Tag Archives: Sheriff Sanders

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Professor Tellwyrn’s office door opened without warning.

“Knock knock!” Principia sang, leaning inside with a cheery smile.

Tellwyrn stared at her over the rims of her spectacles for a moment, one hand still holding a quill poised above the papers on her desk. “Oh, this had better be good,” she said finally. “It won’t be, but it had better.”

“Don’t be such a grouch,” Principia replied, sliding in and shutting the door behind her. “We used to get along so well! Remember?”

“I remember paying you to do things you were going to do anyway to people I wanted you to do them to instead of the general public.”

“Uh…” She blinked. “You lost me about half—”

“I do know the basics of running a con, Prin. Trying to establish an emotional connection with your mark is amateur stuff. I’m very nearly offended; don’t I deserve the top of your game? Anyway,” she went on more loudly as the other elf opened her mouth to object, “you would be wise to say your piece before my tolerance wears out. You are specifically not supposed to be on my campus.”

“Yeah, well, there’s a difference between the letter of the law and the spirit of the law,” Principia said, edging closer to the desk. “We both know why you don’t want me around, and she’s not even on campus right now.”

“The fact that you know this isn’t helping your case. Spit it out, Prin.”

She sidled closer, letting the smile fade from her face. “I need your help.”

“Interesting. I’m leaning heavily toward ‘no.’”

“You haven’t even—”

“And it is not in my interests to even. I know how you operate; it’s not as if you’re terribly complicated. Whatever you may or may not be up to right now, I know your ultimate goal at this University, and you’re not getting that. Engaging with you is just a way for you to work a fingernail into some crack.”

“Arachne,” she said somberly, “I’ll give you my word that I’m not working any angle. I won’t swear that I might not change my mind and try to take advantage in the future…we both know me too well for that to be believable…but if you really think I’m nothing but self-interest, then I promise you that’s all this is. I might be in real trouble here. I’m asking for your help.”

“I have every confidence that you’ll manage to weasel your way out of whatever you’re into. Probably the same way you got into it in the first place.”

They locked eyes, Principia glaring, Tellwryn impassive. Finally, Prin heaved a sigh and shrugged.

“Well, if that’s how it’s going to be… I guess I’ll go throw myself out, then.”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” Tellwyrn said sweetly.

 

“All right, you’re down for two doubloons on the drow, despite my earnest advice.”

“Hey, I like me an underdog! Comes down to it, they’re the ones who fight hardest.”

“Whatever you say, Wilson. Ox, are you sure you want the dryad?”

“Positive,” the big man rumbled. “Put three doubloons on her.”

Hiram Taft, the owner of the town bank, shook his head and chortled even as he jotted down Ox’s name on the grid inscribed on the parchment rolled out between them. The men were clustered around an upturned barrel on the shaded front of the Sheriff’s office. Sheriff Sanders himself stood at the edge of the sidewalk with his back to them, working a toothpick and watching the comings and goings in the street.

“Well, I hate to take your money, Ox—”

“The gods frown on lies, Hiram.”

“—but if that’s the way you want it. Mind you, I’d have much stronger opinions about the green girl if I was twenty years younger, but there ain’t no way she’s a match for my demon.”

“’Your’ demon,” Sanders grunted, not turning around.

“That’s ‘cos I’ve read my Imperial Army encounter manual,” Ox rumbled. “Dryads are classified as a sapient monster race, neutral alignment, divine origin. Threat level of eight. I like my odds.”

“If you’re sure, then!”

“I have half a mind to go to Mayor Cleese,” Sanders said. “Or the council, or Father Laws. Hell, or Miz Cratchley. Somebody who’ll slap a ban on this foolishness so I can toss you galoots in a cell.”

“Aw, don’t be a spoilsport, Sam, it’s harmless fun,” Taft said jovially. “And who knows, the pool might actually pay out this year! You know there was a scrap between the Avenist and that half-demon boy already.”

“The pool has never paid out, and will never pay out,” Sanders grunted. “It’ll all go to the church fund like always, and you can all be damn glad of that. If the pool ever pays out, it’ll mean the freshmen have actually started takin’ blades to each other. And that will only happen if the whole place up there dissolves into complete anarchy, in which case this town is likely to be razed to its foundations.”

“What’s the harm, then?”

The Sheriff shook his head. “I live in fear of the day Tellwyrn finds out about this annual pool of yours. Dunno whether she’d knock all your heads together or join in. Frankly, I’m not sure which idea spooks me more.”

An enormous POP sounded a few yards away, sending a blast of expelled air in all directions, which lifted off the Sheriff’s hat and forced Taft to lunge after his suddenly airborne parchment grid. In the middle of the street, at the epicenter of the disturbance, Principia Locke appeared from midair, about two feet off the ground. She landed with catlike grace, peering about in startlement for a moment, then a scowl fell across her features.

“Oh, you smarmy bitch.”

“Prin!” Sanders shouted, straightening up with his errant hat in hand. It took him all of one second to do the math on this situation. “You wanna tell me why you were up there pestering Professor Tellwyrn?”

“Ah ah ah,” she scolded, wagging a finger at him as she approached out of the street. “Just as soon as somebody passes a law against me visiting old friends, that’ll be your business. Till then, you can just butt out.”

“Hmp,” he grunted, folding his arms and leaning against one of the vertical wooden beams holding up the awning. “On your head be it, then. I have it on very good authority that Tellwyrn does not like you at all.”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed. Ooh, hey, are you guys doing the annual pool? Put me down for three on the Hand of Avei.”

“Hah!” Taft chortled, grinning. “Any other year, sure, but you do know there’s a bona fide demon up there now? You’ve got no chance.” He did, however, mark her name and wager down on the appropriate spot.

“I like my odds. You whippersnappers may not remember what the world was like when paladins were running around willy-nilly, but I’ve seen the Silver Legions in action.” She leaned forward, peering over the map; three sets of eyes shifted momentarily to her low-cut bodice. “I see Ox is shafting you out of an honest ten doubloons, Hiram.”

“Bah! I have faith in my demon, even if she is attached to a bard.”

“Uh huh. I take it nobody’s informed you that demons are critically weak against high-level fae?”

“…wait, what?”

“Yup!” she said cheerfully. “Their magic just peters out, like a fire underwater. That’s why witches are almost as good as priests against warlocks. Your demon isn’t gonna do squat against that dryad.”

“That…you… Ox! You cheating son of a bitch!”

“No takebacks,” Ox said smugly.

Sanders shook his head, still not looking at them. Instead, he glanced up the street at the mountain, wondering at the source of the bad feeling he suddenly had.

 

They didn’t call it the Grand Cathedral because it lacked grandiosity.

Bishop Darling was fully in character: serene, aloof, smiling vaguely at all he passed in humble benediction. No matter how many times he walked these halls, though, he could never quite suppress the inner voice of Sweet as he passed gilded columns, rich tapestries, extravagantly wrought furniture, masterwork paintings and statues of gods, all decorating halls and rooms of the finest white marble. That voice kept repeating to itself, these guys are just begging to get ripped off.

They weren’t, of course. Anybody daft enough to try stealing from the gods—and there had been quite a few, throughout history—would soon find that stealing from the Church was an altogether different proposition. The gods, at least, were often inclined to be merciful.

Ascending a broad marble staircase with a red-and-gold rug cascading down its center, Darling nodded to the two Papal Guards keeping watch over the door at the top, smiling with a mild, smug satisfaction that he did not feel. It was highly unlikely that these two mooks would bother to interpret his expressions, much less report on them to anyone who mattered, but appearances had to be kept up.

They certainly were resplendent in their burnished silver breastplates over golden coats, carrying upright spears that were ornamented so richly he frankly doubted they would hold up in actual combat. These men were definitely showpieces, but well-trained, as they proved in the flawlessly precise simultaneous bow they gave him. Under any other Archpope, Darling might have suspected they were only to be kept for show. Justinian, though, had not gone to the trouble of assembling his own force of guards because he liked to look at shiny things.

He pulled open the great gilded oak doors himself, stepping into the Archpope’s private meeting room. Behind him, one of the guards pushed the doors shut, but Darling ignored this, striding forward with his attention on those before him. More stairs… The architecture of this place was not subtle, forcing any who would approach the Archpope to climb, emphasizing that they were beneath him except at his sufferance. At the top of another broad flight of deep marble steps, a room lined entirely by windows was adorned with high-backed gilt chairs and a massive table. Four people were present; Darling initially ignored all but one.

“Your Holiness,” he murmured, kneeling and pressing his lips to the proffered ring, a thick gold band with an absurdly-sized round-cut diamond within which an ankh symbol glowed with the golden light of the gods.

Archpope Justinian was well over six feet in height, with broad shoulders that suggested a more athletic lifestyle than his ecclesiastical duties required. In his later middle years but still handsome, he wore his brown hair a touch longer than was fashionable, with a neat goatee surrounding his square chin. Two wings of gray swept back from his temples, with a matching pair of thin stripes in his beard, all as precise as if painted on; the only lines of experience on his face suggested a lifetime spent smiling. Though his office traditionally involved rich, fur-lined robes, glittering jewels and a truly massive crown, Justinian wore the simple black surcoat of a Church priest, with a white tabard emblazoned with the Church’s ankh symbol in gold. Only that and his ring announced his office. His humility had done wonders to endear him to the people.

“Rise, my friend,” Justinian said with a characteristic smile, and Darling did so. The Archpope radiated power and calm in a way that had nothing to do with any divine energies. As a student of body language and theatrics himself, Darling always felt he was in the presence of a master when he met with Justinian.

“I apologize for my tardiness, your Holiness,” he said humbly, finally glancing over at the others in the room. Three fellow Bishops, people he knew—they weren’t a large community—but not well.

“Nonsense, you arrived well before the stated time,” the Archpope replied, turning to stride back to his thronelike seat at the head of the table. Darling followed.

“It’s all relative, your Holiness. If everybody else is already here, clearly I’m late.”

“What makes you think everybody who’s coming has arrived?” asked the slim, dark-haired woman nearest him, smiling faintly.

“Everyone important, then,” he said with a wink. She gave him a raised eyebrow, but the other woman at the table laughed obligingly. Darling was known for being somewhat irreverent. Obviously he kept it subdued in the Archpope’s presence, but acting too out of his established character would have created suspicion.

He glanced over them swiftly as he sat, noting that they were all regarding each other—and him—with the same wary curiosity. This, then, was not a group accustomed to meeting with each other, unlike the Imperial security council in which the Archpope had placed him.

Lean and sharp-featured, with a coppery complexion and a dominant nose that didn’t spoil her looks, Basra Syrinx wore the traditional white robes of a Bishop, as did they all, with a brooch in the shape of Avei’s golden eagle pinned at the shoulder to identify her cult. Darling knew relatively little of her, personally, but nothing he’d heard suggested that the Empress’s assessment—sneaky, mean and less than devout—was inaccurate. Directly opposite him sat Branwen Snowe, a woman who was strikingly beautiful in a way that she clearly was well aware of and spent effort on. That was actually unusual for disciples of Izara, but her fiery auburn hair had been wound into an elaborate knot that had certainly taken time and probably needed help, and she actually wore cosmetics. Skillfully enough that they might not be apparent to everyone, but Darling knew a thing or two about disguises. The fourth Bishop present, Andros Varanus, was a follower of Shaath and truly looked the part. With his thick beard, untamed black hair and deep, glaring eyes, he looked out of place in the sumptuous surroundings and uncomfortable in his white robe. Doubtless he’d have preferred to be in furs as his cult considered proper for a Huntsman.

“Since you mention it,” said the Archpope, smiling serenely at them from the head of the table, “everyone invited is now here, and as such, we may begin discussing our business. My friends, I have selected the four of you according to very particular criteria. Despite what you may believe, it has little to do with your various efforts to acquire my political favor.”

As one, they stiffened slightly, like youths caught out in some mischief: urgently wanting to protest, but not sure how to do so without challenging an authority figure and making the situation worse.

“There is neither shame nor condemnation in it,” Justinian said gently, his kind smile unwavering. “You were all sent here by your various cults in recognition of your skill at the great game of politics. Indeed, there are few within the Church who do not pay that game, and none at or near your rank who fail to play it skillfully. I have no shortage of clever operators at my disposal. What I need from you…what I believe you are uniquely suited to provide, is something different entirely.” He folded his hands before him, leaning forward and somehow holding all four of their gazes without moving his eyes. “Faith.”

“I do not lack faith in my god,” Varanus said in a tone that was perilously close to a growl. “Nor do any of my people. The faithless are not suffered in Shaath’s cult.”

“Faith is a decision,” replied the Archpope smoothly. “It is a choice of alignment, a determination to believe a given thing regardless of what evidence presents itself.” He paused, his smile widening as he watched them glance uncertainly at one another. To hear the leader of the Church give voice to what was beginning to sound like agnosticism put them all off balance. “Faith is perhaps the most crucial aspect of human existence. We have faith that our loved ones will not betray us, that our government will shelter us, that our partners in trade will deal fairly with us… That our gods will succor us. And no matter how many times each of these disappoints that faith, we hold to it. Because without it, we are nothing. We would be eternally at each other’s throats, trusting no one, never able to rest. Faith, friends, makes all human endeavor possible. It is the one thing that binds us together while all our other impulses seek to rend us apart.

“My concern is not the depth or sincerity of the faith you have in your individual gods, or in me. No, I have gathered the four of you, specifically, because of the nature of the faith you hold. After all, one does not have faith in a spouse or parent the same way that one has in a deity. I have watched all my Bishops closely, and selected the four of you on one basis.” He lowered his hands to his lap and leaned back in his great chair, eyes roving across their faces. “You understand that the gods…are people. And as such, they are far from perfect.”

Absolute stillness reigned in the room. For excruciatingly drawn-out seconds, the Bishops stared at their Archpope in shock, afraid even to glance at each other.

It was Darling who finally broke the spell. “I feel like the only safe thing I can do here is take a pratfall to cut the tension.”

Branwen tittered nervously; Andros gave him a scathing look. Basra was still staring fixedly at the Archpope.

Justinian, for his part, nodded, still smiling. “In point of fact, Antonio has the right of it. Before the gods, what are mere creatures such as we? We dance for their amusement. I do not mean to suggest that we attempt to elevate ourselves above our station. On the contrary,” he went on, leaning forward and gazing at the intensely, “it is my belief that we serve the Pantheon better by acknowledging their limitations. By not expecting them to tend to every little thing that takes place on the mortal plane. There are matters which it is ours, their servants, to address, so that they can be about the business of holding up the firmament and maintaining the order of the world.” Slowly, he panned his gaze around the table, meeting each of their eyes in turn. “One of these matters, which I have called you together to attend to, concerns the Black Wreath.”

Darling felt a shiver begin at the base of his skull and travel slowly down the whole length of his spine. Too much coincidence…too many people pointing him in this one direction, the same direction he’d set out to search on his own, first. Or had he? Was he being moved by the gods—his, or others? How much did Justinian know? Or Eleanora?

The possibilities grew more disturbing the more he wondered. He felt…elated. The game was on.

“That, of all things, would seem to be the gods’ concern,” Basra said slowly.

“It is an easy mistake to make, Basra,” Justinian replied. “Elilial most certainly is a threat for the Pantheon to address. The Wreath, however, are mortal men and women…like ourselves. What power they have is the gift of a deity.”

“Like ourselves,” Andros said, his eyes narrowed in thought.

“Just so,” the Archpope nodded. “And they are becoming more active in recent days. The Church’s capacity to contend directly with such threats is growing, of course.”

“We saw the new guards,” Branwen commented.

“Indeed. However, some wars are not meant to be fought by armies. Some cannot be fought thus. That is why I’ve assembled you.”

“I assume I am missing something,” Basra commented, “if you intend the four of us to fight the Black Wreath.”

“Not directly, or in its entirety, nor all at once,” Justinian replied. “As I said, I chose you based on mindset, on your willingness to act in necessity and not be excessively bound by the traditions of your own faiths. Your willingness to see members of other cults as colleagues rather than rivals. Unfortunately, the lack of that same willingness still chokes some divisions of the Universal Church, despite my best efforts. However, despite my selection of you on that criterion alone, I see the providential hand of the gods in the array of skills before me. Warrior, hunter, thief, persuader. I believe you were guided to this task by the Pantheon themselves.”

There came another brief silence, while they all studied each other speculatively.

“Intrigue,” Branwen said at last. “You are talking about espionage, not combat.”

“Just so. We will begin with specific, individual missions, pursuing certain leads that have come to my attention, and work up from there. Elilial, in the end, is distinct from our gods by circumstance, not nature. Whatever leadership she provides the Wreath, she is not running every aspect of its actions, any more than your own gods direct every step you take.” A note of wry humor entered his voice. “If my own Bishops can manage to trip each other up in the halls of this very Cathedral, how much more effective will four of you prove against a single target?”

“What target?” asked Basra.

“Small ones, at first. By necessity. But eventually… You will do what Imperial Intelligence, what centuries of counter-action by the various individual cults of the Pantheon, have failed to do.” The Archpope smiled. “For in the end, what is a faith without a high priest?”

 

The sparse crowd in the square was drifting toward and around the Ale & Wenches, in preparation for the traditional lunch rush, and Principia let herself be carried along with the throng after she stepped out of the scrolltower office. Her eyes darted across the people present, seeking out navy blue uniforms and paying little attention to those who didn’t have them. In this, she was quickly disappointed.

And then chagrined by her lack of attentiveness when a hand closed around her upper arm.

“Heard you ran into a mite of trouble up there on the mountain,” Jeremiah Shook said mildly, smiling down at her.

“Oh, how people love their gossip in this town,” she replied dryly.

“Every town, as I understand it. The smaller, the gossipier.” He glanced about quickly at the idlers and strollers in the square, and she quashed an urge to smack him upside the head. Nobody was paying them any attention; the surest way to attract attention was to act like there was something more going on than two people pausing for a chat. “Now, you wouldn’t have gone and blown our business here, would you? Maybe counting on Tellwyrn to protect you from…the consequences?”

Principia gave him her most scathing look. “No, Thumper, Tellwyrn is not aware that you are sniffing around her business. Know how you can tell? Because your ass isn’t dead. I was just…ruling out a possibility. I didn’t really think it would pan out, but it had to be tried, and now I can focus on more likely prospects.”

“And now she knows to watch you,” he said, his voice gaining an unmistakeable threat, though he kept it too low to be overheard.

“She always knows to watch me. Now, duckling, she’s watching for the wrong thing. She thinks I’m running some kind of con on her. So she’ll keep me at arm’s length and feel smug about it, while I can maneuver around more reliable sources of information without having to worry about her overhearing something awkward. This isn’t my first rodeo, y’know,” she added, smirking.

“What reliable sources?” he asked curtly.

“Gonna start with those three soldiers the Empire sent over. They come to town for meals and booze. Getting intel out of sloshed soldiers is like taking candy from three big, tipsy babies.”

“Those three tipsy babies are at the heart of all this,” Thumper warned. “Be careful not too get too clever, Keys. This is not a mission you want to blow.” As he spoke, he kept his hand on her arm, but began moving his thumb up and down in a soft, caressing motion.

“Aw, are you worried about little ol’ me?” she asked sweetly, reaching up to pat him on the cheek. “That’s so thoughtful of you. Tell me, since you’re clearly the expert: exactly how clever is it safe for me to be?”

“That,” he said quietly, “is too clever. Don’t push me, Keys.”

Principia let her smile drop. “Look, wiseass, you can be in charge and as threatening as you want. But if you want this job to succeed, don’t forget who the expert is. You want me to work?” She gripped his wrist and extricated her arm from his grasp. “Then let me work. Tricks will get his info, if there’s anything to get. If there’s not, I’ll get verification of that. And you, meanwhile, need to not get under my feet.”

He allowed her to remove his hand. “Fine, then. When are you going to corner the boys?”

“I was hoping to see them in town for lunch, but no dice today, it seems. I’ll keep trying that, but according to the local scuttlebutt they’re only reliably here in the evenings. My next night off is in three days; I’ll spend it at the A&W chatting them up if nothing better comes along in the meantime.”

“Your next night off?” He raised his eyebrows incredulously. “Are you seriously confusing your bullshit job slinging drinks at that run-down little rathole with what’s actually important here?”

“That bullshit job is my cover,” she said, forcing herself to moderate her tone. They were already pushing the boundaries of polite conversation; it wouldn’t do to attract any further interest. “Without that, I’ve got no reason to loiter around this town, and then I can’t do the real job. And the Saloon is not a rathole.”

“Keys, you’re going native.” He shook his head. “It’s almost tragic, a fine little piece like you, wasted on this dust bunny of a town. Fine, three days, then. I expect to have some good news waiting for me on the morning of the fourth.”

“Oh, I will be sure not to disappoint,” she simpered.

“Good girl,” he said condescendingly, reaching up to pat her on the head.

Principia smiled broadly, showing more teeth than was necessary, and turned on her heel, flouncing off down the street. He stood for a long moment and watched her go.

Behind him and high above, the orb atop the scrolltower began to flash, sending out a message.

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2 – 4

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Jeremiah Shook pushed open the swinging doors of the Saloon with both hands and stepped inside, pausing just past the threshold to sweep his gaze around the room. Scattered at tables and the bar, men in the rough garb of laborers and cattle-hands looked up at him curiously; he nodded once to the room at large, then stepped inside and made his way to an empty table. A few pairs of eyes followed him till he sat, but most turned back to their drinks, conversations and card games. His dark suit was of a more moneyed cut than most of them wore, but not by much.

He could afford better, but rarely bothered. In his line of work, clothes tended to get mussed pretty quickly.

“Nice entrance,” said the waitress, sidling up to him. “Classic. You’re a fan of cowboy fiction, I take it?”

She was mocking him. Bile rose in his throat; he pushed it back down, giving her an easy smile. “Tell me honestly: how many out-of-town visitors feel the need to do that at least once?”

“Pretty much all of ’em,” she said with a grin, “but you’ve got them mostly beat for self-awareness. What’ll it be, stranger?” She was an elf, a pleasingly slender little piece with sharp features and almost childlike eyes, but where elves were almost always some shade of blonde, her hair was a glossy raven black. He’d eat his boots if there were two women of that description in a town this size, but the proprieties must be observed.

“A wanderer like me is compelled to keep simple tastes,” he said, a rueful grin camouflaging his use of Guild codes for the sake of the onlookers. “At least, till I get settled in and figure how well my business will fare in this town.”

“So, cheap whiskey, then?” She winked, but her smile was sympathetic. “You’re in luck; Last Rock is kind to wanderers. They bring us most of our custom, after all. The welcome’s warm and the drinks are…substantially less awful than they could be.” Her reply covered all the Guild countersigns and told him everything he needed about the current situation. No current business active, no pressure from police. A ripe town; it was ironic that they were both specialists in particular fields and not positioned to begin relieving the townsfolk of their money.

“Cheap, but not the cheapest,” he replied. “Upgrade me from ‘less awful’ to ‘not awful,’ if y’don’t mind.”

“Ooh, big spender! Anything in particular want it to wash down?”

“Just here to drink for now, doll.”

“And drink you shall, darlin’. Back in two shakes.” She sashayed off; he indulged in a half-moment’s perusal of her backside before returning his attention to the room at large. Principia had a cute little tush, but he didn’t yet know how well-liked she was in this town. Based on what Tricks had told him of her, he suspected not very, but ogling a woman who the locals held in esteem was a quick way to get on everybody’s shit list. Best not to take foolish risks till he had is bearings.

Nobody was even looking at him. In addition to finding out where Principia lurked, he’d taken advantage of his day at the Ale & Wenches to learn a bit about the town. Last Rock got most of its income from the University, one way or another. Quite a few of the students had more money than was good for them, and the townsfolk had grown adept at squeezing it out of them without cultivating any bad blood. Aside from that and the local cattle industry, the town did business largely with passing adventurers. The Age of Adventures might be over, but the Golden Sea still held the promise of riches for the skilled and the lucky. The town saw a decent traffic in heavily-armed loners heading into the prairie, and in some cases staggering back out of it, and there were tradesmen who made a good living seeing to their needs. He was clearly neither student nor adventurer, and thus of little interest to the men in this room.

“Here we go,” Principia breezed, returning and setting a bottle and glass on the table. “Whiskey, and a clean glass, because I like you. So tell me, wanderer, what’s this business that brings you to our dusty little town?”

“This year, it’s alchemy.” He set a small stack of copper coins on the table before pouring himself a drink; she deftly made them vanish into her apron. “Cures, minor enhancements, that sort of thing. I’ve a modest stock with me and the option to send back to Tiraas for more if the ground here proves fertile.”

“Oh?” She leaned one hip saucily against his table, folding her arms in a manner that framed her bust. Like most elves, she wasn’t particularly buxom, but had clearly selected her dress and apron to maximally accentuate her assets. “Now, would that be real, effective alchemy, by any chance?”

“Y’know, that’s a fairer question than I might admit in other circumstances,” he replied with a grin, taking a sip of the whiskey. She was right; it wasn’t awful. “I’m not ashamed to say I’ve peddled a few vials of snake oil in my day; a man has to make a living. But in the end, there’s no future in it. The real stuff’s where the money is, once you’ve built up enough of a nest egg to invest in a basic stock.”

“There’s a town alchemist, you know,” she said. “He may not appreciate the competition.”

“Mm. Then again, he may not mind. I’m sure we can come to an understanding.” Shook sipped his drink again. “There are lucrative but shady concoctions an upstanding local business owner may not want to pass across his counter. Not to mention the kind of characters he wouldn’t want to pass ’em to. I’m confident I can keep out of his hair.”

“Well, I know the lot of the casual tradesman,” she said with a sly smile. “I do a side business in minor enchantments as well. In a town like this, it’s enough to keep me drinking a slightly better quality of whiskey than that.”

“Good to know,” he said appreciatively. “Fertile grounds after all?”

“Oh, you’d better believe it. Between the college kids and the wannabe heroes, you can always find someone willing to trade his coin and his common sense for a little edge.”

“Perhaps we might have business to discuss, then. We are in similar fields, after all.”

“Perhaps,” she purred. “I just know there’s something mutually beneficial we can find to talk about.”

“Hey, Prin, how about this,” rumbled the man behind the nearby bar. “How’s about you see to the business I’m actually payin’ you for while you’re on shift. Table three needs drinks.”

“It seems there is a whiskey crisis and only my unique combination of brains and beauty can see justice done,” she said wryly, straightening up, and tipped him a flirtatious wink. “I will see you later, handsome. I’m off at ten.”

“Good to know,” he murmured again into his glass as she swished away.

 

He was going half stir-crazy by the time ten o’clock rolled around. There was nothing to damn well do in this wretched patch of streets they called a town. Only the two pubs, a bunch of shops of various kinds, and one hotel that didn’t offer a public drinking room, preferring to maintain a calm atmosphere for its clientele. Shook stayed the hell away from that place while he was in this mood, well aware he might otherwise end up burning bridges he’d not even crossed yet. What kind of frontier town didn’t even have a whorehouse?

It didn’t help at all that Principia made him wait. He lounged against the front wall of the Saloon, working quietly away at a cigar, while ten PM drifted by and retreated further into the distance. Passersby nodded to him, and he nodded politely in return; some gave him curious looks, but he wasn’t challenged. Doubtless the locals didn’t see much aimless loitering, but clearly they didn’t see much real trouble either. He took his time at the cigar, it being his only excuse for hanging around outdoors, but it would only burn so slowly. If she made him light up another one…

Principia finally emerged from the swinging double doors with a splash of panache that made his eye twitch, as if she hadn’t a care in the world, nor anybody standing out in the dark waiting on her.

“You’re late,” he noted, barely keeping his tone under control.

“Ah, ah, ah,” she said sweetly, wagging a finger at him. “I’m an elf, a thief and a woman. That’s three separate flavors of doing whatever the hell I want and automatically being right. Shall we?” Slinking up to him, she wrapped herself around his arm, giving him an up-through-the-lashes look that she had doubtless practiced.

Shook drew in a deep, slow breath, forcibly repressing the first five urges that came to mind. Not much got under his skin faster than a woman with an uppity attitude. He flicked the remains of his cigar to the ground and crushed it under his heel before stepping away from the wall and heading at a sedate pace back toward the center of town—such as it was—with the elf clinging to his arm the whole way. Doubtless they looked like any pair of lovers out for an evening stroll.

He glanced about swiftly. Despite the late hour and the general dinkiness of Last Rock, they weren’t entirely alone. There was a faint sound of carousing from the Ale & Wenches, even though they were several streets distant from it, and lights on in a few windows. For the moment, they had the street to themselves, however.

“This’n’s gone larking after catching the birdsong,” he said quietly. “A big bird tweeted of—nf!”

“Stop that,” she said sharply but in a similarly low tone, punctuating it with a fist to his ribs and very nearly earning herself one in the eye. Principia continued on, apparently heedless of the hazards to her health she was accumulating. “Don’t use cant in this town, you’ll bring all manner of hell down on our heads.”

Shook drew a deep, slow breath in through his teeth, counting to ten as Sweet had instructed him once upon a time. “Unless you have a quiet place to talk…”

“The street is plenty quiet. Oh, unclench your sphincter, you’re gonna burst something. Look, you know the three kinds of invisibility, right? Tell me you have at least that much savvy.” The look she gave him, up through her lashes, was equal parts condescension and amusement.

Right then, he decided he wasn’t going to get through this job without smacking that mouth of hers. It was just a matter of when.

“Can’t see, don’t see and won’t see,” the elf explained, as much as calling him an untrained fool right to his face. “You probably think of the cant as a ‘can’t see,’ and you’d be partly right. There are probably a few outsiders who can puzzle it out, but not enough to matter. But in Tiraas, where the Guild is a significant power, it’s also a ‘won’t see.’ People hear the cant spoken and know it’s time to find some business elsewhere and mind it. Last Rock is different. Nobody will pay any attention to two people acting as they expect, but between the damn students and the so-called adventurers, anyone hearing a snatch of theives’ cant has a good chance of figuring out what it is, even if they can’t follow it. Then all hell breaks loose.”

He was only listening to her witless prattle with half an ear. A man had stepped out from around the corner up ahead and was ambling toward them on their side of the street. In the darkness, he couldn’t make out any details except for the hat and the rattle of spurs, but he shifted his fingers toward the knives hidden in his sleeves. “Shush, girl, let me handle this,”

“Here, I’ll show you,” she said, ignoring him, and then actually waved to the figure ahead. “Evening, Sheriff!”

“Prin,” the man replied, tugging the brim of his hat politely, while Shook tensed, ready for a fight. “I don’t believe I’ve met your friend.”

“He’s an itinerant salesman passing through town,” Principia went on cheerily. “I’m gonna take him back to my rooms under the pretext of letting him under my skirt, then slip him a mickey, rob his ass blind and skip town!”

“Dammit to Vidius, Prin, no!” The Sheriff clapped a hand over his eyes, disturbing his ridiculous ten-gallon hat. “You know I have to take that stuff seriously. Don’t even joke.”

“If he doesn’t have anything worth stealing, I may even slit his throat!” she said, grinning ghoulishly, and leaned closer to the Sheriff, drawing her next word out with relish. “Mmmmmuuuuurrrrderrrr.”

“No. Absolutely not, the hell with this. I don’t have the patience for your bullshit tonight.” The lawman swiped a hand across the empty space between them, as if wiping Principia and her companion from existence. “This didn’t happen, I never saw you, go away. And you, stranger.” He paused, leveling a finger at Shook. “I don’t care how pretty she is, I don’t care if you’ve never had an elf before and been dreaming of it since before you could shave, this one is not worth the trouble. She ain’t gonna do anything as gentle as what she just promised, but I guarantee she’ll give you a bigger pain in the ass than a joint case of sunburn and crabs. You have a pleasant night, people I don’t see.”

Principia laughed aloud in evident delight as the Sheriff stepped into the street to go around them, steadfastly refusing to acknowledge her any further. Shook glowered down at her, and had to be tugged along impatiently before he continued moving.

“See?” she went on in a more circumspect tone. “I have a rep in this town. People know me, and know what I’m about: shady business, but strictly small potatoes with a side of aimless mischief. I’m seen strolling around in the middle of the night with the new salesman in town, they’ll just assume I’m out to bed and/or swindle you. Anybody passes close enough to hear a snatch of conversation, they’re not likely to make anything of it, because a snatch is all they’ll hear. On the off chance someone does overhear a dirty word like ‘steal,’ well, that’s just me again, and as the good Sheriff Sanders just demonstrated, messing around in my business is more of a pain than it’s worth. However, if someone hears the resident ne’er-do-well and the new guy talking in the thieves’ goddamn cant, that will get their attention. They will then go get the Sheriff’s attention, and it’s a toss-up whether he’ll then go get the Empire or Tellwyrn’s attention first, and it’s equally a toss-up which of those things would ruin our day faster or more thoroughly. So, at the expense of repeating myself…” Again, she looked up at him through her lashes, but this time her expression was hard and her voice dropped to a hiss. “Knock it the fuck off, newbie.”

“Mm hm. You about done?”

“I believe that covers the basics, yeah. So, how’s about you tell m—”

Despite his original intention to avoid attention, trouble and people in general, he had allowed her to lead them toward the A&W, where lamplight and laughter spilled out through windows and a set of swinging doors much like the Saloon had. They weren’t yet in front of the building, and thus within sight of its windows, and the noise did, he had to acknowledge, provide a little auditory cover. After glancing briefly about the square next to the Rail platform to verify that the Sheriff had passed from sight and nobody else was about, Shook grabbed her by the upper arms and darted into the alley between the A&W and the general store beside it. He lifted the elf bodily from the ground to prevent her digging her heels in. She hardly weighed anything.

Prinicipia didn’t struggle or protest as she was carted a few feet down the alley, not far enough that they’d be hidden, but not in immediate sight from the street. She did let out a soft grunt as he slammed her back against the stone wall of the general store, then covered her body with his own. To any passerby, they were just a couple necking in a patch of improvise privacy. “Won’t see,” indeed.

“I’m Thumper,” he said in a bare whisper, inches from her pointed ear. “Want to guess why?”

“An homage to your exquisite dancing skills, no doubt,” she said lightly.

He lifted her away from the wall momentarily, then slammed her back into it. This time, she made no sound, just giving him an ironic look with a raised eyebrow. This time, too, he shifted his position to place a hand around her throat, and so wasn’t fooled by her cool act. He could feel her pulse.

“I’m an enforcer,” Thumper breathed. “You do know what that is, don’t you? Not much of one for cutting purses, jimmying locks or running cons. Some of those in my line like to crack heads in alleys and collect the Unwary Tax that way. Me? I’m a creature of order. A true servant of Eserion and his Guild. I don’t like it when the Guild’s business is disrupted, when the Guild has problems. I made problems go away…or at least rethink their choices. So the question, Keys, is this: Are you going to be a problem?”

“Does Tricks know you’re out manhandling Guild members this way?” she asked lightly. “You wanna be careful, Thumper, or the Boss might decide you need someone to come around and…’solve’ you.”

“I asked you a question,” he said in a mild tone. “I expect an answer.”

“I find that expectations are exactly the kind of—”

He drew back just enough to lift his hand from her throat and slap her, then backhanded her face drawing it back the other way. Her head bounced against the wall behind her, those big, pretty eyes going momentarily out of focus.

“Tricks gave me the rundown on you, Keys,” he said softly. He lifted his hand again, grinning in satisfaction at her flinch, but this time just brushed the backs of his knuckles over her cheek. “He knows you got yourself assigned to this shithole town to work some angle of your own. Probably something to do with Tellwyrn, since all you’re supposed to be doing…all there really is to do in Last Rock…is watching to make sure she doesn’t pull anything harmful to the Guild’s interests. He knows you don’t like taking orders, that you fancy yourself above any authority. That is why he sent me, Keys. I wasn’t brought to Last Rock to carry out an assignment; I came here to give you orders for your new one…” Thumper leaned in closer, near enough that his breath was hot on her face. “…and ride you as hard as I have to to make sure you fucking do it. So I’m gonna ask my question one more time. It’s a simple question, for a simple girl, all it needs is one word: yes or no. You’re gonna answer the question accordingly. So tell me, Keys. Are you going to be a problem?”

“No,” she said quietly. Somehow, the silly trollop managed to fill the word with another dose of her dry, disdainful attitude. He let it pass, for the moment. Plenty of time to straighten her out later.

“Good girl,” he said approvingly, stroking her black hair once and enjoying the grimace the flickered across her features. “Then let’s talk about the job.”

Thumper drew back slightly, granting her a little breathing room, though he kept one hand gripping her upper arm. Keys, evincing some basic common sense for the first time since he’d met her, didn’t attempt to pull away from him or offer any further sass. Those blue eyes watched him carefully.

“We’ve got trouble with Elilial and the Black Wreath,” he began, nodding at her when her eyes widened. “Yeah, that’s bad. They’re not after us, but they’re fucking with both the Church and the Empire in a big way, bigger than usual. Do I need to explain all the thousands of ways this could cause problems for the Guild? No? That’s my girl. The Guild isn’t getting involved directly, but the Boss is preparing for a situation in which we might need to, and that means casing. Lots and lots of casing. We need information, and you are going to help us acquire it. Right now, the only other player who the Boss knows is involved in this is Arachne Tellwyrn. What we know is she’s responded favorably to an overture from the Throne, and she’s personally beaten the hell out of at least one Wreath cell recently. We need better intel than that. And since you’re not only conveniently on site but have a history with Tellwyrn, you’re going to get it for us.”

“Tricks is out of his fucking mind,” she breathed. “There is no possible good result from screwing around with Tellwyrn. The only safe plan for dealing with her is to watch from a circumspect distance and give warning if she starts making noises on our direction. Y’know, what I’ve been doing.”

“Actually, as I understand it this was Sweet’s idea,” he said lightly, “but the orders come from the Boss. So that’s what you’ll be doing.”

“Then you can tell the Boss he’s asking for what can’t be—”

She managed to brace herself slightly, this time, as he slammed her against the wall again. “In the years you’ve been farting around out here in the sticks, Keys, you seem to have started confusing the Guild with the law. The Guild does not need to prove that you’re trying to fuck us over beyond a reasonable doubt; if it knows damn well that you are, that’s it for you. You’re clever, you’re stealthy, you’re good at not getting caught. Those are the skills you are being ordered to use. They are not skills that will protect you if you decide to challenge the Boss’s authority. And since it apparently hasn’t sunk in yet, as far as you’re concerned…” He leaned closer again, pressing his stubbled cheek against her smooth one to whisper right into her ear, “I am his authority. Do the job, Keys.”

“I can’t get close to Tellwyrn!” she protested. “She knows me, I used to work with her a couple of decades back. She specifically told me to stay off her mountain and away from her students. I so much as try to snoop up there and she’ll fry my ass.”

“Well then,” he said, drawing back enough to let her see his grin, “sounds to me like you’ve got yourself a problem. Ah, ah, ah,” he chided, placing a finger over her lips as she opened her mouth to protest again, “I believe that’s enough lip out of you for one evening. Let me be clear: You’re a Guild member, Keys, but you are not a member in good standing. You’re not trusted, or liked. This is an opportunity for you to redeem yourself…or create the opportunity for the Guild to get you out of its hair for good. Tricks expects you to try to run instead of doing your job. That’s fine, I’m not to bother chasing after you if you bolt. In fact, I didn’t want to tell you this but he gave me firm orders, so here it is: you wanna pull a runner, you can. You’ll be a dark mark, and any Guild member who happens across you can bring back your head—attached or not—to make his own rep, but Tricks isn’t gonna bother sending anybody to do it. Course, he won’t be Boss forever, and elves live a long time, I hear. That’d be a stressful existence for you, waiting to see if each new Boss of the Guild decides to start tying up loose ends. But all that’s in the future. Let’s talk about the now.”

Thumper grinned even more broadly at her; still holding her arm with his left hand, he lowered his right to place against the side of her body at the ribs. She was as compact and delicate as all her race; he could clearly feel the frantic banging of her heart. “If you try to run and I do catch you before you get out of town… Or if you continue to refuse your assignment, or if you turn on the Guild and try to bring Tellwyrn or the law down on us, if you fail at your task… Or hell, if I find myself less than satisfied with your progress… Then you’re mine, Keys. I have full discretionary authority over this job, and what disciplinary measures need to be exercised.” He lowered his voice to a growl, and as he continued, slowly dragged his hand downward, brushing this thumb against the side of her breast, sliding it across her waist and then around to grip a handful of her rump. “In that event, Keys, the first thing I’m gonna do is bend you over the nearest level surface, hike up your skirt and take myself some recompense for the various insults and annoyances you’ve already caused me. And then we will get down to the disciplinary measures.”

For a silent moment, he held her that way, staring into her eyes. Her insouciance was gone, but nothing replaced it; she stared back up at him, face utterly blank.

Then, so suddenly that she staggered, he released her and stepped back. “Do the job, Keys. I’ll be checking in on you. Regularly.”

Thumper turned away and strolled nonchalantly back out the mouth of the alley, tucking his hands in his pockets. He didn’t look back at her as he went, not even when he turned left to amble toward the A&W’s door and the promise of a pint to wind down the evening. As such, he didn’t see the look she directed at his back. If he had, he wouldn’t have cared.

He had always had more self-confidence than self-preservation.

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Once again, she landed in chaos.

Trissiny’s mental picture of a frontier town admittedly came from comics and cheap novels (what few had slipped past the Abbey’s defenses); she should hardly have been surprised to find that Last Rock was not a single dusty street lined with wooden buildings. Cobblestone streets fanned out from the Rail platform, framing solid and quite elegant structures of well-dressed stone that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a medieval village. Really, that only made sense, positioned as the town was at the base of a mountain with no trees in sight.

She barely had a chance to appreciate the town, however, as a roar of pandemonium went up as soon as she stepped off the caravan. The streets and the edges of the platform were thronged with townsfolk apparently in their churchday best, cheering and applauding as though greeting victorious soldiers just back from the trenches. Somewhere nearby, barely visible through gaps in the crowd, an enthusiastic but clearly unpracticed brass band struck up a sprightly tune. Colorful streamers and buntings were draped everywhere, wreaths hung from darkened streetlamps, and strung across the main avenue directly ahead of her was a huge banner reading:

WELCOME, FRESHMEN!

And below that, a slightly larger one:

WELCOME BACK, ASSHOLES!

That was…troubling.

Before she’d decided how to react to all this, a door was flung open two cars behind her and a boy came staggering out. Trissiny gathered only an impression of dark, tousled hair and a long black coat before he stumbled to his knees and was loudly, violently sick. At this, the cheering on all sides intensified and a few catcalls rang out.

She scowled, letting go of her trunk and turning toward the poor boy. Riding the Rails the first time without the benefit of a lot of physical training must have been a nightmarish experience; even she would have come out of the Belt bruised at the least if not for Mr. Paxton’s warnings. And it was not right for people to treat someone’s misfortunes as entertainment.

A second young man, casually dressed and with a very dark complexion, had emerged from the same car and now knelt by his fallen companion, ignoring the crowd. Trissiny hesitated; if it were herself, she’d rather people gave her space and didn’t acknowledge her discomfort so publicly, but that was just her. Besides, Avei expected her to render aid wherever it was needed, and though she wasn’t a healer by calling, just channeling raw holy power at someone would soothe a lot of ailments.

“You there! You, girl, in the armor!”

Warily, she twisted back the other way, in time to see an old woman in a black gown nearly a century out of fashion swat a grinning boy of about twelve out of the way with one of the two canes on which she dragged herself along.

“You’re that paladin, right?” The old woman grinned broadly, and Trissiny forced herself not to flinch; her teeth, those that remained, were as brown as old wood. “Paladin of Avei. Finally the gods are sending us a message again, yeah? Finally the paladins are coming back, and they’re both coming here! That’s you, right?”

“I am a Hand of Avei,” Trissiny said carefully, having to pitch her voice a little louder than she liked to be audible over the crowd. Several of the closest bystanders immediately cheered even more loudly at her; nobody offered up any of the rude commentary they’d thrown at the boy who’d lost his lunch. She glanced over at him; he was standing, weakly, with his friend’s arm about his shoulders, and the pair were being pressed in upon by several of the locals carrying small trays. More detail than that she didn’t manage to catch before the old woman in front of her let out a loud crow like a cockerel.

“I knew it!” she chortled, thumping one of her canes against the stone platform. “It’s about time, is all! Yes, time for the gods to send someone to straighten out that nest of iniquity and vice up there on the hill. Elves and wizards and perverts, the lot of ’em! You’ll fix ’em good, won’t ya, paladin? Eh?”

“Ah…” Trissiny glanced around again. Over a dozen pairs of eager eyes were upon her; she was surrounded by grins. By all the Pantheon, did these people think this was street theater?

“Oh, Mabel, give the poor girl a moment to get her boots on the ground before you start preaching,” said a new voice in a throaty purr that really seemed too soft to carry as well as it did over the noise. Trissiny spun again and found herself almost nose-to-nose with a strikingly pretty black-haired woman. Only as an afterthought did she realize it was an elf.

Dark hair was supposed to be rare among the elvish tribes, so she’d heard. Trissiny had rarely met elves and never been this close to one; the differences from humans weren’t so glaring. This woman was of slender build, but not abnormally so; her eyes were on the large side and her features rather pointed, but not enough to seem out of place on a human face. Trissiny herself had some of those traits. Only the long, tapered ears poking up through her hair marked the elf for certain.

“Hussy!” screeched the old woman, clobbering the elf with a cane, to no effect. Apparently there wasn’t much strength in those bony arms. “Freak! Harlot! Painted trollop! I know what you get up to, over in the taverns! Sub-human thing from Elilial’s bosom! You get away from that girl. She’s a good girl, she is! And you!” Trissiny jerked back as a cane was pointed directly into her face. “You smite this heathen slattern! She’s of the Black Lady’s own stock, she is! Do yer duty, girl!”

“I see you’ve met my fan club,” said the elf airily, ignoring repeated blows from the cane. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you at last, Trissiny. Welcome to Last Rock. I have something here I think you’ll like.” Smiling disarmingly, she produced a small, flattish wooden box from within her coat and opened it; a golden pendant formed in the eagle symbol of Avei rested upon black velvet within.

“Do I know you?” Trissiny asked loudly, resisting the urge to grip her sword. Symbol of her faith or no, something about this woman set her on edge; she smiled the way that oily man who sold the Abbey produce did. Mother Narny had to supervise him very closely.

“I know you, my dear, which will do for a start. Everyone knows about the new paladins joining the student body this year. I’m just a simple enchanter and purveyor of magical trinkets, and purely honored to make your acquaintance. I’d like you to have this as a gift, from me, at no charge.” Smiling broadly, she pressed the box forward again, then had to jerk it back as the crone tried to swat it out of her hands.

CRACK!

Even the band faltered. Townspeople who’d been pressing ever closer to her scuttled back, revealing a man in denim and flannel, with a wand pointed skyward and a silver gryphon pinned to his shirt. In the confusion she hadn’t even seen the lightning bolt, but the tip of his wand still smoked faintly.

“Okay, folks, that’ll do. Show’s over. Let’s all take a step back before I have to feel disappointed in somebody.”

“Sheriff,” Trissiny said desperately, cocking a head at her two admirers. Tugging the broad brim of his hat to her, he ambled over.

“Omnu’s breath, you two, were you raised in a barn? Do we have to go through this every year?”

“I was raised in a tree,” said the elf with a grin. “And unless it’s suddenly illegal to talk to paladins, nobody’s doing anything wrong here. Ms. Avelea, here. Please take this.”

“Don’t you pull that attitude on me, master Samuel Sanders!” squawked the old woman, brandishing a cane. “Just because you’ve got a big fancy badge now doesn’t mean you don’t have to respect your elders! And taking a god’s name in vain, for shame! I know your poor mother, Omnu rest her soul, raised you better than that.”

“Well, you’ve caught me dead to rights, Miz Cratchley,” the sheriff said easily. “It’d serve me right if you went and wrote a letter to the editor about my deplorable behavior right this minute.”

“You see if I don’t, you young hellion!” She waved the cane at him once more, then began the complicated process of turning around and ambling off, still shrilly complaining. “Young people these days. No respect. None! In my day, we knew how to pay respect to the gods, yes sir. And to our elders!”

“Welp, that takes care of the one I’d feel bad about shootin’.” He raised an eyebrow at the elf, who fluttered her eyelashes at him.

“All right, all right, keep it in your pants, Sam. Trissiny, if you’d just—”

“No, thank you,” she said firmly. “I don’t need jewelry. Of any kind.”

“Oh, but I know what a young adventurer needs! Trust me, I deal only in the most magical of—”

“That will do, Sippy,” said the Sheriff, all humor gone from his voice. “She’ll be here all year. You can bide your time and make a pest of yourself when the poor girl’s had a chance to settle in. Move along.”

The elf closed her box with a loud snap. For just a moment she glared daggers at Sanders, then turned an amiable grin on Trissiny. “Well, the man’s not wrong. It’s wonderful to have you in town, Trissiny. I look forward to seeing you again.” Bowing, she backed away into the crowd.

“Thank you,” she said with feeling. The sheriff smiled at her.

“Not at all, ma’am, that’s why they pay me the big bucks. Can I offer you an escort past the town?”

“I appreciate your help,” she said a little stiffly, “but I don’t require any man’s protection.”

“I am well aware that you don’t, miss, but there’s more to life than what a body requires. I thought you might like a little protection anyway. See that?” He cocked a finger at the crowd where the two boys had been moments ago. There was no sign of them now; apparently they’d managed to escape. In their place stood half a dozen well-dressed people carrying trays of snacks, toys and baubles, all eying her hungrily. “My beloved constituency. Good folks, as a rule, but you should know up front that they view you and the rest of the students as walking coin purses. They’ll leave you alone if you’re with me, but if you’d rather not…” He shrugged. “You can always beat ’em back with your sword, I guess, but the we’ll have to have an entirely different kind of conversation.”

Abruptly, the fine hairs along Trissiny’s arms stood on end; her scalp tingled distractingly. Then, with an earsplitting crack of arcane energy, the caravan behind her began moving. Its acceleration was a frightening thing to behold; it was over the horizon in seconds. How had she survived riding that wretched thing? How did anyone?

“When you put it that way,” she said carefully, bending to grasp the handle of her trunk, “I think I would appreciate an escort.”

“I live to serve. Shall we?”

He was as good as his word. The cheering had begun to fade as soon as the caravan departed, people drifting away to tend to their own business; though she remained the center of attention, nobody else pressed forward or tried to intercept her with the Sheriff by her side. He led her at an easy pace away from the Rail platform and down what appeared to be the main avenue of the tiny town.

“Is it like this every year?” she asked cautiously. Stands and stalls, most looking rather cobbled-together, occupied the edges of the street, displaying a wide variety of goods and obstructing the actual storefronts. Bright banners, pennants and bunting were hung everywhere, including several with text welcoming the students to Last Rock. None after the big one across the road referred to them as assholes, which was a positive sign.

“We’re a college town,” he said with an amiable grin. “Last Rock is probably the most cosmopolitan village of its size in the whole Empire. We’ve got entertainment and specialty goods such as you’d expect to see in the capital itself, including more taverns than we need. Students bring money from all over the place, and the population has mostly adjusted to suit their needs. Pretty open-minded folks, as a rule, at least compared to most frontier stock, despite a few holdouts like Miz Cratchley. Of course, the downside of being so dependent on the University is the summers around here are a dry season, and I don’t just mean the weather. So yeah, the kids coming back is a pretty big deal.”

“I don’t have much in the way of spending money,” she said carefully. “Or want any. My needs are few.”

He nodded. “I can spread that around, if you’d like. Might spare you a certain amount of harassment next time you visit.”

“Is there much trouble between townspeople and students?”

“Oh, rarely. You can’t have those two groups in one spot without some butting of heads, but Professor Tellwyrn’s a good neighbor. You cause trouble in my town and I’ll have to wait for her to finish scraping and smoking your hide for embarrassing her University before I even get to toss you in a cell. Not exactly a boon to my manhood, but I can’t argue with the results.”

“I have no intention of causing any trouble,” she said frostily.

“My apologies, ma’am, didn’t mean to imply that. It was a general ‘you.’ I end up having to have this talk with most of the kids at one point or another; force of habit. And to speak the plan truth, it’s not you I’m worried about. It was a right breath of fresh air to learn we’d be getting two paladins this year. Actually…if I’m not mistaken, Principia was actually trying to give you something, which is downright weird; usually when she’s around it’s wise to keep a hand on your wallet. I guess everybody loves a paladin.”

“Hm.” She didn’t know what to say to that. Trissiny hadn’t been offered much detail on the other students, but she had been told there was a Hand of Omnu her own age who’d be starting school alongside her. Hopefully they could compare notes. But it was hard to know what was expected of her, here. The citizens of Last Rock clearly saw her as a person of action, much as she wanted to see herself, but Avei seemed to have different plans. Why else would she be here and not someplace like Sarasio, where a sword of the Goddess would actually be useful?

“And this is as far as my authority extends,” he announced, coming to a halt. Indeed, they had reached the edge of the town; directly ahead, even with the walls of the last buildings, the cobbled street abruptly became stairs of white marble, which marched the entire way up the mountain. Above, the University loomed, offering her only a vague impression of towers and walls from this angle. She could also see two dark figures who had to be those boys from her caravan, climbing the stone stairs.

It was an awe-inspiring sight, especially compared to the gray stone of the town and the rusty gold plains that stretched in every direction. The grass climbing the slope was lushly green, and the marble steps almost blinding under the bright sun. She saw, now, that in addition to the stairs marching directly upward, a broad, flatter path zigzagged back and forth all the way to the University, probably for wheeled conveyances that couldn’t navigate the stairs. It had a much gentler slope, obviously, and would be easier in terms of pulling her trunk…but it’d also take about ten times as long. This was going to be quite the hike, whichever path she chose.

“Thank you, Sheriff, for everything.”

“My pleasure, Ms. Avelea. And please, it’s Sam, so long as you’re on my good side.” He winked. “Welcome to Last Rock. I truly hope you enjoy your stay.” With one more tip of his hat, he turned and strolled back into his town, leaving her to face the rest of her journey alone.

Trissiny drew a deep breath, tightened her grip on her trunk, and started up the steps. The sturdy wheels were big enough to climb each step without too much banging, but the repeated bumps quickly began to jar her arm even worse than sword practice. Well, back home, she started her day with a run up and down the steep hills of Viridill, in full armor, on ancient stone steps far more treacherous than these. Granted, the sun at home was never quite this oppressively hot, but Trissiny wasn’t about to admit defeat this early in her journey.

She glanced back. About…twenty feet up. Gritting her teeth, she focused on her breathing, on the mechanical motions of her legs. One step at a time.

Fifteen minutes later, Trissiny had developed a theory that between the Rail rides and this infernal staircase, Professor Tellwyrn was attempting to weed out the weak and unworthy from even approaching her precious University. She was in excellent physical shape and bore the strain of the climb without complaint, though her arm was already aching something fierce. She considered switching the trunk to her other side, but instinct compelled her to keep her sword arm limber and free. The heat was worse than the exercise, really. Those poor boys…she was pretty sure one had been in a long black coat. There was no sign of them ahead now.

A thin, reedy sound of music had begun to grow as she’d climbed, becoming more and more distinct with each step. The tune was a cheerful one she didn’t recognize; it helped, a bit, in distracting her from the rigors of the climb. Now, as she finally approached the gates of the University itself, she discovered the source.

Though the dark stone walls weren’t battlemented, she was impressed by their height. This was clearly a defensible structure. There was only one gate, positioned in the center of the slope and with the broad marble steps leading directly to it; a small plaza had been carved from the mountain and paved in matching white marble to accommodate the two huge, iron-bound wooden gates, which presently stood open. An arch of decorative wrought metal spanned the gap between them, and upon this perched what she assumed was a student, playing an ocarina.

He had thick, black hair tied back in a long tail, and the mahogany complexion common in the western provinces. All he wore were loose canvas trousers and an open-fronted leather vest decorated with bits of bones and tusks. At Trissiny’s approach, he broke off his playing and grinned down at her.

“Frosh?”

“Excuse me?”

“Freshman,” he clarified.

“Um…” She’d seen that word on the banners below. Apparently it was the opposite of asshole?

“You’re a first-year student?” the young man clarified further, his grin broadening. It was a friendly expression, though; she didn’t feel mocked or belittled.

“Oh! Yes. Yes, I am.”

“Welcome to the University!” He had a deep voice, and sounded like he was laughing even when he merely spoke. “You’ll like it here. Probably. At the very least you won’t be bored. This year’s freshman girls are living in Clarke Tower. Just follow the blue flags along the path, and you’ll head right there. And don’t worry, it hardly ever falls.”

With that and a final grin, he lifted the ocarina back to his lips and resumed playing.

“Oh. Uh, thank you,” she said weakly. He didn’t stop, but blew a high trill, wiggling his fingers at her, and winked. Trissiny ducked her head and strode forward, passing under him and into the University itself.

Three paths branched off from the gates; a wide one that seemed to continue directly on from the stairs, and one meandering away to each side. The path on her left was marked with a small blue pennant. Drawing closer, she noted that the slim pole to which it was tied was not stuck in the ground; it floated, immobile, about a foot off the grass. Opposite that, a red one hovered by the other side. She drew another deep breath and set off down the marked path.

Here, the slope of the mountain had been re-shaped into terraces, and Trissiny’s route, marked with more floating blue flags every few feet, took her along a meandering course down broad thoroughfares, through narrow alleys and across a few patches of open lawn. There was an amazing variety of scenery, and Trissiny quickly came to the conclusion that the path she was directed to take was designed to show off the campus rather than get her anywhere efficiently. Not that it wasn’t pretty, or that she wouldn’t appreciate knowing where things were, but after her hike up the mountain she didn’t enjoy it as much as she otherwise might.

The University made the best possible use of the space available to it. Many of the walled terraces had doors leading into subterranean chambers, and the stepped architecture meant there was shade everywhere. There were plants in every available space; shrubs, flowers, vines climbing stone walls and even several trees, where room existed for them to grow. Three levels up from the gates she passed along the edge of a broad, flat area carpeted with lush grass, with a gazebo near the front, perched on the edge of the terrace.

She passed few other people, all of them clearly students. Some nodded or called out greetings, which she returned politely, and all gave her long considering looks; nobody offered to engage her in conversation, for which Trissiny was actually grateful. She wanted to get settled in before having to deal with any more people, especially if they were all going to be as weird as those she’d already met in the town. Humans predominated the student body, what little she saw of it, but there were a handful of elves as well, and she actually spotted two dwarves, both women. On the flat lawn by the gazebo, a lizardfolk person in a nice suit fenced with a human girl, the clash of blades intermingling with cheerful taunts and laughter in a way that made her homesick for the Abbey and her sisters-in-training.

Eventually her path brought her to the very edge of the mountain, and a nasty surprise.

A wall surrounded the perimeter of the University, where buildings weren’t perched right on the edge, to keep people from accidentally wandering off the cliff. The blue flags led Trissiny directly to a gate in this wall, which opened onto a stone footbridge bordered by tall iron railings; a plaque right by the gate proclaimed this the way to Clarke Tower. She had to stop at the foot of the bridge and stare in horror.

The bridge was gently arched and about thirty feet long, and terminated at the top of a colossal stalactite at least four stories tall. It tapered to a jagged point aiming downward, and had a flat top upon which was built a thick round tower with a conical roof that had a huge clock face inset. And the whole island just…floated in midair, above a nauseating drop to the prairie far below.

Hesitantly, she crept across the bridge. It certainly felt solid. In her rational mind, Trissiny knew this all had to be perfectly fine. This was a University run by the most famous former adventurer still living, a woman who was a formidable wizard in her own right. Magic was ancient and well-understood. Furthermore, they wouldn’t have built a building on this and housed students in it if it weren’t entirely safe.

But all that was merely cognitive. She was stepping on a thin bridge to an island in the sky on which they apparently expected her to sleep. In her heart of hearts, Trissiny knew she was about to plunge to her horrible death.

Only by keeping her eyes firmly fixed on the door to Clarke Tower did she make it across the bridge, and that despite the strong breeze that seemed to perpetually flow across it. The door was actually quite lovely, made of old iron-bound wood with stained glass panels inset. Coming to a stop before it, she had to pause and take a few deep breaths. This was good; nothing in her vision but the door and stonework. She could almost forget she was standing on ground that was floating on nothing.

Trissiny decided she was beginning to hate this place.

She raised her hand to knock, then shook her head. If they expected her to live here, she wasn’t going to mince around. Grasping the handle, she pulled the door open and dragged her trunk inside.

“Oh! Hi there!”

Blinking, she surveyed her new surroundings. It was a comfortably furnished living room lined with overstuffed chairs surrounding a coffee table, with a battered couch along one wall; a grandfather clock ticked away in one corner. There were no windows, Avei be praised.

Upon her entrance, a woman rose quickly from one of the chairs and bustled toward her, beaming. She was a head shorter than Trissiny and at least twice as broad, her plump frame squeezed into a very fancy corseted gown of black and purple silk that displayed a dizzying expanse of cleavage. She wore a heavy layer of makeup that made her lips and eyes seem almost to pop off her rouged face; Trissiny was aware of cosmetics in theory but had seldom seen them used, and couldn’t help staring. Waves of glossy ebon hair were wound around her head in an elaborate bun, decorated with sprays of purple feathers.

“And you must be Trissiny!” the woman gushed. “Oh, it’s so good to meet you at last! Imagine, a paladin staying under my roof. Arach—that is, Professor Tellwyrn’s told me all about you. You’re one of the first to arrive, dear.”

“Uh. Thank you?”

“I’m Janis Van Richter, the house mother. Please, just call me Jan! I’m here to look after the place and you girls, make sure everyone’s comfy and right at home. Any problems you have, just come to me and we’ll get it all sorted, okay? Oooh, this is going to be such a good year! C’mon, I’ve put you in the upper room, so let’s not waste any time getting you settled in.”

Janis seized Trissiny’s free hand in both of her own—they were plump and bedecked with far too many rings—and beamed up at her.

“Welcome to the University, Trissiny. Welcome to Clarke Tower. Welcome home!”

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