate with humanoid females to propagate. That’s just their nature. Nothing particularly evil about it.”

“It’s in the nature of dire wolves to eat people. Nothing evil about that, either, but we still kill them for it.”

“But eating people and having sex with them is hardly in the same territory,” Weaver said wryly.

“The line blurs if you do it right!” Billie cackled. Joe flushed.

“But…don’t they rape women?” he asked, flustered.

“Sometimes, occasionally,” said Weaver with a shrug. “Actually quite rarely; as I understand it, the pursuit, the seduction is a big part of the appeal for them. But yes, very young dragons pursuing their first mate have been known to use either force or magical coercion. Let’s consider that, shall we? How many dragons are even alive on this continent?”

“Thirty-one,” said Billie without turning around. “Thirty-two if you count Razzavinax the Red; he lives on an island off the east coast. Actually, it’s probably less than half of that. We only take ’em off the roster if the death is confirmed, and… Well, that’s tricky. A sick dragon who knows he’s dying pretty much always crawls off to do so in secret. An’ the ones that get done in by adventurers in their own lairs, well, the adventurers usually don’t let on what happened, so as to keep the location of the dragon’s hoard secret. Yeah, there’s names on the active list who haven’t been seen in centuries.”

“Right,” said Weaver equably, uncharacteristically sanguine about the lengthy interruption. “So, let’s say, probably about a dozen dragons in the entire Empire, maybe a few more. Most of them have probably never committed a rape; any that have, probably only did so once or twice. Sure, that’s a horrible thing for the victims, but statistically? If we’re going to get worked up about rape, dragons are pretty much not even a consideration. That focus belongs on humans, and all the ways in which we are horrible creatures. Rape is an excuse, Mr. Jenkins.” He grinned wolfishly. “We hate dragons because they come for our women. They’re immensely powerful and they are taking our stuff. Mention dragon mating habits in polite company sometime, and pay attention to all the delicate shudders and expressions of revulsion. That, my little friend, is the look of pure, ass-backward Shaathist sexism. It’s all about the conception of women as things we own, not people with agency over their own choices. There’s pretty much no other way to explain getting irate if a lady wants to fuck a dragon. Or anything else.”

“Funny,” McGraw said mildly. “I’d never have taken you for a feminist, Mr. Weaver.”

“You can understand a philosophy without subscribing to it, Longshot. I know enough to persuade a Silver Legionnaire I don’t need my ass kicked.”

“That comes up a lot, I’ll bet,” Billie said cheerfully.

“It’s a vital survival skill,” Weaver agreed.

Joe didn’t respond. He was staring at the distant horizon behind them, frowning in thought.

 

Before they reached their destination, the group learned to be grateful for Weaver’s hastily purchased fried and breaded sausages, unappetizing as they had seemed at the time. As the day wore on and noon passed, even the cold sausages made for a passable lunch. McGraw won the brief, fairly civil disagreement over which of them would provide relief from the sun; he actually conjured a small cloud above the cart, which provided not only shade but a faint, pleasant little mist. Weaver complained bitterly about this as he protectively tucked his guitar away.

Billie’s navigational sense proved correct, however; shortly after noon, the ride had evened out as she found an actual track. A faded and patchy one, to be sure, but the old marks of wheel ruts were unmistakeable. As they ascended into the hills, the track had evolved into an authentic road, unpaved but blessedly smooth after the morning’s jostling, winding between the increasingly tall hills to either side while the mountains up ahead loomed ever higher. Eventually McGraw dismissed his increasingly superfluous cloud, as they rode in shade more often than sun.

Their arrival at Venomfont was sudden, though there had been signs here and there as they approached. They passed old pieces of armor and broken weapons, worn to little more than scraps by the elements and only visible due to the lack of vegetation. Twice they glimpsed partial skeletons.

“You’d think they could clean up the place, if they’re actually living there now,” Weaver said critically.

“We like the ambiance,” Billie said with a shrug.

The entrance to Venomfont itself loomed up as they rounded a sharp curve, taking them by surprise. Billie stopped the cart in a small, flat valley which terminated in a cliff face. From this protruded an enormous carved snake head, mouth gaping wide and lined with cruelly sharp stalactites and stalagmites, representing far more fangs than snakes actually had. Fire flickered sullenly in the stone beast’s eye sockets—green fire. Its open mouth, set flush with the floor of the little valley, formed a tunnel deep into the mountainside.

“Lovely,” Weaver said sourly.

“If tone of voice could be recorded in writing, they’d put that on your tombstone,” said Joe, lifting himself over the side of the cart and hopping down.

They weren’t alone; a gnome sitting before a small campfire rose and approached them, grinning broadly. He carried a halberd that looked huge on him and wouldn’t have been long enough to form the haft of a serviceable human-sized broom.

“As I live and breathe, Billie Fallowstone!” the guard declared. “This is a right honor, an’ no mistake.”

“Why it’s…it’s, uh…” She tilted her head, peering quizzically at him. “Sorry, do I know you?”

“Nope,” he said cheerfully. “I’m Collins, but don’t you worry about the likes o’ me. I hope you’re not lookin’ ta take a dive into the depths? Venomfont’s not open for delving for another six years this cycle.”

“Oh, I know all about that, don’t worry. Actually we’re just lookin’ to stay the night, re-supply an’ get information.”

“Well, then you’ve come t’the right place!” Collins proclaimed, bowing extravagantly. “You go right on in, make yerselves at home. Venomfont welcomes you!”

“Damn right,” she said with a grin, and nudged the cart forward.

Joe elected not to hop back in; Billie kept its speed low as she guided the vehicle into the snake’s mouth, and he had no trouble keeping up at a walk. He stayed close, though, trying and failing not to be intimidated by the looming darkness and massive stone fangs. The place had been designed to be oppressive, and designed well.

“I have to say,” he remarked, mostly to fill the silence, “when you said that gnomes had settled in Venomfont, I pictured… Well, a settlement. Outside the dungeon, around the entrance.”

“What? That’d be completely barmy,” Billie snorted. “Why throw up a rickety-ass shantytown out there where it’s all exposed to the elements when there’s a perfectly serviceable underground structure to be used? The upper levels have been cleared out fer centuries, safe as houses. Don’t mind the original stonework—it’s all there for historical value. This is gnome territory now, you’ll be as safe as if you were home in yer little bed.”

Venomfont was a notorious dungeon, one of those never truly conquered; right up until the end of the Age of Adventures, it had been a source of occasional plunder and frequent trouble. No sooner was one snake cult cleared out by heroes than another took root, raiding the surrounding countryside and performing…well, whatever unspeakable rites snake cultists got up to in the privacy of their evil lair. Billie was right about historical accuracy, Joe reflected as they creaked along to the end of the long tunnel and emerged into an enormous cavern. He hadn’t thought such elaborately sinister architecture could exist outside the illustrations of particularly cheesy adventure books.

Snakes were everywhere. The huge columns supporting the space were carved snakes; they coiled around the entrances to side chambers, were patterned in mosaics on the walls and even the floor. Their fanged mouths formed fountains from which water splashed with an incongruously cheerful sound. From all directions, serpentine eyes carved from faintly reflective green stone glinted suspiciously down at them.

And yet, around and on top of all the snakes, the gnomes had clearly made their mark. Burnished steel poles held up modern fairy lamps, illuminating the cavern with a bright, steady glow that made what would once have been shadowy, half-glimpsed sculptures seem washed out and rather silly. Snake-carved doorways were hung with cheerfully patterned curtains and strings of beads, metal and wooden structures had been added to the fronts of some chambers to form storefronts and free-standing structures. Sounds of talk and laughter echoed, even music from somewhere distant, and the smells of cooking food and burning wood hovered over all. The sprawling cavern had become a town, bright and pleasant, filled with gnomes going this way and that about their business. The looming, oppressive evil around it, the vibrant modern village ignoring it, and the fact that the latter was half-sized… It was the most surreal thing Joe had ever seen.

Not far beyond the mouth of the tunnel was a square of sorts, in the center of which stood a bronze sculpture, roughly human-sized, of a three-headed cobra with arms, its fingers ending in talons. He stepped over to this to read the plaque set up before it.

“Svinthriss, first and greatest Boss of the Venomfont, once master of this cavern. Slain by Talia Valradi of Calderaas.”

“Rub the tip of ‘is tail fer luck,” Billie said cheerfully, hopping down. “All right, everybody out! I gotta break this sucker down before she falls apart. We’ll need ta go on foot from here; cart’s not gonna be any use in the mountains.”

“This is amazing,” Joe murmured, turning to peer around at the gnomish town. Its residents were present but not numerous; they regarded the newcomers with interest, but seemed to hang back from approaching them. He revised his first assessment; the town in Venomfont was modern, clean and bright, but rather sleepy in terms of the activity going on.

“Yup,” said Billie cheerfully. “Wouldja believe gnomes used to be nomadic? Like plains elves! Only in the last hundred years or so have we started really settling inta places, every last one of ’em in one o’ the old dungeons. Best way to control access to the deeper catacombs, not ta mention the loot therein.” She looked up and winked at him. “Course, the Empire caught onto that pretty quick; they’re not quite so brutish as to root honest gnomes out o’ their homes, but they did snag a few dungeons fer themselves. Those are basically Army bases now; the ones that still have anything good are plumbed by Imperial strike teams.”

“Are most of the old dungeons partially cleared out?” he asked, fascinated.

“A good few are entirely cleared out,” said McGraw, stretching and knuckling his lower back. “Some of ’em, though, are the kind of places that can’t ever be truly quelled. Just contained. The gnomes are doing the world a favor by keeping a lid on them; I say it’s well worthwhile to let ’em have first crack at the loot. Specially since their economy pretty much depends on it now.”

“Aye, there are some that’re empty now,” Billie agreed, focusing on detaching bolts. “Some permanently as dangerous as the day they were opened, like the man said. Those mostly date right from the time of the Elder Gods. Only one that’s mostly untouched is the Crawl, under Last Rock; Tellwyrn uses that to train her University kids an’ doesn’t let anybody else have a crack at it anymore. An’ then there are those like the Venomfont, in between. This dungeon is fallow right now. Gates ta the lower levels are sealed, an’ no delving permitted until the monsters ‘ave had a chance ta rebuild their populations. This one’s mostly goblins on the bottom; they do some primitive mining and enchanting work, so it’s fairly profitable still when delving is reopened.”

“You cultivate dungeons,” Joe said wonderingly.

“Yeah,” Weaver said disdainfully. “What an age of wonders we live in. Are we seriously just going to stand around here explaining the modern age to the kid?”

“Keep yer pants on, I’m workin’, here,” Billie said without rancor. “I’ll show ye around in a minute. There’s no supplies like gnomish supplies, an’ we can get a good meal and a place to sleep for pretty cheap, with the dungeon itself not actually open. First an’ foremost, of course, we gotta get our intel on where our boy’s set up shop.”

“We have supplies,” the bard said petulantly.

“There’s better ones here,” she replied. The cart was already fully reduced to pieces; really, the speed with which she worked was astonishing. Billie was now occupied sorting its parts and stowing them back away in their various pouches. “Seriously, even without the dungeon active, Venomfont’s a fantastic source fer rare reagents! They got all kinds o’ good shit in the shops here. Naiya beans! Nimbus boots! Hellhound breath!”

“No!” A gnome with a bushy white beard came dashing up to them, waving his arms. “No hellhound breath! Arachne’s boots, Fallowstone, will you stop telling people that?! Do you know how many warlocks we’ve had try to break in here and get at the secret stash of non-existent hellhound breath?!”

“There he is!” Billie crowed, approaching the man with her arms held wide as if for a hug. “Mapmaster Bagwell, just the fella we need to see! Give us a kiss!”

“Off with ye, trollop!” he shouted, whipping off his baggy hat and swatting her over the head with it.

“What’s the deal with hellhound breath?” Joe asked McGraw quietly.

“Extremely rare reagent,” the old wizard replied in the same tone. “Used in necromancy. You pretty much can’t get it on the mortal plane.”

“All right, all right, don’t get yer beard up yer bum,” Billie was saying, still grinning. “Look, we’ll be outta your way by tomorrow, just need a little info and you’re exactly the man to supply it. We’re after a dragon!”

Bagwell planted his fists on his hips, scowling. “Dragons? Would that be the old dragons, or the new dragon?”

“Old dragons?” Weaver asked, clearly curious in spite of himself.

“Aye!” Bagwell transferred his irate stare to the human, having to lean backward to make eye contact. “Varsinostro the Green has his glade in the southern part of the Wyrnrange, an’ Telithamilon the Blue lives far to the west of here. They’re good neighbors, never cause any trouble. Very polite when they come visit. You leave those dragons alone,” he commanded, aiming an admonishing finger up at the bemused bard.

“Relax, we don’t care about them,” Billie assured him. “By ‘new dragon,’ did ye hopefully mean Khadizroth the Green?”

“Oh. Him.” Bagwell huffed disdainfully into his beard. “Sure, by all means, get rid of that one.”

“What’s he done?” Joe inquired.

“Not a thing! Not so much as introduced himself, just arrived at a prime settling spot on Mount Blackbreath, declared it was his new home and took to hunting the area. That dragon’s entirely too full of himself, if you ask me.”

“Smashing!” Billie proclaimed. “We’ll need a map to Mount Blackbreath, an’ any notes you’ve compiled on Khadizroth’s habits.”

Bagwell huffed again. “Those services aren’t free, Fallowstone.”

“Why, Mapmaster, you wound me! Me feelin’s are very nearly affronted. Do I have a reputation for cheating honest gnomes?”

He snorted. “All right, all right, fine. You go about yer business, I’ll come find ye when I have your maps and notes collected. That’ll take me some hours, they’re in my personal cipher. Meantime, enjoy Venomfont’s legendary hospitality, an’ do try not to burn the place down this time.”

He pointed to both his eyes, then at Billie with the same two fingers, glaring, before turning and stomping off back into the crowd.

“You’re popular,” Joe noted.

“This time?” Weaver demanded.

“Bah, he exaggerates. I burned down one tavern. Honestly, a gnomish inkeeper who waters his drinks is askin’ fer whatever he gets. All right!” She rubbed her hands together and resumed collecting up her parts and tools. “That’s taken care of. Easy as fallin’ outta bed! We’ll pick up some new supplied, get some dinner, find an inn…”

“At the expense of repeating myself, which I’m increasingly accustomed to,” said Weaver, “we have supplies.”

“Lemme rephrase that.” Billie gave him a long look. “Venomfont is a fallow dungeon. The major source of economic growth around here is in a coma, so to speak. A bunch a’ fancy big-city adventurers after a particularly rich target on a mission from a wealthy Imperial agent? We don’t drop some coin in this town, well, there’s like to be trouble.”

There was a beat of silence while the party glanced around them. They were still being watched, the faces of passing gnomes curious, open and not the least bit hostile, but subtly calculating.

“That’s the kind of thing that, for future reference, we’d appreciate knowing about before getting into the thick of it,” McGraw said finally.

“Right, gotcha. Humans are slow on the uptake. No matter how many times I get reminded, I always have trouble with that.” She buttoned her last belt pouch with a flourish and folded her arms, grinning up at them.

“Why is it,” Weaver asked, “that every time we go anywhere, do anything or have a conversation, I end up hating you more?”

“Aye, that’d be because I’m made of awesome, and you’re a big steaming wanker.”

“Yeah, that must be it.”

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5 – 15

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On her way back, Trissiny chose to sacrifice speed for the luxury of not being gawped at by every single person she passed; to judge from the questions and pleas that were constantly shouted at her, it was her rank and station that everyone found irresistibly interesting, not the unconscious man draped over the back of her horse. Thankfully, on the way to the Temple, she’d had her prisoner as a vivid excuse for not engaging in chitchat and having to face a lot of questions to which she really had no good answers. Once there, after having deposited the soldier in the care of the Third Silver Legion and left orders concerning his treatment, she had requisitioned a heavy cloak from the quartermaster and proceeded back to Lor’naris on foot, with her armor hidden and no distinctive silver steed to draw attention.

She drew back the heavy hood as she approached the intersection where the street began to descend into the border district. Walking around in a heavy hooded cloak had been odd enough to earn her no shortage of glances, but apparently a certain amount of oddness was permissible in a city the size of Tiraas, and she’d been left alone. Now, as she brought her face back into view one of the individuals casually leaning against the wall near the mouth of the street straightened and approached her.

“Welcome back, General,” said the drow. Avrith, that was her name; she’d been briefly introduced during the episode earlier, but it had been a little hectic.

“Just Trissiny is fine,” she said with a smile. “How are things here? It looks fairly quiet.”

“Indeed,” Avrith said calmly. Many of the Lorisian drow, Trissiny had noticed, were a tad less self-contained than the example Shaeine set, but they still tended to be hard to read. She thought there was something unhappy in Avrith’s expression, but couldn’t have placed a finger on it. “We have had a very helpful visit from the city guard. They helped clean up the scene of the attempted firebombing.”

“They what?” Trissiny scowled. “…soldiers from Imperial Command, or guards you recognize from previous encounters?”

“The latter, I am afraid.”

“So, any evidence suggesting any such bombing was attempted is now safely back at the barracks, where I’m sure it’s being analyzed with all due diligence and justice will be served,” said Bob, Avrith’s husband and patrol partner. He was a tall, lean human man with sharp features who Trissiny thought might have some elven blood—or maybe her own issues were just making her oversensitive to narrow faces and physiques.

She drew in a deep breath and let it out in s heavy sigh. “I should have anticipated that. Did anyone attempt to stop them?”

“Not as such,” Avrith said with a faint smile. “Clearly, none of us have the legal authority to interfere with the guard, and it is not wise to antagonize them any more than we must.”

“Wasn’t a complete loss, though,” Bob added, grinning. “Lady Shaeine clarified that Princess Zaruda’s diplomatic immunity extends to little things, like cussing at the police. I am in awe of that girl’s vocabulary.”

Trissiny clapped a hand over her eyes. “…and she tells me not to make things worse.”

“Actually, Trissiny, there is some potential good news,” said Avrith, pausing to nod to the two drow standing guard on the other side of the street. “It’s easier demonstrated than explained, however, if you’ll follow me?”

“Lead on.”

 

The shop to which they led her was labeled “A Trick of the Light,” which didn’t tell Trissiny anything about what it sold. It didn’t immediately become clearer once they were inside, though she did appreciate the relative warmth. The only items she recognized were on a small rack of shelves near the door, things she’d have expected to find in Elspeth’s shop, which she could identify mostly thanks to Yornhaldt’s class. Arcane power crystals, vials of glittering enchanting powder, spell parchment and charged ink, even pre-forge metal filaments suitable for use as arcane conductors in complex magical instruments.

Everything else was a mystery, though. The rows and stands of equipment made no sense to her; they looked more like pieces of disassembled telescopes than anything. At least half the shop appeared to be some kind of art gallery, with banks of drawings or paintings on display. Quite a lot were slightly fuzzy, and all were in a peculiar range of sepia tones.

Gabriel, Ruda and Fross were present, all studying the pictures, though they looked up when Trissiny entered with Avrith and Bob. The shop was quite well-lit, with very good modern fairy lamps, so Fross’s glow didn’t have much effect on the lighting even when she zipped excitedly over to Trissiny.

“Welcome!” exclaimed the shopkeeper, approaching Trissiny before she had the chance to greet her classmates. The woman was a half-elf—of the obvious variety, with the ears and everything—dressed in jarringly loud fabrics that made her stand out in this sea of sepia. “Welcome to the future! It’s an honor to host you in my humble shop, General Avelea. Take a look around! I’m sure you’ll appreciate the tactical value in what I have to offer!”

“Ah,” Trissiny said intelligently.

“I am Arpeggia Light, enchantress and innovator, dweller on the cutting edge of progress! My authentic Light-brand lightcappers are the best to be had, hand-crafted by myself and guaranteed to capture the clearest, crispest pictures available, or your money back!”

“…oh?”

“Just think!” Arpeggia exclaimed, making a sweeping gesture with both hands that encompassed her entire peculiar stock. “Images of enemies and positions, frozen in time with the flick of a switch! In this room you see the birth of a whole new form of art, soon to revolutionize every aspect of mortal society. Behold the future!” She finished with both arms outspread, beaming ecstatically.

“Do you by any chance know an Admestus Rafe?” Trissiny asked hesitantly.

Ms. Light dropped her arms and her smile. “Okay, seriously. Why do you kids keep asking me that?”

“Hey, roomie,” said Ruda, grinning. “Bout time you made it back.”

“Where are the others?”

“Shaeine went to speak to the folks at the Narisian embassy, and Teal went along because they are attached at the hip.” Gabriel’s tone was light, but his expression solemn and a little tired. “Juniper…is boycotting the human race at the moment.”

“Um… What?”

“I think she’s just overstimulated,” Fross chimed. “Tiraas has more people and less greenery than she’s ever seen in one place. It’s gotta be a lot to take in! I’m having a great time!”

“She’s on the roof of the inn, enjoying the cold,” Gabriel said with a shrug. “The privates are staying nearby because…well, they have to. And Toby’s guarding the ladder to the roof like a gargoyle. He’s got it into his head Juno is one more little disappointment from some kind of apocalyptic tantrum.”

Trissiny frowned. “What do you think?”

“Me?” He looked surprised.

“I realize there may not have been much talking,” she said dryly, “but what with one thing and another, you’ve probably spent the most time with her.”

“I think,” he said slowly, “Fross is right. She’s just adjusting. But…that’s not a bad thing, it’s what she needs to do. June’s got a very good handle on her own needs; if she wants a day of quiet, I say she should take one, and no cause for worry. If anything, I’m more concerned about Toby. He gets like this sometimes, when he’s afraid something bad is going to happen.”

“He feels responsible for everybody,” Fross said knowingly. “Poor boy’s gonna give himself a heart attack or something. I read about those. They sound painful.”

Avrith cleared her throat.

“Right, yes, sorry,” said Trissiny. “What was it you wanted to show me?”

“Thanks to Peggy’s lightcappers and willingness to donate her time,” said the drow, “we have a visual record of the guards removing the firebombing materials from that alley.”

“Avrith’s idea, she’s the strategic mind around here,” said Peggy, grinning maniacally. “I’ve got the prints developing in the back! We have those bastards dead to rights!”

“Wait,” said Trissiny, turning to look at the wall of brownish pictures. “You can actually take visual records with these devices?”

“It’s actually pretty awesome,” said Ruda. “Yeah, it captures an image of whatever it’s pointed at. Seems our new neighbors here were expecting some underhanded fuckery from the guards and set themselves up to catch it on paper. Peggy set up camp on a roof across from that alley and capped everything the guards did.”

“These are a new enough form of enchantment that nobody thinks to account for them,” Peggy admitted, “yet. But! They have already been held up in courts as admissible evidence! I’ve actually got the records somewhere around here…”

“That’s brilliant!” Trissiny exclaimed.

“I know!” Peggy cried.

“But it’s not going to be enough.”

Everyone in the room deflated slightly, even Avrith.

“Why the hell not?” Ruda demanded.

“What you’ve got is evidence of the guards removing dangerous materials from a crime scene,” Trissiny said, frowning and beginning to pace back and forth. “Which is part of their job. It builds toward the case we’re making about their corruption and abuse of power, but it isn’t conclusive. It doesn’t prove that one of theirs set the bomb in the first place.”

“Isn’t that the Sisters’ job from this point?” asked Gabriel. “I mean, that’s why you took him down there, right?”

“They won’t be able to hold him for long,” Trissiny admitted. “Legally, the Sisters can assist in criminal and judicial proceedings, and with as many Avenists as there are in the courts we’re often given a lot of leeway, but the letter of the law is they can only hold a suspect until the actual police take custody of him or her. There’s usually not much hurry, but in this case…”

“In this case, the fuckers will want their boy back ASAP,” said Ruda. “Fuck.”

“I took him to the Temple in the hope that a confession can be extracted,” said Trissiny grimly, “but he was already showing signs of being stubborn when he woke up. A man in his position knows the law and knows the guards’ policies; he only has to sit there for a few hours refusing to talk. There’s no real pressure on him.”

“What, don’t you Legionnaires have interrogators or something?” Gabriel asked. “With the thumbscrews and the dripping water and all that?”

“We don’t use torture,” Trissiny snapped. “It’s unjust, and also ineffective. A person who breaks under torture just says whatever they think will make the pain stop, which is not necessarily true or useful. Yes, we do have methods of breaking resistant prisoners, but they involve building rapport and using a lot of careful manipulations, which takes time. I made sure there would be no hurry for the Sisters to report they have the man in their custody, but something tells me the local barracks will know about it pretty soon anyway.”

“So…this was all for nothing?” Peggy looked positively crushed.

“It’s a start, as I said,” Trissiny reassured her. “It’s part of the puzzle. We still have a long way to go. If only I could get at the barracks’s records!”

“Pfft,” Ruda snorted. “You think they made a log of their illegal arson attempt?”

“Not that specifically, obviously! But the Army, like everything else in the Imperial government, runs on paperwork. There’ll be something. Avrith, these guards… Have they shown signs of being generally corrupt aside from trying to push you around?”

“In fact, they seem to have been relatively upstanding,” Avrith said calmly. “Racist, impolite and overbearing, but we have heard no complaints of illegal activity on their part, and I assure you we have looked for it. This event is the first thing I have ever heard from the local barracks that pushed past the boundaries of the law.”

“That’s…good,” Trissiny mused. “It means they won’t be practiced at covering their tracks. That oil and enchanting dust came from somewhere and likely wasn’t stolen. It wasn’t purchased on a guard’s salary, either; I’ll bet it was supplied by the barracks out of its operational budget. There may be other things, adjustments to shifts and schedules that explain why that man was here at this time.”

“You really think they were dumb enough to send a guard who was on duty?” Ruda said scornfully.

“Probably not,” Trissiny acknowledged. “But the Army feeds on records the way fire needs fuel. There’ll be something.”

“So, you want some unnamed records, you’re not even sure what, which you can’t get at in the first place because not only are they locked up in a barracks full of guards who specifically are pissed at you, but you won’t be able to use anyway if you managed to get them, because you’re trying to build a legal case and stealing paperwork pretty much undercuts the whole point.” Ruda shook her head. “Gotta tell you, Shiny Boots, this doesn’t seem like a real useful line of inquiry.”

Gabriel cleared his throat hesitantly. “Um, I’m not an expert on the law, but… If we could find and get those records, and if they proved the guards were up to something illegal… Wouldn’t they still be admissible in court?”

“Yes,” said Trissiny firmly. “There’s a precedent for that, and for the forgiveness of any charges relevant to acquiring the evidence in question. Anyway, we don’t strictly need to build an airtight case. If it looks like we’ve nearly got one, that will motivate Imperial Command to step in and remove the corrupt regiment before a group of citizens ends up putting a black mark against them in the courts. The newspapers alone would have a party with that if it got out.”

He nodded. “All right, then… I may have an idea.”

“An idea?”

“Of how to get those records.”

Trissiny frowned. “…go on.”

“I sort of…know somebody who knows somebody. Ruda said you made some kind of understanding with an Eserite Bishop, right?” At her nod, he continued. “Well, Elspeth down at the enchanting shop is in good with the Thieves’ Guild. I mean, she hasn’t come out and said it, but she’s hinted.”

“She is,” said Bob. He shrugged when everyone turned to look at him. “Everyone in the district knows it. You need to get a message to the Guild, Elspeth’s your girl.”

“Really,” Trissiny mused. “She’s self-righteous enough I wouldn’t expect her to be into anything illegal.”

“She is not involved in anything remotely illegal,” said Avrith. “In fact, due to her condition, her premises are inspected regularly by the Church and the Empire. Everything that happens in that shop is scrupulously aboveboard. Such an establishment is extremely useful to an organization like the Guild for a variety of reasons. She is not prone to involving herself in city events, however, or making use of her contacts on behalf of others.”

“I think she’d do me a favor,” said Gabriel. “Especially if I can honestly say Bishop What’s-His-Name—”

“Darling,” Bob supplied with a grin.

“Right, him. He’s tacitly signed off on this.”

“I am hesitant to involve thieves for all kinds of reasons,” Trissiny said, grimacing.

Gabriel shrugged. “You want to get something out of a locked barracks, who better?”

“Okay, wait a sec,” said Ruda. “Trissiny, a word in your ear, please?”

Trissiny let the pirate lead them over to a corner while Gabriel engaged the others in conversation. “You realize this is kind of pointless, right? Avrith and possibly Peggy can hear everything we’re saying.”

“These Narisians practice respect like it’s their religion,” said Ruda. “Unless we start plotting her murder, Avrith won’t hear anything she doesn’t think is her business. Look, Shiny Boots, I get that you’re wanting to help these people, and I’m with you on that, but come on. You’re actually considering launching operations against the Imperial Army. Who died and made you Horsebutt?”

“Not the Army,” Trissiny said patiently. “One corrupt fragment of it, which is only a problem because General Panissar isn’t motivated to get off his rump and do something about it. The law is on our side.”

“Yeah, that’s one interpretation,” Ruda said skeptically. “But remember that guy in the street said the General was coming down on them? Which he might not have done if you hadn’t lit a fire under him—that’s a pretty quick turnaround, considering he didn’t know this was going on before last night. This all started getting really interesting when you started putting the pressure on.”

“Are you saying this is my fault?” Trissiny exclaimed, forgetting to lower her voice.

“Don’t be stupid,” Ruda said sharply. “This would all have come to some kind of a head sooner or later, we all know that. There’s no guessing what might have happened if you hadn’t gotten involved. But the reality is, shit started going down pretty much exactly when you stepped in. I don’t believe in coincidence.”

“Well, what’s your suggestion, then?” Trissiny demanded. “Do nothing?”

“Not nothing,” Ruda said, shaking her head. “C’mon, Boots, you know me better than that. Just… Look, maybe I’m the one being irrational, but I’ve got a feeling you’re not being as careful about this as you could be. You don’t have to save the day yourself, you know. Why not see what resources the Lorisians have to solve their own problems?”

“That is precisely what we’re doing,” Trissiny said firmly. “Including their connections to the Thieves’ Guild. Believe me, Ruda, I am not looking to start a war with the guard. All we have to do is collect the necessary evidence, and this can still be put to rest quietly.”

“If you say so,” said Ruda, doubt plain on her face.

“Gabriel,” Trissiny said more loudly, turning and striding back to the rest of the group, “let’s have a word with your friend.”

“Ah…” He winced. “Actually, Triss, it might be better if you don’t come.”

 

“So, for our discussion that is to be kept private from the ears of a ranking member of the cult of Eserion, you bring us here.” Weaver dragged an expressive gaze around the Imperial Casino’s attached restaurant. “This just might be one of the dumbest things I’ve ever heard of. Just to put that into perspective for you, I’ve spent the last few years dealing with college students and their rich parents.”

“I know!” Billie said, grinning cheerfully. She was barely head and shoulders above the table, but didn’t seem put off by the size of everything. “It’s so stupid, it’s brilliant!”

Joe was studying Billie sidelong, fascinated and trying not to obviously stare. She was the first gnome he’d been around in person, and she was so different. Elves were delicately built, but aside from their ears, they could potentially be very fine-boned humans in appearance, albeit with rather big, childlike eyes. Dwarves, too, were broad and stocky, not to mention short, but could have fallen at the extreme ends of the human body type.

Gnomes, if Billie was a typical example, came from entirely different stock. The proportions were all wrong: her arms were a hint too long, her legs too short, her skull a smidge too large, none enough to be striking but enough to register on Joe’s mathematical awareness. It was hard to make out, fully clothed as she was, but it also seemed her muscles and ligaments attached and moved in ways that weren’t quite right. Gnomish women had a reputation for curvaceousness, and while Billie wasn’t particularly buxom he could see where the idea came from. Her short frame was wider from side to side but proportional from front to back; that, and her spine had a deeply sinuous curve that made her seem far more rounded than she was. There was also the faintest elongation of her nose and lower jaw—not that she had a muzzle, but that she might be descended from something which had. The ears which poked up through her dense mop of hair were pointed but also tufted, more like a cat’s than an elf’s, and it was hard to tell with her frizzy mane in the way, but they seemed to move of their own volition from time to time.

He averted his gaze, determined not to stare, and caught McGraw watching him. The old man smiled faintly, turning his attention back to the conversation.

“Anybody who uses that argument is only one of those things,” Weaver was saying.

“Thanks!” Billie said brightly.

“That wasn’t—no, nevermind, fuck it. Where’s that girl with our drinks?” he grumbled, slouching in his chair and folding his arms.

“Actually, it’s not a bad idea,” said Mary. Being technically a public enemy, she had applied a little glamor, turning her hair a typical elven blonde, though her attire was still drawing stares. “The measures we would need to undertake to really keep Darling out of our business would be borderline hostile in their intensity. We must simply trust that he will choose to grant us space to speak in private. Meeting here is an expression of that trust.”

“You seem more acquainted with the man than the rest of us,” said McGraw. “In your opinion, is that trust warranted?”

“He is what he is,” she replied calmly. “A thief is a thief, no matter the scale on which he operates. But Darling is an intelligent thief, who knows when pushing will not serve his interests.”

“Which is a roundabout way of saying…what, exactly?” Weaver raised an eyebrow.

“In this case,” said Mary, “I think he will grant us our space. In general, I think he will treat us respectfully. I am not, however, comfortable broadly describing the man as trustworthy.”

“That sorta brings us to the topic at hand, doesn’t it?” said Joe. “I’ll be honest: whatever reputation I have, I’ve been on exactly one adventure in my life and it ended last week. The rest of the time I was just protecting my town. Being admittedly over my head, here, I’m very interested in hearing what y’all think of Darling’s proposal.”

“He’s full of it,” Weaver grunted.

“Hell yes he is,” Billie said easily, “but like Mary says, that doesn’t mean he’s gonna screw us over. An honest person might up and do any damn thing at all if they’re pressured; a really good trickster doesn’t lie if he can help it.”

“Seems…counterintuitive,” Joe said carefully.

“Yup!” The gnome grinned up at him. “All the really good stuff is.”

At that moment, a young woman in the tight uniform of the Imperial Casino approached their table, bearing a tray laden with drinks. “Here we are,” she said cheerfully, setting each in front of its patron, and glanced at the menus, most of which were still lying unopened on the table. “Had a chance to decide what you’d like to order?”

“Hello, yes,” Billie said, suddenly all business. “We’re still contemplating meals, but on the recommendation of my very good friend Mr. McGraw, here, we’d like an appetizer plate of fried calamari with Punaji curry sauce. And I would like to bury my face in your cleavage, please.”

Joe choked on his orange juice.

“That’s not on the menu,” the waitress said with amusement, reaching down to ruffle Billie’s hair. “One calamari platter coming up.”

“Just as a point of reference,” said McGraw in a somewhat strained tone as the girl sashayed away, “everyone working here is technically in the employ of the Thieves’ Guild. Some of the servers and guards and such are actually apprentices, who answer to individuals I really don’t want irritated with me. So can we keep the harassment of the staff to a minimum, please?”

“Yes, I am,” Billie said seriously. “That was the minimum. So, Joe! What was this one and only adventure of yours?”

“Had to go to the center of the Golden Sea,” he said noncommittally. After a moment’s silence, he looked up from his orange juice to find them all staring at him. “…what?”

“The center of the Golden Sea?” Weaver demanded. “It has a center? I call bullshit.”

“No one has ever been there,” said Mary. “It was thought to be unreachable, if indeed it even existed.”

“Oh,” he said thoughtfully. “Might have had something to do with the company I was keeping. The Shifter needed to get there and needed an escort to do any necessary shootin’. There’s a kind of dimensional portal in the center; she used it to leave this world.”

“Wait, you know the Shifter?” Billie exclaimed. “Just what the hell kind of town is Sarasio?!”

“The Shifter left the world?” Mary frowned. “That makes little sense. The Shifter is in all worlds; that’s the whole point of her.”

“What the hell is a Shifter?” Weaver demanded.

Joe sighed and shrugged. “I wasn’t claiming to understand the details. You’d have to ask Jenny, which as I just indicated isn’t really an option anymore. Some folk from the Imperial Army were after her; apparently the situation was a little rich for her blood. Anyway, we’re getting off topic, here. Not that I’m averse to swapping stories sometime, but we were discussing whether we’re going to take Darling’s deal.”

“I am,” said Billie with a shrug, taking a sip of her cocktail. “Pay’s good and it’s not morally abhorrent; that’s all I really ask out of life. Plus, dragon! Always wanted to fight a dragon.”

“There are cleaner ways to die,” Weaver said, curling his lip.

“Pfft, who wants to die cleanly? Cowards and lazy people, that’s who.”

“Well, you can sign me up for both,” he said, toying with his own drink but not lifting it to his mouth. “This isn’t even the kind of job I’d normally consider; if it wasn’t for what he’s offering, I wouldn’t even be having this conversation. For all that, it’s not the job that leaves me uncertain, but what it implies.”

“That, I think, is the real issue before us,” said McGraw. “I might be mistaken—it wouldn’t be the first time—but what Darling implied about the Church looking to recruit or destroy everyone left in our loose little fraternity of wandering souls… Well, that smacks to me of the end of an era.”

“The Age of Adventures has been over for centuries,” Weaver said dismissively.

“Has it?” McGraw leaned his head back to stare down his nose at the younger man. “The word ‘adventurer’ may be synonymous with ‘grandstanding fool’ these days, but the very fact that people find the need to seek other terms for the likes of those of us at this table proves there’s still a place for us in the world. If the Archpope has his way, that’s about to change.”

“It sounds to me like this matter is the sticking point,” said Joe. “Those of us who’re uncertain whether to go for the deal are worried about those longer-term implications, not about this job in particular. Right?”

“Pretty much,” Weaver said reluctantly. “I mean, it’s a crap job, but… Darling’s got us by the short ones there, if he can actually back up his promise.”

“He strikes me as a man too intelligent to make promises he couldn’t back up to the likes of us,” said McGraw.

“I agree,” Mary nodded.

“Then that’s our point of contention,” said Joe. “Mary, you know Darling better than most of us, and you’re the oldest person here by a pretty huge margin. What do you think?”

She cocked her head to one side, a strikingly birdlike gesture. “Great powers rise and fall; the Church itself will not endure forever. I agree with Elias; the Archpope’s plans, if brought to fruition, would severely hamper our ability to move. I, as I have no intention of serving his ambitions, would be forced to lie low for however many centuries it would take for the political structure of Tiraas to collapse. In the long term, however, they always do. This is not without precedent; in the days of the Heroes’ Guild, a similar situation prevailed. All things pass.”

“It’s a pretty well permanent state of affairs for those of us who aren’t immortal,” Weaver commented.

“Oh?” Mary turned to him and raised an eyebrow. “Can you actually die, Gravestone? Will you?”

He only grunted and took a drink.

“What are you going to do?” Joe asked, staring at Mary.

“I will take the deal,” she said, calm as ever. “In this matter, Antonio Darling can be relied upon, because his nature and his interests align with my goals. And those of each of you, if I may assume that none of you wish to either retire or work for the Church.”

“Until this week, I was retired,” Weaver complained.

“And the other option?” McGraw asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Hell with that. If the only option is doing Justinian’s dirty work, I’m goin’ right back to Last Rock and my nice, quiet library.”

“Yeah, I think we’re pretty much all in agreement on that,” said Billie cheerfully. “So the question becomes, why do you think throwing our lot in with Darling’s the best way to achieve that?”

“Darling is a priest of Eserion,” said Mary. “The former High Priest, in fact. He is also a Bishop in the Universal Church, and a high-ranking official in the Imperial government. Those loyalties contradict each other directly. The Church and the Empire feud constantly for power; the Guild’s driving force is the goal of preventing anyone from acquiring too much power. At issue is which of these alignments truly has his loyalty. In my estimation, it is that of his god.”

“How certain are you of that?” McGraw asked quietly.

“Very. I have watched him with care; he embodies the principles of Eserion’s faith in his daily life. I do not know the full extent of what Darling is planning, but his plans are not Justinian’s. I believe that when it comes down to it, he will act to undercut the Archpope. On that day, I would prefer to be at hand and involved than in some distant corner of the world, waiting to learn how my fate has been decided.”

A grim silence fell over the table. In unison, all five of them sipped at their drinks, staring into the distance.

“Hi there,” said their waitress, bustling back up to their table with a platter of steaming calimari and bowls of dipping sauce. She bent over to place it on the table, ignoring the way Billie craned her neck to get a better view. “Come to any decisions?”

Weaver sighed. “Yeah… Looks like we pretty much have.”

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