The Nested Worlds

"Everyone knows there are motes out there you don't go near. Some of them are hidden away behind wild storms that never end, or pull a ship's hull hard onto the rocks and smash them to splinter. The Crowns have never said why they made such places, or if anyone lives there, but for our purposes their existence need only be accepted as a fact of life. Just keep a careful eye out for red ink on your charts, and steer well clear." —Lecture at the navigators' college.

Fishing

Eärrach's private earthmote 09.06.03.15.19

It was the kind of perfect day that might happen anywhere.

That was sort of the point, really. The Crowns could have lived in a permanent, unreal paradise, if they wanted. But they'd all seen others make that mistake, and they'd seen what happened.

Genuinely perfect days didn't exist without the contrast of the imperfect days before them. Which was why, for the most part, Eärrach's personal earthmote had rather a lackluster climate. It rained too much. Sunny days, when they came, were generally a little too hot thanks to the humidity.

But some days, when the wind was just right and the mote was at just the right altitude and passing through the right kinds of weather fronts, the air sinking gently down off the mountains was crisp and dry but the land was sun-warmed. The delicate scent of wildflowers waited politely for the nose to notice them, and the mirror-stillness of the lake broke only thanks to the occasional leaping trout.

All of which was beautiful, of course. But the border between beauty and perfection, for Sayf, was found in teaching his little girl how to fish.

Admittedly, Saoirse was more interested in picking around among the rocks and stones and shallows with a small net before running back to show off every interesting pebble she found, but that in itself was part of the joy. There was a deep wisdom in finding joy in such tiny mundanities as a smooth stone. All too soon, that ephemeral delight would be gone, and Saoirse would be a sulky tween, and beyond that she'd be, frankly, something of a bitch in her mid-teens.

Sayf had foreseen it all. But those difficulties too would pass, and beyond them…

Eärrach twitched his fishing line and expertly hooked on the fish that had been sneaking nibbles from it for the last few seconds. The water out nearly a hundred meters from the shore started to thrash and foam as the creature tried to escape, but Eärrach let it have some more line and carefully controlled it this way and forth, letting it tire with the patience of a man who had watched galaxies die in real time.

Saoirse eagerly splashed forward into the shallows with her tiny net, ready to help land her uncle's catch, and the two old men chuckled at each other.

"She really needed this," Sayf said, giving his own lure a couple of lazy turns. "She's been missing her mother like crazy."

"Who can blame her?" The fish quit its thrashing, and Eärrach started to reel it in. He wasn't using a rod: his preferred hunting and fishing methods were deliberately atavistic to give his quarry the best fighting chance, and so his line was wound around a carved wooden spool. Though, even this was a concession to the fact Sayf wanted to chat—he usually fished by wading slowly out into the lake and catching them with his bare hands

"It's more than just missing her mom," Sayf said. "I think she's getting…antsy…about the future. You know I've never been good at paracausality—"

"WiIl never be good at it, you mean." The King was, after all, the King, and couldn't help a bit of gentle dominance among friends.

Sayf snorted. "Case in point." He watched as Rheannach joined Saoirse in the shallows and gently helped her stay out of the line's path so as not to interrupt this delicate contest. Whatever was on the other end of that line was a monster, and he knew Eärrach would never cheat by making the line unbreakable. The fish stood a pretty decent chance of escaping, even if the King made no mistake.

He was also, in a shocking display of world-shattering modesty, wearing a loose pair of hand-woven cotton shorts.

"So you're worried our new Crown won't actualize without Ellaenie's help?"

"I think Saoirse's worried about it. Not that the current incarnation can put it into so many words."

Eärrach nodded again. The influence future events could have on past events was tenuous at best. It was, in fact, a lot like reeling in a lake monster on a fragile line. One mistake, or one unfortunate decision by other parties, and…

Sayf sighed, not wanting to think about it. He'd seen glimpses of a future that could be, and was so incredibly proud and in awe of the woman his daughter might grow to become. But he was wise enough to know that you shouldn't hang your happiness on future possibilities. If that future fizzled and Saoirse went on to have a normal, mortal, human life, it wouldn't be fair at all on her to mourn what had never actually happened.

But he could still hope.

"What…" he asked carefully "…or…when are we going to step in on this whole Civorage mess? I know the rules—" he added, when Eärrach glanced at him. "I know the why of it. But we're going to have to do something at some point."

Eärrach paused a long second as he worked the fish in. Finally, it reached Saoirse and Rheannach, and was duly netted—sort of. That scaly, rainbow-scaled body was bigger than Saoirse herself.

The two men grinned as the little girl proudly scooped it up and, hugging the wriggling thing to her chest (with the aid of Rheannach's fingers in its mouth) started to parade ashore with a huge grin.

"Soon. In fact, I mean to attend to that shortly."

"…Oh?"

Eärrach sighed, and the force of it whipped the water of the lake up into a sudden, vigorous froth, and rattled the trees on the far shore. He grimaced at his own brief loss of control, and there was a feeling of things fading slightly as he reeled himself in. "I see irrevocable crimes against souls along nearly every immediate future path. Our protagonist, too…he's a comfortably modest and notably faithless man being called to heroic duty. I think he still needs a bit of a nudge."

"Oh, I don't know. I'm inclined to give him more time to let the most recent nudge sink in…" Sayf considered his daughter. "If we have the luxury of time. But you think Civorage is going to cross the line at last?"

"He's planned to for years. Thus far, all he's done is fool, persuade, overwhelm, dominate. Evil, but…not beyond the scope of ordinary human evil. He's changed minds to his benefit. He may have cheated in doing so, but…nothing permanent. Minds are changeable, effervescent things. Even the Encircled aren't really beyond our capacity to aid, in the end."

"He's not going to stop at blissed-out dupes though, is he."

"No. Not as this war turns against him. Right now, he's still turning to machines—he's got fixed-wing aircraft in the works, by the way—and cunning strategy to win it. But when those fail him? We both know what dictators are like when the empire crumbles."

That last one stung, a little. Sayf had in his youth had been a bit of a forceful wartime leader, and had it not been for a particularly timely friendship with the man who became Eärrach…

One look and a nod, and then a giant arm around his shoulders.

Friendship could heal any wound.

Saoirse reached them and held up the fish, giving Uncle Eärrach a big grin that was missing two teeth. "Lookit the size of him! He's so big!"

"Well, that's my lunch taken care of," Eärrach chuckled as he took the creature and lifted it up to inspect it. "What are the rest of you having?"

"You can't eat that all yourself!" Saoirse protested.

"Can too!"

"Nooo, I mean it wouldn't be nice! You've got to be nice and share, Uncle Earache." The child said it with such didactic seriousness that none of the adults around her could keep a straight face. But Eärrach went down on one knee and nodded solemnly.

"You're quite right," he said. "Thank you for reminding me. Why don't we catch a second one?"

"Yeah, okay!"

Did he cheat occasionally? Because the hard strike on Sayf's lure at that exact moment was far too perfectly timed.

He looked over. "Yes, and also no."

Big, shit-eating grin.

"…The worst part is I know you didn't read my mind to do that."

"Correct! But this is my place. It responds to me even without conscious effort. And I am most thankful for it!"

Rheannach laughed as Sayf started to reel his own catch in. "What, and you're eager to quit fishing so we can eat? I thought you were having fun…"

"I'll have fun cleaning and cookin' 'em, too."

Saoirse's little face scrunched up. "Cleaning is when you cut them up? That bit's yucky."

"Yeah, but it's important, darling. We need to always know what our food is and what happens for us to eat."

Sayf's own fish was the equal of the first one, but too was duly landed and carried ashore, and with that it was time to get Saoirse into some clean and dry clothes that didn't smell of fish and weren't spotted with scales. She watched the cleaning with an expression of fascinated disgust, but then happily stood and chatted with Rheannach as the fillets were breaded and prepared for the pan.

Eärrach and Sayf wandered away down the beach to return the less edible bits to nature.

"How are you going to do it?"

"Oh, I've been overthinking it, uncharacteristically. Jerl is…in many ways my polar opposite," the King admitted, with a quiet contrabass chuckle. "So it's always difficult to find the point of connection."

Sayf shook his head. "I am always amazed how the blindingly obvious occasionally eludes you."

"Oh?"

"Jerl is a ship captain and a merchant. That's how you meet him, obviously."

"…What, just, arrive on a ship and be all 'ho, friend!'"

"If you…really want to phrase it that way, yes"

Eärrach started laughing as the mental image formed. "So here I am, literally the mass-energy of all that was before compressed into my left bicep—"

"Floating on a rickety ship under a patched-up balloon, yes."

"And then…? I play at being a swash-buckler or something?"

"That's precisely the point! Be friendly and ridiculous. It's your most charming, most disarming mode. Hell, go shirtless, make stupid jokes, whatever. Jerl isn't unreasonable, he just…needs to get past your, y'know. Presence. And you're exactly the kind of guy he secretly envies in many ways."

"So your counsel is to be so deliberately in my own stereotype it short-circuits and renders me approachable."

"Yes. Exactly. Just like we used-to-could so many trillions of years ago. Back when we didn't need to behave as living archetypes to raise a new civilization of impressionable souls."

Sayf chucked the bucket of slops into the water then turned to his old friend. "Jerl's been contending with Time for half a year by now. He's died at least once, he's had long conversations with me, Haust, Talvi, Yngmir…even Shishah's rather impressed by him. But…he also thinks the one thing Jerl isn't ready for, won't ever be ready for, is the idea that navigating through this mess is going to require sacrificing some of the people he loves. We've all tried to prepare him for it in our own ways, but it's…a sticking point. He doesn't handle death well, and having the power to undo it hasn't helped him get better. His instinct is that the right path forward is always the one where everybody lives."

"Well, I can't blame him for that."

"No." Sayf agreed. They watched the swirl of blood and chum spread out and vanish in the water. "…You know that thing you do where you hug someone, and just live their pain with them?" Sayf knew that personally. Not many did.

The King nodded seriously. "Nobody should endure what he's endured. He's suffering."

"And you, my over-muscled friend, are surprisingly one of the few who can understand."

"I might need to make some wordless promises to him, too."

"Maybe. But I think the only promise he needs is that there is a way out of this, and that he won't wind up fighting forever. You can truthfully give him that, can't you?"

"I can." He glanced back toward the cabin. "And I do understand him. My instinct is that the right path forward is always the one where your daughter mantles to join us."

"I hope and pray it is."

"So do I."

There was nothing more to say. Having reached that understanding, they rinsed the bucket and returned to the cabin and a waiting fish dinner.

Business could always wait at least that long.

Lunchtime Soup

1 carrot, 1 turnip, 1 leek or onion, 1 or 2 potatoes, 1 stick celery

1 cup dried lentils or split peas

Yesterday's dinner bones

4 cups water

Salt, pepper and herbs to taste.

In a covered pot, simmer the bones overnight on the hearth coals. In the morning, remove the bones and skim off the scum. Add the lentils or peas, and top up with more water if it has reduced too much. Half an hour before you serve, dice the vegetables fine and add them to the pot, along with the seasonings. To serve, shatter a hardtack biscuit (see page 12) into a bowl and pour the soup on top.

—Making The Most Of It, a cookbook distributed in Auldenheigh during rationing.

Digging around in a hole

Auldenheigh railyards, Enerlend 09.06.03.15.19

The sign 'Jared Mab Keeghan: plant and machinery' had survived the blast, albeit barely. It lay clear across the rails, crumpled and bent where it had bounced end-over-end across the bricks before coming to rest against the wall of another building painted with the words "D Henshaw Co. HARDWARE."

None of the buildings in the vicinity had survived the blast unscathed. An entire powder store's worth of explosives had wrecked the closest rails, shattered windows, cracked walls and ripped roofing panels of every structure within a hundred yards. Bits of rubble had supposedly come raining down halfway across the city.

All that remained of Mab Keeghan's workshop was a dent in the ground full of pulverized brick and tangled scrap metal.

Derghan was picking over it with a frown of intense concentration on his thick, ruddy brow. He looked, to Jerl's thinking, thoroughly baffled about something. But Jerl knew better than to interrupt his engineer's thought, and so had focused on talking with the other business owners in the area, along with Amir and Mouse.

Mab Keeghan, it turned out, had been broadly liked. He made machines for other factories and was always a generous sort of businessman, always happy to make a deal or come take a look at one of his creations if it went awry. Pretty much everyone in the area had a "Jared" of some kind, from the looms in a fabric manufacturers to a jig or specific little gizmo that made the one unique part they needed. Local consensus was that he was a genius who could design anything.

His only quirk that anyone could think of was that he never allowed anyone into his workshop.

Still, Jerl and Mouse gathered all the gossip they could. Mrs. Mab had been quite a gossip herself and had freely chattered with all and sundry in the area, and apparently Jared had taken on an apprentice a few months back. "Quiet fella. Never traded a word with him," as the textile mill's foreman mused.

Nothing about any of that struck Jerl as being terribly unusual, and Time wasn't giving him any nudges. But still…good old-fashioned paranoia and suspicion were making him antsy.

His suspicions only deepened when he returned to the crater to find Derghan turning some items over in his fingers and stroking his beard thoughtfully.

"Got something?"

Derghan nodded slowly, as though uncertain. "Just…somethin' I can't explain. Got no reason why a fella who makes mill machines would need this." He tossed one of his finds to Jerl. It was a cylinder of solid metal, maybe three inches long, with a slightly convex disc at one end like the head of a sturdy mushroom.

Jerl turned it "…Okay?"

"There's two dozen like it in every one of the Queen's engines. It's a poppet valve. Controls the flow o' fuel vapor and exhaust fumes in an' out of the combustion chambers."

"You're saying our lad had an airship engine?"

"Yah. And I can't figure out why. You don't keep one around to look pretty, not in a workshop this small. First, 'cuz they aren't, an' second 'cuz they're loud, dangerous an' fume up the place." Derghan gestured to the rubble field. "Only reason I can think of to have one would be if he'd tested his machines by runnin' 'em on a power takeoff. But that would be a steel shaft as thick as my arm, an' bloody dangerous. A power takeoff can snatch your leg away, quick an' easy as picking a daisy. So he'd probably run it in a covered trench for safety, but there's no sign of such a thing."

He bent down and scooped up two more items. "But there are these."

The first item was just a splintered piece of hardwood. But its outer surface was smooth and lacquered with a contour he recognized.

"…Part of a propeller?"

"Yah. And this—" Derghan handed over a ragged, blackened object that was somehow both soft and rigid.

Jerl considered it. There was a spur of splintered wood in the heart of this one too. Bamboo, he guessed. And clinging to it was…

"…Bag canvas. The fabric merchant said he ordered a roll of it about a year ago."

"Yah-huh. Two or three layers, wrapped around a bamboo frame then infused with glue I reckon. Lightweight but stiff. Pretty smart, except I got no idea what it's useful for."

"Well…a gas bag?"

"What's the benefit of a bag with a rigid frame?" Derghan pointed out. "Besides, look at the curve. If it's part of a bag, it'd be maybe…five feet across at most? You couldn't lift shit with that."

"A lightweight hull, then?"

Derghan shrugged. "Set a foot wrong and you'd fall right through it. Not exactly ideal. Now, you know what's missing?"

"Do tell," Jerl said, looking around.

"Dead person." Derghan gestured to the rubble field. "Not a bit of Jared Mab Keeghan anywhere in this lot, nor his missus or his apprentice. Not a drop of blood, not a bone shard, not one tooth. And I've seen the aftermath of enough explosions to know, people don't just turn into a neat puff of smoke. They more sort of…splash." He gestured expressively with both hands.

Jerl hummed thoughtfully. "Weird. Nobody saw them leave, and several of them said they'd seen Mrs. Mab just that afternoon."

"Actually…"

Derghan jumped, then inhaled sharply through his teeth before turning to Mouse. "Red Lady's arse, I am getting very sick of that," he said with forced patience.

Mouse gave him a helpless shrug. "Believe me, so am I. You think I like being forgotten by everyone?"

Derghan deflated a little. "Right…Yah. Sorry."

"Actually…?" Jerl prompted.

"Well…I don't think you noticed, but all the people you talked to seemed a little confused to me. As if they'd answered truthfully as far as they knew, but they weren't entirely sure. I was wondering if it was just being rattled by the blast, but now I'm thinking maybe Civorage mucked with their memories? It felt a lot like when I cause people to forget me."

The three of them turned to consider the rubble again.

"So…a guarded powder store is stolen in the middle of the night during wartime lockdown with the sentries unable to explain how. A workshop is then blown up using said powder, and turns out to contain something we can't explain. There's no sign its owner died in the explosion. And the witnesses saying they never saw him leave, nor ever saw somebody bringing barrels of powder in, seem to have had their memories tampered with by the power of Mind." Jerl summarized.

"A theory forms," Derghan said, drily.

"Yeah," Mouse agreed. "Our renegade Keeghan was a free collaborator, and Civorage helped him move out of the city before we discovered it."

Jerl nodded. "Padrig did say Jared must have done something to piss off the Keeghan clan's ardkin."

Derghan thoughtfully twiddled one of the beads in his beard. "…From what I've heard of Maeve Keeghan, that's not easily done. She's very keen on keeping the family a single well-oiled machine, supposedly." He cast a suspicious look at the rubble. "Well…whatever. There's not enough left here to have a hope of figurin' out what he was workin' on. The airship bits aren't enough of a clue."

"And that's assuming they aren't a red herring," Mouse said. "Though, I don't think so. Civorage is an arrogant bastard, I doubt he thinks he needs red herrings. And he didn't think to tie up some pigs in the warehouse to make it look like the Mabs died in the blast, so…"

"Right." Jerl frowned, then gave up. He'd remember this. This was a moment to come back to, if need be. When whatever it was Civorage and Mab Keeghan had cooked up here bore fruit, he could come back and nip it in the bud.

But as always, he hoped he wouldn't have to.

He looked around, feeling the nagging sense that something was missing. It took him a few seconds to realize what. Or rather, who.

"…Where did Amir and Deng-Nah get to?"

Walking and talking

Trailing End, Auldenheigh, Enerlend 09.06.03.15.19

"It still amazes me how you can just…come up with a poem on the spot like that."

Deng-Nah shrugged. They had been canvassing the area on Jerl's behalf, talking to locals who lived and worked near the formed Keeghan workshop for about an hour now, and frankly it was proving to be a waste of time. Most said they either never met the workshop's owner, and the few who didn't claimed no knowledge of him leaving before the blast…which was obviously wrong. Amir had spotted the lack of any human remains among the debris at once.

Strange.

"It is skill you learn and can be teached—ah, taught. My teacher when I was young, he was very patient, but would give me—" he pantomimed a cane "—bang, across the knuckles when I find it hard."

"Ah. The traditional method." Amir grunted, amused. He'd never seen the logic of how exactly the fear of pain and the shame of humiliation were supposed to motivate a boy to concentrate. To avoid misbehaving, yes, but to focus the mind? It seemed counterproductive.

Deng-Nah chuckled as well. "Simplest way…follow a traditional structure. I like the one we call Yoninkengai, or*'Flight of the arrow.'"*

"How does that go?"

"First, you loose the arrow—yo—setting the mood. Then it lofts and rises—*nin—*gaining height and detail. Ken is the turn on the breeze, the apex, the unexpected shift and the moment it starts to come down. And Gai is the strike, where insight or emotion lands." He hammer-smacked the side of his fist into his palm for emphasis. "It uses a one-two-one-two rhyme, but it doesn't have to be perfect rhyme. In fact, the clever use of imperfect rhyme is preferred."

"Example?" Amir asked.

The Yunei nobleman shrugged. "Look around. Find something that strikes you. Think deeply about it for a moment. See the hidden beauty or irony. put it into words. So…" he looked about them, then chuckled. "Daylight flies above the alley walls and soot / to perch on dangling linen rows / on each line, the city's toil is put / poor man's underthings shine like prince's robes."

Amir laughed. "It sounds like you learned your lesson well."

"Oh no. That would have got my backside caned," Deng-Nah chuckled. "Very disrespectful. Very Improper."

"But just the right thing, in the right company?"

Deng-Nah grinned. "Just so. Now; your turn."

"Oh! Uh…" Amir cast about hastily, looking for something to strike him. This was a working part of the city, dominated by industry, but…

"Uh…ah. 'A…sunlit cat sleeps on…on rusting tin / having made a bed of…forgotten paint / for him, there is no war to win / so he sleeps, as though the world is…uh…quaint.' Damn."

Deng-Nah winced sympathetically. "Mm. You loosed the arrow with courage, but killed a cow in the next field over, I think."

Amir gave a faintly embarrassed shrug. "Yes, I rather panicked at the end there, didn't I?"

"Still, you show you understand the form. The rest is practice, practice practice. We all miss at first." Deng-Nah encouraged. "I would have ended on…'the patient serenity of a saint.' Still not great, but…"

"…Scarred, neglected, half-blind and thin / A hermit, or an unlikely saint," Amir suggested.

Deng-Nah pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Better," he conceded as the unlikely saint, aware of their attention, sat up and dropped down from its throne of ancient paint tins to stride toward them, meowing loudly in the imperious way of hungry cats.

"Poor little waif," Amir said, crouching down to scratch behind its ear. "Everyone in this city's on hard rations."

Deng-Nah nodded. "Empty granaries mean the rats go hungry, so they do not breed. Means the cats go hungry too."

"That and people are eating the rats themselves. Surprised somebody hasn't made a stew of this fellow, actually…"

Deng-Nah dug out a small paper parcel of beef jerky and solemnly gave a square to the cat—a dusty grey shorthair with quite striking orange eyes. It abandoned all pretense at dignity and gnawed on the dried meat, purring like an airship engine turning over.

"Careful. He might follow you forever, now" Amir chuckled.

"No bad thing. I love cats."

"Same. I've always rather wanted one for a familiar, actually," Amir agreed.

"What is a familiar?"

"Oh, practitioners of the Art often have an animal to talk to when they're working on a magical problem. You see, when you're having trouble with a complex form, you can—"

"Oi! Shortarse!"

The cat arched its back, hissed, and fled up a wall to watch warily from atop a nearby shed. Amir and Deng-Nah turned toward the voice that had called out. It was a young voice, a lad in his late teens with a complexion nearly as red and rough as the brickwork…and painfully thin. He was flanked by half a dozen similarly ragged youths, all of them glaring with undisguised distaste.

"The fuck was you wastin' food on a fuckin' animal for, you fat little shit?" he demanded.

Deng-Nah gave him a look that was more confused than offended. "…Fat?"

It was, truly, an odd accusation. Deng-Nah was nobility from a warrior lineage. His body was honed by lifelong discipline, and his diet always struck Amir as quite austere. There wasn't a spare roll of flesh anywhere on him.

Then again, he was still healthy. Whereas the gang of kids now slouching and muttering their way closer had clearly gone several weeks since their bellies were properly full. The war effort was improving matters—the county regiments converting to Ellaenie's cause had opened supply lines into the city, which had prevented outright famine—but even the best-fed in Auldenheigh had long since started to look gaunt in the face and bony in the ribs.

By contrast, the two airshipmen, fit and upright, were obviously men who had not had to skip their breakfast. And that alone bred resentment.

"I 'aven't had a proper crust in three days," the leader grumbled. "An' 'ere you are givin' away good meat to a bloody stray cat?"

The muscles in Deng-Nah's arm and shoulder bunched momentarily, then relaxed. He bowed, and offered the young man his bag of jerky. "You are right, it was thoughtless of me. I apologize."

The youth scoffed, but snatched the bag without hesitation. "Fuckin' Yunei…"

Deng-Nah folded his hands loosely in front of him, but Amir wasn't fooled by the apparently polite and demure posture. It might look harmless, but he was ready to become a violent blur, as Amir had seen from watching him spar with the elves.

"If the esteemed host has a complaint against his guests," he said, in eminently reasonable and formal tone, "let it be spoken, so correction may be made."

Wrong approach, Amir thought.

He had a couple of bands wrapped around his wrists, each securing a magestones against his skin. It was an old habit by now—he'd learned many years ago to never entirely lower his guard in a city. Now, he tapped into their stored energy and began subtly weaving the form of a spell.

Mezzo clavis, tenth mundane form in the definite, gather to down with that litle spike, knot it up into an embellished poised fifth, and…hold…

If there was one thing travelling with Jerl had taught him, it was how to see a fight coming…and how much difference a heartbeat's delay or preparation could make.

The gang's leader sneered. "Oh, aye, bow an' scrape. It's all you slant-eyed little fucks are good at."

He took a step forward, and his voice dropped to an angry growl as the rest of the gang circled them. "We 'ad food before you an' that witch duchess came along. We 'ad 'ouses. Our streets weren't blown to shit ev'ry week. This war you little bastards brought with 'ya is why we're 'ungry all th' time."

His hand slipped out of sight—a lazy, nothing gesture. But Amir knew what it meant.

He tapped Deng-Nah in the small of his back and allowed the magic pattern to stabilize and infuse his friend's flesh.

The knife flashed. Then it spun and danced away across the cobbles as Deng-Nah parried it on bare but iron-hardened flesh with nary a scratch. His fists blurred in reply and played a drum-beat on the gang leader's chest that lifted the boy off his feet and slammed him down six yards away, completely winded.

Amir spun and raised his hand, pulling another pulse of magic from his magestones. Blackjacks and koshes bounced back from the rubbery wall of congealed air he summoned like a shield, and he riposted by throwing down a loose magestone while shoving in an escalating pattern of destabilizing energy.

It detonated the instant it hit the cobbles, with a boom and a flash that sent several of the youths reeling and clutching their heads.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

The rest of the gang swarmed Deng-Nah. Knives and clubs rose and fell but skittered harmlessly off magically reinforced skin. Deng-Nah struggled like a lion even with each of his limbs held, jerking his assailants around with remarkable strength for such a small man. He roared, sent one urchin spinning away with a kick, and seemed on the edge of breaking free when, as one, the youths let go and fled.

They moved like cats themselves, vaulting over the walls and wriggling away down alleys so that in a second the two crewmates were alone, aside from the alarmed eyes watching from nearby doorways and windows. The fight was over just as quickly as it began.

Even so, neither man relaxed until their pulses started to slow. But the gang was truly gone, it seemed. Deng-Nah was the first to exhale and lower his hands.

"Good spell," he said, gratefully.

"It's certainly been helpful while travelling with Jerl over the years…" Amir murmured absently as he pulled fresh stones from his purse and tucked them in under his wristbands. "You're sure you're unhurt?"

"Completely. Though this shirt will need mend—" Deng-Nah paused in patting himself down, then frantically patted himself again, and a third time before cursing venomously in his native tongue. Amir didn't catch it exactly. Something about the shape of a hog's penis.

"What? What?!"

Deng-Nah looked up at him, and his usually calm eyes were now dark and terrible.

"…They stole my word vault," he said.

Let it be known throughout Enerlend and all the duchies of Garanhir that in this, the third year of the sixth era of the ninth age of the second epoch since the Day of Creation, as reckoned by the Navigators' Calendar, in accordance with the sovereign prerogatives granted to me under the Charter and Seal inherited from the Last King of Garanhir, I do hereby raise and commission the Special Warfare Regiment. This body shall be composed of volunteers drawn from the most able and loyal of Enerlend's citizens, instructed in the arts of clandestine operation, irregular engagement, and extraordinary warfare, for the protection of the Duchy's interests and the preservation of peace. They shall bear no colours save a black banner on grey, and owe fealty first to Enerlend, and thence to the good of the Realm and the moral guidance of the mighty Crowns. Let none question their purpose, nor hinder their passage. —Proclamation of Commission, signed by Her Grace the Duchess of Enerlend, Ellaenie of House Banmor.

Regimental Headquarters

Lendwick House, the Elven City, Auldenheigh 09.06.03.15.19

"Colonel Mossjoy?"

Adrey was, she knew, not getting enough sleep. So it took her a second to register that—right, yes—she was Colonel Mossjoy. The new rank fit strangely, like a pair of new boots she hadn't yet worn in.

It was amazing how quickly things could change.

A week ago, her Particulars had still been part of the Blackdrakes. But the Blackdrake Network had been the civilian resistance against an illegal occupation, while the Particulars were rapidly becoming the pioneers of a new and devilish form of warfare. So Ellaenie had put her foot down and said, if they were to be soldiers, they should be legitimate soldiers*—*complete with a proper regimental structure, uniforms, and a headquarters of their own.

She'd offered Adrey a commission to the rank of colonel, and promised to name her Dame Severant of the Most Gallant Order of the Thorn in the annual honours.

Adrey had accepted the commission eagerly, and the honour with some embarrassment.

The Earl of Lendwick had gifted them Lendwick House for the regimental HQ, which was a pleasingly ironic fate for the place where Civorage had first tried to make his move against Ellaenie. And the commission had worked beautifully—suddenly, she didn't have to spend so much time persuading the old duffers from the established regiments to stop talking over her and start taking her seriously. To a lot of them, a countess was apparently just a silly rich girl playing at the man's game of warfare, no matter how impactful her previous exploits.

A colonel though…well, you cooperated with a colonel. Especially one with the letters of a chivalric order after their name.

It wasn't all upside, though. Effective cooperation came with paperwork. Less personal time. Less sleep. She'd got back from the Bryndell raid four nights ago, and had slept, oh…twenty hours in total since then?

The young soldier in front of her desk saluted smartly and presented her with a folder. "Today's dispatches and messages, ma'am."

Adrey took the folder. "Thank you, Lieutenant."

"Ma'am." The lad bowed his head in that sharply professional down-up motion, pivoted in the heels and toes of his boots, and marched away. The sound of his cavalry heels tapping on the hardwood floors followed him out of the room and down the hall.

She yawned, and glanced through the messages. She could tell at a glance that most were nothing of import, but that was for the best. Now that the mission to recruit the county regiments was complete, the next step was to turn a rag-tag band of former gang members and troublemakers into a fighting elite. That was going to require prolonged boring effort, so anything terribly urgent in dispatches would have been…

…Well. Logically it would have been unwelcome. But Adrey knew that really, she wouldn't endure boring desk work for long. Too much inside her demanded the catharsis of action.

She sighed, and started in on reading and signing and stamping.

She'd only been at it for maybe ten minutes, however, when there was another knock on the door, and a red-faced youth panting his breath. He was a volunteer young gentleman of about twelve years old, with a mop of golden curls currently plastered to his face by sweat. Adrey vaguely remembered seeing him up at the palace.

"Yes?" she asked.

"Ah…Mister Skinner sends his regards, ma'am," the lad said. "You're wanted at the palace right away."

"Did he say why?" Adrey asked. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed as Wullem—Captain de Tredleck, now—glanced up from his own desk in the corner, where he was tackling the minutiae of recruitment and training.

"No ma'am," the boy piped. "Just that it's urgent and you're to come at once, and he suggested getting your men ready for what he called 'a sharp job,' ma'am."

Adrey sat back and frowned over at Wullem, who shrugged, nodded, and rose from his desk. "I'll round up the fellows," he said.

Adrey smiled at him as he bustled out of the room. She liked Wullem, a lot. But one of the things she liked most about him was that their one night together hadn't become an obstacle. Neither of them had expected more, both of them knew there wouldn't be more—at least, not yet. They'd satisfied their curiosity, thensettled into an easy friendship with enough respectful distance that it wouldn't be disruptive to their respective ranks.

Maybe after the war, they'd be more than friends. It'd work, she knew it would. But there was a lot to do before then.

For her part, she rolled her neck to release a few knotty pops, and rose to her feet. "Did you alert the ostler?"

"Yes ma'am!" the young runner said.

"…What's your name?"

"Widslen, ma'am. Bryce Widslen."

Adrey knew the name. The Widslens were landowners, petty gentry. They'd also been Blackdrakes, and had died in the string of assassinations immediately before the liberation. She wasn't quite sure why knowing that made a small shard of ice slip through her heart—the city was full of orphans and other tragedies, now—but she immediately felt the urge to be kind to the boy.

"Fine work, Mister Widslen," she said, warmly. "Come along: you may as well ride back with me rather than run your legs down to stumps."

"Thank you, ma'am." He trotted along in her wake as she strode down the hall, down the stairs and out through the front doors. Sure enough, a coach was already teamed up and waiting for her, with Takes in the driver's seat.

"Where to, boss?"

"We're off to the palace, Trapper."

"Aye, aye. Sorry to report I didn't have time to stock up on the bubbly wine."

"Oh! Unforgivable dereliction! I shall have to have you flogged, Trapper," Adrey joked, and Widslen glance at her in alarm despite her light tone, until she winked at him and grinned.

"No less than I deserve, ma'am," Takes returned with a chuckle.

Adrey helped Widslen up, then settled down and pretended not to notice his grateful sigh of relief at getting to sit in an upholstered seat for a bit. She'd put in a petition to have Lendwick House wired up with a telegraph line, but the engineers had said their backlog was going to take at least a month to clear. Until then, exhausted and underfed boys like Bryce Widslen would just have to take the strain.

Besides…it was very comfy upholstery. She may even have dozed off herself for a few minutes, while Trapper drove them the few miles over to the palace.

The moment she entered Skinner's war room, however, she knew she was not going to like what she was about to hear.

Jerl was standing by the table with some of his senior officers beside him. But her eye was immediately drawn to Lord Deng-Nah On, who was standing and staring at the map of the city as though by sheer willpower he could unearth some terrible secret it contained. Everything about the man's posture—his rigid back, the twitching muscle in his jaw, his fidgeting fingertips, and the way he glanced at Adrey and stiffly adjusted his sleeves—screamed anger, despair, shame, and tension. And Skinner's expression was as grim as she'd ever seen it.

She might have managed to put a theory together from those clues together even without her Word and the uncanny knack it gave her forthreading fragments, hunches and gaps together into guesses that were always—always—right. Her eyes alighted on his wide sash belt, and the object that was not tucked inside it.

"Oh, no…" She marched up to the table, all other concerns forgotten. "Please tell me I'm wrong—"

"'Yer never wrong, though, are 'ya?" Skinner said, quietly.

"You were….mugged, Lord On?"

The young Yunei nobleman nodded glumly. "Yes. And the more I think, the more I wonder, was it really random?"

"If they took your word vault, I very much doubt it," Adrey said. She followed his gaze down to the table and more pieces fell into place as her subconscious gleaned them. "Tell me everything."

She listened as Deng-Nah and Amir outlined their altercation with the gang, and the broader context of Mab Keeghan's workshop and Jerl's suspicions about what they'd found there. She asked for details, and got them thanks to Amir's excellent memory. A picture formed as she started to fill in the angles.

It was not, however, a complete picture, and that bothered her. Second-hand information, even from a source as good as Amir, wasn't enough for her Word to really achieve its full potential. There were too many unknowns, too many little subconscious things his testimony and descriptions couldn't carry.

"So th' big question is…does Civorage 'ave 'is 'ands on Lord On's word, now?" Skinner asked.

"I…can't tell. My guess is no, though. I think Jerl's right, I think his goal was to get Mab Keeghan and some secret project out of the city before he was discovered. But somehow I don't believe the stolen vault is a coincidence, either. He carries any number of more obviously valuable things, after all…"

"So what're you thinking?"

"I'm thinking I don't have enough information, but tight control over the Words and their vaults is our highest strategic priority, always," Adrey said. "Each one represents world-changing power, and thus far we've been lucky enough to keep them mostly in the right hands. If that changes, though…no. This needs our full attention."

Skinner nodded. "'s'about what I thought," he agreed. "I already told Bothroyd an' the Network to work it from the civilian end, lean on th' fences an' such."

"But ideally you want somebody chasing these kids with bloodhounds," Adrey said. "We can do that. But…Jerl, why not just pull back? This is potentially disastrous!"

"Not yet." Jerl shrugged. "You never know how things are going to work out. For all I know, this could be one of those cases where an apparent setback swings around to our advantage. If I pulled back time for every spot of turbulence, I'd go mad before getting anywhere."

Adrey couldn't fault his reasoning, so she nodded and returned her attention to the map. Her eyes were drawn to one particular spot that she just knew was the right place to start, though she could never have articulated exactly why. "…Alright. Finding a gang in that part of the city shouldn't be too hard. I'll keep you informed."

"I think I speak for my whole crew when I say we'd rather not just stand around waiting," Jerl said. "What can we do?"

Adrey considered him for a second, and considered her own regiment's current dramatic shortage in personnel. Her decision was an obvious one.

"Come with me, I can use the extra hands" she said. "But…may I suggest that this time, you should leave anything you'd rather not lose in a safe place?"

She judged her tone about right. It took a second, but Deng-Nah chuckled. "I should have thought of that before," he said. "No worry: I have nothing else."

They finalized the when and where and what they'd each be bringing in terms of people and equipment, Adrey traded a few words with Skinner—she hadn't seen much of him in a couple of weeks, so the chance to say hi wasn't to be missed—and then she was back in her coach heading for Lendwick House again before she'd even really noticed it.

Despite her tiredness and the rational part of her mind that wanted her to focus on the regiment's founding, recruiting and training, she found she was smiling.

Perhaps she'd still get the catharsis of action after all.

"A Hard Day Deserves the Old Wyrd" Brewed black and strong as a miner's hands, Limwell's Old Wyrd is the stout for those who labour long and rise early. With notes of roasted barley, bittersweet chocolate and a whisper of smoke, this is no sipping frippery. Old Wyrd is a working man's drink, formulated for endurance and poured with pride. Brewed by the Limwell Brewing Co., est. 09.04.01. Ask for it by name. —Advertisement seen in the Coachman's Rest, Auldenheigh

Meeting the buyer

The Old Pit Kiln public house, Hardsley End, Auldenheigh, Enerlend 09.06.03.15.19

The last time Teller had met the buyer, he'd been weird enough. Clearly a nob, with a nob's accent and fancy clothes plus an opera mask to hide his face.

Today he wasn't even sure it was the same person…or if they were even human.

The figure in front of him had the right height and build but he was all swaddled up like that time Teller had paid a whole half a brass to take Maisie to the circus. They'd seen that Alakbiri magician, Ulliman the Impossible, all wrapped in gold and blue and red silks and doing things like smashing up a fella's watch in a bag then handing it back to him intact, or putting that girl who wasn't hardly wearing more than a bunch of hankies in a box then cutting the box in half and turning both ends around so her smiling face and wiggling feet were facing each other.

This guy was dressed like if Ulliman had been a lot richer and even more of a show-off. He was wearing a mile of blue and gold silk brocade, and that already made him look more out of place in the pool room of the Old Pit Kiln pub than a donkey in a rat pit.

The mask, though…that was the icing on the bun. It was like…a giant grasshopper's head made of lacquered metal, with oversized, segmented eyes of red-purple glass. When the buyer spoke, hidden springs and rods made the mouthparts move and twitch, giving each word a little extra hiss and clack.

It was fucking creepy. And worse, they didn't ever actually stop moving. Even when the buyer wasn't talking, the mandibles fidgeted as though, just maybe, that wasn't a mask but an actual alive bug face.

"The price, Mister Hobb, was already agreed upon."

Under the sounds his mask made, the buyer's voice was posh, rich, even. Kind of high and soft. Normal enough, really, but it still didn make Teller comfortable at all. On the contrary, it made him greet his teeth and wish he still had his knife.

"Aye, well, you're not the one who got beat 'alf senseless, are 'ya? An' Binks an' Kipper an' Tully are all still 'alf deaf wi' ringin' ears, aren't they?"

"You were warned they would put up a fight," the buyer said, and somehow managed to spread both his hands and the mask's mandibles when he shrugged. "But oh, I tell you what. How about a little flutter?"

A gloved hand emerged from somewhere under the silks, and indicated the pool table. "A lad like you must play. Double or half?"

Teller opened his mouth, looked into the scintillating glass eyes, then snapped his mouth shut. After a second, he shook his head. "…Y'know what, nah. Let's just, uh, stick to the deal," he said, and took the box he'd snatched of the Yunei down on the baize.

The masked man sighed. "How dull. Very well." The gloved hand made a twirling motion with its fingers, and suddenly there was a roll of brass coins still in their yellow paper wrap, along with a playing card. Teller took both with some hesitation, and frowned at the card.

It contained directions: alleyway on river side of Gong Street, opposite the ironmonger's. Look in the barrel marked T.H.

"Uh—?"

"The rest of your payment. You poor things really need a good meal." The masked man swept up the box, and vanished it with just the same flourish as they money had appeared. "A pleasure doing business, Mister Hobb."

"Uh…yeah. you too." Teller backed out of the room. The insectoid face watched him intently all the way out the door.

As soon as the mask was out of sight, he turned and left as quick as his legs would carry him.

"As ever, de Tredleck's prose vacillates between serviceable and overheated, with a knack for describing every woman he meets as either "exotically beautiful" or "fascinatingly dangerous," or, often, both within the same paragraph. His geography is impressionistic, his grasp of politics optimistic, and his moral compass has a certain…boyish flexibility. And yet, for all of this, The Arthenun Eagle is a vexingly entertaining read. As ever, it is easy to sneer at de Tredleck's work—indeed, one suspects he rather enjoys the sneers—but impossible to put him down once his plot gets up its head of steam. Don't pick up this book looking for high culture. Pick it up because you simply enjoy reading." —Review published in the Auldenheigh Literary Gazette

Following the boss

Trailing End, Auldenheigh, Enerlend 09.06.03.15.19

At first, I was worried the commission would blunt her edge. The Adrey I'd come to know was a shapeshifter—whoever the job needed, she became. And she was a bloodhound who never lost the scent. And she was the most breathtaking duellist I'd ever watched write poetry in blade and blood. Part of me feared what stuffing all of that into a uniform and parking it behind a desk might do.

I needn't have worried on that score.

Wullem was falling in love.

That in itself was a novel experience worthy of, well, a novel. He'd gone through life enjoying women, especially impressive, competent and self-assured women. But even the best and most memorable of them had been, well…someone to enjoy. And he'd been the same to them, because although he considered himself something of a cad, Wullem did have a code. And part of that code was that he didn't use women. He certainly didn't abuse them, and taking advantage of virginal innocence would have been no fun at all.

No, what he enjoyed was honesty between worldly adults. And that was exactly what he'd got with Adrey, and what she'd got from him in turn. Why complicate such an arrangement with obsession?

But…here he was. Growing a little obsessed with her every day, even though he was acutely aware that the woman he found so fascinating might not even be the real Adrey Mossjoy.

It was hard to watch her work without having that point driven home. Adrey knew how to be exactly the right person for each encounter. One minute she'd talk to a sour-faced old trout of a housewife and she'd be a sour-faced old trout of a housewife, commiserating and agreeing with everything the bitter old bitch had to say. The next, she'd be bubbly and funny, or flirtatious, because if there was one almost guaranteed way to win a person over, it was to mirror them.

Though it wasn't her only approach. In one conversation the Countess came out in full force, aweing a witness with lofty nobility the likes of which these humble folks were blessed even to glimpse…and in another she was a class-embarrassed republican keen to flatten the divide between rich and poor until it didn't exist.

Yes, Adrey could be anyone. But somebody who could be anyone might be no-one. Was there a real Adrey underneath the changing masks? Even if there was, had Wullem met her? Had anyone? Had Adrey?

Maybe he had, though. If he couldn't necessarily trust her face and voice to be the real person, he could still trust her deeds…and her scars. And he'd counted those scars. The whip-marks that formed a diamond pattern across her back, the silvery web of pale knife cuts, and that horrible branded letter P on the nape of her neck. He'd made note of all of them. And she'd told him all about the Peltons, during their one night together. About what they'd tried to turn her into, and what she'd done to them instead.

That, he felt fairly sure, hadn't been a mask. Speaking about it had hurt her too much to be anything but the authentic Adrey.

She flashed him a smile as she returned from her latest round of questioning. "Got them."

"Well, don't keep us in suspense," Wullem returned.

"The leader's name is Teller Hobb," Adrey said. "Kind of a…grifter and chancer, if you will. The locals call him a 'likely lad.' My guess is he's actually pretty naturally talented but grew up under a violent alcoholic father."

"He knows how to take a hit," Deng-Nah conceded. "I have put bigger and stronger men down with my fists: none got back up as quick as him. Quick to use a knife, too."

"Where does he live?" Jerl asked.

"No fixed abode," Adrey said. "But there's gossip about squatters in some condemned houses along Stiller's Lane. I'm quite sure it's them. So, I'll take the Particulars in the front way: Jerl, you and your crew watch the escape routes. When they rabbit, I want them to run straight into you."

Jerl grinned around at the assortment of pyrfey he'd brought with him. Wullem didn't follow the ensuing brief conversation in Feydh, but the elves seemed quite happy with the assignment. The tall one with the dreadlocks who seemed to be their leader, Harad, gestured, and the group took to the rooftops in a series of eerily silent leaping bounds. Even though they ran across loose tiles and thin tin rooftops, they sped away as quick and quietly as the breeze.

The humans followed at street level, talking and joking among themselves, but Wullem didn't join in. his attention was on the rooftops.

"Something the matter?"

Wullem looked back down. Adrey—the colonel—had fallen in alongside him and he realized he must have been quite distracted looking up at where the elves had gone.

"…There's no way these kids still have the box, is there?" he asked.

"No." Adrey shook her head. "They stole it for somebody, I'm sure of it."

"Civorage?"

She shifted uncomfortably. "I don't think so. But that only leaves one other candidate I'm aware of, and I'm not sure that's better."

"Your own mysterious benefactor?"

Adrey sighed, nodded, and lowered her voice. "Nimico."

Wullem shook his head. It was still hard to believe there were such things as fallen Heralds, or that at least one of them was the true power behind Civorage. The idea that one of them was going around handing out power like Adrey's for fun was disturbing enough, but at least Nimico's quicksilver lack of an agenda would work for them as often as against them. The others, though? One had led to this war by endangering the free will of everyone in all the world.

And the other two were yet to show their hand at all. He didn't like that thought one bit.

"What if it is one of the other two?" he asked.

"Crowns, I hope not…" Adrey muttered. "I doubt it, fortunately. But…I'm fairly sure they're out there. If two managed to survive all this time, then I doubt the other two would have just quietly given up and died of old age. I worry that we're so distracted by Civorage and his mistress and the anarchy that Nimico's throwing in that we won't notice their axe falling until our head's already staring up from the basket."

"Well, we have a man who can undo any setback on our side," Wullem pointed out, and indicated the tall, sauntering figure at the head of their column. "Jerl is…quite an ace to have up our sleeve, isn't he?"

"He is, yes…" Adrey admitted.

"You don't sound completely convincing, colonel."

Adrey shrugged. "Because I'm not completely convinced," she said. "But…it's not worth worrying about here and now. Right now, we just need to focus on getting Lord On's word vault back."

"You think we will?"

"Is that quitting talk I hear, Wullem?"

"Right. You wouldn't have us out here if you thought it was a waste of time."

She didn't acknowledge that statement in any way, which Wullem found…telling. Adrey wasn't sure.

That thought alone made his stride falter briefly. which was such a funny thing, because although he'd grown used to and even reliant upon her certainty, her ability to build dust and whispers into a solid foundation, he knew perfectly well how much of a fragile illusion that ability really was. Ever since their night together at Banmor Manor in Lendwick when she'd let her guard down, he'd known that her scars ran a lot deeper than just skin.

Even so, to see her squaring her shoulders and march in when she wasn't certain was…different. Troubling. But…inspiring, too.

He smiled to himself, and followed her.

Whatever they found, he had her back.

Supper pot roast

1 small joint of bone-in meat (shoulder, shank or neck)

2 leeks or onions, 2 carrots, 2 potatoes or a parsnip

A spoon of dripping or fat, or butter if you have it

A splash of vinegar or weak beer

Salt, pepper and hedgerow mint

Optional: bayleaf, mustard seed, garlic and rosemary if you can get them.

Rub the meat well with the salt, pepper and mint. Then, in a heavy pot, brown the meat well on all sides in the fat. Remove and set aside. Slice the vegetables thick, and brown them in the same pot. Return the meat to the pot along with the vinegar or beer and just enough water to come halfway up the joint. If you have the optional herbs and spices, tie them in a muslin square to create a little parcel, and allow to steep in the liquid. Cover and simmer on the hearth's edge for 3-4 hours, turning the meat once or twice. When tender, slice thin and serve with the vegetables and a little of the broth, atop a slice of bread (see page 1) Save the bones and cooking liquor—these make an excellent base for tomorrow's lunchtime soup (see page 16)

—Making The Most Of It, a cookbook distributed in Auldenheigh during rationing.

Enjoying a well-earned meal

Stiller's Lane, Auldenheigh, Enerlend 09.06.03.15.19

Teller couldn't remember the last time he'd felt stuffed. Heck, he could hardly remember the list time he'd felt well-fed. Rationing had been biting everyone in the city so hard for months now that even solid meals still came in inadequate portions.

But Teller knew the guys who could get their hands on some supply. They charged a lot, but the masked man had paid him incredibly well, so…

Worth it.

He sat back and luxuriated in the pain of an overfull stomach. Around him, the others did the same, or chased the last sops of gravy and sauce around their plates with bread crusts. Nobody was talking. Some had even retreated to their rooms to sleep off the big meal, and Teller was thinking that sounded just grand. Keely was leaning on him in that way that said she wouldn't mind snuggling down, which sounded about perfect. A nap with a girl in his arms, and whatever happened when he woke up?

Yeah. Perfect. He squeezed her hand and was just starting to lumber to his feet when somebody knocked on the front door.

Tap-tappa-tap-tap… tap-BANG!

The hinges and lock exploded out of the wall and the door folded into the hallways in a rain of splinters and pulverized brick. A pale figure blurred through the dust while other, darker figures sped in through the windows and even as the gang sprang to their feet and drew their knives and koshes, the weapons were snatched out of their hands and they were shoved back down into their seats. Before Teller had even figured out what was going on, he was pinned painfully against the kitchen table with a hand pulling his hair and a blade at his throat. It was so sharp, he only knew it had cut him because he could feel a bead of blood trickling down toward his collar.

Shit. Shit!

Animal panic made him want to wriggle and break free from his captor's steel grip, but the knife shifted and now its point was dimpling the soft skin under his jaw. He went perfectly still, looking around with only his eyes as he took in the room.

Elves. They were elves. One for each of his gang. They were dark enough to almost vanish in the unlit room, but their eyes burned as bright as coals and the patterns of bright paint around their eyes and cheeks made the bones and angles of their face appear skull-like and deadly.

Two new figures strode in, crunching the wrecked door under their boots. One was a huge fella in the fur-trimmed coat of an airship captain, and the other was a beautiful woman in a regimental officer's uniform. Both were armed, but neither bothered to draw their weapons.

Behind them came—Shit—the two men they'd nabbed that box from, that little Yunei-shit and the Alakbiri in the fancy outfit. And a couple of other soldiers, both carrying their weapons with comfortable familiarity.

Teller could feel Keely trembling against him. It wasn't right, holding a knife to a girl like that. But there was nothing he could do about it.

The woman in the regiment colours glanced at him, then at the elf behind him. The knife was withdrawn enough to allow speech.

"You're Teller Hobb," the woman said. It wasn't a question.

Up close, Teller noted fine silver lines marring her skin, and he knew them for what they were: some sick fuck had cut on her face. She'd had the attention of a healer pretty much straight away, but treatment like that left other marks. Her stare said she knew pain intimately, and been hardened by it.

"…Yes'm." It was the only sensible thing to say.

"Where is the box?"

"Don't 'ave it no more," Teller said, then yelped as the hand holding his hair gave it a sharp tug to pull his head back and bare his throat. "I swear! I swear! I already sold it to th' buyer!"

"Who and where?"

"Dunno who 'e is! Creepy bugger in a mask! 'E took it off me at th' Old Pit Kiln."

The big man looked over at another man—a small, wiry fella with a mop of blond hair that Teller hadn't even noticed before—who stared at Teller for a second then nodded.

"…Alright," the lady officer said. "You're all under arrest for battery and robbery of a wartime ally while under martial law. If there is any person here who didn't participate in the attack on Lord On, tell me now and it will be taken into consideration."

Teller closed his eyes in defeat. "Th' fuck were we supposed to do?" he asked. "We're fuckin' starvin' down 'ere!"

"You may make your case to the magistrate. I'm not interested."

"Aye, yeah, rich bitches never are—"

"Teller, for fuck sake shut your hole," someone hissed. The officer actually nodded in approval at them.

"Frankly, mister Hobb, the only thing I'm interested in is getting that box back. You help us do that, and I will ask the magistrate that it would be advisable to find leniency in his heart for the poor and desperate. But if you are not going to do that, then for your own sake I advise you to remain silent."

She looked around the room. "That offer extends to everyone here," she added.

There was a pause during which her gaze pinned everyone. For some reason, sge settled on Mardy and pinned him to the wall, causing him to sweat and fidget for several seconds before—

"…All right! I may've followed th' creppy bugger when he left th' pub!" Mardy admitted.

One of the officer's eyebrows, the one without a thin line through it, shifted upwards a tiny bit. "May have?"

"'E took a coach back into leadside, up by Bluewater Bridge," Mardy continued, while everyone else in the crew stared daggers at him. He noticed, and looked around at them. "What? Do we owe the fucker somethin'?" he asked.

Teller opened his mouth, then shut it again. It…was true. They didn't. They'd done business. And apparently it was the sort of business that brought the fuckin' regiments down on their heads. Now wasn't the time for misplaced loyalty and honour, now was the time to keep their arses out of Brackishmarsh.

If that was even possible, now.

"Alright, yeah…alright," he said.

"Smart lads," the officer said. "So…tell me everything. And be quick about it."

All Teller's anger drained away. All his righteous indignation over the war and the starvation and the nobs like this officer and the Yunei and everything just fell out of him as he realized how pointless it all was. They'd had a good meal, and now they were beaten. What was he going to gain by continuing to fight, except a kicking and hard time?

He hung his head, nodded slowly, and told her everything.

Accepting a gift

Back room of the Herald's Arms hotel, Leadside, Auldenheigh 09.06.03.15.19

"…Hmm. I like this mask."

Her agent tipped his head in a grateful bow. "It had its intended effect," he said. The mandibles clicked and shifted as he spoke, remarkably lifelike.

Nimico waved a hand. "Do take it off, though. It's an entertaining game when you're talking to everyone else, but I find your actual face much more interesting."

The mandibles flexed again, this time to accompany a little snort of air out through his nostrils. But he shrugged, reached up, and his fingers found the hidden catches around the back and sides to release it. He dropped the mask onto the table without ceremony, as though it mattered nothing to him.

Underneath was quite a pretty face. Boyish and clean with bright eyes and high cheekbones. The symmetry of his features was marred only by a deviated septum and a small mole just to one side of those full, sensuous lips.

That was part of the joke, of course. Wearing a series of masks might suggest some grotesque disfigurement, a scar, or just unsightly features. It implied ugliness, in stark contrast to the beautiful reality. And sometimes, as today, the mask itself was hideous.

She leaned in and kissed him as soon as the mask was set aside. As she slipped her tongue between his lips, she caressed his face and wound a curl of dark hair around her finger while pouring her body against him and began to peel away his clothes, and her own. He responded as he always did: Eager, worshipful, hopelessly in love.

So boring.

Such were the necessary chores to maintain his loyalty. There was nothing Nimico hadn't done with a man hundreds, even thousands of times in her long life, and it had been a very long time indeed since anyone, man or woman, had last succeeded in surprising or truly interesting her in love play. But it remained unquestionably the most effective tool for keeping her disciples interested in her.

For him, the unlocked door and the public setting meant the danger of being discovered lent an extra taboo frisson. For her…so what? Being caught would put this particular coupling in a minority, which at least would make it interesting. At least the reaction of a hypothetical discoverer would be unpredictable…

A whim struck her, and in the moment before allowing him to enter her, she climbed off and stepped away. His gasp of dismay was almost a whimper.

"Lady?"

"I'm bored," she declared, and sauntered over to the discarded mask and clothing on the table. She picked up the Word Vault and turned it over in her fingers. "You did well bringing this to me, but I knew you would. You're so…competent. I almost wish you'd failed, so I could be angry at you."

Here at least was a moment of uncertainty. Would he react like a puppy and try to please her? Or would he show some fangs for a change and get angry? She rather fantasized it would be the latter. Being slapped in the face and taken by force would be a novel upset in their dynamic.

But of course, he wasn't interesting enough to make her fantasies come true. She'd wrapped him too much around her finger. A pity, really.

"You promised to reward me if I brought you that," he whined.

She snorted. "Is the sight of me not reward enough?" she asked. She turned to face him and spread her arms, baring her body. "Behold the Crowns' creation, most beautiful of the Heralds! You should be weeping just for a glimpse of divine perfection!" Having given her little bit of melodrama, she folded her arms coquettishly under her breasts. "…Or are you growing bored of me already?"

"Never," he breathed. His eyes roamed over her, wide with an awe and desire that far transcended mere lust.

She humphed softly and turned her back on him to consider her prize. "Fool."

The Word Vault pulsed hotly in her hand as she considered it. There were no mysteries here, either—she knew exactly what it contained. Had she been anyone else, it would have sprung open in her grasp and granted her a fundamental power of reality itself.

But she was Nimico the Forsaken, the Fallen Herald of Insight. The Words of Creation were not for Heralds to use, especially not after being cast down. Here, in the palm of her hand, was a power she could never access or use herself. As with Wavefunction, the best she could ever do was grant its power to somebody amusing and see what—

Pain flared in her scalp as her pet seized her by the hair. He dragged her away from the table, spun her around and slapped her, with a crack of palm on skin.

He struck me!

The thought was almost a joyous one. Sheer surprise emptied her mind as he hit her again, back-handed this time with enough force to split her lip. Her own blood stained her tongue, and the taste of it felt alive.

"Do not," he snarled, **and his eyes were ablaze with honest fury,"speak to me like that."

His hand closed around her throat, squeezing so hard Nimico couldn't breathe. Little dark spots swam in her vision, but for the first time in centuries she didn't know how this would go. Was this how her long life came to its end? Wouldn't that just be the perfect anticlimax? To die, strangled by a plaything she'd misjudged and pushed too far…

"You think you're untouchable," he growled, and his grip tightened even further. The world narrowed to grey tunnel and her fingers fluttered ineffectually against his wrists—she couldn't summon the coordination to free herself, or the strength. "But you're not. You're a fallen Herald, Lady. You've already given me more power than you have left! I don't need you!"

She looked him in the eye and realized, insanely, she was daring him to murder her.

He didn't. But she was on the very edge of passing out when he finally let go of her throat. She slumped coughing to her knees, shivering all over as she inhaled great gulps of air that had never tasted so sweet.

Somehow, the coughing and gasping became laughter without there ever being a clear line where one thing ended and the next began. She looked up at him with dark smears of teary mascara running down her cheeks, and rasped out two words.

"Thank you…"

He stared at her, then chuckled darkly. "There. You see? You need me after all."

She nodded, feeling strangely glad that it was the truth when she whispered, "Yes. I do."

He took her chin between thumb and forefinger and made her look up at him. "Then give me what I've earned."

She obeyed. And more to the point, she enjoyed obeying. She neither knew nor cared whether he genuinely had found some surprising fury, or had just play-acted the role the Word told him would get him what he wanted. Either way, it was an improvement over pathetic supplication.

Neither of them spoke for some time afterwards. Not until Nimico extended a hand and exerted a small pulse of magic. The discarded word vault flew across the room and smacked into her palm. He glanced at her, grunted, and rose to his feet to retrieve his discarded clothes.

"What are you going to do with that thing?" he asked as he tied his sash about his waist.

"I'm going to return it to the Crowns." She rose in turn and, with another small flick of magic, caused her own dress to swoop up from its puddle on the floor and wrap itself around her.

He stopped dressing and stared at her. "What?!"

"It's the only way to keep them from stepping in," she explained. "This Word, this one specifically, is the only one they can't allow somebody to wield. The moment anyone does, their own rules will force them to intervene. And when they do that, the game is over."

"Why?" he asked. "Which Word is it?"

"I'm not going to tell you," she said, then shivered again as he turned and irritation danced across his face. An echo of the mortal peril she'd felt minutes ago, fainter but still thrilling, made her skin tingle.

He frowned, clearly guessing that this was a secret he couldn't beat or choke out of her. It was faintly amusing, watching his newfound sense of power deflate a little...though she carefully didn't let her amusement show. When it came down to it, living to continue the game was still preferable to death. There was nothing to be gained by enraging him.

Time to be conciliatory. With her dress now tied around her, she sashayed over to him and helped him finish dressing, lowering her face to seem demure and chastened. The bloody lip and burgeoning black eye certainly helped, in that regard.

"Forgive me," she said. "You're right—I need you. But there are still secrets I can show you and powers I can help you gain. Just not this one, my love. Please."

He was, sadly, still very predictable. He'd been a small and power-hungry man when she found him, and he still was, at heart. The promise of more power would always be the best lure for controlling him…and her apparent beaten submission would be feeding his ego. For a certain kind of man, a beautiful woman bruised and bleeding from abuses he'd inflicted was a trophy.

Nimico knew how to use that. The word 'please' and calling him 'my love' even though her face bore the marks of his knuckles…

Yes. He wanted to be powerful, so let him feel powerful.

He sighed, and nodded. "Very well. If it means the game continues." He raised a finger and waved it under her nose. "But do not ever call me a fool again."

"I'm sorry."

Satisfied, he put his mask back on. "You'd better leave," he said. "Your other plaything is tracking us down. She'll catch up soon enough."

"What are you going to do?" Nimico asked him.

"Oh…we both have the same Word. I think we're about the only two people in the world who are on a level playing field with each other, hmm?" the mask's mandibles widened out as he smiled. "I'd like to see how that match plays out…"

"Be careful," she cautioned. "She won't be alone. And I do need you."

"What is life without a little danger, though?" he asked. "Just think how interesting a challenge it will be if you have to replace me. That ought to warm you up…"

Her smile was unforced. "True."

He took a bow with a flourish, and was gone. As the door clicked shut, Nimico touched her lip and tasted her blood again. Then, with a little sigh of regret, she exerted some more magic and healed her wounds. The pain was different, a novelty she would have liked to savor some more. But it wouldn't do to go see them with a battered face.

She took the back way out of the hotel. A few of Auldenheigh's increasingly thin and worn-down population turned to admire the vision of incredible loveliness walking in their midst, and she felt a brief pluck of smugness at how shocked they would be if they could have witnessed the last few minutes. But soon she ducked into a park and lost herself from view amidst a stand of ancient cultivated yew trees around the far corner of the duck pond.

It was no place for a Path Between. No human practitioner of the Craft could have used it, and even for Nimico, with the lingering traces of her immortal nature and millennia of practice, it was a near-impossible effort. But there was just enough of a thread of wildness and nature here. Enough for her to turn sideways as she climbed into the cage made by one of the trees' boughs, slip sideways through spacetime, and climb down out of another tree, somewhere older and more neglected.

And from there…for one who truly understood the coterminous nature of reality, all destinations were available. Or…nearly all. There was one place which was firmly off-limits to her. Not because she couldn't get there, but because going there uninvited would mean instant, certain destruction.

Uncertain destruction was a risk that added some much-needed excitement to life. But the certainty of death held no appeal at all. So, she disregarded that option and went to a place where everyone was always welcome.

The heat was…solid. It fell on her the moment she stepped through, wrapped itself around her as though somebody had plucked a shawl from the fireside and thrown it about her shoulders. It came with a wall of pleasantly humid scent, carrying the perfume of fruit orchards, herb gardens, cooking spices, wine, perfume and flower beds. From somewhere not far away, the sound of music and dancing drifted among the gardens.

It was an explosion of stimulus fit to stimulate even her jaded senses.

"Hi!"

She turned at the unexpected high, piping voice. A little girl with brown skin, browner hair and unbelievably green eyes smiled up at her. "Who are you?"

A child. How tiresome. Nothing in the world bored Nimico like children, but now was a time to be on her best behaviour, and she knew the master of this place adored children. Especially his own, and Nimico hadn't survived these thousands of years by failing to know a crownchild when she stood before one.

Even if she hadn't, the girl radiated…something. Not power, but the promise of future power as-yet unrealized but staggering enough in its manifestation to come as to echo back down even to this curious little imp.

…Oh. Oh.

The thrill of power, of doing something entirely wicked and transgressive and of knowing that she would get away with it—or even more thrillingly, maybe she *wouldn't—*put the most enormous smile on her face. She knelt before the little girl.

"Hello. I'm Nim. I'm…sort of an aunty or a cousin to you, I suppose."

"Oh! I've got a lot of those…" the little girl smiled innocently at her. "Did you come to say hello to Daddy? He's not here right now."

"Well, maybe you can do me a favor and pass along my message to him." Nimico had to suppress the shaking in her hands as she fished in her satchel and handed over the word vault. "Could you give him this, please?"

"…What is it?" the child asked, turning it over in her hands.

Nimico grinned, and told her.

In little Saoirse Crown-Child's hand, the word vault containing Spirit clicked open.