Lavastro steeled herself as she walked, practiced calm wrapping her like a blanket. It was an inferior shield against the worry, pierced in a dozen places and drawing dangerously near to panic.

She supposed it was an appropriate response. If Lavastro ever found herself able to approach an Immortal without fear, she would have found herself a fool.

A scraping sound breached her thoughts from behind, irritating in nature and high in pitch. Rubber catching against smoothed stone. She bit back the anger it brought to bubble up.

Of course facing down an Immortal wouldn’t be nearly so foreboding. Were I trusted to travel on my own.

Lavastro caught her petulence, forcing it to the back of her mind without a second’s hesitation. She was the heir of Taiklos, chafing at the constraints of her position was an emotion too volatile to allow.

To chastise her bodyguard for making noise as he walked would be the height of childishness. Looking for excuses to dismiss him would be much the same, writ dangerous. Lavastro bit her tongue.

The corridor made a sterile and monotonous path for her walk, strangely calming to frayed nerves and beating back the storm of thoughts.

It didn’t take long for worry to come pricking back. Lavastro cursed herself silently.

He’s just a man. Old, powerful, cunning. But a man nonetheless. You’ve spoken to a thousand others in your time.

But there was no use in trying to steel herself with flawed logic.

She came to the door with sweat building on her skin, threatening to soak her cursedly pale fabrics and leave the silk clinging obviously to flesh. Her knuckles rang against wood shakily, trembling redoubling as Lavastro waited for the answer.

It came blissfully fast as the door opened without a sound, practically gliding on greased hinges to reveal the sight of her appointment.

Elijah Sorafin stood as tall as most Jyptian men, shorter than her by less than a half-foot. His skin was near as dark as hers, his eyes a striking blue. Were it not for those, she thought, he’d wear no visible trace of his Unixian heritage.

“Koros Kaiosyni.” The Jyptian said, nodding his head fractionally. “It is a pleasure to see you.”

“The feeling is mutual, Ser Sorafin.” She answered.

Lavastro tried to hide her fear even as she wrung whatever information she could from the man. As expected, he gave nothing.

“Might I invite you in?” Sorafin asked. It took Lavastro a moment to realise he spoke in Jyptian, the tongue of his own birth.

Is there some subtle meaning to the choice? Stupid question. Of fucking course there is.

“That would be wonderful, thank you.”

He stepped aside, gesturing into an apartment no less disgustingly luxurious than Lavastro’s own as he made way for her. She walked in wordless, casting an eye around to quickly soak in the sight. As if the Immortal’s abode would differ from his words and tell her any more than he wished.

The sound of a clearing throat and trudging boots brought her hasty examination to an end, pulling Lavastro’s face to the door. She felt her stomach lurch at the sight of Kleidra standing outside, barred by Elijah’s body and with a face hardened for conflict.

“I’m coming in if she is.” The idiot said, words in low Taikan as though it were a given they’d be understood.

Sorafin’s lip curled, tracing a faint line of disgust across his features as he eyed the shaggy, disheaveled uniform. Lavastro had barely noticed earlier, but her bodyguard seemed to perpetually look as though he’d killed ten men and swum through a sewer.

Perhaps it was a foreboding appearance. Certainly none would doubt his competence. She still couldn’t help but find herself annoyed, the Crux of Udrebam was no place for a damned Wrathman.

“I would appreciate it if you allowed my bodyguard entry,” Lavastro said, biting back her annoyance.

The Immortal hesitated fractionally, eyes flicking to the doubltessly expensive carpet beneath their feet. Then to the dirt-crusted boots adorning Kleidra’s.

In a moment he smoothed all expression from his face, leaving it as blank as an unmarked canvas and gesturing the man on.

“Please, enter.”

The soldier did so wordlessly.

“Now, might I ask how your time in Udrebam is treating you, Koros Kaiosyni?”

Lavastro stepped past the question, in no mood for pleasantries.

“What the fuck were you planning by placing that Tempora boy in the Sieve without my knowledge?”

She regretted the words the moment she vomited them into Sorafin’s ears, but he didn’t bother feigning surprise, nor did he flinch in the face of her accusation like so many others would. His voice remained surgically steady.

“I truly have no idea what you’re talking about, Koros Kaiosyni.”

Lavastro watched as he made his way to a silken chair, planting himself in it and leaning back without a sound. She searched his face for deceit, found none. Buried the anger it sparked in her.

“You’ve not heard of Crow Tempora?” She asked, letting her scepticism leak and arching an eyebrow. Sorafin smiled lightly.

“Oh I’ve heard of the Eye of Temporis user, of course. There’s surely not an individual of prominence in this city who hasn’t. My confusion lies in your suggestion that I somehow… convinced him to take part in the contest? Ordered him? Whatever means you believe I used to influence the boy.”

If he was lying, and Lavastro found herself no less certain he was, the deception was a finer one than any she could have woven herself.

“I find that hard to believe.” She pressed. “It seems strange to me that a boy from the middle of nowhere would have begun to use a strain of such complexity, unless he received tutelage from someone of… Considerable skill.”

An understatement of mythical proportions. Practical mastery of Neramis was near the Immortal scale already, there were perhaps hundreds in all of Mirandis who might have tutored the boy in it. None were likely to have been found in a remote town centering a drunk’s Barony.

Lavastro didn’t believe in coincidences. If an Immortal acted as Tempora’s instructor, there was chance enough they’d encountered the boy only after searching for him. And she could think of none more suited or eager to find a budding young child of Temporis than the only other mystic alive who shared his strain.

“Are you suggesting Lady Kasta is responsible for teaching the boy?” Sorafin asked. Measured as ever, though unusually curious.

“I’m not suggesting anything,” Lavastro answered, “I’m stating it outright. And growing tired of seeing you pretend not to have known where this conversation was going fifty words into it.”

He smiled. An easy expression, born from an unshakable confidence and immutable power. Lavastro tried not to let it hotten her temper or weaken her resolve.

“I very much doubt you’ll believe me when I say this, Koros Kaiosyni, but Lady Kasta does not share with me each of her countless plans. None of her subordinates enjoy such confidence.”

Lavastro did believe him, and would have no matter how he’d phrased the revelation. Deities didn’t become Deities through a trusting nature. Least of all one who’d rekindled the Jaxif Faction singlehandedly.

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

“Who but yourself would have been informed about the boy, then?” Lavastro asked. “And what reason would she have for keeping it from you?”

To take a young child of Temporis and have him trained in secrecy, kept free of Unixan and Dewlzian politics alike and molded into a powerful young mystic with no connections save to Kasta was certainly the sort of spiderweb she’d expect the Jaxif Faction’s leader to weave.

It’s the sort of thing I’d do, too. Lavastro realised.

No matter how much earnesty she saw in Sorafin’s eyes, the crushing truth of the matter was that his words made no sense.

He smiled, corners of his mouth raising just a hair. The knowing grin that seemed to come naturally for those whose magic had grown enough for their aging to cease.

“None at all.” Sorafin answered. “Which is why I’m entirely certain she didn’t.”

“And do you expect me to believe it’s mere coincidence that the first mystic in millennia to inherit her strain has appeared in the very first Sieve the Jaxif Faction has been permitted to take part in overseeing?”

“I don’t.” Sorafin said, shrugging. “But it would be ideal if you would. The Jaxif Faction, as far as I can tell, has had no hand in this at all.”

Lavastro fell silent, and the Immortal joined her in it. The only sounds were the ambient calls of their surroundings. Kleidra’s boots shuffling as he adjusted his stance, the distant footsteps from corridors beyond.

“Tell me, Koros Kaiosyni, what is the root of this suspicion? Is the Jaxif Faction not an ally of Taiklos?”

The question was delivered dispassionately, almost casual. It rang in her ears like the cocking of a pistol, sharpening Lavastro’s thoughts and slowing her tongue.

The truth wasn’t something she could afford to tell; that Rora Kasta’s very nature gave her cause for concern would leave the Jaxif Faction cautious around her and harder than ever to read. Yet she’d tipped too much of her hand in confronting Sorafin for most lies to have any chance of succeeding.

“The Jaxif Faction has a history rooted in Unix.” She said, cautiously.

Everyone remembers it as my father’s, as do they remember Mylif and Lorisel’s betrayal in having it struck from the Unixian Alliance.

“I find it strange that Lady Kasta has yet to try and involve herself more closely in Unixian politics, considering this.”

The entire reason she chose to name her little coterie after the Jaxif Faction was because she deemed it the most convenient way of establishing presence in both Unix and Dewlz at once.

“And, as I’m sure you’d agree, it’s unusual to say the least that a child of Temporis could appear from nowhere as this one seems to have. Even with a family name so amusingly apparent, in hindsight.”

Between his strain and talent, it’s far more likely than not that the boy’s one of Kasta’s many bastards.

“That left me concerned I was being deliberately kept from vital information.”

I don’t trust your reptillian Faction leader, nor do I trust her sycophantic subordinates.

Lavastro had to stop herself from continuing, talking simply for the sake of talking. Sorafin’s level stare seemed to beckon words from her, loosening her tongue and blunting her wits.

She steadied herself, forcing her breathing to remain quiet. Her face to remain still.

“I apologise for any friction between us.” Said the snake. “But I’m glad you’ve shared the cause for your concerns, hopefully there will be no later misunderstandings.”

For a moment she considered pressing further, certain there was something hidden behind the man’s placid smile and cordial tone, eager to squeeze it from him. She let the urge go, feeling a sudden tiredness in its absence.

“Very well.” She said, turning from him. “Then it seems there’s no more for us to discuss.”

She silently hoped Sorafin would provoke her, speak out against her lack of manners as if a viper in the grass was owed any cordiality. Instead he remained silent as she walked from the room, bodyguard in tow.

“Where to now?” The Wrathman asked, speaking the moment they were out of Sorafin’s earshot.

Lavastro felt a spark of irritation at the impudence of his question.

“I need to meet with a contact.” She said. “One who I have an arrangement with.”

“What sort of arrangement?”

Lavastro didn’t fight the second stab of annoyance.

“Is it necessary that you know?”

A pause, then the Wrathman answered.

“It might be. My job is to stop anyone from killing you, I can’t do that if I don’t know where you’re going and why you’re going there.”

She considered his words a moment before answering.

“He’s an informant. One with an ear to the ground and enough connections that he hears much of the chatter going on in Udrebam. I pay him to part with certain slivers of it.”

“You have an informant in the city? I thought you’d only been here for a few days.”

“Weeks.” She corrected. “But they aren’t mine. The Taikan Empire has innumerous foreign agents tasked with establishing connections such as this to be used when needed, I’m simply utilising a resource seeded by others.”

He grunted, sounding as disinterested as impressed.

“They can be trusted then.”

“Of course not.” She answered. “They spy on people for money.”

Walking through the Crux took little time, winding corridors long since committed to Lavastro’s memory. They exited within ten minutes, boarding the carriage waiting for them and setting off across the city.

A smooth journey for half an hour unbrboken, with little enough rocking that Lavastro could comfortably read as she sat down for it. Soon enough the roads changed; from flat and level nearer the city centre to the cheaper, uneven cobbles paving the rest of Udrebam.

She put her book down, knowing that it would invite only nausea. Eying Kleidra, a creeping annoyance came to her as she realised how little the trip seemed to be bothering the man.

It vanished as her eyes fell upon his weapon.

“It’s safe, if you’re worried about the rocking setting it off.” The soldier said. She shook her head as an answer.

“I’ve spent enough time around firearms to be familiar with the tenets of gun safety. I’m just… Well, I’ve not seen many like that before.”

A grin lifted his face slightly. He smiled as he did all other things; stiffly and frightfully.

“Not many have.” The soldier answered, glancing at it fondly. “It’s more or less custom made.”

“Is that a wheellock mechanism?” She asked, propriety assassinated by curiosity.

“It is. Bloody pit to make, apparently, but they’ll fire in rain, hail or anything else. Excluding some of the nastier weather conditions Gol can throw at you.”

“Slow, though.” Lavastro noted.

“Not this one. It’s self-spanning, resets its own mechanism after every shot. All I need to do is switch to half and full cock.”

Lavastro let her surprise show.

“Where did you get something like that?” She asked. “I have a hard time believing you bought it, on a sergeant’s salary.”

He shifted uneasily.

“It was a gift. From a friend. Or an associate, I’m not really sure where we stand now that I think about it…”

The Wrathman trailed off, but Lavastro barely noticed. Attention instead falling to a pair of initials etched into the butt of his gun.

R.J

Only a moment passed before the realisation came to her; pieces falling into place like a window breaking backwards. Lavastro had never heard of a self-spanning wheellock, but she’d heard of a man who might have been able to make one. Ruthfro Jorjah. R.J. The Gilasev Menza of muskets.

“It’s rifled, I assume?” She asked, recognising an undesired line of questioning when she saw one. The man seemed relieved as he nodded.

A stupid question, she realised. Wrathmen had never erred from rifles since the weapons were invented.

The rest of their journey was silent; conversation dying as the topic came to an end, neither of them having the drive or energy to rekindle it. It was only another quarter hour before the carriage rattled to a lurching stop.

As Lavastro made to step out, Kleidra gestured for her to remain. Exiting first. She waited nearly a dozen heartbeats before he opened her door.

She tried to keep the irritation from her voice.

“Is this what I can expect each time I try to go somewhere?”

The Wrathman said nothing, simply turned away. Gun in hand.

“For the Ancestor’s sake, I’m a damned mystic. What’s going to kill me in the middle of a city slum?”

“Someone with a gun.” He answered, still not looking at her. “I’ve killed stronger mystics than you while they weren’t touching their magic, and it wasn’t because I’m a magiphage either.”

That sobered her, and she said nothing more before making her way down the street. Kleidra followed silently three paces behind.

Pits and holes marred the path ahead, crowned by disheaveled buildings and punctuated by a deep, harsh stench on the air. Digestive, the smell of waste and sweat. Human population.

Lavastro passed those responsible by the dozen, not surprised to see the area inhabited by enough bodies to choke a river.

She avoided eye contact, avoided touch more carefully still. By the grimy faces and dirt-marked clothing it was clear she found herself among those with little to spare, and Lavastro was all too aware how appealing the jewelry and adornments of her apparel would be to a pickpocket.

Or a cutthroat.