"Ah, come in!"

A mid-morning knock at Mirk’s door was unusual to begin with. The fact that, though he gave permission, the door didn't open, made things all the more stranger. Mirk turned and shot the door a puzzled look, putting down his quill. He searched for who it could be and came up blank. If it was someone from the Seventh looking for Genesis, they wouldn't have knocked, or would have only paused a second before barging in. And if it was another healer, they would have waited a few moments longer for him to pull his shields up, then entered. That left very few options, none of them reassuring. Sighing, Mirk got up and answered, checking his shields before opening the door.

He was presented with a broad chest, hung with the lapels of a quality gray wool overcoat, that of a man of means who was uninterested in making an impression. Mirk looked up just in time for the figure on his doorstep to bend into a low, formal bow. Madame Beaumont's djinn, Am-Hazek. Startled, Mirk took a step back from the threshold. "Um...euh...Monsieur Am-Hazek, my apologies," Mirk said, switching into French after a halting start. It was odd how little time it'd taken for his knee-jerk responses to start coming out in English rather than his native tongue.

"Seigneur d'Avignon," Am-Hazek murmured, as he straightened up. Then he folded his arms behind his back; there was no letter for Mirk that time. Which made everything even more confusing.

"Is something wrong?" Mirk asked. Instantly, panic made his throat so tight he could barely get any words out. “Did something happen to Henri? Or Armel?”

The djinn shook his head instantly. But he gave Mirk a few moments’ pause to recover and compose himself again before continuing. "Forgive me for interrupting your work, seigneur. Especially if you were in the process of attending to the matter that brought me here," Am-Hazek said, nodding at the piles of paper on Mirk's desk. The majority of them were in precise, ordered stacks — Genesis's. The mess in front of them, a few dogeared bits of salvaged parchment and a pile of opened correspondence, was Mirk's.

"Oh, no! You're not interrupting anything," Mirk said, once he’d found his voice again, trying to ignore the mounting flush of embarrassment he could feel on the sides of his face. "I was seeing to the accounts, that’s all."

To his surprise, rather than being ambushed by a dozen djinn from other noble families that Mirk’s grandfather had owed money to, Mirk had been met just after dawn that morning by one ghost from the London counting house with a stack of reports on how well his grandfather's — his own, now, Mirk supposed — investments had been doing. He hadn’t yet been able to make heads from tails of the long columns of numbers and references to obliquely named business concerns, and he’d been at it all morning. But discussing such a matter in front of another noble's djinn was the height of impropriety, even if Am-Hazek's advice on the matter would have been worth its weight in gold.

"Then I am glad that I haven't disturbed you unnecessarily, seigneur. I've been sent by Madame Beaumont to inquire as to your response to her invitation to her upcoming ball."

Mirk laughed, nervously, as he felt his face go even redder. "Oh! Oh, of course, I...I know that having spoken with her previously about it doesn't excuse me from giving a proper reply, I just..."

He hadn't had the time, energy, or inclination to find good enough stationary to write his reply on. Or to find the right color wax for his family's seal, or to make the trek to the Teleporters Guild hall to have his reply sent off. Despite Genesis's continual grumbling over the legions of aides and officers that trailed after the K'maneda's commanders like so many ducklings after their mother, Mirk really was starting to understand why they kept so many retainers, if the life of a commander was anything like that of the head of a noble household. Ordering a valet to fetch the necessaries for a letter, dictating it to another, then sending it off with a third took a fraction of the time than it did to complete all the sundry tasks oneself.

"You are in a difficult situation for a man of your station, seigneur. Though I mean you no offense, of course." Am-Hazek said, with a deferential dip of his head.

Mirk deflated, giving a helpless shrug. "We all have our cross to bear, monsieur. I'm thankful mine's so light."

"Madame has inquired after your health, incidentally. I trust all is well?"

"Yes, of course, I'm very well. It's...well, it's an adjustment, and the summer contracts all seem to be ending at the same time, but, well. This is the life I've chosen."

"If I can be of any assistance, seigneur, do not hesitate. Madame is well aware of your situation. Until you are more established here, she has given me the latitude to assist you in any small matters that may arise."

Mirk was torn. There was no slight in the offer on Madame Beaumont's part, Mirk knew. Such a gesture could be a show of subtle disdain for his unwillingness to drop everything and hire on the necessary household servants the moment he'd learned of his family's situation and the necessity for him, as the head of it, to take on responsibility for their well-being. But he knew Madame Beaumont better than that. She wanted to help him, genuinely.

Even though her sympathy only made Mirk more embarrassed, Madame Beaumont had a point. Spending that morning trying to make sense of the accounts on his own had already given him a terrible headache. And he'd only had the morning free to give himself one because Emir had told his team last night not to come in until the afternoon, when the worst of the casualties from the final battle of some contract or another were anticipated to arrive. "Euh...do you have a moment right now, monsieur? I don't mean to be a bother, but..."

The djinn bowed again. "As I said, seigneur. I am at your service."

"I'm coming to the ball, of course. Please do tell Madame that I'm looking forward to it and thank her for thinking of me. It's just...well. I'll need new suits for this season, and I'm sure my measurements have changed. I kept meaning to go to the tailors and have my measurements sent off to the Nasiris in Paris, but..."

But just the thought of standing in the middle of a tailor’s shop and being prodded at for a half hour or more, then heading off to the infirmary for a full day's work was exhausting. Am-Hazek nodded. "I am familiar with the requirements. If I may?" the djinn asked, gesturing at the room beyond.

"Of course. Please, come in," Mirk said, stepping to the side and fitting himself into the narrow gap between the trunk at the end of his bed and the wall to make room for Am-Hazek to enter. Mirk was suddenly acutely aware of how shabby his quarters were, their stone walls pockmarked with age and all the furniture plain and scratched and dinged from use and being, for the most part, second hand. It was a good thing that Genesis had decided to stay instead of running off to go hide himself in a disused room somewhere else in the City. If the commander hadn't been there to see that all the laundry was managed and that the bed was always made, it'd have made an even more abysmal impression on Am-Hazek.

The djinn slid past him, considering the small space for a moment before pushing in the chair at Mirk's desk and extracting a tape measure from the pocket of his waistcoat. Mirk wondered if that was the sort of thing a djinn servant was always expected to keep on hand, or if Am-Hazek had anticipated Mirk's lack of foresight. Either way, Mirk's face was still burning up as he shuffled over to the center of the room and stood with his back to Am-Hazek.

"I see you have decided to pursue a rigorous course of study," Am-Hazek said.

Mirk laughed to himself, holding out his arms at his sides. "Oh, no. Those grimoires aren't mine. I'm sharing the room at the moment. I really don't have much luck with doing magic that way, I'm afraid."

Am-Hazek gave a polite cough, as he looped the tape measure around Mirk's chest. "You are...sharing this room with another person, seigneur?"

If even a djinn was shocked by it, Mirk supposed he really had sunk to new lows. It only didn't feel like he was that bad off, considering what he'd heard of the dormitory the members of the Seventh lived in, though he'd never dared to venture inside. "Ah...finding a place to stay in the City is very difficult. But this isn't permanent. I'm sure he'll be leaving soon. This is the sort of room that all the healers have, other than the officers or the ones with family money."

Mirk heard Am-Hazek sigh. "You must take your former vows of poverty very seriously, seigneur."

He was undecided whether the djinn meant this as a compliment, or a very thickly veiled insult about him being too miserly to spend the gold necessary to maintain a proper residence. But before Mirk could comment on it, the feel of the tape measure being secured lightly around his neck drew his mind down a different path. "Monsieur Am-Hazek, would it be rude if I asked you a question about the djinn home realm?"

The djinn chuckled. "Strange, but not rude."

"What is a majinn?"

The word gave Am-Hazek pause. "Ah...within every kinship line, there are certain families who are dedicated to scholarly pursuits related to the penchants of that line. Those who have become a master of all our recorded knowledge on a certain subject are considered a majinn."

"Oh. Hmm...well, I supposed it had to mean something like a scholar...but that doesn't really help..."

Am-Hazek was silent as he measured the lengths of each of Mirk’s arms. Once it became clear to Mirk that the djinn wasn't going to inquire further unless prompted, Mirk spoke up again. "I only ask because I helped heal a member of your kinship line the other day, and he mentioned it in passing. I...well. I probably shouldn't say, but I don't think Madame Beaumont or any of the others would ever have a real interest in the K'maneda. But the way the English nobles treat their djinn is terrible. Even worse than the way that some of the guild masters in France treat theirs."

"I am well aware of the privileges Madame grants me, seigneur," Am-Hazek said. He sounded profoundly tired, though Mirk couldn't sense any emotion through his mental shielding. A djinn, after all, was meant to be nearly invisible, simply another bit of finery moving about in a household full of gilded extravagance. It made Mirk feel even worse about pressing the matter further. But it was clear to Mirk by then that the odds of him ever being able to have a frank conversation with any of the djinn kept by the noble divisions were low to the point of impossibility.

"I know it's probably insulting to ask, since your kinship lines are probably much bigger than our houses...but do you know of a djinn named Am-Gulat?"

Am-Hazek froze, for just a second, before continuing on smoothly to measure the length of Mirk's other arm. "Yes. He was a child of a very martial inclination. The Am-Djinn are trained to be strategists, not fighters. But one's personal inclinations may not necessarily align with the circumstances of one's birth. As is the case on your own realm, seigneur."

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"He's here," Mirk said, after a moment. "And he's...having a very difficult time of things."

The djinn's tone remained pleasant, but had no trace of genuine emotion in it. "I am sorry to hear that, seigneur."

"I'm doing my best to help him and the rest. But I...well. I'm only a trainee healer here, monsieur. I can only do so much. But the man staying with me at present has plenty of ideas. I think Am-Gulat was asking after him when we last spoke. I can't be sure, though. Am-Gulat said that a majinn would have known better."

For a long time, as he worked his way lower and lower down the length of Mirk's body, Am-Hazek was silent. When he did speak, he seemed to do so with great reluctance. "Before I entered Madame's service, I was a majinn."

"I don't mean to bring up a hard subject, Monsieur Am-Hazek..."

"Be at ease, seigneur. I only had not thought of it for many years."

Since he couldn't feel anything from Am-Hazek, Mirk was uncertain whether the djinn was truly unbothered, or if he was only being polite. Mirk forced himself to press on regardless. Both their discomfort, Mirk thought, paled in comparison to the suffering the K’maneda’s djinn were being put through daily. Though Mirk felt ashamed at having to put Am-Hazek through any at all. "He said that my friend is a Destroyer. Do you know what he meant by that?"

Am-Hazek's voice took on a note of surprise. "A thing known across all realms, though they are called different names in different places. Along with their counterparts, mages who have exceptional powers to create. There have been three creating mages of note on the djinn realm, and all have been highly revered, as artificing is the special interest of the strongest kinship lines. I believe one was instrumental in the founding of the empire your father served as well."

"Oh...yes, you're right. I only had never thought of the Aelina as anything other than the...well, the Aelina."

"The humans seem to not have specific traditions relating to these manner of mages. As the realm as a whole is not magically inclined. Comparatively speaking, of course. They have not had occasion to need a very descriptive word for them."

"That's exactly it," Mirk said, as he heard Am-Hazek kneel down behind him to get at his legs, delicately feeling for the limits of them through his robes. "Am-Gulat tried to use another word for it instead of Destroyer, but he couldn't remember it. He said a majinn would know."

"There is no history of that kind of mage being born within the djinn. But in the very distant past, certain lines were assisted by one from off-realm. The k'amskec. I am surprised that your friend hasn't told you of him, if assisting the djinn is a matter of special importance to him. And if the friend who is currently residing with you is the one I am thinking of, seigneur. The commander. I can't be certain that he's also a mage whose potential makes him inclined toward destruction, but it would seem a likely possibility."

The word Am-Hazek spoke, the one that Am-Gulat had been unable to remember, had a certain familiar tone to it, though it was heavily accented. "Yes, Genesis."

"Perhaps the knowledge was never passed to him," Am-Hazek said. "The k'amskec was involved on our realm ten millennia ago. And the K'maneda as described in our records bears little resemblance to the one that you currently have chosen to be employed by."

Mirk sighed. "Genesis always is telling me that the K'maneda isn’t the way it's meant to be."

After a long pause, as Am-Hazek shifted from his left leg to his right, the djinn spoke again, hesitantly. "If I may be frank, seigneur, I guessed that your friend was a member of the K'maneda from the first time I saw him in Lyon. They have a certain bearing that is mentioned in the records. And a certain accompanying…personality. The difference between the present organization and the one in our records is stark, however, so I couldn't be certain. That and I thought pursuing the matter of the commander's penchant for books to be the more reliable course of action in ascertaining your location."

"He says that he was raised in the K'maneda's old traditions. Though no one here seems to have any idea what he's talking about most of the time," Mirk said.

"That would appear to be evident, seigneur."

He heard Am-Hazek get back to his feet after finishing with the last of the measurements. Mirk turned to face him, hoping that he might be able to get a better sense of how badly the conversation had disturbed Am-Hazek with the help of being able to see his expressions. But the djinn was as composed as ever, with the same slightly pleasant but distant expression Mirk was familiar with from all the noble djinn servants. Mirk wrung his hands, debating how to reply. "I...thank you, Monsieur Am-Hazek. I don't want to detain you further than I already have. I only asked because I do really want to help the djinn here. And elsewhere. I know it must sound like I'm patronizing you, monsieur, but the way things are has never sat well with me. Living in the City has only made it that much clearer to me."

Am-Hazek nodded, slowly, glancing around Mirk's cramped quarters again as he did so. "I do not doubt the genuineness of your sentiments, seigneur. I have been in Madame's employ for three decades now, and her house's for four. I haven't before encountered a man of your present means subjecting himself to such conditions.”

Mirk laughed, shrugging helplessly. “It really isn’t so bad.”

Am-Hazek seemed unconvinced, though there was nothing but the barest hint of disapproval on his face as he continued to survey Mirk’s room. “Some of the magic of the K'maneda does appear to have endured, despite the culture being lost. The records made note of a certain scrupulosity in cleanliness. The streets in this City are in much better condition than the mages', even. And this room even moreso."

All Mirk could do was shrug and laugh again. "That's more Genesis's doing than mine, I'm afraid. But, you're right, things outside are because of the City's magic. The commander explained it to me once, but I'm afraid I wasn't paying terribly close attention."

"You said you wished for me to send the measurements to the Nasiri brothers in Paris, seigneur?" Am-Hazek asked, as he pocketed the tape measure. Mirk couldn't help but notice that Am-Hazek hadn't taken notes of any of the measurements he'd made. But if he'd been a master scholar before being brought to Earth, Mirk supposed, remembering a few numbers would be nothing more than a trifle to him. It made a wave of dismay rise up in Mirk, one that he shoved back down before it could escape out onto his face. Things were already uncomfortable enough as they were.

"Ah, if it isn't too much trouble, Monsieur Am-Hazek. I haven't had much chance to go to the Teleporters hall here, but I did tell the ghost who brought me the ledger tallies to open a line of credit with them for letters. Just send the measurements along and tell the Nasiris to use their own judgment on what style and color would suit me best. I don't have any idea what the fashion is this season."

"As you wish, seigneur. I could, however, recommend several suitable tailors that are more local, if it would make things more expedient for you."

Mirk shook his head. 'It's a little more trouble, but, well. They're the only ones my mother ever went to for anything. And they've been so kind to us, since I'm sure having to make so many alterations to account for my father and sister's wings had to be much more trouble than they're used to."

The faintest smile crossed the djinn's lips as he gave a shallow bow. "I will send a letter immediately, seigneur."

"Thank you again, Monsieur Am-Hazek," Mirk said, as he once again shuffled over into the space between the trunk and the wall at the end of his bed to give Am-Hazek room to pass by. "For everything. Though...I don't want to detain you further, but would you happen to know how my cousin Armel is doing? Has he woken up since I last visited?"

"He is well, seigneur. Though he's been awake only occasionally. We have received word from Madame's nephew that the efforts to free Monsieur Henri and the children are continuing apace. They are expected to arrive in London three days prior to the ball. However, I think it would be wise to delay any visit until the day of the event. Monsieur Servais's men have reported unusual activity nearby. There is no threat to you in London, but exercising some caution would be prudent."

Mirk nodded, slowly. Am-Hazek remained in his doorway, his hands folded behind his back one more, waiting for Mirk to dismiss him. Again, Mirk hesitated. Knowing more of the details would do nothing but make more worry for himself, but Mirk felt compelled to question Am-Hazek further. "Has Monsieur Servais said anything more about who's responsible for this? Is it..."

"At the moment, they are uncertain of the precise details. All that is known is that your family is trapped in a pocket realm. However, the delay is simply a matter of the complexity that manner of magic brings with it. They have been meeting comparatively little resistance to their efforts to break in. Although they suspect they are being watched closely while they work." Am-Hazek paused, leaning out into the hall for a time before resuming. "If you wish to know more, seigneur, I would recommend drawing on the resources granted to you by your position here. Black Banner is not known for their finesse. The K'maneda, even in its present state, is much better suited to collecting information. Your current guest, I believe, is particularly skilled at this."

"He is?" Mirk asked, his eyebrows shooting up.

Am-Hazek nodded. "I hope you'll forgive my intrusion into your personal matters, but Madame remains concerned by your wish to remain in the City. She requested that I look into the commander's activities. He is a mage of some renown in London. I have been told by many knowledgeable sources that if one wishes for an enemy to be dealt with discreetly, or if one is in search of information on their movements, the commander’s skill in dispatching the matter quickly is without comparison. The issue of his morals notwithstanding."

"Oh. I...didn't know," Mirk mumbled, glancing over at Genesis's stacks of books on the desk. "I suppose it only makes sense."

He really shouldn’t have been surprised at all that Genesis dealt in secrets along with murder, even though the commander didn’t speak much of what work he did independent of the rest of the Easterners in order to supplement their meager pay. If anyone in the world was suited to hanging around in dark corners, watching and listening and waiting for the most opportune time to strike, it was Genesis. The man was so quiet and still that Mirk tended to forget that he was there sometimes, even within the cramped confines of his dormitory room. The thought that Genesis used that uncanny stillness of his for killing always discomforted Mirk, even though he knew full well that it was part of how Genesis made his living. It made Mirk feel oddly guilty for finding it so comforting.

"I have been told by many that their ambitions have been frequently thwarted by the commander. But that he is too indispensable to be dispatched with."

"I see..."

Mirk must have looked as troubled as he felt. Am-Hazek allowed his polite and indifferent mask to lower long enough to flash Mirk a tight-lipped smile. "There is nothing to concern yourself over, seigneur. I was not surprised to hear of this, considering what I had observed of him. The fact that Am-Gulat considered it worthwhile to attempt to speak with him through you is indication enough that, despite the nature of his dealings, the commander’s heart is in the right place, so to speak. According to the records, the last Destroyer assisted my people greatly the last time they found themselves in a situation similar to that of the present. If the commander is following the old ways, as you say, he is doing us all a great service, in his own way."

"The commander does always say that the K'maneda's present work doesn't align with what he was taught as a child," Mirk said. He forced himself to square his shoulders and push the thought away. There was no sense in brooding over what Genesis decided to do to make a living. There were worse things a person could be than an assassin or a spy. Mirk had seen plenty of evidence of that in the infirmary exam rooms. "Anyway. Thank you very much for all your help, Monsieur Am-Hazek. Please send Madame Beaumont my apologies for not getting a letter to her sooner. Tell her she should be expecting a letter from me within the week. I very much want to hear more of her opinions on how best to handle the matter of the ball."

That time, Am-Hazek laughed instead of only smiling. "Madame does have a certain reputation for her shrewdness in these matters. At your leave, seigneur?"

"Oh, yes, please, monsieur. Don't let me detain you any longer."

The djinn bowed again, not quite as low as before, and departed. Am-Hazek moved so smoothly, so lightly, that Mirk couldn't hear his footsteps out in the hall. The only other person he'd met who could manage that was Genesis. Mirk pulled the door to, then trudged back to the desk and pulled out the chair again, flopping down into it with an exhausted huff.

He hadn't gotten anywhere with the accounts. And it was nearing noon. Mirk pushed all the papers and envelopes aside, drawing out a fresh sheet of parchment and refreshing his quill in the jar of ink he'd borrowed from Genesis.

Mirk didn't have a head for numbers. Or for magic. But he thought he could manage writing the letter he'd promised to Madame Beaumont. With any luck, he'd be able to compose something halfway comprehensible before he needed to head off for his shift at the infirmary.