Oracle's Aviary stood as the tallest building in all of Palasaic, one of the largest cities on Methuselah. The capital of the mighty, multi-planar empire of Drindium Halsthorum, it was built both atop and hung below one of the World Tree's continental branches. Buildings rose upwards from the bark, half-melded from wood and with bricks made of wood-fired glassleaves, which were imported from the crystalline forests that dotted Methuselah's ecosystem here and there. This gave them a shining, slightly translucent quality, and if you squinted, on occasion you could make out the shadowed silhouettes of the building's occupants within. A shining, refracting city. Arches looped downwards beneath the branch, and here there were airship docks, where workers unloaded cargo from ships from across the multiverse. Wooden, rune-pocked ships from Melmaen, or steaming hunks of vaguely flying metal from Kelstonda. A few starships from alien merchants who deigned to venture into the multiverse. Even the Exodus Walker's nihilship, Old Moby, was descending down here. The skeletal frame of some long-dead, massive fish, enchanted to fly through the skies of reality by necromantic magic.
And who else to step out of the ship but the guildmaster of the Exodus Walkers himself. Ultan was dressed in his best purple cloak, one that was studded with peacock feathers and with an elephantine Purple Lion's mane adorning his neck. His skull head was freshly polished as he surveyed the landscape. Fleshless fingers went up to a fleshless chin, scratched curiously at the sight.
“Aha,” Ultan said, mirthless, “Many guilds today.”
He surveyed as he recognized a familiar ship. The Dreamer's Lament. The Amber Foundation was here.
Movement from behind. Ultan's right hand. Palmanthra the Redeemed flew in to perch beside him on swan-white wings. She surveyed the scene with the guildmaster with sightless eyes, hidden by a band that wrapped around her head. The angel saw with more than sight, and she painted a deep frown.
“Not a bit of competition,” she said.
“Bah,” Ultan said, “It gets more intense every year. I hear that Fatebreaker requisitioned an entire arm of automatons to act as security.”
“Helps plug in a few holes,” Palmanthra reasoned, “Do you think it will be violent again, this year?”
“You saw some of the big tickets,” Ultan said, “Of course it will get violent. Which is why we brought the big guns.”
He could not smile, for that was movement of muscle and flesh. He let out a low, crackling chuckle instead, one that Palmanthra suppressed a shiver at.
Ultan, Lord Necromancer of Tiermen, was excited indeed.
***
The Dreamer's Lament took off soon after dropping off her passengers. Ichabod surveyed the docks around him. Thank god, the sun was blocked out by the branch's roof, which instead festered with lanterns and campfires and the occasional faerie-powered construct. Orion was beside him, stretching and groaning, before he went over and started helping Gouffant with a few of the bags. Dame Runebreaker and Vespa were talking to one another, pointing out a few ships.
“Nihilship,” Dama Runebreaker said, “That ain't good. Ultan himself's here.”
“We will be careful,” Vespa said, “So long as he is kind, we will be kind.”
“This ain't the 'kind' sorta business, Vespa,” the dwarf replied, “Just watch out.”
Vespa rippled a series of buzzes in response. She perched her swarm on one of the packs, which Orion hefted and put onto Gouffant's back.
“You're good with playing pack animal?” he asked the large rat.
“Yuh,” Gouffant said, “Only if you add it to my share.”
“Drinks are on me,” Orion said.
Ichabod's glass eyes flitted between his guildmates. At the Dreamer's Lament, which was already heading back through the Traveling Point a mile out, disappearing into thin air. Calacious Nine and Teknogan were going to help with a survey of Hala'onala, a few jumps away. But then they’d be gone. One of Commodore Shelley’s aides would be picking them up, when it was over.
“Oh, gods,” the mechanical man heard Urash grumble, “She's already here.”
Stepping off of a Fedtek ship was none other than Petra Balishen. One of the Amber Foundation's Far Travelers, she walked with an almost unearthly grace, violet eyes glancing this way and that. She was wearing a dress made of individual flowing sashes, purples and blacks and exposed ivory skin, at the hips, the shoulders, a plunge down her chest, leaving just enough to the imagination. Her hair flowed down into pockets in these robes, which were enchanted to be far larger on the inside, to hold a length that stretched into meters and, when fully out, trailed across multiple rooms.
She smiled her demure smile at the sight of her guildmates. Her eyes were filled with joy.
Joy that went flat at the sight of Belgone.
She exhaled out of her nose, still wearing that smile. She strode forward on high-heeled shoes towards Ichabod and Urash.
“Ah, look what we have here,” Petra said, “How...”
“What, Balishen?” Urash gruffed, “Delightful? Wonderful?”
“I wouldn't use those words, darling,” Petra said, “But you are quite the sight, indeed. Using my maiden name? How cute.”
“You took it back, didn't you?” Urash said, “Might as well put some use to it, before you lose it for the fourth time-”
“Fifth, dear,” Petra said, “And I must say, Lord Antonious was a far more caring lover. Lasted just a hair longer, too.”
She winked at him. He glared at her.
“Revolting woman,” he muttered.
“Right bastard,” Petra whispered, before she re-doubled her smile to look at her other guildmates, “Ah, Ichabod. I've heard that you and Oris finally hooked up.”
“Was it that obvious?” Ichabod said, and the pale man went red, “W-Well, you know...”
“Love is a beautiful thing,” Petra said, “Some of us could afford to learn that.”
Urash opened his mouth to say something spiteful, but already the Far Traveler turned.
“Ah, our client is here,” Petra said, “Mr. Gnawliver was just helping her unload.”
Indeed, Commodore Shelley's representative was coming down the Fedtek ship's ramp. She was a reptilian alien, with a head vaguely resembling a hadrosaur's, with a curved, knobbed horn that stretched out a foot behind her head. Her short snout ended in a blunt, flat beak. She was wearing casual clothes, to better blend in with the rest of the plane, a relaxed air about her despite the plasma pistol at her waist and the fact that she was coming out of a High Federation vessel.
Joining her was a muscular, beaver-headed man in a three-piece suit. Dammon Gnawliver, Petra's bodyguard and assistant. Gnawliver was carrying multiple heavy suitcases, one hefted over a shoulder, two more held in the other hand.
“May I introduce Lieutenant Commander Morinthian,” Petra said, “Of the five-hundredth.”
“Never heard of it,” Urash said.
“Charmed,” Ichabod said, ignoring Urash's slight. He extended a hand.
(Inwardly, he grimaced. But, appearances.)
Morinthian took it. She nodded.
“The honor's mine,” she said, “I've heard good things about your guild from the Commodore. Is this everyone?”
“It is,” Ichabod said, “A team of eight, like you said.”
“Nine, with Mr. Gnawliver,” Petra said.
“I count you two together,” Ichabod said, “He's not leaving your side, is he?”
“If I need him to protect me, he will,” Petra said, “But don't fret, Ichabod dear, he's just as much the muscle as Archenround.”
She nodded at their guildmate. Archenround was staring blankly ahead, as though lost in thought.
“Archenround!” Ichabod called.
She snapped to attention.
Sorry, she signed, Distracted.
“We're headed out,” Ichabod said, “Come on, then.”
***
They were staying at the Chère Noel, one of the topside hotels, located just a few blocks from Oracle's Aviary itself. A glassleaf building, they were led down green and blue halls to their rooms, for all the world feeling like they were walking through a river frozen in time. Fish designs adorned the walls, for Methuselah was not naturally home to more marine animals. They were imported, instead, and cast into waterlogged grooves in the branches. A sign of wealth, and the Chère Noel was for the wealthy.
“You went all out on this, didn't you?” Dama Runebreaker said to Petra as they walked down a hall.
“But of course,” Petra said, “I so rarely get to see my guildmates. I can't help but spoil.”
Urash gruffed something under his breath, but said little else.
Two to a room. Save for Petra, who had gone and got herself a suite.
“I'm the one paying,” she said, “I figured I would splurge a little.”
And they watched her disappear behind a door, seeing only a hint of a great chamber that smelled of spices and lilacs. Gnawliver stood in front of the door, furry hands behind his back.
“Typical,” Urash said, “She gets the lion's share, and we get slim pickings.”
“I would hardly call this 'slim pickings,'” Vespa churned.
“Aye,” Dama Runebreaker said, “I've only heard stories of the Noel.”
She glanced over at Gnawliver.
“You... do you have a room?” she asked him.
“A bed has been portioned to me in the suite,” Gnawliver's voice was crisp and professional, “I will go there when I must retire for the night. But, I am ever the servant.”
“That makes sense,” Dama Runebreaker said, “How's the husband and kids?”
And at this, a polite, slightly chuffed smile bloomed on the beaver. He produced his wallet, opened it up, a set of photos unfolding from one of its pockets. Gnawliver with his beaver husband, a slightly portlier fellow, in their dam home, with a gaggle of beaver children.
“They are well,” he said, “My youngest, Tom, it's his birthday in a few weeks. I'm hoping this job doesn't take us too long, now, lest I miss it.”
“You had to last year, didn't you?” Dama Runebreaker said.
He pulled a face.
“A nasty business, that,” he said, “I'm quite afraid he'll be quite cross with me if I miss this one. David and I are buying him one of those little model ships in a bottle, you see, his first, and...”
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He started talking, at length, about his kids. All five of them. Ichabod rolled his eyes.
“Let me tell you,” he said to Gouffant, “I hope that Oris and I aren't like that.”
“Yuh, you're worse in your own ways,” the rat said.
“Don't even say how,” Ichabod said, “I'm sure I already know.”
Orion, meanwhile, turned to Lieutenant Commander Morinthian.
“Well,” he said, "It appears you and I are in the same room. Want to see what it's all about?”
The alien rolled her shoulders, nodded.
“I suppose,” she said.
Ichabod watched the two of them walk into another one of the rooms.
She hadn't spoken very much on their trip. So many people seemed to have made her quiet, though there was a sharpness to her eye that Ichabod knew all too well. Morinthian was observing them, their dynamics, to see where she would fall in with them.
She would have her reservations, of course, but that didn't matter to him. In truth, any High Federation official, even one nominally on 'their side,' set him on edge.
At least Orion was leading that part of the mission.
***
Orion opened the door, allowed Morinthian inside first. The room was a spacious one, with two circular beds on one side of the room, a TV connected to the World Tree Network on the other. It, too, was glass, and shined images onto its flat surface using projection magic. Orion swung his bag off of his shoulder, throwing it onto one of the beds. He unbuckled his sword from his side, letting it rest against the nightstand as he strode over and started unlocking the window. He opened it up, and a cool air breezed into the room.
Lieutenant Commander Morinthian watched all of this, having put herself into the corner of the room. She was not sure what to make of this man. A human, by the looks of it, dark-skinned and wearing a simple blue shirt and trousers, his hair swept up into a ponytail of locs, revealing a sharp face covered with a short, triangular beard. His eyes were what Morinthian paid attention to. Clear and brown. Like he was looking straight through her.
“You're staring, ma'am,” he said.
“Oh,” Morinthian said, “Apologies.”
An easy smile.
“It's fine,” he said, “You're new to all of this travel, aren't you?”
“I am not a stranger to it,” Morinthian said, a touch too hot, “I've been across the entirety of the Silver Eye.”
“And outside of it?” Orion asked.
She exhaled.
“Well,” she said, “Perhaps one or two planes.”
At this, the man shrugged.
“It's alright to feel nervous, then,” he said, “Silver Eye's big, but a lot of it, especially its military, is pretty homogenous.”
“I suppose you're right,” Morinthian said, and she stared out, over his shoulder, at the window. A few elephantine leaves were drifting from higher up the World Tree. Griffon riders were taking off after them, looping the leaves with giant hooks, pulling them away so they did not settle on the city.
“I guess introductions are in order, if you're going to be working with me,” Orion said, “You already know my name, right?”
“Orion Gyasi,” Morinthian said, “I'm aware of the names of the rest of your guildmates.”
“Mm,” Orion said, “Orion Gyasi. From Azantum, the World of Four Things. Maaha.”
“You're a swordsman,” Morinthian said.
“Technically a spellsword” Orion said, “Azantum is based on a rule of four. Magicians use four elements. I use earth, fire, water, and air, but others use... more esoteric elements and symbols.”
“I see,” Morinthian said.
“And you're Lieutenant Commander Morinthian Meras,” Orion said.
“Please don't use my first name,” Morinthian said, “It's... a personal thing, for my people.”
“Got it,” Orion said, “You're a Paranian, right?”
“Correct,” Morinthian said, “Not many of my people leave the homeworld. But...”
At this, something glimmered in her eye.
“I always was the rebel.”
Orion grinned at that.
“You'll fit right in with us,” Orion said, “If you can take the barbs, that is.”
***
“I'll admit,” Gouffant said, “Kind of weird I'm not the one bedding down with Orion.”
The rat was already resting on his bed, scrabbling at the blankets, throwing them together into a cotton nest. A pillow for his rump, a pillow for his head. And already he was calling room service, his whiskers twitching and his nose sniffing. Dama Runebreaker was unpacking a change of clothes, laying them out and putting them into the drawer of the nightstand.
“I almost wish you would,” she said, “You're going to tear that bed to shreds.”
“You should be nice,” Vespa droned.
“And he should be gentle,” Dama Runebreaker retorted, “Look, he's already torn the blankets.”
“Yuh, makes them comfortable,” Gouffant said.
She rolled her eyes.
“So,” she said, “What do you make of the Feddie?”
The rat stopped adjusting his bed. He fixed her with a frank look.
“She's typical Feddie in the multiverse,” he said, “All wide-eyed and a bit scared.”
“Scared,” Dama Runebreaker said.
“Yuh, scared's the word,” Gouffant said, “Most High Federation soldiers are only in the multiverse to guard a Traveling Point or to glass some plane or other. And she's a soldier, through and through. There's a way they're trained to stand, that even if she were undercover you'd be able to point out.”
He chuckled.
“Easiest way to spot one? Just shout 'Good morning, officer,' and they'll snap their heads in your direction.”
“Easy, Gouffant,” Vespa churned, “Be-”
“Kind, kind, chuff chuff,” Gouffant said, “Anyways, it's not her I'm concerned about. She'll stare, and make her reports, and spend money that isn't hers to buy who knows what. No, what I'm concerned about is that Old Moby's here.”
Dama Runebreaker looked up at him.
“That's... Ultan's ship.”
“The one he always comes in on,” Gouffant said, “It's powered by his magic, y'see. If he's here, it means that the Exodus Walkers are putting their best foot forward. What that means for us, well...”
He chuckled darkly.
“Won't be pretty,” he said, “Ichabod's here to infiltrate. So is every other damn guild here. And the Exodus Walkers are some of the best at that.”
***
Archenround and Ichabod to another room. The mechanical man walked up to the window, and closed its blinders, casting the room into a half-dusk. He went over to his bed, unlatched his briefcase, and began removing a series of implements from inside. Tools, a few of which he clicked into slots in his mechanical arms. He was expecting magical defenses within Oracle's Aviary, but then, the guildhall was probably loaded with high-tech locks and doorways. Castle Belenus back home was much the same way – there was only the veneer of a medieval castle.
Archenround slithered over to the bed, curling her bottom half into a pile. She closed her eyes in meditation, and Ichabod noted that she was working to keep herself upright. She could never quite slither in a straight line. Or, it took effort to do so. The damage that Mordenaro, the Guild of One, had inflicted on her a few years back had done a number on her.
And yet she still deigned to go on missions.
Ichabod looked at his mechanical arms. His mechanical legs. His eyes. All of that had been the result of someone else, too. He didn't have them by choice.
So who was he, to judge her?
***
Urash had a room to himself.
Despite his protestations about Petra, Urash had, indeed, bought his own room outside of the rest of the guild. It was his right. It was his choice.
It was, to be frank, by tradition, for Urash kept his own private fund outside of the guild. Of course many of his guildmates did as well, but Urash's was, perhaps, the largest. A pale echo of what he had once beheld, in his younger years, but it was enough that he could splurge every once in a while.
It was the same room as the others. Two beds, but he claimed only one, settling down, peeling off his armor, brushing a few strands out of his graying beard.
Graying. He looked at himself in the mirror, ran a grubby hand down long whiskers. Aye, graying. When had that started happening?
“Bah, enough of this.”
He finished unpacking. Turned on the television as he clambered into the bed, feeling his feet ache in relief. He let out a sigh. A game of ulama was on, the Marlish Manes facing the local favorites, the Halthorum Harpies. Urash settled in.
Outside, he could hear the others walking through the hall. Dama Runebreaker was chatting with Gouffant. They were talking about going out to look for a place to get a good drink. Maybe some food. Urash racked his brains. A few restaurants around Palasaic were decent enough. He opened his mouth to say something, to shout it through the door. Maybe even get up, and tell them.
But they would invite him out, wouldn't they?
(Or, more terrifying, they wouldn't.)
He hesitated.
And already they were gone. Down the hall and down the elevator and out the door. Urash was alone.
He sighed. Leaned back against the bed. All but glared at the television. He didn't even know how ulama was played. Just two teams kicking a hard rubber ball. He should have gone with them.
But then...
Inaction ruled Urash.
He stayed in bed.
And both did and did not regret.
***
Palasaic was no stranger to organized crime. This is where the capital of the empire diverged from Scuttleway. Both were large cities, twin metropolises that garnered trade from across the plane and beyond. But crime in Scuttleway was tied, hand in hand, with the noble houses that ruled them. It was regulated by the ruling body, and their use of such unsavory subjects to secure power. The Lady Sunala had dispatched assassins. Doge Rithmound had spied, rather blatantly, on every other faction in the city during the election. Voices had been intimidated. Arms had been broken. Knees had been kicked in. Blood money had changed hands. All of this, with the stamp of nobility.
Not so with Palasaic. Here, ethnic gangs ruled the streets. Organized crime based on species and Little Elftowns and metahuman communes. The heads of these families lived topside, lived on laundered money and danced with the authorities in neverending games of cat and mouse. The majority of the work, the drug smuggling and the protection rackets, were down beneath Palasaic's branch.
It was through one such group that Manny and Jericho arrived to the city.
The airship that closed in on the docks was from Amzuth. An old blimp with halls that whispered and whose exterior always shined as though salt-wet from the sea, they looked as ordinary dockworkers as they helped unload Amzuth cargo, seven-eyed fish and other oddities from that place, mere curiosities, but they would sell on the market well enough.
They also brought their weapons. But this came in one of the crates that the authorities had been paid to overlook.
Once they were finished unloading, the blimp released its hold on the dock, curling back towards the open sky. Manny and Jericho watched it go for a few minutes. Then, their contact's hired hands picked up the crate with their weapons and started heading for their hideaway. They were trellians, native to Methuselah, people with butterfly scales peppering their skin, most prominently on their necks and cheeks. They had once ruled all of the World Tree, according to their own history.
(How the mighty fall, eh?)
“Come on,” their contact said, he was a burly one, his face almost completely studded orange, “You're staying below.”
'Below,' of course, meant the basement of a house. A safehouse, legally belonging to one of the trellian's associates, they were put below and fed a dinner of salad and berries. Food taken from the World Tree itself, it was given to them by the old grandmother who tended the place. Nourishing enough, at least.
“Needs meat,” Jericho whispered, with a smirk.
They spoke little. Instead, they polished their weapons, checked them over. Jericho started reading his book. Manny leaned back, listened to the trellians above rant about 'the good old days' before their empire was ruled by humans and half-elves. Someone came in with the day's payment from the streets. Business as usual.
“You get a look at the guildhall?” Jericho asked him.
Manny blinked. He had been lost in thought, almost dozing. His friend noted this, smiled.
“A bit,” Manny replied, “It looks impressive.”
“I'm sure it will be,” Jericho said, “I'm excited, you know.”
And Manny tilted his head. Jericho leaned forward, his rifle between his head and his shoulder.
“Never mind all of the treasure to be had in there,” his eyes were ablaze, “Aldr Fatebreaker himself is going to be on guard.”
Ah. That was it. Good ol' Jericho, ever in love with a fight. Manny could not help but match his friend's smile.
“Alright,” he said, “Just so long as your eye's on the mission.”
“It will, it will, I promise,” Jericho chuckled, and he leaned back, “Same goes for you. No sight-seeing.”
Manny rolled his eyes.
“I see it, man,” Jericho said, and his voice was light, “You just want to go out there. Go to a restaurant. A bar. Maybe go to the gift shop, buy Doc Matergabia something nice-”
“Oh, shove it,” Manny said, and he found himself getting warm.
“Haha!” Jericho said, “Look at you! Manny, you're a schoolboy with a killcount.”
“Enough of that,” Manny said, “Go read your book.”
“Maybe you should get her a teddy bear,” Jericho said, “Or a book about leaves, or-”
Manny slugged him in the arm. A light punch.
Or, so he thought.
It was enough to knock Jericho off of his place on the small couch. He rolled to the floor with a sudden gasp, grabbing his arm and holding it. He almost screamed as he glared up at Manny.
“What the fuck, man?” he said, “God!”
Manny looked at his fist in horror.
“I-I'm sorry,” he said, “I'm-”
“I think it's broken,” Jericho said, “God, help me, check it-”
Manny at once went to his friend's side. Checked him over, rolled him onto his back, careful not to move his arm-
And Manny punched him back in the arm.
“Ha!” he said, “Easy.”
(He tried his hardest to hide just how hard Manny had hit him.)
Manny frowned at him, before breaking out into a relieved smile. Jericho broke out into a laugh, easy and light, as he allowed Manny to offer him a friend.
“You're too easy, man,” he said.
Manny just rolled his eyes, shook his head in a good-natured way, before he returned to his seat.
They spoke a few more words, heard the trellians above turn in for the night, though one of them stayed away to keep watch.
Jericho, bless him, took to bed easily. Manny watched him drift off to sleep, snoring softly. He smiled at his friend.
Felt something more than this, but he ignored those feelings. Instead, he turned his attention to the closed door. At what it represented. This mission was to be one of utmost secrecy. They were expecting to be found out by Blue Sky Waiting, but until then, they were to hide. Let no one, save for those loyal to the ideals of the Sons of Darwin, know that they were here.
And yet...
He could hear the city above.
Closed his eyes, and imagined the lights at night, the sound of music, the cheering and laughter.
He...
He wanted to go out, and see that.
And so, he rose. His hands shook, for he had never done something like this before. Excitement mixed with anxiety of getting caught mixed with guilt washed over him, and, for a moment, he stopped, his hand hanging at the doorknob.
But then, excitement won out. He walked up the stairs, nodded to the trellian watching the front door from a place at the table. He would not stop him, for Manny was a Son of Darwin.
And he walked out of the door, and out into the city.