Tag Archives: Thumper

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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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“You can’t do this to us!”

“It’s murder!”

“He’ll drop us all down a well or something!”

“There have to be laws about this kind of thing!”

“Don’t you have a bleeding heart, woman?”

“Children!” Professor Tellwyrn shouted in exasperation. “You’ve been here nearly a month. You were told on the first day that you’d be graded primarily on field work. This expedition has been scheduled for two weeks. The announcement of the professor leading it went out five days ago. Honestly, if you want to put up a fuss about things that aren’t going to change, that’s your lookout, but just now?” She shot them an irritated look over her shoulder. “I have no tolerance for procrastination.”

Tellwyrn stepped off the staircase, cutting diagonally across the grass about three fourths of the way down the mountain, with the girls of Clarke Tower trailing along behind her. Ruda, Teal and Fross kept right on her heels, exchanging glances and gearing up for another round of complaints; the others followed a bit more sedately. Everyone was carrying a well-stuffed backpack, and not everyone was fully awake yet. Most of them weren’t used to being up before the sun.

“It’s one thing to know something’s coming,” Ruda ventured at last. “This is last-minute panic. As in, ‘holy shit, they’re actually going to send us out into the goddamn wilderness with an idiot from another dimension as a tour guide.’”

Tellwyrn actually laughed at her, not turning around, and lengthened her stride. The line stretched out as the girls made varying degrees of effort to keep up. They remained mostly quiet, though, for the rest of the trip down. Their professor had cut a path that avoided the town, depositing them at the base of the mountain beyond its edges. The boys and their guide were already there waiting for them.

Toby smiled and waved; Gabriel appeared to be asleep standing up. Upon their approach, Professor Rafe turned and threw out his arms as though offering the world a hug, beaming delightedly.

“BEHOLD!”

“We’re gonna fuckin’ die,” Ruda said.

“Ten points, Punaji!” he crowed, pumping a fist in the air. “But pace yourself. And remember, people do have feelings.”

“We,” she repeated, “are going to fucking die.”

“Yup,” said Gabe. “Can we just do that now and save ourselves a hike?”

“All right, enough,” Tellwyrn said flatly. “Admestus, go wait up ahead.”

“Aw, but I was gonna make a speech!”

“You can speech while walking. Go.”

He turned and trudged away, shoulders slumped, in an exaggerated pantomime of dejection. Naturally, this did not set a very fast pace.

“Now!” Tellwyrn shouted. He shuffled faster, taking off at a near run, still with his arms hanging limply and head down.

“Are you seeing the problem, here?” said Ruda.

“He has no respect for rules!” Fross added shrilly. “Not even basic standards of civilized behavior! I don’t think he even gets how to—”

“Enough,” Tellwyrn said flatly, with enough force that they all fell silent. She tilted her head down, staring at them over the rims of her spectacles. “Admestus Rafe has created a limited anti-death potion.”

There was a moment’s silence.

“That’s impossible,” Ruda finally scoffed.

“Wait, anti-death?” Gabriel paused to yawn, scratching his head. “Isn’t that just, y’know…medicine?”

“Miss Punaji, you seem to have done some out-of-class reading,” said Tellwyrn. “Care to take this one?”

Ruda scowled at her, but answered grudgingly. “Medicines are made to treat specific problems. An anti-death potion is just that: it prevents death. If you take one, anything that would cause death just doesn’t affect you.”

“Huh,” Gabe said, then blinked owlishly. “Wait…how’s that even work?”

“It fucking doesn’t!” Ruda exclaimed. “It’s like eight different kinds of tautologically impossible. It’s a myth, like the Philosopher’s Stone.”

“Actually, Philosopher’s Stones are real,” said Professor Tellwyrn, “but the Empire tends to disappear people who have them, since manufacturing gold on any significant scale would implode the economy overnight. But back to the topic at hand, yes, anti-death potions are quite impossible; they violate several physical and magical laws. And yes, Admestus Rafe created one.”

She let that sink in for a moment, panning her gaze around them. Several of the assembled freshmen still barely looked awake, but they were all quiet, now, and paying attention. “Your professors at this University were offered employment here because they are the best living practitioners of whatever art they teach,” she went on at last. “They were not selected for their academic qualifications.” She glanced over at Rafe, who was now standing on his head, facing out at the Golden Sea. “…or social skills. The exception being Professor Yornhaldt, who is one of the greatest teaching mages alive, but honestly I hired him to be a calming influence on this place. Regardless, before you start getting uppity, be aware of who you’re dealing with, and why they deserve some respect.”

“Well, that’s all well and good,” said Fross, “I mean, he’s good at alchemy, that’s very impressive, but we’re not doing alchemy on this trip unless someone gave me the wrong assignment parameters, which I’m gonna be really mad if that’s true because that’s a mean thing to do to someone. We’re basically doing wilderness survival with miscellaneous other tasks and maybe someone who’s good with alchemy and doesn’t have the most basic social skills isn’t the best choice for keeping eight students alive in the depths of a huge, endless magical prairie?”

“Ah, but that’s not his job,” Tellwyrn replied, holding up one finger. “It’s yours. This is something of a dry year; ordinarily I have a much bigger freshman class to deal with. However, even just the eight of you are a force to contend with. You’ve heard a lot about the dangers of the Golden Sea, and what you’ve heard was not exaggerated, but keep it firmly in mind that as long as you don’t fall to backstabbing each other you rank high among those dangers. Follow Juniper’s lead on outdoor survival issues and Trissiny’s in a combat situation. Let Shaeine and Toby handle any negotiations that you need to do. You’ll be fine.”

“And the rest of us are what, chopped liver?” Ruda asked sourly.

Tellwyrn grinned at her. “You each have a valuable role to play, as anyone can attest who’s tried to play a game of chess without pawns.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

“While Professor Rafe does have some friends and contacts out in the Golden Sea which may prove useful to you, all that is secondary.” Tellwyrn laced her fingers together in front of her stomach, looking smug. “He is there to watch you, not watch over you, and report back on your performance pertaining to the core classes in which you’ll be given credit for this outing: history, combat, magic and herbalism. In short, you’re going out there to deal with people, fight things, contend with local magical forces and make use of native plants. Your assignment, kids, is to have an adventure.”

“That’s just idiotic,” Gabriel groused. “This is the twelfth century. Nobody does that anymore.”

“I kind of want to,” Juniper piped up. “It sounds like fun!”

“In a sense, yes, a journey into the Golden Sea is a journey into the past,” said Tellwyrn. “You’re accustomed to living in a settled, civilized world, full of mortal laws and the institutions that enforce them.”

“Um, excuse me, but—”

“Except Juniper and Fross,” Tellwyrn amended. “The point is, the Golden Sea is a patch of land where such things have never taken hold, and likely never will, nor can. Testing yourself in such a state of existence will give you a firsthand idea what life was like for your ancestors. More to the point, it will give you the opportunity to strengthen and harden yourself as they had to merely to survive. There is a tradeoff, students, for living in a comfortable world of systems. You gain numerous assets and advantages from being part of an advanced society, but you are denied the opportunity to develop the toughness and inventiveness that people in less fortunate societies must. I intend to see that you go out into the world with the advantages of both. I’m setting you up to win at life, kids. Kindly stop bitching at me about it.”

“I would rather you didn’t use that word.”

“Oh, give it a rest, Trissiny,” Tellwyrn sighed. “Anyhow, we are done here. There’s your guide…the skinny man now doing cartwheels in the grass…and there’s the Golden Sea. Off with you, try not to get killed, don’t stab each other in the back. I’ll be up here enjoying some peace and goddamn quiet.”

“Does she know there are other students on this campus?” Gabriel asked as Tellwyrn turned to go.

“Shh,” said Ruda, grinning. “She’s making a dramatic exit. Respect the exit, man.”

Rafe must have heard them approaching, assuming those ears of his weren’t merely decorative, but he didn’t turn around until the eight freshmen came to a stop right behind him, several dropping their backpacks to the grass. He stood, silently, staring out into the Golden Sea.

“We live in fishbowls,” the alchemy professor intoned quietly. A soft wind blew across the prairie, making his golden hair shimmer along with the waves of tallgrass, both gleaming in the orange light of a new sunrise. “Our lives are ordered, structured, safe. We are fed, provided for, housed, and in return our labors go to sustain the grand machine of civilization. It makes us healthier…in some ways stronger. More secure. But we forget, sometimes, just who and what we are. And so, my children, we embark on this voyage into the great beyond, into the last of the wilds, where there will be no one to catch us where we fall. We will live as animals, as savages. We will live. I say unto you…” He slowly raised both arms from his sides, extending them fully as if to embrace the prairie itself, and drew in a deep breath.

“BEHOLD!” shouted nine voices in unison.

Rafe turned around to face them, grinning broadly. “See, this is why I love you guys. You get me.”

“You’re not that complicated, man,” said Gabriel.

“All right, kids,” the professor said, suddenly brisk and all business. “Grab your satchels and your asses, we are out of here! Let’s go grub around in some dirt. ONWARD TO GLORY!”

He took off at a run into the prairie, not even turning to see if they followed.

“Yup,” Ruda said fatalistically. “Everybody remember that I called it. We are going to fucking die.”

 

As if to prove that nature itself bore him a grudge, vast improbabilities aligned such that neither the region’s interminable rains nor the discharges of the city’s magical factories blotted out the sky on the morning that, a little after seven, Bishop Darling’s bedroom drapes were flung open. Brilliant, hateful sunlight burst in upon his peace like a stampede of buffalo.

“GRAAAUGH!” he roared, coming awake in the most unpleasant manner he could remember. Sleep-addled, Darling tried to throw off his blankets with one hand while pulling them over his head with the other, succeeding brilliantly in entangling himself. “PRICE! What in the fell hell are you doing?!”

“Good morning, your Grace,” his Butler said crisply, stepping away from the windows and beginning to swiftly lay out a suit from his wardrobe.

“What bloody time is it?”

“Nearly two hours before your Grace’s customary breakfast. You have a visitor. I took the liberty of installing her in the downstairs parlor.”

“Visitaaaaaaaarh.” The word was mangled by an enormous yawn, but at least he finally managed to extricate himself from his blankets. “She? Who in Omnu’s flaming name would be daft enough to barge in here at this hour?”

“One of the young talents at the Pink Lady, a Miss Rose.”

He blinked, then frowned. “Wh… Rose knows how to get in touch with me. There are channels, procedures. She also knows damn well better than to show up here.”

“Indeed, your Grace has spoken positively of her wits and discretion. The young lady appears quite distraught. I gathered that the circumstances must be exceptional and took the liberty of awakening your Grace, lest the matter should require immediate attention.”

“Right,” he said, shook his head to clear away the fog of sleep, and then repeated more firmly, “right. Good thinking, Price. I’ll dress, you brush.”

“Very good, your Grace.”

He tossed aside his silk pajamas and stuffed himself into one of Sweet’s better suits, an only slightly shabby outfit in royal blue and maroon. Price darted about him like an efficient hummingbird, sorting his sleep-tousled hair into a semblance of a proper order.

“Shoes,” he asked, looking around for them, as they finished this joint task. Price handed him a pair of slippers. “…really?”

“Laces are a relatively time-consuming prospect, your Grace. Perhaps we ought not leave the young lady to wait too long.”

Darling rolled his eyes, but dropped the slippers to the ground and stepped into them. “She’s not gonna steal anything, Price. The girl’s not an idiot.”

“As you say, your Grace.”

“You are such a snob. You know that?” Rubbing the last traces of sleep from his eyes, he strode toward the door.

“As you say, your Grace.”

Price managed to barge in front of him diffidently—really, Butler training was astounding—and by the time he had reached the bottom of the stairs, was in position to open the door of the downstairs parlor for him with a bow.

It was the less impressive of the rooms in which he entertained guests, but only Bishop Darling’s guests were entertained here; Sweet went to where the people were, rather than bringing them to him. As such, the room’s thick carpet, ornate wallpaper, expensive furniture and assortment of art and knickknacks made it probably the most sumptuous room this guest had ever visited

She was standing with her back to the door, studying a silver idol of Eserion that stood over the mantle, which was about two feet above her head, treating him to a view of a pleasingly plump backside and an upper back left almost entirely bare by the uniform of her trade. Gods above, had she come in the front door? There’d be hell to pay with the neighbors… Rose jumped like a startled rabbit on his arrival, though, spinning to face him, and he felt a twinge of alarm. She was ordinarily one of the most unflappable people he knew. She had to be, in her line of work.

It grew worse as he took in the sight of her face. Tears had melted her makeup into a hideous mudslide, and apparently hadn’t stopped flowing. She looked… It was hard to pin a name to the emotion ground into her features, but it was clearly something on the ragged edge of trauma.

“Sweet,” she cried desperately, taking a stumbling step toward him. “I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t’ve come, I’m sorry, but I-I-I didn’t know what to do! She’s dead, it’s such a mess… Oh, Light, she’s dead, it was just awful, I never saw nothing anything like… I never imagined… And there’s police and Imps all over, and the girls are all a wreck and Light, I hated to leave ’em but I didn’t know what to do, you’re the only one I could think of…”

“Rose!” He crossed the room in three long strides and knelt to take her gently by the shoulders, holding her gaze with his own. In ordinary circumstances it was one of the worst possible things you could do with a dwarf, short of pissing in their beer; they tended to take poorly to being reminded of any difference in stature. Rose, though, was clearly on the edge of an utter breakdown. She collapsed against him, dissolving in sobs, and he rocked her gently, heedless of what the mix of mascara and snot was inevitably doing to his suit.

“It’s okay, doll, you’re safe right now. I need you to stiffen up for just a bit, though, all right? We’ve gotta figure out what to do and I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s up. Price, fetch us some brandy?”

“Immediately, sir.”

Gently, he eased her back. “Can you hold on for just a bit longer for me, love? I know you can, you’re the strongest person I’ve ever met.” She nodded, gulped, and gasped for air, choking back another sob. “That’s my girl. Now start at the beginning, tell it slow. What happened? Who’s dead?”

Rose gulped again, and drew in a shuddering breath, staring up into his eyes. “It’s Missy, Sweet. She…it was murder. They butchered her!”

 

He was the first one off the coach when it rolled to a stop, but held the door open for the other passengers politely. Eager as he was to get the hell out of that hot, dusty, rattletrap prison, good manners were important. Without them, a body was likely to piss off the wrong people and alienate all the others. No way to do business.

The man in the cheap suit smiled politely at expressions of thanks from the old Army officer and the aging lady in the severe gray dress, and then much more warmly at her young charge. He didn’t quite dare go any further, though she was a lovely little piece, and had been shooting him increasingly daring grins all through yesterday. Poor girl was too sleep-struck to carry on their silent flirtation now; he was the only one who hadn’t managed to nod off during the overnight ride. Ah, well, nothing could have come of it anyway, though he did treat himself to a long appraisal of her rear as she collected her luggage and made her way into the town.

His own suitcase was the last to be handed down. The discourtesy of it rankled, even as it suited his purposes; he wanted to pause here and get a good look at Last Rock before getting down to work.

A wooden footbridge arched over the Rail line from the coach stop, which was the only thing on this side of the line from the town itself. This was where the road was, and for some damn fool reason the Imperial Survey had decided the Rail was of more import to the town than the means of transportation favored by honest folk since time immemorial. Not that he was honest folk by any means, but it was the principle of the thing. He could have made this journey in minutes rather than days had he taken the Rail, but he had ridden that damnable contraption once before, and it had been plenty. How anybody got out of it without broken bones was mystery to him.

He accepted his suitcase from the driver with a curt nod and turned away, noting the man’s clenched jaw at the lack of a tip and not caring. The guy would be on the road again soon and he’d never see him again, so why waste the effort, or the copper? Plenty of both would be needed in the town in the days to come. Settling his hat over his slicked-back hair, he set off for the footbridge.

The mountain was an awe-inspiring sight, especially with the University clinging to its peak, though he couldn’t see that as well from this close up, what with the angle of the mount itself. Still, the University wasn’t his business, at least not directly. His firm orders were to stay the hell away from it.

Crossing the bridge, he made his way right for the first tavern he saw, a place with a sign proclaiming it the Ale & Wenches. Sounded like his kind of spot.

Inside, the A&W was asleep, as all reasonable taverns were at not nearly long enough after sunrise. A groggy-looking boy was busy sweeping up the floor, and raised his head to blink stupidly at him as he entered.

“Mornin’,” the man said politely, tipping his hat. No telling who this kid was or who he knew; no use getting off on the wrong foot, though the Big Guy knew the little shit looked like he didn’t have two brain cells to rub together. “I’m lookin’ for a place to stay for a spell. Got any rooms to let?”

“Uh…” The kid blinked and stared at him, and the man repressed a spike of aggravation. Really, this was no worse than he’d expected from this little cowpat town on the very edge of nowhere. “Uh, rooms’re a silver piece a night, or five fer the week. An’, uh, I’ll need a name.”

“Jeremiah Shook,” he said, still polite despite the rising urge to slap some of the stupidity out of the boy. “And if it’s not too much trouble, maybe you can help me find a friend of mine I’m lookin’ for. Heard she was settled around these parts. Name’s Principia?”

At that, the kid straightened up, suddenly a lot more alert. “You know Prin?” Oh, we wasn’t just alert. He was alarmed.

Thumper permitted himself the luxury of an honest grin, not caring how it seemed to unsettle his new acquaintance. This was the place, all right. Maybe, just maybe, he’d be able to have a little fun with this job after all.

 

Within the town, only the scrolltower was taller than the church steeple; as such, Principia was the first person to experience the sunrise. It illuminated her and her perch from the east, warm orange light causing the crystalline coating of the ankh atop the structure to burst into radiant life, then sliding progressively down the steeple, doing interesting things to the subtle highlights in her black hair. Even looking north as she was, it would have been half-blinding to a human. Her eyes, of course, had no trouble.

She leaned back against the sloping wooden obelisk, arms folded across her chest, heels resting on the tiny lip at the base of the steeple. Wind blew errant locks of her hair loose from the tight ponytail into which she’d pulled it, but she ignored this. It wasn’t strong enough to affect her balance.

The elf watched, face intent, as the small column of people set out from the base of the mountain, heading into the Golden Sea. They weren’t setting much of a pace; it took hours for them to vanish over the horizon. Still she stood there, motionless as a gargoyle, as the wind faded, the day heated, dew turned to steam and the ruddy glow of sunrise turned into the steadily hot glare of day. Not until the town had come fully alive did she finally move. Even her elven eyes could no longer see the students.

Principia leaned her head back, looking momentarily up into the bright blue sky, and sighed softly.

“Keep her safe. Just for a while longer. Please.”

She kicked herself carelessly forward, dropping down to the sloping roof of the church, slid down its shingles on her heels, and plummeted to the alley below, where she landed as silently and gracefully as a cat.

Whistling, she strolled off down the street, returning greetings from her fellow townsfolk with her customary insouciance. Just a pretty young woman without a care in the world.

 

“What is it?” he asked as the younger man abruptly straightened.

“Thought I saw something…”

“What?”

“I don’t… Nothing. It’s nothing. Just a flicker, I must’ve been imagining it.”

The sergeant grunted. “Write up a report.”

Private Carstairs cringed. “Aw, for…sir, there’s nothing to write. It was nothing.”

“You saw something. I saw you see it. Write the goddamn report, son.”

“But…I wouldn’t know what to write! It was…just a flicker out the corner of my eye. Probably just my lack of sleep—”

He fell silent as the sergeant rounded on him, clenching his jaw.

“I’m hearing a lot of ‘wah wah boo boo’ and not nearly enough ‘yes sir,’ private. Do you know what that fucking thing is?” He pointed below at the object of their surveillance. “That is a fucking hellgate. If you saw a flicker of movement, you write a fucking report. If you get a mysterious itch on your ass while looking in its general direction, you write a fucking report. ImCom gets a report whenever a titmouse so much as farts on this site, you understand? They will decide what is and is not significant, and they’ll know what to decide between because for every event, there is a GOD BUTTFUCKING DAMNED REPORT. Just as soon as Lord Vex starts to give a bloody shit what you think about anything, he’ll come down here and give you your promotion. Until that time, son, you will write your reports, and you will never, ever, require a superior officer to repeat himself when giving you an order. Am I INESCAPABLY clear?”

“Sir, yes, sir!” Carstairs shouted, saluting, and scrabbled for the pad of incident forms in its waterproof box affixed to one of the walls of their watchtower. He fumbled out his pen and bent over the railing, scribbling furiously, while the sergeant turned with a grunt to glare at the apparently empty stone platform the tower overlooked.

“Watch that penmanship, private.”

“Yes, sir!”

“And when your shift is over, report to the latrine. I’ll be along in an hour to inspect it, and if I find it in a lesser state of cleanliness than that which is suitable to serve tea to the Empress upon, I will redo it myself using your goddamn face. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I hear a distressing lack of enthusiasm, private.”

“YES, SIR! Thank you, sir!”

Below them, Elilial had paused in strolling past their watchtower to listen in on this exchange, and laughed delightedly. Tilting her head back, she blew a kiss up at the tower before continuing on her way into the heart of Imperial territory. Her hooves left no mark on the ground, and the soldiers, of course, neither saw nor heard her.

But the crystal scrying orbs on each corner of the tower did.

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