The skycrawler rumbled along the tracks overhead, scattering sheets of rainwater on either side. Hundreds of feet below, the line of miserable wretches taking shelter between the columns cursed and groaned as they were soaked to the skin.

Tirce shivered as a breeze cut through the damp clothes on her back. She tightened the shawl around her head so that only the pink tip of her nose showed, that and her eyes which she kept carefully glued to the ground as the line shuffled forwards.

She had never felt so exposed and vulnerable. Even the most hardened terranists knew better than to go to Chancer’s Run all by themselves. The fact that Wunther insisted upon her taking this route revealed the dire straits they were in.

“We’re boned, Tirce,” Wunther had explained back at their flat, “Those rangers who showed up right in the nick of time? That wasn’t a coincidence. Someone from inside the movement must have tipped them off about our meeting with the Revelry.”

“Traitors in our midst,” Tirce felt as if the bottom had dropped out of her stomach.

“Yes. And they’re either amongst Redmaine’s people…” Wunther trailed away, his hammy fists clenching in rage.

“Or ours,” Tirce said.

It was a times like these that she learned to appreciate the celled structure of the Dusk Troupe.

Each cell was formed by up to five members, with the existence and identities of the members in neighbouring cells kept a mystery from all except the ringleaders. But even then those ringleaders themselves only knew a handful of other ringleaders, the simplest of messages often requiring complicated chains of contacts to pass from one end of the structure to the other. This gave the Dusk Troupe a depth of organization that was difficult for enemy agents to infiltrate, as opposed to the larger, more military hierarchy of the Revelry that was designed for more conventional operations.

“Could the leak have come from our cell?” she ventured, speaking the quiet part out loud. It was an ugly thing to say, what with the corpses of the Twins not yet cold in the ground, and yet the ever-present threat of informants was just another reality they had to face.

“Not likely,” Wunther stuck a dirty fingernail into his ear and dug around, “The hour and location of the meeting were only decided upon yesterday, when their side reached out to us. I kept those details to myself until just a few hours before we made contact. They wouldn’t have had enough time to inform Stahlka.”

“One of the middlemen, then,” Tirce concluded, “What’s to be done with them?”

“The usual. We amputate,” Wunther dug out a plug of vile yellow earwax, sniffed at it in morbid fascination then flicked sizzling into the fire, “Cauterize whatever is left. Until then we have to consider all the other cells as compromised. I’m sorry, girl, but you can’t rely on anyone but yourself at this point.”

The plan was for her to join the flood of shaemish refugees fleeing to the Pale Woods, disguising herself as just another helpless victim of the coming pogrom. From there she would arrange transport to the northern ruins using Wunther’s outside associates and avoiding all contact with other members of the Dusk Troupe. Her uncle had jotted a list of names onto a tiny roll of vellum which Tirce had tucked into a hidden compartment in her boot sole. They were criminals mostly, with a few civilian sympathizers and terranists from other conclaves who knew nothing of broader situation.

Ahead stood the shadowed entrance of a tent where the first group of Wunther’s associates of chancers stood waiting, a gang of chancers whose easy smiles could not conceale the wolfish slant of their features. Their leader was a man named No-Face Nivens, so called because of the gruesome gap in his cheek where a surgeon had carved away necrotic tumors. Such physical defects were common in chancers who walked in the spell-blighted lands. Some said it was white dust from the far north carried on the midnight winds that did it, while others called it divine retribution and thought it righteous that the afflicted should suffer for the sin of travelling into the land of the apostate Axiomites.

“Welcome, Marm,” Nivens leered, the hole in the side of his mouth showing rows of jagged incisors, “Whether it be sanctuary, sacred pilgrimage or high adventure ye seek, ye’ve come to the right place. For are we not all victims of the law? Comrades joined in common struggle against the voracious vicissitudes of fate? And yea I say unto thee that whosoever scratcheth the crack of mine arse, I shall scratch his in kind. Which brings us to the delicate matter of remuneration. In exchange for leading you through the perilous Wasting and into the lands of milk and plenty, we charge the modest fee of four hundred semestras per head. Half now and half later.”

Murmurs of dismay rippled through the crowd.

“We can’t possibly afford that, Kyber!” a woman hissed.

“Now, now Yleine,” a tall, drooping man replied, “I’m sure these gentlemen are willing to settle on a reasonable price.”

“Pa, are we really leaving the city?” said a small, soft voice. Tirce turned around and saw a girl she thought was no older than ten, though it was hard to tell since she was wearing an oversized cowl that covered her head entirely.

“Yes,” her father said.

“Forever and ever?”

“Indeed, my dear.”

“How long is forever?” the girl pressed.

“An interesting question,” Kyber said gravely, “the word itself implies the infinite. There are some philosophers who believe that infinities do not possess any dimensions,” he said gravely, “They just go on and on and on, with neither an end nor a beginning, you see, which means that—”

“Kyber!” Yleine hissed again, “You’re scaring her!”

“—which means we won’t be gone for long,” he finished weakly, giving the girl a pat on the head. The couple couldn’t have been more dissimilar: Kyber was a thin rake of a man in the tousled uniform of a clerk, while Yleine was a brawny woman whose bodice threatened to burst apart at the seams from the immensity of her bosom. Muttering under her breath, she took out a pouch and began counting out their money.

“It’s no good,” she grunted, “One of us will have to stay behind.”

“Preposterous! Can’t very well raise a girl without her mother. But alright,” Kyber quickly conceded, “If you insist.”

“I meant you, husband. You’ll have to stay.”

“Uh, what?” Kyber spluttered.

“I’ll leave you some money in case the Ministry of Inquiries places you in the dungeons. You’ll have to hide it where the other inmates can’t reach, so I suggest you roll it up tight in a bit of cloth and push it firmly up your—”

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

“Why do I always get the sticky end of the wicket?” Kyber spluttered.

“Do you think my end is any better? Of the two of us, who do you think will fare better in a land of monsters and eternal night?”

Kyber blinked.

“You’re right, of course. You’ll do a better job of protecting Nysha out there than I ever would. Be good to your mother, my poppet,” he told his daughter, “Don’t forget to practice your sums.”

He wrapped them both in an awkward hug, pecked his wife on the cheek, then pulled stiffly away.

“Mummy, where is Father going?”

“Fetching some things from home,” Yleine lied, her lip trembling, “He’ll return shortly.”

But she was right. For as Kyber passed by her place in line, Tirce caught his sleeve.

“What the devil do you want?” he blurted, his eyes damp. Tirce showed him a stack of semestras cupped in the palm of her hand, part of the funds Wunther had given her. Kyber gaped.

“But madame, I can’t possibly accept this!”

Tirce pressed it into his pocket before he could gabble any further. The last thing she wanted was to draw more attention to herself. She motioned for Kyber to stop talking, but he gushed on:

“I’m forever indebted to you! You can’t imagine what a relief this is! I would’ve spent the rest of my life in a penal farm stirring shit with a pitchfork, or whatever it is those rustic types do when they aren’t off tilting pigs. Or was it cow? More likely, however, they would have hung me for falsifying my family records. The heritage laws prohibit even quarter-blood shaemish from occupying government positions.”

“You’re shaemish?”

“Barely,” he said defensively, “I don’t even celebrate their pagan superstitions! Mother was always trying to teach me the wyrding ways, but I found the rituals quite crude. Poking through pigeon’s entrails to glimpse of the future, offering up wine to house imps—damned backwards, if you ask me. As I child I simply played along with it, but I’ve been a loyal citizen of Lufthaven all my life.”

“I see,” Tirce said coldly, “Yet here you are, fleeing the city’s justice.”

“Why, it’s not like that at all,” Kyber said, upset, “The Ministry of Inquiries is up in arms now. They’ll string up just about any Shaemite they can find from a lamppost.”

“If I were you, djeshet,” Tirce continued, pronouncing the shaemish word for friend with withering scorn, “I’d keep my opinions to myself. You never can tell who’s listening.”

Tirce channeled a portion of her blood and Kyber drew back in revulsion as the pupils of her eyes lengthened into serpentine slits.

“P-please,” he stammered, going pale, “I didn’t mean to insult your—I mean our—proud heritage—”

“I’m sure you didn’t. Now push off. Don’t keep your girls waiting.”

Kyber went scurrying back to his family and Tirce felt a pang of regret. Her journey hadn’t even begun yet and already her pockets were dangerously light. She should’ve known better than to involve herself in the problems of strangers. Wunther had pinned all his hopes on her. Gods, from the sound of it the entire movement was waiting with bated breath for the thing sitting at the bottom of her satchel bag wrapped inside two pairs of Joras’ old socks.

“Come hell or the high tides of dead, I will not fail,” she swore quietly, “From now on, duty will come first.”

Tirce heard a squeal of delight and saw the girl Nisha hugging Kyber’s knees. The child’s hood fell back to reveal a shard of bone growing from her forehead, black as pitch. Kyber handed the money to an astonished Yleine and swept his daughter up in a hug. Despite herself, a smile tugged at the corner of Tirce’s lips.

“Alright, cough up your calors!” No-Face announced. The chancers went through the crowd collecting their fees, then waved the fugitives in through the tent flap.

Inside was a heavy iron grate propped open by a prybar. Beside it was a row of unlit lanterns brimming with oil. A rope ladder led down into floodways where Tirce heard dark water flowing heavy and deep into the belly of a great unknown.

She felt rather like a trembling fawn standing at the mouth of a bear cave. For the first time the reality of the situation hit her right on the nose, carrying with it the stench of stagnant water and stale urine.

“Aye, it’s pretty horrid at first,” came a voice out of the darkness, startling everyone, “But you’ll learn to like it.”

A chancer came climbing up the ladder. He was a young man with wispy brown hair and bags of purpled flesh around his eyes, which darted around in constant vigilance even in moments of silence. Tirce noted at once the compact crossbow hanging from a hook on his belt and the quiver of bolts beside it. Like the other chancers he also wore a thick overcoat whose hem dragged across the ground, bulging in a dozen odd places from overstuffed pockets.

“The name’s Ravelin,” he said, “I’m to be your guide. Listen well and do as I say, and most of you will likely reach the Pale Woods alive. Though I make no promises.”

“Just a minute,” Tirce frowned, “You’re all that we’re getting for eight hundred grievin’ calors apiece?”

The chancer’s roving eyes settled on her, the expression in his flint-grey irises giving nothing away.

“I’m all that you need,” he replied, “Add any more people to this meat wagon and we may as well be ringing the dinner gong.”

“Meat wagon?” Kyber nervously repeated.

“It’s just an expression,” Ravelin told him.

“It doesn’t sound very reassuring,” Tirce observed.

Ravelin shrugged.

“Let’s do a head count,” he said, “When I point to you, state your name and occupation.”

“Kyber Katsidis, senior clerk from the Ministry of Reclamation. This is my wife Yleine and my daughter Neisha.”

“In that case, you owe me a hundred and fifty calors.”

“Why?”

“You’re a family. Families always complicate matters.”

“How perfectly beastly of you!” Yleine fumed.

“Mhm,” Ravelin agreed.

Yleine angrily forked over the sum.

“Modlin, convict,” said a sunken-faced man with clacking wooden dentures that rendered him nearly unintelligible, “Jest got out and I ain’t a-goin back.”

“And before that?”

“Was in the guild of locksmiths, wonce.”

“What happened?”

“They caught me springing locks what should’ve stayed shut.”

“Understandable,” Ravelin nodded with approval, “And you?”

He stuck a finger at Tirce. With a jolt of alarm she realized that she hadn’t yet thought of an alias, and blurted out the first thing which came to mind, her true name:

“Tirce fein Eider. Florist.”

“You don’t seem like the sort of girl who sells flowers.”

“Oh?” she challenged, “And who are you supposed to be, the Bureau of Bouquets?”

“Then again, you have such a charming personality,” Ravelin muttered.

One by one they went down the ladder, the water-logged hemp creaking dangerously under their weight. Tirce’s relief when her feet finally touched the slimy floor of the passage was short-lived; the darkness lay so thick she couldn’t make out her own outstretched fingers.

There was a rasp of flint and steel, and a halo of orange light blossomed into being. She looked up and saw Ravelin on his belly, lowering the sputtering lanterns for them to take.

“Take these and stay here,” he said, “I won’t be long.”

And without another word he left the eight fugitives crouched in the reeking murk.

“Already he abandons us,” Yleine observed.

“Nonsense, woman. How would he collect the other half of his pay then?” Kyber replied.

“Easy. E’ could seal that grate roight now and pick our corpses clean when the rats is through with us,” Modlin pointed out.

“Rats?” uttered Nysha with a horrified squeak.

“Aye,” Modlin nodded sagely, “They grows fearsome big down ‘ere. Big as dargs, sum of em.”

“I don’t like this place,” the girl pouted.

“Hush, girl,” Yleina said, holding Nysha close and frowning at the convict, who sheepishly ducked his head, “Nothing will touch you while I’m breathing. By the Diad, what is taking that man so long?”

Tirce took out one of her pouches and opened the channels of her blood. She’d prepared less than a dozen witchbrews and had to use them sparingly, but this seemed important. She slid the yew wand out of her sleeve and pointed it at the tent ceiling. Blood throbbed behind her eardrums, and in the next moment she heard No-Face speaking:

“…couldn’t help but notice that you’re driving this meat wagon alone, Ravi. What’s the matter? Couldn’t you find anyone else to stab in the back?”

“Spatz and Muster were the ones scheming against me. It had to be done, Nivens.”

“And now their shares of the spoils are lining your pockets,” Nivens sneered, “How convenient.”

“They took their chances against Viago and lost.”

“But how long until the odds turn against you, Ravi? The next time you find yourself neck-deep in the shitter and sinking fast, don’t expect a helping hand. You’d only drag us to the bottom with you, after all.”

“Never mind your help,” Ravelin’s laugh sounded as pleasant as a surgeon’s hacksaw, “Just hand over my cut, sharpish.”

“Why not keep it here on deposit like you always do?”

“I’ll take it now, thanks.”

“Do you honestly think we’d try crossing Viago’s favorite lapdog like your crewmates did? Do I look suicidal to you?”

“Well you’re still talking, aren’t you?”

Nivens nervously cleared his throat. Coins jingled as the money changed hands.

Tirce heard Ravelin’s returning footsteps and stowed the wand, but not before hearing Nivens mutter under his breath:

“Your time’s a-coming, Ravi. Sure as the sun rises you’ll get what coming to you, mark my words…”