Chapter 8 - Merissa

‘These birds of prey adapt to all;

So flee, coward, pray… or fall.’

- ‘The Debt of Kaius’, Act III Scene I

She should cut and run.

Merissa hadn’t been sure about this whole thing from the start. A single lead from the Untarnished took her to a secret broker that operates on the docks - the only one her people still knew in town, thanks to the Peacebond - but then the broker died, and now she was down in the dirt, lying her ass off to a Latent in some intrigue that had nothing to do with her.

And all that before he had mentioned the Pale Oath.

To her left, Merissa caught Skeir shaking his head, utterly failing to disguise a dry chuckle as a cough. I’m working with a madman.

Her assessment of the man had not much improved in the short time she’d known him. He had skill with that blade of his, and everything he’d said since they left the Mess together started to paint an indelible portrait: he was more than a thug, despite his countenance. Beneath the rough-cut exterior was someone capable of rational thought, of abstraction.

But Skeir’s first instinct was violence. He’d proven that when he killed Undertow’s sentries earlier. If Merissa hadn’t jumped in when she had, he probably would have attacked Veclere just now. An open combat, on an enemy’s chosen grounds, against a practiced mage with overwhelming numbers.

Now? The Mourners were coming. They were all facing death incarnate, and he was laughing.

She had been all over Alteria on missions for the Mantle. She’d run the length of the Sundown Wall to escape capture. She’d waited in the rafters of the Cloche Vertu for three days to kill a Thassalinoplean heretic. She’d silenced more men and women than she could remember in any number of ways, employing countless means of murder in service to her god.

And never, not once, had she sought out a confrontation with Il Coru.

Adrias’ Folly had been the end of Old Immeria. A cataclysm of unimaginable scale, an entire land swallowed whole by otherworldly magic. By demons. In the height of their own madness, the Last Emperor had turned to Artifacts Immanent to stave off ultimate defeat, believed to be ancient scrolls from before the Conquest. Rather than accept defeat gracefully, Emperor Adrias had tried to demand aid from other realities.

The prelates in Ebonsun had been clear on the issue, afterwards: this was the price of the empire’s hubris, its refusal to yield to the teachings of the Blessed Beyond and cleaving to the Graceless Spirits.

Regardless of the spiritual reckoning, the Folly was the catalyst for the Equineal Accords, and the end of the Four-Throne War. Merissa knew that all across Medeus, thousands of pious people slept soundly without threat of further invasion. The peace, now upheld equally by the other continental powers, was essential to their survival.

But the Folly cast a long shadow, and none so long as its Mourners. The best of the best, they were the paragons of the old empire - squads of Artifact-clad warriors sworn to the Basileus. Each man or woman was trained from childhood, their loyalty absolute; they took orders directly from a sitting emperor, and no other. They fought until death.

They had been without peer in the war, masters of all manner of combat and thanks to their magic, utterly unstoppable. For centuries, they had been specters in the night, a legend that grew in the telling. In fact, it was generally understood that the only reason the Immerians had lost so much ground in the first place was that Il Coru were simply too small in number and too spread out to make a difference in an overland campaign.

Even the greatest warriors could not be everywhere at once.

Everything changed after the Folly. Those champions that had not been in Immeria during the disaster forswore all earthly allegiance in favour of a new code. The Pale Oath, so-named for the ashfalls that reached out from the Everscar: a challenge to worthy opponents. Bereft of imperial mandate, the Mourners now hunted those who might best them in battle, so as to die with weapon in hand and ancient honour intact.

Anyone of any influence could invoke the Oath, though it was understood that to do so came at great personal risk. Should the quarry elude the hunt or not prove enough of a challenge, the Mourners would turn on the poor soul who had called them to begin with.

That it had been sworn here, now, turned Merissa’s blood to ice.

Unfortunately, the name Maugrim Nameless meant nothing to her. Evidently, this was someone considered worthy enough to be a target of the Oath, but beyond that fact she knew nothing.

If she had the time, she would have tried to reach out to Aleixus to learn more. The Oreihkalia, after all, made it their business to know everyone else’s. Her mentor had once told her that faith in the Mantle - while good enough for the people of Medeus - was insufficient for its protectors. That was the entire purpose of the Sunless Vaults, though their official justification to Ebonsun’s prelate council was as a mere historical archive.

Of course, speaking to the prelate now wouldn’t be possible. Not now that she’d committed herself to a role in a drama she did not fully understand. They’d stumbled into some manner of luck so far - that Veclere had been expecting company, that there were killers on their trail to explain the bodies they’d already left behind - but it seemed that had run its course.

Which brought her right back to the matter of cutting and running. Wren had been her best chance of finding Naora, but she wasn’t Merissa’s only lead. If she fled this place now, got back in touch with the Untarnished, they could give her somewhere else to start by morning.

Find Naora Attale. Plug the leak. Five days. Her stomach clenched.

“She’s still here then, I take it?” Merissa schooled her face into something approximating professional. Whoever it was she was supposed to be representing had an understanding with Veclere; smuggling people - soldiers, based on Skeir’s talk with Wren - into the city. This ‘Maugrim’ character was clearly another member of this group.

Undertow would keep the goods in hand until the drop off - and she’d guessed whoever was behind these shipments was sending different teams each time. Veclere had, after all, assumed they would be coming and shown no indication he was surprised at their appearance.

“Yes, we’ve kept her condition stable as per your instructions. Come inside, please.”

As Veclere beckoned her and Skeir to follow, Merissa took the opportunity to get a better look at both him and his crew. The man looked more or less like every continental noble she’d ever seen at any formal function - though he could not entirely hide the ink-marks in his nail beds or the smell of wax on his cuffs, both of which conspired to reveal his identity as a studious sort. That he was the Latent among them, there was no question.

The rest of Undertow seemed to take a few cues from their senior member. While she saw the usual equipment tucked away or looped on belts - knives, tinkering tools, cloth and coin - others were wearing ostentatious jackets and garish silks. Unlike their boss, they all wore plain cloth masks over their faces. These were probably the best-dressed criminals she’d ever met living in tunnels beneath a city, a somewhat bewildering superlative.

They hardly look like rats.

What gave away the game were their boots. Recently bought, if the scent of fresh leather and the spotless soles were any indication. They’d been on a spending spree. Which meant they’d been paid handsomely, and recently.

Veclere probably hadn’t had much say in that, she decided on noticing the careful glance one of the smugglers shot their leader’s way. A woman with sunken eyes, whose mask was plum-coloured with a chequered pattern.

How much did he control his people, truly?

The doors behind them slammed shut. As she turned around, Merissa saw that nobody had closed them. A demonstration of power, if a small one.

“Ivoh, Garissa,” Veclere indicated two of his people - a reedy looking boy holding a dirk and the woman she’d seen earlier, “go fetch Nameless and escort her to my quarters. One tincture ought to do it.” The pair departed for what looked like a side passage off of the central chamber.

The rest of Undertow’s enclave, up close, seemed surprisingly clean. While there was plenty of gear and goods strewn about, there was no sign of any wear and tear on the stone embankments. The trenches and crenelations here were all freshly dug. Veclere must have built this place recently. Merissa thought back to what she’d overheard Wren say, back in the Mess: the smugglers didn’t stay in one place for too long.

Does he build and destroy each encampment between jobs? That seemed… exhausting.

“This way, please.”

One turret, an enclosed stairwell, and another locked door later, she and Skeir stood in a well-appointed office, one complete with a small writing desk, a shelf of books, and even a somewhat-threadbare rug. All told, it looked more like a scholar’s den than a smuggler boss’ headquarters. Veclere extended a hand out towards a pair of chairs across from him.

“I confess,” the smuggler boss began once all three of them had sat down, “I have never been in this situation before. Your employer certainly knows how to drum up a reception for his friends. A veil of Mourners is beyond any of my people.” He held out one hand, spoke one word, and suddenly a lit cigar appeared between his fingers. He took a long puff from it.

“I am sorely tempted to toss you two out with your cargo and let you handle Il Coru on your own. If my reports are accurate, they will be here in less than half a bell - plenty enough time for us to dispose of you and be on our way.”

“You won’t do that,” Skeir countered before she could take the lead. He alone remained standing. “If you do, you’ll have our employer to answer to.” Some faraway shadow had alighted on the planes of his face, lingering amidst its deep places. Gone was any semblance of the mirth she’d witnessed before.

Either her ally was taking a risk like she just had, or he had better knowledge of the players here. And he hadn’t seemed sanguine about her choice outside that gate, which meant it was probably the latter. All the same, she couldn’t let him talk. He’ll bungle this immediately.

“Not to mention,” she cut in to salvage this before things got hostile, “who’s to say the veil won’t track you all down anyhow for the sport? They’ve made a ghost story of seeking out the most challenging prey - we may not be enough on our own to satisfy them.”

Mourners always went after the largest threat. Their so-called code of honour practically demanded it. From the look on Veclere’s face, she recognized he knew it too.

“And what would you propose we do instead?” The mazeid waited for an answer, one dark brow raised. He toyed with a ring on his thumb, one of several he bore on each hand. Even now, in the face of consequences, Veclere spoke with an interminable calm.

Here, Merissa realized, in his lair, the Latent was at his most comfortable. A man like this was used to power, used to being the smartest one in the room. No doubt he had attended the Illumine Crescent, or the Septarium, or any number of the prestigious arcane schools that took hungry young people with talent and turned them into magical disasters waiting to happen.

Despite his every instinct, despite his advisors and crew members to warn him otherwise, a man like this grew complacent. He would surely hollow out his castle the same way every time he created it. How many copies of this exact office had he made before? Ten? Fifteen? More? He had stood here every time, the same place in different locations, each one the heart of his power.

A man like this did not suffer threats quietly, no matter how careful he seemed.

Merissa knew she could do it, at this moment. She could sway a complete stranger, compel him to commit his forces to a fight that by all rights he knew to avoid. She could play on his pride, his sureties, everything he’d known and had handed to him his entire life. Everything he felt like he’d earned.

Then the office door opened, and in stepped Il Coru’s newest quarry.

Well, stepped wasn’t quite the right word for it. Stumbled, perhaps, or staggered, for she could not walk on her own.

Propped up under each arm by the boy and the glass-eyed lieutenant, Maugrim Nameless looked more vagrant than soldier. Hunched shoulders sat squarely atop a thick-set frame, all squeezed into an ill-fitting coal-dark tunic. Muscle and flab warred over her midsection, the mark of someone who hadn’t kept up with their health. The distinct outline of some faded tattoo was coiled around the base of her collarbone. A curtain of shaggy silvered hair hung down around her face, framing a set of sharply defined jowls.

In those shadows, Merissa could see more of the silent ravages of age: long lines carved in by visions lurking under pillows and dark spots that play havoc along her upper brow. She sported a dreadful burn on the right side of her face, which ran from neck to cheek. Rheumy tear ducts and burst veins glowered accusingly at the room.

Unfocused. Unseeing. Landing on no one in particular. Then she collapsed into one of the vacant chairs, head lolling at an odd angle. She did not speak a word.

Skeir was about to open his mouth, but a sharp glare from her was enough for it to snap shut. Thankfully, it didn’t seem as though Veclere had noticed. Emissaries from Undertow’s mysterious patron wouldn’t show any surprise. They had, she remembered from the smuggler’s earlier comment, requested for this woman in such a state.

“When I got word that the Mourners were on their way, I had our medic prepare a double dose of flametongue to return her to her senses.” He waved one hand indolently in the woman’s direction. “Well, as much as possible after near a full day spent comatose.”

They’d given her absential, Merissa deduced. The nectar of the ivory lotus - which could grow only on the Far Isles of Isthay - had potent anesthetic properties. A few drops could render a grown man asleep for at least a bell, perhaps two. While sleeping, he would feel absolutely nothing, not even awoken by grievous injury.

She’d employed absential for that very purpose on past missions. It had not yet failed her, though it cost well over a hundred scepters for a few thimbles.

This Nameless, whoever she was, would be of no use to anyone in her current state. And Il Coru would expect to see her on the field. They wouldn’t be satisfied until they’d defeated Maugrim in open combat, had earned their victory the only way they knew how.

The next part of her plan started to come together.

“We need to fight.” Merissa turned to stare at Skeir. She saw - or rather, heard - the Helkorite grinding his teeth, but he did not speak up. She did not expect Veclere to hold his tongue in a similar manner.

“I beg your pardon,” the Latent scoffed, “but I fail to see how sacrificing my crew in order to protect your latest shipment with no collateral or offer of incentive makes any sense. Please, explain your reasoning.”

“Not a fight to the death, obviously. But you’ve got powers that few possess. This is where you are strongest, and we’re not without talents of our own. If we work together, I know a way we can all see the sun rise tomorrow. How’s that for an incentive?”

Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

Blessed Beyond, what was she doing? But she could see resolve in this man’s face. If she and Skeir aligned with Veclere in this moment, helped him fend off a mortal threat, Undertow would be in her debt. It would be better than any introduction.

All this, said a voice in her head, for one potential lead? She knew what Aleixus would say, were he in her position. He would already be gone, folding this hand and seeking out a better one. Shuffle the deck and pick another card.

But this was her mission, her choice. And she chose to stay.

“If we can force them into an engagement on our terms,” Skeir growled, adapting to the rhetorical terrain she had shifted beneath his feet, “we can limit casualties. Create a chokepoint.”

The veteran had given away his leverage when she met him: whatever information he needed from Veclere, it was obviously as important to him as his life. As long as her purpose kept the Latent close at hand, he would have his chance at answers.

There was also the way he’d been looking at Maugrim since the old woman entered the room. Like she was a demon sent straight from the Unquiet Hells. He knew her, there was no doubt.

“Once we’ve engaged them all,” Merissa continued, “we can send the weaker members of Undertow to escape. If my plan is executed right, nobody will be pursued. You’ve got your own way out, a tunnel that leads back to the city surface.”

The question wasn’t whether the mazeid had secret ways out of here, it was how many.

Veclere sat pensively, still playing idly with the ring on his thumb. She marveled at the smuggler’s calm exterior. They might as well be discussing the weather.

“Even if you’ve come up with an idea, I would need to sell your scheme in its entirety to the rest of my people. Despite what you may have heard about me, I am no tyrant. Each member of my crew will have their say on your proposition.” He moved to take another puff from his cigar.

“Should you fail to produce a strategy we all consider sound, I’m afraid we will be leaving you to fend for yourselves.”

She wondered how much of that had been genuine, and how much was for the benefit of his people in the room. She also knew it ultimately didn’t matter.

“Of course, we understand.”

“Very well. Now, tell me more about how you intend to get us out of this.”

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They arrived precisely when Veclere predicted.

There were no footsteps to herald their arrival. One moment, the tunnel mouth was empty, and the next it was not. Four entities appeared at the edge of the darkness. There were always four in a veil, or so the stories went. No more, no less. They wore purple-stained robes over gleaming gorgets, fingers ending in gleaming talons.

The thing that caught Merissa’s attention were their masks, shining in the light cast by Undertow’s lanterns. Each one, she saw, was the reflection of some different agony. One was sobbing, the next screaming, the third a demented rictus, and the last a portrait of frozen horror.

Despair. Rage. Madness. Dread.

These were the faces of Old Immeria, the last moments of its people before the Folly, now immortalized in metal. For those who had failed to defend their homeland, a penance. For those who were about to face them, an omen.

The Mourners halted at the edge of the chamber. The path ahead of them was narrow, more a corridor than a proper room. Smooth, slanted walls directed them towards a pair of double doors, offering increasingly less room to maneuver going forward.

Blocking their way were another four figures. Veclere stood at the back of their formation; the mazeid had added a set of well-fitted chainmail to his attire, along with boiled leather pauldrons and greaves. He was not a warrior, she knew - any more would tire him out prematurely.

Skeir was directly opposite her and to her right. The Helkorite had discarded his cloak and also donned armor, though his was a plain lamellar under half-plate. Veclere had also added a steel helmet to the ensemble at his request. She’d noted that Skeir’s choice of equipment matched that which heavy infantry wore into the breach. He stood in a wide stance, highblade drawn.

Merissa herself needed no more gear than the bared knife at her side. If they were going to have a prayer at succeeding, she couldn’t afford the additional weight. Chills ran up her spine - the Pall already at work, a low whisper beneath her skin. The darkness would take her, if she let it.

She’d placed Maugrim front and center. Gone were the burns, the slouch, the lurching sway to this stranger’s step. The old woman stood tall, hair tied back behind her. Her eyes were focused, her gaze steady. She was clad now in a similar set of armor to Skeir, clear of all grime and rust. In her left hand, she clutched a cavalry sword.

The Helkorite informed her that it was what Nameless had been known to wield.

In that moment, Merissa suspected she was catching a glimpse of what her companion had seen beneath that disheveled mess in Veclere’s quarters, perhaps what even drawn Il Coru here in the first place. A story, a legend.

Who were you, before this? It rankled her that she didn’t recognize the person she was about to risk her life for.

Keeping her attention fixed on the Mourners, Maugrim slowly raised her blade aloft. A salute to the hunters, acceptance of the challenge. Then it began.

Madness advanced first. The warrior brandished a pair of scythii: imperial blades with two edges and a tapered point for thrusting. Not a surfeit of reach, but devastating in close quarters. Yet as the hunter took its first step, there was a sudden tearing sound - and then it was right next to Maugrim, taking a slice at her head.

The figure of the old woman managed to duck under the first cut, but she would not avoid the stab that followed it. Merissa could see it all. The intended blow was going to hit her just below the arm, and her whole plan would be ruined.

A column of stone erupted from the floor between the two, separating them. From its circumference sprouted a host of spears, a lattice of granite razors all angling for Madness’s torso. Not a single one connected, for the Mourner had cut through the air once more, reappearing among its fellows faster than her eye could follow.

By the time Veclere’s Working had finished, most of the corridor was blocked by a web of stone. The members of the veil looked at one another, nodded.

She’d been right: they were being toyed with. They wanted to get the measure of their prey.

Rage was the next to charge. Merissa noticed it carried no weapons; instead, its gauntlets were twice the size of its companions’. It collided with the results of the mazeid’s Working, and it was not the Mourner that gave way. With each punch, another buttress crumbled. It would be through the barrier in seconds.

Skeir stepped in front of Maugrim, highblade rising to strike Rage down - which he turned effortlessly into a parry when Madness rose up behind him. He’d heard the tear and moved to block a strike from the only available space on the field.

A blurring dance followed, a ringing of steel on steel. The Mourner was faster than Skeir, its scythii better suited to this environment. Yet the Helkorite was holding his own, anticipating his foe’s movements and simply stepping where its swords were not. Twice, three times he turned a block with the guard of his highblade into a devastating counterattack, using his weight to push Madness back and give himself more room to come out swinging.

Not an idiot, the spy was reminded yet again. But Il Coru were just getting started, and the man was about to be outnumbered.

Drinking deep from the well within her, Merissa felt herself come apart. Strands of void swept around her as her body melted away. She darted through the spears, slithering from shadow to shadow to emerge on the far side of the maze. Only her face remained, and a single hand: the one holding the knife.

Before she could fall upon Rage, however, she found herself trapped in the throes of a golden net. Even in her current form, its strictures enveloped her, bound her. In any other world, that should have been impossible. She looked up into the wretched sorrow of Despair’s mask.

What kind of Artifact was this? The lines of the net glowed, warming at first. Then they were searing her, burning away the edges of her essence. She screamed.

Oros protect me.

The first arbalest bolt bounced off of Despair’s pauldron. The second caught the hunter in the back of the leg, driving it to one knee.

As they’d discussed, Veclere had waited until the enemy was committed to open the murder holes. On either side of the corridor were carved slits in the stone, behind which lurked the other members of Undertow. A hail of projectiles rained down on both Rage and Despair.

The gauntlet-clad brute didn’t bother to raise a guard. Half a dozen bolts had found their mark, sprouting from the joins in its armor, but it didn’t slow. Blessed Beyond, it didn’t even seem to notice them. Must be some kind of protective Artifact.

Despair, on the other hand, spoke once in High Alterian. Suddenly, the net surrounding her had vanished and Merissa could move again. She wasted no time retreating, her umbral form keeping low to the ground before coalescing near the edge of the corridor.

She watched as what had once been a net disappeared, become a great tower shield of coruscating power. Despair crouched behind it, taking the brunt of the volley until the bolts lessened, then stopped. The shield hummed pleasantly, its surface unmarred.

A Lambent Arsenal. She’d only ever read about the legendary weapons of the Dawn Compact, the fellowship of knights-prior that had preceded the founding of the Mantle of Oros. It was said the changeling weapons were lost - how an Immerian bloodhound had gotten their hands on one was a mystery.

An intrigue for another day. She could thin the enemy’s number here, while they were distracted. The Pall took her once more as she crept in behind Despair. Her blade slid beneath the Mourner’s mask and she drew a swift line across its throat.

The hunter fell, ribbons of dark blood staining its robes and armor.

She’d done it. The first corpse of the day lay at her feet, its Artifact dissipating into a formless glow around its corpse. Merissa turned to the mouth of the tunnel, and /

She was in the grasp of the Arsenal once again, strands of its net form cutting into her shadow-self. Despair still stood above her, still had her in its grasp. Despair, who she had just finished killing. Pushing through the pain, Merissa surveyed the battlefield. The murder holes had not yet been opened.

How…? But she already knew.

Her eyes found the last member of the veil. In one clawed hand, Dread grasped a brass amulet around its neck. In the other, it gripped a javelin limned in lightning: a Stormlance. It was the only Artifact of the lot she’d seen before.

The amulet, if she was not mistaken, was a chroneid sliver. A fragment of a time-mage’s power made manifest, the most powerful and dangerous of all seven Primalities. They all had names, of course - she’d read about them in the Vaults - but they were rare enough she’d not committed them to memory. Not as flashy as its comrades, but infinitely more useful.

An Artifact of that nature was worth at least a duchy. An ambitious lord could trade one for an entire army if they wished. An even more ambitious one could do the same and hold onto the item afterwards.

They were outmatched. She had to act now.

“Veclere!” she called in warning. The mazeid was still in the midst of his second Working, right hand clutching the thumb ring on his left. His practitioner’s Focus, she realized belatedly. Not that it would matter, with a javelin through his gut.

Dread arched back and released, the Stormlance scything through the air. The Mourner’s aim was perfect; the javelin passed through each gap in the stone lattice without striking anything.

Veclere changed his incantation mid-sentence. A barrier of stone was already forming around his feet, rising to guard his torso. But he would be too late.

Maugrim’s silhouette interposed itself between hunter and prey. Her cavalry sword was raised, a desperate attempt to block what was coming. The blade inched closer to the shaft of the javelin, suspended midair in that single moment.

Then the Stormlance exploded.

Torrents of lightning tore through both target and weapon at the same time, a blinding eruption followed by a deafening bang. The resulting blast sent Maugrim soaring away. Were Merissa still corporeal, she suspected the sound wave would have knocked her off balance.

As it was, near everyone else was caught reeling. Even Il Coru, for all their Artifacts, were not immune. She watched Rage stumble, Despair falter. Skeir and Madness - who had up to this point been locked in their clash - staggered away from one another, while Veclere lay on the ground.

But still awake, she saw. The Latent’s eyes were open, and he was performing his third Working. Good.

She had a window to escape, so she took it. Transforming back into her body was a process that took her three heartbeats, same as it was to change back. She knew, because she counted them as her now-vulnerable skin came into full contact with the Lambent Arsenal.

Every second that the net was on her was an agony, but the weapon’s nature was its very downfall. Her natural body was quite a bit larger and more compact than her shadow form - so when she became human, the net expanded with her to match her new size.

The same was true when she shrank back.

Despair hadn’t quite gotten its bearings yet by the time her new-shade form slipped out of its grasp. Not wanting to get caught a second time, she backed out of her foe’s reach.

And waited there, as Il Coru’s attention came to rest on the figure that lay near the doors.

Maugrim Nameless was still. Her body lay flat on its back, eyes closed. Her face once again bore burn marks, the blood and filth of battle. Her armor was charred and pitted, melted through in places - it would have conducted the lightning through most every bone inside the old woman. Even had she not been wearing plate, nobody survived a point blank detonation.

Dread stepped forward, the Stormlance already reforming at its side. It held up a hand, and Il Coru followed. Rage burst through the last of the stonework, hauling Skeir off of Madness and threw him roughly into a wall - where the soldier stayed, too exhausted to fight on. Despair reformed its Arsenal into a shield, eyes behind its mask watching Veclere and the side walls for any sign of Undertow’s re-emergence.

But none of the Mourners attacked. They simply stood over Maugrim’s lifeless body, looking for any signs of life. Waiting to see if it would rise again.

One minute passed, the only sounds in the chamber the rise and fall of bloody breath. Then another minute. Maugrim did not stir.

As one, the veil of hunters turned to leave. Only Madness lingered, its limping gait halting to take a long look at Skeir before disappearing around the corner and out of sight. As abruptly as they’d arrived, they were gone.

“Did…” whispered Veclere, groaning as he crawled to his feet, “did that really just work?”

Merissa gasped as she released her grip on the Pall. One by one, the illusions around Maugrim’s body began to fade. The char marks on the breastplate vanished. Then the larger wounds and extraneous burns covering the skin. Bloody, blackened tissue disappeared. And if one looked very closely, they could see the barest rise and fall of the woman’s chest.

“Yes.” The cold was deep in her, a thousand frozen blades, but she was smiling. “Yes, it did.”

Even though her fingers and face felt numb, it was hard to begrudge her gifts. They had, after all, been instrumental to the plan.

Revealing to Undertow - and Skeir - a large extent of her capabilities as a Pallbearer had been calculated risk, but it seemed to have paid off. She’d told them most of the truth: not only was she able to phase into her incorporeal state, but she could see in the dark. She could even mold light and shadow to create silent images, images that looked real to the human eye.

Once they’d realized she could make an illusory copy of Maugrim and move it around, all they’d needed to do was knock the real one out with more absential, dress her up for battle and give her a few impressive looking scratches. The notion that they’d be fighting Mourners had taken precedence over any pointed questions coming her way.

Veclere had handled the rest. The mazeid had kept the sleeping Maugrim close during the battle, entombed in a cavity in one of the false walls. Once Il Coru had brought their full force to bear, Merissa moved the illusion into play to take a seemingly-fatal wound.

Then, in the chaos, all Veclere had to do was swap out the fake body for the real one. Merissa had added a few more ad-hoc illusions to Maugrim to sell the final product - it was a fortunate thing she’d escaped the Lambent Arsenal when she did, else she’d not have been able to maintain her focus on those smaller touches.

The doors swung open behind them, members of Undertow escorting them back inside. Soon she found herself sitting at the edge of a crate, grinning at Ivoh as the youth handed her a flask.

“I still don’t get it,” the boy leaned forward. “How did you know they would walk away after Maugrim ‘died’? Wasn’t that all just a gamble?”

She shook her head. “It’s not a gamble when you’re reading the players across from you.” Seeing the blank look in his eyes, she continued.

“Il Coru. They have a reputation for being the most feared, deadliest warriors on Alteria. In this day and age, they’re also known for seeking out a good fight… and rarely getting one. That’s their weakness.” The spy stopped to catch her breath.

“They wanted Maugrim, right? So if you’d hidden her away or we’d taken her and run, they wouldn’t have been satisfied until they caught us and cut us all down. That’s what most folk do when they hear Mourners are coming for them, and that’s what they expected we’d do. But by standing in the open and challenging them like we did, we drew blood. We made them feel like the kill was earned.”

Merissa took a sidelong glance at her companion. Skeir lay on a cot, one of their medics attending to the Helkorite’s injuries. To look at him, he was more wound than man.

And to think, she’d considered the man skilled at violence before learning he could go toe to toe with a Mourner and survive the experience.

“That way, when they got the death they’d sworn to come and claim, they believed in it. They needed to believe in it, because to see otherwise would be to doubt their own story.”

“It was all quite inspired,” said Veclere as he sat down nearby. The mazeid gave her a searching look. “Though I had my doubts, I must confess them dispelled in this moment.”

Click. A loaded arbalest appeared in his hands, pointed straight at her heart.

“For instance, I am no longer acting under the pretense that you are - or ever were - a member of Ninth Company.” All around them, the smugglers were already going for blades and bows. The medic attending to Skeir moments ago now held a surgical knife to his throat.

You sly devil, she thought, not unfondly. Had he known since the start and just played along?

All eyes were on her. The message did not need to be said: if she even twitched, she died. That bolt would pierce her spine before she could finish changing forms. There was no way Veclere missed at this distance. The Latent’s expression never wavered.

“Why don’t you tell us all who you both are, and what you’re really doing down here.”

It was at that moment that the doors burst inward, revealing figures in silver and green filling the space beyond.

“ON BEHALF OF THE THRONE,” came the cry of a guardswoman, “LAY DOWN YOUR WEAPONS AND SURRENDER!”