He should have used his bag. Instead, Mirk hurried along the main hallway of the infirmary's fourth floor with the stack of books tucked tight under his chin, only one hand on the bottom of it, propping up the other half with his wrist due to the sack of coffee clenched in his other hand. Though he could hear the chatter of his cousins as he rounded the corner into his family's room, Mirk couldn’t see anything beside potential places to drop his burden. He dashed for the nearest unoccupied bed as he felt the stack of books begin to shift.

"Uncle Henri! I brought you all more books!" he called out, making it to the bed just in time to dump the books all over it rather than all across the floor.

Henri's response was delayed; he sounded distracted. "Oh, Mirk! How thoughtful of you..."

After attempting to put the books in some form of order, he turned toward the sound of Henri's voice. Instead of being in bed, as usual, he was standing beside the window, the better to inspect a new breastplate that gleamed in the sunshine pouring through the cloudy glass. A breastplate currently worn by Kali, who was standing stiffly upright, trying to ignore both Henri prodding at some speck in the metal and the cluster of curious children who'd assembled on the nearest bed to watch their father work.

Mirk stifled a laugh with the sleeve of his robes as he crossed the room to greet them all properly, in English that Kali could understand. "Hello, Kali! Is this your new armor?"

"Supposedly," Kali muttered, refusing to look down at him. She was doing her best not to fidget, but Henri's constant poking and mumbling seemed to put her ill-at-ease. That was typical of his uncle: when Henri was focused on his work, things like propriety completely escaped him.

"It's beautiful," Mirk said, drawing closer still to better admire his uncle's craftsmanship. The breastplate was made of steel, buffed to a radiant sheen, with small, delicate brass ornaments welded onto it near its collar. Though most of the breastplates Mirk had ever seen were angular, bulky things, Kali's was somehow more graceful, with allowances made so that it wouldn't either constrict her hips or ride up and bite at her ribs, unlike her old cuirass. And it had a strange sort of fluidity to it, something more suited to a lady's tastes, though Mirk had no doubt that the metal was as impenetrable as the rest of Henri's work. Nor did he doubt that Kali wouldn't care about the styling, as long as it kept her innards on the inside.

Henri sounded pleased with himself, at least, though he didn't look up from his work just yet. "I haven't made much armor for women. It posed some interesting challenges...some structural issues, but I think I've magicked it well enough not to be a problem...really, the main challenge was getting the defensive spells to align with the mademoiselle's magic...not many dark mages commission work from me...get it all from Rouzet's fellows..."

"You didn't have to make it so fancy," Kali said. "I'm fighting in it, not going to a party."

Finally straightening up, Henri took a few steps backward and admired the way his work glimmered in the sun, his hands on his hips. His uncle looked almost entirely recovered, Mirk thought, his cheeks rosy and his body filled out to its usual dimensions, although Henri had always been a bit on the thin and reedy side. "I'm afraid it's a matter of professional pride, mademoiselle. Armor must, above all else, be useful, but armor that's both useful and pleasing to the eye is the mark of true craftsmanship."

Kali, for her part, at least only rolled her eyes a little. "...right..."

"I'd like to thank you again, Mademoiselle Kali," Henri said, returning her skepticism with a warm smile. "You've helped a useless man feel a little more himself again."

Ignoring the subtle compliment, Kali turned her sour expression back on Mirk. "I see where you get it from." She paused to toss her hair over one shoulder, doing a rather poor impression of his accent and what Mirk recognized as his own slouched posture, her head tilted innocently to one side. "Oh, madame, but I can do no-ting! I am onlee ze poor little 'ealer!" She straightened up, muttering to herself. "And then you go and do something insane, like ripping a whole sunroom to bits."

Mirk continued to smile at her, shrugging, which seemed to only annoy her more. "Henri and I aren't related by blood. You're just not used to people who weren't raised in the K'maneda, methinks."

"Whatever," she grumbled, tugging at the bottom of the breastplate. It wasn't necessary any more, but the gesture had been ingrained among Kali's habits after years of dealing with her old, undersized cuirass. "I'll be going. I'm sure you have business."

Claire spoke up then, hopping off the edge of the bed she'd been perched on beside her sister Ièes to watch her father work, disturbing the play of her young cousins who'd been building a tower of blocks together at the end of it. "But Mademoiselle Kali! You promised you'd give me another lesson today!"

Kali sighed. "I suppose I did."

"I've been practicing hard all week," Claire continued, drawing the arming sword from the scabbard at her waist to prove her point. She hadn't taken it off ever since Mirk had first been reunited with her back in Madame Beaumont's guest bedroom. "Armel's not very good, but it's fun getting to beat him. Unless he cheats and teleports away."

"I was going easy on you!" Armel shot back from across the room, where he was sprawled in his usual chair midway between the beds and the door.

Henri reached out and put a restraining hand on Claire's shoulder. "I'm so glad you've helped Claire too, mademoiselle. She's been in much better spirits ever since you started visiting."

"I didn't have anything useful to do before," Claire agreed, looking up at her father with a bit of a pout. "I've always said, I don't need to know more spells. Your swords can do it for me."

"Has she been visiting you all often?" Mirk cut in to ask.

"For the armor," Kali said, a defensive edge to her tone. "I guess magic armor needs more adjusting than mortal."

Henri nodded agreeably. "We all know you must be very busy here with your work. You'll be missed, of course, but it's probably best that we all get back to our rightful places. You agree, Mirk, that we're fit to travel again?"

"Yes, of course. The long-term nurses say you're all in good health now. There's just the...euh..."

"The vampires," Armel said from across the room. "And not that weird one that hangs around in the hall gossiping with the nurses."

"Vampires?" Kali asked. "I thought Shelia was the only one here?"

"Ah, right..." Henri sighed, running his hands back through his ruddy hair. It was getting rather long — Mirk needed to make an appointment for someone to come to the City and trim it before his uncle left, otherwise it'd doubtlessly be longer than K'aekniv's or Genesis's by the time he saw Henri again. "The ones Serge hired. They're still set on getting rid of us, it seems, even though Serge has...well. I've been exchanging letters with my artificers back at the workshop, and they've sensed them checking in every night. They don't seem to care about my mages, but I doubt they'll show the same restraint when they see us there again."

"I'll need to hire on someone to make sure you're safe. Methinks the guild guard won't know what to do with them..." An idea came to Mirk as he watched Kali correct Claire's grip on her sword, her passion for fighting momentarily overcoming her desire to stomp off. It wouldn't earn him any favors with Kali, at least not at first, but Mirk liked it nevertheless.

Kali was as good of a fighter as anyone else in the K'maneda, wasn't she? Her and her ladies had an impressive track record, as far as Mirk could tell. Granted, the commanders were reluctant to hand any meaningful contracts over to a rogue band of women but, as much as Kali probably hated it, her cachet as the daughter of two divisional commanders opened doors for her. And though Kali would resent being hauled away from the City at first, Mirk thought it'd be good for both Kali and her mother Margaret to have some space. A letter created far less tension than someone coming into your room first thing in the morning with an army of maids to force you into trying on dresses for the upcoming season. Or watching someone knee the man you'd just pulled all the strings you had left to coax into coming over for tea in the stomach.

That and he trusted Kali completely. Mirk didn't know many others in the City yet he could say the same about, his fellow healers and the men of the Seventh aside. It was obvious to Mirk that his uncle and cousins felt the same. Henri smiled on benevolently as Kali argued against Claire's stubborn insistence that her grip was just as good as the one Kali used, and even shy Inès wasn't hiding behind her hair, instead laughing at the way her two young cousins were play-arguing in a mirror of her sister and Kali. Armel wasn't as stiff in his chair either, his guard duty forgotten in light of the show going on over by the window.

Mirk cleared his throat to catch their attention. "Kali, would you like the job?"

Kali recoiled in surprise. "Me? What do you want to hire me for? I'm not some kind of bodyguard. I go out, I find people who need beating, and I deal with them. That's it."

"It's the same thing, really," Mirk replied, waving off her concern. "You'd just need to find all the House Rose vampires who are still following them and let them know that the situation has changed. It'd be easier than your usual work, methinks. They'll all come right to you once they see that Uncle Henri has returned."

Sensing that convincing Mirk to drop the subject was a lost cause, especially in light of the enraptured grin on Claire's face, Kali turned to argue her case with Henri instead. "Surely a noble doesn't want to have only a bunch of women standing between his family and death."

Mirk was surprised that Kali would stoop so low as to undervalue her own skills in an attempt to wriggle out of it. But Henri was unfazed, simply shrugging and continuing to grin at her, albeit with less unabashed enthusiasm as Claire. "Not at all, mademoiselle. Your physique is as good as any of the men I've armored. And I have no doubt that you hold the rest of your ladies to the same standard."

Claire's excitement overcame her manners and she lunged forward, grabbing hold of Kali's hand. "Please, Mademoiselle Kali? I want to keep learning! And you're so much better than stuffy old Master Claudio!"

Kali sighed, catching herself just before she could shake off Claire's hand. She didn't know what else to do with her hanging off her, but just letting her hand be held, even if she didn't return the gesture, was an improvement from Kali's usual prickliness. "What's the pay?" she asked Mirk.

Mirk shrugged. "What's a fair price?"

Kali thought for a time, looking down at her new breastplate. When she threw out a number, Mirk could sense her apprehension — she was high-balling him, expecting him to either refuse or try to argue her down. He decided not to rise to the challenge. "That sounds fine."

"More than reasonable," Henri concurred.

Judging by the frown that came onto Kali's face, she hadn't been expecting them to roll over so easily. "I'll have to talk it over with my team. We don't often go on longer contracts. They might not want to do it."

"Of course," Mirk said. "There's no hurry, is there, Henri?"

Henri shook his head. "These aren't the best quarters, but...well. The children are having a good time here. And it'd be nice to spend the holidays together before we go back."

Claire beamed up at Kali, so excited that she was bouncing on the balls of her feet and clutching Kali's hand so tightly that it made even the seasoned fighter grimace. "Please come with us, mademoiselle! Even if it's just for a little while. I'm getting better every day!"

Chuckling to himself, Henri reached down and gently peeled Claire off Kali. "Remember your manners, ma petite. Mademoiselle Kali isn't a nursemaid."

"Mais non! Nursemaids don't know how to fight!" Claire replied, though she relented and took a few steps backward, a slight flush rising to her cheeks.

"Guess you and I had different nursemaids," Kali muttered under her breath.

"What, mademoiselle?" Claire asked.

"I wish you lot would stop calling me that," Kali said in favor of clarifying, folding her arms over her chest.

Henri looked puzzled. "Pardon?"

"Mademoiselle. I'm not some kind of noblewoman."

"Ah, my apologies, then," Henri said, ducking his head. "We're all accustomed to addressing others by titles that suit their station. But if that's not fitting for a K'maneda, what would you prefer?"

Kali was doing her best not to let her frustration show. And was doing better than usual, in Mirk's opinion. "If you absolutely must call me something other than my name, comrade is fine enough."

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

"Comrade Kali, then," Henri replied. "Though, I must admit, ma...euh...comrade, it is a little, hmm...it feels insulting to address someone like you by such a common title."

"Who has he been telling you I am?" Kali asked, making a sharp gesture at Mirk. "I'm not some kind of commander."

Mirk gave another modest shrug. Every time he or another member of his family met her protests or a cutting remark with one — a shrug, after all, was the only proper way to respond to such hostility, as if it wasn’t a matter of great importance — Kali’s expression darkened further. "I only mentioned Comrade Commander Margaret in passing...and your sister's a famous mage already, you know...it's normal for us to talk about our friends' families."

Throwing her hands up in exasperation, Kali turned her glare out the window, lest it fall otherwise on Claire, who was still beaming up at her. "All of you healers are gossips. The second one of you finds something out, the whole City knows about it." After taking a moment to compose herself, she turned back to Henri, squaring her shoulders. "I don't expect any special treatment. I don't want any special treatment. I'm a fighter, and I'm working for you. That's all."

Henri was making an effort at keeping the amusement off his face, but was doing a poor job of it — his uncle had always been the type of man whose emotions were painfully transparent, even to those without the empathic gift. "Of course, comrade. I wouldn't want to make you uncomfortable. You're doing us a great service, after all."

"Are you done with the armor? Because I have work to do," Kali said. When Claire began to protest, she quickly added, "I'll come back later to give you your lessons."

Claire fixed Kali in a shy, wide-eyed stare, her hands — and sword — held behind her back. Mirk had to fight to keep himself from laughing. Claire wasn't shy in the slightest, not like her sister, but she knew exactly how to get what she wanted out of people. That was a family trait too, Mirk supposed. "You're not mad at us, are you, Comrade Kali?"

Kali sighed, rubbing her forehead. "...no. It's just that you people are strange. Normal people get mad and make demands and push you around. You're all...you're all like him," she finished, pointing an accusing finger at Mirk again.

"Perhaps it is only a cultural difference, comrade," Henri suggested. "Being courteous is the polite thing to do where we come from."

"No wonder you people are all getting killed," Kali hissed under her breath as she headed for the door. "Thank you for the armor," she grudgingly added over one shoulder. "It's...very good."

Henri's face lit up. "Oh! Thank you very much, comrade. That's high praise, coming from a fighter like you."

Not knowing what to say in response to this, Kali hurried out, brushing past Armel on the way, who pulled a face at her retreating back, a mockery of the sour expression Kali used every time she ran into people who didn't behave the way she thought they should. Laughing to himself, Mirk went to Henri's side, presenting his uncle with the bag of coffee he'd bought from the new cafe at the edge of the mage quarter of London. "I'm glad you're all getting along, Uncle Henri. Kali can be a little...euh, much for some people," he said, switching back to French now that their visitor had gone.

"Ah, no," Henri said, taking the bag. His expression went distant for a moment as he unrolled the top of it. "Isabelle always said that I'd put up with anyone, God bless her. Lord only knows that the children will never learn to be strong if they only ever have me as an example."

Mirk didn't know quite what to make of this remark, but filed it away in the back of his mind to mull over later. "Anyway, do you want me to put water on for the coffee? I think the floor's heating plate is in the supply closet down the hall."

Henri lifted the bag to his nose, breathing in deep, closing his eyes and smiling. "If you would, Mirk. And would you like to stay for a cup? We haven't seen-"

Claire perked up again, brandishing her sword and interjecting before her father could finish his invitation. "Yes, Mirk, stay! I want to show you what mademoiselle taught me!"

Mirk couldn't stop himself. He reached out and patted his cousin on the head. Rather than shaking him off, she grinned up at him, giggling through her teeth and prodding him delicately in the stomach with the flat of her sword in return. "I'd be happy to."

It was important to spend time with his family whenever he could while they were still in the City. There was no telling when Mirk would get to see them again once they returned to Bordeaux. He'd miss the warm familiarity of being with them, of spending time with people who knew all the right words, who knew just the right ways to comfort and please, even if they each went about it in their own way. In general, K'maneda were rough, harsh. His family was gentle and easy. At least, that was what the parts of it who'd made it out of the Lis de la Rivière alive were all like.

Hopefully, it'd be a boon for them rather than a hurdle they'd all have to change their ways to overcome.

- - -

"Seigneur d'Avignon?"

Mirk had just left his family's room, after tucking his youngest cousins in for a nap while Henri and the older children sifted through the books he'd brought them. And yet, he hadn't made it even halfway to the barrier to the fourth floor before someone else was calling for him, from off down the hall behind him. The voice was so quiet Mirk didn't recognize it. But if they were calling him seigneur, it couldn't be anything good. Dragging a smile back onto his face, Mirk turned to face it.

"Monsieur! What happened?"

It was Am-Hazek. It'd been more than a week since they'd tried to contact Ravensdale's djinn, but Am-Hazek's neck was as raw and blistered again as it had been on the night of their expedition. Mirk hurried to Am-Hazek’s side, putting a supportive arm around the djinn's midsection. His composed facade was mostly intact, despite his clothes being drenched with sweat. He gave a dismayed sigh at Mirk's concern, but didn't attempt to escape his hold. Possibly because his sigh did nothing more than make him start to cough.

Mirk didn't wait for an answer. He led Am-Hazek to the nearest open room, not letting go of him until he was lying down on the bed. As Mirk rushed to the room's supply cabinet to retrieve a salve and bandages, Am-Hazek managed to catch his breath and respond to his earlier question. "I am not certain. Madame sent me with a letter for you. I fell ill as soon as I passed through the East Gate."

"Euh...how did you end up..."

Am-Hazek flashed him a wan, pained smile. "I thought it...unwise for a djinn to walk the streets in this condition. I decided to make use of the rooftops."

Clucking in dismay, Mirk launched himself into his work, uncorking the bottle of salve and shaking out half its contents onto a rag. He dabbed at Am-Hazek's neck with it. The blisters on his neck, if anything, only swelled up further. Before he could toss the rag aside and move straight on to drawing on his healing potential, Am-Hazek lifted his hand from his side and took hold of Mirk's wrist.

"It would cause you less trouble for me to handle this, seigneur. If you'd lower your shielding, I'll do the same as the last time. And then we can discuss things."

Nodding, Mirk banished his mental shields, clasping Am-Hazek's hand in both his own. Without his shields in the way, Mirk could feel that the situation wasn't as dire as the last time: the burning in Am-Hazek's body was superficial, confined to his neck rather than running bone deep. Tentatively, Mirk pressed a small measure of his healing potential out into his hands. Am-Hazek's magic, with the same, odd ringing sound as before, rose up to meet it.

If it hadn't been for the sound, Mirk didn't know whether he would have been able to sense Am-Hazek's magic at all. But it wasn't because Am-Hazek was weakened. While his magic had been similar to Mirk's own before, woody and lush and glimmering, though with more of a mossy and damp feel to it, it now was almost exactly the same.

Mirk held his tongue. Though the elemental aspect of Am-Hazek's magic was nearly identical to his own, the longer Mirk studied it, feeling it tug a thin tendril of life-giving potential from his core with an almost reverent air, the more he could sense the slight differences between them. There was less warmth to Am-Hazek's magic; it felt wavery, thin. Not in a way that betrayed a lack of power, but in a way that made it clear that his connection to the earth was more a passing familiarity rather than an unbreakable bond. Mirk wondered if it would feel more certain on the djinn home realm.

Am-Hazek's chest rose with a deep inhale. Then he coughed. It was less pained that time, more a clearing of his throat than the rattling sound of someone struggling to breathe. Mirk felt Am-Hazek gently withdraw his magic as he began to sit up. "My thanks, seigneur."

"Please," Mirk said, gripping Am-Hazek's hand tightly again. "Rest. Don't strain yourself. You're my friend, monsieur, and a patient too. You don't have to worry about appearances here."

Am-Hazek turned his head to meet Mirk's eyes. Something shifted in the depth of the djinn's — there was a flare of color in their darkness, a spark of a deep blue, or something close to it. Then he sighed, trying to make himself comfortable on the lumpy infirmary mattress rather than forcing himself to sit up. He lifted his free hand to feel at his neck. The blisters were gone, though a faint redness remained. "Yes...you are very...earnest. In that way. Seigneur."

"Your magic is very...euh...interesting? I've never really examined a djinn before...not without a collar in the way...and I'm afraid I'm not much of a reader. At least, not in the same way Gen is. Do you have more than one element?"

"You're correct, seigneur," Am-Hazek replied, nodding to test how well his neck had healed. Mirk didn't feel any pain in him. Or much of anything else, for that matter. As always, Am-Hazek was quick to regain his composure, his emotions settling into a distant calmness that made it hard for Mirk to tell if he was still upset by the situation he found himself in. "All djinn are born with an affinity to all four of the elements. Which one is strongest varies and how we train them depends on one's kinship line."

"Four? I thought there were six..."

"Among humans, yes. But there are no light or dark mages among the djinn, per se. Though nothing is ever impossible. But I suspect that is the reason why we're so vulnerable to those elements when they are...pressed on us by outsiders."

Mirk's eyes were drawn back to the lingering redness that ringed Am-Hazek's neck. "And orientation...?"

"We are uniformly ordered. That is why our strength lies in artificing, and how we can regulate our body-halves without direct intervention from healers. We can change the balance of our elemental potential at will to help heal ourselves and mimic others. And it’s why your associate's magic disagrees with me so strongly, I suppose." An uncharacteristic look of distaste passed over the djinn's face — he was thinking back to Genesis manhandling him through the Abyss to Madame Beaumont's, Mirk suspected. It had to have felt truly awful for Am-Hazek to remember it with such an emotional reaction, Mirk thought.

"You all really are amazing, monsieur," Mirk said, only then thinking to release Am-Hazek's hand. Though he did squeeze it a bit before he let go. It was the best way Mirk could think of to impress on him that he meant what he said, that he wasn't only being polite. Not without projecting at him, and Mirk was uncertain how much of that Am-Hazek could feel, considering how faint his emotions were most of the time.

"Every people has its strengths," Am-Hazek said. "And its weaknesses. Yours seem to have found a...distinct way to target ours." He sighed, reaching in the breast pocket of his coat for the letter he'd been on his way to deliver. "Despite your reluctance to pass judgment, I'm afraid your observations at the last meeting of the Circle have only confirmed Madame's. I'm not wholly in agreement with her, but she has known Seigneur d'Aumont since they were children. She would be familiar with his ways, even if that familiarity has only bred contempt, such as it is. And his position at the head of Le Phare would indicate that he has a particular ability in using light magic, which is one of our weaknesses. I suspect the gold light you saw on Monsieur Er-Izat's collar might be a sign of it being used on him."

Mirk took the letter from Am-Hazek, picking up the edge of the seal and sliding out the parchment inside. He tried to scan its contents, but his godmother's hand was as flowery and expansive as ever. She'd filled ten full sheets, doubtlessly needing the extra space to vent the full extent of her wrath toward Seigneur d'Aumont. He'd read it later. While Am-Hazek was there, he was better off asking him things directly. "I've noticed that Monsieur Er-Izat is very different from you and Monsieur Am-Gulat."

Am-Hazek nodded. "The Er-Djinn are a warrior kinship line. A very...noble line, servants and seconds to the Ra-Djinn. It has always struck me as peculiar that they would sell an Er-Djinn to a human. He must have angered the wrong person," Am-Hazek said, sinking down into his thoughts, his hands folded primly on his stomach.

"That's another count against Seigneur d'Aumont," Mirk mumbled, sighing. "If it was possible to...euh..."

"Purchase," Am-Hazek said, echoing his sigh. "I am very much aware of my people's predicament, seigneur. Though I do appreciate your tact."

Mirk did his best to ignore the heat blossoming on the sides of his face instead of trying to press it away with the backs of his hands. "...anyway, if there were many Er-Djinn on Earth, I'm sure Ravensdale would have them instead of Am-Djinn."

"No doubt, seigneur. We Am-Djinn are capable of defending ourselves, but we are much less suited to fighting than Er-Djinn. Historically, we have been tacticians and advisors. When we are called upon to wage war, we mostly serve as rear-line officers. Strategists, like we are in every other art. I do wonder whether this Ravensdale individual knows what talent he is wasting by having them perform an Er-Djinn's tasks. Though I am unsurprised that is the one element of his captivity that Monsieur Am-Gulat doesn't find disagreeable. He has always had a...martial mindset."

The question had been nagging at Mirk ever since Am-Hazek had revealed that he knew of Am-Gulat, but Mirk had never had the courage to ask. It seemed uncouth to ask a djinn, normally so private and reserved, to dredge up the details of his past. But Am-Hazek had told him flat out not to be delicate with him. Still, Mirk fetched a chair from beside the supply cabinet and sat down at Am-Hazek's bedside before asking it. "You said you knew Monsieur Am-Gulat? Or knew of him, at least? Before?"

Am-Hazek nodded. "He was very young when I left. But his unwillingness to compromise was well known to all of us even then. I'm not entirely surprised to find that he was sold off-realm."

"You left? You weren't...euh...sold?"

The ghost of a smile crossed Am-Hazek's face. "Like recognizes like, seigneur. I was also unruly, in my own way."

Again, Mirk hesitated. "I see..."

"My vice isn't combativeness. It's curiosity. I was...displeased with the role I was assigned. I had been hoping to be sent to the Tel-Sum, to study the scrolls of the other kinship lines and draft new ones. Instead, it was decided that I would be an accountant, of sorts. Your realm had always interested me. And I assumed correctly that it would be easy enough to blend in here, if I undertook certain precautions. So I left. I entered the employ of Madame's late husband a few months after I arrived. Her choice to free me was more a gesture than a fact."

"Do you know much about how the djinn come to this realm? How the..."

"Unfortunately, no. Beyond the fact that the Ra-Djinn are responsible for the trade, I don't know what parties they sell us to. I simply put myself in the right place at the right time. And made myself appealing to the proper buyer. Both Madame and her late husband were very...forthright in their mannerisms, even if I'd only read a few scrolls on human gestures before coming here. I judged Madame's late husband to be the sort to lose interest in his novel purchases quickly. Which he was. And I judged Madame to be spirited, but fair-minded and determined. Which she is. My captivity, such as it was, was far lighter than that of the other djinn bought by the guilds and nobles. As soon as Madame's late husband tired of me, Madame put me straight to work gathering information for her using whichever means suited me best."

Though it didn't feel right, a chuckle escaped Mirk at the thought of Am-Hazek's ploy. "You are very clever, monsieur."

"It's kind of you to say that, seigneur. Though I prefer to think of it as simply being observant. And capable of adapting to the needs of my circumstances, when necessary." Am-Hazek paused, lifting a hand to his throat again, probing it first with his fingers, then testing it with the back of his hand. "That adaptability is not serving me well at the moment, however."

"What do you mean?" Mirk leaned in to peer at Am-Hazek's neck. It was difficult to perceive in the dim magelights of the patient room, but the skin of his neck, around where his collar would be, if he still had one, was growing redder once more.

"I suspect it has something to do with the spell I used to exchange places with Am-Gulat. As I mentioned before, we have the ability to shift our elemental balance to mimic that of one another. Something of Monsieur Am-Gulat's pattern must have lingered in mine. And the spell on his collar is responding as if he has escaped." With a sharp inhale of breath, Am-Hazek sat up. "It would be best if I go, then. To not cause Monsieur Am-Hazek any unnecessary suffering. Until this problem is dealt with, perhaps it would be best if you and I met outside the City's walls, seigneur. I've already been caught once on this visit," he added, with a twitch of a smirk.

"You have?" Reflexively, Mirk cast out his senses toward the hallway — no one there, other than the usual nurses and aides making their rounds, along with the faint, familiar feel of his family's presence at the other end of the floor.

"Perhaps if you were to set your associate to work on this problem," Am-Hazek said, touching his neck again, "it would keep him from causing more difficulties for himself. I crossed paths with him up on the roof of the library building. He wasn't inclined toward having a conversation at the time, but as far as I could tell, he was...ah...surveilling one of the K'maneda mages. He vanished at the same time that the mage had an unfortunate run-in with a cart out in the street. Incidentally, you might wish to go downstairs and check to see if you're needed, seigneur. There were many terrible burns. The mage in question included. No malice, from what I could see. Rather an...excess of enthusiasm."

Mirk sighed. That could only be one person: Elijah Oliver, the mage who had come to him begging for an audience with Genesis, as if the commander was a visiting foreign king with a packed schedule rather than a disreputable mage who everyone else in the K'maneda went out of their way to avoid. Mirk had told Genesis that he'd ask Elijah to look in his mind when they met again in a day or two, but apparently Genesis wanted to launch his own investigation as well. Mirk didn't know whether to be reassured by Genesis's thoroughness, or dismayed that he trusted his judgment so little that he had to see for himself that Elijah was harmless. "I'll take your advice, monsieur. But, you're right, we'd both best be going. Is there something more I can do to help?"

Am-Hazek shook his head, with a barely visible wince as he turned his neck. "I'll depart the same way I came. The path is easy enough if you have air magic. Or are...otherwise gifted," a thoughtful look came onto Am-Hazek's face as he stood. "Your associate truly is remarkable. I would have thought he'd depend on his magic to get everywhere, but he's surprisingly athletic. A potential-conserving measure, no doubt. It’s a pity that the K'maneda seems determined to use people for tasks they aren't suited to, at least at present."

"That's what he's always saying too, yes," Mirk said. "The next time you have a letter for me from Madame, please send the response with the usual messengers. I can pay for it. You shouldn't put yourself through so much trouble. And I'm sure Madame would be happy to have me there for tea more often."

"She would," Am-Hazek replied, flashing him a tight-lipped smile. "I would be grateful for it as well. You seem to have a moderating effect on strong personalities, seigneur. And it would benefit you, I think, to pass more time among polite company when you can spare an hour or two," he added, looking around at the patient room Mirk had hauled him into. It hadn't been cleaned in some time — there was dust everywhere, and the last healer to use the room had done a half-hearted job at cleaning up the last patient's blood from the floor and the wall, not to even mention the chamberpot peeking out from under the bed. It all made Mirk wonder even more about the sort of life Am-Hazek had led before coming to Earth. He seemed as put off by grimy and cramped and plain surroundings as his godmother did. Or perhaps all the time he'd spent with her had colored his opinions.

"Well. Thank you for coming with this, Monsieur Am-Hazek," Mirk said, gesturing at him with the letter. "I'll do what I can on my end."

That time, Am-Hazek caught himself before he could nod. He bowed instead, sweeping out the door and back into the hall at a brisk pace, the faint feeling of his presence vanishing the moment he was out of sight. Mirk nudged the chamberpot back fully under the bed, then tucked Madame Beaumont's letter up his sleeve and headed off as well, in the opposite direction that Am-Hazek had gone, presumably.

Am-Hazek was a master of understatement. If even he was willing to say that the accident Elijah had caused was terrible, then doubtlessly he'd be needed downstairs, regardless of whether the victims of the mage’s enthusiasm were low-born or high.