It takes them nearly two hours to gather people. During that time, we’re in the shade, enjoying good water and decent sandwiches. Nothing buff worthy, but better than I expect anyone else around here eats. It makes it hard to swallow the food, and I’m pretty sure that of all of us, I eat the least.

The ‘stage’ is by the lineup—the only space able to accommodate numbers. It means the people waiting get to listen, although they look at Silver’s back. She’s not happy about it, but she doesn’t complain. She knows who this is for and gives them the best show she can. Although, I think, the few times her performance has her circling the area and letting the people waiting watch her play for a few seconds are improvised additions.

She plays for a solid hour, and then another thirty minutes as she’s asked—demanded—encores. Then she gives the final bow and politely refuses to play again. Brandon’s ready to intervene, but the organizer takes it with a laugh, then arranges for an escort to take us through the tunnel.

Brandon is, again, not happy. He mutters about how they’re going to force her to play for anyone who asks, and they’re going to spend the entire night in there, if not have to fight them off so they don’t kidnap Silver and chain her up to perform at their whims.

I want to call him out of how distrustful he is, but there were people chained up in that market. I have to take his warning that Detroit isn’t a good place seriously. But, in this case, the distrust is misplaced. When one of the workers demands a song, it’s their escorts that shut them down, reminding them they are under contract to work, not be entertained.

I don’t see chains, but the way that’s said leaves little doubt as to the meaning. It might be better than what they could expect, not working for the guild, but it’s still slavery.

I’ve heard stories from Grandpa Louis and Base, as well as other old folks about the before system times, and the things they witnessed in the early days. I agree with them that it’s wrong to force anyone into a situation they can’t get out of, or take advantage of the situation they’re in to get them to agree to it.

But what am I supposed to do about it? Sure, I want to help them, somehow. But how am I supposed to go about it? I’m not a politician, I barely have any social skills beyond what I gained living among other people. Being a guard doesn’t need me to be charismatic, just effective.

“Are any of the spots they’re repairing caused by what dug the tunnels under that side of Detroit?” I ask, so I don’t have to think about the worker’s situation.

“Nah,” one of the escort replies. She’s not the biggest of them, but I definitely don’t want to take her on in a fight. “Those things don’t like getting wet. Or that’s the theory, anyway. That’s all wear from decades of being up. I don’t know how they dealt with it before the system, but now, by the time one section’s repaired, we have another about to crumble away.”

“At least we can see the level of wear,” the man next to her says. “So we know what to prioritize.”

“It’s constant work, but we manage,” the third of the four people escorting us says.

“Have you considered using better material?” Helen asks.

The woman snorts. “You tell us what’s better than old reliable concrete that we can afford and we’ll switch to it.” She adds as Helen opens her mouth. “None of that magical stuff wizards peddle.”

She doesn’t comment, and the rest of the walk continues in mostly silence, broken by our escort, telling workers to get back to work when they approach.

When we exit on the other side, there’s barely any light left.

We find a room in the first inn we stop at and we have to pay far too much for it. We all agree on that. We also agree we aren’t traveling at night, so we it don’t have a choice to pay what a place like this thinks they can get away with.

Silver doesn’t offer to provide entertainment in exchange for a reduced rate, and it’s got to be because she’s tired of playing. She could easily wipe the floor against the two bards currently playing at each end of the room.

We agree to taking watch, and I sleep through mine. Considering Brandon doesn’t complain, I expect I’m not the only one. I don’t gain a buff, but at least yesterday’s debuff is gone.

We don’t pay the ripoff prices they want for the food since I have plenty of jerky for everyone, and, according to Brandon, the club is less than an hour away.

I’ve tightened the hood before Brandon told me from the eyes I felt on me the moment we step outside the room. He keeps us on a main road this time, and it’s lined with shops and artisans workshop. A section of them stinks from the leather workers lining it. Another is hot from the forges. There’s an explosion on the other side of the road from what looks like an alchemical shop. From the burn marks around the door, and on the buildings around it, that’s a common enough occurrence.

Between groups of similar shops, and in groups of their own, we walk by all sorts of shops. But Brandon warns us not to venture into them. Shops in Detroit don’t just sell stuff, they buy them too, and sometimes, they just take. And that includes people.

“You can get anything you want here,” He declares with mock pride. “Just remember that it’s nearly as easy for you to get taken instead.”

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Even without his warning, I wouldn’t have stepped into one of them. There is an air of seediness about them I hadn’t expected from looking across the river. The buildings are definitely in better conditions, and the people look healthier, but I can’t say they look any more moral on this side than the other.

A block after we leave the shops’ road, we’re among housing that, other than being better constructed, reminds me a lot of the other side of the river, and of the area where the club is in Toronto.

“Brandon, are all the clubs in bad parts of their city?”

“You only saw two, and you’re already jumping to that conclusion?”

“I only saw one,” I correct.

He points to a building taking a triangular block. The first impression is that of a castle in miniature, with the large stonework on the ground level and the two battlement towers. The stone work is more like brick work from the second story up, and where the windows used to be, they’ve been bricked over. The door is thick looking wood with metal strapping for reinforcement. The wood is burned in places, and there’s a gouge that might go halfway through.

“I think that supports my question.” The area surrounding the building barely inspires more confidence than in Toronto.

“Well, they aren’t all like this,” he says, not sounding particularly convincing. “But most, yeah. Nearly without exception, the explorers who founded their particular clubs picked buildings that had meaning to them. They weren’t that different from us back then. So they went for old buildings with a lot of history. The kind of places that would inspire others to want to go out and explore this changed world. The problem with that is that most of those kinds of buildings are off the beaten path. Even before the system, the old buildings were out of the way. From what I’m told, they were well kept, and quite a few had daily visitors, but near the bustling part of the city, they were not. After the system, the survivors congregated as close to the settlement nodes as they could, leaving areas like this to fend for itself against the wilderness. Or other people. Even here, where this was within the initial zone, the chaos was such that the club was the line of defense for those who couldn’t make it closer. A lot of the buildings here are the result of the work the original members put in. For a while, things improved as this became the norm, but then, someone worked out how to move the node and…well, this area went to shit again.”

“Wait,” Silver says. “They can move a settlement node?”

“So I’m told.” He looks at me.

“I don’t think Base qualifies. Once he separated the settlement part of his node to be its own thing, it was put into the mayoral building and hasn’t moved since.”

“What I’ve been told,” he continues, “is that Detroit used to be centered not far from the tunnel. Now, it’s somewhere north of here, in the ‘good’ part of the city.”

“Anything we should know about this place?” Helen asks as Brandon grabs both wrought metal handles.

“You and Silver are guests. I’m confident Silver will be respectful of everyone here, but Sis, do remember there are things in place to deal with people who cause trouble. So keep your opinions to yourself.”

He pulls the doors and I follow him in, ignoring Helen’s glaring at the back of his head.

We step into a large room that reminds me of the one in Toronto only because there’s a counter on the right, where a man behind it smiles as he looks our way, and there are chairs and tables spread about. Other than that? Nothing makes me feel welcome, certainly not the way the two dozen men and woman of more species than I’ve ever seen in one place look at us.

“Well, well, well.” The man behind the bar rests an elbow on the counter and his chin in his hand. “If it isn’t my favorite explorer, somehow still alive.” He’s thin, and when he straightens, there’s a grace to his movement that makes me think he’s a dancer, but in a place like this…?

“Malcolm,” Brandon greets the man, as he approaches the bar. “It’s good to see you again.”

The smile Malcolm gives him is wry.

Brandon waits in silence for a few seconds. “Are you really going to make me lean over?”

“Oh? And exactly what makes you think I’m not going to deck you if you try?”

Brandon frown, and he seems actually puzzled by the reaction.

Malcolm stares. “Really?”

“I’m sorry, it’s been four years.”

“Yes. Four years since…”

“Please tell me you didn’t expect—” Helen goes silent at the glacial look Malcolm gives her.

His smile seems genuine afterward. “Thank you.” He looks at Brandon expectantly.

“Malcolm, how about I say I’m sorry, and really mean it? I don’t know what I did to piss you off.”

“Oh, honey, you didn’t piss me off. We’d be taking this outside if you had, and I would hand you that so lovely ass of yours. What you did is disappoint me, Brandon.”

“Look, I really am sorry. Whatever I did, I promise—”

“Don’t. We both know what your promises are worth.”

Brandon looks more reproachful than I’ve ever seen him. I didn’t think he was capable of feeling sorry for anything to that level. If not for the fact Helen’s still silent, I’d try to smooth thing over.

Malcolm sighs. “You really don’t remember, do you?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t.”

“The blood moon… the jasmine on the wind…”

“Fuck, the diner!”

Malcolm’s smile is filled with sadness. “I waited until the moon set.”

“I am so sorry, Mal. I got word that the Cut Throat had—” he glances at Helen, then looks at Malcolm again. “You know them, it wasn’t going to that more than an hour to kick their asses and get them to hand it over, but by the time I got there, someone else had already wiped the floor with them, and taken it and… I couldn’t lose my chance to get it back.”

“Did you get it?”

Brandon shakes his head. “I lost their trail within the Cincinnati ruins. Best I can figure, they used Aether Travel.”

Malcolm places a hand on Brandon. “I’m sorry, hon. I know what it means to you.” He raised Brandon’s chin, then kisses him. “Before you get any idea, this isn’t me forgiving you. But I get it.” Then he steps back and is all smiles. “Now, who are those odd people who can somehow stand being around you for however long it took for all of you to get here.”

I lower my hood. “Shouldn’t you already know me?”

He beams and crosses his arms on the counter. “Dear, the moment you stepped in, I was notified of who you are. But I am not missing the chance to get dear Brando to introduce to his…whatever he considers the lot of you, to me. You don’t understand how epic it is for him to stop in here with someone others than whoever’s carrying his lovely ass back to safety after he got himself into more trouble than should be possible.” He smiles at Brandon. “So, get on with it.”

Brandon sighs. “This is Dennis, fellow explorer. He’s the reason I’m—” he shut up, considers something. “I’m escorting him until he’s completed his quest.”

Malcolm gets a somewhat disbelieving expression, but Brandon continues before he speaks.

“This is Silver, Bard. She saved both our asses in Toronto, and decide she’d get good stories to sing by sticking with us. I think she’s regretted it a few times, but not enough to do the smart thing and ditch us. And that’s—”

“Miss butting in where she’s not invited,” Malcolm says. Brandon chuckles, and Helen glares.

“That’s Helen, my sister.”

Malcolm’s expression changes completely. “You have a sister?” He beams. “I don’t see the resemblance.” Silver snickers. He puts an elbow on the counter and his chin in his hand. “Honey, give me all the dirt on honky boy over there.”