The dark crawled with shadows in the narrow alleys surrounding the River Lord’s home.

“How was the hunt?” Catharina asked the darkness.

“Lost a man,” the shadow answered back. “Sent three to the piers.” Caragill squeezed beneath the narrow eaves and let out a slow curse. “Informant had been wrong by two heads. Fresh recruits, we learned, else we may have lost more. Shame about Collin. Was a good man.”

Catharina shook the rain from her cloak as Kehtan joined them heartbeats later. “No casualties. Some ladies are going to have the fright of their lives come the morning. I’d like to think they won’t die of fright finding their husbands headless next to them.”

They’d taken the more sinister route it seemed. She’d wanted to look upon the faces of the men she would kill, but did not begrudge Kehtan his methods. The mission had been achieved. She wanted for nothing more.

All around, through the pitch blackness of the storm, her men gathered.

The River Lord was protected. Heavily, she knew. Pascal had paid a small fortune to know even this much, though the exact disposition of men and traps was a guarded secret.

With no other options, they would scale the walls from three positions around what was essentially another artificial garden built on Amaranth’s rocks. This high up, they were just a short jaunt away from the River Calis and the River Lord’s docks. Even in fair weather braving the rapids upstream would have been little different from suicide, especially with the waterfall less than a league away.

Gheeor kneeled at the base of the wall, behind one of the storehouses, and netted his fingers. She stepped up and he threw her clear over the wall to land with a splash on the other side. He joined her moments later, dropping heavily by her side.

Guards passed by in the night soon after, their torches burning green with alchemical fire, fizzing and spitting as the flames fought against the rain. Catharina and Gheeor hid in the narrow space between building and wall, protected from the light by several loads of sodden crates.

The guards went on their route, miserable figures huddled beneath their heavy cloaks.

“There will be stories told of tonight,” Gheeor whispered as they made their slow way through the muddy roads separating the various buildings, their steps squelching.

“And all of them will be wrong,” she replied.

It wasn’t a long way to go, but the patrols were everywhere. Where Letinn had feared an open assault, the River Lord was more worried of thieves making their way into his stores and granaries. Much of what was grown in the more fertile parts of Vas made its inevitable way downstream to Amaranth.

To here.

This was one man with the power to starve a city. More than one, actually. His influence reached far upriver, nearly half-way to Ria, if all she’d learned of him was accurate. Among a whole square league of stores, she could believe this, and it hardened her resolve.

“There,” Gheeor pointed towards a single well-lit building rising through the thick curtain of water. “Bet you he’s home at this hour.”

The next patrol she had to drop in the mud. There was no easy way past them except to go through one of the warehouses. And there would be more soldiers in there, too many to simply fight through.

A long call echoed through the night as Gheeor dragged the corpses into the darkness, their torch still snarling and spitting.

Kehtan had reached the main building. He had let out a long seagull call, of a bird lost in the storm and trying to find the flock. They’d been hearing plenty of those just before the storm hit.

“Show-off,” Gheeor muttered. “Had better luck.”

“Had swifter feet, you mean.” And that would be true. Kehtan was one of the fastest climbers on the ratlines that she’d ever seen, putting her own agility to shame. The only other that had been as graceful as the large man proved… had been Yriea. She avoided thinking of her heart-sister just then.

A shout went out from the side just as they came into view of the house. Someone let out a sharp cry in the night, followed by the hissing silence of the storm. Then more shouts.

“I fell,” the voice of a guard called out. “Calm all yer tits. I fell in the mud.” This was one of Caragill’s men, she recognized. There were some barks of laughter somewhere to the side, a couple cusses, and many minds relaxing and going back to the idleness of a wet, cold night.

A servants’ entrance gained them access into the home. Just in time to witness Kehtan hog-tying a large, heavy-set man while his surviving two men kept watch over the others.

“What took you?” He offered a grin as he tightened the rope around the man’s wrists. They’d gagged the servant and he struggled pointlessly against the bonds.

“Sun’s going up soon enough,” he went on as he and Gheeor picked up the struggling load and tossed it with the others. “Any slower and you’d’ve failed that one night goal of yours.”

“Shush, you,” she admonished with good grace.

A random servant was selected and the gag taken away. She pressed hard on his mind, feeling a headache bloom with the effort. Whatever fear and concern the man held, she squashed it down and nearly sent the poor wretch into spasms.

“Where is your master’s office?” she asked. Whatever defiance he rallied, she cut off.

“Up-up-upper floor. Above… above us.”

“And his bedroom?”

“Next… door.”

“Good man.”

Gheeor regagged and dropped him with the others. More of their men flowed inside from the rain, got their whispered instructions, and bent to the task.

Catharina headed up to the office as the house burst into quiet chaos. Her men were tired but maintained discipline in dealing with the smattering of guards protecting the house. It was, after all, as easy as this.

Powerful men built an image of power, not a core of it. They may have strong, tall walls, and they may have many men manning them. But their homes? Well, that was always a weakness, wasn’t it?

The aelir thought much differently. Protectors left their land open to any and all, but their Olden was inviolable without true effort. Not that there weren’t assassins to deal with, of course, but none could do there, in a night, what she’d done here.

She found a cushioned seat in the office and Gheeor lit a lamp. He, Caragill, and Kehtan took guard position behind her and they waited. A touch of theatricality would see the night through. That, and her legs ached from the constant uphill climb throughout Amaranth.

A man was marched in by two of her killers, held by the arms. He wore nightclothes and looked dishevelled. Wet stains marred his clothes where he’d been held by the would-be assassins. They deposited him on the seat opposite Catharina, a low table separating them. Six cloth bags sat on the table, arranged in a row.

Stolen story; please report.

“Good morning, lord Maralin,” she said with as much joviality as she could muster so close near to dawn.

Shockingly blue eyes stared at her from under a mess of salt and pepper hair. He was in his middle age, but looked as if he carried himself well. No fat merchant here, nor a coward. He took one look around the room when the hands released him and she could feel his mind working.

“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” he finally said in a low, deep voice. “Who… who am I entertaining?”

“My name is Catharina Voc Anghan.”

Recognition sparked in his eyes. Not of her, naturally, but of the name. Confusion followed. Then curiosity. She felt pressure building between her eyes and feared another nosebleed so she drew back some of her power. She may not need it after all.

“You are very far from home,” he said, measuring every word. “What is this about? How may I help you, daughter of Aztroa?”

She favoured him with a smile. Daughter of Aztroa? Such an old, formal term. Lord Maralin knew his history it seemed, or at least enough of it to try and butter her up.

In place of an answer, she drew the bags off the six heads arrayed between them. The merchant lord barely reacted as he took in the sight.

“He owed me quite a sum of money,” he said, pointing to the third head in the row. One of Caragill’s kills, she knew. “I doubt you’re showing me this if you aim to add my head to your collection. So, what is this about?”

“I am making you a gift, lord Maralin. There are currently six fleets that morning will find… well, headless, if you’ll pardon the crude joke.” She smiled, leaned back and continued. “A brave, enterprising man could, in theory, get all six fleets under his banner by noontime. Especially if he already had a plan for it.”

“You’re…” He swallowed. “You’re quite well informed, Lady Catharina.”

“I am, yes.”

“What do you want in exchange for my head not to make a seventh trophy?”

“I don’t mean to take your head. These are, very honestly, my gift to you.”

He scoffed without really meaning to.

“Why would a daughter of Aztroa have travelled all the way from the frozen city just to kill my biggest competitors and give me unfettered control over the largest port on Vas?” Not a stupid man at all. Though he was exaggerating: Calabran was the larger port.

Now, he leaned back and studied the heads. “There’s one missing here. There are eight fleets in Amaranth. If I don’t agree to whatever you want of me, I expect you might take your offer to Tombhal, honey trap sweetened all the more with my blood.”

Catharina found herself liking the man and his sharp mind. It would be a shame to kill him. “This is why I came to you first. Tombhal is not someone I want to deal with. Unfortunately, from the governing powers of the city, only you and he have the—” She sucked air through her teeth, one of Yriea’s old habits. “Let’s call it spirit to seize an opportunity like this. I’d rather I handed it to you.”

Five armed men surrounding them, with the muffled sounds of more fighting coming in from the rest of the rooms, did not make for very friendly conversation. Maralin’s eyes darted to the side, an almost imperceptible motion if not for the wave of dread washing off him. Not concern for himself.

“I haven’t come here to hurt your children, lord Maralin. Let’s not be crass. I don’t intend to take any more heads here, unless you prove too difficult to work with.” She gave him a flat stare, all pleasantries extinguished. Leaning forward, she placed elbows on knees and brought her hands together, silently weaving her final card. “What I need from you are men and women. Soldiers bearing arms, trained and paid from your coffers for at least the next four seasons. I need a city that is friendly to me, ruled over by a lord that understands loyalty to his friends. Are you that man?”

To his credit, he gave this long consideration.

“I wasn’t aware Aztroa entertained notions of empire again,” he said finally, staring at the row of heads. One’s tongue lolled out. “Thought that was why the aelir broke us. Do you mean to invite their displeasure again?”

It was Catharina’s turn to scoff. They’d forgotten so much of their own history. “What the aelir feared wasn’t our paltry empire. We’ve built several of those over the millennia, and they’ve all fallen for the same reason.”

“And that is?”

“Nothing to concern yourself over. For now. Maybe for your entire life, no threat intended.”

His mind raced, eyes casting openly towards the window overseeing his riverside docks. If he missed this opportunity, he’d have a hard time cutting through all the successors who'd vie for the trade kingdoms she’d just beheaded. And yet, he couldn’t help but entertain a certain shade of treachery.

Of course, there would be nothing stopping him from calling his men on her the moment he was out of her grasp. It’s what she would do in his place.

Was it worth making an enemy of her? What were her resources? Where was her army? Was there an army? Was this a ploy of some kind, to have him gain the city only to snatch it from under him in one fell swoop?

Catharina envied the skill of Yriea’s mother, to peer into the maelstrom of thought and understand it in full. But that had taken lifetimes of study and practice to master, a thousand summers heaped atop a thousand winters.

She would’ve loved to peer into the man’s head just then and see all the questions he was asking and answering himself. For now, she allowed him the quiet of thought as she continued to work her final weave of the night. Either to seal a deal, or turn the entire complex into smouldering ruins.

“Thank you,” Maralin said as Catharina struggled to stifle a yawn. “I accept your offer of friendship and the great gift you’ve brought me.”

Tension eased from the men of the room, a backwash of relief that they wouldn’t need to fight their way out. It had always been the secondary plan, with Catharina’s devourer primed for city-scale destruction. It would be too late in the night to rely on the storm for cover, so subtlety would be pointless.

“But, if you want me to take advantage of this, I must act now.”

Catharina reached across the table and offered her hand to he who would be the new lord of Amaranth. “Then our deal will be concluded. You will provide me with a hundred able bodies, their gear, and their payment. Twenty will join me, the rest will find three ships docked and waiting for them.”

Maralin hesitated for a moment, then reached and clasped her hand. His skin was warm. The handshake firm.

His thoughts were calm as she greedily dug into them on contact. Her power speared through his mind and seared the woven seed into the centre of his thoughts. It burned nearly her entire remaining store of illum to do this. Her head swam when the handshake ended, but she maintained composure.

She may be a tempest caller and her arrogance could be blinding. But she would not be a fool. Maralin was honest now, grateful for her support, giddy with the prospect of his dream coming alive. But that never lasted. Once he’d see himself a lord wealthy beyond imagining, his enthusiasm would fade. It was inevitable. It was in the nature of tyrants to forget their friends the moment they gained absolute power.

But the moment had made him malleable. In time, the alien thought would take root, flourish and grow. Disobedience would make Maralin quake in his boots, turn his bowels loose as his mind fried itself. It was as complex a trapping as she dared design without outright burning out all of Maralin’s personality.

For now, it would all do.

“I… I must go,” Maralin excused himself, casting an eye on the four men surrounding him. “Am I free to go?”

She nodded slowly, head still abuzz with what she’d done. He rose to his feet, rubbed his hands and gave her a wide grin. “I think this will be a beautiful friendship, daughter of Aztroa.”

“Please, call me Cat.” She made no sign that she would rise. For a while longer, she wouldn’t be able to. “My men will assist you and prevent any unfortunate misunderstandings.”

Maralin didn’t wait around. Flanked by Caragill and Kehtan, he strode out of the room, bellowing for whatever men remained.

Catharina tilted her head back and closed her eyes. “Do you have a handkerchief, Gheeor?” she asked. One was produced from somewhere within the big man’s cloak and handed over. “Be a dear and go free the servants. Have them bring me some coffee and something to eat. I think we’ll stay here a while.”

Neptas crested the horizon and light spilled through the high cover of clouds, spearing down in thick, golden shafts.

“I applaud you, Cat,” the god whispered. “You could have taken the city for yourself. Not many would resist that bounty.”

What would I do with a city? Catharina asked herself. I have an empire to build, and it can’t be based here. She allowed herself the small indulgence as she kicked the heads off the table.

“Why not?” the god asked, smiling in her mind. He’d fed this night. Vitality flowed off it as his presence settled on her shoulders. It’s why she’d bloodied her own hands.

“Because Amaranth signifies nothing. If I remained here, I would’ve gained a city I could never hope to hold.”

But Aztroa? There was power in Aztroa. And, sleeping beneath the carcass of its glory, there were deep-buried secrets. Her ancestors had known this. There could be only one place of power for humanity’s domain, and it would always be Aztroa Magnor.