Jori flipped through the papers as they left the warlocks’ lair. They were covered in human writing. She could understand it, if she took the time to concentrate on it, but why bother? This kind of writing couldn’t make a properly binding contract. You might as well just make a deal verbally.

She scoffed to herself. Ridiculous. Demons made verbal agreements all the time, just as humans did, but those were only reliable as long as the power dynamic involved was great enough to ensure that betrayal wasn’t an option for the weaker party. Human contracts were just silly.

Finally, near the back of the stack, she found what she was looking for. It was a circle of symbols—formed out of five smaller circles. A pentagram sat in the middle, each of its five points resting at the center of one of the circles. Beneath were a bunch more human scribbles, but those didn’t matter.

Finally, a real contract. These were the terms the Solicitors required to consider any pact valid for all citizens of the realm. She understood them instinctively just by looking at it and winced in disgust.

They were:

1. Immediately self-deport upon the termination of the pact

2. Cause no harm of any kind to any Beseri citizen, even in self-defense and without exception

3. Obey the laws of the Kingdom of Besermark and the commands of any qualified officer of the Solicitors’ Organization without delay

4. Share no unauthorized information and enter into no further pacts or agreements of any kind until after the pact is terminated

5. Refrain from the consumption of any mortal souls unless they are deliberately granted by one’s pacted warlock

She assumed that the actual pact with the warlock about sharing power would have to be inscribed elsewhere, probably in place of the lines that made up the pentagram. She was fairly certain the shape was completely unnecessary—but she’d never had a pact, so what did she know?

“Jori?” Bernt asked, looking down at her, bewildered. “Are you reading that? How?”

She shook her head at him and rolled her eyes. “It is a contract! I know its intent.”

Needless to say, these terms were just terrible. She would, essentially, be a helpless tool—not for just one warlock master, but for the Solicitors as an organization. It was remarkably similar to how agreements worked in the third hell, the place she had spawned.

There, the more powerful demons forced those weaker than themselves into service, usually in order to serve even more powerful demons who had, in turn, pressed them into service. The lower down the chain of oppression you were, the more difficult it was to grow in power. Most demons never progressed past their spawnling forms, and those who did usually had to rely on deception or luck to get the water of life they needed to grow. Many never got a taste of it at all—she hadn’t.

Jori hadn’t realized the “water” was what made up the souls of mortals until she’d actually tasted it and seen where it came from. That, and it had been a lot harder to think back then…

She was not going to be put into that kind of position again. Never!

***

Bernt stopped walking to watch Jori read, feeling a fluttering sense of shame wind its way through his stomach. He’d been forgetting something important, and it had taken a calculated insult from a warlock to offer him the needed shift in perspective.

“So… uh,” he began awkwardly. “I’ve been kind of trying not to think about it too much. And… well, you just started talking a few days ago, I hadn’t really considered what it meant. I mean, in a bigger sense. But then he gave you the paperwork just now. I mean, he gave the paperwork to you. So, I wanted to ask…”

Jori cocked her head at him. “What?”

“Well… what do you want?”

Jori cocked her head and looked at him consideringly. Through the bond he felt a boiling frustration. Finally, she held the stack of papers up to him.

“Look at it!” she said, hissing slightly as she said it. “Take it! They want to make me into their slave.”

“What?” Bernt bent down to accept the papers and looked over the top page. He didn’t recognize the runed pattern at the top, but he could read the text underneath. It was all there, cut and dried. The third point would make her a tool of the Solicitors, essentially loaning her out to the pacted warlock.

He exhaled slowly. It made sense, he supposed. The Solicitors weren’t just there to control demons, after all. They policed warlocks as well. What better way to do that than to directly control their pacted demons?

“I don’t want these choices!” Jori hissed, boiling fury now lighting her eyes with red fire. “I don’t want a master. I want to be free!”

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

“But… you don’t have to take a pact,” Bernt said carefully. “What about the guarantor option? We can just talk to Ed and Iriala. I’m sure we can work something out.”

Jori grimaced. “Maybe for now,” she allowed. “But it’s still a bad choice—I didn’t do anything wrong! And they will ‘deport’ me when I grow, no matter what I do.”

Bernt sighed. “Then what choice is there? You would need a pact sooner or later, then.”

“No, I don’t,” Jori said firmly. “They can’t kill me. I’m not a mortal. And I have friends. You, and maybe Therion, the nice flute woman and the sneaky man.”

Bernt swallowed as he understood the crux of her plan.

“You want me to summon you back,” he said, trying to keep the unease out of his voice, but failing. “Like that rogue warlock did.”

Jori nodded once.

“Will you?”

It was risky. Extremely illegal, actually. He’d be an illegal summoner. Still not a warlock, technically, if he didn’t form a pact. But he would have to learn their craft—and he’d have to do it without getting caught, which would be a problem, considering that he barely had access to a single demonology text. It was still in Ed’s desk—and he couldn’t even read it. Botching a summoning could easily get him killed.

But this was Jori. And that Radast guy had been an ass. It wasn’t that Bernt couldn’t understand why the Solicitors worked the way they did—he just didn’t like them. Jori was right. They were polite, sure, but all the choices they offered essentially treated Jori as a monster.

Of course, that was exactly how they saw her. And it wasn’t as though demons weren’t dangerous.

“The Solicitors and the crown would be after me if anyone found out,” Bernt mused. “If you eventually became a greater demon, you could be as dangerous as a dragon. More, maybe. And you wouldn’t be able to stay in the city—not after you’ve been deported once. It would be obvious that I was involved.”

Jori put her hands on her hips and glared up at him, but he knew she was feeling a little smug at being compared to a dragon. “Then all the bad dragons will stay far away! We are friends. You have to trust me!”

That was… a lot to take on faith. Besermark had a history with greater demons—one that had left warlocks outlawed entirely for nearly two centuries.

But Bernt found that he did trust Jori. Somehow. Besides, where would she even get the souls? It would take centuries, much longer than he was going to live.

Probably.

He looked down at her for several seconds, trying to picture her as a kingdom-tier threat.

He couldn’t. But he could still picture her the way she’d been when he found her, covered in filth and protectively clutching half of a rat she’d caught, looking up at him with terrified eyes.

She wasn’t scared now.

“Look, I’m not saying I’d never do it, but even then, it would take me years to even learn how,” he said warily. “Don’t grow too quickly—we need time. I’d really rather you didn’t put me in that position at all. Whatever the case, we need to get you a guarantor first. Neither of us can afford for you to get ‘deported’ any time soon…”

Rolling the rest of the papers up, Jori handed them to Bernt and nodded, a warm, fierce approval radiating through the bond. “There will be time, I think. There are not so many dead here as in the dungeon.”

Then she was gone, scampering down an access shaft into the sewers.

Bernt sighed. And he’d thought he had problems before.

As he walked home, he flipped through the other papers, reading through the guarantor contract. Ed had made it sound like there was no way the Solicitors would allow Jori to stay in Halfbridge unless he formed a pact with her, but that clearly wasn’t true. Did he just not know?

Or maybe that chief Solicitor was making an exception of some kind… but why? Bernt figured the paperwork would be the best place to look. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for exactly, but the Solicitors—or at least Radast—had to be getting something out of this.

The language of the contract was extremely dense, which didn’t make it easy. But when he was already in sight of his tenement, he finally found something.

“Consignee agrees to, within two days of signing this agreement, make public their status as sponsor and guardian of the relevant entity, leaving no doubt as to the Solicitors’ continued association with or responsibility for said entity.”

So… they wanted Ed to announce that he was sponsoring a demon. Specifically, they wanted to make sure everyone knew the Underkeepers—or the Mages’ Guild if Iriala could be persuaded—were doing it.

It made sense, he supposed, from their perspective. If Jori went crazy and started murdering people and devouring their souls, it would show that allowing non-Solicitors to sponsor unbound demons was a bad idea. Maybe the count, or even the king himself, would make sure only the Solicitors could be trusted to control them.

On the other hand, if everything went well, then making sure Jori’s presence was public knowledge would show the public that demons could be safely controlled. It would make people more comfortable, and probably make life a little easier for all warlocks in Halfbridge.

So much for Radast’s claims that he didn’t care what common people thought about him. Still, it looked more like a consolation prize. Based on the paperwork, Bernt guessed the warlock was hoping for the first scenario.

Entering his building, Bernt tried to put it out of his mind. He had to find a way to convince Ed to sponsor Jori. Him or Iriala, but he doubted the latter was ever going to happen. Ed… well, he might. Maybe. But, Bernt figured, he’d be more amenable if he asked after doing what his boss had already asked of him.

Bernt sighed as he entered his room and locked the door behind him. He went to his shelf and picked up a stack of loose papers he’d stashed on top of his books with the enthusiasm he usually reserved for handling Jori’s… fuel contributions…

He needed to study the Underkeepers’ Health and Safety Procedures.