The Dreamer's Lament landed in a part of the clearing noted, in five different picket signs and in seventeen different languages, 'Amber Foundation.' One by one, the guildmembers walked out, carrying out crates and bags of goods, setting up a small storefront right at the edge of their lot. Becenti laid down a small bag, opening it up.

“Vyde,” he said, “Need a bit of spark, here.”

The guildmaster drifted out of the airship, arm trailing behind. There was a different energy to her now, Joseph thought. She was, on the surface, the same Wakeling who had recruited him to the guild, the same bat-like, wizened old woman, with her eccentricities and her sharp voice. But there was power to her now, true power that almost rippled in the air like one of Becenti's heat mirages. She simply snapped a finger, and the bag began shaking, before a green tent blossomed out, growing larger and larger in size, until it took up a full quarter of their allotted ground. Joseph squinted inside, noting the hammocks that were blooming into existence, wrapping themselves around metal poles and swaying as though a wind were running through the place.

“Not bad,” he said, “Really going all in with this one, aren't you?”

“It's InterGuild, Mr. Zheng,” Wakeling said, “Might as well have a bit of luxury, wouldn't you say?”

She let out a cackle, and then began barking out orders. Joseph moved to help unload the heavier crates, soul bursting to life, claws latching onto the hooks on each crate as it lifted each one to its shoulder. Lights were beginning to shine around the once-dark grounds, as Urash spoke words of power, his spellrod glowing, balls of light burning to life and drifting out. But Joseph still had to squint a bit in the half-light of what had become a camping ground, watching his step as they unloaded.

“Careful with this one, Joseph,” Tek said, “I've got a few fragile pieces for the engine in here.”

“Right,” Joseph picked up the crate, slowly stepping off the ramp, “Where do you need this one?”

“Over here,” Tek said, “Yes, here we are.”

He shuffled over to where the rest of Tek’s equipment was, a little hoard of bits and bobs and other miscellaneous equipment. The mound was shaking in what Joseph took to be excitement as he put the crate down by a small monitor and scanner.

“Oh good, very good,” he said, “Excellent, Joseph. Most excellent.”

He adjusted his glasses, patted Joseph on the head, and then made his way over to where Becenti was standing. The guild's right hand was murmuring to Wakeling, and the two of them were watching, through the treelines, a dark shape fly overhead, detailed with a few lights.

“There they are,” Becenti was saying, “Outsource Solutions. I'm surprised they're going all in for this.”

“They've recently had a spat with Blue Sky Waiting,” Wakeling said, “They lost a ship, all hands. They're looking to show the rest of us that they're still one of the top dogs.”

“Outsource Solutions?” Joseph asked, drawing close. Becenti's mouth flickered upwards for a second, before returning to his usual somber glare as he nodded.

“Indeed, Mr. Zheng,” Becenti said, “One of the largest guilds in the multiverse. They dwarf us by several dimensions.”

“And that's one of their ships?”

“The Warlord's Choice, if I'm remembering the design,” Becenti said, “An old Federation warbird they bought some years ago.”

“So they're really flaunting it this time,” Joseph said.

“Indeed, Mr. Zheng,” Becenti said, “I don't envy you, Vyde. Looks like it's going to be a caustic Guildmasters' Moot.”

“Please, the Great Palaver's always caustic,” Wakeling said, “Take the most arrogant, spiteful, and powerful sons of bitches in the multiverse, and tell them to get along. I'm glad they decided to serve drinks at this one.”

She rolled her eyes, giving a smirk at Joseph.

“I do believe there's a few more crates to unload, Mr. Zheng. Don't get distracted by the conversation between two old farts, you hear?”

“Oh, right,” Joseph went off, running back towards the Titania Amber, helping Broon with a large box full of machinery.

“He's really gotten the hang of all this, hasn't he?” Wakeling said.

“He's taken the initiative on this one,” Becenti said, “You should have seen him. He and Rosemary were running all over the guild trying to secure a spot.”

“Hmm,” Wakeling nodded, before turning back up to survey the sky, “Oh! The Weaponeers! Looks like Dairos decided to get the trireme after all!”

***

Pagan Chorus was among the five largest guilds in the multiverse, despite sticking primarily to the Silver Eye. As such, they were assigned one of the largest lots, a massive grassy knoll from which they could land their ships and spread out.

But Pagan Chorus wasn't like Eldest Ark, or Outsource Solutions. Valm had only sent the Point of No Return, the small, arrow-like ship sitting alone in a dark field as Almogra opened the door and beckoned for everyone to disembark. They were alone, on a windless plain, stepping out into darkness. Oliander's runes began to glow, a comfortable orange, as though fire had been etched onto his stony body. Almogra drew out a flashlight.

“I believe the Prime Voice is sending a dark message to the other guilds,” Almogra said, “We should have sent more.”

“He cares little for this,” Bluebell said, “Very little indeed.”

“It could be seen as an insult,” Almogra said, “An affront. A sign that he cares more about being Prime Voice than he does about being guildmaster.”

“Which is true,” Kathen said, “Right?”

He watched as three sets of eyes fell on him.

“What?” Kathen said, “Like, we all know it. He's busy. He's got a galaxy to run.”

“It's the thought that matters, Kate,” Bluebell said, “Everything is political.”

“And Valm's a politician, he gets that,” Kathen said, “Which means...”

Oh, he wasn't liking where this was going. He could see Bluebell sigh, and Almogra grimace.

“A bitter message, indeed,” Almogra said, “I will have to speak with the Prime Voice when this is over. Let him know that I want a raise.”

She gave a ferocious grin.

“Now, let us set up camp. I don't want to sleep on that ship another night.”

***

The first twelve hours of InterGuild were dedicated to preparation. Tents were pulled up. Ships landed, and became bases of operation. Houses were erected, magicked out of thin air, or built at rapid speeds using the massive pile of logs squirreled away when Eldest Ark had begun clearing a space for the camping grounds. The Academy of the Unreal's annex building landed with a shuddering thump, and after a few moments teachers and students began streaming out, setting up market stalls on their grounds.

Many guilds did. For InterGuild was not just a meeting of the minds. It was also a market bazaar, one that blinked into existence for five days, selling wares and goods and weapons and magics from across reality. Stalls were set up, as guildmembers unloaded product from their home planes and beyond. Weapons were among the most valued commodities, due to the very nature of guildwork, swords and axes and spears, assault rifles, plasma pistols from the Eye, grenades that showered star-shaped shrapnel when they exploded, spellrods that gleamed in the half-dusk, gemstones from a hundred worlds etched into their make. Artifacts were spread out, bone and lapis lazuli necklaces from long-dead civilizations, remembered only in archives and in cultural memory, statues of beings both familiar and strange, carved in marble, or flint, or glass, or unmelting ice, or metamorphic rock.

Pieces of equipment littered the stalls here and there, too. Starship parts. Airship engines, the runes carved into the belching steel faded by use and time. Old, non-functioning ansibles from planes that just barely scraped the stars, before falling into oblivion. Silverfish from all times, the oldest ones large, blocky beings that took up a room, the newest simple, hand-held devices that were worth more than a moon.

This, and more, was laid out as people prepared for the selling, the bartering, the negotiating, and the roughhousing that would come tomorrow. The Flyleaf Forest was a place of eternal night, but the guilds had come together and defined a cycle of days and nights. Eldest Ark's guildmaster, Ornoah, had even had a clocktower built here, which rose above the tumult of the forest, its great face staring at the hundreds of ships plying the skies as though they were clouds.

Joseph glanced up at it. Eight at night, by the way the bells high above tolled, the way that a third arm, independent of the hour and minute hands, pointed towards the moon symbol in the top-right corner. Dinner was already being brought out, as they set up cook fires and ate a thick soup that warmed Joseph's soul.

Literally, in his case.

“Looks like people are bringing out some big guns this year,” Contort said. He, Rosemary, Joseph, Broon, and Ezel were around a fire, listening to the general atmosphere of the place. Even now, late at night, people were shouting to and at their guildmates, ships were still landing, work was still being done.

“You saw that big serpent up above, right?” Broon said.

“Yeah,” Contort said, “That's the Scaled Commandos, aren't they? Mercenaries.”

“Had a little skirmish with one of their higher ups, a few years back,” Broon chuckled, “Gave me a nasty little scar.”

“Oh really?” Ezel said, “Where is it?”

“Can't say.”

“Can't say, or won't?”

Broon blushed a bit.

“It's a bit further down than I'd care to show.”

They all let out chuckles at that, watching as another ship roared high above.

“That's the Kaleidoscope Queen,” Broon noted, “Another ship from Outsource Solutions.”

“I recognize the other beside it,” Ezel said, “That's the Raindropper, from the Gentlemen and Ladies. I wonder how Duchess Irma is doing.”

Joseph had taken out Meloche's letter, reading it and re-reading it in the gloomy firelight. Rosemary drew up beside him, looking over his shoulder.

“The letter again?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Joseph said, “The Bookish Wyrm...”

He looked up, Contort and Broon were laughing, and somehow both of them had gotten ahold of bottles of beer, the half-orc downing and all but slamming it into the ground.

“Broon,” Ezel said, “Don't litter.”

“Right!” Broon said, before he coughed a bit and simmered, “Right. Sorry.”

“Hey, Contort,” Joseph said.

“No,” Contort pointed a finger, “Sorry, Joe, but only the cool kids get the good stuff.”

“God, what are you, five?” Joseph rolled his eyes, “You know of a place called the Bookish Wyrm?”

“Bookish Wyrm,” Contort scratched his chin, “Sounds like a ship. Or a bar. Maybe both.”

“The guy I'm supposed to meet says to talk to him there,” Joseph said.

“Probably a bar, then,” Broon said, “It's around here somewhere, might want to take a look at getting a map. I think Becenti got one from someone in Eldest Ark.”

“Right,” Joseph said. He stood up, and without another word disappeared from the fire's light to find the guild's right hand.

“He's dedicated to this one, isn't he?” Broon said.

“Yeah,” Rosemary said, “He barely talks about it, though.”

“Who's the boyfriend, at least?” Contort asked.

“Some guy named Meloche, is what I think he mentioned,” Rosemary said, “A metahuman, or other.”

“It's metahumans all the way down with those guys,” Contort said, and he took a sip of his beer, “Leave it to Joe to come out of a giant old slobberknocker of a job with a friend.”

“Not out of the ordinary,” Ezel murmured.

“Ha!” Contort said, “Remember him and G? Used to hate each other, and all that. Then the Mordenaro job hits, and they're chums.”

He turned and smiled, raising a beer to G-Wiz. She and Ichabod were leaning against the Titania Amber nearby. G-Wiz flipped him off.

“See?” Contort said, turning back, “She does that to Joe, too. But lovingly.”

***

G-Wiz rolled her eyes as Contort turned back. There was a way that he did it, his spine popping back into place, as though turning his entire torso a hundred and eighty degrees was no big deal.

“Absolutely disgusting, how he does that,” Ichabod said. He had taken out a small, bone-white cigarette, and was still holding his case in one silvery, glass-hewn hand. He offered a cigarette to G-Wiz, who shrugged and took one.

“Got a light?” she asked.

The top of the cybernetic man's index finger uncapped, revealing a little neon light that singed the cigarette. G-Wiz took a drag.

And then began to cough, a wretched, horrid wheeze that caused heads to turn to look at them. She turned beet red as Ichabod sighed.

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

“Half the fun of smoking is you look mysterious, Galatea,” he said, “You're not doing a good job of it.”

“Piss off,” G-Wiz said. Blinking tears out of her eyes, she looked at the cigarette, before pulling a face and giving it back to Ichabod.

“Poor form, Galatea,” Ichabod said.

“I said piss off.”

“Hmph,” Ichabod gave his sardonic, ice-cold smile, before he extinguished the cigarette and returned it to the case.

“Hey,” Broon said, “Now we're getting somewhere. Hear that music?”

There was, indeed, music, a riotous menagerie of panpipes, fiddles, and what sounded like a hurdy-gurdy. G-Wiz's head snapped in the direction of the melody as though she were a submarine's periscope. Her eyes closed as she listened.

“That's a folk song from Lanshrochulainn,” she said, “Not bad, didn't know there were many Elven guilds coming here.”

Indeed, a few other instruments were playing in the forest, their players picking up the tune and carrying along with it, an orchestra measured in acres.

Rosemary listened to it, rising slowly to her feet, fingers finding the hem of her cloak as she listened. She gave a nervous look at G-Wiz.

“Erm, what's it called?” she asked.

“You don't know it?” G-Wiz said.

“No, I don't,” Rosemary said, then added, “Sh-Should I?”

“Dude, I don’t know. Maybe,” G-Wiz said, “It's called the Enil-galdrim Marching Song. Old war tune, I think, during the Third Elven Expansion.”

Rosemary nodded, remembering her conversations on that time period with Sunala.

“It was a glorious time,” Sunala had said, “The Elven nations had unified under one banner, the first time in four thousand years. And with their unification came a beating back of the Federation, of metahumans, and others. It was a make-way time.”

“A... make-way time?” Rosemary had asked.

“When elves need places to live, there is a make-way time,” Sunala said, “A series of expansions across the multiverse. Some violent, some not. But each time, it came about when we needed more living spaces for our people and culture. One should be coming soon, I think.”

She had given that serene smile to Rosemary, who, back in the present, was now sitting back down, the Marching Song crowing all around her. She wondered if Sunala had arrived yet, and if she or her servants were participating in the music 'round.

The thoughts played in her head as she stared at the fire, which seemed to dance and take on a life of its own as music continued to play.

After a while, she rose, and walked off.

“Rosemary?” Ezel said, though only the darkness replied.

***

Becenti and Wakeling were on top of the observation platform, one of Wakeling's spells giving them a bit of light, a cheery little blue flame that sparked and spat as the night wore on. Wakeling had a glass of wine, which was magically refilling itself as the two of them watched the festivities around and above. Becenti had taken off his jacket, which now hung on the rail.

“Getting chilly,” he noted.

“I've heard a few of the Weatherfolk are going to be casting some heating spells,” Wakeling said.

“I'm surprised there's a forest here at all,” Becenti noted, “No sun for light. No moon.”

He cast a glance upwards, his brow furrowing and his frown deepening.

“No stars,” he said.

“It's bizarre, isn't it?” Wakeling said, “Such is the multiverse, however.”

“It's lonely,” he said.

“Only if you let it be,” Wakeling said, “Imagine: This entire place used to just be nothing but knowledge and flora. Not a sapient soul to be found for who knows how long?”

“It's got a certain... feeling, to it,” Becenti admitted, “It's the stars, I suppose.”

“There's nothing to guide you,” Wakeling said, “Nothing to watch you as you go.”

“Exactly,” Becenti said.

Wakeling matched her friend's gaze, looking up towards the stars.

“There's something... comforting, about them, I suppose,” Becenti said, “Not just that they're there to watch and observe. But it's a nice feeling to know that, out there, there are millions of worlds, trillions of lives just going by.”

“One could call it soul-crushing,” Wakeling said.

“Oh?”

“Trillions of lives out there,” Wakeling said, “And millions of worlds, and all of it, all of those people, all of those stories, just tells you that you're just a drop in the ocean. As insignificant as every other.”

“Perhaps,” Becenti said, “But there's a comfort in anonymity. To know that what you do doesn't really matter.”

He turned a sad smile to the guildmaster.

“Makes it a bit easier to digest when we mess up, doesn't it? That in the grand scheme of things, it doesn't truly matter.”

Wakeling gave a chuckle at that.

“Means I can have another glass of wine, then,” she said, and she began taking a sip.

They heard movement from below. Joseph was climbing up to the platform, squinting his eyes a bit to adjust to the bright flames.

“Good evening, Mr. Zheng,” Wakeling said.

“Is something the matter, Joseph?” Becenti asked.

“What? No,” Joseph said, “I was, just...”

He quavered a bit as he realized both of them were staring at him. It felt like his parents were glowering down at him.

“Uhm, map?” he said.

“Map?” Wakeling asked.

“A map. Do you have a map of this place?” Joseph coughed, “I'm looking for a place called the Bookish Wyrm?”

“Oh!” Wakeling chuckled, “The Bookish Wyrm! I didn't know Aktakal was still in business around these parts.”

“I've never been,” Becenti said.

“He's got quite the selection,” Wakeling said, “Though I'm sure we can find something non-alcoholic for you, Myron. He's got this fine collection of different coffee creamers from across the multi-”

“I hate to interrupt,” Joseph said, “But, uh, where is it?”

Wakeling jumped a bit.

“Apologies, Mr. Zheng,” she said, “Here.”

Her arm slithered over to Joseph, and he suppressed a shiver as he felt cold, nearly-dead fingers close over his head. Wakeling's eyes flashed, and Joseph suddenly had a bird's eye view of the Flyleaf Forest. He could see the hundreds of guilds arrayed out in the great clearing, and on the clearing's edge was a bar, a large yurt that looked as though it had been pulled onto the plane via wagon, a large, reptilian creature sleeping beside it.

“There you have it,” Wakeling said, and Joseph flashed back into his body. He blinked, finding the location of the Bookish Wyrm burned into his mind.

“Th-thanks,” Joseph said, “Maybe warn me next time?”

“Ha!” Wakeling said, “Got to roll with the punches, Joseph. Now, good luck.”

He awkwardly shuffled back down, stumbling a bit as his wits returned to him. Becenti and Wakeling watched as he went.

“Something tells me he's looking for more than a drink,” Wakeling said.

“He's on a mission,” Becenti said.

“Of course he is,” Wakeling said, “He's at InterGuild. I heard how he managed to get Tek to name him his secondary.”

She sighed, sipping at her wine.

“I just hope he doesn't bungle things for Tek. Our good friend the mound has been wanting to look at a sparkeater engine for ages now.”

***

Rosemary walked in the shadows, the only light being the campfires of other guilds and the will-o-the-wisps that meandered quietly in the air, lazy and drooping like fireflies after a feast. There were a few other guilds of similar size to the Amber Foundation here, strangers all, some wearing scaled armors, other in robes, one in cargo shorts and a t-shirt as she whispered spells into the night.

It occurred to her that she didn't really have many contacts outside the guild. Broon and Ezel had been talking about the ships that flew overhead, and they recognized quite a few, talking sometimes with fondness, sometimes with tense respect, at each new arrival. There was history with them, a story of the patchwork life of guilds, that dancing between friend and foe, professionals who had no choice but to shake hands at the end of it all.

Such was the Law of InterGuild. It was never personal, the work they did. She hoped to one day be like them, talking with more fondness than hatred at the other guildfolk flying in. Not like Joseph, who took everything personally.

She followed the music, this Enil-galdrim Marching Song. It was an upbeat tune, played endlessly in the wood, and she found that she was walking in step with the underlying beat of the folk song, feeling like some sort of Elven knight on the way to war. She spotted a few elves, here and there, dark elves whispering in the night, one riding a tarantula the size of a house, each of the arachnid's great footfalls in tune with the marching song. A couple of winged elves flew overhead, circling the air, wings glowing like crescent moons over the treetops.

But Rosemary wasn't looking for any old elves. Sunala was to be at InterGuild, right? And the Marching Song played, almost beckoning her forward, ever forward, along a set path.

Many of the Elven guilds, she realized, were clustered together, and the disparate instruments, those individual bands of folk playing hurdy-gurdies and flutes and drums and mandolins and electric guitars, were now more of an orchestra.

A calling.

And she saw it, faded and silhouetted by shadow and light. The swan-white hull of the Gil-Galad.

***

“That's a sound I don't like hearing,” Becenti muttered. The marching song was moving as though it were a great serpent through the forest, slithering towards a single point. A place where the Elven guilds attending InterGuild were congregating.

“It's just a song,” Wakeling said.

“Perhaps,” Becenti said, “But it stirs up dark memories.”

“...Ilandriel,” Wakeling said.

“He was one of the Manticore's greatest supporters,” Becenti said, “I remember when I was ordered to infiltrate one of the planets that his forces had occupied during the war. The marching song played throughout the night, throughout the day. There's a cadence to it, one that drills into your soul.”

“Ilandriel's dead, Myron,” Wakeling said, “Remember?”

“I do,” Becenti said, “I remember hearing the news, about how Aldr killed him.”

“I was there,” Wakeling said, “Let me tell you, that's a planet I'm not going back to in a hurry. The entire place was scorched. We didn't even find a corporeal body, it took necromancers weeks to actually find the vestiges of his soul.”

“A movement is far more than its leader,” Becenti said, “We didn't get them all. Not with the elves. They claimed to see to their own.”

“You think they lied.”

The marching song droned, becoming quieter as the Elven guilds set up shop somewhere far away. Becenti turned to look at Wakeling. The look in his eye made the guildmaster sigh.

“Myron,” she said, “I know what you're thinking. But it's just a song.”

“Perhaps,” Becenti said, “Perhaps.”

***

Sunala was wearing a garden of lilies as a dress. Pure white, as though she were a bride, each lily bloomed in the light of the will-o-the-wisps floating around the field that housed the Gil-Galad. Her right arm had a sleeve that went down to her wrist, also of lily, though her left arm was bare, showing all of the world the stump of her hand, as though she were calling attention to it. In her hair was a circlet of nasturtiums, orange like flames against her dark hair. She stood as tall and as still as a statue, all beauty and power held within her.

Rosemary blushed a bit as she approached. As those imperious eyes fell on her, and that marble-like face broke into a smile.

“Ah, Rosemary,” she said, “It is good to see you, my dear.”

She drifted down, wrapping Rosemary in a hug. The marching song became a storm around them as Sunala guided her towards the Gil-Galad, stepping onto the deck.

“Let's get somewhere quieter,” Sunala said into Rosemary's ear.

“They certainly like that song,” Rosemary said.

“It's a symbol, my dear,” Sunala said, “A call to unity.”

Atop the deck were guildmembers, not Sunala's usual menagerie of Elven servants. They were still elves, of course, but there was an edge to them, each one carrying a weapon and sporting scars from their adventures in the multiverse. One had a plasma burn that marred half of her face, a faded blue scar, as though she were a permanent attendant to a masquerade.

“Rosemary,” Sunala said, “May I introduce Urya Orna, right hand of the White Feathers.”

“Hullo,” Rosemary said. She extended a hand, though she blinked as Urya Orna did not take it, instead opting for a bow. Rosemary returned the bow in kind.

“And you're her secondary?” Rosemary asked Sunala.

“Yes,” Sunala said, “A few other colleagues of mine are secondaries to others in the White Feathers. Our little group's ruffled quite a few feathers with them.”

“A poor joke,” Urya's voice was quiet and raspy, like the sea at low tide.

“Apologies,” Sunala said, “I must get them in when I can.”

She gave Rosemary another grin.

“Now,” Sunala said, “I expect you'll want to stay with your guild for the night, but we'll be having a few meetings I'm hoping you'll be attending. Panels on language, history, culture, the like. I'm hoping you'll recognize a bit of what you've been learning under my employ.”

“Yes, milady,” Rosemary said, “I'll be by tomorrow.”

“Good,” Sunala said. The two of them went into Sunala's study aboard the Gil-Galad, with its customary pile of books and used dishes and cramped air. Waiting within, just by Sunala's desk, was another elf, this one with hair the color of burnished silver, his face sharp and gaunt, his figure skeletal beneath the light gray robes that he wore. He gave Rosemary a look that she could not quite discern, and Rosemary noted that he was wearing a crown of nasturtiums as well, far too passionate and loud against his otherwise drab appearance.

“Ah, good,” Sunala said, “Adonal Adaya, milord. I see that you've already invited your way in.”

Adonal Adaya considered Rosemary and Sunala, one at a time, his eyes flickering between the two. There was a look to him that set Rosemary on edge.

“Forgive me,” he said, “The door was open, so I let myself in.”

“Of no concern,” Sunala said, “Rosemary's the one I've been telling you about.”

“The local girl,” Adaya said.

“A-actually, sir,” Rosemary said, “I'm not from Londoa.”

“Hmm,” Adaya leaned in, “No, you haven't the look of a Tlantoian about you. Your nose is too soft, skull is too narrow.”

“Skull's too...?”

“Lord Adaya is a master of finding your lineage by the shape of your skull,” Sunala said, “It is a lost art, among our kind.”

“What is your home plane?” Adaya asked.

“Err...”

“Eleria,” Sunala said.

Adaya gave Rosemary another anatomical look, before nodding. His fox-like eyes left her face as he turned to Sunala.

“Roughly seventeen guilds here,” he said, “Elven guilds. We could have used them to get more of our people in.”

“It's a small opportunity,” Sunala said, “But we mustn't draw attention to ourselves, not fully.”

“I suppose,” Adaya said, “I grow weary of working in the shadows like this, what with...”

He grew quiet. Sunala suddenly was on edge.

“The Elerian girl,” Adaya said, “Is she...?”

“No,” Sunala said, and she turned to Rosemary, “I will see you tomorrow, Rosemary. But I've got work that needs to be done.”

Part of Rosemary was curious on what she and Adaya were going to be talking about. But the way the grayscale elf looked at her made her stomach churn, just a bit. She gave a bow.

“Right,” she said, “I'll see you tomorrow, then.”

Sunala smiled once more, and Rosemary walked back onto the deck. The marching song was drawing down now, reduced to a few campfires here and there. But there was a sea of Elven kind now, as each guild planeshifted to the Flyleaf Forest and settled down. Guild symbols were beginning to fly now, some on banners, others floating in the air as runes.

And Rosemary felt an odd sense of loneliness, as she didn't recognize a single one.

***

The flag of Pagan Chorus rose in the night, lonely against the sea of dark grass. No other guilds came around them as Almogra and Oliander finished pulling up the flag up, a solid blue rectangle of four hands facing away from each other, each hand from a different species – the sturdy hand of a human, the seven-fingered Coribaldi's wrapped in a fist, the weathered hand of a Jugdran, and the tentacled, clawed appendage of a Skelionsis. It was intentionally set up as an echo of the High Federation's iconography, a message that they were one of the limbs of the High Federation, an arm that snaked from the Silver Eye into the multiverse. A message to the multiverse that the High Federation, too, had a guild, that Valm himself cared for the needs of the other planes of existence.

The flag flew alone.

Kathen had set up his tent, and was sitting in it now, a handheld computer in the tent's corner that he was reading out of. The monitor's face held a catalogue, one which read out the multitude of books that had been organized and defined in the Flyleaf Forest.

The catalogue had an entire network attached to it. Blue Sky Waiting, one of the guilds here, had long ago set up a node similar to a Library World’s. It named the books, displayed their covers, and could search for titles by name, author, or year. Not a bad system, all told. Simpler than something on, say, Gilded Cage, but it got the work done.

“Here we are,” Merry said. She brought up the book Kathen had been looking for, a solid tome with a cover made out of what seemed to be wood, with a strange, swirling symbol on its front.

“Yep, that's it,” Kathen said, smiling, “The Dyriptium of Karn.”

He stared at the book for a long time, memorizing its features. He could almost imagine holding it in his hands.

“And where is it located?” he asked.

“In a section that's been pretty pilfered,” Merry admitted, “In the same area as maps and encyclopedias, as well as almanacs of about a billion different subjects. It's describing a squall of planes, Kate. More informational than anything.”

“Which means it's valuable,” Kathen said.

“Wouldn't be surprised if it's in one of the book stores here,” Merry said, “That section is constantly being pored over for new material and sold off to the highest bidder.”

Kathen winced.

“I've got a bit of a nest egg,” he said, “How much does something like the Dyriptium run for?”

“About a thousand credits, give or take.”

“We might need to steal it, then,” Kathen said, “Alright.”

He took a deep breath.

“First thing tomorrow, let's head out there. Get me a map of the plane, as well as bookstores that could be selling it. They don't keep online inventory, do they?”

“I can definitely check,” Merry said, “I'll give you an update in the morning.”

“Right,” Kathen said.

Music was playing, deep in the distance. Kathen listened to it, its cadence, the way the multitude of instruments, many of which did not work well together, bowed to a single melody. It was an Elven folk song of some sort.

It was getting late. He slipped into bed, the song ringing in his ears as he went to sleep.