KNITE:

Many find the tideless shores of Evergreen an odd sight, its stillness an affectation of reality so peculiar as to be disconcerting; I find the lapping waters of foreign shores much the same, the complex movements of its amorphous constituents too alive, as if their seas were large, drunken creatures, each speck and drop and flow of water a limb they thrashed about with impunity.

I stood upon a beach, the sand as dry as bones. At my feet lay an unconscious Kakaro, his skin drinking in the afternoon sunlight like a hungry abyss. Across the waters, a small, well-crafted boat made of knobby wood drifted towards us. Upon its stern stood Halga, impassive, tall, erect, armor glistening. Beside her, Roche leaned off the side, his hand playing in the water. The way he smiled at the ripples he made in the otherwise calm waters lent him a guileless charm—few who saw him in that moment would suspect his brutality. Sanas sat in the middle, hugging her knees to her chest and rocking back and forth.

I knelt down, slid a hand under the Af’titalan godling’s neck, and released him from his involuntary sleep. Kakaro awoke. He did not panic; anyone who’d suffered Huzizal’s tutelage was immune to panic. Instead, he got to his feet and observed the scene, calm as can be, noticing The Dead Sea by its tranquility and my intentions by the boat that approached.

“My mother cried the day she heard news of your death.” As Kakaro spoke, the power of his divinity dulled, and some of the sun’s light was allowed to reflect off his skin and reveal more of his features.

“How is Jilinin?” I asked.

“Do you care?”

I turned to face him and his soft scowl. “I warned your mother the day we met. As did Huzizal.”

“That is not an answer.”

“But despite your phrasing, you did not ask a question. I merely thought to discredit your unsaid accusation.”

“Yet my accusation does not ring hollow.”

I studied Kakaro. There was something of his mother in how he watched me back: hope and fear hid behind his anger, all of it driving a cunning mind into action.

“An accusation requires the assignment of blame,” I said. “I am not culpable for your mother’s woes.”

“Yet you are its source.”

“Who was it she ended up espousing?” I asked, hoping to steer the conversation into less hazardous tracks. I doubted he’d let me, but it was worth an attempt simply because the act would buy me currency to claim an attempt at diplomacy.

“You do not know him.”

“A Sworn?”

“Our traditions stand,” He said. Only a Sworn can conceive a child with a Lighteater.

“Did he come to prominence during the war?”

Kakaro nodded. “He is the Warchief.”

“Of your tribe?”

“Of Af’titala.”

“The Prime Shadow. Impressive.”

“All the more vexing since the grandeur of his accomplishments has failed to absorb your light from my mother's eyes.” The more Kakaro spoke, the more I saw Jili; she had a talent for guiding conversations toward her own ends. It is the very reason I found her company so enchanting. She was, ostensibly, a warm, kindly version of Lorail, which fascinated me to no end—it is a wonder to see two women at once so alike and unalike, to be fond of one and hate the other even as you observed their similarities.

I shook my head. “You are being childish. It is unbefitting for one of your age.”

“Righteous indignation makes children of us all.”

“Given I accept the fallacy of your indignation being righteous, I do not think revenge is childish. Fruitless, misguided, empty grumblings, on the other hand…”

“I—”

I held up a hand. Knowing Kakaro was his mother’s son, this conversation would run in circles if I let it. “Drop the subject. Words will not change the past, nor will they convey a thought that is so original as to alter my thinking.”

Kakaro opened his mouth, hesitated, and, after a moment of contemplation, chose to heed my instruction. “Are you sending me back unharmed and uninterrogated?”

“I don’t suppose you’ve changed your mind about informing me about the other members of your mission?”

“No.”

“There you have it.”

“No threats of pain or death?”

“I’m sure I could make impressions of both without lying, but why bother?”

“Lying?”

I shrugged. “You are her son and his student.”

“Her whose life you ruined and him whose life you’ve taken.”

“You are boring me, child.”

Kakaro stepped forward, hands clenched into fists, blackness oozing back onto his skin. “You owe me answers.”

“I suppose, like your late father, you are another victim of this misdeed you so adamantly wish to assign to me?”

“What of it?”

I closed my eyes, lowered my head, and sighed all at once. “Do you know what I told her the day she slipped into my room?”

“That is of little import!”

The hull of the boat scrapped over the coarse sand, sounding like nails screeching across wood. Kakaro and I turned to see my people disembark, an eager Sanas first of all. She leaped off the vessel, the heat of her landing melting the sand to glass and cracking it into shards. Roche followed, the stamp of his feet on the shallow waters sending out tall splashes. Halga came last, gliding over the edge of the water, the bulk of her armor made weightless.

“This him?” Roche asked, circling Kakaro and inspecting him as if he were a particularly ordinary specimen of his kind. “Not much to look at, is he?”

Kakaro turned back to me. “What is to stop me from escaping their escort once you leave?”

“Death,” I said. “If you choose to spur my gift, I shall rescind from you the protection my sense of sentiment has granted.”

Roche laughed heartily. “You? Sentimental? If I didn’t know you better, Lord, I’d have called you a liar.”

I threw him a warning glance. As expected, he shirked away from my aggressive attention. Roche’s rapid tongue was the only thing quicker than his sense of danger.

“Are we to go with him?” Halga asked. Though she did not share Sanas's fondness for the handsome rogue, she did, for her sister’s sake, make a habit of shielding him from his own recklessness.

“Your sister shall escort our guest back home.” I looked over at Sanas. “Take him to Golodan.”

Sanas nodded. “Not to question your orders, Lord, but if you are confident he will do as you say, why must I escort him?”

I nodded towards the small boat. “I’d have to add Kakaro’s signature to the matrix, else he’d fail to operate the vessel across The Dead Sea—a type of vessel whose secrets the Aftitalans have long been trying to unravel. As you might imagine, I prefer not to give enemies of Evergreen any tools they might use to hurt my father’s legacy.”

“But why me, Lord?”

“Twofold. Firstly, I need Roche and Halga for what comes next. Secondly, you need the task to be able to join us for what comes next. The mere fact that you question me demonstrates why I need the you of yore.”

Sanas glanced at The Dead Sea before her gaze snapped back to me. “I do not need—”

“You have spent your time since your liberation hiding from your time in The Bridge. That has not worked in your favor. Overcome this hurdle, face The Dead Sea and all it reminds you of, or remain in Golodan. I am sure this journey will provide obstacles. Face them. Or not. That is your prerogative. Either you return, once more the Sanas of old, or you wither away as her living corpse. Whatever you choose, You’ll no longer be a liability I must contend with.”

The sisters shared a look. Halga watched Sanas with a worried yet hopeful look—she, as always, agreed with my decision.

“Remember who you are, San,” Halga said. “And remember our promise.” Her following words sounded like an incantation or a prayer; the practiced phrase, short and nonsensical without context, came out in a chant. “Mouldy bread and muddied water.”

Sanas nodded, repeated the mantra back, and turned to reenter the boat, the end of her robe pulled up and around her knees. Kakaro went to join her, but before he reached the water’s edge, he looked back at me from over his shoulder.

“I will not tell her you are alive,” he said.

“I suspected as much,” I said. “What of your new father? Or the council?”

“Unlike you, my mother’s sworn does not keep secrets.”

“But you do?”

“For her? Unwaveringly.”

Kakaro joined Sanas on the boat. With a shudder, the vessel began to cut into the waters. Halga came to stand next to me as we watched the pair drift off into the horizon.

“Will she…?”

“Yes,” I said. “I’ve seen glimpses of our Sanas on occasion.”

There was a stretch of silence before Halga asked her next question. “Is he yours, Lord?”

“I am not so cruel as to inflict a child with having me as a father.”

Halga snorted a small laugh—a distinctly uncharacteristic gesture. “Helena might disagree.”

“I might’ve raised her, but I was never a father to her. Besides, her only alternatives were an early death or a life so fraught with misery as to make my stewardship a preferable option.”

“You aren’t so bad, Lord,” Roche said. He’d been unusually silent this whole while, likely apprehensive of irking me twice in quick succession. “A little austere perhaps, a tad demanding, but I reckon that’s what a father ought to be.”

I turned to him, unamused. “A father—a good father—never truly contemplates killing his children.”

***

Helena was in the shadows, hidden. As was Roche, though his concealment was of a different sort—he was already inside the building, no doubt mingling with the staff as though he was one of them. Halga and Kip walked behind me, stout, capable, and, unlike myself, definitively divine. They were warriors both, above all else, and everything about them showed this to be true. It is why I’d chosen them to accompany me.

The Scorpian’s main headquarters was not in Partum’s capital. Instead, the organization was run out of the southern coastal town of Frelkri, a small yet rich city frequented by many Silas godlings and home to Nasiil, one of the four Silas Fioras. Made up of a horde of villas, open markets, and an abundance of taverns, whorehouses, and gambling dens, Frelkri was one of the more favored places in Partum and used by many of the island’s godlings when they wished to partake in bouts of debauchery.

Set along the curving, manmade snake of water that cut through the city was a large, four-story building from which the Scorpian’s enterprises were led. With its rear looking out over the calm river Styx and its front open to one of the city’s chief thoroughfares, the Scorpion’s head office took pains to stand out from among its affluent neighbors, its classical architecture enwreathed in a violet fog of heady smoke.

Two guardsmen, outfitted in long, garish tunics of a dazzling purple, stood at the arched entrance, stiff and straight as the halberts they held. They were tall men, broad of shoulder, packed with the muscle of slow and mighty warriors—those bred to hold their ground and play the part of fleshy fortifications. When I reached a few paces away from them, the halberts shifted, crossing to bar my way.

“Do you have an appointment,” said the man on the right, his doltish gaze stuck on a spot over my right shoulder, exactly where my tall Halga loomed. He must’ve thought her the greatest danger.

“I don’t,” I said as we came to a stop. My voice was low, but despite the raucous mid-afternoon crowd bustling behind us, my words found their mark.

“If you do not have an appointment,” the guard on the left said, “you shall have to leave.”

“I think not.” Just as the words left my mouth, the doors swung open, revealing Roche in the company of a female Alchemist.

“Here he is,” Roche said.

The Silas Alchemist’s drowsy stare drank me in, her heavy-lidded eyes of dark blue wandering over every inch of me. I studied her in turn. She was plump, young if her youthful appearance was to be believed, and carried herself as most of her House did; shoulders slumped, she swayed, though a vigilant onlooker would see her balance never went on the wrong side of her control. She had a strong forehead, high and protruding, full lips, thick lashes, and a nose that was a little too high, small, and angular for her round face. To godlings like her, this was a sign of competence, of possessing a call to knowledge and discovery, of harboring a salient purpose too profound to allow the inanity of superficial vanity.

“Doesn’t look the type,” she said. Her lips tripped over each other wetly, and though this portended garbled words, her every syllable was clear and distinct. “Merchants are often as eccentric and visually loud as they are capable, their fingers and necks and wrists beset by jewelry, every shiny bobble a measure of their success.” Her eyes once more roamed about my dark, close-cut leathers, sparing a glance at the twin swords strapped to my back. “He seems more like a capable sellsword.”

Roche ran a hand down to the small of her back and gently pulled her closer. “Trust me, my dear Aersly. Merk here will provide.”

“Very well.” Aerly waved the guards back. “Let them through.”

We followed the Alchemist inside. Roche walked beside her, his hand purposefully brushing against hers as they walked, which, considering her seemingly turbulent sway, was rather impressive. The building—a mundanely crafted thing of countless bricks mortared together as some contrived statement against the Art of Aedificators—was crowded with godlings. The clamor of hushed conversations snaked throughout the spacious halls and tall doorways we passed, the many members covertly conducting some trade so fervently you’d think they were negotiating world peace.

It did not take long for Aersly to lead us to her second-floor office. She sat behind her desk, light streaming in from the tall window at her back, and gestured for me to sit in the only other available seat.

“Make yourself comfortable,” she said.

I did not take the offered seat. Instead, I strolled about the room and perused the books lining the walls. Among the leatherbound tomes were a multitude of small crystal bottles, most of them purple, some glowing, a few swirling as if alive.

“What role do you occupy in your organization?” I asked.

“I am the head purveyor for goods we trade on the island of Halor. Recent times have seen a decline in the island’s most profitable… export, shall we say. Your associate here assures me you may be in a position to help us in this regard.”

“What is it you need this export for?”

“That is not your concern. Yours is to provide goods and discretion. In turn, we’ll grant you a healthy sum of wealth. Now, let us talk numbers.”

“Consent is still an issue, I see. It must be frustrating when your experiments are blighted by unwilling subjects. I wonder, however, if those broken by Auger Arts do not skew your experiments in their own way. “

“Who exactly are you?” The pitch of Aestry’s tone climbed as she spoke. “There is only so much disrespect I’ll tolerate for the sake of profit and only so much I’m willing to restrain my curiosity to attain a mutual degree of discretion. You walk in here, an exceptionally talented commoner in your service—yes, I noticed his Tunnels—a Golodanian royal and a godling from House Bainan as guards, and a method to hide one’s soul so thoroughly as to appear soulless.”

I turned to face her, hands clasped behind my back. “Who has Nasiil installed as the day-to-day overseer?”

Aestry frowned. “I’m afraid you’ll have to satisfy me before your proposal makes it to Lord Klinst.”

“Klinst, is it?” I returned to perusing the books, finding many were on the science of mundane herbology. “Is he available today?”

“Unfortunately, the Lord Klinst is indisposed.”

“By which you mean he’s excessively intoxicated and enjoying himself too much to bother curtailing its effects for my sake.”

“He would, given sufficient motivation,” she said.

“Haloryerey.”

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

There came a silence, its depth and duration fed by Aestry’s disbelief. She stared at me, her expression evolving from confusion to incredulity to anger, each progressive state lessening the glint and droop of inebriation in her eyes.

“Who are you?” she asked again.

I looked up, seeing past the ceiling, beyond the subsequent floors, to a room above them all. “Is Klinst the prudent sort?”

Half a turn later, I stood in his office. The room was as much a laboratory and drug den as it was a place to conduct business, though all three functions were separated by space and delineated by their respective practicalities. On the left, on a floor of white marble carved with a grand Alchemical matrix of dark purple, sat a stout worktable upon which was a veritable arsenal of tools and ingredients. The most impressive of the collected specimens was perched in a cage. The Jistel, a distant cousin of the mythical Festuur, was featherless, its majestic plume reduced to dried stalks littering the base of its prison. Like a shaven rodent, the beautiful creature known and feared for possessing one of the most potent toxins sat naked, skin wrinkled, gut bulging, the utter despair in its eyes so bleak as to emit a sense of rot.

The central strip, traversing the space between the two-door entrance and the back wall, was a floor of slated panels of wood waxed to a lustrous sheen, at the end of which sat a beautifully crafted table and chair of aged oak. To the right—where the man himself was draped facefirst across a cushioned settee, his gangly figure occupying four of its five spaces—was a corner of comfort sequestered by a sea of Alchemical containers of varying shapes, sizes, and colors.

“That is a marvelous concoction you’ve consumed,” I said, walking towards Klinst.

Drool collected under the Alchemist’s parted lips and drooping tongue, some spilling off and dripping to the floor. Only a sliver of space separated his eyelids so that he appeared, at first glance, to be asleep. He wasn’t. From the fluctuations of his soul, I’d wager he was as awake as anyone could be. More, even.

Klist sat up. His wrinkled robes fell about his feet. He leaned forward in my direction, seeming to peer my way, though his eyes remained on the brink of closure. “A new strain I’m working on. Extracting the bliss from the Jistil’s venom without it carrying some measure of its lethality has been challenging.”

Klist head cocked sideways, the drool tracing a line diagonally down his cheek. “Is that Aestry I see outside?”

I glanced back and past the open doors at the Alchemist. She knelt, hands cupped in her lap, her head bowed.

“She did not err in her duties if that is what you think.”

“No, not at all. I only wonder if my subordinate might’ve offended a valued guest such as yourself.”

“Well, she was rather apprehensive at first, but that is to be expected. I can make for a rather suspicious visitant.”

“Indeed.” Klist wiped the drool from his face on his sleeve, rubbed his eyes, and clinched the bridge of his nose with the forefinger and thumb of his right hand. Then he said, “What can I do for you?”

I pointed at the table, upon which, amidst a cluster of other more colorful types, lay an unassuming vial made of smoky glass, a wedge of cork sealing in the drop of liquid that remained. “I meant to commend you on the artificial sensight. Such an accomplishment far outstrips whatever you are attempting with the poison.”

Klist sat up a little straighter. “Impressive.”

“As is your creation.”

“Not so impressive,” he said, “seeing as it has not granted me sight of you.”

I continued to close the distance, stepping onto the cloud of fur that was his rug. “I dare say even your father’s cursory attempt might not achieve such a feat, and besides the gods of Kolokasi, Silas is the best there is.”

“Grandfather. I am but a humble Seculor.”

I sighed. “Let us not lie, Klist. It establishes a precedence I’d rather go without. You are neither humble nor a Seculor.”

Klist transformed from a picture of lethargy to a predator stalking its prey. Not in stages, but all at once. He looked at me, eyes narrowed but clearly open, and smirked. “And you, I presume, are the reason for Polerma’s resurgence?”

“In part. I see you kept an ear on our conversation.”

“A significant part?”

“Enough to rely on the trade she now controls.”

“Well, since we are in such a talkative mood, may I ask who you are? You’re clearly a god. From the Far East? It’d explain why I cannot sense you.”

“Inpertinant to our discussions,” I said.

“Not at all,” Klinst said. He stood, and I found his arms were unnaturally long, the tips of his nails nearly reaching his ankles. “A foreign god living on our lands, partaking in trade, and growing fat off our wealth is of some import.”

“Is this not the land of the free?”

“Free of other gods.”

“Not all gods?”

“This is no longer Merkusian’s Evergreen, and even he understood the need for power.”

I shrugged. “Nevertheless, I was born here.”

“If not foreign, Lorailian?”

I shook my head. “Banish the thought.”

“But you are of divine origin?”

“I do not wish to discuss the topic. Are you open to trade or not?”

“I insist you—”

I made to leave.

“Wait!” Klist called, one long arm reaching in my direction. “How much and how fast?”

***

It is our nature, I think, to regard height as more significant than breadth—I’d wager it has something to do with how we’ve long considered the sky a doorway to heaven, how souls dispossessed of their mortal anchors seem to drift upwards, and how standing on top is far more comfortable than kneeling below. And so it is that my quartet of followers did not think much of the squat mountain range The Annanas had come to call home. The chain of cliffs wound in on itself, the ragged peaks falling along its tail ends so that, from a distance, the place appeared as if it were a stone tiara some unfathomable giant had made to crown the land.

The air sizzled, the heat so intense as to blur the world. Not a speck of greenery was in sight. The wind bit at us with hot teeth. Dry earth tested the leather of our boots. Every once in a while, the ground shuddered as a subterranean creature burrowed past us, brushing only so close as to sense we were not prey.

The stronghold was a marvel to behold. A grand set of stairs led up halfway up a steep crag where the fortress was nuzzled, its innards impressed into the rock, its shell carved and molded into an uninterrupted mosaic depicting the face of a palace in a cave.

“Strange that such beauty can hatch from such vile minds,” Roche said. We stood abreast at the bottom of the stairs, our eyes looking up and into the cavern at glimpses of its unnaturally beautiful interior.

Helena snorted. “Much like Lorailians, it is a façade. Nothing that comes from godlings can ever be beautiful. Or good. Or anything but despicable.”

“What of my sister and I?” Halga asked. “Or have you forgotten who it was that fathered us?”

“Thank your mother,” Helena replied, ever my shadow. A deception, of course. Helena loved Halga for all the royal blood the warrior had spilled, hence the effort to obscure what she considered her fellow crusader’s most significant flaw, fatal and immutable as it was.

We ascended. No one greeted us as we entered the vast hollowness that housed the stronghold. Inside, we found a half dome of grey stone whose arched ceiling and flat floor were preternaturally unwrinkled, its frictionless surface, bar the back wall where the mosiac of a palace had been engraved, the epitome of smooth.

We crossed the expanse and came upon its stone doors. But for the howl of twisting winds, a fog of silence hung over the place. Kip pounded on the entrance with his fist, a newfound urgency in his actions. On the tenth such strike, a door opened, though it was not the giant slabs we stood before. To the right, an opening rolled into being, the stone curling outwards and spinning itself as though it were the paper of a scroll. From beyond the darkness stepped a figure. A godling. Fair hair cut short. Tall, which rankled me as it had done in recent times. His attire was seemingly chiseled from stone; the flow of his forest-green robe fell straight and without folds, and the sheathlike leathers beneath, which were of a lighter hue, hugged his skeletal figure as if the tanned skin of the beast it came from was stitched directly onto his body.

“Greetings,” he said.

I walked forward. The man scrutinized my feet, keeping careful watch over my steps. And for good reason. The smoothness of the stone—a deliberate feature—was such that sensus was needed to achieve even a modicum of friction, without which the simple act of walking would turn into a series of falls. Much can be gleaned from the way one utilizes sensus. The color, depth, volume, control, and a league of other factors reckoned by observing the use of sensus can be telling. Of course, one might purposefully fumble to lower this estimation. One might even go so far as to let themselves fall. But I was attempting to be seen and treated favorably, and because strength is the only purveyor of courtesy my family dealt with, strength is what I displayed.

I bowed to the man, making sure the methods I used to achieve the posture were within his line of sight. “Good day.”

“To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“We’ve come here with a proposal.” Arms wide, I gestured at my group, all of whom stepped forward.

The man glanced at each of us in turn, his gaze lingering on Halga. “For?”

“Perhaps we might discuss this inside, preferably over beverages,” I said. “The trip here has desiccated us some. Refreshments would not go amiss. ”

The godling returned his attention to me. “Before I invite you in, it behooves me to ask who you are and how you came to find our sanctum.”

I smiled and injected levity into my tone. “We are but potential friends eager to establish relations.”

“Excuse my rudeness, but I asked who you were, not why you are here. Like everyone who graces our steps, you are here to commission our services. Unlike everyone, however, you’ve arrived here without invitation or directions.”

“Right, you are. Well, half right. Would you like a name? A profesion? Perhaps my most defining pastime? Or might you be wondering after my age?”

“Name and origin shall suffice,” he said, unamused.

“I go by Merkus.” I looked back and waved a hand over my group, all four of whom were smiling at my antics. “These fine men and women with me are like-minded individuals who’ve chosen to offer me support in my enterprises. All of us but that fellow”—I singled out Kip—“were born and raised right here in Evergreen.”

The Aedificator studied Kip. “You are a Golodanian godling.” It was a statement, not a question; Kip’s bronze skin was a sign of his people. “Have you taken your vows?”

“I have,” Kip said.

“Show me.”

Kip glanced at me for my permission. I gave it to him with a nod. Leaning forward, he presented the back of his neck to the Aedificator, where a haze of sensus began to glow.

“Your mark does not contain the holder of your covenant,” the Alchemist said. It did, by I prevented the starry sky from showing, just as I had spliced away the uniqueness of my sensus.

“Kip here took his vows long before the war,” I said. “Back before Golodanian royalty was relegated to subservience wholesale and the practice of instilling a mark of ownership was standardized.”

The alchemist nodded gravely. “Very well. You may refer to me as Georde. I shall escort you to the master of our order. Please follow me.”

Crossing the dark opening posited us into a circular room that expanded as more of us entered. A whirlpool of stones made up its spinning wall, dull greys and browns ascending into flamboyant glimmers of green. Once inside, the liquid stone flowed over the entryway and locked us in.

“I did not think The Annannas was composed of one man and a solitary room buried under some far-off, desolate mountain,” Roche commented.

“Merely a means to travel,” The Alchemist said, a hint of pride marking his dry tone. “There are no passages or corridors here, only rooms and pockets of space that port between them.”

Suddenly, the wall seized to spin, the stone hardened, and the emerald formed into gems and settled into place.

“We have arrived,” Georde said. He gestured at the wall, and once more, stone bent to create an opening.

We entered a cold, windowless place of white marble, empty but for a ball of light hung overhead and a man who stood underneath it.

“Welcome,” he said, one hand twirling his comical mustache—the sparse thing was all too whispy for his broad face and thick build. Our escort went to stand behind the man. “Well then, Georde. What can you tell me of our spontaneous visitors?”

“Two commoners with the strength of adjudicators, a Golodanian godling, a cousin from House Bainan, and… well, the fifth, who appears to be their leader and goes by Merkus, is a conundrum. He is… strong, that much I know. If not for his flavorless sensus, I’d have thought him one of the old ones.”

“Foreign?” The mustache man asked.

“No, Uncle.” A sapphire orb the size of a large orange appeared in Georde’s hand. “The artifact did not trigger when he told me he hails from our lands.”

“Interesting.” The man turned to me. “So, Merkus, my name is Silveron. You are here to commission our services, I take it. What is it you offer in turn?”

“Oh dear.” I feigned a contrite tone and manner, hand on chest, pitch and brow raised. “There seems to be a misunderstanding. My fault, of course. I’ve come here to sell my services. And for gold—I am somewhat of a nomad and have no need of your talents, great though they may be.”

“I see.” Silveron tried for sagacity. He had been trying since our arrival. “Setting aside your presumptions regarding the scope of our abilities, what exactly do your services entail.”

“Information.”

“Pertaining to?”

“Your enemy.”

“Our enlightened Queen has made it so the whole world is our enemy. Be specific.”

“Ah, I was referring to your enemies, not Evergreen’s. Otherwise, I’d have sought an audience with Bainan—where you support the war, he leads it.”

The man frowned but did not correct me. “The Scorpions?”

“The very same.”

“How much?”

“Five thousand.”

“Silver?”

“Gold.”

“That is enough to buy an estate in the capital.”

“A small one,” I admitted,” not that I care to.”

“And what is this information you’ve obtained?” Silverton returned to twirling his whiskers, his chin angled upward.

“You are aware of The Scorpions’ troubles with obtaining slaves.”

Silverton nodded, slow and measured; children never look more like children than when they try not to be. “They need them both to test new formulas and to synthesize their more sought-after merchandise.”

“Indeed. Well, they have found a new source.”

“And?”

“I happen to know where and when they’ll be collecting their first consignment.”

“Useful. Not worth five thousand gold, however.”

“All in the spirit of haggling, my dear Alchemist. Given your order’s doctrines, I understand you share my appreciation for wealth.”

“What we understand, what even The Scorpions understand, is that the pursuit of knowledge demands much of us, including a vast sum of coin.”

***

A tavern.

The Hoard’s public face was deep in Partum’s capital, a grand structure only outdone by the palaces of the island's two gods. But unbeknownst to most, the chief of their operations did not conduct business in their headquarters. No, he ruled from a run-down tavern on the outskirts of the capital.

The door creaked as if the aged wood thought to complain about all the aches time and use had stressed into its being. Old spillage coated the worn planks of the floor, and I had to peel my boots off its clingy surface after every step. A stink of old sweat and cheap wines hung in the air. As did a haze of hashla smoke. Weary denizens sat on creaky chairs and around creaky tables, mugs, trays filled with ash and pipes, and half-eaten bowls of some unidentifiable stew set between them. Each and every one of the tavern's patrons was poorly dressed, dirtied by their habits and the labors they’d endured that day. Common men and women. Lowly Roots. So low as to be indistinguishable from working Muds. They watched me as I entered and continued to stare as I took a seat at the counter, my salient cleanliness striking amid the muck and grime they lived in.

Wiping down a dirty mug with an even dirtier washcloth, the barkeep strolled in my direction, his beard unkempt, stains stacked upon his apron, his hands so hairy as to resemble fur. He stored the mug, which was dirtier after his ministration, rested his elbows on the counter, interwove his fingers into a double-handed fist, and asked, “What can I get ya, sir?”

I pointed at the back of the room, where, far from any of the seating, was a solitary door. “Perhaps you might offer me easy entry.”

The barkeep glanced at the door. “Nothin’ back there but barrels and bottles, sir.”

A young, homely barmaid entered from the passageway behind the bar counter, a bottle of wine in one hand and a platter of grilled meats in the other. She was halfway to the trio of men who’d likely ordered the meal before the odd silence struck her notice. She glanced about searchingly, quickly finding the source. The involuntary jerk of her whole body nearly spilled the food from her grasp once she caught my smile.

“We don’t want no trouble, sir,” the barkeep said, drawing my smile to him. “And I doubt ya be wantin’ anythin’ we can serve here. Best ya find a more fittin’ tavern, I think.”

“Are you kicking me out, my good man?”

The barkeep shook his head so vehemently he was at risk of breaking his own neck. “Nothin’ of the sort, sir—I wouldn’t dare. We ain't got the best of grub, ya see. Ours is barely betta’ than what the Muds eat.”

I leaned in to whisper, though I also conjured a Zephyr bubble around us, locking our voices within its confines. “Your efforts have been commendable, but please do not waste my time further. I mean to conduct business behind that door.”

He gestured to the door. “See for ya’self, sir. There ain’t nothin’ behind that door but a storeroom.”

“As it is, I believe you.”

The barkeep watched me, forehead creased in a mixture of confusion and concentration as he tried to decipher my words. “Then—”

“What is your name?” My tone deepened. The barkeep noticed. It struck him as less affable, I was sure; he raised his arms from the counter and stepped back, and what little of his complexion I could see past his grizzled face paled.

“Klinton,” he said, barely avoiding a stutter.

“Well, Klinton, if I knew the pattern for the Golem matrix attached to the lock, I’d not ask you to give me entry, would I? I could, of course, cleave my way through, but as I’ve already said, I’ve come to conduct business.”

“Peacefully?” he asked hesitantly.

“Peacefully,” I confirmed.

He stared at the lowly Roots and his frozen barmaid, all of whom continued to watch our interplay. They heard not a word of it, and I suspect that was yet another reason they gawked.

“None have been privy to conversation since your girl entered,” I said.

“Ya’re a Zepha’?”

“Do not dally, Klinton.”

The barkeep hesitated. “I gotta ask them before I can let ya in.”

I waved him off. Klinton hurried to the back of the room, paused as he adjusted the matrix, and squeezed through passed in a rush. I heard the locks engage a moment after the door closed behind him. The Roots who kept me company remained frozen, a static painting drawn in fear. I smiled at them, which I was sure did little to ease their tension.

Soon, Klinton returned. He snuck his head through the door.

“Sir,” he called. “Please follow me.”

I did.

The passage past the door turned sharply to the right and, a few strides in, led to a much cleaner space. To the side, two women and a man gambled on a game of cards in their hands. All three were godlings. Though they’d not inherited a pale tint from their divine parents, the disguises they wore did little to hide their station—commoner clothing was not up to the task of concealing the air of entitlement, the surety of power, and the sense of superiority their upraising embedded into them. They took a moment to glance at me, then returned to their game, unconcerned. A show of confidence. A claim of strength. A warning to behave.

Klinton stayed behind as I walked toward two godlings who sat leisurely in holstered chairs deeper into the room. Both sipped aged wine from crystal glasses. The man perused a book he’d laid out in his lap, legs crossed, each page read as quickly as he could lick his finger and turn it. He wore a dark green embroidered waistcoat over a beige shirt, black breeches, and tall boots, each article fitted as if a second skin. His golden hair was slicked back with wax, his eyebrows plucked into swords, and his lips wet as if they exuded moisture all by themselves. All this told me he, like Georde the Aedificator, was young. Four decades at the most. This feminine style had only just become fashionable again, and it had been centuries since godlings entertained such fancies.

The godling who kept him company was a woman. Sensuous—if I had to choose a single word to confine her in. But for her coloring, she reminded me of Leahne, the agent Lorail sent after Aki, the one who now served me; all subtle curves, flawless features, and projected modesty wrapped up in simple elegance.

“Welcome.” It was the woman who spoke, and it did not surprise me to find her abundant sensuality reached her voice, its raspy tenor alluring my senses.

“I take it you two are his keepers,” I said.

The boy looked up for the first time, a ripple of surprise crossing his expression.

The woman, older and more practiced, watched me, her gaze sultry. “Whatever do you mean?”

I jabbed a thumb over my shoulder. “The barkeep.”

“Again, I do not—"

Laughter cut her off. The boom thundered closer as Klinton walked past me, head leaning back, hand on stomach. He waved the boy away, and with an involuntary eagerness, the boy jumped from his seat. Klinton snatched the drink from the boy’s grasp, sat, and turned his gaze on me, pointing at me with the wild, manic, open-mouthed grin his laughter left behind.

“I have no keepers.” Klinton’s laugh boomed once more, the sound gruffer and more sure than the meek man I’d met before. “How did you know?”

“Your accent. Your acting. Your lack of fear. Your sensus. The way you move. The copious glint of hubris in your gaze.” I spun one rotation, arms gesturing at the room and the building and region beyond. “This place. The boy’s furtive glances at you as I spoke to him and his senior. The fact is that neither of them is a Fiora, let alone a Leaf. The—ah, well, I take it you get my meaning.”

“Indeed,” Klinton said. He took a sip of wine, glanced at the pair of godlings in turn, both of whom flinched, and then set down his crystal cup. “It has been some time since I’ve entertained a worthy guest. Please sit.” He indicated the seat next to him where the female godling had sat—she’d vacated the chair before he finished offering it to me.

I sat down. “How did a Named come to run The Hoard? I assume you’ve been Named.”

“I have, and the story of my ascension is a long and tedious affair.”

“I doubt it.”

Klinton grinned. “Yes, it was far from tedious.”

“And far from an ascension.”

The barkeep’s brow furrowed. “I’ll have to admit to being a little lost.”

“You’re a slave.”

Klinton’s grin vanished. “A slave who controls the most profitable organization to have ever existed.”

“You’re a prodigy.”

Klinton’s grin returned. “So they say.”

“Your skill with sensus is not your only talent.”

“That’s true. I have a talent for accruing funds.”

“No, that is a symptom of your talent. As is part of your skill with sensus, I suspect.”

“Oh? And what is this talent of mine?”

I tapped my temple. “You know the trouble with being clever.”

“I’m sure you’ll enlighten me.”

“You find you are right too often, find others act as you predict, see them fall into your grasp and dance to your tune. I’m confident that even now, you believe you’re leading masters to their doom, pacing through a list of events you’ve curated. I will not tell you how wrong you are—that will be for our second meeting—just that you are very, very wrong.

As for me, you think you are compiling me into a puppet, seeing how I act and talk, which words I use, the way I look at you, or react to your teasings and false showings of anger or outrage. You think all these things will make the puppet you have of me in your mind a perfect copy, a tool to understand and manipulate. Again, you are wrong. That is because you have failed to understand something.”

Klinton’s grin remained. “What?”

I returned his grin, mine less exaggerated. More real. “I am cleverer, more devious, wiser, more ruthless, and all around better than you in matters of the mind. As are your masters, by the by. One does not survive Leafdom and persists for eons to be taken down by an arrogant Named who’s barely reached a century.

“I do not say any of this to boast or to threaten or to belittle. I tell you this for reasons I’ll not divulge at this time.

“Which brings me to my primary purpose for being here.”

As I knew he would, Klinton took my words in stride. His soul had told me he was pragmatic to a fault, always in service to a greater goal, a greater purpose. This partly explained his degree of control. The other part was how dull my words were compared to the pulsing hurts pestering his soul.

“Do tell,” he said, straight-faced.

“The Scorpions and The Annanas will be meeting sometime soon.”

“Why?”

“To strike a blow against a competitor.”

“When and where?”

“Five hundred and seventy gold,” I said. Negotiating would sully my earlier claims—if I were as clever as I made to be, determining the richest price he’d be willing to pay would be child’s play.

***

“Are we going to kill any godlings anytime soon?” Kip let his great hammer fall off its perch on his shoulder. Its monstrous head crashed to the cobbles of the empty street, where, suddenly and with a rumble, the stone turned to powder, and fissures branched out. “Heretofore, our time in Partum has been mighty dull.”

“Not tonight,” I said. All except Halga sighed in disappointment. “Hearten. All the pieces have been set in motion. Two days hence, on the eve of the meeting I’ve arranged, we shall sow carnage.”