"Good evening, madame. Thank you for meeting with me over dinner."

Madame Beaumont rolled her eyes, dabbing primly at her mouth with her napkin before casting it aside onto the table beside her picked-at dinner. "I’m just glad to finally have decent company in this terrible country again. Come sit down and maybe I'll get my appetite back for once."

Mirk followed the maid into Madame Beaumont's parlor, thanking her perhaps a bit too effusively for pulling out his chair for him before bowing to his godmother and sitting down beside her. Though he'd been venturing back into polite society as of late, and he did his best to keep up with his letters, Mirk had begun to feel out-of-sorts whenever he was confronted with the contrast between his life in the City and the one he'd left behind in France. There was no one waiting to tend to all the minor trivialities of life for him in the City, no holding doors and pulling out chairs and dinner waiting on the table. With the minor exception of his laundry and cleaning, though Genesis saw to those tasks less out of a need to serve him, and more because he only remembered to do them himself occasionally at best. And never up to the commander's exacting standards.

"Chef pitched a fit when I told him that the haddock was out for tonight," Madame Beaumont said dryly, once the maid had retreated back out into the hall. "He started off on a tear to Monsieur Am-Hazek about cursing whatever priest I'd decided to invite over for dinner. I hope it didn’t make him too spiteful with the salt in the gratin."

"It looks lovely, madame," Mirk said, as he shook out his napkin and draped it over his lap. The gray suit again, which was getting more use as of late than he'd hoped. "And I promise you, even if he poured the whole cellar in, it'd be better than the food at the dining hall. Or what I can make myself."

"You've been cooking?" Madame Beaumont asked, her eyebrows arching so high they disappeared under her bonnet. "Next you're going to tell me you've been digging ditches."

"The cooks really are awful in the City," Mirk said, picking up his fork and knife. "Even the ones they assign to the officers' dining hall. And though it's Lent, no one seems to observe it very closely. So I often have to make do for myself if I'd like something without meat in it."

What Mirk left unsaid was that he'd started to get marginally better at cooking meat too, even if handling the raw beef made him feel like he was working on a patient in the infirmary. Now that Genesis had been unleashed on City once more after his period of recovery before the Festival of Shades, the commander had slipped back into his old habit of never eating unless presented with a plate warm and waiting for him. Luckily, the strictness of his bathing rituals made it easy for Mirk to predict when he'd appear every night. He could always convince Genesis to choke down a bit of beef or some of whatever fruit the Supply Corps had growing in their greenhouses if doing so meant he could go hide in his bath for an hour afterwards undisturbed.

It was a strange arrangement, but it made Mirk feel better about all the laundry and the cleaning. It also meant that when Genesis inevitably dragged himself into the infirmary injured, Mirk had to fight less with his magic and body to convince it to heal itself. The fact that it also added an appealing sliver of bulk to his backside and legs was entirely irrelevant, but welcome all the same. And he definitely wasn't going to be informing his godmother — or anyone else — of that.

"I really hope you'll reconsider your decision to live with those brutes once this is all over and done with, Mirk," Madame Beaumont said, replacing her napkin as well, though she didn't yet have the stomach to pick up her utensils. "That city of yours sounds dreadful. It's no place for a man with sensibilities as refined as yours. Even if you must continue to labor for the organization, there's no need for you to subject yourself to all that nonsense when you're not doing your work. Monsieur Am-Hazek says that the family ledgers are all in good order."

"Will he be joining us tonight, madame? I'd been hoping to have the chance to speak with him before...euh..."

"He said he'll be with us for coffee. Though I am curious what you'll be doing with him tonight, my boy. It'll be terribly dull this evening with no one to talk to. If I didn't care for you so much, I'd have gone back to Lyon already. Now that the spring season has started at home, no one's interested in coming up here, despite all their talk of finding the English mages so fascinating."

Mirk had a feeling that Madame Beaumont wouldn't appreciate how Am-Hazek had agreed to pass the remainder of the evening, so he elected to focus on the back half of his godmother's gossiping over the front. But he took a bite of the gratin that'd been left for him first, some amalgam of cheese and potatoes and other vegetables, all well-roasted, to show appreciation for her hospitality. It was hard for Mirk to pause after just the one. It was the best food he'd eaten since he'd been able to partake of K'aekniv's cooking after the Festival of Shades. "Is that so? I haven't heard mention of it from anyone other than Yvette Feulaine. And I got the impression the English were a personal interest of hers, not something she shared with the seigneur or anyone else."

"Oh, yes. All the people in my circle are talking about it, anyway. Marquise Bachelot especially, though I imagine it's because she's had a terrible time at sea as of late. Black Banner and her late husband's guild mages have been absolutely no use to her. I've spoken to my nephew about it time and again, but nephews are useless in nearly every case. Especially ones who are rakes."

"Perhaps it's only a trend among the older generation. Not to be impolite, madame," Mirk quickly added.

"I prefer to think of myself as well-seasoned," she quipped back at him, finally picking up her fork and knife, edging the barest shred of a potato onto the former. "Unlike Chef's gratin."

"No, it's excellent! Not too salty for my tastes, anyway..."

"And your tastes have been ruined as of late by keeping poor company. Which returns us to my original question, my dear. What are you doing with Monsieur Am-Hazek this evening? I hope you're not planning to sacrifice him to any of your more disreputable friends. Good help is hard to come by these days," she said, grimacing theatrically at her bite of gratin to highlight her point.

Mirk sighed, setting down his fork and knife and picking up his napkin in an attempt to buy himself time to think of the best way to answer her. But his godmother was needling him again before he had time to dab at his lips.

"Your horrible friends have dulled your wits, Mirk. If you're going to play the game with a master, you'd best be well practiced," she said with a chuckle. "The English nobles aren't much help there either, in my opinion. They either use too many words to say nothing at all, or come barreling at you like a horse running at full tilt. And there isn't a single shred of good humor to be found in any of them."

"You're right about the lack of good humor," Mirk said, as he set back in on the gratin to try to buoy his spirits. "Even the more sociable ones don't know how to carry a conversation." He was tempted to try to divert her attention again, but sensed that it'd be fruitless. It'd be better to get things done and over with. "Monsieur Am-Hazek is going with me to speak with commander Genesis. He's trying to sort out the magic on the other djinn's collars. The last time Monsieur Am-Hazek came to see me, he...euh, began to react, a little. From when he switched places with Monsieur Am-Gulat. Genesis is hoping it will happen again so that it might give him some clue about how the magic on Am-Gulat's collar works."

Madame Beaumont's expression turned cross as she deliberately set down her fork and knife. "You're taking Monsieur Am-Hazek away to be tortured all evening? Things are worse with you than I thought..."

"Monsieur Am-Hazek was the one who suggested it," Mirk said. "I made Genesis promise that we'd do it near the City walls, so that we can send him back out if he started reacting badly. They're both very concerned about what's being done to the K'maneda djinn. And I haven't been able to find out anything useful on my own. So...really, we don't have much choice."

"That's because you need to listen to me, Mirk," Madame Beaumont insisted. "Everything goes back to it. Your dulled wits, not knowing any of the news, how skinny you are. You need to go back to France. Herbert is behind all of this, I'm sure of it. And you won't find out anything about him hiding up here in this terrible country with these terrible people."

"Have you been able to find out anything more about things, madame?" Mirk countered. Though he felt a pang of regret doing so.

But Madame Beaumont wasn't ruffled in the slightest by it. Instead, she picked up her utensils again, a self-satisfied smirk coming onto her face. "Like I said. You've come to the master. Men really are terribly predictable, aren't they? I knew he wouldn't be able to resist the prospects of finally conquering the one lady who's ever refused him. A lonely old widow, separated from good company in a foreign land, what else would she have to do other than write letters all day? And who would she write to other than the only other well-seasoned unmarried man left in the country? Honestly, to believe I'd be getting up to that nonsense at my age. You must promise me, Mirk, that you'll never let yourself become so easily moved."

"Really?" It gave Mirk pause, made him reach for the breadbasket for something tougher to chew on along with that bit of fresh information. Though he doubted Madame Beaumont's chef, no matter how bad she claimed he was, would be able to produce rolls that could be used for cobbles like the ones the K'maneda cooks churned out. "I thought he was a more, euh, reserved man than that."

"It's not as if he's propositioning me outright, of course," Madame Beaumont said. "But I've known him for nearly three centuries. I can read that man as plainly as I can the guild bulletins. And I have given in to the appeal of a sympathetic ear before, in my younger days," she admitted after a pause, jabbing the gratin with a bit of particular spitefulness.

"There's no weakness in wanting to have friends, madame. No one likes to be alone. And it must have been very difficult for a woman of your standing to be left without family."

A tired laugh escaped her before she forced herself into trying to eat again. Mirk wasn't certain whether the bitter screw of her mouth was from the gratin or whatever memories assailed her in that moment. "Just you wait. The vultures are already circling you too, I'm certain. You're just too kind to notice them."

"What do you mean?"

"A fortune never likes to rest in one pair of hands alone," she said. "Especially if those hands aren't grasping. I don't hear from the younger crowd often these days, since my niece's circle is all married and my nephew is a scoundrel, but I'm certain there are plenty of eyes on you already. You must exercise good judgment, my dear. Everyone has something terrible in their past. Something that can excite the sensibilities of a tender-hearted individual. Holding strong to your convictions is the only way not to end up in something terrible yourself."

Mirk tore apart his roll, cramming a quarter of it hastily into his mouth. Poor manners. And it didn't grant him the reprieve he'd been hoping for, time to consider and reconsider. Unlike the rolls on the basket in the infirmary common room, the ones made by Madame Beaumont's chef fell apart easily after only a few chews. "Our situations are similar, yes,” Mirk said. “But also not. Whether it's fair or not, a man has more room for discretion."

"I'd agree with you, if you'd ever been halfway decent at exercising manly discretion," Madame Beaumont said.

Mirk cringed, but couldn't think of anything to say to that. She had a point. And he knew it.

Madame Beaumont finally gave up on her dinner, leaving her utensils on her plate and casting aside her napkin once more. "Your mother had her heart in the right place, God bless her. I loved her like my own flesh and blood. But she should have found a man to guide you, once your Uncle Marc passed. Maybe she felt a bit put out because your sister and father were so much alike. It must not have seemed fair to her, letting him have her and someone else take you. And though Jean-Luc had more iron in him, I'm sure she could tell as well as I that he'd never be a suitable model for you to follow.”

She leaned back in her chair, considering him deeply for a moment, her eyes tracing the cut of Mirk’s suit before continuing. “I could have seen you growing more stern, if you'd had a different sort of upbringing. But nothing could have made you as pig-headed as that man. He would have cut off his own hand just because someone he disliked told him that he looked better with two. And he was never very sociable. Before Enora came along, we'd have to practically come and beg him to leave that manor of his. Wanted nothing to do with any of us. Though...have his journeys come up in that journal of his yet?"

"Journeys? No, I don't think so. Although I'm not the one translating it."

"We always assumed that he was locked away inside whenever we didn't see him for months. But he'd been putting on disguises and going out right under all our noses! Dressed like a beggar or a peasant, roaming wherever his mood took him. I understand that Jean-Luc didn't come from money, so it must have been hard for him to adjust to having proper manners, but some things are just too much. That's how he met most of the strange people he did, you know. Just shaking the bushes and seeing what sort of weird things fell out."

Mirk laughed, toying with the last of his roll. "That does sound like something grandfather would do."

"I suppose you are like him, in a way. Isn't that what happened here with all your terrible mercenary friends? You were making the best of a bad situation instead of seeking it out, but it ended up the same."

"It was easier," Mirk said, after a time. "Before all of this. No one expected anything of me when I was no one. So...yes, I can see why he did it."

"Maybe it will still work out for the best. It's never too late to learn. And Monsieur Am-Hazek has informed me that you are often in the company of men now, even if they're not the best sort. If they won't teach you manners, they'll at least teach you how to look after your own interests. Which you absolutely must do. Do not, under any circumstances, take the offer of the first girl some miser sends after you with a story about how her family's in peril and you're the most charitable man she's ever met. Women can be vultures just as much as men can."

It was unfortunate, Mirk thought. Despite all of Madame Beaumont's criticism, her own agitation and lack of appetite, he'd been honest when he'd said the gratin was excellent. But with the sudden turn toward the topic of marriage, Mirk found he'd lost his own appetite as well. And he had the impression that Madame Beaumont would have a pointed word to say on the matter if he asked for some leftovers from the kitchen to take back with him to eat when he was feeling less overwhelmed. "I promise, madame, I have no intention of getting married any time soon. No matter how much it might help someone else."

The statement gave Madame Beaumont pause. For an instant, Mirk felt like he was going to spit the dinner he'd just shoveled down back up into the planter behind his godmother's chair. "Maybe Annette's decision to send you off to that abbey was for the best. I've never been the most pious woman, but if the Lord gives you the strength to refuse all the scroungers, then at least it's been good for something."

Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

Thankfully, before Mirk could dwell on the statement for too long — or on the fact that the only person he would consider marrying was the furthest thing from a scrounger there was — he was saved by a rap on the parlor's French doors. Madame Beaumont straightened up in her chair, checking her bonnet before ordering the visitor to enter. Monsieur Am-Hazek slipped inside, still wearing his overcoat, beaded with moisture from the fog that had descended on London sometime in November and hadn't lifted since. He bowed to them both, hands clasped behind his back. "Madame, seigneur. Should I tell Claudette to bring the coffee?"

"Yes, please," Madame Beaumont said, pushing away her plate. "Just have her bring the tray, we can leave the dinner service for after you've gone."

A restless silence fell over the room as the coffee was brought in. Am-Hazek removed his overcoat and folded it neatly over the back of a chair as the maid who'd shown Mirk to the parlor stalked silently back into the room, a tray laden with sweets and an urn of coffee in hand. Mirk couldn't help but appreciate her strength, how she carried the heavy tray with such skill and grace, even if she did still seem a bit suspicious of him. Once she'd left and closed the doors, Madame Beaumont set in on Am-Hazek right away, as he lowered himself down into the chair across from them at the round table.

"Monsieur, why didn't you inform me of this little plan of yours?" she scolded him, ignoring the coffee and cake the maid had served her. Mirk had thought his appetite had gone, but the sight of fresh meringue brought it roaring back. He tried not to devour his own slice outright as he settled in to watch his godmother and Am-Hazek spar over their own untouched desserts. "Is it perhaps because you knew that I'd inform you straight away that you're a fool for letting that terrible man experiment on you like you're some kind of frog?"

Am-Hazek ducked his head. "I apologize, madame. I thought it best not to worry you."

"What? Because of my advanced age?"

"Because, knowing your temperament, I anticipated you might insist on coming with, despite the late hour," Am-Hazek countered.

"No one should be creeping about at this hour other than rats and beetles. And you are neither. Nor are you, though I might argue otherwise about your friend," Madame Beaumont added, casting a skeptical glance in Mirk's direction before fixing her attention back on Am-Hazek.

"We must be discreet, madame. And you are well aware that the seigneur’s associate can offer us more protection in the nighttime than he can during the day."

"Protection? The last time you went to see him, you were laid up for a full day recovering afterwards. And it happened a second time already? You did not inform me of the way entering into the K'maneda's city effects you now. Was that because you thought my heart might give out if I learned of it?"

Am-Hazek ducked his head. "Of course not, madame. But you know I dislike ignoring your wishes. I prefer for there to be a meeting of the minds on matters that concern everyone."

"How noble of you," Madame Beaumont muttered, as she picked up her coffee cup. "I would advise you to quit the servile attitude, monsieur. It does not suit you."

A slight smile ghosted across Am-Hazek's face. "I can fight my nature as well as you can fight yours, madame."

"And since your strength is strategy, according to what you have decided to tell me, exactly what is the strategic perspective on this little gambit of yours tonight?"

"A simple matter of gathering the most knowledge we can about the other djinn's collars," Am-Hazek said. "I have been promised by both the commander and the seigneur that there will be no real risk to me, as long as we are not noticed and we stay close to the City's walls. I cannot say the same about most of the other avenues open to us. Namely, either confronting Ravensdale or Seigneur d'Aumont."

"At least you're willing to take Herbert seriously, I suppose. Everyone else recognizes that he's powerful, of course, but no one wants to accept the notion that he could do something as beastly as deal in the sale of djinn."

"I have always gotten the impression that Seigneur d'Aumont is a man who has no qualms about doing what is necessary to achieve his ends. Whether or not he enjoys doing what is necessary is another matter entirely," Am-Hazek said. Though he peered down into his own cup of coffee, he didn't move to sample it.

"Whether he enjoys it or not is irrelevant," Madame Beaumont said. "He does it all the same. And he absolutely must be stopped."

Am-Hazek and Mirk exchanged a sideways look. Mirk chose to take the brunt of his godmother's ill temper in Am-Hazek's place. "I can't help but wonder, madame, if your previous experience with Seigneur d'Aumont has colored your opinion of him."

"Of course it has! I can't be blamed for him still having everyone else fooled. And I have experience in handling snakes, you know."

Mirk sighed. "If it wasn't so late, I'd almost suggest that you come with, madame. I think sitting here and not being able to do anything would be taxing on anyone's nerves. Maybe more than, euh, seeing the process. As it were." Not to mention the fact that Genesis had told him to meet him in a shed beside the East Gate's watch station, and he had trouble picturing his godmother taking well to cramming herself inside a glorified lean-to alongside himself, Am-Hazek, and Genesis.

"Who says I'm doing nothing? I'll finish writing my letters. All that remains is for me to find a reason to invite him up to see me and an excuse to get him mingling with your mercenary friends. I can't exactly invite everyone to a party, considering how the last one turned out. Not that it was your doing, Mirk. Everyone agrees that you handled the situation with Laurent as gracefully as possible, given Laurent's attitude on the manner. And I've been assured by several people that the remaining Montignys intend on presenting you with their formal apology and thanks at the public meeting of the Circle on the equinox."

"I'm supposed to attend the public meeting as well?" The cake that he'd just polished off sank like a rock in Mirk’s stomach. "Seigneur Feulaine only said I needed to attend the private one the day before..."

"As a strategist, I'd warn you against introducing Seigneur d'Aumont into K'maneda society on a whim, madame," Am-Hazek said, his expression growing more earnest and open as he pushed aside his untouched coffee. Though Mirk couldn't feel much from him, as always, it seemed to him that it strained the djinn to have to converse with his godmother so openly. That he had to focus to make the right impression on her instead of remaining aloof and reserved. It reminded him of Genesis, in a way. Only Am-Hazek was much better at convincing his face to make the right expressions. He understood what they were supposed to look like, at the very least, instead of only hazarding his best guess.

However, Madame Beaumont wasn't backing down. "This is not a whim. If you want a snake to strike, you have to provoke it."

"I fear that the strike will be too much for anyone to bear, if it happens in a room full of K'maneda," Am-Hazek said. "They have a notable propensity toward violence. Regardless of whether or not it might offend the sensibilities of those present."

"Your warning has been noted, monsieur. In the meantime, you'd best be off about your business. I have letters to write. And I expect you not to be out all night."

Am-Hazek dipped his head and rose to his feet, perhaps judging that it'd be better to debate the matter with his godmother after he'd returned safely rather than before. Which only made Mirk glad that he'd decided to ration his potential that day in the infirmary, as much as it pained him to do so, with the spring contracts starting to accelerate. If Am-Hazek returned to his godmother’s townhouse with a ring of blisters around his neck, they’d all pay for it. "Then we'll be going, seigneur. I'll have Pascal fetch your cloak while you finish."

"Thank you, Monsieur Am-Hazek," Mirk said, as the djinn glided across the parlor and slipped back out into the hall. "And thank you for having me for dinner, madame." Mirk turned to face his godmother, putting on his most earnest smile. "It really was lovely. Give my complements to your chef."

"I see no need to encourage him," Madame Beaumont replied with a scoff. Then she sighed, bracing herself on the arms of her chair to lever herself to her feet. "Indulge an old woman and give me a hug instead of bowing at me, my dear."

Mirk did as he was told. And for the first time in his memory, his godmother's frame felt frail against his own rather than reassuring. "Please, listen to Monsieur Am-Hazek, madame," Mirk said beside her ear. "Give me some time to think of something to do with Seigneur d'Aumont. Wait until after I see him next week for the meeting before doing anything yourself, at least."

The strength returned to his godmother's arms, just long enough to add a hint of warning to her words. "Until then, Mirk. And I expect a letter with your thoughts on what happens tonight. I trust Monsieur Am-Hazek completely, of course. But I don't like this new tendency of his to try to spare my feelings."

His godmother's words resting heavy on his shoulders, just like the dinner sinking like a rock in stomach, Mirk at least left her with a proper bow. But he caved to his exhaustion and shuffled out into the hall rather than keeping his step poised and graceful on the way out. The aforementioned Pascal was waiting there for him with his cloak. Mirk couldn't help but notice that it'd been brushed and warmed for him as the valet swung it over his shoulders. "Ah, thank you, Monsieur Pascal...you didn't have to go through all that trouble..."

"It is my duty, Seigneur d'Avignon," the valet murmured. He was watching the shadowy edges of the hall rather than looking at him. And there was a very suspicious, poorly crafted enchantment pulling Mirk's eyes away from a knife-sized blur at his waist. Apparently Genesis's last visit had left a poor impression on more than just Madame Beaumont. "And monsieur isn't necessary. I am not like Monsieur Am-Hazek."

"I have high hopes for you yet, Pascal," Am-Hazek said, as he stepped out of a door further down the hallway, closer to the center of the townhouse. He'd put his coat back on and had a plain, secondhand wooden box in hand. "Forgive the seigneur his indulgences. I assure you, he means no disrespect with his titles. I've noticed that religiosity brings out a propensity toward giving them to everyone in humans."

Pascal's hand had flown toward the blur at his waist at Am-Hazek's voice, but he relaxed again almost immediately, looking bashful. "Yes, of course, Monsieur."

"No need to see us out or call the carriage. I think a walk is in order. Wouldn't you agree, seigneur?"

Mirk nodded. "The East Gate isn't very far away." And hopefully by the time he'd gotten there, his dinner would have settled well enough that whatever plan Genesis had in mind wouldn't have him coughing it back up onto anyone.

The night beyond Madame Beaumont's doorstep was just as cold and miserable and foggy as it'd been on his walk over. But Mirk didn't feel the need to illuminate the magelight on his wrist again to help find his way. It was clear from the purposeful spring in Am-Hazek's step that the djinn had no difficulty seeing through the fog.

"Have you been well, Monsieur Am-Hazek?" Mirk asked him. In French. It’d be better to continue the conversation in the same way it’d begun, Mirk thought, not to mention it being more convenient if they came across others out in the fog on their walk to the gate. And being polite enough to converse properly with a man like Am-Hazek was much easier in French than in English. "I apologize for madame's mood. I'm afraid I must have soured her over dinner."

"Madame has been particularly...disquieted as of late," Am-Hazek replied. "I believe she feels out-of-sorts so removed from the others in Lyon. A woman's position is constrained in your society to begin with, so I believe that she feels the pain of not being able to reach her own circle directly more than you or I would in a similar predicament."

"I tell her every letter that there's no need for her to stay up here," Mirk said with a sigh. As guilty as he felt about being waited on hand and foot again, he had to admit that having his cloak warmed for him was making the walk back to the City much easier than the walk to Madame Beaumont's townhome had been, Am-Hazek's company aside. "She's missing the whole spring season. Even if she doesn't know many of the young people, I'm sure she misses the entertainment of the debutante season. The whole issue of Seigneur d'Aumont aside."

"When madame begins something, she likes to see it through to the end.” Another faint smile crossed the djinn’s face. It was easier for Am-Hazek to permit himself one out in the street than it had been in Madame Beaumont's parlor. "And one never knows when an opportunity for action might present itself. I do believe that her strategy of convincing Seigneur d'Aumont to pay a visit to London is better than facing him in France, though I disagree with her impulse to pit him and the K'maneda against each other."

"I don't have a head for any of this...plotting," Mirk said. "Thinking about who will do what when. All of it seems to fall apart in an instant, anyway."

Am-Hazek considered this for a time, tapping his forefingers on the sides of his box. "There are two modes of strategy that we were taught in the Tel-Sek. The little school, the one in my kinship line's home. Some majinn are more suited to the hekaz, the long strategy. Drafting proposals, planning the opening moves of an assault and setting up the supply lines, organizing the yearly trade caravans. Others are better at the pazinn. Being an arbitrator, planning the counter-attack, making the bargain on the side of the road with a mind to what cities lie ahead. The short strategy. I think, perhaps, you are better suited to the pazinn than the hekaz."

"Which were you better at?"

"The pazinn, seigneur. Owing to my unruly nature. I never mastered the art of patience as well as my kin."

"You could have fooled me," Mirk mumbled, drawing the hood of his cloak up over his head. They were approaching the edge of the core of the mage district, where all the potioners and artificers and guilds had their storefronts and the inns and taverns catering to mages ran through the night. Though it was late, Mirk didn't want to risk anyone he knew catching sight of him. Especially with a djinn that wasn't in his direct employ, if he came across a high-ranking K'maneda officer. They were, after all, the sort of person most likely to be rambling around in the damp near midnight.

"If you knew what djinn are like on their home realm, perhaps you wouldn't think me so composed, seigneur."

Mirk considered this, chewing on his lip as he stared down at the cobbles, watching out for loose ones. The streets in the mage quarter were well-maintained when compared to those in mortal London, but they still were a far cry from the unnatural orderliness of the streets of the City of Glass. "What is the djinn home realm like, monsieur? And who is selling all the djinn into captivity on Earth? Is there some war happening?"

"It's not altogether unlike your own, seigneur," Am-Hazek said. "Of course, the most interesting parts of it are different. The mannerisms, the dress, the food. And magic. But as on every realm, there is a certain hierarchy that must be obeyed. Whether that is viewed as proper or something to be fought against changes over time, as does whether or not people are willing to speak of it openly and glorify it. At present, the Ra-Djinn are at the top of the heirarchy. Craftsmen, but there are many kinds on our realm, as that's the djinn's specialty. The Ra-Djinn are the kinship line that has mastered all things made with fire. Foodstuffs, since the djinn prefer not to eat anything that hasn't been cooked. And metalworks. Their swords won them their position at the top of the hierarchy nearly three hundred years ago. And have kept them there ever since."

"I see..."

"It is customary among the djinn not to kill fellow djinn. There are comparatively few of us, and we have children very infrequently. Much like the angels. Instead, when a djinn commits a crime, or one group defeats another in war, the defeated djinn are taken prisoner and become Li-Djinn for as long as is seen fit. Serving djinn. Technically, all of us here on Earth are Li-Djinn. But since humans don't show much interest in our ways, we prefer to keep our given kinship titles. Especially because this practice of selling Li-Djinn to others on different realms is unprecedented."

"Why did it start?"

"I do not have any direct knowledge of the matter, but I can make a reasonable guess. The Ra-Djinn simply made more enemies than they could handle. Having one or two conquered Li-Djinn in the richest households is not such a bad thing. But fifty or more serving in every household is an understandably discomforting thought, especially if many of them come from the same place and kinship line."

"No one protested against this?"

"Our hierarchy is very stable. It's as old as the angels' Empire. But I suspect that if the djinn remaining on the home realm learned that the people the Ra-Djinn are selling the Li-Djinn to don't have the same respect for djinn life as we all do, their opinion may begin to shift."

"I certainly hope so," Mirk said. "I don't mean to be rude, Monsieur Am-Hazek, but none of this sounds very fair."

Mirk snuck a glance over at the djinn. Rather than being upset over discussing his realm's history, rather than drifting into the melancholy of homesickness or anger at his kin having been betrayed, Am-Hazek only seemed thoughtful. And perhaps a bit hopeful, as he surveyed the street ahead of them. "Humans are a very...interesting people. I don't mean to be rude either, seigneur, but your passions are five times as intense as those of most djinn I've met. And many of you seem to have a certain fanatic desire for independence that I find invigorating. Though I wouldn't push things nearly as far as some of your new associates do."

"I don't think many humans would push things as far as most of them," Mirk said, unable to keep from laughing a little. They were very close to the East Gate now, only five minutes away, even with Am-Hazek walking at a leisurely pace so that Mirk could keep up without straining. "Did Genesis tell you exactly what he plans on doing?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Mirk saw Am-Hazek shake his head. "No. But he did assure me that no harm would come to me that you couldn’t undo."

"That's not exactly reassuring."

"Do you not trust him, seigneur?"

"Of course I trust him. Genesis wouldn't lie about something so serious. What I don't trust is his judgment when it comes to injuries. He seems to often forget that not everyone is as unbothered by pain as he is."

"A wise caveat, seigneur." Am-Hazek said, laughing as well. "But I'm afraid we have no other choice than to hope that the commander hasn't misjudged things."