Mezamir crouched down amongst the traitors, eyes narrowed and focused on the dark shapes milling around below. Heavy droplets of cold rain splashed against his cheeks and wetted his curly dark hair. They were nervous, these traitors. Maybe deep down, a part of them knew that something was wrong.

“When do we go?” One man hissed—though really, he was just a boy, his face spotty, his eyes bright in the moonlight. 

Maius glanced at the boy. He was a large, intimidating fellow, and he knew how to envenom even the smallest, most subtle look. The boy recoiled as though physically struck. Maius was their leader, and to these cultists, a reproachful glance from him was a serious blow to their standing in the group. They all thought he was an ex-Sun knight. Mezamir knew for a fact that that wasn’t true. He’d been a Tisoran Justiciar, which was something, but not remotely close to what he claimed.

Of course, the man was lying through his teeth about most things.

Mezamir caught himself on that thought. Funny, for him to be judging others for lying. Deception was his trade. 

“Yavis,” Maius looked at him. “When do you think we should go?”

Mezamir affected a conflicted expression. “Up to you, boss.”

“I know it’s up to me. Still. I’m asking you what you think.”

Mezamir leaned forward a little, peering out over the edge of the two-story building upon which they were perched. Those below them in the street were still loading several wagons full of oak barrels. The barrels contained black powder, and the people loading them were employees of the All Sea Trading Company. There were no guards or mercenaries in sight—the employees were seemingly vulnerable, a perfect target. Mezamir’s eyes, however, were sharp enough that he could see where the agents of the Autarchy were hidden in the shadows, dressed in all black, and just waiting for the signal to move. 

“Now,” Mezamir said. “Why not? Let’s just get this over with.”

Maius swept his hard gaze over the ten of them. Rain plastered his long, untamed hair to his scalp. “You all ready? Be strong, brothers and sisters. If they reach for weapons, you kill them. No mercy. This is the very same Company that profits off of our suffering. Whatever suffering is inflicted upon them can never be enough.”

“Let’s just kill them all,” hissed a frantic-eyed woman. Based on the dilation of her pupils, the very subtle discoloring of her skin, and the constant twitching of her fingers, she was high on cacila. Ironic. The Company was the largest producer of the stuff. 

“Hold on,” Mezamir said, adjusting his tone so that he sounded hesitant and concerned. It wasn’t entirely faked. “We agreed, minimal casualties—”

Maius spat into the rain. “Why do you care for their lives?”

“I don’t. But if we kill them, the attention we’ll draw…” he shook his head. “They’ll send Operatives after us.”

“I bet they already have,” Maius grunted.

He was right about that, at least.

“Honor to you all, brothers and sisters,” Maius said. His eyes locked on each of them in turn. “Death to the Archon. Death to Marak.”

“Death to the Archon,” they all echoed. “Death to Marak.”

The words tasted like poison in Mezamir’s mouth, but he spoke them nonetheless. He’d had to do far worse in the course of his duty. In the end, the outcome of his actions would absolve him of the thousand little heresies committed across the span of his life.

“Let’s go,” Maius barked.

Maius rose from his crouched position. He, like the rest of them, was unarmored, dressed lightly and darkly. But he was not lightly armed. One of the others passed him a heavy crossbow, already primed. The others had their own crossbows, their own knives. Although they’d agreed the day before to take as few lives as possible tonight, Mezamir was getting the sense things weren’t going to play out so bloodlessly.

He took a moment to read these traitors. Their heart rates were elevated, at least doubled from their resting state. They were breathing quickly and inefficiently. Right now, adrenaline would be coursing through their veins, inhibiting their ability to think clearly. He observed fidgeting from all of them but Maius, who instead remained deadly still. That was his Justiciar training kicking in. He had plenty of flaws but his ability to withstand pressure was not one of them. He was, of course, the most dangerous of the group by far. The others might possibly surrender and allow themselves to be arrested, but not Maius. He would either run or fight to the death. His self-preservation would fight against the ingrained Justiciar mindset of going down swinging. Mezamir leaned toward the latter outcome.

The rain seemed to intensify. For a few seconds, there was no other sound than the steady pounding of falling water against the paved streets below. Maius braced the crossbow against his shoulder, took aim. The others all lined up along the rooftop with him, their own weapons similarly locking on to targets.

Mezamir held his crossbow in a relaxed grip. It was a shit-quality weapon, some overseas trash. He, like the others, aimed. He chose a man standing by the side of one wagon, hands in his pockets, as his target—he fixated on a point slightly above the man’s head. He would miss the shot by an inch or so. Enough of a miss that there was little danger of an accident, but still, close enough that he would preserve his cover.

“Now,” Maius hissed.

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Eleven crossbows spat death upon the Company employees.

Several men and women dropped immediately, shot through the face, throat, or heart, and killed instantly. A handful of others spun with the force of the bolts slamming into their chests or shoulders, staring in abject shock at the new object that had seemingly just materialized in their flesh.

Then the shouting and screaming began.

By that point, Maius and the others had already dropped their crossbows and were swiftly climbing down the side of the building. They were fools, these traitors, but Mezamir had to give them some credit: they had skills. They were deft and agile and their crossbow shots had been accurate. 

Mezamir dropped down to the street along with the others. Mirroring their movements, he drew the short sword sheathed at his hip.

“None of you move!” Maius yelled. “Move and you die! Make a sound and you die! Get on the ground. Everything you have is ours now.”

A pair of Company employees, trained killers embedded to protect their goods, leaped forward, knives flashing through the rain. Maius roared and ran to meet them. He cleaved through one with his sword, allowed himself to be cut along his right arm by the second in order to deliver a killing blow through the throat. The Company killers flopped around on the ground, bleeding out.

Mezamir observed, only mildly concerned. Maius was more deadly than he’d anticipated. It would be important to be cautious when subduing him. There was very little working brain matter between his ears, but he had a damned sharp blade and knew how to use it. 

One of the other traitors, a fanatical woman named Illis, slapped Mezamir on the back. “Brother, it appears as though you missed your shot.” She pointed with her knife at Mezamir’s bolt, which was stuck in the side of the wagon above where the targeted employee had been standing. He was dead now, stabbed several times by Illis. Damn her. He hadn’t been paying enough attention. There were simply too many things to focus on. His intention to preserve lives, it seemed, had not gone as well as he’d hoped. Just another thing he had to live with. 

“Just nervous, I suppose,” Mezamir offered, looking away from the bolt.

Maius was pacing back and forth, yelling out orders to the others. Traitors were jumping onto the front of wagons. Their objective was to steal them, to take the barrels for themselves. Even if Mezamir wasn’t there to doom their plan, he doubted it would work. Sytara was one of the biggest cities in the Autarchy, and that meant there were eyes everywhere.

The traitors had killed Company people. Now they were securing the barrels of black powder.

Their crimes were in evidence. They had committed and exposed themselves. 

With his right hand, Mezamir made a series of fast gestures, a signal: Strike now. 

Further down the street, emerging from shadowed allies, and concealed both by the night and by the increasingly intense rain, agents of the Autarchy crept forward.

Mezamir let out a breath. Slowly, he walked closer to where Maius was orchestrating the completion of the theft.

“Kill them all,” Maius said, a casual and cold command.

The traitors advanced upon the surviving employees.

“Stop,” Mezamir said, modulating his tone so that it conveyed authority.

The traitors paused. Heads swung toward him, eyes narrowing.

Maius frowned. “What did you say?”

Mezamir stood before the ex-Justiciar. Mezamir was not a tall man, and Maius, who was a giant, towered over him. Still, he felt no fear, no concern. Ice ran through his veins. “I said stop. By the authority of the Tiran Autarchy. You have committed crimes against the state. Now you will be arrested. Lower your weapons. Do not resist. Resistance is death.”

A cascade of emotions played across Maius’s brutish face. Confusion blurred into shock which blurred into rage. His beady eyes narrowed. A vein pulsed along his temple. His scarred hand tightened around the grip of his weapon; Mezamir read the obvious violent intentions in the tensing of the man’s body. He began a countdown in his head. He estimated it would take between two and four seconds for the man to actually make a move.

In the event, it took exactly three. 

Maius threw himself at him, his sword hacking through the air.

Mezamir drifted casually forward, slipping under the path of the blade, time seemingly slowing down as he deliberately suppressed both his heart rate and his breathing patterns. He slammed the palm of his left hand into Maius’s solar plexus, stealing his breath. He stuck out his right foot, grabbed a hold of the big man with his right hand, and tipped him abruptly to the side, sending Maius sprawling to the ground. He saw, as the man fell, the Autarchy agents surrounding the traitors. Cossara, who was leading the agents, was calling for the traitors to surrender.

Maius started to get back up. Mezamir kicked him in the head.

“Dog,” Maius snarled. “You’re one of them.”

“Yes,” Mezamir said tonelessly, squatting down beside the man. Maius tried to stab him in the neck; Mezamir caught his hand, twisted it to one side, and disarmed him. “Don’t fight back. You may yet live.” Though death would be preferable considering what comes next for you, he thought. 

“Surrender!” Cossara was yelling. “Surrender and you don’t have to die!”

Mezamir watched as half of the traitors immediately threw down their blades. No matter how dedicated they were, few people could stare death in the eye and not flinch. 

Movement caught Mezamir’s eye. Illis, the woman. 

She’d taken a lit lantern from one of the dead Company men. And she was running for the barrels of black powder.

Mezamir’s heart skipped a beat, an irregularity in the steady, rhythmic pattern that was almost more disturbing than what he was seeing. Nine, perhaps ten feet separated him from Illis. He was much faster than her. He started to move. He would make it, stopping her in time.

Maius’s hand closed around his ankle and yanked him back.

Mezamir stumbled. He spun, desperate, and tried to kick the man again, to tear free from his grip—but Maius was strong. His grip only tightened. 

Illis reached the barrels, ripped off one of the lids. 

“No,” Mezamir hissed. He bent down and slashed with his knife at Maius’s hand, which immediately recoiled.

But too late.

Illis swung her lantern at the open barrel with all her strength.