Afraid.
That is what Petra Balishen felt at the sight of Agrippa in front of her. He was the CEO of OzTech, one of the most powerful megacorporations in the known multiverse. The Amber Foundation had raided his personal base of operations, the Tower of Eden, some time ago. Ichabod, Becenti, G-Wiz, Vicenorn, Contort, and the late Rorshin had gone to Neos. Had been the only people to infiltrate the place, which doubled as a guildhall for Agrippa's wardogs, Pantheon, and got out alive. Barring a few hitches here and there, they had been able to get out without Agrippa knowing.
But the way the man looked at them with those near filmed-over eyes, made Petra doubt that.
That hadn't been their only run-in with Pantheon. Cobalt Joe, Rosemary, and Phineas had fought against Pantheon on Melmaen, trying to get into a traveling exhibit that was under OzTech's purview. No doubt Agrippa remembered that, too.
But she smiled back at him. Politely. Professionally. This was no time to reveal that cold feeling leaking down her spine. She felt a twinge of embarrassment as she noted Agrippa's eyes slide down from her face to her chest.
Normally, she enjoyed such attention.
Not here. Something about the way he looked at her...
Hungrily.
Set her on edge.
Made her afraid.
And now the rest of Agrippa's retinue were sitting down. A few she recognized as guildmembers of Pantheon. Macabre, a metahuman. A raven was perched on her shoulder, a few more were no doubt flying outside, and she could see through all of them as her eyes.
Petra shivered.
And then, beside her, sitting awkwardly, was the guildmaster of Pantheon. Aeneas Silvestri, the Iron Stallion. More machine than man, his bulletproof plate chassis was night-black, and even sitting down he towered over the people around him. Aside from a few internal organs, the only part of him that was still organic was the top of his head, which was covered by dense, military-grade plating. One could see his eyes, angry and dark, as they flitted between each member of the Amber Foundation.
Their apparent clients filled the seats to the Iron Stallion's right. Two eln meia. They talked to each other in quiet tones.
“I'm quite well, actually,” and now Agrippa spoke, after a hair's moment too long, “And how are you, Ms. Balishen?”
Of course he knew her name. He had done his research on them. Petra forced her smile to brighten.
“Why, we're well, of course,” she said, “What brings you to the auction, personally?”
“Oh, I always come to it,” Agrippa said, “Every year, I see what new artifacts come through. Purchase a few for myself. A few for my clients. And you?”
“Ah,” Petra said, “We're here on business. I'm afraid we're not so affluent as to come here every year, but our client today has a nest egg built up.”
And Agrippa's attention turned to Morinthian. The Paranian nodded at him.
“Julius Agrippa,” the oily man said, and he brought up a pale hand.
“Lieutenant Commander Morinthian.”
The two shook. And the entire time, Agrippa's G'Rash Haro stared at them. Ichabod had described the creature as being as large as Vicenorn, an apex predator upon his shoulders, but as of now it was the size of a particularly fat housecat.
A size-changer, then.
“Ladies and gentlemen, and all variations in-between and thereof,” Siltman Saltman, the auctioneer, called out, “Let us begin!”
Polite clapping, and thank god, Agrippa turned around to join in. Iron Stallion was still staring hard at the group, but at least his master was wanting to get on with things. She leaned down to Gouffant and Orion.
“Well,” she said, “Interesting.”
Orion didn’t say anything. He was trying to get back to putting on a polite front, smiling and chuckling at one of Saltman’s bad jokes. But there was a new glitter in his eyes. Same with Gouffant, despite the rat's nonchalant attitude. Morinthian hadn't picked up on it, the anxiety that all of them suddenly felt.
Or perhaps she did, and was a better poker player than they were.
Regardless, she leaned over to Gouffant.
“So, they'll bring up the first item.”
“Oh, yuh,” Gouffant said, “See those androids? Here they come.”
Two of the automatons were heading up the stairs now, carrying a large painting depicting an Elven warrior crossing blades with a Dragon, a storm roiling in the distance, carrying with it a fleet of Federation warbirds.
“A piece by the legendary painter Vincelle,” Saltman said, “Ruminations on the Age of Strife.”
Whispers in the crowd. Another piece by that famous artist, who had died penniless almost four thousand years ago. To see one of her pieces, in-person, and in such good condition...
“Now,” Saltman said, “Starting bid is ten million. Do I hear ten million?”
A person raised a hand.
“Ten million, raising to eleven, do I hear eleven million?”
Another hand. Then another.
“Eleven million, twelve million,” Saltman's voice started to quicken, “ThirteenmilliondoIhearthirteen,thirteengood,fourteenfourteenmilliondoIsee-fifteen,fifteen-”
More hands raised. The amount went up. Until time went out, and Saltman pointed.
“Sold!” he shouted, and he slammed his gavel against the table, “To the gentleman in the back. Forty million credits.”
***
Amphitrite heard applause upstairs. Cavalcades of thunder. A smile crept onto her face as she continued playing, as she recalled memories of sold-out concert halls and whistles and roses thrown onto the stage. Things were already getting busy above. She had only spoken to Siltman Saltman a pair of times, but already she could see why he was so revered in the auctioning world.
Vibrations. Detections. A couple of Drebulon's automatons were coming downstairs, accessing one of the vaults. They took out one of the items and started bringing it upstairs.
A ring in her communicator. Amphitrite answered.
“Vivi-Tone,” she said.
“It's Haemosu. Anxen's on the line, too.”
“Hey, Amphitrite.”
“Hey yourself, Drebulon,” Amphitrite said, “What's up?”
“Getting a status update from each of the teams,” Haemosu said, “I see Lilmora down there. She's waving at me. Giving me a rude sign.”
Amphitrite snorted.
“And I can't get in contact with Polly Poltergeist.”
“She should be near the Exodus Walkers,” Drebulon said, “Like you ordered.”
There was a hint of apprehension in his voice. Amphitrite smirked.
“Getting worried?” she said.
“Y-Yes,” Drebulon said, “Only natural. She's right next to Ultan, and... and-”
He huffed.
“Shut up,” he said.
Amphitrite chuckled. She could almost see Haemosu roll his eyes.
“Quite teasing,” he said, “Anxen, keep an eye on her. She should be reporting to me pretty soon. But, all the same, the Ultra-Skeletal's wily. I don't want anything awkward to happen.”
“R-Right,” Drebulon said, “Will do.”
“Everything's fine down there, Vivi-Tone?” Haemosu asked.
Amphitrite's fingers were a blur as she started playing Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2. Notes emanated from her Emenophone. Bounced off the walls.
“Only us Blue Skiers down here,” she said, with a wink, “So far.”
“Hnn,” Haemosu grunted, “Keep it that way. Lilmora's by the door. Just say the word, and she'll be down there.”
“Right,” Amphitrite said, “Anything else?”
“Nothing else. Haemosu out.”
He exited the line. Amphitrite took a second, still playing.
“Say hi if you see your girlfriend, Drebulon,” she said into the communicator.
“I-” he stammered, “It's not like that!”
And he left the line. Amphitrite laughed.
And continued playing.
***
Neither Morinthian nor Agrippa bid on the next two items. One was a sword encased in amethyst. The next, the wand of some ancient wizard. It was now that Morinthian realized that the majority of the items on sale would either be collector's items or magical artifacts. Federation technology was to be avoided. Or, at least, the sale of it would brazenly rebel against half a dozen laws and risk technological contamination, and subsequent glassing.
“Such boring things,” Agrippa said, next to her.
She turned to look at him.
“I mean, a wand by Shelman the Wise?” the man chuckled, “He had more wands than I have cars. I've got a few of his collection in my office, personally.”
“I see,” Morinthian said.
And now, an item of value appeared that burned away the film in Agrippa's eyes, just a bit.
One of the eln meia started speaking to the other. Morinthian looked over. Both of them were women, blue-skinned, one a bit taller than the other. The shorter was wearing a dark blue overcoat and a tricorn hat. The other's hair was tied in a tight ponytail, two cutlasses resting between her knees.
The shorter looked over to Agrippa.
He nodded.
The item in question was a spear, inside the tip of which seemed to glow a miniature sun. It lit up the room, and a few members had to avert their eyes.
“The Spear of the Hierophant,” Siltman Saltman said, “A powerful magical artifact. Starting at three million, not a bad hoop to jumpover,fourmillionIhearfourmillion,five-”
Agrippa raised a hand.
And kept raising it.
Over and over, with each challenge, he raised his hand. Smiled sardonically.
The final bid ended at fifteen million.
“Sold!” Saltman said, “To the gentleman in the back, with the spirit.”
Polite clapping.
Morinthian looked over at him.
“If I recall correctly,” she said, “Usually guilds are simple escorts, not doing the bidding on their own.”
“Oh, I'm not officially part of any guild,” Agrippa said, “Pantheon agreed to meet with the client, and I decided to accompany them.”
He nodded to the two eln meia.
“My clients – well, the guild's clients, technically, and I have an agreement with each other. The eln meia are preparing for... surprises, back home. I thought I'd give them a helping hand.”
There was a way he said it. A way his eyes slid back to the Amber Foundation, then back to the small form of Saltman on the podium. Morinthian considered his words. Knew that they weren't for her.
Petra leaned in.
“Lieutenant,” she whispered to Morinthian, “The Locus of Locust should be coming up soon. Get ready to bid. I'm going to go talk to the nobleman.”
“Right,” Morinthian said, “Good luck.”
The Far Traveler winked. She and Gnawliver stood up, and the beaverfolk started guiding her through the stands, heading towards Ultan the Ultra-Skeletal, and his client.
***
Lord Iridos von Gronheim sat nervously beside the large, purple-feathered form of guildmaster Ultan. He was already a short, plump man, looking all the world like a tiny little bluejay, with his sky-hued Victorian jacket and his sky-hued powdered wig. He was practically perched on Ultan's purple flamingo form, and Polly Poltergeist found that she needed to stifle laughter at the sight of him. Von Gronheim leaped at every shadow, regarded every person in the room with a nervously suspicious glance, and kept whispering “They're fine?” to Ultan.
The necromancer was in good spirits, and kept reassuring his client in his professional way. He would explode on others, such as his legendary arguments at InterGuild, but with clients, he was calm. Collected. Reasonable, even. There was not a hint of annoyance when he spoke to von Gronheim, reassuring him and pointing out the items being brought onto the stage.
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“Almost time for your item to get on,” Ultan said, “Ready to be a rich man?”
“I'm already a rich man,” von Gronheim said, “I just need that damn thing out of my hair.”
From her place inhabiting the Exodus Walker Jani's plasma rifle, Polly was aware of someone approaching, pushing her way through the stands. Was aware that Ultan looked at the newcomer, and her assistant beaverfolk, and nodded.
“You are... Lady Balishen, yes?” he said.
“Why, I'm more popular than I thought,” Lady Balishen replied, “It's good to meet you again, guildmaster. We danced together at the Yule Gala on Ekrimbia.”
“A good night,” Ultan mused.
“Ultan, who is this?” von Gronheim said, “Trouble?”
“Oh, the best kind, sir,” Lady Balishen said, “Lady Petra Balishen, of the Balishen family. Perhaps you've heard of us?”
A pause, as von Gronheim thought.
“I remember hearing stories about your father, Banders Balishen,” he said, “That means you're Amber Foundation, yes?”
“Why, yes!” Polly could sense Lady Balishen's smile, bright and brilliant, “We're here escorting a client who is interested in bidding for the Locus of Locust.”
“Ah!” von Gronheim said, “G-Good.”
“I had a question, Lord von Gronheim,” Lady Balishen said.
“Please, Iridos is fine.”
“Ah, Iridos, then,” Lady Balishen said, “Tell me, are you expecting an upfront payment for the spell?”
“Well, yes,” von Gronheim said, “This is an auction, after all.”
“Perhaps,” Lady Balishen said, “Now, is there anything I can do to convince you to... make an exception?”
“An exception?” von Gronheim said.
“Our client is extremely interested in the Locus of Locust as a matter of safety,” Lady Balishen said, “You've heard the stories of the destruction that spell can cause.”
“Of course I do,” von Gronheim said, “That's why I want it out of my collection. No doubt you heard about what happened at the Museum of Unnatural History, almost two years ago.”
“I do,” Lady Balishen said, “Which is why my client is intent on making sure the Locus does not fall into the wrong hands.”
Von Gronheim went silent. Below, Siltman Saltman was bleeting out the next item.
“Up next!” he roared, “An incredibly interesting item. A mace, with a head of amber, encased in which is a near-perfect specimen of a mosquito in amber, dating back almost one hundred and eleven million years ago.”
The automatons brought the item onto the floor. The mace was smaller than expected, for it had been wielded by gnomes, and it sat upon a small glass pedestal, and as it was placed on the table, Saltman produced a magnifying glass. An image appeared over his head, a magical camera that showed the amber head in sharp detail.
“Note,” the auctioneer said, “That bit of red there. That there's blood, still in pristine condition. And with magic and technology where it's at nowadays, who knows what you could do with it?”
The bidding started.
Von Gronheim spoke up.
“Who is your client?” he asked.
“A High Federation official.”
And Ultan laughed.
“Ha!” he said, “Didn't realize you played for the cops.”
“Not quite like that, sir,” Lady Balishen said, “Our client is a Commodore within the High Federation fleet, and is very disturbed by what's been happening in recent years. He swore an oath, to seal the Locus of Locust away.”
“It's Shelley, isn't it?” Ultan said.
“Perhaps,” Lady Balishen said, and she did not betray her surprise, “Why, have you met?”
“Yes,” Ultan said, and his voice went dark, “After the glassing of Kraven.”
“Ah, I see,” Lady Balishen said, “So you must understand, then, that our client certainly doesn't want any of that. Or anything of that scale.”
Ultan huffed.
“Well,” the necromancer said, “I think it's hypocritical. But I'm not the one in charge. Lord Iridos?”
Von Gronheim thought.
“What did you have in mind?” he asked.
“Assuming we're not outbid, a payment plan,” Lady Balishen said, “You'll still get your money over a period of, let's say, a year, with monthly installments.”
“And if you can't pay?” von Gronheim asked.
“Oh, we most certainly will be able to,” Lady Balishen said, “Our client has got quite a bit of a nest egg built up. He'll be able to take the hits necessary.”
“Then why did you not bring the money now?” von Gronheim said, “I want the Locus of Locust gone from my collection, but I also would prefer not to be tied to any deals here. I've already enough back home.”
“Because, realistically, the client has other pieces they are interested in,” Lady Balishen said, “And, in the interest of security, it was deemed to only have so much on hand. You know how High Federation credit unions are, too. Our client's of the multiverse. Like us. They wouldn't work with him.”
“So you're stretched thin.”
“As are all who try to do the right thing,” Lady Balishen said.
She's laying it on a bit thick, Polly Poltergeist thought. But it was the obvious that was appealing to Lord Iridos. He swallowed, thought for a moment.
“Well,” he said, “You promise to hide the damn thing away?”
“Yes,” Lady Balishen said, “We'll even write up a contract.”
“And this is only assuming you win the bidding war.”
“That's correct,” Lady Balishen said, “Us having a leg in the competition is good, as it means that we'll be able to bid as much as needed to secure the item. More money for yourself.”
Von Gronheim nodded at this.
“Very well,” he said, “We'll write up a contract. Assuming that you're able to secure the item.”
***
Petra turned to the rest of the group, gave Orion a nod.
“Alright,” Orion said, “We're good to go.”
Morinthian nodded.
“Up next!” Saltman shouted, “A very powerful spell. Some of you might have heard of it. Some of you have read about it. The elders in the room have probably seen it in action. The Locus of Locust.”
The automaton was careful with this one. It held a small cage as it slowly walked up to the stage. A small locust sat within. Unmoving. Simple and unassuming. Morinthian swallowed at the sight of it. The Locus of Locust could destroy planes. Could render entire farming worlds barren, for it unleashed locusts, thousands of them, millions of them. The spell was a herald of famine.
Why, in all of the First Men's names, was it being auctioned like some vanity piece?
“Starting bid, fifty million,” Morinthian said, and he pointed, “Fifty-one,doIhearfifty-one-”
Morinthian's hand shot up.
As did Agrippa's.
“Fifty-two,fifty-three,fifty-fourmillionfifty-fivemillionfifty-”
She kept bidding.
As did Agrippa.
Over and over, a war of the hands, as the price of the Locus of Locust kept creeping higher and higher. The two eln meia looked unconcerned. Agrippa's smile became, perhaps, a hair tighter as Morinthian continued challenging him.
“Seventy-million,seventy-one,seventy-two,” Saltman said.
And now, a lapse.
Morinthian leaned back.
“Seventy-three, do I hear a seventy-three?” Saltman asked.
Silence from the crowd.
Agrippa looked over at her.
“You want this quite a bit, don't you?” he said.
He raised his hand again. The Paranian winced.
Challenged.
Higher and higher.
To the high seventies. Then the eighties. The high nineties...
“Sold!” Saltman roared, “Sold, at one hundred and eleven million, to the lady in the back. Quite the fight, quite the fight indeed. I need a stiff drink after that one.”
Morinthian relaxed.
Winced.
Higher than her upfront payment. But Petra had worked that out.
Still...
It meant that either they would need to negotiate with the other patrons, or Ichabod's team would need to go for the item in a mad dash.
Agrippa had sensed her weakness. And made her pay far more than she should have. Did the bastard even care? Morinthian gave the CEO of OzTech a sideways glance, trying to gauge his reaction. He was leaning back, looking unperturbed. The shorter of the eln meia shot him a dark look, but he waved it off.
Which meant that he was probably going to send someone in for the Locus of Locust. They would be playing defense, in addition to offense.
Morinthian traded a look with Orion. Who shook his head.
“Talk later,” he mouthed.
***
Movement.
Amphitrite opened her eyes.
Someone, or something, other than her and Drebulon's automatons. She tilted her head, playing her Emenophone so as to not reveal that she knew that the interloper had been detected. They were coming down the hall, quiet yet quick.
She called more notes from the Emenophone. Yes. The person was on two legs. A tail slithered on the ground. She clicked her tongue quietly. They were a lizardfolk, a dagger in hand, a bag of holding looped on a belt.
“Got someone,” she whispered into her earpiece.
A sudden, sharp sigh from Haemosu. This was early, very early. One of the guilds was certainly pushing its luck. Probably the Weaponeers – they had started getting uppity as of late, pushing other guilds and the Law of InterGuild itself. They were probably looking for a quick raid, a smash and grab.
Her music changed. She started playing out Holst's Mars, the Bringer of War.
“I'm going in,” Lilmora said, “Amphy, be my eyes.”
More movement above. Vibrations across the hall, as the lizardfolk picked up pace. They were rounding a corner, coming upon Amphitrite now. She was still playing her piano, fingers dancing key by key. The lizardfolk was invisible to the eye, but not to the ear and not to echolocation.
Vivi-Tone smirked.
“Well,” she said, “Isn't this interesting.”
She played an off-key. It reverberated through the hall-
The lizardfolk leaped forward at her.
But they didn't even get close. The notes shot downwards, intercepted the lizardfolk a full fifteen feet from Amphitrite. They expanded in size as they smothered the intruder, and with another false note she made them sticky yet cloud-like, and the lizardfolk started floating in the air, held fast as though by a bubblegum hand.
Their invisibility spell fell away, revealing a snarling, raptorian head, though the rest was held in the melody.
“Petlak Inkov,” Amphitrite said, “How do you do?”
“Dammit!” Petlak snarled, “Dammit dammit! Curses you!”
Lilmora was coming up behind him. Her face was cast in a look of dark anger, which began to pulse from her mind and into her hands as blood-red aura.
“You’re from Scalebound,” the Coribaldi said, “Aren't you?”
“Let go me!” Petlak snapped
“I'll take it from here,” Lilmora said.
She brought hand up to Petlak's face. Anger wove around the lizardfolk's snout, formed into chains that snaked down his body, held him fast. When Amphitrite released her music, Petlak was completely enraptured in emotion.
Haemosu's voice rang up.
“Is it done?” he asked.
“Yes,” Lilmora said, “It's Scalebound.”
A pause, as Haemosu thought.
“Chiang Wei was their client,” he said, “I'll inform the guildmaster. Bring the interloper up.”
“On it,” Lilmora said.
She nodded to Amphitrite, and started dragging Petlak back upstairs.
***
Whispers and gasps. The auction was temporarily halted as one of Blue Sky Waiting came out from downstairs with a bound lizardfolk. The intruder's chains were made of red-hot energy, those who knew more realizing that they were emotions realized into the world. The Coribaldi guildmember dragged him forward, glaring at the gallery, as she went away.
A few moments later, a few members of the auction picked their way through the crowd, accompanied by a man in blue rust armor. Jee Haemosu, they knew him to be. Another member of Blue Sky Waiting. He let the patrons rise, and then escorted them out of the building.
Thus eliminated the first players in the game that was the Interplanar Auction.
Agrippa laughed at the sight of it.
“Idiots,” he said to Morinthian, “You should know, you never start anything on the first day. It's rude, and it's when the host guild is at its most attentive.”
The patron turned to protest his expulsion from the guildhall. Haemosu responded with a shove.
“See that?” Agrippa said, “That's all that needs to be seen. They're angry that someone tried something this early. That stress will wear them down. They'll be guarding all night.”
Morinthian regarded him. Agrippa leaned back, smiled.
The G'Rash Haro stared at the auctioneer.
“You're certainly... cavalier, about all of this,” the Lieutenant Commander said.
“Oh, but of course,” Agrippa said, “It's all just a game. Smoke and mirrors.”
The Paranian shook her head.
“I wouldn't call an attempted robbery a 'game.'”
“Don't be naive,” Agrippa said, “Everyone's doing it. Even you.”
Morinthian suppressed a wince. Gods, he was perceptive. But then...
“It's obvious,” Agrippa continued, “You're here. You have a guild backing you. Everyone does. Everyone's going in. Tonight, probably tomorrow night, too. To steal what they can't buy, to protect their hard-won trophies.”
The auction started back up. But Siltman Saltman's assault rifle voice became droning background buzz as Agrippa turned his full attention to Morinthian.
“When everyone does it, it becomes a game,” Agrippa said, “How much can you get without getting caught? What guilds are best for this sort of job? What items do you aim for, or do you go for a general grab? That’s why a lot of people here do it. For the game.”
He chuckled. The thought of such violence burned away the film in his eyes. He was staring intently at Saltman. At the raising hands, the upping antes. The risk, knowing that all could be lost in the night and its thieves.
“That's the joy of guilds, I think,” he said, “They make it legal, in their way. They're beholden only to the High Federation, and the Law of InterGuild. Nothing else.”
A lazy, horrid smile crept onto his pale face.
“And when you have that, well, it makes things... interesting. Fun.”
Morinthian swallowed.
Concentrated, or tried to, on the auction.
Could not get her mind off of the pageantry, and the death behind it.
After all, guildfolk were expendable. Even the Amber Foundation.
She was using them.
Everyone here, was using someone.
***
The day’s auction ended. Neither the freedom elemental nor the Armagestine Records were put up for sale today. Petra returned back to the group, and they rose as one. It took a little while to wait for the crowd to thin, as people exited the guildhall. A few stayed behind to talk with Aldr Fatebreaker about other jobs and contracts, but for the most part the act of sitting and bidding had exhausted people. They would disperse, to the pubs and bars and taverns across the city, to drink and gamble and talk business.
A few items changed hands. A few of the wealthier patrons, with the beef to create their own security, gobbled up their bought goods, and returned them to their ships.
Those, like the Amber Foundation, simply let their items remain at the guildhall, until the conclusion of the auction. Blue Sky Waiting would continue to provide security for the item.
(For a fee, of course, but one that was much cheaper than buying out an entire security suite.)
Which meant that the group returned back to the Noel empty-handed, though with the upfront fee and payment plan secured with von Gronheim.
The first group returned, exhausted from the time there, their ears ringing from the clapping and from Saltman's booming voice. Petra sequestered herself in her suite, attended to only by Mr. Gnawliver. Morinthian laid down in bed, rubbed her eyes. Gouffant found himself in the dining rooms, eating and eating and eating away. Orion was the only one who stayed up.
(They drew cards for this.)
So rather than waste away in food and drink like everyone else, he stayed in the lobby, polishing his sword.
Watched, as the sun went down and night droned on. As the second team prepared to head to the guildhall.
…
…
They emerged, as though from hidden caverns, near one in the morning.
Ichabod, Dama Runebreaker, Archenround, and Vespa. Urash dragged himself out of bed a few minutes later, came down, brandishing his spellrod, a dour look set on his face.
“Right,” he said, “This is it, then?”
“Yes,” Ichabod said, “We know what to look out for. We know where most of the items are going to be.”
He looked at Orion.
“You're lookout?”
“Guilty as charged,” Orion said. He still had not gotten up from his chair, “I'll drink some coffee, wait for you all to get back.”
The mechanical man nodded. He was wearing a heavy trenchcoat, inside of which was a variety of hacking implements, a couple of knives, and his twin pistols. His Shardeen Cutter rippled beneath his metal and glass arm.
“Alright,” he said to the others, “You know what to do. Vespa, take point. Scout ahead. Let us know who's around.”
The swarm churned. After a final nod to Orion, the group walked outside, and Vespa broke out into thousands of flying insects, a few landing on each of her guildmates. She started relaying information to them as they moved, block by block, towards the guildhall.
The streets leading up to Oracle's Aviary were silent. Horrid and silent. Pregnant with apprehension, it were as though the guildhall itself knew that there would be invaders tonight. Every light was out. Automatons stalked the plaza outside. Each of them were armed with strange rifles, heavy and stout, with tentacles twisting from their tops.
The group stopped, hunkering down in an alley, as Vespa updated them.
“Ah, hell,” Urash said, “Didn't know they had those.”
“What are they?” Dama Runebreaker asked.
“Cubuzoa-45s,” Ichabod said, “Jellyfish rifles, from Korlantis. Very painful. One shot incapacitates. To the average sapient, the second shot kills.”
“They're illegal in multiple paradigms,” Urash said, “Tried running a shipment of them. Hard to keep alive.”
“They're alive?” Dama Runebreaker hissed.
“In a way,” Urash said, “They're basically jellyfish that have been twisted into weaponry. Hard to gauge just how sentient they even are.”
“Tell that to Calacious Nine,” Vespa murmured.
Urash pulled a face, and said nothing else.
“I see,” Vespa whispered, “I see a few other guildfolk going in.”
There was a sound in the distance. Plasma fire. The buzzing, electric stingsong of the Cubuzoas. Screams. The scent of magic in the air.
“We're losing time,” Ichabod said, and he turned off the alley, “Let's go.”