This is an interesting exercise we’ve involved in right now, certainly for me. Tattoos have always had a very specific use for me and mine, given I was raised in the Order, who use this particular artform as a logical extension of magical craft. Most often it’s the application of specific glyphs, sigils and seals applied in specific points to elicit a specific response, whether for protection or focus, or for more specialised purposes, depending on the individual needs of the spellcaster receiving them. When I first set out from the Citadel after graduating, I had two myself, although in my case they were simply the compulsory tattoos required for all Order members – the protective seal against spiritual possession between my shoulder blades and the traditional stamp marking me as a member of the Order itself on the back of my right wrist – but while we were visiting with Hurrig on our last full day in Bavat I decided to have him apply an additional glyph, inspired by our encounter with Ashsong and my own near miss. So now I have additional bolstered defence against eldritch power inked into my right shoulder, although after what happened to me yesterday I can’t help wondering if I might be defending myself against the wrong thing. I wonder if my own foolishness might not be the thing that ultimately gets me killed …

Gods know it’s still awfully itchy, but since it’s not my first time I know to resist the frustratingly strong urge to scratch. Instead I roll my shoulder in the vain hope the subtle pressure of my clothing alone might prove enough to counteract the discomfort. It’s as useless as I expected it to be.

Tattooing for other reasons isn’t an entirely alien concept to me, of course – I know Kesla has a few of her own, mostly from her rebel days, although I’ve never seen them, and it’s fairly common among other mercenaries too – but it’s still a relative novelty for me. People wanting to have words or pictures inked into their skin instead of protective markings or benedictions to their patron gods is still a strange concept to me, but here it seems to be a thriving business.

They’re applied in different ways, too, somewhat dependant on how successful the business is, it seems, although I suspect there’s a certain amount of traditionalism among some of the artists. Hurrig was happy to embrace the new advancements in his work, relying on an impressively efficient pedal-powered machine which I suspect he put together himself going off the basic design before putting in some of his own improvements. He has a steady and talented artistic hand as it is, but even so the quality of the gear was made infinitely clear to me given how well the final piece turned out, although he was, of course, also working an enchantment into the ink as it was applied.

I’ve seen a few of the most expensive establishments we’ve visited today using the same basic type of equipment, but most of the artists we’ve encountered still use the older, more manual techniques. There’s two main schools of thought here, I’ve noticed – some prefer to punch the ink directly into skin using sharp needles held in impressively steady hands, but I’ve seen more than a few who prefer to hammer the design home with longer needles tapped down with little mallets. This second style clearly hurts more, but I’ve detected in those receiving their markings a certain underlying pride in accepting the more painful application, as if this is a rite they’re partaking in as much as a means of personal decoration. I’ll admit, most of the designs I’ve seen in these shops follow a more stylistic, almost ritualistic bent, coming across as something more akin to our own magical markings, and Kesla said that this particular school has come from far south in Abharet’s hot forests. These are lands filled with tribal tradition and exotic mystery, and many of these designs are purported to have a certain power of their own, in the right places or in certain circumstances. Given what I’ve been taught I’m inclined to believe that reasoning.

Interestingly, many of the most expensive places we’ve visited use only the more traditional methods, and this is what’s made it clear to me that the shunning of the newer technology is more due to a certain pride in the values of the older techniques. There’s an admirable purity to this, I’ll admit, and I suspect that Hurrig would follow the same reasoning himself if it wasn’t purely due to the fact that the newer technology is just more expedient, especially given his arm.

The most important detail I’ve noticed as we’ve being going around is that the artists who do use the new machinery never do off-premises work, their business conducted purely in the establishment itself. This alone is now enough for us to discount a business as soon as we see or hear the fancy pedal-powered arrays, but beside this there’s a far simpler and more glaring fact to consider – the exotic metallic tubes and machinery are far too distinct for the boy, Wull, to not have made a point of noting it, thus adding to our disappointment with each call.

It's gotten so focused now, in fact, that simply stepping through the door and hearing that distinctive automated clicking whir coming from the backrooms is enough to discount an establishment. So when Kesla steps back out through the doorway of the latest place after a muttered apology without even fully crossing the threshold, I can feel the disappointment in Art and Shay already as they start to deflate. It’s all I can do to keep myself from cursing under my own breath.

“Really?” Art exclaims, looking fit to kick at some of the gathered refuse lying around on the cobbles of the narrow tunnel-like streets. “Here? Don’t seem like that kinda place, does it?”

Looking up at the sign and the general state of the place, I have to agree with him. This is clearly one of the more low-rent dives we’ve passed, fitting in perfectly with this particular neighbourhood. It’s dark, dingy and thoroughly disreputable, or at least that’s how it seems to me. I suppose I’m not really qualified to judge.

Kesla shrugs. “Oh, I dunno. It’s pretty well-situated if you think about it. Look.” She points around the street, as though I have the first clue what to look for here. “The harbour’s right down there, their customers can come right to it, this’ll be like one o’ the first places they’ll see, and there’s pubs and flophouses all round it. I’d say this is prime positioning. This place’ll be rolling in trade, so I can’t blame ‘em for wanting to innovate.” She looks to me now. “You said yourself, if it’s good enough for your Master Stormshield …”

“Perhaps, but I did also say he was a special case. It’s still frustrating.”

“Yeah, I know. I get it.” Kesla steps up, and before I know it she’s wrapped her arm around my shoulders, giving me another of her companionable squeezes, firm and forceful but ever-mindful of her own strength. “You wanna hit a break much as any of us, more even. We’ll get there, or the others will. Just gotta weather the shit on the way, yeah?”

“Next place shows promise.” Brung calls from a little way down the street, just down from where Driver 8’s already stood outside the next shop in the row. I start walking immediately, curiosity overriding my frustration as much as anything else, and my clear eyes catch his drift while I’m still closing in on the parlour’s frontage.

It’s no more fancy looking than the last place, but there’s a more traditional appearance to it, less flashy but infinitely more professional to a more discerning eye, and after all the places we’ve visited today I should think I’m developing two of those. The artwork pasted into the windows to display the artists’ wares, which I’ve learned is called flash, depicts more of the southern tribalist design sensibilities, and there’s only one sign mounted by the door, instead of a whole selection of notices like the other. By appointment only. We make house-calls for the right price. Enquire within. NO TIME WASTERS.

“Oh yeah,” Kesla’s almost chuckling as she surprises me with how close by my side she is. “This is much more like it.”

“Stev Kurnev?” Shay reads the single name that’s painted over the windows and on the hanging sign over the door. “You think?”

“Sounds Northern.” Krakka muses, looking up at the sign with one of his more inscrutable expressions.

“Tektehran.” Kesla breathes, a complicated look on her own face now.

“Chill, boss.” Art’s already making for the door, but he stops now and regards her particularly coolly. “Guy might not even have served.”

“That ain’t what I’m thinking.” Kesla growls, her eyes fixed on the door, but I don’t find her words very convincing.

“Allow me, then.” I step past her and twist the nod, while Shay’s already stepping up behind me. Big Man remains in his customary spot in front of the windows, much as he’s done the whole time, never entering since he’s always significantly taller and definitely wider than any of the entrances. No need to worry about his absence, though – he’s already as aware of what’s going on in there as he is of everything out here.

I can feel Art stepping after us, and I don’t need to look back to know he’s giving Kesla a look, and I hope that’ll be enough to shake her out of that inexplicable funk. I know she’s not really a prejudiced person, she’s just had bad experiences with the Tektehrans which makes her especially wary around them, and I can’t say I really blame her. I just hope she’s going to behave herself in here.

Windchimes jingle over my head as I push through the door, but I’ve become used to this kind of thing since we started this. The first thing I notice is how much cooler it is inside than out, which surprises me given the way the windows are essentially sealed tight and there are no other clear means of ventilations here other than the doorway. Then there’s that pervading smell in the air I’m becoming used to, the medicinal tang of ointment mixed with ink which is quite unlike anything else I’ve encountered, although this place is surprisingly fresh to my nose. I wonder if Art and Brung find it as relatively pleasant as I do as they step through after me.

Most of the illumination here is from a few fat white candles mounted in a simple iron candelabra set on a plinth on the right and two oil-burning lamps hung on the opposite wall. It turns out this is necessary since the window itself seems to have been blocked off behind a plasterboard partition set up in front of it, more flash-art plastered over it for customers to peruse. There’s just enough room for a person to squeeze through between, and as I step back to look through I see there are two more lamps burning on a shelf in front of the glass, lighting the paper in the windows from behind. “My, that’s actually quite clever.” I find myself muttering as I step back.

“Ta, my idea, that.” The subtly gravelled voice takes me by surprise, and I turn quickly to see someone straightening up from rearranging the various pamphlets and playbills set out on the low table in the midst of the makeshift waiting space in this front room. There are four wide wicker seats with somewhat ratty-looking cushions padding them out arranged around the table, and a small desk on the other side of the room in front of the open doorway leading into the backrooms. As for the walls, seems as if virtually every inch is covered in art, some purely esoteric, spiky or whirling or even more abstract patterns, others forming stylised pictures, and much of it is in a particularly talented artistic hand. Clearly whoever works here, they’re masters of their craft.

The human who spoke is young, can’t be more than a year or two senior of my own age, but there’s an impressive amount of experience written in his face. He’s more striking than conventionally handsome, his features quite blocky and his brow heavy, with a very square jaw indeed, but there’s an intelligence so bright in his brown eyes they practically blaze. He keeps his beard tightly clipped, and his thick, choppy dark blond hair settles just below his ears in a shapeless mop. He’s dressed simply in a pair of loose britches and simply dark vest, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up past his elbows in a clear intent to display the tattoos completely covering both of his arms right down to the backs of his hands. I suspect this is as much advertising for the shop’s work as any of the artwork on display.

It’s impressive work, certainly, some of the best I’ve seen in here, an intriguing mixture of twisting black spirals of thorny spikes and broken whorls that are picked out against graded waves and ripples of rich red, blue and green. He folds them as he takes us all in, the rippling of his impressively thick, muscular wrists almost seeming to make the patterns dance as they flex, and this too seems strikingly intentional. It takes me a moment to realise he’s regarding me now, likely making a close note of the fact I’m so fixated on his own body art.

“It’s my da’s work, of course. I’m still learning, ain’t near good as he is yet, but then he’s been doin’ this most of his life.”

Art shoots a look to Kesla now, who’s finally stepping in from the doorway, her hand laid across the hilt of her sword. It seems a casual enough gesture, but I know the implication behind it well enough, even if she looks calm and collected now as she looks over the designs decorating the walls. “Been here all that time, has he?” The way she asks sounds innocent enough, but I pick up on the implication behind her enquiry. It’s all I can do to keep from rolling my eyes or sighing with frustration, and I can tell Art’s thinking the same thing.

To his credit, this young man seems to pick up on some of the hidden meaning too, the slightest tip of his head as he shifts his focus to her even though there’s no real discernible change in his expression. Maybe the slightest furrowing between his brows. “No, he came down twenty years ago. After he mustered out. Used to work as the regimental tattooist, matter o’ fact. Started out as apprentice to the old one before that, took over after he died.”

“In action?”

That slightest of frowns starts to tighten up a little, and I get the feeling he’s getting the gist of what Kesla’s driving at without actually saying. “No, from the Withering, in his lungs. Got it from smoking a strong pipe every day of his life since he was twelve. It’s why da quit when he was young, same reason he never let me take it up either.”

“Wise man.” Krakka says as he finally closes the door that Kesla clearly neglected when she came through after the rest of us. “It’s a horrible way to die. Even my goddess has trouble beating that particular malady.”

The boy turns to regard him for a moment, more thoughtful now. He gives Kesla another moment’s cool regard, then turns back to me. “He’s with a client now, but reckon he should be finished up any minute now, so you’re kinda timely. We don’t usually take walk-ins, but since we ain’t got any other appointments for the remainder, you caught us in one o’ them rare occasions we’re willing to make an exception.”

Now I’m listening out I pick up on the sound of work coming from the back, and it’s not that needling, whirring buzz this time, instead that steady tick-tick-tick that tells me this is one of those more traditional establishments just the same as the art on the walls. I can’t help arching my brows as the implication behind it hits. “Well that’s interesting, I wouldn’t have thought that the southern style would have been a thing all the way up in Tektehr.”

He just cocks the one brow looking me over now. “Da’s mentor’s own da picked it up, he was a sailor in the navy. Discovered it down south one tour, got proper fascinated so he learned all he could. Kind of a scandal at the time, I heard, but it stuck when he started inking some o’ the other lads. Da says there’s still plenty prefer to just stick their needles but there’s enough like it this way. It just … there’s more grace to it, I reckon.”

“Yeah, that’s true.” Kesla surprises me as much as him by saying it. She’s looking over one of the larger pieces on the back wall now, leaning close to inspect it, an interesting design that shares a theme with the pieces on his wrists, actually. There’s an interesting, functional symmetry to it that makes me suspect it’s intended to decorate a person’s back. “They feel different too. More texture to ‘em.”

“Reckon you’re right there too, miss.” He loosens his arms up as he steps her way. “You like this?”

Nodding, she doesn’t react as he steps to her side, still engrossed in the art. “It’s striking. Ain’t seen the like in a while, tell the truth.” Finally she turns to regard him. “It’s interesting, a lot o’ this stuff was always more popular with the Rundao military. An’ then the Freedom Legion after.”

“Funny that, ain’t it?” He watches her for a long moment, as inscrutable as her now.

“I take it your old man mostly just worked back in the barracks then, yeah? Didn’t see any real action.”

“Matter o’ fact, you’d lose that bet. There were a few times, but then he was stationed Far North. His regiment patrolled the Frontier, south o’ Bulvaric. Told me every once in a while, something’d come down and it was every man to the wire, even the cooks. So he saw his share of action all the same.”

“S’pose I can’t much blame the man for wanting to run South after that, then. Be a lot o’ sun an’ warmth here compared to that place, I reckon.”

“It made for a pleasant change, yes.” This voice is a good deal thicker and much more grizzled than the younger man’s, so cracked it doesn’t so much rumble as grind. “Same day I got my walking papers I collected my wife and our young Novot, bought three one-way tickets on the evening tide out of Ubrekht. More than a month’s voyage on some rough seas, but never once regretted it.”

Stev Kurnev is as tall as his son, but a good deal craggier and more worn, much broader across his wide shoulders, a solid man with the kind of build that could turn to fat in dotage but he clearly keeps trim because it’s still mostly muscle. He’s wiping his hands with a cloth, and while his wrists are as thick as the rest of him his hands seem surprisingly fine, the fingers long and dextrous. An artist’s hands, deft and articulate. He’s got his sleeves rolled up too, and he's as heavily tattooed as his son, it would seem.

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Like his son, he’s striking and broody, but a good deal more grey, hardly any blond left in the shaggy hair he keeps tied back in a long ponytail, or the salt-and pepper scruff lining his jaws. I see more ink crawling up the sides of his neck from under his open collar too, but his eyes are startlingly different, a blue so pale they’re almost like grey sea ice, I’d say. Certainly they add to his piercing, intense gaze as he inspects us all.

“You’re fortuitous to arrive now, since we have a gap, but …” His gaze lingers on me for a moment before returning to Kesla. “Even the two of us would be hard-pressed with the whole bunch of you, if that’s to be the plan.” He pauses on Brung now, cocking his brow slightly, but there’s none of the disgust I would’ve expected. “And I’ve never actually tattooed a goblin before, I must admit.”

“Oh no, sir.” Kesla sighs, shifting her stance some, and I realise now her hand’s no longer laid on her sword. Like she’s changed her mind about him now, which surprises me. “We ain’t actually here on that kinda business. Apologies if this qualifies as time-wasting, you made it clear you don’t like that. But it’s necessary.”

This prompts one of the deepest frowns I’ve ever seen a human being make as Kurnev takes another step into the room and tosses his cloth without ceremony onto the desk, still watching Kesla closely with a darkening gaze. There’s still plenty of calm in his face, but there’s warning too, I think. He’s not intimidating only because he’s such a big man.

Kesla’s giving him the benefit of the doubt now, I think, but she can see as clearly as I can that he fits the description right to the ground. Granted, the projection in my head was simply an impression, it’s not perfect at all, but next to Kurnev the likeness is striking. Certainly this is an individual I’d be hard-pressed to forget.

“Something else, then?” He takes a moment to work his hands, and I can see how heavily spotted with ink his hands still are, still grimed into the lines and wrinkles of his knuckles. “I’ll admit, in my particular line of work I never made any kinds of enemies that I ever would’ve expected to come calling years after I hung up my sword.”

“No sir, this ain’t that.” Kesla lets another sigh go, this one more weary. She turns to me now, a searching look crossing her face. Beseeching, even.

“We need your help, that’s what it is. On a most important matter.” I’m not really sure what to say in this situation, it really isn’t my wheelhouse, so I find myself floundering. “Please?”

Kurnev’s frown deepens again as he regards me for a long moment, and I really can’t tell what he’s thinking now, which makes that gaze all the more uncomfortable. I don’t even know if Kesla could tell what’s going through that head right now, to be honest.

Then someone else steps out of the back behind him and we all just tense up, largely unheeded. The tall male half-orc blinks at us all, clearly still in the process of pulling his jacket back on as he emerges, and stops on the spot, surprised as we are. He’s a big one, broad across the shoulders in particular, but the look on his face makes him seems somewhat endearing, really. “Oh! Sorry, Stev. Thought you said you was done for the day already –”

“Thought so too, but you know how it is. “ His eyes never leave mine. “If there’s an opportunity …”

“I hear that.” He pulls the other sleeve of his jacket on with some effort given his significant shoulders and takes a deep breath, still awkward as he steps the rest of the way out into the room. After a moment of smoothing the garment down he reaches into his pocket, starting to rummage. “How much do I owe you?”

“Just a little one this time, so we’ll call it ten.”

“You remember the rules, yeah?” Kurnev’s son, Novot I think it was, says as he steps over to the desk now, intercepting the customer as he pulls out his coin pouch and starts counting out. “No sun on it for a couple days, and no scratching. I know it’s a bugger, but –”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Number o’ these I’ve had now I barely even notice anymore.” He hands over the coins, giving us all a curious but wary once-over as he starts to step back towards the front door. “Thanks again, Stev. You’re a champ.”

“Appreciated.” He turns his head enough for a sidelong glance at least, still able to keep an eye on Kesla if he has to. “You take care now.”

That seems to raise a frown on the customer’s face, and his jaw tightens a little as he looks us over again. “You too.” He pauses for another beat before finally pulling the door open and stepping out once and for all.

Kurnev waits until the tinkle of the chimes has settled before letting out the breath he’s clearly been holding this time, taking a long step back from Kesla now. “You have a talent for making an old man feel unnecessarily nervous, young lady.”

“My apologies again, sir. Ain’t my intent.” The flat tone of her words doesn’t sound particularly convincing. “”It’s about some work we think you a little while back. It was off-site, and we understand from your sign you do make house-calls, so –”

“The thing about information, though, especially when it’s about a person’s work, is that it’s never free.” Kurnev plants his feet now as he folds his arms. His wrists almost seem to creak as they flex, it’s quite something.

Behind him, Novot closes the tin box after putting the money away, then closes the drawer. He breathes out in a low hiss, his jaw clenching now, and I wonder if he’s a little irritated by his father now as he’s clearly taking advantage. He withdraws a bunch of keys from his pocket and locks the drawer before straightening up and standing by, looking quite awkward now.

“Well we’re here on business for the Silver Order, so you’re kinda in luck there. Y’know how these big organisations are, you do ‘em a solid and they’re happy to reimburse you handsome for your time an’ services.” Kesla’s smile isn’t as warm as I’d like, but I suppose it’s enough to do the trick.

“Oh, I see. Well now, that is a generous offer, but …” He turns now, looking to his son, critical now. “We’re not like those hacks across the way, they just care about their overheads, some of their work’s just bloody awful. Right, lad?”

“That’s right, da.” Novot leans back against the wall now, crossing his own arms. He’s still tense, but I think he’s starting to calm a little now. “We’ve had our fair share come over here for a touch-up or repair-work after they botched something should’ve been right simple.”

“See, we take pride in what we do, we’re professionals, and we do this because we love what we do, it’s about the art, not the money. So If you’re just going to offer us money for our pride and our time, then …” He steps aside now and sweeps one arm out, indicating the door, fixing Kesla with a particularly dry look.

“Well that would be unfortunate, cuz we got an awful lot riding on getting some answers here today, so …” Kesla shifts her stance, seeming a little more wary now, but also a little regretful. “I don’t wanna have to be unpleasant, you certainly don’t want that either. To be honest I’ll admit I been warming to you a little, so …”

Kurnev smiles for the first time, and it’s a subtle thing, but surprisingly warm. “Yes, I must admit you’re quite endearing too in a dangerous sort of way. But what I’m suggesting would surely be beneficial for both parties, at least after a fashion. Perhaps more for us, but still …”

“You want us to buy some work from you?” It’s Kesla’s turn to frown now. “You said yourself it’s just you two, an’ we really ain’t got time anyway for you to tattoo everybody here –”

“No, that’s fine, I’m not suggesting all of you.” Kurnev’s smile broadens. “Just two of you’ll do. My son needs the practice anyway, so I’d suggest you pick something interesting.”

Now, suddenly, Kesla starts to smile too, and it’s like the clouds have parted to brilliant sunshine. “Why not? Ain’t had any fresh ink in a while.” She turns back to the piece she was looking at, considering for a moment, and her smile narrows again, becoming more wistful. “It’s tempting, sure, but that’s a few days’ work there, easy. Something smaller, maybe …” She steps to the right now, examining some of the other work, and I think we’ve lost her for a few minutes now.

“All right … who else then?” I muse, looking at the others now as my hand wanders to my own recently tattooed shoulder. As if on cue it starts itching again.

After a thoughtful moment, Kurnev points to Shay. “You ever had any ink before?”

“I’ll admit, I’ve never had the pleasure. Never had any real artists in my old crowd, and I didn’t know enough about the places in Hocknar to gauge which ones were decent, so …” She shrugs. “In truth, I never really put much thought into it, but I could be inclined.” She looks up at the walls herself now. “Any suggestions?”

Again, he pauses, regarding her with a more critical eye, gently stroking the thick scruff on his chin. Finally he clicks his fingers and beckons her over to the plasterboard in front of the window. Shay arches her brows, looking to me now, and I simply give my own shrug in return. She starts to follow him, and I do the same, deeply curious now.

“How about this?” Kurnev taps a piece in the middle of the selection. It’s a swirling, abstract piece, made of intricate spiny whorls which seem to interweave amongst one another, backed with cool shades of blue, almost like fast-running rapids in a river. Looking at it reminds me a little of the Viper, and it’s an association I’m not entirely comfortable with, but I’ll let it slide.

Shay frowns for a long moment looking at it. “Well it’s certainly pretty but … I’d have to ask, why this piece in particular?”

“Because you’re a Northern girl, and clearly from the mountains. It suits you.”

I watch her as she leans in to take a closer look, her frown deepening some. She’s not convinced yet, and I don’t blame her. The three marks I’ve received were born of requirement, even necessity, so I had no real choice in the design. This is a very different choice for her, of course it’s a rite of passage, but just still a piece of artistic decoration, an aesthetic choice. Since it’s her first, she should be comfortable with the decision.

“Do you have anything to suit an elf?” The words are out of my mouth before I can help it, but I don’t regret it. I quickly realising I’m following the right train of thought.

Those sharp, pale eyes turn to me now, narrowing a little as he examines me. “This is for her, not you.”

“She is an elf.” I shrug. “Half of one, anyway. Like me.”

Blinking, Shay steps back from the board now. “Yeah, that’s right. She has a good point.”

Kurnev cocks his brow again. “Wood elf? What house?”

“Ivystone. Of House Zhaan. My father didn’t talk about it much, it was a bit of a sore subject.” Shay seems a little pensive for a moment regarding him, and I think she was surprised by such a direct question about that. “He’d only talk about his mother.”

Zhaan, that’s one of the most venerable Elven houses, even before the Sundering it was a very old and powerful line. It marks Shay as a scion to one of the most illustrious bloodlines in all of Tao. The Foxtails are one of the core bloodlines of House Triiv, not so old but still one of the most powerful houses of the Wilden Tuatha, colloquially known as wood elves since we have a closer affinity to nature than the high elves, or Hilder Tuatha. None of us among the Tuatha de Danaan come from lowborn roots, but we’re still simpler, more common elven nobility compared to their rarer elven royalty, and there are certainly times they like to remind us of the fact as much as everyone else.

Even so, getting to learn just this much about Shay makes me smile, I can’t help it. I feel a little closer to her now, knowing this, and as she turns to me and sees it a more hesitant one start to touch her lips.

“All right, well in that case …” Kurnev snaps his fingers again and beckons us both in the opposite direction, towards the desk now. As we pass Kesla she continues to inspect the walls, the way her hands lightly clasp behind her back making me think of a military officer inspecting their troops, and I almost laugh it’s such an amusing association with her. Mostly because it just feels like it would fit so well. Novot’s hovering close to her, mostly just watchful and expectant, like he’s ready to offer up advice as needed.

As for the others, Art, Brung and Krakka have planted themselves in the empty seats now, clearly mindful that they’re in for a wait now and wanting to get comfortable. Art gives me a wink as he sees me looking and I offer an amiable smile back in response, which he returns with his own brilliantly sharp grin. He sits forward and picks one of the pamphlets up from the table, starting to thumbing through it.

When he reaches the desk, Kurnev has to stoop significantly to pull open and reach into one of its bottom drawers, quickly withdrawing a thick leatherbound folio. Setting it down on the desktop, he flips it open and starts riffling through the pages of rich inked drawings and veritable paintings contained within. This is all much more specific, esoteric work, all flowing lines and beautiful sweeping waves of colour and abstract shapes, their meaning barely even tangentially evident to anyone who doesn’t have a grounding in elven culture. I notice Shay’s smiling again seeing it, and I have a feeling her father must have taught her much more about his side of her bloodline than just how to fight given her clear, warm recognition. I can’t help reacting myself.

“I’ll admit, I haven’t had much call for this kind of work since I took up residence here, most of the half-elves we get coming through these parts either don’t know much of anything about their own heritage, or they just don’t give a shit.” He shrugs a little as he continues to flip through, clearly searching for something. “And back in the old days, I mostly just worked with dark elves. It can be a subtle difference, but still an important one.”

He flips two more pages, then stops and turns the folio with a deft sweep of his hand, pushing it fully towards us. “House Zhaan. Like I said, my grandfather was something of an obsessive for this kind of thing, and I guess it stuck through the years with the rest of the family. My son’s the same, really.”

Shay reaches out very gently, picking the folio up with slow, careful fingers, then leans a little into me as she holds it up in such a way that I can get as clear a view as her. It really is exquisite work, some of the best I’ve seen in this whole place, and these are particularly grand and evocative designs. I don’t think I even hear Shay breathing now as she turns one page, then finally sucks a fresh lungful of air in as she takes a quick, slightly unbalanced step away from me, almost seeming surprised. She set the folio back down on the desk, and while she’s gentle enough about it there’s an urgency in her all the same. “This one.”

Kurnev steps forward again, leaning over the desk a little to take it in, and smiles. “Excellent choice. This one’s for the right shoulder. You good with that?”

“Why not? I mean, I didn’t realise it was so specific, but ...” She shrugs.

“With elves, everything has a very particular meaning.” He looks to me. “As your friend can attest, I’ve no doubt. Especially being an Order wizard.”

When she turns to give me a very curious look, I’m a little lost for a moment to think how to respond, so I just end up blushing instead. “It’s a little different from that, but … I’ll tell you about it later. It’s a fine choice, you should get this, if you want it.”

Shay gives me another sidelong glance, and her smile comes back, hesitant at first but warming quickly, and she gives me a companionable little shoulder nudge. “Cool. I’m onboard if you are.”

That makes me blink, and I feel my blush deepening a little. “Um … okay, I guess? I mean it’s not for me, but …”

“Relax!” She wraps her arm round my shoulders fast and gives me a little crush. “I trust you with my life, so I can definitely trust you with my skin.”

“Wow … okay, that’s … thank you.” My smile starts to return, but I know I’m still blushing deep in spite of it. Shay clearly doesn’t care, she just gives me another squeeze as she turns back to Kurnev.

“Yeah, definitely. I’m in.” Then she frowns a little. “Um … sorry, first time and all that … how much do you think that would cost, just out of interest?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about it.” His smile’s cool, but there’s an edge to it now. “We can discuss that after, I think.”

“Da, we’re good.” Novot says now, and as we all turn to face him he’s unpinning a piece of flash from the wall most of the way up in the far corner. I can’t really get a proper look at it from here, but given what I know about Kesla it could really be anything at all, at least within reason.

“Excellent.” Kurnev slips the slender cloth bookmark into place in the appropriate page of the folio and picks it up, snapping it closed in the same motion before tucking it under his arm. “The rest of you can stay out here, the workshop’s not for just anyone. If you two ladies would oblige me?”

“No, I’m coming with you.” The words are out of my mouth as soon as Shay lets go and steps after him, stopping everyone in their tracks, a little surprise crossing the elder artist’s face but none of the consternation I would have expected. “This is a business transaction, remember? You wanted something from us, but we’re only agreeing to it because we need something from you. Since I’m the one two whom the information we’re after most directly pertains, I’ll be the one asking the questions.” I give him my sternest look and hope it’s more convincing than it feels. “In other words you’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

Kurnev looks at me for a long moment, and he still doesn’t seem annoyed by this like I would’ve expected. Mostly he just looks quietly curious, and maybe even a little amused. Finally he lets out a little sigh as he continues to the doorway. “All right then, but you’ll be leaving that staff out here, I know how you wizard types operate. The sword too. And you two as well, if you don’t mind. I don’t allow weapons back here anyway, so just leave them with your friends.”

Kesla looks at him for a moment, evaluating him again, and there’s some due wariness in her I can’t fault her for. I think we can trust them, they seem to be on the up and up, but she’s not had a good experience with Tektehrans over the years, with Yeslee being the glaring exception even if she doesn’t really count. And it’s not like they can’t still sneak a blade or two in there anyway, I know they did the same the other day at Rederra House. So I start the ball rolling by stepping over to Art and handing my staff to him, making his scramble somewhat to drop the pamphlet before I let go. He gives me a look as I start unbuckling my sword-belt.

“Fair enough.” Kesla finally sighs as she starts to follow my example, and Shay simply shrugs before she starts unbuckling as well. By this point I’m done, wrapping the whole bundle up to dump unceremoniously into Art’s waiting hands, and this time when I smile down at him he simply rolls his eyes. It’s all I can do to keep from ruffling his fur.

Once it’s all been handed off to the others, Kurnev simply nods approvingly, and as I expected it’s clear he’s not going to press too much about any hidden weapons. I think it’s more principle than anything else, anyway. “Right, now that’s all out of the way we can be nice and civil, can’t we? If you would?” He steps into the back without waiting to see if any of us are going to follow.

I chance a look at Shay, who’s frowning a little again, most likely at the implication, but when she sees me looking she tips me a little wink with the start of another reassuring smile, and I find it easy enough to return it. “Look at it this way, it could be fun.” Shay shrugs again. “Besides, it’s a rite of passage for a warrior, especially in this line of trade. I imagine if I want to continue on this path I’ve selected with you …” She looks to Kesla as she finally lets go of Hefdred now the sword’s comfortably in Krakka’s grip, still seeming a little reluctant to part ways with it.

“Maybe.” she growls, flexing her hands in that uncomfortably wary way I’ve come to recognise in her when she really doesn’t like a certain quirk coming up in her carefully laid plans. It makes me want to give her a hug too, but I’m not sure how welcome it would actually be right now. “It’s not really a prerequisite in our line of work, but …” She sighs, shrugging herself now, and seems to be mellowing a little again. “If you want it, then do it. If nothing else they make a fine souvenir, if you need one.” She finally manages a cocked smile.

Then she turns to me and she’s all business again, serious as a priest. “Send Tulen a message. Let her know we found our man, ‘least it looks that way. If Thel wants to stay out an’ try a few more then fine, we got time, but they might wanna hustle over here before too long.”

“You think this might be a problem?” I venture as I read a little subtext into her words.

“No, these guys seem sincere enough.” She shoots a look to Novet, who’s waiting at the door now, the piece of art she selected still loosely clutched in his fingers. He’s watching us all with a cool curiosity, but I have to agree there doesn’t seem to be any actual cause for concern there. “It just pays to be careful, right?”

I’m really not sure how to answer that right now. I’m willing to hope for the best under the circumstances, but she’s making me paranoid all the same. As she starts after Kurnev into the back Shay gives me a complicated look as she starts to follow, and I can’t help reaching into my robe as I take a step after them, making sure my wand’s still in place in its holster. Just in case …