It was part of the City of Glass Mirk had never ventured into before. It wasn’t like the grim and imposing central district, dominated by the Glass Tower and the ancient buildings and filled with the constant tramping of feet in boots that were more hole than leather. Nor was it similar to the southern edge, always noisy and full of life even at midnight, which flowed in fits and starts from the workshops of middling mages and the dormitories of the low-born officers out to ramshackle clapboard buildings where the Supply Corps workers and most of the infantry lived.

Mirk was pacing in front of a smithy that’d been shuttered for the night, midway between the East and North Gates, right past the curve in the outermost ring road where the domain of the high-born fighters and mages shifted into that of the Supply Corps. The Corps only dealt in practical structures, greenhouses and tanneries and muddy pens where livestock were teleported into the City and held until they met their end in the form of a butcher's boy and a low-ranking mage on the hunt for extra potential, regardless of source.

No one was around at that hour, at least not in that part of the City. The dormitory the Easterners lived in was tucked away somewhere in that liminal space between north and center, albeit within a better walking distance from the furthest-out taverns and the dining hall. Their bulding had to be further to the west and north, Mirk thought. The high-borns wouldn’t countenance having so many foreigners within shouting distance of their dormitories, not even the plainer ones that housed the youngest officers, men who had enough money to live elsewhere but chose to live in the City to better sow their wild oats.

But it made sense that the djinn would be kept there. Far enough away not to be an eyesore, but close enough that a motivated mage could keep an eye on them, if he felt inclined to turn and look. The djinn were warehoused, just like the uniforms and ammunition and spare furniture, but not at the far north end with the seasonal and specialized gear. They were in constant use, after all. Whether they wanted to be or not.

Genesis had declined to walk with him. But Monsieur Am-Hazek had, both of them huddled under a concealment spell crafted by Pavel, Mirk clutching one of Ilya’s clockwork contraptions meant to create a loud bang and a lot of smoke and a flurry of magic that would conceal his and Am-Hazek's auras if they needed to bolt. While Mirk had been dreadfully nervous, Am-Hazek had been in good spirits, occupying himself on the walk over by studying the City and remarking on how very mundane all the buildings were in comparison to the magic he could sense thrumming away beneath the City's cobbled streets. Mirk had done his best to entertain the djinn a little, keeping up enough conversation to be polite, but he'd been too anxious to do much more.

They'd parted ways two streets over, outside the last tavern. A tidy and neat affair, more so than the ones the infantry and the healers frequented, its business nothing but a trickle at eleven in the evening on a Wednesday. Am-Hazek had bowed slightly to Mirk, offered him a few words of encouragement, and vanished soundlessly among the nearby workshops. Mirk hadn't felt any traces of pain from Am-Hazek on his way to the final meeting spot, though he’d been keeping his mental shielding only half-raised. But he could feel something close to pain now that he'd arrived, its source uncertain.

Djinn had a different way of approaching suffering than humans, Mirk had noticed, after spending so much time inside empty patient rooms near where they were being kept, listening and feeling and thinking. Their pain wasn't as all-consuming as that of their human patients, not so desperate. An effect caused by their collars, no doubt. But their emotional reaction to pain was what had struck him the most. Instead of generating fear in them, or panic, pain seemed to only ever elicit a grim, single-minded determination. Mirk wasn't certain whether that was due to whatever philosophy they adhered to, or if it was the product of long years spent under lock and key.

The longer Mirk stood outside the smithy, the more he was certain: a djinn, or perhaps more than one, was suffering nearby. He tried to put it out of mind. One thing at a time. Once they'd spoken with Am-Gulat, Mirk would search for Am-Hazek straight away. Though that didn't do Ravensdale's djinn any good.

The place where the djinn were kept was nearby, a low barracks made of scrap wood ringed with enough magic to make up for its flimsiness. Mirk had stopped well out of view of it. They had to be careful, Genesis had said. If the commander came too close to any of Ravensdale’s djinn, the magic on their collars would raise an alarm with the man himself. But Genesis knew the City better than any of its other inhabitants. Regardless of what magic was on Am-Gulat's dull, heavy black collar, the chaotic magic beneath the streets would obscure Genesis's own well enough that the alarm spell wouldn't be tripped, as long as he kept a judicious distance. He'd have met with them long ago, Genesis had said, if only they were ever allowed anywhere other than their barracks, the infirmary, or the battlefield. Or within arm's reach of Ravensdale or one of his officers.

"...Mirk."

He jumped, clutching Ilya's device to his chest, fingers scrabbling for the trigger on its side. Then his senses came back to him and Mirk looked down, scanning the gutter. There were two grates nearby. One that had the remains of someone's dinner splattered on it, though the metal of the grate seemed to be absorbing it, somehow, and a much narrower one, out of reach of any potential refuse. Hedging his bets, Mirk went to the second and crouched down beside it. "Messire?" he called out.

"...I thought it...prudent to take thorough measures against being seen."

Even at a distance, Mirk could hear the frown in Genesis's voice. Mirk thought he was being sensible for once by not calling him by his proper name. No one would ever think to associate Genesis with a fussy term for foreign nobility that was already a century out of date. "Euh, how do I..." Mirk tucked Ilya's device up the sleeve of his robes, where he heard it clank against his grandfather's staff. He felt at the edges of the grate for some kind of lever, or a groove wide and deep enough to fit his fingertips into.

A moment later, the grate creaked open, pushed from the inside and swinging outward. Mirk laughed to himself, nervously, as he sat down on the cobbles before it. Not for the first time, he was glad that the City's streets were unnaturally tidy. "Thank you, messire."

Getting through the grate took a lot of wriggling around and holding his breath. Mirk wasn't broad in the shoulders, not like Genesis was, but he was too wide in the other direction. Only a person as thin and flexible as the commander could have slipped through the grate with little effort. By the time Mirk dropped down inside the tunnel, he was sweating, despite it being cold enough for his breath to hang in the air. At least, it had up on the street. It was pitch black underneath it. Disoriented, Mirk reeled to his right, coming perilously close to tumbling face-first into whatever he could hear his clogs splashing about in.

A spindly, inhumanly strong hand on his shoulder put an end to his stumbling. Mirk groped at his wrist for his magelight. When it winked on, all it illuminated were featureless, curved stone walls and Genesis's equally expressionless face. "Sorry. I don't have the best balance...and it's further down than I thought..."

"The djinn prison is this way," Genesis said, without indicating any direction. But he headed off toward Mirk's left. He hurried after the commander, sticking closer than Genesis probably would have liked to keep from losing sight of his black-clad form in the darkness.

It didn't help that the shadows were curling around Genesis, protecting him from Mirk's weak magelight. It took all the composure Mirk could muster not to start babbling at him, asking questions about the tunnel they were headed down. And they were headed down: the floor of the tunnel slanted, just enough to make the water run along it rather than pooling in any one place. But the tunnel wasn't part of the sewers, Mirk didn't think. It was too clean. And the shadows in it were too thick. Mirk caught sideways glimpses of runes flaring to life on the walls at intervals as they continued onward.

The further they went beneath the City, the thicker the shadows grew. Mirk struggled to keep up with Genesis, half due to the limited range of his magelight, and half because he was having trouble picking the feel of Genesis's presence, that familiar, comforting static, out from the rest of the chaos. Experimentally, Mirk put a hand over one of his ears. The static wasn't only in his mind. It was a real thing, as audible as the trickling of water running along the groove in the middle of the tunnel. Though that sound was fading fast. From what little Mirk could see by the glow near his wrist, the runoff was evaporating somehow. It dissolved into more shadows rather than steam.

"Is this what makes all the City's magic work?" Mirk mumbled, more to himself than Genesis.

"In...various forms," the commander replied, from somewhere up ahead. "The magic is very...complex. Hundreds of generations of K'maneda offered their bodies and magic to the City. When they...tired of their lives."

Mirk swallowed hard. He'd thought the infirmary basement to be a macabre, though practical, K'maneda oddity. But it got worse. The whole City wandered on the power of the dead; all its wondrous magic that kept it unnaturally clean and practically impenetrable was fueled by thousands upon thousands of lost souls. He forced himself to ask the question, in the hope that Genesis’s answer might not be as bleak as the one in his own imagination. "They...euh...passed on without..."

"A soul is…not necessarily tied to its magic. The ancient K'maneda came from many realms. I assume some had beliefs that...bore a passing resemblance to your papist superstitions."

Hunching over on himself, Mirk nodded and trudged onward, hurrying his pace to keep up with Genesis as he offered a prayer for the legions of departed K'maneda under his breath. Even though Mirk knew the commander had to be walking slowly to accommodate him, his height and unnaturally long legs still made it hard for Mirk to match his stride. He was concentrating so hard on walking fast — and on not thinking of the source of the shadows curling around him — that he ran headlong into Genesis when, soundlessly, the commander came to a stop at some unmarked junction in the tunnels. Once again, Mirk was steadied by a thin hand on his shoulder before he ended up face-down on the stones. The shadows were so thick that Mirk gave up on his magelight and extinguished it, laughing off his unease.

"I'm sorry, messire...it's just that you're so quiet..."

"We are now...underneath the djinn prison. Roughly." The commander paused. When he spoke again, it wasn't in English. The shadows came alive at his sibilant command, the ground trembling under Mirk's feet. The darkness around them seemed to lighten, just a hair. "You may...illuminate your magelight again, if you prefer not to be in the...dark," Genesis added.

Curious despite himself, Mirk tapped it on. Though the light didn't travel far, it was strong enough to reveal a break in the shadows around them, a clearing a few paces wide. Genesis was standing closer than Mirk thought. He couldn't see the walls of the tunnel beyond the constantly twitching and writhing shades, but the floor was now bone dry, the stone a faint pinkish color rather than a dull gray. Genesis was ignoring him, looking up at where Mirk presumed the roof of the tunnel was instead. "Thank you, messire," Mirk said, speaking in a whisper, though he doubted anyone other than Genesis would overhear him.

"It is...fortunate that the djinn are kept near the...northeastern core. Though it does also pose...further questions."

"How many K'maneda know about this place?"

"The...Watch. And the Engineers. However, it is...impossible to draw this close to any of the cores without...understanding the chaos magic that created the City. I doubt any of them have gone further than the last cross-tunnel. Without some ability to...negotiate with the chaos, it becomes...hazardous."

Without thinking, Mirk shuffled closer to Genesis's side. "Monsieur Am-Hazek said he would start the spell to switch places with Monsieur Am-Gulat at midnight."

"It’s five past the hour," Genesis said. He didn't look at his pocket watch. Then again, Mirk didn't even know if he carried one.

"No wonder you're always on time," Mirk mumbled under his breath. Then he raised his voice to ask Genesis another question, though it seemed like he was growing tired of them. "Will Monsieur Am-Gulat be able to come here without getting hurt? Or did you explain to Monsieur Am-Hazek how this place works?"

"I have made a path."

They fell into silence, one that was more comfortable than Mirk had been expecting. The longer they stood still in the clearing amidst the shadows, the more the shades settled. Rather than feeling menacing, they were more like a thick blanket pulled up around Mirk's senses, muffling everything aside from the static of Genesis's presence and the faint hum of the staff tucked up his sleeve. With everything else so quiet, it was easy for Mirk to hear it. Whatever power lay within it seemed as comfortable with the shadows as Genesis was.

Abruptly, Genesis looked off to his right. A moment later, the shadows parted. Am-Gulat appeared, panting and shaking, clutching at the collar around his neck. It was glowing red; he had his fingers shoved underneath it to keep it from scalding his neck any more than it already had. His pain filled the gap in the shadows they’d been waiting for him in, making Mirk cringe. The pain was intense. But the feeling of grim determination underneath it was even stronger. "K'amskec," Am-Gulat growled, reeling within arm's length of them both. "We must be quick."

For once, Genesis had enough sense not to correct Am-Gulat's pronunciation, though Mirk noticed that the commander had to catch himself and pause before answering. "Yes. It would be better if...you retreated. The collars are..."

"You don't have to tell me about the damn things," Am-Gulat hissed as he backed away a few paces, to the very edge of the ring of shadows around them all. "It hates you. He hates you."

"Are you all right, Monsieur Am-Gulat?" Mirk asked, resisting the impulse to follow after him, to see what he could do about the pain the collar was causing him.

The djinn coughed, drawing himself up straighter and forcing the grimace off his face. "How will you help us, k'amskec? Where will you send us? He is not our first master. If we are released, the first will claim us again. And he holds all our souls still."

Genesis's eyes had gone black. Still, Mirk could tell he was thinking, fast, his eyes twitching back and forth as he searched his invisible rulebook for guidance on where to begin. The seconds stretched out long; Am-Gulat's rasping pants echoed off the shadows and the floor. Mustering his courage, Mirk stepped closer and spoke up. "Where are your bottles, monsieur?"

"Impossible for us to know. Beat it out of his mage."

The question broke whatever paralyzing indecision had overwhelmed Genesis. His question came fast on the heels of Am-Gulat's reply. "Which one?"

"Erv. The wild mage. From back before, when we were with our last master." Am-Gulat spat out the final word, as if disgusted with himself for uttering it. It was the most animated Mirk had ever seen Am-Gulat, had ever seen a djinn, for that matter. Mirk's eyes fixed on his collar. It was scorching both the flesh of his neck and his fingertips. Was that the price of being honest, for a djinn who hadn’t been freed? "We have not seen him since then. Master does not allow it. He has probably changed his shape, like master has."

"This...Erv made the collars," Genesis said.

"Yes and no. Our first master on this dogshit realm forged them, the wild mage blackened them. He does all of master's thinking. The worm turns too slow to handle djinn." At Am-Gulat's use of the epithet, the collar sparked. Mirk's senses were overpowered with the smell of burnt flesh. Am-Gulat didn't wince.

"You will have no orders from me," Genesis said. There was a certain tenseness about his shoulders that betrayed the commander's anger, Mirk thought, though his expression remained flat. "I will...find a method...to remove a collar. Only one. After that, you will do...as you will."

Am-Gulat's brow furrowed. "As we will?"

"A K'maneda...has no master. And a K'maneda...will never be a master of anyone but themselves."

Mirk cut in again, before Genesis could start to get too vague. "If one of you is freed, will he have the strength to free the rest?"

Am-Gulat nodded, slowly. "This will be our part. We will find a way. You find a way to destroy this collar, k'amskec,” he said, jerking on it for emphasis. “That is your kin's purpose. Don't go against it as I’ve gone against mine."

"We are...in agreement," Genesis said. "However, if you could...tell-"

"It is done," Am-Gulat said, tugging on his collar again, fiercely. His expression had shifted. The last Mirk saw of the djinn, as he stumbled backwards and was lost in the shadows, was the same hungry grin of triumph that had come over his face the second time Mirk had healed him. Am-Gulat’s footsteps and his ragged breathing cut off a second later, before Mirk had a chance to call after him and ask if there was anything more he could do to help.

"The poor man," Mirk said, wringing his hands together at his waist for lack of anything useful to do with them. Though Am-Gulat's pain had vanished along with him, it left a kind of emotional echo in the gap among the shadows, like a bitter taste in his mouth that no amount of swallowing could dispel. "He gave so much to come and say so little...do you know who he was talking about? I can't remember ever hearing about an Erv..."

Genesis shook his head, once. "This name is...unfamiliar. It’s likely that mage took on a different...name along with a new form. The same as Ravensdale." The scorn Genesis hissed the name out with rivaled the disdain that’d been in Am-Gulat’s voice.

"What did he mean by changing shape? Is it some sort of glamor?" Mirk had seen a few noble ladies choose to make use of illusion spells to brighten their eyes and fill out their cheeks, but it wasn't the done thing, broadly speaking. A sign of a family having fallen on hard times, or of mages who worked too many hours in their studies and ateliers instead of spending adequate time cultivating their appearance. That and keeping them up took a great deal of potential. Holding one that changed a person’s body completely for more than an hour or so would take more magical potential than any but the strongest mages could devote to the task.

"Of a...sort. Another waste of potential that is...not his own." Genesis gave a frustrated hiss, flicking a hand at the shadows. They collapsed inward, leaving Mirk in a darkness so thick he couldn't even see the faintest outline of Genesis's thin form through it. "We must go. Doubtlessly...Am-Hazek is not well."

The magelight at Mirk's wrist winked out. He spun around in the dark, searching fruitlessly for the way they'd come until he felt a hand take firm hold of his elbow. Genesis had to be more upset than his expression gave away. He was so cold that Mirk could feel it through his robes. "This way. I will...attempt to locate a larger grate."

Mirk let out a huff of a sigh, letting Genesis drag him along rather than trying to navigate on his own through the darkness. "Think of Monsieur Am-Hazek first. I'll be fine."

"...as you say."

- - -

"Just a little further, monsieur. Please, lean on me a little. It's all right. It'll be all right..."

Mirk had found Am-Hazek collapsed in an alleyway a few buildings away from the djinn barracks. He'd been down on all fours, paying no heed to the fact that he was fouling his fine overcoat and shirt, struggling to drag himself further away from the other djinn, lest he be caught by Ravensdale or his mages and imprisoned along with them. It had taken all Mirk's strength to right him — even if he'd been strong enough to fully carry Am-Hazek's lithe frame, the djinn would have probably refused it, as a matter of personal pride. Genesis wasn't there to help. It was too risky for him to draw close to the other djinn; he told Mirk he'd wait for them near the tavern where Mirk and Am-Hazek had first parted ways. Mirk hoped the commander wouldn't get it into his head to pull one of his disappearing acts.

"I...apologize, seigneur," Am-Hazek gasped, trying once more to stop leaning on Mirk's shoulder. It made him stumble. Mirk only managed to keep him from falling to all fours again by shoving his grandfather's staff in between Am-Hazek and the ground, making both of them cough and wince when it struck Am-Hazek in the chest.

"Did you tell Madame you were going?"

"Not...quite. I only said...I had...a personal errand..."

Mirk bit his lip, reopening the scab he hadn't yet bothered to properly heal. He focused on the coppery taste of blood as he staggered onward rather than letting his mind linger on the thought of how horrified his godmother would be when her most indispensable servant turned up half-dead on her doorstep. Am-Hazek had a raw, weeping ring of burns around his neck, that conformed to the same dimensions as the collars the other djinn were forced into. And half his hair had been burned short, somehow, in an arc over his left ear. The ear that the blue, gem-like vessel containing his soul hung from.

Though Am-Hazek’s physical injuries weren't enough to impede a djinn, the spell that had allowed Am-Gulat to escape his fellows, even if only for a span of ten meager minutes, had drained him badly. And burned him on the inside, where healing magic was difficult to direct.

"It's only a little further," Mirk said, trying to bolster Am-Hazek's failing strength. "Gen said he'd be waiting..."

Before Mirk could finish his thought, Am-Hazek's weight was lifted off his shoulders. Coils of shadow had looped around the djinn, strong and sure. Genesis emerged a second later out from between the gap between two workshops that were little better than lean-tos. The tension returned to the commander’s shoulders at the sight of Am-Hazek, though his expression remained blank. "You...wish to return to the...noblewoman's house, correct?" Genesis asked Am-Hazek.

Am-Hazek couldn't find words; all he did was nod, though the motion aggravated the blisters around his neck. Genesis turned his attention toward Mirk. "And I assume...you intend to accompany him?"

Now that Am-Hazek wasn’t leaning on him, he didn’t need his grandfather’s staff. Mirk magicked it back down to quarter size, and tucked it away up the sleeve of his robes as he nodded. "Yes, of course. I...I need to explain to Madame..."

Genesis didn't wait for him to finish. He approached them, laying a business-like hand on each of their shoulders. In an instant, they had passed into the dark, cold in-between place that connected the shadows. When the darkness cleared, they were in the middle of the quiet lane in front of Madame Beaumont's townhouse. Precisely on the spot where Mirk had dueled Laurent.

Mirk put it out of mind, instead checking on how well Am-Hazek had tolerated being manhandled by Genesis's magic. The djinn was pale, shaking, reflexively checking at his left ear to make sure his soul hadn’t been lost in the Abyss. But not much worse off than before.

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"The...servants entrance, commander..." Am-Hazek croaked out.

Genesis ignored him. And he ignored Mirk's protests as well, instead setting out for the front walk, moving at a fast clip as the shadows hauled Am-Hazek along behind him. With a gesture, twin arms of shadow ripped the gate between the lane and the front garden open, the defensive enchantments on it sparking yellow-white in protest. The valet manning the door in Am-Hazek's absence made an undignified noise somewhere between a yelp and a shriek as Genesis appeared out of the gloom of the front garden, fumbling for the pistol tucked into the waistband of his trousers. Genesis frowned, his hands twitching at his sides. "I would...advise against it."

"They're with me, Pascal. Open the door...please," Am-Hazek said to the stunned valet in French, his tone betraying how appalled he was by the impropriety of the situation, in spite of how badly he was aching and how much effort it took for him to steady his voice. "And send Claudette to wake Madame. With my...apologies."

The valet, white as bone and trembling, only nodded, throwing the door wide before hopping off the side of the front steps to make way for Genesis and his trailing shadows that were still supporting Am-Hazek. Madame Beaumont's foyer had been rearranged again. Instead of the wide, brightly-lit room that had been there the last time Mirk had visited, it'd reverted to the state it'd been in when he'd first met with her in England. The mirrored hall was gone, replaced with a narrow one to the left of the steep stairs that led to the upper floors. Genesis disregarded it, scanning the foyer with one turn of his head before settling on stalking off to the left, into Madame Beaumont's parlor.

Am-Hazek sighed in dismay, but was powerless to overrule Genesis's decision, at least at the moment. Genesis hauled the djinn into the darkened parlor, his shadows depositing Am-Hazek on the first bit of suitable furniture he encountered, a chaise lounge tucked into the corner of the room, with curtains hung around it so that the lady of the house could have a place to rest in private without throwing her bedchambers upstairs into disarray. Mirk scurried in after Genesis, trying the magelight on his wrist again, not knowing the trick to illuminate the ones in Madame Beaumont's parlor. Unlike in the tunnel beneath the City, it worked that time.

"How can I help you, monsieur?" Mirk asked Am-Hazek, dropping to his knees beside the chaise. Once Mirk had lowered his mental shielding to examine him, he immediately could feel the difference between Am-Hazek's magic and that of Ravensdale's djinn. Am -Hazek’s magic was an uncertain and diaphanous thing, at the moment full of a coolness that reminded Mirk of ordered water magic, one that was fighting against whatever magic had scalded his insides. When Mirk reached out to him to unbutton his shirt, he felt another magic rise up in Am-Hazek, something earthy and damp that felt closer to his own, albeit much weaker.

"It may be quicker for you to...only lend me your potential, seigneur," Am-Hazek said. "Djinn are...skilled at regulating themselves. When there is nothing in the way..."

Though his physical voice faded, Mirk could hear the ghosts of a dozen more in Am-Hazek’s mind, high and low, all of them hoarse and tense. Mirk couldn't understand their words, but the emotions came through clear. Shock, confusion, shame. With it came a glimpse of a miserable tableau: blood-streaked walls, stinking reed mats on a stone floor, huddled and shivering bodies. All with thick black collars around their necks. Mirk paused, one palm pressed flat against Am-Hazek's heaving chest.

Am-Hazek cleared his throat, and all traces of the distraught memory vanished, replaced by the cool sense of distance that Mirk was more accustomed to feeling from djinn. It was strained, but holding, for the time being. "I...apologize, seigneur. Your hand, if you will. I will...take as little as possible."

Mirk lifted his hand from his chest, wrapping Am-Hazek’s hand in both of his own. The djinn’s eyes fluttered closed and Mirk felt a slight tug on the core of life-giving potential at his center. Am-Hazek was true to his word. Mirk only felt him draw off enough healing potential to heal a few minor bruises. But the burning he could sense inside Am-Hazek faded, the cool feeling like water magic rising inside him to quench the flames. After drawing a few deeper breaths, Am-Hazek released both his physical and magical hold on Mirk, blinking his eyes open. "My thanks, seigneur," Am-Hazek said, as he moved to sit up. "Allow me to fix the magelights, I'll-"

"You'll do no such thing!"

The magelights — tastefully arranged around the room atop ornamental candlesticks and clustered near a crystal fixture in the center of its ceiling — flashed on, bathing the room in a golden light that was at odds with the sudden disorder that'd been visited upon it. Cringing, lifting his mental shielding to block off the sudden rage that’d filled the room along with the light, Mirk looked over his shoulder towards the door. He'd never heard his godmother's tongue click so sharply before. Nor had he ever seen her in a dressing gown and shift, her hair half-hanging from her nightcap. She wielded a candelabra in one shaking hand, its mortal candles burnt low. For a second, Mirk was convinced she was going to hurl it across the room at Genesis, who was standing by the front windows, keeping an eye on the front walk.

She composed herself just in time, prompted by a fit of coughing from Am-Hazek. Clasping her dressing gown tight up around her neck with her free hand, she stormed over to the chaise, expression caught somewhere between concern and frustration.

"Pardonnez-moi, Madame, je suis navré..." Mirk's body sprung into action to make up for his fumbling at the proper words; he jumped to his feet, then instantly lowered himself into the humblest bow he knew.

His godmother ignored his continued mumbled apologies, lifting the candelabra to peer more closely at Am-Hazek's blistered neck. "My dear friend," she said, continuing to speak in English to be certain Genesis understood her, the concern finally overwhelming the anger in her voice. "What's happened to you? Who did this?"

Am-Hazek forced himself up onto elbows, but couldn't find the strength to lift himself any further. Mirk did what he could for him, snagging the pillows off both ends of the chaise and stuffing them underneath the djinn's back as Am-Hazek began to explain. "I...beg your forgiveness, Madame. I did not mean to cause you any alarm. This is a personal matter. You need not trouble yourself with it. I’ll be well enough to see to my duties by morning."

"I do not believe that in the slightest, monsieur," Madame Beaumont said, turning and casting a glare back at Genesis fit to freeze the blood of the boldest of men. The fact that Genesis was unmoved by it only served to annoy her further. "Have you been unable to teach this scoundrel any manners at all, mon filleul?"

"The commander did not cause this, Madame. It was my own doing. Please, sit down. Claudette," Am-Hazek raised his voice, eying a shadowy figure waffling about in the doorway to the parlor. He shifted back to French, only for the purpose of issuing an order to the other servant. "The herbal tea, if you would. And shut the door. Madame will call for it when she's ready."

The figure curtsied, then scurried off, the french doors banging shut in its wake. Am-Hazek, though mindful of his station as always, was a practiced hand in dealing with his godmother. He busied himself with straightening the pillows Mirk had hastily crammed underneath him until Madame Beaumont relented and sat down at the end of the chaise, setting the candelabra down on the sideboard. Only then did Am-Hazek began to explain, his voice still bearing a tell-tale rasp, though it was much improved from before. "I have learned that some of my kin are laboring under duress within the K'maneda's city. I requested the commander and the seigneur's assistance in doing what I could to better their situation."

Madame Beaumont arched a skeptical eyebrow at the djinn, tucking the thinning gray curls that had fallen out of her nightcap back underneath its lace trim. "Forgive me for being so blunt, monsieur, but I was under the impression that most of your kin on this realm labor under duress, as you so put it."

"Very true, Madame. However, their situation is exceptionally dire. They are being used as instruments of war. In the service of a mage who has been causing the seigneur and his associates a great amount of difficulty."

"Is that so?" Madame Beaumont asked, turning her cool gaze on Mirk, as he shuffled awkwardly through the pillows at the head of the chaise.

"Yes, Madame," Mirk replied, fighting the urge to bow to her again. It all felt too much like he was a boy again, not even breeched, getting the silent treatment from his angelic magic tutor, Ilae Lei, when he failed yet again to manifest even a spark of potential. If anyone could challenge Ilae Lei — notoriously dour, catty Ilae Lei, with a thousand snide comments for everyone, his parents included — for scowls, it'd be Madame Beaumont when she was crossed.

At the moment, she turned said scowl on Genesis, who was still staring out the window as if deaf to the drama unfolding behind him. "I would think a man of your renowned expertise wouldn't feel the need to coerce a God-fearing boy and an honest djinn into participating in your nonsense, commander," she said, her low tone making it perfectly clear to all those assembled exactly what she thought of Genesis's supposed expertise. Except perhaps the man it was directed at. Picking up on sarcasm had never been one of Genesis's strengths.

The expression on the commander's face when he turned to face them confirmed it. He had taken Madame Beaumont's statement to heart, as a genuine accusation leveled against his strange sense of K'maneda honor. Genesis's scowl was good enough to join the ranks of experts like Mirk's godmother and Ilae Lei. "I have...told them both several times...that they are under no...obligation to me."

"He has been very adamant, Madame," Am-Hazek agreed, after muffling another cough. "And the plan that caused me this...distress was not the commander’s idea. I proposed it. Although the commander did facilitate, to a degree."

"And what did you get for your efforts?" Madame Beaumont retorted, voice still sharp. But her eyes were softening, Mirk thought, in the face of Am-Hazek's weary determination.

"Information. I have not yet heard from the seigneur and the commander what news they have from my kinsman Am-Gulat, but I did find something interesting myself."

"You should let me heal your burns before you hurt yourself talking," Mirk cut in, kneeling down beside the chaise again and reaching out to settle his fingers on the djinn's neck. What he felt from Am-Hazek once he'd banished his shields was odd. Though his godmother's simmering disapproval was distracting, the fact that Am-Hazek's magic was resonating with his own so well, like the imbalances of their elements and orientations were perfectly aligned, was startling. His magic hadn't felt like that five minutes ago.

Am-Hazek, even in his weakened state, noticed everything. He flashed Mirk a slight, tight-lipped smile and nodded. "As I said, seigneur, we are skilled at regulating ourselves. We'll discuss it another time. A small measure of your potential will do the trick."

Mirk let a touch of his healing potential sink into Am-Hazek's blistered neck as if he was going to begin to heal it himself, though he kept its exact purpose indistinct, not trying to listen close to the soft murmuring of the patterns of Am-Hazek's body. It had an odd sound to it, a ringing note, like someone running their finger along the rim of a glass. He felt Am-Hazek meet him, and a small portion of Mirk’s potential was drawn off, far less than it would have taken him to heal a similar wound. The blisters around Am-Hazek's neck didn't fade, not completely, but they dried some and their swelling decreased. Enough for his voice to no longer sound labored, and for him to hold his head up without strain. "Thank you, seigneur. As for the information...ah, paper would better suit the task..."

Though Am-Hazek tried to get up, Madame Beaumont put a restraining hand on his knees. She shot a critical look across the room at Genesis. "Bring an envelope from the table," she said to him, indicating the table where she'd taken tea with Mirk months ago with a jerk of her chin. "Preferably one without something still in it, if you would. Commander."

Madame Beaumont's mood was settling; Mirk could feel that she meant no genuine ill-will toward Genesis, at least not any more. But his godmother was still a noblewoman, and one who'd decided to make her own way in the world once her husband had passed. Putting an imperious note in her tone, one that commanded respect, was as second-nature to her as keeping the neck of her dressing gown tightly closed.

Genesis bristled at being ordered about under the best circumstances. That night, he was in the blackest mood Mirk had ever seen him in. The shadows trailed thick behind him as he selected an envelope from the tidy stacks atop the table. And when he crossed the room to hand it to Am-Hazek, along with a piece of charcoal that he drew out of his own overcoat pocket, Mirk could feel the cold radiating off of him much in the same way that he had down in the tunnels beneath the City of Glass.

Mirk wasn't sure if Am-Hazek was able to sense it as well, or if he was just too tired and sore to keep up his usual displays of respect. His nod toward Genesis was perfunctory rather than tending toward a bow. "Thank you, comrade. You were correct in your assessment of the magic that was put around the...place the djinn are kept in. Powerful, but not complex. That was not the case with the collars. I was able to work around it, but I needed to touch it to make my magic take on imbalances to match lijinn Am-Gulat's. When I did, I felt a mark on its side. Perhaps you will be familiar with it already, Madame."

Am-Hazek folded the envelope over, bracing it against his thigh as he sketched out a symbol on it, taking care to be precise as possible. Once he'd concluded, he held it out for all to see, turning it so that they could each take a look, beginning with Genesis and ending with Madame Beaumont. When she saw it, Mirk felt outrage rise up sharp in her chest along with a gasp. Mirk drew his mental shields up higher against it, worrying at his still-bleeding lip.

He'd recognized it as well, though it made a wave of dread wash over him rather than spurring him to anger. It was a cross, with a rose in bloom wrapped around it. The same symbol that had been pressed into the seal on the reverse of the letter he'd received weeks ago from the Circle.

"That bastard!" his godmother hissed, her fists clenching. "Him too?"

"I am...unfamiliar with this," Genesis said, flatly. Though Mirk could tell by the way his teeth were slightly bared that he was put out by not recognizing the symbol when it was clear everyone else in the room knew it.

Mirk asked the question, despite already knowing from the fury radiating off Madame Beaumont what the answer had to be. "Is that the Circle's seal? Or is it..."

"Herbert," she confirmed, with a hard shake of her head. "I can't believe it! Parading around as an honorable man all these years...lecturing me on morality...propriety..."

Genesis turned his gaze expectantly on Mirk. "Seigneur Herbert d'Aumont," Mirk explained, in a low voice, so as to not further aggravate his godmother's fuming. "The Grand Master of the light mages guild. And the head of the Circle, though there's no, euh, official rule saying he is."

"I knew I refused him for a good reason," Madame Beaumont muttered, forsaking propriety in favor of folding her arms across her chest. To better hide the way her hands were trembling. "Being married to two horrid men in a row would be too much for God to put on anyone."

"You have always shown great discernment in your choice of companions, Madame," Am-Hazek said, with a cough that was more politeness than distress that time. "But perhaps we should not rush to total judgment. I have not seen any evidence of Seigneur d’Aumont visiting London with any frequency. And there is no one in the K'maneda's city who has any ties to French magecraft, the seigneur excepted. Though..."

"Though?" Madame Beaumont prompted.

"It was difficult for me to...converse with my kin, while I was in the barracks, but they were able to tell me a little of what they remembered about the place they were first sent to when they were sold onto Earth by the Ra-Djinn. They were kept underground. There was the sound of water, always. But they could not smell it. They said the wind howled somewhere. And it was never as cold or as hot as it is in the City, in their opinion."

"That is not...precise," Genesis said.

"I knew it! That has to be his country estate in Dordogne. It's by a river. And that whole place is riddled with caves," Madame Beaumont interjected, snapping her fingers to herself to spur her thoughts on faster.

"I attempted to speak some French to them, to see if they recognized it. But human tongues all sound similar to us. Was Am-Gulat able to tell you anything, comrades?" Am-Hazek asked, turning his focus toward Genesis and Mirk. He truly had to be concerned about Genesis's mood, Mirk thought, to address them both with such a common title in an attempt to soothe the commander in the same way he was working at subtly calming Madame Beaumont.

"He told us that a...wild mage is responsible for the djinn's collars. A certain...Erv."

"I've never heard that name before," Mirk added.

There was a moment of silence. Then Madame Beaumont slapped her knees, her usual composure and propriety completely forgotten in the heat of the moment. "Hervé! It must be Hervé! You said it yourself, Am-Hazek, human languages sound the same to djinn. It'd be easy for them to mistake Hervé for Erv," she said, the consonant in the middle of the name turning into a growl as she tried to mimic an English accent.

Genesis frowned. "That is not...precise either. Erving is also a...common enough name."

"Does Seigneur d'Aumont have any family by that name? A cousin? Or a nephew?" Mirk asked his godmother.

She shook her head. "No. But that doesn't mean anything."

"Nor does your...supposition," Genesis countered. "I am...familiar with all of the mages closest to Ravensdale. None of them are French. Aside from the Bavarians...foreign mages are not tolerated."

"Would you know a Bavarian from a Frenchman, commander?"

Mirk decided to step in before tempers could get any more heated than they already were. "Methinks we should be a little patient, everyone. Tiens. I have to meet with the Circle soon to help with the Montignys. While I'm there, I can see if I can find anything else out. We're meeting at Mademoiselle Polignac's chateau, but it's a good enough place to start as any."

To Mirk's relief, Am-Hazek came to his aid before either Madame Beaumont or Genesis could get a word in edgewise. "A prudent choice. I assure you, Madame, comrade, that I am as anxious as both of you are to see that justice is done. However, we must be careful. Both the K'maneda and the Circle have resources greater than any we could draw upon. We most likely will only have one chance to strike. We must be certain we strike true when we do."

Together, their words had enough weight to put a temporary halt to Madame Beaumont and Genesis's protests. Though Mirk could tell they were both dissatisfied with their suggestions in their own way, Genesis with all the conjecture, and Madame Beaumont with the lack of immediate action. Mirk used checking on Am-Hazek's neck as an excuse to meet his eyes, shooting him a pointed look. He nodded, ever so slightly. "I'm afraid that this evening's events have taxed me. I haven't had cause to use so much of my magic at once in many decades. Perhaps we could reconvene at a later time?"

"It's nearly two in the morning," Mirk added. "I'm sure that we all have things we need to see to tomorrow. And though I'm not an expert on djinn, methinks that it would be better if we let Monsieur Am-Hazek get some rest. Healing takes energy too."

Madame Beaumont stood then, picking up her candelabra. "No more going behind my back, Monsieur Am-Hazek. I wish to be consulted every step of the way, now that the Circle is involved."

"As you wish, Madame," Am-Hazek said, with a differential bob of his head. Then he lifted his voice, calling out for the maid once more in French. "Claudette, please bring in Madame's tea. And I'll have one as well, if you are willing to share, Madame. My throat is still a bit sore."

Mirk knew that was their cue to depart. He stood, bowing to his godmother and reassuring her that he'd write as soon as he learned anything pressing, then took hold of Genesis's elbow, tugging on it until the commander relented and followed him back out into the hall. They passed by the maid on their way to the door. Mirk couldn't help but notice that she made the sign of protection against the evil eye underneath the tray she carried as she turned to the side to better avoid them. She kept her head down, but her suspicious sideways glances were always directed at Genesis.

The valet didn't offer to open the front door for them as they left. But Mirk did hear him bar the front gate behind them as they emerged back onto the street, muttering to himself about the grace of the Virgin and all the saints. Mirk sighed, staring down at the spot in the middle of the lane where he'd dueled Laruent. The mark had long since been washed away by the rain and the feet of human and animal passers-by, but Mirk felt like he could still see it, somehow, in his mind's eye. "Is there something I can do to help you, messire? You seem...upset."

Genesis didn't reply, not right away. Nor did he move to sweep them both through the shadows right back to the City. He chose to walk in the direction of the East Gate instead, his hands in his pockets, sticking to the very edge of the road, his black-clad form lost in the shadows that cluttered underneath the walls that hid the neighboring townhouses from view. "I...do not understand why that...woman wishes to involve herself in this."

"What do you mean?" Mirk asked, as he fell in beside the commander. He was walking very slowly now, each step calculated, precise. Mirk didn't have to take any pains to keep up.

"If she is...so concerned with the fate of Ravensdale's djinn...so...annoyed by the...injustice of it...why does she keep a djinn of her own?"

Mirk considered this for a time, folding his arms against the chill. He should have planned ahead and brought his cloak. But he only had the one, and he'd been worried that venturing beneath the City would soil it too badly for him to use it for formal occasions. "Methinks she doesn't think of herself as Monsieur Am-Hazek's, euh...master. Not in the same way that most nobles who have djinn servants do. He's been freed for as long as I've been alive. She employs him, she doesn't keep him."

"A lighter chain...is a chain nevertheless."

Mirk sighed. "I know you feel very strongly about these things, messire...but I promise, Madame Beaumont isn't a bad person."

"She...keeps five human servants. And Am-Hazek. To do...such trivial things as bring her tea. It is a waste of potential. And she...thinks herself superior to them."

There was no denying that, Mirk thought. But he couldn't think of a way to explain it to Genesis, not in a way that the commander could understand. Madame Beaumont was centuries old, had never spent any time outside the world she was born into, where there was a maid to dress her in the morning, a cook to make the porridge and cakes that she'd use to break her fast, a valet to fetch her cloak, a coachman or a teleporting mage to whisk her off to wherever she needed to go without having to subject herself to the sights and the smells of the poor. But she was also still a woman, despite being a noble one. He couldn't think of how to describe to Genesis what that felt like, even for the ones who were better off, widows like Madame Beaumont or ladies who had been granted nearly scandalous amounts of latitude by sympathetic husbands like his mother.

Mirk didn't think Genesis would have any way to understand what that kind of life was like, trapped inside a prison of gold and marble and silk instead of bound by blood and violence like he was. Noble ladies were trapped just like he was, even if their captivity wasn’t so severe and their bindings didn’t cut so deep. They were birds of paradise meant to sing on command, who were expected to be quiet once the cover was draped back over their cages.

Granting latitude to everyone, being generous and humble and dirtying one's own hands with tasks better left to the servants, was a fast and sure way for a woman to earn the scorn of the other noble ladies. And the sympathy and friendship of the other ladies was the only balm many of them had against the domineering hand of a tyrannical husband or sneering guild mages who were willing to let them do ornamental enchantments and call up pleasant weather for a garden party, but never anything serious. Some women were able to do more, those with astounding potential or who had inherited spots in the guilds or a business from a husband or a father who had passed. But even those noble ladies would feel the bite of the bars of their cages, if they tried to spread their wings and take flight.

More than that, though, Mirk knew from attending countless lunches and teas at his mother's side that such a life grew a certain bitterness in one's heart. One that Mirk couldn't blame anyone for venting on the undeserving on occasion, especially when vexed by circumstance. He hadn't looked too deeply into Madame Beamount's emotions that night, but he could imagine well enough what she'd thought upon seeing them all huddled in her parlor: once again, all the men had gone off and done something stupid, something she could have helped them avoid, if only she hadn't been asleep under the covers inside her golden cage.

"It's difficult to explain, messire. But please, trust me. She doesn't treat her servants badly. And she views Monsieur Am-Hazek more as a friend than a servant. But it's...relationships are complicated, especially for noble ladies. They're really never simple at all, not for anyone."

"I have...noticed this."

"We need her help. I know a little about how things are back in France, but Madame knows more than I ever will. If Seigneur d'Aumont is involved with what's happening with Ravensdale, and I'm not saying he is, she'll be able to tell us how best to handle things."

Genesis made a cross, hissing noise, but didn't comment otherwise.

"She is a, euh, very spirited woman, you know. I doubt you'll get any protests from her about whatever you plan to do about things." He, on the other hand, would be doing as much talking and consoling as possible to avoid any of the more dire outcomes he could think of. But Mirk knew well enough by then how things worked, both in the K'maneda and among the nobles. The sword was drawn first, then the rest was settled once it became clear who'd survive to bicker over whatever remained.

"My choice...would be to...end the nobility altogether," Genesis said, adjusting the sleeves of his overcoat, then flipping its collar up against the chilly night air.

Mirk sighed. "Would you end me too, then?"

"...would you...give up your gold? Your...power?"

"I never wanted it to begin with. But I couldn't decide that for the rest of my family. Or any of the others. Like you always say, messire, it's important that everyone gets a choice."

Genesis was silent for a time. But he was starting to walk faster. Perhaps some of his annoyance at the situation was subsiding. It was difficult for Mirk to tell, with the shadows still hanging thick around them, hiding the angular planes of Genesis’s face from view. "I have...attempted to read your...scripture on several occasions to better understand the reasoning of those who are...preoccupied by it. You seem to have...taken a different approach to it than your...co-religionists."

Mirk shrugged. "God calls to everyone in a different way, messire. All we can do is our best to listen. And confess and try again when we misunderstand."

"I...see."

"Will we be walking the whole way back to the City?" Mirk asked, to change the subject. "It's a little cold..."

Genesis sighed, coming to an abrupt halt. He glanced down at Mirk, taking in the sight of his hunched shoulders and the sleeves of his robes pulled up over his hands for warmth. Genesis extracted one hand from the pocket of his overcoat, placing it gingerly on Mirk's shoulder. "There is...work to be done. The arrow. And...the journal."

Mirk nodded. "Grand-père might have written something about Seigneur d'Aumont. Madame said that he'd known him since the Edict with the Church mages. But methinks you should also think about getting some sleep, Genesis. No one can work well when they're tired, not even you."

After considering the matter for a time, Genesis shook his head, the shadows rising up around them both in advance of their plunge back through the Abyss. "...the arrow first. I have had enough...noble simpering for one night."