I can’t stay cooped in the estate a moment longer.

  Arriel’s been keeping an eye on Irminric, reporting he’s hauled his scaly, shit-smudged ass back to Jor. He’s lost two Warlords and irate about it. But I’m not sure what to do next. Maybe he’s smartened up and realized he can make me come to him. But at the same time, I’ve thoroughly pissed him off. He might be figuring out a way to do it without antagonizing a noble family of Carthesia.

  I prod everyone about things to do around the High. One of the servants tips me off about the Moon Scythe Theater. It’s not a big venue – it's a historic one. It’s an old temple to the goddess Nudea, the Moon Mother, which was refitted into a theater. I’ve heard of it, although I’ve never been there on account of damn near everything about me.

  I check the schedule, and nobody's playing tonight. I poke around some rooms until I find a wardrobe in my size. I help myself to a decent-looking tunic and leather jacket. I grab Weekes, and we head out before Arriel can interfere.

  “What are we doing?” he asks, trotting along beside me. He’s got that big-eyed, eager look. His baby ear's not so obvious anymore, although it looks especially downy against the rest of him. He scratches it.

  “There’s an old theater near here I want to play,” I say. “You’re gonna help me get in.”

  He looks even more eager. “What do you need me to do?”

  I stop. We’re in the commerce part of the High, away from the estates. The architecture’s gnomish in style, although it’s made for people of every size. High-end shops and restaurants crowd the manicured streets, the landscaped, cobbled road bustling with carriages and dainty rich people. I’d get chucked out of here before I could even think of busking.

  I lean in and explain the plan.

  He blinks, his big rabbit eyes wide. “Are you sure? I don’t know if I can pull that off.”

  I put a hand on his shoulder, gesturing at him. “I saw you talk our way onto that ship back in Takazaki. You’ve got it in you. Come through for me on this, and we’ll head out tonight and get you laid.”

  “I-I’m not sure –”

  “Or we head back, and I’ll take care of it.”

  “I’m not –”

  I shrug, stepping further along. “One man's ass is another man's pussy. Close your eyes, and it’s all the same.” I gesture over my shoulder. “It can’t be harder than talking to people.”

  He follows.

  We arrive at the theater. Marble pillars support a sculpted lintel over mahogany double doors. I glance at the posters pasted along the wall. I missed Carthesian Cleric Revival by a week, but a few local bands are lined up within the next couple days. One of them is a necromancer and his animated band, styling themselves the Grateful Undead. There’s a new theater troupe playing Midsummer Sun tomorrow evening, and Hakina the drag artist from Woudhoven the night after. I met her once in the Mid after a show – it’s good seeing she’s moved up.

  And, of course, there’s a poster from Takazaki with my face on it. It’s for Chancey of Five Ashes. I quickly grab it, tucking it away. No one seems to notice.

  Then, Weekes and I enter.

  I cross my arms, meandering. The foyer is plush and curated. Velvet ropes and carpets lead to the ticket desk, and padded benches line the walls. Through the large paned windows, the street bustles.

  An elderly gnome appears. “Hi, can I help you gentlemen?”

  I don’t say anything, letting Weekes take over. People are always willing to believe certain things about musicians – I’ve gotta play the part. I wander, hand over my mouth, judging whether this place is worth my time or not - which is moist horseshit. I’ve never played more than the most backwater inns and taverns around Horonai, where I won’t get slapped for not being licensed. As an old bard once said, it's a long way to the top.

  “Good morning,” Weekes says, smiling. He’s standing a couple inches straighter. He offers a paw hand. “I’m Weekes Windpaw. Are you the booking manager? Or would you be able to direct me to them?”

  The gnome nods, shaking the offered hand. He’s wearing a flawless, starched brocade getup. “I am the manager, yes. Pascal Lavigne. Are you inquiring about our schedule?”

  Weekes brightens, folding his paws in front of him. “Yes! I represent Mr. Chouncey of Seven Oaks here, just finished touring Horonai. I saw that you don’t have any booking for tonight – I know it’s last-minute, but we’d love to squeeze in this beautiful venue before we leave.”

  Pascal’s bushy brows go up. He glances at me. I gesture with my flask in greeting, then turn back to my wandering.

  “Of course,” he says slowly. “You understand this would be at a significant cost to put something together for tonight.”

  Weekes pauses, then gives an easy laugh. “Sorry, I should’ve prefaced with this – Mr. Chouncey here requested that this be a benefit concert. It’s to help raise funds, which I think we can both agree are in no shortage here in the High.”

  “Funds for whom?”

  He flubs like a fish for a moment, then looks at me. Shit. I step over. “There’s an orphanage down in the Low getting tight on property taxes. Saint Arriel of the Blessed Shroud – I grew up there. The church of Iros asked me to cover the cost, or the city will reclaim it.”

  Pascal nods slowly, brows pinched together. “And do you have a contact with the church to collect these funds?”

  Weekes cuts in. “That’s Lady Arriel Ronchellard.”

  I gesture at him with my flask.

  Weekes continues, gesturing around. “With the unique history of this venue, this show could be a great way to drum up more interest in the preservation of some of the important architectural history around Carthesia…”

  Pascal’s brows go up.

  Weekes keeps talking, the gnome nodding along. We’ve got him. I wander toward the doors of the auditorium, pushing them open. I stop.

  It’s stunning. Overhead, the vaulted ceiling is painted with golden stars and a massive moon. Hundreds of tiered seats face the stage. Balconies are draped with white silk curtains. Every inch of the walls is inscribed or carved. I wander down the stairs, arms crossed, drinking in the atmosphere. I’m nearly quivering.

  “Of course, ticket prices would normally be lower for the short notice, but considering the nature of this performance, I hope that’s an acceptable sacrifice. We certainly want to encourage more donations – both to you and us.”

  Weekes and Pascal appear. “And you’ll handle the marketing?” Weekes asks.

  “We’ll get started right away. We’ll be in touch, but if you’ll excuse me, we’re about to be very busy. It’s been a pleasure doing business with you both.”

  He shakes both mine and Weekes’ hands, then turns and hustles up the stairs.

  Weekes waits until he’s out of sight before turning to me. “That’s a really good idea, giving the money to the church. Arriel will like that.”

  I flick him in the ear, lowering my voice. “We’re not doing that, you back-kneed twit. We’re splitting it eighty-twenty.”

  He flinches, grabbing his ear. “Oh. Wait, I only get twenty percent?”

  “For a first-time agent? I’m being fairly generous here. And I’m giving you the full hundred percent on that 20,000 gold when we get into the vault.”

  “That’s right,” he says. “I guess I forgot.”

  I take a seat at the end of a row, propping my feet up. He sits next to me. I pluck some harmonic tones on my mandolin, teasing a ley line and crafting an illusion on the stage. Calming instrumental music drifts. I listen. There’s top-tier acoustics here, as well as some high-quality magical amplification.

  “Hey, um,” Weekes says quietly. “I’m sorry.”

  I turn. “About what?”

  He looks at his paw hands, wringing them. “It’s just… sometimes I don’t know what to say when you talk about what happened to you. I feel bad. Arriel always seems to know, but…”

  This is the last thing I want to talk about right now. But he seems genuine. The music wavers a bit. “Believe me, she says more than she should.” He smiles. I continue. “Most of the time, I prefer people not saying anything about it.”

  He nods, his ears drooping a bit. “But if I don’t say anything, how are you supposed to know I care?”

  I take another drink, my throat tightening. Suddenly, I wish Arriel were here. She’d know the answer to that.

  I tuck my flask away, then hug him close. He doesn’t say anything. But I feel the brush of his ears against the back of my neck. The music deepens. Then, after a few moments, I stand and throw an arm around his shoulder, and we head back to the estate.

  The rest of the day, we run around like a headless hydra, scraping together an idea of what we’re doing. Arriel follows and rants about dragging her name into this. And I’m supposed to be lying low, not plastering my name all over the High, she says. But she finds me something halfway decent to wear, returning my borrowed clothes to her security elf. Weekes does a halfway decent job of actually being an agent, collaborating with the theater and making sure there’s enough hype. I sketch a set list in my head - some classics from here in Carthesia, and I'll throw in some hymns for good measure. I can even cover Carthesian Cleric Revival for anyone who was at the show last week. Finally, I jump into a carriage with Arriel and Weekes.

  The place is positively humming by the time we get there. We rattle past the entrance, and rich people are lined up around the block. Weekes is nearly jumping from his bench. Arriel’s got her face in her hands.

  I’m shuffled into a green room while they find their seats. I pace, taking a hit from my flask, warming up, and humming to myself. And soon enough, I walk onto the gorgeous mahogany wood stage. Hundreds of people greet me with applause. I’ve never seen so many people crammed in a single venue, at least from this angle. It’s the sweetest music I’ve ever heard.

  I smile to myself. At least if Irminric splits me open soon enough, I’ve made it this far. Arriel and Weekes are sitting in the front. I pluck a few harmonic tones from my mandolin, grasping magic and filling the dim theater with life, sound, and light. And, my blood thrumming with something felt by every bard before me, I play.

  I rake in just over a hundred gold that night.

  It’s a staggering amount of coin. I could live off that for the rest of my life. But still, I find myself thinking of what Iros said about not expecting me to change – about how I’ve always been spreading light. Is this what he means? Spreading joy? Bringing encouragement to help people become their better selves? Giving people a spot of hope and enjoyment amid the darkness? Is this worth it?

  I finish and bow to the roaring crowd. They’re standing. I’m sweating. It’s been a couple hours. It’s the performance of a lifetime. I look at Arriel and Weekes in the front, smiling and cheering. Something stirs in my chest. Seeing Arriel’s face moist with happiness could be enough to make me a Champion of Iros on its own.

  I ready my mandolin again, grasping at the magical stuff of my illusion, shaping it around my voice. The applause settles down.

  “Thank you so very kindly for coming out and keeping some of the loveliest places in this fair city standing. I’ve got one more for you all,” I say. “This one’s about one of my dearest friends who’s pulled me out of the worst places. It’s my sincerest hope that everyone’s got someone as wonderful as she in their life.”

  I begin plucking an introduction, my illusion filling out the sound. Arriel’s smile fades. Something like horror falls on her face as I sing:

  I once met a lady, so righteous and fair

  She shimmers as godly as her golden hair

  But her heart belongs to a dame

  Of devil blood

  And she'd brave the fiery depths of hell

  She's the lady cleric

  The lady cleric

  The thought of her wife is

  As sweet as the rain

  The heat of the nine hells

  That pumps in her veins

  She'll defend her love to the death

  With white, holy light

  She'll cross the planes to bring her home

  She comes out from hiding behind her hand, her face changing. Her fair brows soften, and her warm blue eyes glisten in the magic of my illusion. It’s a source of light if I’ve ever seen it.

  As soon as I can, I grab Weekes, strum a few chords, slap a hole on the back wall, and hustle from the theater. Arriel’s talking with the booking manager, a toothy smile carved into her cheeks. She's gonna thrash me later. But for now, I've got my word to keep.

  There’s no sign of Arriel following us as we weave through alleys and cobbled roads. The excited bustle of the theater fades. I’ve no idea what’s good in the High, but I intend to find out. It’s nearing midnight already, taverns and restaurants filling up.

  “Hey, um…” Weekes stops beside me. “I’m actually not feeling well. I think I should go back.”

  I halt and cock my head at him. “Is that true?”

  He pauses, not looking me in the eye. “No. I’m just really nervous.”

  I clap a hand on his shoulder, steering him along. “I’ll be right there with you, for as long as you want. In fact, we could just find a third –”

  “N-no. That’s too much. Look, I just…” he sighs. “I’m really nervous.”

  “So you said. What’s there to be nervous about? Everyone’s gotta have a first time. Don’t judge yourself for being bad at something you’ve not done before.”

  He hesitantly nods. “Okay. What about your first time? What was it like?”

  “Oh, it was nothing. Just a group of friends –”

  “Never mind. What about after? How long should I stick around? What do you do?”

  “If you’re not gonna wrap it, at least grab her the pisspot so she doesn’t have to waddle.”

  “Why would she –” He pauses. I only look at him. “Oh.”

  We stop in front of a painfully upscale tavern, if it could be called that. It’s hardly raucous – more of a place to sit and chat with a weak pour. I’m sure the only expensive thing about the food is the price. It’s not ideal, but we’ve gotta start somewhere.

  I beckon him inside.

  A couple of seats are open at the bar. I get a double shot of whiskey and a single for Weekes. The kobold barkeeper eyes us suspiciously, but doesn’t bother us. I turn and glance around. “Alright. See anyone you like? Take your pick.”

  Weekes hardly looks, instead focusing on his drink. “I don’t know. I’m no good at this.”

  “I’m not asking you to be. I’m just asking you to tell me who’s hot. You’re not gonna like my taste if I pick.”

  A commotion comes from the door, and I glance back. A group of women walks in, taking a table in the corner near a lavish fireplace. I squint. One of them is familiar – an elf. And there's someone with her.

  I turn back and nod over my shoulder. “Not even that lady rabbit over there?”

  I grab his ears and stop his head from turning to gawk. I put a finger down on the bar, pink magic forming into a picture of her face. She’s got a doe-eyed look with exquisite, long lashes and downy white fur. If that doesn’t get him going, I don’t know what will.

  He stammers. “She’s – I can’t go talk to her!”

  I stand. “Then I will.”

  He grabs me. “Wait!”

  I stop.

  He breathes and clutches my hand. “Okay. What’s the plan?”

  I take a drink. “You’re talking to a girl, Cheeks. That’s the plan.”

  He stands and slams down his shot, hacking and coughing for a moment. He touches his chest. “Defend.” Magical armor shimmers darkly over his form.

  “Did you –”

  “It’s instin – I’m really nervous, okay?”

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  I sigh. I pull him closer, hand on his shoulder. “You’ve got your necklace, right? Remember what I told you? Anyone would be dying to slop your cock for a private night in that thing. You’ve got a place to go, you’ve got drinks and snacks, and you’ve got all that charm your patron daddy gave you. There's even a fucking hot tub in there.” I poke him in the chest. “You went bounty hunting because you thought it’d be fun. You’re wanted for manslaughter in Takazaki. You held your own on a godsdamned slaver ship. You got me a same-day show at the fucking Moon Scythe Theater. Now come on.”

  He pauses, standing a little straighter. He breathes. “Okay. But really, what’s the plan?”

  I start walking.

  He totters behind me, hovering like a midge. A group of six women, all close to our age, is splitting a couple bottles of expensive wine. He nudges me as we get close. He’s trying to bail. His big eyes are fixed on the lady rabbitfolk. I continue on.

  They look up as I approach, the conversation petering off. I look at the elf, furrowing my brows. “Pardon me bothering you lovely ladies and they-dies, but did I see you at the show just a bit ago?”

  Her eyes widen. They’re vibrant green. She’s got dark auburn hair and tanned skin. She’s got some fat and all the more delightful for it. “I – holy shit. Oh my gods, yes! It was so good! You must be Chouncey.”

  I tilt my head. “The very same. Did you treat these dear friends as well?”

  “No, I was there with my sister, but…” She turns to her friends, pointing at me. “This is the guy I just saw at the Moon Scythe. He was incredible.”

  “Please, I'm standing right here,” I say, giving my most winning smile. They laugh. I gesture at Weekes, who’s growing on me like an ass tumor. “This here’s Weekes Windpaw. He’s my agent and best friend. Would you mind company? I can always be talked into another song or twelve.”

  “Of course!” the elf says, shuffling aside. The others excitedly make room, pulling over chairs. I shove Weekes into the one next to the rabbitfolk. He flops into it with all the grace of a fish slapping a dam.

  “I've sure got your face, but I don’t think I got your name,” I say.

  “Lanese,” the elf says. “These are my friends –” she lists names, pointing them out. There’s a catfolk, a dwarf, another elf, and a human. She finally points to the rabbitfolk. “And Rose.”

  “Rose, what a fitting name,” I say. She smiles shyly. I point with my flask. “If you ask Weekes nicely, he might tell you how he got his ear lopped off in a fight.”

  His baby ear reddens.

  “Anyway,” I turn back to Lanese. I drape an arm across the back of her chair. “Tell me what you liked about the show. I’m counting on you getting tickets for your friends next time.”

  She laughs nervously. Her eyes start traveling. “Um, sorry. This is awkward for me. You have a great voice –”

  I hold up a finger. “But don’t tell me what you didn’t like. I’m sensitive to criticism.”

  More laughs. Her friend nudges her suggestively.

  An hour flies by. I chat with Lanese and her friends, and they ask what it’s like doing shows around the world, talking about their favorite songs and bands. I pull out my mandolin and order more drinks. They make requests and drink if I know it – I drink if I don’t know it. I know all of them and drink anyway. Lanese requests a couple of the originals I played earlier. All the while, Weekes is locked in conversation with Rose, both of them smiling and not paying much attention. I catch her touching his baby ear.

  Lanese is more recently from Horonai, she tells me. She was working for a Secretary in the Guild and only got out of her contract by the skin of her teeth and a competent lawyer she spent years saving for. She now works contract-free for the Allemand estate in the High, saying it’s much better. Owing to her broken contract, she can’t go back to the Guild, though. She’s far from the only one.

  “How long can you stay?” she leans in and asks while a couple of her friends head to the washroom. She looks more than happy, having had a few glasses of expensive Laurent wine from right here in the High. “We don’t want to keep you if you’re busy.”

  I lean against the table. She’s got eyes big enough to drown in and gives off the faint whiff – or maybe feel – of a morning’s fresh rain. I raise a brow, giving a charming smile. “How long would you like me to?”

  A flush takes to her cheeks. “Maybe a little longer. I’m not bored yet.”

  “I’d be a poor showman if you were.” I lean a bit closer. Her warm breath breezes against me. All I can see are amber lips. “Can I kiss you?”

  “Wait, really?” she stammers. “I mean, yes. Absolutely.”

  She tastes like silky red wine when I brush against her. Her breath quickens, and she moves closer. Then comes the sound of gasping and excited voices when her friends return. One of them applauds.

  She shrinks away, laughing and putting her hands over her red face. “Oh no.”

  I snap my fingers, and a pink heart token appears. I offer it to her. She takes it from me. “Blush is a good look on you. You’ve got nothing to be worried about.”

  I kiss her again, deeper this time. Her friends cheer.

  I’m doing magic tricks when Weekes finally stands and approaches, leaning in to whisper. “Hey, we’re headed into the necklace. Could you keep an eye on it?”

  I hold out my arcane hand. He deposits it on its palm. “You know where to find me if you need any help.”

  His ear goes red again. I’m so proud of him. Rose appears, taking his paw hand. She waves to her friends. He clears his throat. “Okay. Um… Enter.”

  They vanish.

  The ladies gasp. I brandish the necklace and lean in. “This here’s a portal to a magical room. He’s in there losing his fragile virtue, if we’re lucky.” They cheer. Lanese is on my lap. I loop it around her neck, brushing her silky hair out of the way. “Keep hold of that for now. Don’t go too far, though – you heard him. I’m supposed to be keeping an eye on it.”

  She giggles. “I’ll keep it on then.”

  “And nothing else?”

  “You first.”

  "Easy enough. I'm already pulling ahead." I twitch, and Lanese stiffens on my lap, gaping at her friends. “I’ve got more magic I think you’ll like.” I get close. “I can make it look like we’re fucking in front of this whole room.”

  “We can go to my place!” she says to her friends. They make it clear they intend to run me ragged.

  “Then let’s move this lovely party somewhere else.”

  I gather my mandolin from the back of my chair and stand. And all five of them shepherd me away.

  Early the next morning, I shuffle back to the estate. Weekes still hasn’t come out of the necklace. I toss it in his room. Arriel’s got a whole sack full of questions, wondering where Weekes is, where we went, and what happened. I’m not sure why she’s asking – my face is wafting of five flavors of pussy. I tell her Weekes is in the necklace and leave it at that. She forcibly puts a healing spell on me and leaves me alone after hearing I’ve not slept. I plow into my bed and pass out.

  It’s lunchtime when I wake up. I bathe and stumble downstairs to find food in the dining room. Weekes is there, ears drooping. He looks like he got hit in the face with a bowl of whiskey. I sit across from him.

  “How’d it go?” I ask. “Was it everything you hoped?”

  “It was amazing. I’m exhausted, though. It was a long night.”

  “You did fuck, though, right?”

  He’s suddenly interested in his salad. “Well, yeah. We spent some time in the hot tub. And then… you know.”

  “How was it? Are you still straight?”

  “I mean, we just… finished a few hours ago. It was incredible.”

  I nearly choke. “You fucked for ten hours?”

  Arriel appears, stopping in the doorway. She glances between us.

  He doesn’t look me in the eye. His baby ear goes red. “Well… some things are true about my people.”

  “That you fuck like rabbits? I’d say you did just fine for your first time. Sweet fucking hells.” I lean back in my chair, sipping coffee with a bit of whiskey and fatty milk splashed in. “I think I tapped in about twenty seconds my first time.” I turn to Arriel. “What about you?”

  “I’m not going to talk about that,” she says.

  “That bad? My apologies.”

  Arriel shoots me a flat look. She sits with us. “Who was that who just left?”

  “Oh, um…” Weekes stammers. “Her name is Rose. Rose Fleetfoot.”

  “A lovely lady we met last night at the Honorable Heart. Our son here’s a changed man. I, for one, am so very happy for him,” I say.

  “It was more than that. We’re together now,” Weekes says. “I asked her, and she said yes.”

  I nearly spit out my drink. When did he find time in between all the fucking? I share a look with Arriel. She only blinks.

  “I just… I think she’s the one.”

  From the way Arriel is looking at him, he’s dead serious. If he’s happy, though, I can’t argue with it. Although I can’t ignore the wilting feeling in my stomach. “That’s excellent news,” I say. I toast him with my coffee. “I’m happy to have played a part and look forward to whatever comes next. Hells, Lady Arriel here could even marry you. Let me know when you’re booking entertainment. I’ll knock something off my wedding rates.”

  Arriel puts her face in her hands.

  He smiles. “Thanks. I’m supposed to see her again tonight. Who knows?”

  I lean forward. “Go for it, Cheeks. You’ve got my support.”

  Arriel cuts in. “I don’t think that’s –”

  I hold up a finger, stopping her. “None of that. We’re being happy for him.”

  She pauses and then gives him a small smile. “She seemed wonderful.”

  He turns to me, his ear getting redder. “Thank you for helping me take the step. Really, I appreciate it. In fact, if I hadn’t met you at all… things would be a lot different.”

  I’m not sure what to do with that. There’s an awfully fuzzy feeling in my chest.

  He stands. “Anyway, I’d better go talk to my dad. He’ll want to know.”

  I wave him off as he leaves. “Give him my best.”

  I stuff down a few more bites of food. Arriel watches me. I’m not sure what to make of it. After chatting with her the other day, I can hardly stand being around her without remembering kissing her. Or wondering if she’d do it again.

  “I got word from Jasper that your things are ready,” she says. “He’s at the Silver Pelt down in the Mid. I can get us a carriage.”

  I chew on some quiche. I’ve got a vague memory of where that shop is. But I don't like her paying out the ass for enchantments for me. “I’ll make my own way. Why’d you drop all that gold on me?”

  She smiles sadly. “Because I hope it will keep you alive longer. And I’m going with you.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  She sighs. “Is this –”

  A huge boom and a sweep of wind rattles the estate.

  She pauses. “Is this about the other day?”

  “I’m frankly sick of sitting around in this godsforsaken gaudy estate. I’ve gotta be around some of my own kind again, or I’m gonna lose it. I can handle myself just fine.”

  “Alright,” she says quietly. “Just please be careful. If anything happens… it won’t be as easy this time.”

  I can’t think about that. I grab my things from my room, belting on my mandolin, new shortsword, and whip. Arriel stops me before I leave, tugging Lespira with her. She puts more magical armor on me, which feels like wearing a rain jacket in a bath. I hate it.

  Then, I take off.

  It’s a couple hours getting to the Mid proper. Arriel gave me a note with the Ronchellard seal to get me through the gate. The same oread guard captain glares when I go through. It’s yet another thing Arriel’s been dealing with. I hustle toward the Mid, singing to myself.

  After asking around, I find the Silver Pelt.

  It’s part of a chain of shops throughout Carthesia and southern Talnir. There’s actually three of them in Carthesia – the Bronze Pelt, the Silver Pelt, and the Golden Pelt. Needless to say, they're in ascending order. Arriel explained the owner is a family friend, as well as this Jasper the enchanter. He services her, her family, and all their nightmare god-killing friends. She gave me an earful about being respectful. She cut it out when I told her I’d pay her church a visit on the way back if she keeps patronizing me.

  I push inside, and it’s absolutely rife with catfolk. It’s a family business, she explained, and apparently, all several dozens of them are involved. They all but offer me their firstborn when I step in. The whole place is stocked with everything I could possibly need – supplies, food, trinkets, materials, and even magical items. They’ve got a decent selection, but I’ve always found sex shops to be more reliably stocked with basics like potions and scrolls on the nonexistent occasions I’ve been able to afford them.

  I pick up a couple bottles of whiskey with my earnings from last night. Arriel wasn’t happy about that, either – now she’s gotta produce the money once the church asks about the show. She didn’t like it when I said she and her wife could stand to be more generous.

  I finally wander back to a counter where a red-skinned half-devil sits, browsing a book.

  I pause. He’s got a slender, boyish look, but doesn’t look too much younger than me. His black hair is slicked to his neck, glinting with an infernal red tint. Dark, spiraling horns sprout from his brow. His eyes, behind a small pair of glasses, are entirely black. He’s wearing a deep-necked tunic that reveals more smooth, red, hairless skin all the way down.

  He hardly glances up at me. “Can I help you?”

  He’s got the most charming Carthesian accent. I lean against the counter, crossing my arms. “I’m picking up some items. It’s under Lady Arriel Ronchellard.”

  He sets the book down and rummages underneath the counter. I glance at the cover. It’s got a shirtless half-orc tenderly holding a fainting woman on a unicorn.

  “You must be Jasper,” I say. “She had nothing but wonderful things to say about you. I’m Chouncey of Seven Oaks, a dear friend of hers.”

  “Nice to meet you,” he says, halfway under the counter. He reappears with a package, hefting it on the counter and untying it. My chain jacket and shortsword tumble out. He plucks up a receipt and tucks it into a folder. The number on it makes my stomach churn. “It was just these two items, right?”

  “It was,” I say. I pick up the sword. It’s spotless, gleaming and humming with rigid magical reinforcement. I step back and unsheathe it, flipping it and swinging it. It sings and warbles. I feel the edge. It’s razor sharp. No more worrying about sharpening it. “This is lovely work. And what a gem you are, doing this for me.”

  “Thanks,” he says.

  I sheathe it again. I examine the mail, and I barely recognize it. I see no hint of rust, scratches, scuffs, or dents. It looks brand new. By the magic wafting off it, it’s now reinforced against blows and resistant to grime and rust. It even glints, feeling lighter than before. Good – I’m sick of fixing it. “How long have you been doing this for?”

  He shrugs. “A few years. Is there anything else you need?” Not the talkative sort, then.

  I stop, glancing over. Displayed on the counter is a pointed, pearly tooth the length of my arm. My brows pull together. I can’t place where it’s from. I point at it. “What’s that?”

  He hardly glances at it, grabbing his book and turning a page. His fingernails are painted dark purple. “It’s a kraken tooth – or part of it. The whole thing is the size of a person.”

  I nod slowly. Krakens show up in old tales almost as often as dragons. It usually ends just as well. “Where in the sweet hells did you get that?”

  “Our owner bought it at auction from the Guild. A member of some adventuring party brought it back from the water plane. That’s the only place to find them, unless one slips through a portal here. In which case, there are bigger problems to worry about.”

  I look at it, squinting. “What else do you know of planes?”

  He sticks a finger in his book, folding it against his chest. He finally looks up. “Why?”

  I take a drink from my flask, gesturing with it. “I’m a fucking bard. I like knowing these things.”

  He glances me over, finally seeing me. Then, he turns back to his book. “No one’s sure how the different planes work – some think that they’re different instances of Coramine created by different gods. So the fey realm is Coramine according to Aenta, the Nine Hells are Coramine according to Zisus, and so on. They overlap, all on top of each other. The water plane is Coramine under water. There’s no air, though. It’s endless – some people even say it’s bottomless. It’s full of krakens and marids.”

  As an expert on the worst place in the world, that sure seems like the other worst place in the world.

  “And getting there?”

  His thick black brow cocks. “You have to really want it. It’s high-level magic. And extremely rare.”

  I nod, checking my newly enchanted sword again. It’s been well taken care of. “Well, thank you for scratching that itch. This is lovely work. You’ve got real talent as a sword-polisher, too.” I sheathe it and stick it on my belt. I pass him a wink. “From one to another.”

  He looks at me sidelong, then turns back to his book. “I’m not interested. Stop bothering me, please.”

  “Then, my deepest apologies for stepping too far. I’ll be out of your way in just a moment.”

  He grunts. “Bards,” he mutters.

  I sling off my mandolin and belt, setting them on the counter. He pauses his reading, eyes drawn. I shrug on my chain jacket and twist around, testing it. Then, I fix all my things back on, slinging my mandolin on my back.

  I put my hands together, stepping away. “Thank you, dear Jasper. I appreciate all your hard work. I’ll put in a good word with Lady Arriel. My best hopes for the rest of your day.”

  I turn and head down an aisle toward the door.

  “Hey, wait.”

  I stop. He steps from around the counter, approaching. “Is that… could I see that instrument?”

  I hold up my hands. “See, now… I’m quite protective of this item.”

  “I understand. But there’s literally only one in the world. I’ve heard about the bardic artifacts, but I’ve never seen one. Can I… touch it? I just want to see the magical read.”

  “Sure, but –” I hold up a finger. “Only because I want to make it up to you.”

  I sling it around to my front, letting him see it. He hesitantly puts a finger against the wood. His devilish eyes fixate on it, a flash of white magic falling over them. I glance him over. He’s standing a bit closer, something like burning interest in the tilt of his thick brows. He gives a faint whiff of cinnamon. Drinking him would be like a cup of hot, spiced tea.

  He blinks, coming back. “Wow. You… you’re good with enchantment, then?”

  “The kind for people, not items. I’m something of an illusionist, too.”

  He nods, looking me over. “That’s impressive. Where’d you find it?”

  “I’m afraid that’s privileged information.” I gesture with my flask, then smile, cocking my head. “But how’d you like me playing it for you?”

  If he could get any redder, he does. His barbed tail swishes. It knocks a shelf of daggers. He fumbles and fixes them back. “That would, um…” he glances over his shoulder. He lowers his voice. “I’ll be done in an hour. Could I meet you at the Jolly Cat? It’s just across the street.”

  “Only if you bring your lovely self.”

  “Yeah. Of course.”

  I snap my fingers, and a small, pink, heart-shaped token appears. I smile and offer it. “Then it’s a date.”

  That night, I teleport back to the estate, landing squarely outside the wards thanks to a spoon slipped into my pocket. Arriel’s waiting for me as soon as I step into the foyer.

  “What took you so long?” she demands. She glances me over. She examines my chain jacket, running her fingers over it.

  I fix my hair. “I had a lovely date with Jasper.”

  Her face falls flat. “You what?”

  I step further inside. “We had a few drinks, and he showed me his magic item collection at his apartment. He’s got quite the, uh… magical item.” I stop, turning to her. “Was that not up to your pious standards?”

  She shrugs, arms out. “No, it’s…” she pauses. Her fair brows pull together. “Actually, thank you. He’s had a crush on Bri for as long as we’ve known him. It’s been awkward.”

  “Well, she’s missing out.”

  “She’s emphatically not interested in men.”

  I give a bow. “Then you’re most welcome for my public service.”

  I head upstairs and dump my things. I hear giggling coming from Weekes’ room. I smile.

  I head back downstairs. Arriel tells me she checked on Irminric again, only to find no change since I dropped Catherine’s strangled corpse on the deck of the ship. He’s waiting for me. I’ve gotta stir things up again. I can’t keep squatting in Arriel’s estate forever – she’ll drag me and Weekes into fighting a god.

  I head into a room nearby with my mandolin. It’s an office – her wife’s, she mentioned earlier. It’s lush, befitting a head of household. I plop on a stuffed couch and prop my boots on a mahogany wood coffee table. Arriel kicks them off and sits across from me.

  “Do you remember from last time? I’m gonna be out of it while I’m doing this.”

  She nods. “I’ll be right here.”

  I breathe, taking a long swig of my flask. Then I string together the chords, weaving across the ley line's overtone and grasping it. Pink flashes across my vision, and then it’s black.

  I’m in Irminric’s quarters again.

  He’s not around. It’s morning here, just in time for his daily ritual. The familiar sound of grunting and splashing greets me from the washroom. That one's been blocking him up for a good long while. I glance out the window. The Black Tide is pulled into the shipyard, looking less than impressive, slaves hard at work fixing it.

  I take a seat in his chair, propping my feet on the desk. I begin playing a soft, slow instrumental version of “The Biggest, Blackest Dragon.”

  After a few minutes, the door blares open and he appears, scowling. I can nearly see the billow of stink that follows. “You finally decided to show your face.”

  “Should I come back another time? I figured it was a half-and-half chance you were shitting or shaking hands with yourself, now Catherine’s so tragically gone.”

  He barrels forward, clapping his clawed, unwashed hands on the desk. He leans across, his spiky face inches from mine. Back in my body, something touches me. “She was going to try killing me eventually. And she was weak, fucking her way into power.”

  “Boy, there’s a lot to unpack there. You’ve got my condolences, for what it’s worth. I’d like to say she was loyal to the end, but…”

  His claws sink into the wood. It creaks. “I don’t care. I’m going to rip you to pieces where everyone can see you scream. And then I’ll bring you back and do it again.”

  “That’s expensive, I’m sure. Am I really worth that much to you?”

  He huffs. A crazy look appears in his dark eyes. “I know where you’re hiding – that cleric and her noble family in Carthesia. There's a Ronchellard at the College, isn't there? And two more landing in Byra soon with their skyship.”

  I keep it together. Something touches me again. I’m gonna bring bad things here if I stay much longer. He’d not risk upsetting the entire city-state of Carthesia, would he? His arms are corded, nearly splitting the desk with his claws. He looms over me.

  “I will find you,” he growls. “And because you’re going to continue hiding like the coward that you are, I’ll put a slave out for the tide every morning until I have you back. Don’t think I didn’t notice how much you cared for them. I’ll kill every one if I have to. I can always get more.”

  I’m awfully hot. My mouth is dry. I need a drink like a dying fish. I knuckle on my composure – luckily, it’s an illusion. I can’t go fight him and all of his raiders and jarls with just Weekes and Arriel. I can’t give myself up. I can’t kill myself. I can’t run away and try to call his bluff. He never bluffs.

  I’m shaking. What am I thinking? I know what I have to do. I know what Iros would want me to do. And, somehow, I know I’ll do it. But sweet fucking hells, is it a stupid idea.

  I have to set foot in Pit again.

  In my mind, searing pink magic roils and sings, surging with the power of the seventh ley line – maybe even the eighth. It pushes against the boundaries, almost bubbling to the surface like the name of god pressing against my tongue. It wants to be used, released. I breathe.

  “You can start with me, then,” I say. I stand, meeting his hulking form. “I’ll meet you in the Pit this time tomorrow. Consider it a challenge. You’d best make sure all our friends are there to see it.”

  He snarls, grunting. Something like a smile curls his fanged, scaly maw. “I’ll count on it.”

  I end the spell, slamming back into my body.

  It’s nighttime, darkness plunging just outside the windows of the office. I’m in a cold sweat. I’m gasping. I can’t go back there. I have to.

  You know what you needed most in the depths of your darkness.

  I swallow glass. I needed someone to do something. I needed a fucking hero.

  “Chouncey,” Arriel says, nudging me. She’s sitting next to me. Weekes is there, too. He’s holding my hand. “What happened?”

  I need to get out of here. I stand and pace. A sound splits my throat. I can’t tell if it’s a sob or a laugh. “I’m meeting him in the Pit tomorrow. I’m gonna fucking die again. In front of everyone. They’re gonna love it.”

  Her face goes white. The only light is a crackling fire.

  “We’ll be there with you,” Weekes says.

  “Not in the Pit, you won’t,” I say. “It’s one-on-one. That’s how they do it there. I don’t want you to see it.”

  I laugh again. I can only imagine them sitting there with the rest while Irminric saws off my head. I take a long drink from my flask. Under the heaviness of the drink, dark water churns and roars. I’m not sure how much longer I can hold it down.

  Arriel comes over and touches my arm. “We’ll be there, no matter what.”

  She takes my mandolin and sets it on the table. I can’t even be mad about it right now. I’m shaking too hard. And then she hugs me.

  It’s soft, despite all her muscle, and warm. She pulls me close, holding me against her. I nearly sob into her hair. Weekes wraps himself around my back. It’s almost too much.

  After all this, I’m gonna go back there and let him kill me.

  “It’ll be alright,” Weekes says. He squeezes me. “We believe in you.”

  “Bring me back or don’t, I don’t care. Just don’t let him have me.”

  “He won’t,” Weekes says. “You’re ours, not his.”

  I laugh again. Black, foaming waves break like paper against a cliffside. What if I step off it? Arriel hands over my flask. I take another long drink. It doesn't help. Why am I still doing this?

  “Hey,” Weekes says. “How about we spend tonight in the necklace? For old time’s sake.”

  I straighten, wiping my face. “Haven’t you got your lady love here?”

  “She’ll understand. I’m supposed to be meeting her parents in the morning, but it can wait.”

  “You’re meeting her parents?”

  “Yeah. She’s important to me, but so are you. Let’s do it.”

  “Yes,” Arriel says. She smiles, and it’s like a ray of sunlight coming through roiling clouds. Maybe I can rely on them like I have before. Maybe I won’t be alone. “Let’s do it.”