Some old-fashioned oil lamps still kept alight in the storm, though Catharina hadn’t seen anyone lighting the things. Water ran down the streets almost as high as her ankles in places.

Amaranth had grown eerily quiet, left only with the sizzle of rain on flagstones, and the sounds of the sea at storm, waves crashing against rocks and moored ships.

Neptas had set, somewhere over the horizon, and the night that descended had a particularly deep tone to it, one that only a storm could provide. It served Catharina’s purposes delightfully.

Michaal’s head hung heavy on her belt, blood washed out of it, bouncing against her calf as she walked uphill and tried not to slip in the deluge. Gheeor was a surly presence at her side, a windbreak for when the gale changed direction.

The flesh seller she had wanted for herself. The cheek of that bastard! Humanity clung to rocks to survive, and there were some like him that would make life even harder and more miserable for their fellows. When Yriea had shown her records of the ships bringing in stock from across the Divide, she’d nearly had a fit...

No, that was a lie.

She’d had a full-blown fit of fury that had shook the aelir’matar’s library and started several dangerous and destructive fires among the ancient scrolls. Interestingly enough, it had also been one of the few outings of her temper that she hadn’t been punished for. Even the household of Calhad abhorred the practice of slaving, though they did keep elend servants.

Poor time and poorer weather for flights of the imagination. A crack of thunder and a vicious squall brought her back into the moment and refocused her attention. In spite of the wet chill, she felt barely any discomfort. Her plan had begun in earnest and she carried the first trophy.

Now for the second.

Letinn of Azurite Holding owned twenty ships at sea and several warehouses in Calabran. He traded in spices sailed across the Divide from the farthest reaches of Nen. Some of those, such as faer’s black salt, did more than bring distant, exotic aromas to food. Ice pepper. Grinner’s tongue. Ink nettle. The Azurite holding had earned a fortune in less time than she’d been away by bringing such disasters to Vas.

“Gheeor, did you ever have Grinner’s tongue?” she asked as they huddled beneath the sloping roof of some quiet tavern, taking a respite from the weather’s lashings. And waiting.

“Once. Made me think I was running from a dragon. Thought I died to dragon fire. Five times over. Can’t recommend.”

Catharina made a face at that, disgust turning her stomach. “What possessed you to take something like that? It’s poison. It’s harvested from the actual beast.”

“Curiosity. A young dare.” He tapped a meaty finger against his temple. “A big ol’ hole in here. Mind bloomed late.”

She chuckled at the honesty of the answer. There were several ways for the aelir to chase pixies, as Yriea used to say, all controlled by the household with utmost discipline. Chasing pixies was fine once in a tenday, but severely frowned upon if habitual.

Humans had no such control. If the rot took hold of a village, it would decimate it before the first snow of winter. And there were always the young fools, the destitute, the hopeless, all of them ready to spend whatever they’d earned on Letinn’s poisons for a moment of oblivion.

She’d chosen these two men for herself because they embodied all she had grown to despise. Discipline ruled the aelir. Lack of it doomed humans to slow, constant decay. How to claim a world if they could barely claim ownership of their lives?

That would need to change.

A bell’s toll rang over the noise of the storm, but she strained to count the strikes No matter.

When the first bell of evening tolled, the guard would change at the Letinn manor. It was close to their current place, just one short jaunt away through the rain. For now it lay hidden by the downpour and the deep dark of the descending night.

No other lantern lighters braved the night. She began suspecting the oil lamps she’d seen had been left burning from the previous night.

The tavern’s doors opened and four men walked out, grumbling without enthusiasm, paying them no heed. Catharina could only make out the burnished steel of their plate in the short moment of light spilling from the inside before darkness swallowed them all.

She grabbed hold of Gheeor’s cloak and became his guide in the dark. The men were all maybe ten paces ahead, though it would be impossible to tell. Catharina followed the scent of their minds, the quiet roil of their thoughts.

Letinn’s men always spent their time before shift at the Thorn and Bloodbeer tavern. Pascal had paid handsomely for this nugget of information at her behest, all planned across the past two years of correspondence.

Four flashes of lightning. Four bodies hitting the wet cobbles. Four minds misfiring for the last time.

These were the gate guards. Catharina only needed their helmets and cloaks to pass into the main house proper. She could just force her way in, set the fire, and run. But that wasn’t the Calhad way. It would be disrespectful to her aelir’matar to behave like some base-born elend assassin.

No. She would walk in and make sure no alarm was raised. Letinn had more men than Mihaal, and was a known paranoid. It wouldn’t do to give him reason to go to ground and hide.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Gheeor stripped two of the men of their clothes by the light of a sprite she provided. They left their own cloaks to cover the bodies in a rain gutter, put on the helmets, and took up the guards’ halberds. One of them carried an unlit lantern, so they took that as well.

“Your nose is bleeding again,” Gheeor said just before she extinguished her sprite.

“It’s nothing.” She wiped the blood off with her fresh, sodden cloak. It stank of pipe smoke and something worse.

“Is it nothing, Cat? I could help you. I’m stronger now. Just let me in.”

Catharina pointedly ignored the god as she lit the oil lantern. The flame sputtered and trembled, but illuminated the narrow alleyway sufficiently. Shadows claimed the corpses as Gheeor adjusted his helmet and took the lantern.

They’d have some time before discovery happened. In Gheeor’s shadow she’d be invisible.

“Oy! Fine bloody time fer ye t’ show up,” a voice called from the pitch dark as they approached the gate. “Where’re the others?”

“Drunk,” Gheeor answered in his deepest rumble. “Got news fer da boss.”

A lantern was brought out somewhere above, shining its light down on Gheeor. Catharina had to squint against the falling rain. A coiffed head was barely illuminated as it peered down at them.

“Issat ye, Drum?”

“Aye.”

“Ye alright, Drum? Ye sound funny.”

Gheeor managed a phlegmy cough. “Throat clap. Been at Auntie’s.”

Catharina quested out and touched the man’s mind. It resisted. Not a fool, then. Suspicion, but not as much as she’d expected. He was tired. Long day. Shit weather. Drunken mates not showing up on time. Craved something to drink. Someone to warm him.

She pressed down hard on the thread of suspicion, smothering it. Her presence became a trick of the dark, some shadow thrown by the sputtering flame of the shite lamp.

“Boss ain’t seein’ anyone,” he finally called down. “Who’s calling, Drum?”

“Boss gonna see me. Can’t say a’y more. Listen, open the bloody gate an’ lemme through. It’s a pisser out ‘ere.” Gheeor managed a respectably gruff Amaranth accent. If she hadn’t known his usual speech, she would’ve assumed him a local.

The wrought iron gate ponderously swung open. Gheeor mimicked some salute as they passed through.

“If th’ others don’ show up, I’m sending lads fer ‘em. With clubs.”

Gheeor waved the lantern.

This spoke of something of the human psyche, at least in Catharina’s view. A merchant selling his fellows for coin feared less than one that sold poisons. This home, once past the gates, was less a home and more a fortified mansion. Tall walls surrounded a sparse compound of smaller storehouses, all clustered around a central three-storied house. Lantern light kept the whole compound visible even through the downpour, its narrow alleys overseen by plenty of murder holes.

She recognized this defence. Anyone trying to storm the place would be met by spears stabbing out through the walls, and pinned in place by crossbow bolts.

“Paranoid bugger,” she groaned, feeling eyes following her through slits.

“Aye. Best way t’ live long and prosper,” Gheeor said. “There’re a lot of men here.”

“I’ve read he’s got family, but they don’t live here.”

“He keeps’em in Solstice. Takes a ship out in thaw.”

There was wisdom in that. Business in Amaranth. Hearth somewhere beautiful. Catharina had never been to Solstice, but she’d read often of the city and its wonders. Texts described it as a jewel of humanity’s design.

The great central building rose in sight through the gap of the alley. Lanterns had been hung everywhere, lighting up the narrow edifice. She sent a net of power questing out, sniffing the watching minds.

There were twelve people in the house, near as she could count from here. Some were tired. Most were fresh from shift rotation. Unkind feelings about the storm. Despair—

That last one brought her short.

It was another channeller, its mind coiling around the contact point. Not only a channeller, but another metal mind. She wouldn’t have been surprised at another ash eater, but she hadn’t expected another like she. Her command was rare enough even among the aelir.

But it wasn’t a threat. She pulled back, but it followed, pleading for aid. Wasn’t one of the expected guards, unless it was a terribly creative one.

“There’s another in there,” she said as they walked up to the front door. “Another like me.”

Gheeor stiffened, hand reaching for the knocker shaped like a fist. “Problem?”

“We’ll see.” She pointed up. “It’s on the second level. Four others around. Five down here. Two on the last level. One of those is quite angry.”

He grunted and slammed down on the knocker. Had to do it twice before a slit opened in the door.

“Whut?” a rough voice called from within. “Who’re ye?”

Gheeor coughed out phlegm again. “Drum,” he groaned. “Gots somethin’ fer th’ boss.”

“Bugger off. He ain’t seein’ anyone.”

“Is important.”

“Bugger off.”

Catharina seized the mind beyond. Like a steel ball. Aye, no fool guards here. These men were trained, well-paid, and they liked their work. This one had orders and was following them to the letter.

The slit halted half-way closed as she worked on the mind, questing for gaps. Five heartbeats and she found one. A harder push smothered the man’s suspicion, though it was an effort.

“Issit important?” She heard the guard hesitating.

“Aye. Mihaal wants t’ trade. Sent an envoy.”

“In this blighted weather?”

Gheeor made a show of shrugging. He was tall and close enough to the door that anyone peering through wouldn’t see his face, just his broad shoulders. “We’s not the only ones workin’ in th’ pisser.”

Latches unhooked and a heavy bolt was drawn back with a rattle. The door, iron by the sound of its creak when cracking open, was as thick as armour plating on a galley. Letinn really did not want to be disturbed.

Outside, in the storehouses, she felt other minds moving about. There were too many to take in a straight fight, at least not without raising enough of a ruckus to call down all of Amaranth on their heads.

“Ye ain’t Drum,” a voice said from within as the door opened enough, lantern light casting long shadows behind them.