Not everybody took well to the new reality, of course. Changing the status quo was always an uphill battle, and many cowled enjoyed a nearly unprecedented amount of freedom in the so-called Age of Heroes. Creating the Game, enforcing its rules, as vague and unwritten as they were, dealing with the friction between capes and cloaks as the city-under-the-city came into being – it was a thankless work, and one that never truly ended. Civilians got nervous at the thousands of outlaws living effectively beneath their feet. Said outlaws constantly tested their chains, ever seeking a way to cheat the system. Every once in a while there was a major push – whether a hero that's gone too far or a villain that was too heinous to tolerate – and everybody held their breath to see whether the fragile balance between the two sides would crash, turn into an outright war.

Each time the situation stabilized, allowing the observers to breathe out in relief, and the Great Game continued. After all, it was a widely known, if unacknowledged truth that both above and below had monsters, real ones, and nobody wanted to see them clash. Because if they did? It wouldn't matter who won.

There would be nothing left to fight over.

***

“Well?” the villainess demanded imperiously the moment she was seated, not bothering with any small talk. “Show me.”

Marchioness was a striking woman. Tall, taller than most men even, dark-eyed, long-legged, well-endowed, she would have been intimidating even if I didn't know she possessed the ability to shred everything within a five meter radius into finely cut ribbons. With onyx-black hair flowing down her back and smooth ebony skin, she seemed to be sewn from the fabric of the night itself, the impression highlighted by a close-fitting dress of rich reds and bold golds.

Unlike most cowled costumed, it was ill-suited for running, I immediately noted, though that, perhaps, was a statement of its own.

“Of course, my lady,” I replied readily, kicking Blythe under the table.

He closed his mouth with a barely perceivable blush and placed the case on the table, flicking open the clasps.

“Forty eight quantum communicators, just as promised.”

I did not ask what she needed the comms for. Though curiosity was a useful trait for a villain to have, displaying that curiosity often made one's business partners recall the old adage about three people and keeping secrets.

Marchioness flicked her hand, the movement derisive, yet elegant.

“And the expert?”

“Let me introduce Steven Blythe,” I waved toward the man, not even trying to match the lady's grace. I would fail, and I would feel humiliated, and it was just not worth it. “A graduate of Dreadward's own University with a doctorate in communication technologies. Perfect man for the job.”

The villainess raised a single perfectly sculpted eyebrow.

“So you claim. Am I to simply trust in your... integrity?”

The last word fell from her lips as though it was something dirty, almost obscene.

“It would take a man far braver than myself to attempt cheating you, Marchioness,” I had to laugh. “Especially given the rumors that your husband has a chance of becoming the next Duke.”

I could swear the air in the room suddenly dropped twenty degrees, choking off my laughter. Marchioness' eyes, already the furthest thing away from warm, went downright glacial, like the lifeless vacuum of empty space.

“My husband will be Duke,” something invisible and very, very sharp moved along the wooden surface of the table, filling the air with a soft scratching noise. “There is no chance involved in it.”

The restaurant went quiet, nearby patrons sensing the altercation and wanting absolutely nothing to do with it.

“Of course not,” I forced out past the suddenly numb lips. “I apologize for my ignorance. I'll make sure to never doubt Marquis in the future.”

The long, deep gouge stopped scant centimeters away from my side of the table, and the heavy atmosphere grew marginally warmer.

“Make sure to remember that,” the villainess ordered. “I will not forgive such insolence a second time.”

Blythe let out a shaky breath. Apparently, he held it in all this time, terrified of drawing the Marchioness' attention to himself with even so subtle a sound.

“My integrity has no bearing upon this transaction,” I hastened to draw the conversation back into the proper course. “Doctor Blythe is one of Sceptic's.”

Marchioness turned an evaluating eye toward the Englishman, and he froze as though faced with a cobra.

It wasn't that Sceptic was known for being particularly honest or honorable. Rather, he was somebody that very much liked money and power – and abhorred anything that stood in his way toward them. He stood to lose a lot more by cheating on a deal than he had to gain, which paradoxically made his greed the foremost guarantee of his truthfulness.

For somebody who claimed to dislike and disdain the games of the cowled, Sceptic had carved out quite a niche for himself in our society.

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“Is this true?”

“This is, uh, um...” Blythe licked his lips and tried again. “Yes, ma'am. I'm working for Sceptic.”

“And you guarantee the veracity of this man's claims?”

“I personally tested each and every one of the devices,” he nodded, seeming to draw confidence from talking about his specialty. “I even picked one apart and reassembled it. They are, um, quantum communicators, and they're all in working condition. I'd stake my life on it.”

Blythe looked like he regretted his choice of wording even before the Marchioness nodded, accepting the implicit oath.

I caught movement from one of my connections and had to keep myself from frowning.

The timeline had just moved up.

“According to the current market estimates, this bounty of R-Tech costs somewhere in the vicinity of 1.8 million commondollars. Does that sound about right to you?” I asked, trying to seem casual.

“Money is of no issue,” Marchioness flicked me off like an annoying fly.

“Five million, then?” I asked, knowing that I was playing with something much more dangerous that simple fire.

That actually garnered me a look.

“Know your place, dog,” lady Ma'at sounded only mildly irritated. “It's under the owner's table, picking up the scraps he deigns to throw you.”

“Woof,” I replied cheekily.

Marchioness did not seem as though she appreciated my wit. She opened her mouth to reply, undeniably with something disdainful and scathing.

Then the echo of the first explosion rumbled throughout the room.

***

When she came to the meeting, Marchioness left her escort outside the restaurant, be it from the demands of secrecy or as a show of confidence. I had a feeling she was starting to regret that decision.

Pool of Thoth had only a single exit, and though a number of patrons remained at their tables, well used to the weirdness and the conflicts of the Underworld, the ones that moved toward the door were numerous enough to create a rather uncomfortable crowd. The press of the bodies was such that several people got pushed off the platform and straight into the lake. The stench of fear, wine and sweat was everywhere.

Marchioness snarled, the expression looking just as natural on her face as a haughty sneer did before. Without a single word of warning, she activated her power – limited, thankfully, to blunt force – pushing everyone and everything in front of her to the sides, causing them to fall into the water with frightened screams and muted swearing.

With nothing else standing in her way, the villainess stalked out of the restaurant.

“What's going on?” she demanded from a sharply dressed man with a khopesh-like blade on his belt.

“We don't know yet,” he shook his head, sharing a look with a nearby dark-haired woman in a sheath dress. “The explosions came from below – seventh sublevel, maybe even eighth – but the sounds of fighting seem to be moving closer.”

The ground beneath us shook from the force of yet another muffled Boom, causing everyone except lady Ma'at to grasp at the walls to avoid toppling. Dust fell from the ceiling, and I was abruptly reminded of the fact that we were currently deep below the surface and there were who knew how many tons of rock positioned right over out heads.

Marchioness looked furious.

“Those. Absolute. Incompetents! I can tolerate the occasional scuffle in my husband's future territory, but if these vulgar miscreants actually damage the crowning jewel of Duat, I swear, death will be only the last thing I grant them.”

Whirling around, she stormed down the tunnel, her power flickering at random around her, leaving deep, uneven gashes in floor, walls and even the ceiling. Her companions followed sedately several meters behind her, and we moved in right after them. After all, our negotiations remained unfinished, and there were hardly many places in the Underworld safer than right behind an enraged Marchioness.

Our path remained remarkably straightforward and unimpeded. Forewarned by the lashing storm of destruction, every passerby in our path hurriedly made the executive decision of retreating and finding somewhere else to be. So, when somebody deliberately walked into the middle of the road, blocking off an intersection with the larger tunnel, their intentions were unmistakable.

“You,” Marchioness narrowed her eyes, “are in the way.”

“My utmost apologies, your ladyship,” the man replied easily. “But I cannot let you pass. There's somebody who wants to meet with you.”

“Make an appointment.”

The stranger was old, short and stooped, requiring a cane to move around. His face was wrinkled, and his eyes had the scarring and the milky coloration of someone blind, but his hands were steady and his voice was entirely too confident for my liking.

“I'm afraid that's not an option,” he shrugged, leaning on the cane. “My lady Isfet was most insistent.”

The hiss that emerged from Marchioness' throat was more fitting for a feral cat that had its tail stepped on. There was a piercing shriek as her power pierced the reinforced metal handrails.

“Isfet? So that little whore is behind all of this?”

“Oh, not at all,” the old man looked vaguely bemused and not at all threatened. “My lady merely heard about this upcoming, how do you young'uns say it, powwow, from a little worm and decided to join in.”

“Worm?” Marchioness muttered. “Apophis decided to take a side, then. I see. They want to steal my beloved's dukedom.”

She nodded to the old man, regal and almost polite.

“If you'd give me a moment,” despite the phrasing, her words sounded more like an order.

“Of course, of course,” he nodded back. “I'm in no hurry.”

Marchioness turned around, moving exactly three steps toward us.

“My lady?” her male companion asked hesitantly. “What do you wish of -”

The man cut himself off, bringing a hand up to his neck. When he pulled it away, the fingers were stained crimson.

There was a single moment of incomprehension.

“You killed me,” his tone was almost childishly offended. “You can't kill me! I was going to kill you fir-”

His head exploded. Blood, brain matter and shards of bone flew in every direction. Blythe let out a shocked scream, hiding behind the briefcase, I couldn't quite help a flinch either. The woman in a sheath dress took the sudden brutality in stride, merely pulling out a handkerchief to wipe the crimson stains off her face.

Marchioness remained disinterested, almost bored, with not a single fleck of blood on her skin or dress.

“You should have been quicker, then.”

Without a single glance at the rest of us, the villainess turned back to the old man.