KNITE:

I saw the damnable green light of the towers long before I reached the capital. There was a time when the emerald glow calmed me. That was long ago, back when the light denoted The King. Now it was a sign of her, and nothing of hers could ever calm me. Not now, not then, not ever.

I reached the city on the first day of a wet spring, two turns after nightfall. Birds had stopped circling the sky. Clouds, thick and dark despite the warmth, promised rain. The chirps and squeals and howls of wild animals had died into silence. Only the wind sweeping the muddy plains outside the capital city, the ruckus of traveling merchants hurrying to escape the night, and Qaniin’s intermittent grumbling cut through the silence. The modest Painter matrix I used to hide us irritated my horse. Like most evolved beasts, she was sensitive to sensus.

Tired, negligent guards let me into the city without pause. Empty streets marked my passage with more silence as I cut through The Muds and Roots. The nightly clamor of the newer and less affluent part of The Bark paid me no mind, their boisterous residents occupied by musics, drinks, and brawls. All in all, I reached the safe house Helena had acquired undisturbed.

Then, the glint of a dagger flashed before my eyes. I slapped the flat of the blade, knocking it off course. A giggling Leahne followed the dagger to the floor, her clothes in disarray, her hair matted, and her eyes dark and red with fatigue.

“You are worse for wear,” I said.

Leahne struggled to her knees, pure relief drawing her eyes and mouth wide. “You’re back.”

I stepped past her and deeper into the house. “Evidently, I am.”

A well-lit mess greeted me. Unwashed garments covered new furnishings, countless glass vials I suspected had once held Alchemical tonics were strews about the floor, and mounds of empty wine bottles amassed beside overturned chairs.

Leahne slogged up behind me, panting. The unpleasant scent of her hope followed her, intermingling with the odor of her cultivated squalor.

“Forgive me,” Leahne said in response to my apparent disgust. “I chose to funnel what little strength I had into the tasks you’d set me rather than the upkeep of the safe house.”

“Or yourself, it would seem.” I rescued a chair from a pile of garments with a flick of raw sensus and sat down. “All is in order?”

“Mostly.”

“Your subordinates?”

“No longer so. I’ve been excommunicated. Juntres—the spiteful cunt—tried for me before she left. I still had enough in me to resist her. She did not stay to try again.”

“The priestess?”

Leahne paused for a deep breath, then nodded. “The unraveling was hard on her. I believe she lost… something when the compulsion broke.”

“She rambles?”

“Incomprehensibly.”

“But the marking is broken?”

“I’m not certain. I was never so accomplished a Tunneller, even before my affliction.”

“How goes the investigation?”

“May I sit?” Leahne’s legs were trembling and on the verge of failure. “Without three-weave tonics and a good helping of wine…”

A moderate gale flung the clothes off of Roche’s chair, and a flexing of raw sensus set the chair back on its legs. I indicated for her to sit. She did.

“How goes your final task?” I asked.

Leahne slumped into the chair, sighed as though the weight of the world was lifted off her shoulders, and said, “A complete success. It has, so far, worked out as you had foretold.”

“Good.” I got to my feet and approached Leahne, picking up one of the many empty vials littering the floor on my way to stand before her. “Now, before you tell me about the merchants, let us see to your pains.”

The cure was simple. I sucked the dark smoke of the wound out of Leahne’s soul, bound it to a physical form, and placed it in the vial. A simple Golem matrix reinforced the glass, and another of an Alchemical kind ensured the naftajar could not escape its new home. Leahne fell into a temporary coma—an involuntary sleep where her consciousness retreated to her core.

***

The stairs leading down to the undercroft groaned beneath my feet. As the stink of human filth greeted me, worse than that which Leahne had accumulated upstairs, I was reminded of The Bridge. But where the stenches of The Bridge were carried off by the salty wind of the coast and allayed by the scents of broths and meats cooking over fires, the enclosed space here hoarded the sour smells of bodily waste and allowed no others to compete.

Ilinai skittered forward from the back of the skeleton cage, muttering. Her bony hands wrapped around the metal bars of her prison. “He’s come. He’s come. The dark. The knife. My death. My salvation. My ruiner. Mine, mine, mine. To kill me? To save me?” She shook her head. “No, not me, us. I am us. Yes, us…”

I grabbed the keys to the cage from a hook near the stairs and approached. Ilinai scurried away and plastered her back onto the far wall. I turned the key and swung the cage door open.

“Come here,” I said, loud enough to drown out her mutterings.

The priestess came forward, her movements jittery and irregular. I raised my arm. She took a step closer and nestled the back of her head into my outreached hand, the oil, grime, and bits of decayed food in her hair smearing my palm.

“Doomed,” Ilinai said. “There’s no saving those who are doomed. Doomed. That is I. That is I. Us. Yes, us. I am in pieces. No, we are in pieces.” She kept rambling. Leahne thought she made no sense. I knew she did, just of an unusual kind.

I dove into her. Ilinai had fractured. The damage was significant. Greater than Aminy’s. The bonds Lorail had tightening around Ilinai’s soul were myriad. It was clear saving her without taxing costs was beyond me. I sighed, my plans for her as broken as her mind was. I’d have to make new plans. But maybe…

I relocked the cage and left, Ilinai’s whimpers bidding me farewell.

***

Leahne awoke groggy, weak, and yet content. Groaning, she sat up, her smile delirious. “The pain! There’s no more pain!”

“For the moment,” I said, closing and laying down a book espousing the history The Queen had selectively curated, of which I, predictably and like all the gods unswayed by her promise to rule fair and well and with wisdom, was the villain. “I’m afraid no one can avoid pain without resorting to death.” Except for me, I thought. And even I cannot avoid the pain of old scars, of hatred.

“Thank you,” she said.

I waved her thanks away; fear is a far more fragrant aroma than gratitude. “Tell me of the merchants.”

Leahne inhaled a pitcher of water, a smile leaking half its content down her cheeks and neck. Pitcher drained, she leaned back against the headrest. “There are six merchant houses, though only they and those they hold sway over call them houses. While they have a far higher concentration of godling blood than many families, even those led by Triplers, none of their current members are godlings. There have been a few born from some of their members coupling with Seculors, but all of them have cut their ties so that they might curry favor with the more royal halves of their lineage. Those that have failed and returned account for why they have so many Faded among their ranks.”

I frowned. “Faded have a bloodline too diluted to grant them significant talent in the Arts. How do these merchant families hold power without strength? In a world of sensus, wealth is a poor replacement for power.”

“Because they do not compete with godlings. Their power is confined to the Roots.”

“And the rumors of them reaching a hand into the churches?”

“I suspect they did so at the behest of others.”

“Suspect?”

Lethargy almost hid Leahne’s shrug. “There’s no other way to explain why they’ve not been punished for their transgressions.” Leahne’s head swayed, and her eyes flickered between alert and asleep. Healing from the wounds a naftajar inflicts on the soul took more than a single night’s rest.

“Have you recorded your observations?”

“Not everything,” she drawled, her energy spent. “But most. In the pantry. A clay pot. Buried beneath grains of rice.”

***

Hidden by my conjured Painting, I scaled up the wall of an officious building near the gate to The Branches. A compound. It struck me as odd to see the large, dark-brown structure in an area abound with classically appealing estates—symmetrical mansions surrounded by curated gardens and tall walls.

The room behind the window was a dining hall of a sort. A long table covered in a white tablecloth with golden embroidery bordering its edges sat circled by cushioned chairs. No light came from the unlit matrix chandelier fixed to the ceiling, though the sun was up and daylight streamed in to provide all the lighting the room might want or need.

My soulsight sunk past the sensus molded glass and reinforced Golem walls to scan the premises. Dozens of souls wandered. It was easy to distinguish between the servants and the ones they served. Like the dark clouds of a particularly violent storm, the members of the merchant family carried murky souls heavy with sin. And rightly so. Taragat, so named after their founding patriarch, was the criminal undercurrent of this city and many others. They ran brothels, dealt in all manner of illicit goods, and partook in almost all such monetary endeavors, all without care for morality. Ironically, they did so with a great deal of respect for the law.

By virtue of his misfortune, I singled out an old man. He was in the next room, almost alone, both of which were convenient. The aged man lounged on finely upholstered thing that tried to be both a bed and a chair, a lit hasha pipe between his teeth and an unconscious whore between his legs.

I do her a disservice. The girl was too young to be a whore. She was a slave not yet twelve cycles, so young as to not need the branding of a bond to be controlled. In that sense, she was neither whore nor slave but a child—a child could be nothing but a child. Whatever else they were, they were because they were children, impressionable molds of circumstance, mere imprints of their environments.

I fed on the lecher. I can make a blink last an age when I have a consciousness in my grasp. I had his, and he died a thousand times over in invented creations too real for him to tell apart from reality. Fire, a thousand-day roast, an instant cremation, and every degree between. Hangings, the first a snap of the neck, the last a soft yet persistent choke stretching through a cycle of seasons. Drownings, rapes, falls, cuts, and a thousand other deaths, each limited only by my imagination. The man had lost his saninty when I ended his life in truth.

I picked up their bodies, one dead, one unconscious, and slung them over my shoulders. Upon finding some out-of-the-way alley, I took what I needed from the man’s corpse, scorched it into flakes of ash, and left his remains to be scattered by winds and rats. The girl I took to the doorsteps of a Merkusian church. Only a few remained standing; a dead and righteous god made for a scarce congregation in a place like Evergreen—not that which it was, but that which it had become.

***

Rain continued to pour. Unlike The Muds, the water here in the wealthier parts of The Roots slushed over cobbled streets and into grates, disappearing into the complex sewage system the dullsmiths of Evergreen maintained. I waited in this wet and miserable weather. And waited. And waited. Leahne had noted the delivery arrived weekly and always well before night encroached. For whatever reason, this pattern had broken.

I stood under a canopy made by the awnings of two walls at the end of a narrow street that cut between two large properties, one a home, the other a warehouse. Both belonged to the Grifals, the wealthiest of the merchant families. According to Leahne’s report, their primary revenue came from owning a sizable portion of the farms in the capital island, their reach extending to most cities, free or otherwise. I’d heard of them in passing; they were one of Roche and Helena’s more frequent targets. The head of their family, Sufust, began as a humble farmer. Early in his life, handsome as he was, he’d won the favor of a prominent godling who had flippantly helped him build an empire. Sufust used this empire to foster his trade in slavery. Of all the methods he might’ve employed, that is how he used the banner of protection he’d been bestowed. The godlings had meant to distribute food to the masses, to create an abundance that might push the population to new heights. He thought to squeeze more out of the boon. His decision had brought him three decades of plentiful profit and made The Muds what it was. The same decision brought me to his door. Soon, he’d find out the bargain was not in his favor.

Dusk arrived and found me thoroughly drenched. I was bored enough to care. Tedium has this way of transforming the most minor of gripes into pillars of vexation. As my impatience threatened to propel me into action prematurely, a caravan approached, twenty deep, the carriage leading them distinctly unlike the wagons that followed—chiseled designs and lacquered oak as opposed to rough-cut wood and rusty nails. The former was also much smaller, with two smaller breeds pulling the carriage while six draft horses pulled each wagon.

The wagons stopped before the gates of the warehouse as the carriage rode onwards and turned into the residence further ahead. A figure shaded by a mid-tier Painting shot from across the road and onto the trailing wagon, nimbly sliding under the vehicle. Interesting. Gates opened, and the procession of wagons began to move. I cloaked myself in a Painting of my own and made to join the suspicious figure.

He was a man. A furious and intensely focused man, his emotions so forceful as to rival the strength and depth of those I sensed when I dove deep into a person’s soul. Short black hair, a stumble on the brink of becoming a beard, a tall nose leaning a little to his left as if it was once broken and not quite set right, and the darkness of a heavy tan cut him into a rugged figure, what you might expect a well-to-do bandit would look like.

I pulled up beside the stranger. He’d griped the underside with both hands and found a horizontal beam to loop his legs over. The only other handholds were metallic and gave off too much heat for comfort. With little space or leverage, I resorted to a Pondus matrix and jammed three fingers into a gap between two planks to hold me up and level. Next, I threw up a Zephyr matrix around us, limiting the affected area—it would do me no good to alert the driver by silencing the creak and crunch of the wagon’s rolling wheels.

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The stranger went rigid.

“Do not fret, good man,” I said.

He looked about with practiced swiftness. “Who are you? Where are you?”

“No need to whisper.” I expanded my Painting to encompass the man. “They’ll not hear us.”

The man jerked back at my sudden appearance, grunted from the strain of the movement, and nearly lost grip on the hold that kept him aloft.

“Settle down,” I said. “And do not bother with your Painting. Mine shall suffice.”

His eyes froze on the mark adorning my chest.

I shook my head. “It is not as it appears.” I craned my neck lower and watched the sky give way to a high ceiling. We’d entered the warehouse. “The time is nigh for us to execute our plans.” I turned back to catch him observing me suspiciously. “I suspect we might be able to aid each other. At the very least, I’m here to ensure your plans do not hamper mine.”

The man snarled. “Are you threatening me?”

“Why are you here?”

The wagon came to a stop. I held a finger to my lips to stop the man from answering and released my barrier. A rush of sounds came at us: men shouting orders, the jangling chains of shackled feet shuffled off wagons, the hiss and snap of whips and those they struck. Not much happened around the first and last five wagons, including the one we hid under. Those ten likely held legitimate goods, which explained the hot metal pipes—Vapor matrixes were extracting heat from within, sustaining the perishables they contained. The central nine held the slaves, and all the activity originated in their vicinity.

I recast the barrier. “You’re here for a rescue,” I said, suddenly sure of his purpose.

His heart skipped a beat. To his credit, he did not let the prickle of fear show on his expression. “What if I am?”

“If that is all, then you may do as you wish. However—”

“Why are you here?”

I sighed. “You’re fortunate.” He tried to interrupt me again, but a wave of pain trapped his words behind gritted teeth. “Impending violence tends to put me in a forgiving mood. Well, a more forgiving mood—I don’t much have the greatest affinity for mercy. As I was saying, you may proceed with your rescue alone, but if you wish to play a hand in more than the liberation of one or two slaves, I suggest you join me in my endeavor.”

With measured care, he pulled his legs off the beam and lowered himself to the cold stone of the warehouse floor. I smiled, impressed. Few dealt with pain so gracefully.

“So, are you with me or not?” I asked.

“I will need to know why you are here before I can answer.”

“Rest assured, many will be freed from their shackles this day.”

“So long those I came for are among them, I am with you.”

I nodded. “Then come.”

My eyes roamed our surroundings. Except for the open space near the entrance where the wagons had been left, the rest of the warehouse was blocked off by rows of barrels stacked taller than the tallest of the draft horses. The slaves were dragged from the wagons and followed their captors further into the building. Nine men wearing tanned leather armor and carrying whips of a similar pedigree ushered nine groups of five into an orderly line, directing them into—and presumably through—the maze of barrels. Nine others wearing the same tanned leather armor but with bludgeons and daggers dangling from their hips stayed behind and began to offload cargo.

One such man neared the back of our wagon.

“What is your name?” I asked my new companion.

“Andol.”

“Catch, Andol.”

“Catch wha—”

The Zephyr barrier fell apart as I let go of the matrix holding it in place. I rolled out, sprang to my feet, glided behind the leather-clad man, and quietly unsheathed one of my swords. Andol nearly failed to catch the head once I’d freed it off the man’s neck. I grabbed the rudderless body and shoved it into the back of the wagon.

“One,” I whispered.

“You’re mad,” Andol said.

“Wha-wha-what are you doing!” A short, stocky man fumbled for his bludgeon. “Intruders! Intruders!”

Andol threw the head at the guard and followed behind its arcless flight, keeping low. When the man swiped the head away with his weapon, Andol was there, arm cocked back. A blade slid out of his vambrace and plunged into the man’s throat. The man fell back, too shocked and injured to staunch the bleeding. Andol turned back to me, his hate and anger and lust for violence kept in check by his formidable restraint.

The third was Andol’s by right of proximity. His victim smiled when he blocked a repeat of the blow that took his colleague. The smile did not last. Another blade on his other vambrace found its way into his gut. After I killed my second, my sword penetrating his brain by way of the roof of his mouth, I saw Andol take his third with a small blade protruding from the toes of his boot. The wound on his victim’s neck smiled, salivating a stream of blood.

The last four were his too, again by right of proximity; they came as a group. Andol’s salvo of blade-tipped limbs cut them to ribbons in a whirlwind of blood and screams.

“How am I to rescue them now?” he said, wheezing.

I pointed in the direction the slaves and their captors had gone. “They’re transporting cargo, remember. They can’t very well leave them to come here. And with the slaves shackled as they are, nor can they hurry away.”

Andol ran deeper into the warehouse.

They were prepared. No wonder—we’d been loud about slaughtering the first group. The slaves were packed close between stacks of shelves. Two guards watched them, herding the pack from the back and front. The other seven stood apart, ready for us. Their whips lay discarded behind them. Fighters of at least minimal skill, then, I thought. Enough to realize slave whips would do them no good in close-quarter combat.

“Do you know whose house you’ve encroached upon?” the leader asked, a fastidiously groomed Root with copper hair.

Andol didn’t stop his charge. He ran faster. The Root tensed. Andol won the engagement. The six men behind their leader, forced to stand in ranks of two because of the narrow spacing, added their strength to their leader’s, pressing his back to stop Andol from barrelling through. Momentum drained, Andol stepped back and swiped a hand at the copper-haired Root, scoring a deep cut across the man’s forearm.

I leaped over them all, reversed my grip, and sank my twin swords between the collarbones and necks of the two at the back of their group, plunging cold metal into their hearts. The man guarding the front of the slaves failed to resist the lure of my open back. His failure ran him into my blades. Three more fell under the keen edges of my swords before Andol managed to finish the leader. One remained between us, a boy, barely a man, pudgy with the rounded edges of youth. I struck him unconscious before Andol stabbed him dead. He still might’ve if I hadn’t grabbed his wrist and stayed his hand.

Andol glared at me. “Why?”

“If I let you kill him, I’d have to kill you. You are of some use to me yet.”

Andol narrowed his eyes. “You mean to say his worthless life is worth more than mine?”

“I mean to say you are close to becoming too spoiled to avoid culling. Consider this a favor. Your formidable control is fraying, and from the state of your soul, I’d say it is far from the first time it has failed you. Besides, I thought you were here to rescue, not to kill.”

Andol looked behind me, and his vicious expression faltered. He brushed past without another word.

I took a moment to rip the memories of us out of the boy who lay at my feet. By the time I was done with my task, Andol had his arms around a young woman and an elderly man. Their bronze skin and dark hair marked them as kin.

I killed two of the rescued slaves. Two strokes of my swords reaped them where they stood. Two dozen screams sang in harmony. Men and women scrambled. My sensus seized their fears, molded them into chains, wrapped them around their bodies, and anchored them in place. Andol spun to face the sudden chaos. I killed two more before he broke out of his fear and rushed at me, then four more while I dodged his attacks.

“I’m done,” I said, deflecting one of his hidden blades.

“Done? You killed them.”

“They were as guilty of sin as the men who made slaves of them.”

“How do you know?”

“Does it matter? I promised more slaves would be rescued.” I gestured at the slumped figures of those spared from me by my promises. “As you can see, I keep my promises.”

Andol’s hands balled into fists. “I’d kill you if I had the time.” He turned back to his shock-stricken kin, both of whom looked at me like I was a monster. And rightly so. I was a monster.

“Or the strength,” I said. Andol’s shouts and growls of indignation faded behind me as I fled deeper into the warehouse.

Three men sat in exiguous cages, their knees and chins tucked. Time took what was once a mild discomfort and aggravated it into the realms of agony, each moment stacking another small pebble of soreness until it had become a mountain. Freeing them wasn’t much of an inconvenience. Some part of me remembered my own misery, a phantom wandering my mind, its visage unblemished by the fog of time grows in the landscapes of memories. And though I did not recognize this stranger, I listened to the remnant of my past when it called for me to help these men, the same as I heeded its request when it called for me to seek vengeance.

Upon their release, the slaves cried. I knew with sickening clarity that they loved me at that moment of salvation. Worshipped me, even. So true and pure was their relief, so repulsively potent their gratitude, they’d have gladly given me all of who they were.

“Go,” I said, pointing back in the direction I came from.

One of the three grabbed my hand in both of his, bowed, and pressed his brow to my knuckles. I snatched my hand away as though he was a contagious leper possessing a strain designed to rot me away. And before he or his fellow zealots had the chance at another such gesture of gratitude, I made my escape yet deeper into the warehouse. All this running around and saving people did well to remind me why I preferred killing.

Two men guarded the passage. They were better armed than their dead colleagues, their armor enchanted, their swords engraved, and their souls dense with the power of age. I dashed in so fast as to be unseen, clamped my fingers around their foreheads, and waited for the spark of fear the shock of my sudden appearance induced. Then I sucked them dry. They made for a pitiful meal, and after the stench my charity forced me to endure, my wish to cleanse my palate went unfulfilled. Let me say that to a thirsty man, a drop of water is worse than no water at all.

My mood soured.

Past the door to a back office, under a conspicuously placed rug beyond which lay a trapdoor, down a set of stairs weaving toward a circular tunnel of smooth stone, another trapdoor, this one hidden behind a Painting, up a set of stairs nearly identical to the last, and I came out into a dark cellar. Sounds of chatter bounced in from the opening leading out. I let Tunneler tendrils whip around me, ready to convince anyone I came across of my absence.

Past all the walls and doors blocking it from mundane sight, the faint outline of the matrix protecting the entrance to the underground labyrinth glowed in the distance. I moved in its direction, entering a series of damp corridors. Two servants carrying baskets of cheese and flour flowed around me. A hooded old man with a stack of books did the same two turns later. I found a guard three turns after that. His soul was foul but weak. I was in no mood for another drop of water. I killed him without a taste.

Two men stationed at the entrance questioned a pair of giggling boys about who permitted them to sneak out the wine they’d poorly hidden beneath their tunics. I slipped passed them unseen.

The main building sat in the center of the estate, four stories tall, with more glass than stone and mere inches between the many windows. A quick scan found me a suitable cluster of targets. I entered through the main door and sped towards the room they occupied somewhere on the third floor.

Seven men sat around a table, all of them Grifals, all of them on the brink of drunkenness. The Grifal crest—a golden, rearing lion—was stitched to the left of their breasts, the threads woven thick. A dozen boys stood, uninterested, not a lick of alcohol near them, and with lion cubs stitched to their left sleeves.

My Tunnels fell away. I landed on the table, scattering bottles of alcohol and platers of food. There I stood, amid men slowed by wine and boys made invincible by youth, wearing the clothes and face I’d stolen from the aged Taragat I’d killed. “Good evening, gentlemen,” I said.

The most competent of the men, a tall fellow, lively, handsome in that pretty sort of way, reacted far quicker than the rest. His Tunnels hit me hard and fast. I planted a throwing knife just above the bridge of his nose. His eyes rolled back as if trying to find the pointy end.

The weak, sheltered boys ran, invincibility cracked by the death of a man they only dreamed of ever besting. They collapsed before any of them took their third step, their terrified minds suggested into sleep. Two of the men, the smartest or most cowardly of the bunch, rushed to escape. They died. Others attacked. They failed and then died. All seven were dead and turned to husks by the time the commotion funneled guards into the room. They, too, died.

Sufust, their leader, found me waiting. He was powerful for a Root, the striking white of his flowing locks putting him alongside Named. Regal, too, with a square, beardless jaw, slicked back and well-trimmed hair, and the cold and calculating gaze born from ruthless pragmatism. He inspected the room, unmoved by the dead husks of his family members. Someone was with him. A mundane. A young, plain, petite thing with eyes the blue of ice. Those eyes and the waves of sunlight streaming down her head had me belatedly notice the woman’s Painting. A Painting so deep and intricate and full of Meaning as to fool a cursory inspection of my soulsight. Not many could Paint over their souls. Even fewer could do so without causing damage. Yet fewer cared to take the risk.

Sufust finished his assessment of the damage I’d caused and turned a hard look my way. “Your purpose, Augutle?” He knew the face I wore. “What has incited your house into moving against mine?”

“House?” the Seculor asked. “He serves one of the merchant families?”

Sufust lowered his head. “Apologies. I meant family. This man is a member of the Taragats, though I suppose he would not be here if the House that supports them disapproved.”

The Seculor’s eyes narrowed. “This man is no—”

“I did not expect to find you here,” I said, cutting her off. “Are you here at the behest of a Fiora, or did Lorail herself send you?” Just as I’d asked the question, a plan came to mind.

“I shall answer your question if you tell me why you’re wearing the face of a Root, house cousin,” she said.

I shrugged. “Much like you and your Painting, I was attempting to go unnoticed. I suppose we both failed. And since you are here, playing a larger role in Root affairs than was agreed upon…”

“As are you,” she said, proving my guess accurate. “Well, shall we return to our Houses? Best we leave our betters to decide on how to proceed.”

I attacked. My swords struck replicas she’d Painted into existence. Her ability to inject Meaning was strong but not so strong as to withstand the reality of my strength. The fake swords crumbled back into the nothingness they’d sprung from. Caught off-guard, she hesitated. I used the time to land a front kick just below her ribcage. She flew through two walls and into another hallway. I dashed after her. A thrust of my swords met the sheets of diamond she’d believed her skin into becoming. It stopped the tips of my blades from puncturing her heart but did nothing to mitigate the force of my attack. She flew back once more. The Painting on her soul disappeared, and a more conventional matrix wrapped around her body, turning her incorporeal. She disappeared behind the hallway wall, untouched. I followed.

Her presence had changed my plans for the better. My reluctance to use a Painter matrix for my disguise was a lucky accident. Leahne had deduced that the Taragats were supported by House Duros or one of their branch houses. By simply limiting myself to Duros Arts for this battle, my plans to bring the two merchant families to war had elevated to aggravating relations between two of Evergreen’s ruling Houses. And so it was with a triumphant smile that I chased after the Seculor. All I needed to do was take her life. I wasn’t worried; I was quite formidable in the art of killing.

The Seculor landed outside the manor. I jumped out of a window and joined her.

“This’ll be war,” she said, the sweet scent of fear rendering her steady gaze of confidence meaningless.

“I know,” I said, smiling and walking at her. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

She tried for an escape—a Painter’s most remarkable talent. My eyes tracked her every move. I caught her ankle just as she leaped over the outer gate. A violent swing brought her back down, slamming her into the pathway between the main entrance and the mansion. The stone beneath her cracked. Blood sprayed. Her right leg had landed at an odd angle, and the knee no longer joined the upper and lower halves as it should.

I landed beside her. Witnesses watched us. As did Sufust. I made sure of it, made sure they saw me use the strength of a Duros godling.

“Don’t do this,” she said, her fear unmasked.

I took a sword and cut a trail down the thigh of her less-injured leg. “Why?”

“Such an action is unprecedented.”

I made another cut, doing my best to ignore her delicious fear. “What is your name?”

“Olanda.”

“Olanda what?”

She furrowed her brow. “You do not know who I am?”

“You are little more than a century old, girl. Why would I know who you are.” I stressed the ‘I,’ mimicking the arrogance of Bainan and his children. “Now, what is your name?”

Her frown deepened from surprise to confusion, from confusion to concentration. Then I felt her clumsy Tunnel attack my nape. I played my part and used sensus alone to block her attempt. That and a sword in her gut.

“Now that I think of it, I don’t recognize you either.” Pain minced her words. “You are too strong not to be known.”

“Your name, girl? I’ll not ask again.”

She groaned. “Olanda kin Elur.”

I laughed. Hard and long. “Tell you what, Olanda. I’ll spare you from death. Though I don’t think you’ll appreciate your life once you meet the fate I have in store for you. Lower your defenses.”

“Why? You’ve just told me death would serve me better.”

I shrugged. “It would. But as much as we wish to be, we are not reasonable creatures. You will find that many of us would choose an eternity of pain and madness over death, such is our thirst for life. Now lower your defenses.”

She did.

A Surgeon matrix cut the flow of blood to her brain, and soon her soul lost its captain. I kept the matrix in place but allowed a limited trickle to pass through. Then I grabbed her limp form, waved goodbye to my onlookers, and disappeared over the wall.

Packed so tight as to be painful, the slaves, including the three I’d rescued from the pens, were pressed into three wagons.

“Well done,” I said. “Can you ride?”

Andol glared.

I looked over at the older man he’d come to rescue. “Your father?”

“Uncle.”

I slapped Oanda’s rear. “The sleeping damsel and I shall ride in front. You and your sister—”

“Cousin.” The sudden shame coming off of him was unexpected. The man felt everything so… intensely. “And no, you will not be coming with us.”

“Let us, for the sake of argument, assume you can. Are you willing to waste the time to do so?”

Andol’s glare intensified. “I will lead, you shall follow, and my uncle will cover our rear.”

I smiled through the sudden itch to kill him. “Very well.”

Shouts and cries were coming from the Grifal residence as we left. They were too busy dealing with their dead to worry over a single delivery of slaves.

The night was quiet. Our journey followed suit. We stopped near the gate to The Muds, in an alleyway off the main road leading deeper into the Roots. I slung my prisoner over a shoulder and prepared to leave.

“Care to join me?” I asked Andol.

“No,” he said. “I have no wish to spend any more time around you than I already have. Leave, and let us both hope we do not cross paths again.”

“Because I killed those slaves?”

“Because you enjoyed it.”

“That I did. But suppose you have little choice in the matter?”

“Then it is a good thing that I do.”

I jumped onto a building and pulled my hood up over my face. “Another time, then,” I said before creeping deeper into the dark of night. We were going to meet again. If he was who I suspected he was, our paths were fated to cross. I would make sure of it.