There are very few things I miss from my life of privilege, when I was still a child, when I was just growing up. I had luxuries available to me that many would have envied, I’m sure, but there were too many pressures on me to really enjoy much of it. My father was almost always there, looming over me along with the rest of the brood my mother left when she died in childbirth, his expectations always tainted by his grief at her loss. It gave him a heavy hand when he would push us to become “worthy of her sacrifice.” The fact that it took so long to discover just where my talents actually lay was a source of great frustration for him, I’m sure. Thorin knows my earliest scars are because of it.

Dancing had potential, but I could never really master any of the finer nuances, so it soon became apparent that I would never become a great artist of the stage. I always had fine, dextrous fingers, but when prompted to try and capture an animal or portrait or even still life the best I could ever manage was daubs and stick figures, even after hours of prepping from the best tutor he could find. And while I picked up reading and writing as quickly as my siblings, I could retain few of the all-important facts that the governess would drum into us, and numbers remained strange foreign things to me for most of my youth as well. I know my father was ready to give up on me as a waste, even though I wasn’t even the runt of his litter, because it became clear to him that I had no value compared to my four brothers and only sister.

I suspect if I hadn’t found my talents when I did, he likely would’ve handed me off to one of the temples, content to let me try and make something of myself as a cleric or priest. But then one day I snuck into one of my brothers’ sparring matches, and when the training master attempted to eject me I ran nine rings around him, putting two of my brothers on the floor while I was at it. I fully expected to be locked in the punishment closet for a whole moth after my father had whipped my back to bloody strips, but instead I was in the training circle the next day along with the rest of them. Within six months I was routinely beating all four of my brothers no matter the weapon, and my father finally had reason to be marginally proud of his one-time disappointment.

Three years after that I was sixteen and gone, taking his best sword with me. It gives me a little thrill every time I consider the fact he won’t be buried with it, even if that didn’t even occur to me until I’d already been on the road for six months. Then I laughed for a whole hour at the realisation, I remember. A final fuck you entirely by accident.

The only one of the few little pleasure I ever really allowed myself to enjoy from that time that I ever missed was the theatre. Not the ballets, they were far too flighty and flowery and I hated the fact that they were all about interpreting the meaning of the story from what the dancers were playing out with their movements, I just never understood the appeal. No, for me, it was the plays. It didn’t matter what kind of play it was, I loved them all. The comedies tickled me, I would always laugh for hours after whenever I remembered a particularly clever joke or situation within the larger story, and I think I did it as much because I knew how much it irritated my father. The romances were sometimes flowery and over-earnest, but the good ones always had plenty of drama or comedy in them to please me, to entice me and get me involved beyond ideas of love and passion that, at the time, I hadn’t yet learned to actually appreciate. Ultimately, though, it was the true dramas that always thrilled me the most.

There would always be action. Sometimes it would be a little flourish here and there, a brutal murder or a desperate duel that would always end in tragedy and immense complication that would then drive the narrative to its ultimate calamitous end. But there were others when there would be a lot of fighting, sometimes even what would become great, bloody battles if you let your imagination enhance what the actors could accomplish on the limited stage. Even though it was only ever stage violence, I would thrill to it as much as I ever did during sparring bouts on the training floor, which to me were never quite so vitally important. It wasn’t until I first wielded my sword in anger, against an opponent genuinely intent on murdering me on the spot, that I truly understood why, though …

It may have been acting, but when they were good, and they knew what they were doing with those blunt-edged stage swords, those players would always make those fights seem like genuine life and death. I would see true fear or rage in their eyes, the loss or horror or shamed guilt in their faces at the aftermath, and to me it would seem so real that I knew battle even before I ever faced it for real. So much, in fact, that when I did kill my first foe all I felt afterwards was that same thrill I had always lived vicariously through before. It wasn’t until later, when I truly realised what I’d actually done, and the genuine guilt finally hit me, that I realised it was actually different from stage fighting. The man I killed wouldn’t get up afterwards, or play a different part in another play the following night. I had truly killed him.

It didn’t dampen my enthusiasm for a good play, though, I still eat this glorious distraction up whenever I can. In the early days of the crew, it was a matter of great consternation for some of them whenever I would drag them along in our downtime to a local playhouse or travelling players’ tent to take in a performance. Admittedly sometimes the quality leaves something to be desired, but even the bad productions are still executed with enthusiasm, and that has a charm all its own. A good production, though? That’s as good to me as those rare occasions when I’m able to get into a proper grand company show from court players or the like. And over time I’ve managed to win most of the others over to it along with me. Ix remains a lost cause, but he’s entirely soulless anyway …

Trouble loves it even more than I do, in fact. I swear, whenever the curtains open her eyes light up, they get so big and stay that way for hours after the final bows, and she gets drawn into every confession of love and dastardly betrayal. The others indulge her as much as me, but in truth I know Kuth’s come to love it almost as much as me, and while I know he has no time for the love stories, he enjoys the comedies well enough but it’s the drama that he truly loves. He sees the same thing in the plays that I do, really – he loves the violence. For him it’s a chance to be able to revel in the bloodshed and chaos without any of the danger that comes with it. Hell, even Ix finds it hard to complain when there’s a good fight unfolding onstage.

The Oceanic Playhouse is one of the finest institutions of theatrical prestige in all of Tao. Even the Grand Opera House in Tabaphic, while a good deal more exclusive since it was built primarily to entertain the highest ranks of Rundao’s nobility in the nation’s seat of power, is less impressive, and not so well regarded. They say that once you’ve played at the Oceanic, you’ve finally made it, either as an actor or a playwright, although I doubt it’s really that simple. There are hierarchies everywhere, even in the world of the theatre, and I have no doubt that the official Royal companies who perform for the nobles at Tabaphic’s Grand still look down on Untermer’s more common libertine players. That being said, for those who really know theatre, the Oceanic is the true pinnacle.

It’s a shame, then, that we can’t really enjoy it right now, not while we’re here on business. We’ve missed the start of the matinee, the play is already well underway when we’re finally escorted through from the back of the theatre after we knocked at the stage entrance in the back alley, and there’d be no hope of catching up now even if we could stay to the end. That being said, as the usher escorts us up to the entrance to the appropriate balcony box, I can’t help listening out for the dialogue being delivered, what sounds like a rich soliloquy in lament of a particularly brutal personal betrayal. Knowing the traditions, a fight or murder is not far away in the narrative.

The others are deeply curious about their surroundings, of course. They’ve been in playhouses before, I’ve taken them to all kinds in our time, but I’ll admit never anywhere this fancy, it’s usually more common playhouses. The kind where the roof is open to the elements, the rafters and shingles forming a ring to cover only the stage itself and the balconies rented out to richer patrons, while we invariably find ourselves standing on the dirt and sawdust of the common floor. With the rest of the dregs and workers and other flotsam of society. It doesn’t matter, though – I almost prefer it that way, because we can get much closer to the stage itself, and therefore the action.

Here it’s very different, it’s more like those rare occasions we’ve been flush enough to pay some spare coin on box seats up above. That being said, this is still a whole other order of luxury compared to the relatively simple stepped wooden benches, in the commons you’re mainly paying for the shelter in case the heavens were to open on a performance. Instead the Oceanic is entirely enclosed, the décor rich and vibrantly coloured in warm reds and gorgeous gold leaf, while everyone’s seated in row-upon-row of plush, velvet-lined cushioned seating, and once the play starts the lights are dropped to near darkness. Then, as we saw when we were guided from the back through to the entrance to the stairs leading to the balconies, the only real illumination comes from the stage itself, lit by rows of lamps mounted low at the front, along with anything else they might need. Scene-required, of course. Currently it seems to be low-lit braziers rolled onstage by unseen stage-hands, and the odd candelabra.

I don’t know the play, but I’ve seen enough to be able to work out roughly what’s happening right now. One or more of the protagonists has been the victim of a dastardly conspiracy, either regarding love, or money, or perhaps both, and they’ve just discovered it. It’s entirely probable one or more of their friends, lovers or family have met a foul end at the hands of those they thought loved them, and soon some or all of the remaining characters will meet similarly brutal ends through subterfuge or good old fashioned vengeful violence. It's a good old-fashioned melodramatic potboiler, as my governess would have put it, and from the sound of the dialogue a particularly potent one, poetic and evocative. I caught a glimpse of the title when we passed the frontage, The Cost of Honour by Burhoven Ivonnen. I don’t know the playwright’s work, so he’s likely a new, rising talent, but in my experience the Tektehran playwrights tend to be particularly good at the dark and bloody stuff, so I’d probably really like it.

We must be approaching the right door, because the strikingly handsome full-blooded orc dressed in rich, well-appointed leather, wool and linen that steps into our path takes one look at me and cocks his brow. “Mistress Mallys?” He adjusts his footing, but his hands remain behind his back. That being said, he’s conspicuously armed, with both a handaxe on his right hip and longsword on the left.

“I am, yes.” I give Kuth a sidelong glance before looking back. “These are the Errant Nights.”

His expression smooths out instantly as a subtle smile touches his heavy-jawed bulldog face. “Excellent. I am Gubal Spine-Render. Master Hontiresk is expecting you.” His eyes flicker past me now, immediately taking in the rest of the crew. “That being said, I don’t think there’s enough room to accommodate … everyone.”

I don’t have to look to know his eyes are focusing on Suret in particular. It was miracle enough they let her in the building at all, and she had to crouch and turn sideways in order to make it through the stage entrance and came close to getting stuck twice as we were navigating backstage. The stairs were only a little easier, mainly because they were so wide and there were a lot of landings on the way up, but then this whole place was built to last, it’s as much solid stone as thick wood and steel, so there’s no real danger of our ogre going through the floor or anything like that. At least out here. In one of the boxes, though …

“Damn it …” I turn to the others now, and I can’t help frowning as I look them over, it’s all I can do not to clench my jaw too as I mull over what I have to do.

That being said, some are already sensing what’s coming. Suret’s already starting to hunker down, about the closest she gets to any real deflation, and while her expression’s no more readable now than it usually is, I can feel her disappointment all the same. “It’s all right, boss. We missed the start anyway, catching odd glimpses now would just be frustrating. And I don’t need to sit in, you’ll tell me what we’re doing later, right?”

Thamree just looks up at her, frowning deeper than I am now, then looks up at me, and I can feel her reproach in that glare, even if she does know we don’t have much choice. I also know there’s no way she’ll abandon her best friend, so I wouldn’t even have to ask her.

Ixen, on the other hand, narrows his eyes to slits as he squares up on the spot, already starting to finger the sword at his side. His own stare’s fixed on Gubal, and I know he’s measured him up in a single glance, evaluating his chances in a fight. Probably pretty good, even knowing how accomplished a fighter this orc will be given Hontiresk’s keen eye for qualified muscle. “Well I’m not waiting out here with the peanut gallery.”

This earns him a particularly sharp glare from Tham, but given his distraction it’s entirely lost on him, even if it could have any effect at all.

“No, you’re not. I’m keeping you exactly where I can keep an eye on you.” I fix him with a stare I trust broaches no argument, but he just stares right back with cool, dead eyes like he always does when he looks at me. There’s no more change even when I add: “Behave yourself, please.”

Well, not entirely. He starts to smile, just a little bit. I’m not sure if that’s a good sign or bad, with Ix you just never know.

So I decide to neutralise him the best way I can. Turning to Trouble, who’s already giving him a particularly disappointed look, I let a deep sigh go before adding: “You too.”

Her brows shooting right up, Trouble’s eyes lock right on mine as she cranes up from under her deep hood. “What?”

“If he’s coming, so are you.”

“Oh, I …” She frowns now as she looks at the imori again, then back. “But you don’t usually ask me to –”

“Call it an exception.” I look away before she can even think up an answer, intent on finishing this so we can just crack on, and turn to Riveck. “Keep an eye on these two, please.”

The wizard quirks a brow in the most irritated way he can manage, but I know it’s all bluff. In truth I’m sure he really couldn’t care less. “Must I?”

“Yes.” I try hard not to roll my eyes.

“Well, all right then.” He mostly just sighs it, already starting to slouch against his staff, leaning his head into the shaft as he turns to regard Gubal with heavily-lidded eyes. “Any chance of a drink? Or five?”

The orc doesn’t so much as blink, all this prompts is the slightest quirk of his brow. “I’m sure we can arrange that.” He turns to the richly-liveried usher who led us up, waiting close by in polite ignorance of the ongoing debate. “If you would?”

“Of course, sir.” The usher nods conspicuously low as he steps forward now, clasping his hands together at his waist as he turns to Riveck with a cool half-smile. “Would sir prefer wine, or –”

“Fuck yes.” Riv gasps, somewhat relieved, then the slightest look of realisation flits across his face as he glances my way again, likely remembering where he actually is. “Oh, um … please. Bring me … two or three, perhaps? A nice vintage, if you would. Red.”

“Perhaps I should simply bring a pitcher with the cup.” The man’s expression doesn’t change in the slightest, and there isn’t so much as a hint of sarcasm in his voice, but then this kind of place trains its staff particularly well. “Would sir prefer a Tibelt or a Dibrezi?”

“Oooooh …” Rileck’s eyes widen instantly. “Um …” He looks my way again as I continue to struggle against the deep-seated urge to roll my eyes. “Dealer’s choice, I should think.”

Nodding again, the usher’s smile broadens a little. “Tibelt it is, then. I shan’t be a tick, sir.” He turns to Gubal now and nods again, then scuttles off with his oddly stiff, fastidious gait.

Gubal simply turns to the door and knocks twice on it, then once more, then twice again. After a few moments I hear the subtle shooting of bolts and the turn of a lock, then it swings open on almost perfectly silent hinges. Regularly oiled with the full intention of keeping any intrusive sounds to an absolute minimum during a performance, of course.

There’s another orc on the other side, but … this one’s a little different. For one thing he’s a whole lot bigger, having to stoop just in order to look through, and the fact that he otherwise completely fills the doorway tells me he’s likely extremely broad. Granted, he’s still small compared to Suret, but this is only relative. Even to me he’s particularly large for an orc.

There’s more to it, though. Gubal’s definitely got the air of a fighter, not just given his weapons and the way he stands which immediately marks him as a former soldier, likely a Rundao Regular from before the Occupation forced him into mercenary work. He doesn’t have many visible scars, but there’s an air of dangerous experience to him all the same, immediately evident despite the rich clothes, slicked back hair and particularly close shave. This one, on the other hand … he’s got a certain sense of style to him too, but it projects a different message, not of implied danger but explicit cold lethality, very much like Ixen, in fact. He’s dressed all in black, in an interesting combination of somewhat battered but still very rich leather armour and odd pieces of dark steel plate mixed in. He’s not conspicuously armed, at least so far as I can see, but I get the impression he probably wouldn’t need anything. This one’s a born killer.

“This them?” he rumbles in what sounds like a very local accent indeed, taking us all in in one quick, careful look. He lingers for a moment longer on me, and his eyes narrow a touch.

“Yes.” Gubal cocks his head a little. “If you don’t mind?”

Looking to him now, the larger orc narrows his eyes a little more, his particularly bulky jaw conspicuously tightening, then he growls subtly and takes a large step back, straightening up as he does so before taking another to the right to open the way. Turning back to me now, Gubal gestures to enter.

Turning to Kuth, I find he’s fully focused on the smaller orc, and I know he’s evaluating a potential threat just as much as Ixen, although in his case I know it’s more simple pragmatism. So I lean in and mutter: “Shall we?”

Jumping slightly, his eyes snap to mine while his grip momentarily tightens on the sword at his side, then he gets a hold of himself again and lets out a notably frustrated sigh. “Yeah. ‘Course. After you.”

Giving him a flat stare, I let the lightest breath I can out through my teeth, and thankfully it doesn’t smoke much as I step through the doorway as directed. I don’t turn as I hear a little scuffle after, knowing it’s Ix shoving ahead of Kuth as he makes a point of asserting what little dominance he can under the circumstances, knowing my second won’t be willing to start an argument right now. Besides, I have more immediate matters to distract me.

Gods, this orc really is huge. Getting a proper look at him now I’m through, and he’s drawn himself back up to his full height, I was actually modest in my estimation. He’s a little over eight feet tall, and approaching six across his shoulders, chest broad like a particularly massive wine barrel, but it’s his hands that draw my attention now. I was right before, he’s not visibly armed, but they’re so gigantic it wouldn’t matter, he could likely kill my just by closing his fist around my head and squeezing. I doubt he’d even flinch at a face-full of firebreath trying …

His eyes are looking past me, though, and I know he’s zeroing on Ixen now, marking him as the real threat for the first time. Taking a step back, I turn slowly so I can take in the rest of the box interior, thankful for my nightvision since the only real light in here now is coming from the stage beyond and through the doorway we just moved through. Which is already closing behind Trouble, I realise, Gubal stood inside in front of it now.

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

There are half a dozen seats in here, close to the balcony’s parapet, but only three are actually occupied right now. Hontiresk is in the middle one in the front row, the place of honour indeed, and from what I can see he’s not even registering us yet, sitting back in the plush, broad, comfortably cushioned confines of this reclined chair, feet up on a little stool. A gently smoking cigar is clutched in his hand as he leans it across the broad arm, holding a tumbler of what’s probably more of that fine, strong sipping whiskey in the other, but I know his attention will be fixed on the performance below, I remember he’s as big a fan of a good drama as I am.

The other two are sitting close together behind him, but they’re both looking back now. One is a human woman, curly haired and striking, approaching middle age but still vital, and I’m not sure if it’s her dress, somewhat threadbare robes mixed with her serviceable travel clothes, which say wizard to me or simply the tall gnarled staff propped at her side. Perhaps it’s simply her presence, or something in her bright eyes as she squints back into the gloom in our general direction. Maybe it’s simply being around Rileck long enough now that I’m learning how to spot his type … although there’s something a little different about this woman. Something more potent, perhaps, or more refined.

The man with her, already standing up as I take a step forward, is older still, but seems similarly vital in spite of his advancing human years. I’ve seen his type before, having spent enough time amongst gentlemen of fortune in my time to recognise one, I wouldn’t mistake him for anything other than a pirate really. His weathered face, manner of dress and the worn but clearly well-maintained sabre at his side simply add to the effect. Most of all, though, it’s the way he seems to sway as he steps out onto the gently sloping floor, hand immediately coming to rest on his sword, like he’s compensating for the dip and sway of a shifting deck at sea. He’s a man who’s no longer comfortable on land.

The most interesting thing, though is that he seems to fix my eye even before someone, likely Gubal, strikes a match and lights a couple of candles set in a candelabra at the back of the box. As if he could already make me out well enough in the relative dark a good deal better than his companion. And he’s already sizing me up as he takes a long pull on his own cigar.

“Orric, allow me to introduce Dramrath Mallys.” Hontiresk hasn’t moved, he’s still watching the stage. “She leads a very effective crew of mercenaries out of Untermer, rather amusingly known as the … Errant Nights, do I have that right?”

Working hard to loosen my jaw so I won’t growl my reply, I turn back to the likely pirate. “That’s … about right, yes. Perhaps not the most eloquent of sobriquets, but it amused my friends at the time, and it’s stuck since. I’ve found names and titles are seldom good indicators of actual worth, in any case.”

The venerable seaman smiles at that, letting his lungful of smoke out in a simple wisp through the corner of his mouth instead of blowing it into my face, which is something, at least. “I’d have to agree with you there, lass.” I catch a few low, dull flashes behind his lips as he speaks, enough for me to catch that he has a few gold teeth in his mouth. He’s looking more like a pirate by the second.

“She was entirely indispensable to my father, once upon a time.” Hontiresk muses, taking his own drag of smoke now. “So when the need arose for … more martial help, I thought of her. In truth, I could not think of anyone better.”

This causes the man to quirk his brow a touch. “Really? That’s quite the recommendation.”

“Entirely deserved, of course.” Hontiresk finally shifts in his seat, but only enough to look sidelong over his shoulder. “I’m told the rest of her … colourful collective are similarly deserving of their increasingly considerable fee.”

There’s no more venom in those words than anything else he’s said so far, but I can sense the reproach all the same. Careful not to clench my jaw again or roll my eyes, I simply take a breath and start counting to ten in my head as slowly as I can.

“Personally, I don’t give two fucks if you pay them in barrels of priceless diamonds.” The purring voice comes from the corner where the candles were lit, softly seductive and feminine but with the slightest bitter rasp, and a thick Tektehran accent, and it takes us all by surprise. “I just want someone who can kill better than the piss-poor second-raters we’ve been lumbered with so far.”

As the speaker takes a step out into the light low, flickering light from the candles, there’s a low, sharp hiss, a sound of pure, blood-curdling horror, and I’m immensely surprised when I realise it’s not come from Ix, but Trouble. Our cleric takes several long steps back from the newcomer, lifting her left hand up in front of her in an obvious warding gesture while her right grasps her impressive sword, and her face is … gods, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her look like this. She’s bearing her teeth, and being a half-hob she’s got an impressive set of sharp canines, and she removed her lenses when we came in since she no longer had to concern herself with the harsh sun, so I can see her eyes, which are wide open and fiercely wild. I’ve known this girl for seven years, I know how brave she is, but she is terrified now.

The woman who steps forward is … she’s somewhat beautiful, but in a very sharp, dangerous way, like a predatory beast you know is completely lethal simply through deep-seated racial instinct. She’s little taller than Trouble, who barely cleared five feet before she stopped growing, and she’s lean and wiry like her too, but I can almost feel the implied strength in her, the unbridled threat. Most of all, though, she just seems … wrong. There’s something just deeply, intrinsically off about her.

It's more than just her pallor, which looks waxy and strange in the candlelight, as if she’s been dead for days despite the fact she’s walking and talking and … just being scary. Her hair is as pale and colourless, bangs hanging in a curtain over one eye in a somewhat limp bob, and her features are angular and severe, her lips full but somewhat grey and cold, the kind of face it’s difficult to imagine smiling. Then there’s her ears, sharply pointed but too broad to suggest elf blood, almost more like an animal’s in fact. And her eyes … they’re the real puzzle here, a green as bright and intense as I’ve ever seen, and in the low light of the room they seem to glow entirely on their own, as if filled with a strange, baleful fire without a single lick of warmth.

She dresses somewhat similarly to the huge orc, well-made but weathered black leather armour that’s clearly been tailor-made for her, and wears a subtly curved longsword low on her hip, but this is just one of many blades I see on her. She looks at Trouble now as the young half-hob tenses, gripping her longsword tightly, and I know she’s fighting hard against the urge to draw and cut this nightmarish apparition in two. It’s also instantly clear to me why her hackles are all the way up, because mine are for the exact same reasons. It’s not just the way this woman looks, it’s how she smells. It’s ugly, deeply musty and sour, like something that’s been rotting for a long time so it’s mostly dry now, but it still doesn’t please sensitive noses.

I’ve never experienced anything like it, any more than I’ve ever encountered anyone like her before, but I still feel like I know what she is, at least at a bone-deep level, low in my soul. Like I’m wired at my most basis level to fear and hate whatever she is.

I notice that Ix is tense too, although he’s maintaining his restraint better than Trouble, almost as well me, in fact. He hasn’t reached for any of his blades, but I can see his fingers flexing at his sides all the same, his neck and jaw as rigid as iron now, and his eyes are locked on the woman. Kuth is simply staying put, suddenly very still indeed, watching her too, but he’s mostly just cautious, clearly roused by how the rest of us have reacted but wary enough to wait and see.

“I’d be much obliged if you relaxed that sword, lass.” Gubal’s soft growl cuts through the silence after a long, loaded moment, and when I turn to him I see he’s gripping the hilt of his own now, not quite stepped into a ready stance yet but clearly willing to as he observes Trouble from his post at the door. His expression’s as cool and gentle as before, but the warning of the hand on his sword is implication enough he’s not playing. “Far as I know you ain’t in any danger just yet. Be better if you didn’t rile things up unnecessary like.”

“Trouble, if you would.” I take a slow step towards her and reach out, putting a very careful, feather-light hand on her shoulder. “Calm.”

“But she’s … there’s …” She doesn’t move, eyes still locked on the woman. “This … thing, she’s … it’s not natural. There’s something evil in her.”

I’m starting to understand her reaction now, beyond what I can pick up myself with just my eyes and sense of smell, which are as highly tuned as hers. Trouble, as a cleric of Corvina, can sense things far beyond what most of us can see, she can pick up on certain presences, sense certain taints and vibes that cling to a place or an object, or sometimes a person. She has a strong nose for the undead, for one thing, which has never steered us wrong.

“Mistress Vandryss is here on behalf of … a colleague of mine, as are Master Jammund and his associates.” Hontiresk informs us, as matter-of-fact as before. “I would appreciate if she was not molested.”

To her credit, this woman is surprisingly calm given the reaction she’s prompted. Her strange burning eyes are sliding across the four of us, lingering for a long while on Ix, I notice, clearly marking him as a potential problem. Then she turns to me and smiles after she’s measured me up. “I doubt you’ll have to worry, milord. This one at least seems to have sense, and a spine.”

That makes me frown deeper, unsure how I should even react to that. I can sense Kuth starting to bristle at my side though, aware he’s feeling like she might be mocking me.

Then she turns to Trouble and takes another step forward, and she’s close enough to her height that she really doesn’t have to bend much to match my friend’s eyeline. She’s smiling now, but it doesn’t touch her eyes. “This one’s just adorable. Wherever did you find her?”

I hear the creak of the leather of her sword hilt as Trouble raises her sword, bringing the hilt close to her warding hand now, but she holds her ground all the same, even as she looks ready to bolt. Or draw, and I know either one would be very bad right now. So I give her shoulder a reassuring squeeze and lean in closer to whisper: “Trouble, please. Just relax.”

For a long beat the half-hob doesn’t move, but I can feel the bone-deep tension in her, her tightly wired trembling as she clearly wants to just attack or run. But then she blinks, slowly starting to relax her grip on the sword as she lowers her hand and looks up at me in a somewhat jerky motion. Thankfully she doesn’t resist when I push her behind me as gently as I can while stepping in front of this … Vandryss.

“Leave her alone. That’s the only time I’ll warn you.”

Vandryss stops smiling immediately, looking up at me now with a strange cock of her head as she locks eyes with mine. “Dramrath Mallys. I’ve heard that name a few times. I understand you were quite the hellraiser here when you were young. When you were first starting out in the sellsword game, so you had much to prove. I understand you come from money, as well. Not surprising, to look at you. You dress like one of them, and you’re trying your best to talk like it too, but …” Slowly, her smile returns, more sly now, and she takes a subtle step forward as she starts to crane up so she can bring her face closer to mine. “No, you’re more like Master Hontiresk, in some ways. Privilege leaves a mark, even on those who chafe against it. It’s more than just how you talk, it’s in everything you do. You can’t help it.”

“Maybe you’re right. But there were some benefits I can’t begrudge my upraising. Like the fact that my father, for all his faults, was able to hire some excellent teachers in the varied arts of making someone very dead very quickly. And I have quite an aptitude for it as well.”

For a long moment Vandryss just watches me, then she grins wide, and I see how sharp all of her unfeasibly long white teeth are. And there’s something else about her that puts me even less at ease now she’s so close, definitely in what I’m smelling, it takes a moment for me to realise it’s her breath. Like something that eats nothing but raw dead flesh. Or maybe not even dead …

Needless to say I’m at least a little glad when she pulls back again, chuckling with something like amiability that just doesn’t quite sit right. “Oh yes. I like this one. I like her a lot. Yes, I think they’ll do fine.”

“Excellent!” Hontiresk smiles like a cat that’s finally caught a particularly elusive mouse. “Just as I hoped. You’re in fine hands, Orric. Your troubles should be over very soon.” Giving me one last critical look, he turns back and settles into his seat again, raising his glass now for a sip as he goes back to his cultural enlightenment.

“Wait, what …” I can’t help it, my frown deepens considerably as I take a step forward and the pirate, Orric, I imagine, steps into my path. “Now hold on a minute –”

“Master Hontiresk’s hired you on our behalf.” He extends a hand. “Apologies, introductions really should’ve come first. Orric Jammund.”

“The pirate?” I frown down at his hand for a long moment before taking it and giving it a firm shake. I pour a good dose of strength into it, so I’m surprised that he doesn’t so much as twitch with any discomfort.

“Smuggler, please.” His own smile is more subtle than the woman’s, but something about it still doesn’t quite sit right with me. “Ain’t never boarded any boat by force. And I’m retired, most happily. These days I’m simply a businessman, one who proper values his privacy.”

Meaning he’s still very much in the game, just in the service of others instead of purely for his own benefit. And I can imagine facilitating comfortable black market import and export for Hontiresk has made him a good deal richer than he ever got before the Occupation.

“Which is why we’re here.” Vandryss growls, looking deadly serious now.

“Oh, I see. This group you want us to … disappear for you, they’re gumming up the works for you, disrupting business, so you want them gone quickly. Which is why we’re here.”

“After a fashion.” Jammund turns to look back at the seating, and while I initially think he’s regarding Hontiresk again, the real reason becomes clear as the wizard wafts up to join us now. “We got a shipment’s meant to be making its way northward in the next few days, but right now we’re having to delay preparations cuz o’ these pesky freelancers who’ve got it into their heads to poke their noses into our business. It’s proper irritating, I don’t mind telling you.”

The female wizard steps up to his side, and I’m a moment noting she’s left her staff behind. That’s interesting, I would’ve expected more caution in present company. She looks up at me, the subtlest frown touching her brow as our eyes meet. Like she’s seeing something contrary to what she was expecting.

Jammund, on the other hand, simply ploughs on. “I only seen a few of ‘em so far, myself. But my colleagues here seen enough o’ the rest we can give you a pretty comfortable idea exactly what you’re dealing with.” He shrugs, then puts his arm around the wizard, giving her a subtle squeeze into his side. That’s interesting too. “Besides, there’s ways we can find out more about ‘em if you need it.”

“Oh, I’m sure we will.” I turn to look at Vandryss for a moment, then finally shift so I can glance over my shoulder at the massive orc. “Of course, I’d be much more comfortable dealing with someone I actually know in a matter like this, so …”

“Master Hontiresk’s bought you for us, Mistress Mallys.” Vandryss’ smile is back again as she shifts so she can rest her weight on her left foot, letting her hand settle on the hilt of her sword now. “He’s just the money, your business is with us.”

Fixing Vandryss with the coldest look I can muster, I growl back: “Perhaps, but I really don’t trust you at all. My young friend here isn’t the only one who finds you disquieting.”

Taking a step towards me again, Vandryss’ grin grows more predatory now, more like a jungle cat’s than ever. “Like I give a fuck.”

“Van, please …” Jammund reaches out a hand, the first hints of real wariness starting to show in him now. ”Let me handle this.”

“You accepted the job already, Mistress Mallys.” Again she cocks her head, her face growing purely critical now. “Backing out now because you don’t like who you’re working with, that’s just …” She turns to Jammund, finally acknowledging him as he starts to frown at her. “What’s a word you would use, Orric? Unprofessional?”

It’s all I can do to keep from snapping now. “Perhaps, but we make it a rule to know who we’re working with before we take a job. We accepted this on good faith because we believed we would be working for someone I had already had dealings with before. You I don’t know from any random arsehole on the street. For all I know this could be something that’s going to backfire badly on us if we agree to just go along with it. Just looking at you …” I fix Vandryss with my coldest look. “You look like trouble to me. Nightmarish bad trouble.”

“And yet, you said yes already.” Jammund sighs, and while his colleague clearly doesn’t seem to give the first fuck what we think of her, he at least seems to be making an effort to appear contrite. “You got my sincerest apologies about the misunderstanding, but this really is more of an opportunity than a risk for you. I understand you requested additional moneys to take the job, and that’s proper fine by me. Milord’s already agreed to it, anyway.”

“Besides,” Vandryss hisses, her head cocked again as she looks us all over. “I take it it’s clear enough that there’s not a whole lot of choice in the matter, once you actually think about it.” Her regard rests on me again at that, and she cocks her brow too as she makes her point.

Again I catch Kuth stiffening through the corner of my eye again, bristling as he looks ready to step forward with his face growing darker, and I hold a warding hand in front of him while still trying to keep my main attention on her. “All right, that’ll do. I told you once already, and now I’m extending my warning. That’s the last time I’ll let you threaten any of my people.”

“Honestly, I don’t really mind, myself.” Ixen purrs, and that’s the worst tone of voice to hear from him, I’ve found. It’s when he becomes reasonable that there’s the most cause to worry. “Threaten away. Excuses just make things easier for me.”

I really have to fight the urge to turn on him and order him to back down myself, I’m really not confident enough how that might actually turn out. Instead I simply have to trust he won’t do anything really stupid, and just concentrate on Vandryss.

Thankfully, Jammund seems to be on the same page now. “Reckon we can all learn to compromise under the circumstances. Ain’t that right, Van?”

Blinking, Vandryss takes a step back and folds her hands behind her back, her smile becoming self-satisfied. “Fine by me. I just want this done, after all.”

Jammund looks at her for a long moment, and his expression now is a good deal more complicated. Finally he just lets out a heavy sigh, clearly reordering his thoughts, before finally turning to gesture to his wizard companion. “Again, my apologies. This is my associate, Luthan Tavarrat.”

The woman frowns slightly as she takes a step forward, extending her hand. “Well met, Mistress Malys.” She tips my a formal nod as she approaches.

Looking her over for a long moment, I find myself pausing before I finally take her hand, cautious now. There really is something … different about her, somewhat familiar, but something I’ve not encountered in a good while. Certainly she’s very different from Riveck, he may be a wizard too but despite his airs and implied superiority I know well enough just how rough around the edges he really is. This woman, despite her somewhat worn presentation, with clear signs of weathering and largely dark clothing, has more in common with a mage of more official education. So I fix her with a critical, studious eye when I finally shake her hand, careful to be a little more gentle this time with her delicate fingers. “Of the Silver Order, perhaps?”

Her eyes widen a touch, and she’s a moment answering, looking me over as carefully as my own regard now. “No longer, I’m afraid. It’s … complicated.”

“I didn’t think that was done.” I venture as I finally let go of her hand.

She doesn’t answer me at all this time, instead taking a step back while studiously avoiding any further eye contact now. Clearly that’s all she’ll give me on the subject, but it’s interesting enough in itself.

“The big orc’s Granzun.” Jammund nods behind me now.

When I turn to regard the huge, black-clad orc, he looks me over for a drawn-out moment before finally nodding. “Obliged to meet you.” His voice is low, pregnant thunder rolling in before a storm, very much reminding me more of Suret’s.

“Likewise, I’m sure.” I try to keep my tone as conversational as I can, not wanted it to sound sarcastic, but really I’m still somewhat tense. In the end it seems to serve, or perhaps he’s simply sharp enough to understand the tension.

Turning back, I take a deep breath and consider the options, even though they don’t look like much. As much as I already hate Vandryss, I realise she’s right, we’ve already said we definitely would do this, and besides, we didn’t have a huge amount of choice in this to begin with, not once Hontiresk laid it all out to us. It sticks in my craw, but we’re committed.

Finally letting the breath go in a deep sigh, I take a big step past Kuth, Ix at least having the good sense to step aside so I can lay my hand on Trouble’s shoulder and steer her away into the corner. She comes willingly enough, and at least the other two have the good sense not to follow, although they both pass a quizzical and wary look. As I stoop somewhat to get down to her level so we can whisper, Trouble starts frowning up at me, and I know she’s already starting to work out what I’m about to say, but I run right over her protest before she can make it.

“Trouble, we’re doing this.”

“But Dram, that creepy bitch is –”

“Is she undead?”

She blinks at that, shooting a look past me, obviously checking Vandryss out again before turning back to me. She’s a long moment answering, and I see the first cracks starting to open in her desperate resolve. “Well … no, she’s not –”

And that’s the nutshell right there. She can clearly sense that this woman’s something deeply unnatural, she might even be something truly fell, but she’s not undead, which would be her goddess’ main objection to our working with her. We know full well the deep, unswerving hatred the Raven Queen has for undead things, especially liches, who flout her most sacred laws on a daily basis in deeply twisted and frequently monstrous ways. She’s still uncomfortable, clearly, and I don’t blame her, but we don’t have to like Vandryss. So long as she doesn’t fuck with our business or try to pull one over on us …

“Then it can’t be that bad, surely. Whatever she is, she can’t be much worse than Ix, surely?”

That makes her chuckle, she can’t help it, it’s a little desperate but warm enough, and I know I’ve won her over enough for now. “It’s true, he is the worst. Most of the time, anyway.”

Reaching over, I grip her shoulder again, giving it a good squeeze, and lean my forehead against hers. “Just trust me. I’ll keep her as far away from you as I can. I promise.”

“Fair enough.” She sighs, and I know that reluctance is still there, even if she is caving. “I’ll handle Ix, I guess.”

“Thank you.” I give her shoulder a last little squeeze, knowing she means it, and that she’s probably the only one around who can.

Letting go, I turn back to look them all over one more time, and see Vandryss’ is already starting to smile again, a particularly smug one now. As if she heard every word we just said to each other. To be honest, with ears like that I wouldn’t be that surprised. Jammund, at least, just seems patient.

“All right, you win. We’ll do it. Now who is it we have to kill?”