14

Preparations

Patches snuck quietly to the surface. She could always come and go as she pleased, and few noticed her absence. Actually, since Oydd had taken over, it was more difficult to sneak away, as he so often required her assistance in the morgue.

The mouseling had become somewhat proficient with a hook and thread. She had learned the anatomy of ratlings and lizardmen and goblins—mostly the same, though the principal organs varied in color, and sometimes even redundancy. She had even spearheaded a few innovations to help the morgue run more cleanly and efficiently, like clearly labeling similar-colored chemicals. However, the rudra seldom noticed her efforts.

Though it was never any trouble to slip away, Patches found that the longer she stayed away the fouler a mood she might expect from Oydd upon returning.

As the rock path to the surface turned to mud and a patchwork of white roots, the mouseling began to feel the chill of winter from above, even through her fur coat.

Had it been so many months? She knew the southern tunnels had frozen over, but this location remained green in her memory, and the stark contrast bit at her more than the cold.

Patches poked her nose out first into the crisp winter air and sniffed, then sniffed again, hoping for the scent of pine needles, and burning coals, and roasting meat. But somehow the cold overpowered everything, leaving only a sting in her nostrils.

The mouseling hurried through dry air toward the clearing where she had once met an alluring witch and her companions. She saw no one. She could not hear the birds, nor see the squirrels. The trees stood bare and skeletal in the wind. The ash from the firepit had all but blown away. Dead weeds grew over the rocks and dislodged one from the circle. Patches tried to right it but the frozen ground held it fast.

She chose instead to climb a nearby tree, then sat very still and very quiet and watched the barren campsite.

It felt too empty. There wasn't supposed to be nothing here. She knew there wasn't supposed to be nothing. And the emptiness hurt, which proved it was wrong.

Still, the mouseling sat in the cold and watched the empty clearing for an hour or so, until it began to grow dark. A pit formed in her stomach and she decided to leave.

Patches hopped down from her perch and heard a slight rustle in her pouch as the contents shifted. She opened it and saw the small bag she had taken from Jade. Next to it sat the previous contents—an egg-shaped opal, not much bigger than her paw. And yet, the bag did not appear empty. It bulged out ever so slightly and sprung back when she poked it.

Patches opened the bag and peered inside. There she found a single, vibrant green leaf.

The mouseling smiled and tightened the bag again with her green ribbon, leaving the leaf inside, then began the trek home.

When she reached the Warrens, Patches ran over the roof of the stables, to avoid being hissed at by the lizards, then ducked into a small side-tunnel she had dug as a shortcut and soon sprinted into the commons. Where, distracted a bit by the mud on her paws, she ran headlong into Licephus.

Patches ricocheted from his leg, as if it were a solid wall, squeaked and landed on her chin, splitting it open on the rock floor. Her pouch rolled twice then spilled its contents. The opal bounced along the hallway with a dull ring, and the witch's doll from the marsh, formed from ratling fur, landed at his feet along with several less remarkable items.

The vampire stooped and picked up the doll, running a delicate finger along the blood stain, then feeling one of the sharp, bone needles.

"Now what do we have here?"

*****

Jeshu tied an azaeri feather to a shaft of river cane then secured the fletching with cave lizard sinew. He held the arrow up for Ty'lek's inspection. The archer shook his head, flicking the feathers in annoyance and held up his arrow for comparison—an arrow that looked identical in Jeshu's estimation.

"I don't understand what you want done differently."

In response the azaeri tore the fletching free and scraped the gum resin from the shaft with his hunting knife then handed the reed back to be redone.

"I would do it the same unless you can show me what it is you don't like."

Ty'lek let out an involuntary squawk then grabbed the whole basket of reeds and sinew. He handed the druid his knife then indicated the pile of broken shells on his far side.

"I'm on arrowhead duty?"

"Es," the archer replied and began to fletch his own arrows.

Jeshu sat before the pile of shells and sorted through the pieces until he found one suitable for carving.

He had only made his first shave when the azaeri grabbed his hand in annoyance and squawked a complaint.

"Do you want my help or not?" the druid asked patiently.

Ty'lek seemed to consider his options for a moment then withdrew his hand from the dryad. Still he kept more of an eye on Jeshu's work than his own, gluing and tying the feathers with a practiced ease.

Jeshu sighed. "I haven't seen Cricket for nearly a week. Is he still in the morgue sulking?”

The azaeri cocked his head. "Suls...kingh?"

"Yes, sulking," Jeshu continued. "Moping. He retreated down there with Oydd the moment we got back, and I haven't seen him since."

The azaeri laughed—a sort of clicking caw.

"Why's that funny?"

Ty'lek scratched his beak, deciding how to respond. Finally, he stood and grabbed the druid's arm, gesturing toward the morgue with a jerk of his head.

"I think he wants to be alone," Jeshu responded.

Ty'lek cawed again, with a tone Jeshu recognized as a no, and shook his head for emphasis.

Reluctantly, Jeshu rose from his pile of broken shells and followed the archer to the morgue, where the azaeri gave three loud raps on the iron door.

A long silence followed and then Oydd's voice entered their minds.

Mouseling! He paused then shouted again with his mind in irritation, Mouseling!

I'll get it. Cricket's voice joined.

Jeshu gave a curious look to the azaeri, uncertain how they had clearly heard the insect. After a short wait, the door unlocked from the inside and swung open.

Cricket stood in the entryway with all four arms and both antennae intact. He rubbed a forearm against his eyes and clicked his tongue.

Jeshu stared, shocked, at the insect's complete, shiny black carapace, at a loss for words.

Seeing the druid's confusion, Cricket explained, "I haven't gotten it all off yet." He peeled what appeared to be a piece of dead skin from one of his eyes and threw it to the floor then began to clean his antennae.

"All of what off?" Jeshu looked at the hallway behind Cricket and saw several large, discarded pieces of exoskeleton, beginning to grey at the edges.

"Uh, my shell," Cricket answered. "I finished about a day ago, but I keep finding bits stuck in the oddest places."

"Finished what?" Jeshu asked with a note of frustration, knowing the answer full well by this point.

"Uh... molting," the insect said absently, scratching another piece of dried shell from beneath his chin. "Come on in. You should see what Oydd is up to."

As they walked, Jeshu scolded the insectoid, "You told me that your shell couldn't heal."

"It can't. That's why, like every few months, I have to shed the whole thing. Oh! I see why you were confused."

"And you even grew back your entire arm?" Jeshu managed to look more relieved than upset. "I had thought you were permanently impaired."

"What? Oh, yeah." Cricket laughed. "If I couldn't regrow my limbs, I wouldn't have any left." At this thought, he absently began cleaning his new antennae again. "New arm's a little stiff, but that usually goes away with time."

The three passed Oydd's library.

"Actually, it should be stronger than ever. When I molt, my shell usually gets tougher and my muscles grow too."

Jeshu sighed, almost embarrassed at his concern. "But you told me you'd never been so beaten as when we faced that trollblood."

"Well, the raptors, but I get your point. I guess I meant as an adult."

"Damn!" Oydd pricked his thumb with a tiny threaded hook. Where is that mouseling! The rudra spoke to their minds, though he was clearly in sight of everyone.

"When I was smaller, I went on a lot of dangerous missions with Scorpion," the insect continued, despite the interruption. "I got my shell handed to me pretty often then. But if I got too thrashed up or battered, they just pulled me off the front lines until I molted."

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"Well I'm glad to know you can do that. I was truly worried."

"What? Molt," Oydd interjected. "I told you he could do that."

"I don't believe you did."

"Really? Well..." the rudra trailed off as he finished a stitch and tied off the thread. "There, they're finished."

Two goblins lay in a heap on a single autopsy table, lacking any clear modifications, unlike Kaser.

"New ghouls?" Jeshu asked.

"No... nothing so sophisticated. These will be zombies. No wards, no augmentations. I'm simply repairing their fatal wounds, so they don't fall apart on the battlefield."

"Can I name them?" Cricket chimed in. "None of us understood the names you picked last time."

"I named them in Rudric. But I doubt I will be as attached to these. Do as you please."

"Awesome." Cricket grinned. "I'm naming them Scab and Wax."

Ty'lek laughed.

"Ridiculous," Oydd spat. "Where did you even come up with those names?"

"I was picturing a troll picking a scab and then I pictured him picking at his ear."

"Well I'm not calling them that."

"You want backsies? You've got some gall to go back on your promise that fast!" Cricket gasped.

"I did not promise."

"Well I thought you did. Where I come from, your word is your bond."

"You don't know where you came from," Oydd objected. He looked to the dryad for support, but Jeshu simply shrugged.

"I'm inclined to agree with Cricket."

Oydd growled.

"I suppose..." Cricket scratched his chin, "I might be willing to release you from your oath, if—"

"My oath!"

"If you say 'I invoke the ancient right of backsies'."

"Preposterous!" Oydd practically fumed. "I will do no such thing!"

"Then their names are Scab and Wax."

"I shouldn't have offered."

Jeshu said, "Really I'm not sure why you did, if you didn't intend to honor your word."

Oydd stewed in silence. Ignoring the look on Cricket's face, he retrieved his metal staff and commanded, "Jur diahk!"

Instantly a green light began to shine from the goblins' eyes. The first sat up and plopped down from the table onto its wiry feet. The second began to stir as well, when a voice penetrated the morgue.

You will report...

Jeshu sensed the Left Hand communicating to the group, but was surprised again when Cricket responded cheerfully, We're on our way!"

"Stop doing that!" Oydd scolded the insect.

"How are you doing that?" Jeshu probed.

Cricket laughed. "He's just mad because I figured it out before he did."

"Nonsense," Oydd snapped.

"To do... um, telepathy... he has to sort of create a link between all of our minds. And I found out how to respond."

"And everyone can hear you?" Jeshu asked, astonished.

"Anyone he wants to," Cricket answered.

"I did not want anyone to hear you."

"Then I should say, once he's opened up a link, I can say whatever I want."

"And it's infuriating!"

Jeshu considered this. "It could actually be useful if we could all converse that way."

"Or it could get us all killed when he offends the Left Hand," Oydd countered, and Ty'lek nodded in agreement.

"That does seem reckless," Jeshu said to the insect.

Cricket pouted visibly.

"How does he do it?" Jeshu asked.

"Because his mind is so simple," Oydd criticized as he made his way into the library.

Jeshu dropped the subject for the time being and followed the group to the debriefing room.

*****

Licephus paced, uncharacteristically, as the group reported to their summons. The mouseling sat in the far corner, with her eyes on her quivering tail, without looking up as the others entered.

Oydd looked to the Left Hand, but the mass of tentacles floated soundlessly, its mind closed to the rudra, and the vampire spoke first.

"We have gained some insight into the machinations of the Right Hand."

Cricket folded his arms, in sets, and waited for instructions.

Licephus continued, "For our first order of business, we are blacklisting the entire organization. With Damien's removal, this is the only slave colony that I do not believe to be compromised, in part because it was targeted for destruction. Because of that, you should consider yourselves fortunate.

"You will cover your brandings. After today, you have standing orders to eliminate anyone displaying the mark of the Right Hand on sight with impunity, including dhampiri. This is our new mark." Licephus pulled a thin chain from within his blouse, and displayed an old, worn sigil—a lily with three of its petals pressing against the corners of a triangular frame. "The mark of house Akamefuna. It means, 'my name will be remembered'. It is an old house. As far as I know, I alone remain. It will be used to identify those who are still loyal to our cause. I expect every slave in the colony to acquire this mark on the left wrist by the end of the day. Is that clear?"

"Yes," Oydd answered.

"Anyone openly displaying the brand of the Right Hand is a traitor, and is guilty of death."

Cricket frowned. He had worked with slaves from the Burrows in the fourth sect, and shied at the prospect of killing old allies on sight.

"There is one exception. Until you have further orders, you are to hide your new mark and display the Right Hand when interacting with the Drake Guard. Do you know Commander Dragetsen?"

Oydd answered, "Yes."

Cricket considered the implication of this request. The dhampir seldom brought the Drake Guard so far from the inner sects, but the insect had seen the dour commander on more than one occasion, and didn't care for his demeanor. He thought the riders looked humorously small atop their monstrous draconic mounts.

Without cue, the Left Hand began to speak and the vampire fell silent.

Recently a pair of cultists desecrated a temple of Serinyes. I have monitored their most recent activity, and believe they are likely to attempt the destruction of a second temple. In two nights.

The clerics of Serinyes request our protection.

The Left Hand began to relay information on the location of three temples, as well as the possible identities of the cultists. The information flooded into Cricket's head in an instant. He felt Oydd bolster his mind and the Left Hand increased the speed of the relay in proportion. He wondered what trauma his mind might have endured without the rudra's assistance, but he also sensed that the transaction was completely under control.

Even with Oydd's assistance, Cricket couldn't hold onto the deluge of thoughts. A lot of it was just impressions. He hoped that Oydd would be able to expound later. He could tell that information was still being gathered on the identities of the lead cultists. For now he gleaned only random names and races. A changeling, a were-panther, a rudra. Nothing unusual. He only retained one name, since it was repeated more than once.

Shisu.

*****

Toad dipped his needle in black mimic ink then made the final prick on his subject's wrist. The ratling steadied the needle with his tail, using a free hand to flip a lens in front of his eye, then adjusted the magnification.

When he decided the tattoo met his approval, he flipped the lens away again and called for his next subject.

Jeshu nervously took the chair. Toad climbed onto Jeshu, holding the dryad's arm down with a long foot, and grabbed his left wrist in both paws. "Not black," the ratling declared, then sorted through his instruments until he found exactly what he was looking for. He opened a squat jar full of mushroom charcoal and held it up for Cricket's inspection.

"Has a bluish tint." Toad scratched at the piercing in his brow and then the two piercings that weighed down his oversized ear. The ratling looked away from Cricket anxiously.

The insect nodded approval as Jeshu nervously eyed the ratling's bone chisel.

"What are you afraid of?" Cricket joked. "Isn't this better than getting burned."

"I suppose."

Toad dipped his chisel in ash then centered it on the dryad's wrist, preparing a strike with his mallet. Jeshu closed his eyes.

Click! The mallet struck and the dryad opened his eyes, somewhat relieved.

"I knew you could handle a little pain," Cricket commented.

"The pain is not what I'm worried about. I don't like being permanently marred."

"I doubt it's permanent. I can barely see your first branding. You heal too quickly." Cricket thought a moment. "I always just get tattoos."

"Always?" the druid asked.

"After I molt. Damien preferred branding, but," Cricket held up his wrist. "Black doesn't really burn. So... Toad has this white ink from milk squids that shows up on me."

When Jeshu finished, Cricket took a seat and the ratling grabbed a very fine needle and a bottle of milky white ink.

"Why isn't he using the chisel on you?" Jesh asked indignantly.

"We don't want the shell to crack."

"You didn't object when he cracked my bark!"

Cricket shrugged as Toad continued to make very fine pricks on the insect with his needle, and Jeshu scrutinized his own tattoo sourly.

When the ratling finished, Cricket almost instantly hopped to his feat, visibly excited.

"Time to see Bird!"

*****

"How are ye?" Bird snarled, revealing one crooked fang.

"What's with the eyepatch?" Cricket asked.

"Was workin' glass, an it 'ad a bit o' glint off ma eye," the were-panther explained.

Cricket began to dig in his pouch while the smith glared at him impatiently.

"Come oan then, ya bam!"

"Hold on, it was just here." Cricket scratched his head then dug deeper. "Aha!" He produced a crumpled yellow parchment, slightly rolled up.

Cricket stretched it between an upper and lower arm and displayed it for the blacksmith. On the parchment, with a stick of black wax, the insect had drawn a crude sketch of a khopesh.

"Two of these!"

Bird breathed heavily and stomped his foot.

"Longer than a sickle, but shorter than a scimitar."

"Aye."

"The curve is in between a sickle and a scimitar too. Sharp on both ends, so I can hook a goblin's head with this side or slash a giant's ankle with this side." He pointed to the pommel. "Stabby down here too, on the bottom."

"I ken do it," the were-panther growled.

"Then why do you sound upset?"

"That's jes ma voice!" Bird snapped, snatching the sketch out of Cricket's hand.

"Perfect. Priority one."

"The octopus already gave a 'priority one' tae ma."

"This is the new priority one. Do his thing second."

Bird grunted in frustration at the conflicting orders, but spread the sketch open on a table with two stones, and began to comb through his supplies, mumbling to himself.