Caspar peeled back the shades of the carriage window and watched the city roll by. He marked its change from the paved avenues and ordered plazas of the Silverin Way to the smoggy thoroughfares of the Eastern Boroughs, and still further past Voraya Mound and its maze of mausoleums.

Behind him the spires of the Principia slowly sank between the squalid roofs of the common folk, disappearing from view with a final twinkle of its star-pointed minarets. It occurred to Caspar that this was the furthest he’d ever been from the safety of the inner keep. He tried not to let the thought bother him. It clearly wasn’t bothering that wretched Ringer woman who was sitting across from him, and he would be damned before he gave her the impression that he was worried. Ringer was fast asleep in her creaking leather armor, head nodding against the iron gorget around her throat, arms folded across her chest in apparent carelessness, though Caspar knew she kept a Blaise of throwing daggers there.

Caspar’s eyes flicked over to her in furtive appreciation. Not an ounce of elvish blood in her, true, but those leonine eyebrows, full lips and her soft chestnut hair tied in a neat bun almost made up for it. A pity that she ruined it all with her attitude of cold indifference.

But perhaps with enough patience one could correct her defects. Caspar rather enjoyed the thought of such an opportunity. After all, vin Destrias were natural equestrians, and had a talent for bringing even the most stubborn creatures to heel. He felt sure that he could soften the hard lines on her face, given the time.

The carriage shook as it passed over a series of potholes, jostling Caspar out of his daydreams. Ringer shook herself awake and Caspar hastily pretended to study his fingernails.

“Ugh. Is it Chancer’s Run already?” she grumbled, her eyelids still drooping shut.

“Yes. At least, I think it is,” said Caspar, squinting at the unfamiliar streets. The people here were noticeably grubbier and seemed to scuttle sideways like crustaceans instead of walking upright, “How can you tell?”

“The Office of Wheels and Wagons hasn’t mended those potholes in twelve years. They’re something of a local landmark. But maybe you’d know that if you weren’t so busy ogling women while they sleep.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Caspar lied, feeling a blush burning its way up his neck through to his cheeks. Ringer held up a luminessor by the silver chain around her neck and grinned.

“Y-you’re a solarist too?” Caspar managed to squeak. He felt like a little boy caught with his fly unbuttoned. Since he hadn’t bothered to phase his psionic emanations, she had seen right through his surface emotions. Now Ringer was eying him like something that had crawled out from under a rock. Embarrassed, Caspar steered the conversation in another direction: “Were you also recruited from the Commissariat?”

“Heavens, no. I was a sister in the clergy. Then one day I saw the world beyond the walls. What’s left of it, anyway.”

“Lose your religion, did you?”

“On the contrary. I take it that you’ve never walked in the Wasting, Deputy? Believe me, out there you’ll be praying to every god that ever existed.”

Caspar felt a stab of unease at those words. She continued:

“Listen closely. I’m to give you the full briefing now.”

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Ringer dropped her luminessor into his lap.

“I already have one.”

“Then take this as a spare. They’ll be essential to tracking down Redmaine. As you know, the partisans are intent on bringing him that stolen vestige. Or rather, that vestige which we allowed them to steal. Our alloymancers tampered with the seals of its containment capsule by drilling a chink in the lead shielding about a thousandth of the diameter of a pinhole. Just enough to create steady leak of iotas and emanations.”

“What kind of emanations?”

Ringer took out a paper envelope and unfolded it, showing him a streak of powder on its surface that looked a lot like the shiny black mineral they filled the inside of pencils with.

“Pass your luminessor over this and tell me what you sense.”

Caspar did so.

“Nothing,” he said.

“Try harmonizing with the bottom end of the scale. The lowest you can go.”

He felt a niggling in the periphery of his quintessence, a rustling click that sounded like something between the night song of cicadas and the steady ticking of a timepiece. It was faint, but since luminessors were designed to parse through the miniscule emanations from people’s minds, he was able to maintain his focus on it rather easily.

“Found it? Good. The terranists will be leaving such traces everywhere they go.”

“Like a trail of invisible breadcrumbs,” Caspar shook his head in amazement, “Devilishly clever, this vin Clausewin. Have you worked with him long?”

“He has his moments,” she said, purposefully ignoring his question, “But these traces alone won’t be enough—they can only be sensed in close proximity, say within a quarter a mile or so. Solid objects and topography will also hinder your efforts. You’ll have to use other methods to compensate.”

“Such as?”

“Good old-fashioned legwork. Your academy records reflect an above average score in navigation, so we can assume that you know your way around a map, correct?”

“It was in the core curriculum,” Caspar said at once. He thought it prudent not to mention that he had passed the course by slipping the instructor a barrel of red from the family cellars so that he, Venzini and some friends could spend the afternoons picnicking under the shade of peach trees, laughing while the other poor fools marched till their feet were bloody lumps. Beastly work, that navigation. So he was relieved when Ringer said:

“Needless to say, we won’t be sending you alone. You’ll be assigned a detachment of Civil Militia to assist you. As you track the vestige you must also make contact with the advance party whom we’ve sent ahead of you—the rendezvous point is indicated on your maps.”

Advance party? Caspar didn’t like the sound of that. They would have the advantage of beginning the chase closer to Redmaine, closer to the glory that was his by right. Briefly he considered missing the rendezvous on purpose and leaving the fools stranded and twiddling their thumbs. Wouldn’t that be a lark?

“And if I should find Redmaine before that?” Caspar asked with exaggerated carelessness. There was a pause as Ringer’s brows knitted together in grudging amusement.

“Do as you please, vin Destria,” she snorted softly, “Shall it be pistols at dawn? Or will your swords ring out in violent contention, cold steel kissed by moonlight? This isn’t some bodice ripper of a novel, you dolt. Redmaine is an animal. Kill him any way you can. Though if I were you, I’d wait for the help.”

Thoroughly humiliated, Caspar listened in sullen silence as Ringer explained the rest of the details. Eventually the carriage rolled to a halt. As he stepped on the footboard to alight from the vehicle, she asked:

“Any last questions?”

“Just the one,” Caspar said, gathering the shreds of his dignity for one last hurrah, “Upon my return, am I to be rewarded for my service to the city?”

“We have ways of expediting your career,” she said briskly, “You’ll make commissar within a year.”

“That’s all very fine,” he said, “But I was thinking more along the lines of dinner at the Hanging Gardens. With a selection of wines and a cheese platter. Present company included, of course.”

Ringer rolled her eyes and shut the door in his face.

“I love a woman who can tear me to pieces,” Caspar muttered to himself as the carriage rolled away. But for all her scornful talk about bodice rippers, Caspar came away with the distinct impression that Ringer had read quite a few of them.